Small offering to Dolan Fire

Small offering 

Every breath,

a prayer 

for All

on our beloved ridge -

and for the cool, green forests too

from dirt-bound gophers

to daredevil hawks -

Songbirds of all stripes,

bats, butterflies, the

shimmering, patient koi

Land of sunsets 

and flying saucers —

where the gods 

Dance

with fluid abandon 

and we, 

so very, very blessed,

share in their 

Extravagant 

Joy.

Green Flash

One Sunday morning last month I woke up to Happy Birthday greetings, sung with gusto by a sweet couple I know. After their chorus, we chatted about the huge importance of genuinely loving your spouse in the time of Covid. 

Well, we laughed, it sure helps. Without that essential emotion, things would be really bad. 

A compatible life-partner that shares my sense of humor and also my grief, that is my very own personal multi-faceted diamond (either polished or in the rough, it varies) is a wonderful treasure, and I’m grateful.

 

Humor, I think, tops the list of requirements. It’s the slippery oil that greases the tracks, the non-stick spray that releases us from melting into a puddle or sizzling to a crisp. Instead, we glide (more or less) through the bumpy moments.

 

While complaining about having another adult human to hold is not good etiquette during the pandemic, when so much is turned on its head already, there are times when so much togetherness just feels…weird!

 

Here’s a list of the valuable skills (so far) that I suddenly have lots more time to practice: 

Learning to give breathing space – i.e. when to come together, when to be apart.

How to understand and express what I need, without blame or self-doubt; and 

When to laugh it all off, and dance.

 

Routines are key, as if we were on a long Buddhist retreat, so we have developed a few. Meditation, dance and yoga in the mornings, writing breaks at tea-time, preferably with elaborate snacks, the occasional game of chess. And meals.

 

Some time ago a co-worker (back when I had a job) asked me who did the cooking at my house. 

 

“Uh, well,” I stammered, “Neither of us!” 

“Huh?” she responded, and then I admitted, 

“Neither of us ever had to cook before, really. Our previous partners were gourmet chefs, so the kitchen was out of bounds.” 

“So how’s that working out for you now?” she laughed.

“Let’s just say, it’s an adventure!” 

 

And it is. Who knew there were so many meals in a day? A week, a month? 

 

Thank goodness for the garden, but I have to laugh when I look at my crop yield, remembering acres of uniform fruit and vegetables growing in Watsonville, or the produce aisle at Safeway. One zucchini, one squash, one lemon becomes quite precious in my little plot! Fog sidelined the tomatoes, again, though I’ve had luck at last with lettuce, arugula, bok choy, and chard. Another round of delightful sweet peas bloomed, with that delicate, crisp linen scent.

 

And wonder of wonders, I’ve baked a few loaves of bread, courtesy of my (worried?) sister-in-law, who sent me the world’s easiest no-knead recipe.

 

One favorite ritual is watching the sunset together, whenever our day evolves in a way that we can. Two nights ago we (I) missed the mark, distracted indoors (probably by a text, miraculous contact with the outside world!) while my husband took in the show.

 

“You missed the Green Flash.” he scolded. 

 “No way!” I cried. 

 

“Yep, you did,” he answered. Then he carried on about how special it was. How the green light shot up in a gigantic arc above the sinking sun as it nestled into the faint fog bank at the horizon, how the heavens opened wide above him and the angels sang Hallelujah, and I’d missed it all!

 

He actually had me going for about an hour, mad at myself, researching the Green Flash on Wikipedia (is it real? Yes it is) etc. Then he confessed he was teasing. Perhaps he was reciprocating for my coaxing the dog into bringing him a dead rat that morning? I wonder.

 

It may be time to take a trip off the mountain sometime soon.

This Great Love

Here's a poem I treasure, from Persian poet Hafez. These days we may not  "leave each morning" but, surely none of us does not  "lift a great pack."

This Great Love

I want both of us
to start talking about this Great Love
As if You, I, and the Sun were all married
and living in a tiny room.
Helping each other to cook,
do the wash, 
weave and sew, 
care for our beautiful 
Animals.

We all leave each morning
to labor on the Earth's field.
No one does not lift a great pack.
I want both of us to start singing like two
traveling minstrels
about this Extraordinary Existence
We share, 

As if,
You, I, and God were all married
and living in 
a Tiny
Room
                                                             -from Hafez, The Gift

Black Swan

A Black Swan event is nearly impossible to predict and has profound and universal impact, changing the world forever. Now, this rare bird, this crisis, has crash-landed into our lives, threatening millions of humans. We are told to “flatten the curve” and stay home indefinitely, while hospitals amplify their care ability and a vaccine eventually arrives.

Before, in my workplace, I shook hands with guests. I hugged, and received hugs, abundantly, from co-workers and friends, old and new. Last week I watched happy visitors touch, inhale, try on and breathe all over beautiful, seductive things in the now temporarily closed Phoenix Shop. This nasty virus apparently survives on surfaces, and well, you already know what we all came to understand. 

A day after swearing off embracing at work, I found myself standing a few feet from my lovely co-worker Caitlin, with whom I hug often. Suddenly I said, "Aw, forget it!" and we turned to each other for a quick, big hug. As we briefly clung together we laughed, and the world snapped back to normal again, for just a moment. 

My personal prescription for sanity (other than hugs!) is to indulge yourself with Mother Nature.

Drink in the rays of the sun each day. Whether you sit beside a window in a comfy chair or lay down in the grass and dirt outside, just absorb the amazing strength of our planet while enjoying the warmth of our star.

Feast your eyes on a flower, admire trees, listen to birds, take deep breaths of the breeze. Marvel at the miracle of your body as you walk, hike, dance, and sing in the shower.  If you can, stare at the sea, or the mountains, or watch waves on the beach. (You can listen and watch nature on screens too, though that’s a little too Soylent Green for my taste.) 

Wherever you are, you can usually gaze at the stars or the moon at night. Remember that while everything changes, some things do not. I don’t think the constellation of Orion is going to rearrange itself, or that the dog-star Sirius will go walkabout off to a different galaxy.

Take comfort in what doesn’t change, or what won’t change as much. Thick blankets, soft skin, warm pet fur, chocolate. Write letters the old fashioned way, on paper, with pretty colored pens.

Read that daunting book you’ve had on your shelf for years. For me, it's Old Path, White Clouds, by the beloved Buddhist monk Thich Naht Hanh. Relax a little - eat pasta and ice cream. After that, take a bellydance class via Zoom! Have a kissing marathon with your shelter-in-place companion. Find solace in prayer and meditation.

For those who enjoy the company of their families and their partners, there is a special kind of bliss in being together, and being safe. One hopes that our communication skills will improve, by sheer density of opportunity to practice them, combined with the powerful need to understand and help each other during this global emergency.

A friend gently explained to me that the well known saying “May you live in interesting times” (considered a curse) was popularized by President Kennedy to remind us that great challenges generate great progress. The Chinese saying was actually “Heroes come from turbulent times.” 
When we face our fears with as much grace as we can, we become heroes.

How will we progress? Perhaps we’ll learn that we really are just earthlings, all of us astronauts, and that we need to wake up to this reality more than ever before. Perhaps we will find more ways to love and care for each other, and for our magnificent, one-of-a-kind planet. Perhaps all of this will, ultimately, be healing.

The cover of our early edition of Thich Naht Hanh’s book A Guide to Walking Meditation, shows him as a young man, standing beside a country road with a big smile on his face, a tall sunflower as his walking staff.

He says, “I put my palms together, like a lotus bud, and pray that we all find peace.” May it be so.

Black Phoebe

Winter is the time of platinum light here on the coast, and this is most clear on gray, cold mornings at dawn. We had several mornings like this at the start of the new year last week. I love the turning of the year, in this case, the decade, using this time for reflection and seeking a sense of renewal and peace.

There's a sweet little bird I watch daily here, a Black Phoebe, whose plaintive call, tee-hee, tee-hoo, is punctuated by her action of flying out from her perch, then back to it. She flies out, tee-hee, then flies back, tee-hoo. Pretty goofy, really. Apparently she swoops out to catch insects, then, conserving energy, flies back. It's kind of like what we do each day: we wake up, sit down for coffee, sing out, then go out into the work world to gather necessary insects, um, resources. Then we fly back home. At any rate, I feel like this is what I do, tweet the old-fashioned way, go out into the world, tweet, return home to my perch.

Call it reverse anthropomorphism, seeing our similarities with the world's fragile and precious creatures. I just finished reading The Bees, by Laline Paull. This is some of the most imaginative writing I've read, a complex page-turner told from the point of view of  Flora 717, a most daring and inspiring worker bee. The bees' hunger for community and devotion is as great as their lust for nectar; they live in an elaborate hierarchy, but each, from the priestess to the sanitation worker, feels the unconditional love of the Holy Mother.

Winter time brings a level of quiet that is unsurpassed. Strong winds blow away the clouds and the afternoon light falls at an oblique angle on the land.  A few days ago, in the early morning, I spotted a devilishly large bobcat strolling up to the woodpile behind my house. Bobcats are the gangsters of the neighborhood, with body-builder shoulders, wide, sly faces, dramatic black fur tips on their ears, and undignified, stubby tails. We both did a double-take, and I said, "You're not my kitty..." She trotted away towards the meadow, and when I followed her I felt her watching me from the edge of the oak forest.

Now the leaves from the maples, sycamores and elms have all fallen, the shoes of the past year have all dropped, the verdict is in on 2019. As the days lengthen slightly, we make resolutions, the jonquils bloom, and it's bar closing time for the Great Horned Owls as they stop hooting and start nesting.

Sensing ineffable impermanence in the stillness of winter on the coast is a gift; it distills into daily life when we interrupt the frantic pace that can consume us.  Someday, each of us will "fall off our perch" as they say. May it be in a fulfilled state, a blissful surrender to the light.

Liberty Seeds

 

Nothing in the world
is as soft and yielding as water.

Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,

nothing can surpass it.

Lao-Tzu, Tao te Ching

Liberty seeds

The propane tank is at 25%, tribes of earthworms are emerging everywhere, and the cat had a seizure. I've stopped bothering to check the rain gauge. While we still have plenty of coffee, rice and beans, I’m afraid that we may run out of that vital supplement: chocolate. 

It’s been a rough month on top of a crazy year. Sixty inches (that's my height) of precipitation in two short months. In early January I made a trip  to my mother’s house and on my drive home a mud / rock / tree slide happened in the Big Sur Valley, closing down that stretch of highway for days. I spent a week with dear friends in Carmel and longed for home despite ongoing punishing storms.

I was willing to climb with a backpack over the rock slide at the bottom of the ridge to hide under the covers with my beloved, but decided to be prudent instead.

A month later I was about to head north again, and wisely re-thought the  trip after looking at the forecast. I also caught a nasty cold that kept me in bed on Sunday, February 12. That day the Pfeiffer Canyon bridge was designated as a serious hazard, thanks to the lucky observations of the man who spent considerable time under the span. 

So these past two weeks I have reveled in being here on the ridge and not on the “other side” despite hardships and anxiety. One morning we awoke to snow on the mountains and a bright rainbow over the ocean. We’ve enjoyed candlelight dinners and then gone early to bed, to sleep like little animals in a burrow. Again and again we listened in the darkness to pounding rain and howling winds, wondering what the morning would bring.

It’s felt like we were living at the bottom of an aquarium. Enormous trees tossed their branches like kelp fronds and even the air burbled and hissed with endless wetness. Meanwhile, the frogs were delirious, croaking epic operas all night long.

Last night we dined on sardines with wasabi sauce, served with a flair as “poor man’s sushi”. We’ve found the time to read, do yoga in the intermittent sunshine, to breathe and to think. I’ve finally opened Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces, and am finding inspiration in every well-crafted phrase.

We’re looking at several months to a year of difficult crossings out of Big Sur to the North. The exit South is un-traversable until a nail-soil wall is in place, the Old Coast Road is a river, and Nacimiento-Ferguson road over the Santa Lucia Mountains is crumbling.

It’s as if Momma Big Sur stomped her foot, took down her hair and did a full-body shimmy for weeks, saying “Enough is enough!” She has reclaimed her craving for chaos, her destructive power.

Perhaps she got tired of staying in shape for the whole wide world, constantly at her door, and decided instead to give us a taste of her sloppy, scary, gorgeous self. Now, as the storm cycle subdues, we feel her calm out-breath, and it’s delicious.

While repairs are forthcoming and the powers that be are strategizing, those of us on the ground here are also discreetly celebrating the solitude, the reduction in distractions, and the re-awakening of all the nature around us. When the rains stop, the birds sing.

Systems are falling into place, too. My poor gray kitty had a bizarre seizure. This taught me that trying to subdue an animal that is frothing at the mouth with my bare hands is not a good idea. After sustaining kitty stigmata in my right palm, I called our community’s Big Sur Health Center.

To my astonished delight the center's resourceful doctor put antibiotics on a helicopter headed down the coast that afternoon. I picked it from the pilot, who smiled at me and waved the brown paper bag holding the drugs when he landed on the heli-pad. It was a movie-worthy moment. (Note to self, next job – helicopter pilot?)

Due in part to the lack of affordable housing in the area, many of those who do important work in the kitchens of the affected businesses live outside of Big Sur. Instead of the grand tradition of restaurants opening their walk-ins to feed hungry, trapped employees and locals, they are simply closing down. On Valentine’s Day, we had one of the last ambrosia burgers Nepenthe will be serving for a while.

Anticipating this, many of us blessed enough to live between mile marker 29 and 45.5 have stocked our pantries in preparation for this kind of event. A bit of a doomsday perspective has helped, as do vegetable gardens, of course.

We slid under the wire on this one, as we acquired 20 cubic feet of dirt a week ago, filling our little truck. Just before we crossed Pfeiffer Canyon bridge, already beginning to look like a roller-coaster, we were informed that there would be no more traffic on it of any kind, ever. We felt like trapeze artists as we drove delicately across the middle of the sinking span in a lane marked by orange cones.

Driving down the rocky coast in the sunshine that day, we saw a painter friend at her easel on the wrong side of the stone wall, 500’ above a cove filled with barking sea lions. While some have hiked and ridden horses on the highway these past weeks, our friend informed us that earlier that day a young woman had sailed past her on a skateboard, completely naked. Brrrrr!

Today is blessed sunshine; the lights go on when you flip the switches, the washer and dryer are doing their holy work. Outside I pull up large swaths of tenacious scotch broom, freeing invasive roots from rocky soil that has become soft clay, almost butter.

Some time ago we bought several cans of “Liberty Seeds” from survivalseeds4patriots.com. We have beets, cucumbers, corn, lettuce, kale, spinach, carrots, onions, peppers, and more - all in super-compact, not-yet-germinated, form. 

As soon as the rain stops for a few days and it gets a little warmer, we’re going to put dirt into two large circular canvas pots and sow these mysterious seeds. It’s a miracle that something so tiny will create a plant that we can eat in the months to come, and we are hopeful.

We're on a kind of frontier now, where communication, patience and self-reliance are all crucial. Simple seeds can provide freedom in the midst of chaos. We're looking forward to a sumptuous Victory garden, more appropriate now than ever. 

Rain Drum

Our Round House

encircles us in the storm.

The ceiling flutters, then snaps taut

under thrumming raindrops 

that bombard us like endless thoughts -

pummeling us into sleep,
into dreams...

our canoe springs free as

poisons wash away 
downstream

we plunge into
possibility -

into

stillness.

How much stronger we are

in this Rain Drum,

this

quiet.


--for Torrey, on his birthday!

Alchemical Fire

And so it begins, I thought this past Monday as I woke to the chop-chop-chop of helicopters flying low in the early morning sky.

Then, at 9am someone flipped a switch somewhere and the power went dead. Good thing we'd checked with bloggers bigsurkate.wordpress.com and xasauantoday.com to know the first back burn in our corner of the Soberanes fire was officially in progress.

The magical marine layer just off the ridge was the view downhill from the flames behind me, a comforting contrast.
                                 
"We breathe smoke and eat dirt" report the firefighters. We learned this from the fireman who drew sentry duty on the ridge one night, a welcome break from the Coast Ridge fire line. To keep him company he met a very special dog, who loves men in yellow uniforms, especially when they don't mind tossing the ball.


It's part of living on the coast, this crazy hopefully just once-a- decade ballet of fire, fire-fighters, equipment and community. Everything fuses in the crucible of adventure.

Forget about sleeping well, or pursuing any normal activities with single-mindedness. We are sensing each breeze, analyzing each column of smoke, studying topo maps and Google earth until we're bleary-eyed. We assertively inform each new batch of firefighters about our water tanks and hydrants, our clearance concerns and exit plans, if we have them.

But, because this is Big Sur, we count our blessings to be on this roller-coaster ride in a war zone.

On the southwest flank of the fire, we are lucky. Emoticons of four leaf clovers everywhere. We've had time to prepare in all kinds of ways. What we've waited for almost a month is now here, the  dreaded and welcomed back-burns. If all goes well, fire will meet fire in the canyon behind us and move far, far away...

The valiant fire crews, mostly rural people, are even greater heroes now as some have family near the Cedar Fire and other blazes across the state. Can you say "climate change"? I have it firsthand from the elder firemen, leading their young crews like gentle bull-elks, that yes, we have always had fire and yes, these monster fires are happening more frequently. Now unfortunately firefighting (along with yoga and cannabis) is a growth industry in California.

In times of stress, our usual distractions do not work to keep us out of the difficult present. Even the habits that we most enjoy fall by the wayside as we are given the opportunity to practice alchemy. We can make what is painful powerful, through a kind of active surrender. As the old song says, Que será, será, baby. The golden glow of the present moment is always with us, even as we wait for what will come.

Watching God

As I write this on Sunday afternoon here on the lawn, tendrils of fog float out over the sea. A spotter plane soars above, moving northwest, looking for sparks from the Soberanes fire, blazing about five miles away from us. Hooray spotter plane! It soars up and down the coast non-stop now, a comforting part of the enormous effort to control the wildfire which blasted into our world last week, changing lives forever.

White, with a bright orange stripe below its wings, the plane reminds me of the mango colored koi in my pond. What will happen to the koi should a fire come? Last time the firefighters took the time to refill the pond and saved them. The fishes’ element is water, so they are presumably safe beneath its cool, glassy surface. Our elements are earth and air, elements we pray will cooperate in keeping our homes safe.

Topography, wind, heat and water are all concerns as we move forward into the projected next few weeks of the 37,000 acre (and growing) inferno, so far burning slowly south and east into the Ventana Wilderness. Hooray also for the bulldozer drivers building a fire-break on the Coast Ridge Road! As oblivious tourists slip by in a steady stream on the  highway, dozer drivers move up nearby Torre Canyon to burrow great lanes of dirt that will keep the flames away.

Two days ago I wore a carpenters’ mask to clear my lungs of smoke. Unable to breathe, my impulse instead was to worry, throw away useless stuff (so much of it!) and take naps between gasps. Yesterday we weed-whacked the expansive meadow beside the house and moved underbrush out of the canopy of the forest. We've also hooked up hoses to fire hydrants, drawn maps, and stored valuables in town. The house has a Zen look, missing many works by local artists I’ve acquired over the past two decades.

How we love our firefighters and those who follow them! They are Earth-wise heroes who do the opposite of what normal humans do in fires. While we may hold the line as long as possible and then run to relative safety, they move towards danger, feel the heat, and outwit the flames. 

We've stocked the fridge with beer and bottled water should firefighters appear, but today I surrender and drink a pale ale as I make calls to see how my neighbors are faring. The talk is all of bulldozer lines, back burns (one scheduled for tomorrow 3 miles north of us, please cross your fingers) water tanks, hoses, who’s staying stoic (or not) and that ideal constellation of variables known as defensible space. 

It’s a “praise the lord and pass the ammo” moment. We pray to our many gods, pagan and otherwise, as the sound of weed-whackers and chainsaws fill the air. I water prodigiously, soak flowerbeds and lawns, mulch piles of leaves, then place flowers on the statue of Naga, Hindu Goddess of the Spring.  In the universal tradition, I light a candle each night before Blessed Mother Mary, and each morning I chant Sat Nam, visualizing protection from cold, flowing, sacred rivers.

Last night I read aloud a passage from a favorite novel to my husband. Facing a disaster (this one a hurricane in Florida in the 1930’s) the characters, trapped by circumstances and unable to flee, wait in their shacks in the Everglades as the massive storm approaches. “They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God.”

We watch God here in Big Sur too, imprinting singular moments onto our souls.  When fire comes, and loss looms nearby, this spiritual practice is indescribably poignant.

Today the air is cool, yet each suspicious blast of wind brings dread. A momentary sirocco makes the neighborhood hawks circle and swoop, upsetting a family of woodpeckers wearing flashy red berets. They nod their heads and cackle thanks as I inadvertently spook the perched raptor out of the oak tree. A red-shouldered hawk, swift and sturdy, harlequin checkerboard of wings and pivoting tail.

This afternoon, shadows of the spreading elm tree's graceful branches dance across the carpet of springy grass. My dog pants beside me, begging me to throw his ever-present pine cone. My Siamese cat comes by meowing and demands a cuddle. All these living beings seem blissfully unaware of the danger possibly headed our way.

The sea, our ancient mother, is calm today. Gentle, rippling swells move south along the land’s edge. Hundreds of annoying insects, typical of the season, buzz by. Wind chimes ring peacefully from a corner of the garden as my bare feet relax, tickled by the warm grass, a moment of peace...

Cal Fire's plane flies overhead once more, engines whining as it heads southeast. The leaves of the trees sigh in the wind. Just now, a large flame-colored monarch butterfly swirls up and down, back and forth, against a backdrop of indigo sea, surfing invisible currents before my eyes.

The Winged Life

"He that binds to himself a Joy

does the Winged Life destroy.

He that kisses the Joy as it flies

lives in Eternity's sunrise"  

                                          --William Blake

I've been listening to birds a lot lately. Watching them with fresh eyes, too, especially when they take their wee swims in the birdbath outside my door. A little water, a little green, a feeder or two, and you too may notice we are living in an aviary.

This Spring I heard Loons for the first time. Their melancholy evening songs unfurled over the lake as I almost missed the moment, running around trying to record their long moaning hoots and tremulous spiraling calls to each other.

The nickname of one of my favorite feathered creatures is the Be Here Now bird, also known as the Olive-sided Flycatcher. The more prosaic description of its call is "Quick Three Beers".  But if you are listening to him in the Springtime at Esalen Institute, you too might hear him singing, "Just Be Here..."

Recently I spotted (true words of a birdwatcher) a small yellow-chested bird with a beautiful song. She flitted, as only a tiny bird can flit, among the branches of a purple flowering bush, chirping in what was surely delight. Ah, the Lesser Goldfinch.  (Quick note, if you have cats, playing these recordings will drive them nuts!)

The Flicker gives a bark-like "Kyeer" call in the daily dawn chorus, sometimes punctuated with drumming on oak trees. This is the kind of sound that can make you laugh under the covers as you prepare to meet the day.  There are other members of the flock among us: Woodpeckers, Crows, Hawks and the unmistakable heavies of the bird world, the Ravens.

Birds have provided our philosophers, dreamers and lovers with poetic opportunities for centuries. From condors to hummingbirds, they spark our collective imagination as they lighten our hearts.  These angels of the animal kingdom are so far still abundant here in Big Sur, with its ample forests and meadows, along with (this past year at least) abundant rainwater blessing springs and streams.

A friend told me once over coffee that one of the best things about waking up spiritually was to finally, finally hear bird-song in the morning. Thank you dear friend whose name I cannot remember. Your words are with me still.

In the Land of Point and Click

Once upon a time, many years ago now, I decided I wanted a more peaceful life. So I put my stuff in storage and spent a year in the goldfish bowl at Esalen Institute, learning to cry, build healthy boundaries, and look people in the eye when I talked about my feelings.

Next stop was re-entering the world of work, again, but in a kinder, gentler way. I learned to make cappuccinos as a barista, and to curl ribbon as a shop girl. Stepping out of the corporate hustle that had been my professional life to date was a blessed relief.

Then, I found I was buying groceries on my charge card. Milking goats and making cheese wasn't ideal for retirement planning. So I dusted off my resume and jumped back in: front-desk jobs, librarian gigs, executive assistant, factotum. At one point, I worked three jobs for over a year.

When I joined the management team at a local historic Inn, I was thrilled to go back to school, earning a professional certification in Human Resources. Made sense, I thought, as so many of us spend our lives working for The Man (whether we know it or not). Why not make it a little easier and more respectful?

I loved understanding and implementing fundamental and compassionate workplace ethics. A community where work could really be "Love made visible" as Rilke says. I breathed easier every time I entered the door, smelled the hearth fire and heard guests laughing over their breakfasts.

Today, I embrace again the path that recalls my original dream: a life that, with continued good luck, hard work and prayer, will grant me peace and success in this beautiful land. Nuestra hermosa tierra.

Big Sur is the Land of Point and Click, where simply holding a camera to your eye and pushing a button yields beauty. And beauty, to paraphrase Tolle, makes the mind stop. Which is also what gives this coastal community its endless appeal, to millions of visitors each year. When the mind stops, no matter how briefly, we find peace.

So here is another of my recent offerings to the tide of beauty that ebbs and flows in Big Sur, depending upon your openness to her gifts...


With love,
Linda

Romancing the Sur

Like a mighty ship of the high seas from centuries ago, those of us who live here refer to Big Sur as a "she". The curves of the landscape are her curves: mountains sloping down to the sea become thighs gently opening to incoming tides. Ridge top valleys rest in the afternoon sun like concave tummies, swelling hills are really high round hips, breasts and dimpled bums.

Loving this rough and tumble, wildly beautiful Big Sur isn't easy. She's tough, and she's worth it, but sometimes you wonder...

She's fickle, and when she does treat you right, there are no guarantees that her love will last. She demands real-world sacrifices, which you often make for years before clearly seeing your choices. She's touchy, and sometimes harsh, as anyone will say who's felt the sting of local gossip, or paid the price for a wrong move, especially on the road.

You're cold and out of firewood, and she doesn't care. You're lonely and far from friends, she laughs. You struggle in your daily life and party to forget your troubles, while she just goes on dishing out her own dramas, oblivious to yours. You watch yourself grow older in the comfort of her company, but you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop, too.

Devastating fires, treacherous rock slides and torrential storms contrast with gentle days that you wish could last forever, sunsets you'll remember on your deathbed and an existential solitude that heals your soul.

When she reveals herself, it's only in those moments when you are authentically open to her charms. She'll surprise you as you drive around a bend in the road: There she is, veils of mist swirling up to her sturdy knees, those classic cliffs plunging down to the ocean and receding down the coast, so beautiful that you just want to cry.

She'll seduce you with the lightest touch: moments of profound, eloquent stillness in the mornings. She takes your breath away with her baby pink dawns and scarlet sunset skies. Always changing, she teases with her great majesty, plays hard to get with her astonishing beauty. Now you see her, now, as you focus on your own puny life, you don't.

She is Queen of the sounds of silence: serenading frogs, whispering owls, rumbling surf, moaning trees, wing-beats. Most of all, she is a great teacher, probably more teacher than lover, really. When she gives of herself it is when we are ready, when we have done our work, when we have shared our joys, and pursued our passions.

The lunar Goddess must make her home in Big Sur, too. She rises full above the ridge-top, a redwood tree silhouetted against her bone white orb. She spills her bright light down canyons onto the expansive ocean, and we are transformed.

photo by Toby Rowland-Jones

Retreat

The pump

and snap of modern life

charges us up

with relentless dreams,

infinite distractions. We strike

poses projecting purpose.

Escape: Tranquil ennui

on spur of mountain range reaching

down to the sea.

Hummingbirds dance to hurdy-gurdy music.

Rattlesnakes buzz a slow warning from

hidden places.

All night

Orchestral crickets sing a sleigh-bell song.

At daybreak

Endless flies whirl by.

Grasshopper days of summer draw to a close.

House filled with laughter now still in the heavy heat.

The dirt pants in thirst.

Scent of warm earth baking rises up in greeting.

Retreat

Retreat to the land of sunsets

and flying saucers.

There’s nothing better, and yet

Every flight has its price.

Sharp Shinned

                                                

Sharp Shinned

I fly

      Wind lifts me

            Up warm spur of earth

I seek

   Light, water

      Small furry, feathered

           pulsing energies that flee –

To soothe my morning hunger

Thriving lush

           scent of water

Fluttering leaves scatter

     Sun

          into bright dancing prisms

I fly

Strong steady beats 

      to rosy nimbus of flesh

            that stands near shiny upright pool

Green-gold

        shimmering 

                Flash of light

Wait! Not right!

Strange aura deflects my flight

     Sharp unknown scent of human breath

                     I bank right

Settle in cool leaves

Watch her

 with my golden eyes.

 

Samsara in a Bottle

Big Sur serves up Fire like no place else on Earth. There's the epic grandeur of the destruction, framed against ocean and sky. Giant flames that dance like demons through the forest, racing towards your home. You already feel you're a tiny part of the cosmos here, and that sense is amplified by the terror of fire. 

Of all the possible rock-bottom, soul-twisting life events, fire comes near the top of the list. As several of my dear friends learned this past month, great loss and radical shifts of perspective go hand in hand.

Sometimes those shifts are subtle, like a whisper, other times stark and in-your-face, but the gifts fire brings are always profound.

Life turns on a dime, as my Dad used to say, and the fast-moving Pfeiffer Fire which began just before midnight on December 15 was a shattering example of this fact. A few key individuals who happened to be awake, who saw flames and smelled smoke, sounded the alarm that saved several lives. People fled with the clothes on their backs and nothing else. 30' flames in driveways and gardens led to emergency convoys over back roads and down the mountain to safety.

So many acres, so many homes, so many people displaced, disasters are always reported with numbers, as if the numbers can help us to digest the event and somehow convey the power of the story. Those who are living the reality of losing, almost losing, or fighting to save their homes, know that integrating this particular fire into their personal experience is going to take the tincture of time.

And then, the soul gifts, just in time for Christmas: 

We are connected, none of us is really alone. The Pfeiffer Fire produced an outpouring of love and support, donations and concern, bringing all of us closer into the circle of community. Also, we are stronger than we know. Especially I think of my friend who fought the fire for hours in her flip-flops (and probably could have done it in her heels.)

You are not your stuff. What an amazing feeling it is to walk away from a lifetime of collecting belongings and know that you really only deeply miss one or two, or well, maybe, 3 or 4, things. And what you miss takes on a special significance. Your favorite painting. The silk robe, the teapot. Grief over these losses is offset by the simple fact that you and your loved ones are alive.

Renewal and rebirth really happen. As hard as it may be to believe at first, bit by bit we come back to our selves, transformed by fire into something stronger and more brilliant than before. We know our depths - everything is more precious to us - and so we can re-create our lives from that place. Spring is coming, and with a little blessed rain, it will be magnificent.

Shortly after my 30th birthday my home burned down in the Oakland Hills, part of an urban firestorm that took thousands of homes and 25 lives. For a time I lived in a state of grace, where every person and object seemed to glow from the inside, reverberating with light. I had just begun to learn about Buddhism, and the concepts of nirvana and samsara were fresh in my mind. 

One afternoon I found myself fascinated by the contents of the medicine cabinet in my friend's 1940's era apartment. Everything I looked at during those days I saw simultaneously whole and exploded into ash. Peering behind the mirrored door of the cabinet one item jumped out at me from the middle shelf, a small perfume bottle, labeled in red: Samsara. Samsara, the turning wheel of existence, the world of suffering and desire. 

Days before the fire, I recall stopping and really looking, almost absorbing, the fresh blooms of the Lily of the Nile in my garden. I treasured that moment for years, and still see it as a way to step off the merry-go-round of suffering, and into the richness Life offers us every day. 

Now for another gift that fire brings: a deeply felt conviction that we have only this moment, and that living fully in each moment brings us peace. May this peace be our New Year's wish for our neighbors recovering from the Pfeiffer Fire, and for all of us in the years to come.

Pfeiffer Fire photo by Linda Sonrisa

Playing with Time

All my watches are broken. They sit in a bag in my closet, waiting to come back to life.  This past Sunday as Daylight Saving Time concluded for the year, I found myself pondering Time.

As a chronically tardy person, arriving on time would be a breakthrough, while arriving early would be revolutionary.

It's a comfort to know that I share this condition with others. The moral superiority of punctual people is lost on us. We dash off to each date with the high drama of the White Rabbit.

As the pendulum swings from the to-the-nanosecond accuracy I vow to follow with each time change, my clocks creep forward. The timer on the microwave is 20 minutes fast to keep me moving out the door and into the world, while the car clock is a quarter of an hour ahead, to keep me from driving like the proverbial bat out of hell down Highway One.

Playing with time, I hope, eternally, to arrive on time. (Only my wall clock is stopped at 4:20, in honor of the dear friend who bequeathed it to me, his time having run out.)

Unless I am at work, where I confess to being a bit of a clock watcher, I guess-timate time throughout the day. Perhaps the garden needs a sun-dial, the original clock,  to monitor passage of that big ball of  fire in the sky. Maybe I should acquire that most poetic of timepieces, an hour-glass, and watch the grains of sand slip away.

Right now, as I write this, the sun filters throughout the leaves of the elm tree above me, and I imagine it's after noon, but not by too much.

And now, the light has moved again, as I sit under the trees and feel it on my back as it spreads across the lawn at an oblique angle. What a privilege it is to feel the sun move across the sky, to sense the hours of the day move forward, measured only by the changing quality of the light.

I hear sea lions barking from a cove to the north of here, the sound travels all this way.  In the dawn I heard the yipping of too-near coyotes and multitudes of chirping finches. Sometimes the canyon air carries the breath of spouting whales, from the ocean way below.

Raking maple leaves, I watch them fall delicately, slowly, around me. I take laundry off the prettiest clothes-line in the world: removing a sun-dried white sheet to see the coastline to the south, the fog hugging the ridges like a soft down blanket tucked up into each canyon, up against each cliff.

Perhaps knowing the accurate time is over-rated, another side-effect of modern life. Living in the present moment can be accomplished gently, too. Maybe all I need to remember is the line from that wonderful old song, "Enjoy yourself... It's later than you think."

Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think
Enjoy yourself, while you're still in the pink
The years go by, as quickly as a wink
Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it's later than you think