Quiet In The Night

It's the end of the day, and the world is quiet.  I hear the very faint whisper of my laptop, the hum of car tires out on the road.

Once in a while I hear that odd whistling test-signal noise ears make inside, but not right now.  I would hear it very loudly right now if it were to start.  It is so quiet, the peaceful surrender of the day to the arms of the night, like a squirming child slumbering in a heap, gathering energy for the dawn.

I've heard an owl on a quiet soft summer night and seen the moon float up like a big silver bubble up out of the dark hills in the east.  I've seen the silent arc of a shooting star.  The grand things in nature are soundless, and perhaps silence is the sound of the infinite.










    

What next?

Hide the children, lock the doors, kneel in front of your santos and stay away from sharp objects.  This has been one weird week, and I don't know when it's going to finally go away.  Astrologers out there, what do you make of it?

First, my neighbor's water heater lost its 50 gallons of water all over her garage floor and then ours.  Rugs got sopped and boxes soggy.  So far, mildew and mold are being kept at bay, but what a mess.  That was bad, definitely worse for my neighbor.  We are stashing our things back into place and getting rid of others, offering help and sympathy to her when she needs it.

Then I heard about two young kayakers - my daughter and her boyfriend, both usually attentive to detail and very responsible - whose kayak, with them in it flipped over.  They thought it was fun until they realized they'd both lost their prized Oakley sunglasses.  Down, down, down the glasses sank into the briny deep never to be seen again.  Davey Jones probably looks pretty sporty now.  Ciao $250.  They looked pretty cool and gave excellent eye protection, but cheap Chinese knockoffs will have to suffice.

Next, on a little hike yesterday, my husband waded across a shallow river and forgot that his iPhone was in the pocket of his hiking shorts.  Later, when he remembered, he took a look and saw that it looked far too soggy to use.  He tried talking to it sweetly, shaking it out, putting it in his driest (and much higher) pocket.  Later at home, he used a hairdryer on it.  No good.  It's submerged in dry white rice right now, but since he literally uses it constantly he had to buy a new one.  Good-bye $200.

Preparing for work and trying to download the newest version of iTunes to sync the iPhone, he misplaced his Kindle.  Uh oh.  He uses it more than the iPhone, and that's a lot.  I am pretty sure no one else in the world reads more books on their Kindle than he does.  We searched everywhere.  In cupboards, trash cans, closets, drawers.  Even the refrigerator.  Well, you never know, could happen, right?  Finally, after nearly resorting to emptying the house of all its contents, I found the Kindle in a deep recess of the sofa, the perfect place for it to creep away and hide quietly.  No loss, but lots of angst and frustration at the end of the day.

But wait, there's more...

Today, after buying a new parking pass for the local community college campus where I swim, I walked back to my car and found a parking ticket.  No cop for miles.  Hey, I'm thinking, this is getting to be a pattern.  True, these are not major events.  It was $25.  This is not life or death, but it's starting to feel like I'd better check planets in retrograde and maybe pay more attention to minor saints.

Yet, there was actually an added bonus weird event just a little while ago.  As I was sitting here at my writing table, I heard an ominous crunching thump down on the street.  I dashed outside and saw a Toyota Camry pulling away slowly down the street.  I ran back in after memorizing the license plate, called the police, and then went out to assess damages.  My poor neighbor's garage door was bent, crunched, unable to open anymore.  It's still on its hinges, but it looks pretty decrepit. We live on a very narrow street, too narrow for any but the most compact of cars to consider turning around on.  Why would someone think turning around in a big long sedan would be okay there?

The perpetrator came walking back, hollering and carrying on about her flip-flop getting stuck on the gas pedal and how her husband was going to shoot her and was this going to go on her driving record.  At least she came back, even if she wasn't the brightest light on the porch.  She didn't know what to do, said she'd been told not to drive with flip-flops on.  I started thinking about writing a letter to the DMV to suggest they set the bar just a teeny bit higher for individuals who might not really be all that safe driving in our midst.  She lit up a cigarette and was talking loudly mostly to herself about her illnesses, her driving record, her husband who wants to divorce her, and more about her driving record.  She was ecstatic when the nice polite police officer who'd arrived by then informed her that this wasn't going to be reported to the DMV.

What next?  I don't want to know.  I was going to light candles, but now I'm thinking something might set itself on fire, so I'll just imagine them lit.  Will tomorrow be better?  Pray for us all, and hope it isn't catching.

Red Ribbon, Gray Fox

I saw a fox's gray tail, its tip tied with a bright red ribbon.  Then the fox disappeared, running away from me, fading into a murky dark background.

I saw that in a dream, and the flash of bright red - the orange red of geraniums - is still with me, vivid as the instant I noticed it in the dream.

Scientists studied the colors we see best in our peripheral vision.  They found that red is one of the least noticeable out of the corners of our eyes.  That weird bright neon yellow is the easiest to see.  But, red, so deeply emblematic of intensity and emotion, is not what we notice first.  Not in our consciousness anyway.

Red is such a significant color to us in nature, warning us of poison, anger, love or lust.  Black, red and white are intensely powerful when used together; our brain responds strongly to that.  Spiders, snakes, hemlock, blood have red as a signal color and send shivers of alarm to our deepest primitive brain.  Odd that we don't see red very well to the side but are usually vigorously affected by it when we see it right in front of us.  

Red connects us to our subconscious where shadows lurk and passions simmer.  Blood lust, red roses, scarlet satin.  No chance to remain light and free once those are planted in your mind.  As for that small red ribbon and the disappearing fox...

Watching Ocean Waves

When you walk on the beach, you decline rapidly in importance while the whole of nature sizes you up, admits you back into its wild sanctum and then leaves you in the company of molted feathers, bits of shells and diffident sand crabs.  How can you feel large among a trillion grains of sand and unending waves tormenting the shore?  You are a dot, a mote, a sniggle of energy surrounded in every direction by immensity and a perfection of irrational power.

Stay upright and keep your footing while the ocean snarls and tumbles in from the far curved horizon and tears cliffs apart.  Yell and scream all you want, but your voice is a squeak in comparison, a muffled, swallowed-in-the-roar-of-eternal-sound insignificance.

You are only so high, so strong, so resistant to death at the beach.  You are a flea, a tease on the surface of the sand whose footprints are erased, removed with decisive and randomly sweeping vigor.  As mighty as you may feel, your mightiness is a small snack gulped into the roaring, salted wetness of the cold ocean's fathoms.  It will not last long, your ill temper and pride.  It is worthless in the reality of a restless tide that heaves and slaps without thought or consideration of what your mother thought so precious about you.

Waves of energy, humping and rolling Samurai mountains, move and team with other waves and cross paths with still others, and they would move to the other side of infinity, but somewhere a shore interrupts them, a collision cascades everywhere, then breaks into another infinity of ripples and agonies of splashes.  Or are they joys?  None of them can care.  They go on, indifferently, splendidly, and on forever.

All your life long there is the ocean banging, slapping and jostling everything it touches.  It stinks, it's gorgeous and it pulls back and forth, hearts and souls, beating, pulsing, washing and always restless.  Go to the ocean and be small, unuseful, aimless, inarticulate.  It may save you from yourself just when you are getting to feel you are so fine, so important, and so perfectly unique in the universe.  Ha!

The Best Intentions and Broken Water Heaters

My neighbor's water heater blew up and water flooded everywhere including into our garage.  Lots of things are soaked and have to be dried out.  That in itself is aggravating since things just don't dry out in this town.  With gray fog, ocean humidity and cool temperatures, mold and fungus are leering spectors for householders.  We have been lucky in that regard.  Our place is built up above the garage.  The living space is dry.  The garage, down below, is where the sog is, and it's going to take some diligence to get it dry again.  It has to be done; the negative malodorous consequences are too great to risk if I don't.

Right away, I'm blaming, pointing fingers, filling with anger.  An irritable mood arises and I am sucked into it unless I kick and scream and resist with all my might.  It's ugly, this mood conflict.  If I were really highly evolved, I would find a way to be grateful for an opportunity for personal growth in this somewhere.  I'll compromise and just get the work done as quickly as I can and hope for better weather to help the water evaporate.  A fan would be good...

Water heaters give out, let go their contents and water flows, seeping everywhere, making sodden blobs of boxes and turning rugs or carpet into sponges.  What was going smoothly and working fine is now useless and expensive, taking time and money to repair.

I'm thinking about how this looks a lot like obstacles and impediments to accomplishing the notable things we dream of.  On the biggest scale, people and organizations want to effect peace but have to overcome one thing after another to do so.  Little things, things that seem to gobble up time and energy and seem so fruitless, pop up over and over again.  Arguments, policy interpretations, missing information, power struggles among people who must work together slow progress, divert intention.

On a smaller scale, like my scale today, I was imagining I had a two-hour window of time to work on a writing project I've begun, but the soggy mess is now the higher priority, and the more interesting work will again be delayed.  I'm hoping it builds character and I'll be a better person for it.  I'd rather be that than irritable and angry, because that's just plain poison to me and my spirit.

I can choose and I am.  Okay, now for those rugs...

Hero's Journey: Wisdom For a Young Traveler

A friend of mine told me about her daughter's trip to France this summer.  She had planned for months after  she found out about the possibility of a homestay for three weeks with a family in the mid-south region of the country.  She had studied French at her small high school for the previous three years and felt it would be an ideal way to put her nascent language skills to good use.

Obstacles arose in the planning process, not the least of which was the anxiety of traveling alone in a foreign country to a destination completely new to her, to live with a family she had never met before.  Much more than her language skills would be tested.  Yet, she continued on with the planning and ultimately left on her big adventure.

The travel to Germany by plane and then to her temporary home in France by train went well and she arrived full of hope and some trepidation.  Immediately, she was welcomed and began to settle in to the pace and life of her host family.  The language barrier was noticed by all, not because she spoke poor French, but because her French was stilted and old-fashioned.  Being only 17, her mind adapted and absorbed phrases and modern slang quickly.

Three weeks flew by. She was adopted and included in the life of a French family in one of the most beautiful areas of a lovely country.  Before she knew it, our young traveler had to say good-bye and made her way all the way back home.

On arrival home, she was filled with stories of what she'd seen and heard, where she'd gone and who she'd met.  It was another adustment period, a time of culture shock all over again, but this time it was because she was returning to her home with a change in her heart.

"What did you notice most while you were in France?" her family asked her.

"I saw how the family ate together every day at lunch.  The son walked home from school, everyone stopped their work and they were together for an hour and a half every day.  Life was much slower.  There was never a meal in their house when there were not at least 8 or 10 people together.  It could have been neighbors dropping by or other family members, but there were always people at meals together.  Most of the time, they ate outdoors at a big table under the tree."

When she came back home with France fresh in her mind, she began to notice, almost for the first time, the pace of her family's life, how few meals were eaten together and how much her friends spent time alone, separate from one another.  Her family has not owned a television for years, but even without the TV, unusual as that is, she noticed a hurried pace, social isolation and a greater intensity of talk and behavior during time when families were together.

This struck her, and it changed her.  She was able to talk about it and in doing so gained a new wisdom about our society and choices she can make in her life to reflect the wisdom - the gift - she returned with that had transformed her.

This is a simple but true story that illustrates the positive effect not only of travel but ultimately of understanding that processing and sharing the meaning of preparation, travel and personal experience completes the journey.  It would have been easy and light to welcome her home, look at her photographs and then plan another trip or go off to some other activity, but the family took time to listen to her experience of travel.   They gave her an opportunity to reflect and witnessed her transformation, even if it was a personal internal one.

Any opportunity we can take to allow our family members and our friends to gain wisdom through their experiences and difficulties enriches us all as individuals and fosters personal as well as community transformation.  Take the time (with the TV off) to listen to each other at the end of the day and at mealtimes.  This is the Hero's Journey, a story we are all taking part in every day.  You have the power to change your own story by doing something as simple and low-tech as listening, carefully.  Bon voyage!

Off and Running

Nothing like putting extra pressure on myself to improve in life, which is just what I'm doing by signing up for a 3-unit class in short story writing, even though I am working full time, too.  Taking a big step in a desired direction does involve effort, overcoming inertia and growing pains.

More struggles to gain access to my new online class today, but I'm still determined to make it happen and squeeze all the juice out of the class that I can.  I feel obsessed, but the flip side of that is resolve, which more accurate.

There are good people in my life who are doing fascinating things with their time and talent.  They inspire me and keep me focused on what is possible and the redeeming qualities of humankind.

On another note:  One reader wrote to me offline and we had a written discussion after I posted about the gentleman at the Farmer's Market last week, how he was a positive ambassador of sorts for Islam.  He is fasting during Ramadan and his face is filled with peace and delight.  The reader remarked about the apparent oppression of women that seems to predominate muslim cultures, how Islam may condone such behavior and the horror of the extremists' violent assaults.  I agree with the outrage and horror.  There is no excuse for violent domination of other people, no matter who they are.  I am not a follower of Islam, but I am interested in meeting people of all faiths who practice and believe in a god that is the same or different than mine.  I intend to keep my ears up and my eyes open, seize opportunities to learn more, especially from first-source documents and practitioners of all faiths as well as nonbelievers.

Very brief post today, due to time constraints, but lots of thoughts forming and re-forming.  It's a good feeling.

Short Story Writing Class Begins

With only moments left to write, I can only say I've signed up for an online short-story writing course.  The sign-up process was designed by the devil himself in the guise of an IT department whose sense of evil humor is entirely wicked and evil.  I managed somehow, but it took TWO HOURS!!!!  (head hitting desk)

Well, with that agony behind me, I can wax philosophic and say:  You never stop learning, and when you can learn from someone who is much farther along the road you intend to travel, your choice is obvious.

I'll be taking some of the writings I've posted on my blog and developing them into short stories, learning about story structure, sentence structure, word choice, setting, plot - all that stuff.  I hope I learn what a verb is, too.  It's been a long time since I took a class in writing (seems like centuries).  I'm putting on the student hat again and setting off on a little journey.  I hope you'll see some good changes and improvements in my writing here.  Comments and feedback are always welcome as well as new readers/followers.  I'm amazed to find that people are taking time out of their busy days to read my work, and very humbled by it.  Thanks everyone!

Dancing With The Sun

Everything is glistening today.  Colors are shouting out loud. Finally, after a long period under the cold blandness of coastal fog, the sun is cavorting across the heavens with diamonds blazing at her feet.

Summer has largely bypassed us in terms of heat and languor.  No, we have had to plan road trips out of the county, even across a few counties to find the hot reach of summer.  I sense a shortening of the time between dawn and dusk, minute by minute, now that I can see where the sun is dancing through the day in full view.  There will be a day when, sure enough, it will feel like fall.  The sun's course is gradually sinking to a lower angle, and it has been, of course, ever since the summer solstice.  But, today is a day that looks like celebration itself.  I'm in a mood for it anyway.  I've got latin music playing, all the windows open and feel like dancing, a mood set by the sun itself.  Salsa sounds good, feels good, and when the whole day's got the rhythm, you just have to go with it.  Samba, meringue, rhumba, I'll make up my own version.  Dance?  Yes!

Earlier, I made a quick circuit of my garden, dragging my hose around to water all the containers.  It looks magnificent, I have to say.  I never get over the appeal of a pretty garden, even if it's like mine with 40 or so containers bordering a cement patio.  I can almost hear the plants growing in the unfamiliar warmth and light.  I think there's a little carnivale going on out there, when I'm not looking, or maybe even when I am.  I've got my own version of one indoors.  Lessez les bon temps rouler!  

A Hero's Journey - First Meeting

I led a small group of intellectually curious individuals today, all of whom felt an urge to effect change in their lives and gain insight about the change they go through.  The session's framework was based on The Hero's Journey with attention paid mainly to identifying a significant crossroads in the life of each person attending and then identifying stages of their own journey.  We talked about vision, dissatisfaction, resistance and obstacles as well as surprises we've encountered in work and life in general. How we deal with all these things transforms us.  Sometimes  we are unaware of the changes that have occurred unless we also take time to share our experience with people who are important to us.

This was my first attempt at group leadership - initiated and led by me - so I had a lot to experience myself as I was teaching others.  It seemed to go well and the group decided to meet again in a month.  I'll take that as a sign of success.  Now to prepare for that and successive meetings and potentially a seminar in the future.

The Hero's Journey is a wonderful model for understanding personal transformation, and to present it to people for the first time was a big first step.  Preparation is key, but readiness to be surprised by the reactions to questions that are asked is also essential.  And many questions are asked; it's part of the process of taking the journey.  

Taking on a personal challenge of daily writing this year has been my own journey on a personal level, but improving communication amongst peers on a professional level has also been a challenge I've decided to take on.  The more I understand the Hero's Journey model, the better I can evaluate what's happening as I run up against challenges as well as distractions.  Also, the more I study it, the better I can relate to other people who are expressing dismay, confusion or doubt in the face of their troubles.

Gaining insight into your self, attempting to answer the big questions in life - why am I here? where am I going? - and developing a sense of purpose in life can be daunting.  By studying the structure of myths and why they have always been part of  human culture, it's possible to gain insight more fully and cope with difficulties better.  I'm looking forward to much more study with this group in the months ahead.

Facilitating a Journey

Based on my work in July related to The Hero's Journey by Joseph Campbell, I am giving a seminar for some colleagues of mine tomorrow.  It's the first time I have been a facilitator in this way, so I'm excited about it and curious to see what the outcome will be.

The three main features of this famous pattern describing the myths and legends in all cultures are The Call, The Journey and the Return.  In actuality, Campbell described many more typical parts to the Hero's Journey, but in relation to team-building and community-building work, these are the significant three.

I remember being presented with Greek myths for the first time when I was in grade school and getting lost in the details, the genealogy of mythical creatures and heroes.  You know, so and so, son of Zeus, brother of someone else, uncle to another and half-brother to...etc.  It made my head swim, and I totally missed the point of what myths could teach me.  My loss, for sure.

Obviously, myths have been important to humankind for a few thousand years.  All cultures have mythical heroes and heroines whose actions serve as metaphor for our own struggles, journeys and ideas.  What I learned in July, though, was explained in such a way that it seemed as if I was getting the message for the very first time in my life.  That is, very often in our culture we are not asked for and do not process meaning in our travels, our work, and our lives.

We are asked, "What happened?  Where did you go?"  But the answer leads to a recapitulation of the string of events that we encountered, not what they meant to us.  Too often people go through an experience and are expected to move on, get over it, feel better, cheer up.  So, the exact opposite happens.  We lose the valuable opportunity to gain wisdom through reflection and interchange with a community that matters to us.  Depression, anxiety, dissatisfaction and anger result.

If we are asked instead, "What changed for you because of what you went through?"  or "What did you learn?" and have a chance to be heard and to speak, the journey is of value, and we experience transformation or self-actualization and fulfillment.  Life feels more worth living because we gain perspective and wisdom.  

We'll be talking about this tomorrow and we'll find out what each of us are in the middle of, literally and metaphorically speaking.  It will be interesting to see how it pans out.  I'll tell you what I learn when I return.  Meanwhile, see if you are at a turning point or significant moment in your life somehow.  It might be helpful to relate it to the Hero's Journey and reframe your experiences in a whole different way.

Ramadan: Fasting, Renewal, and A Marketplace

This is market day, the day I go to my favorite farmers' market, a high point on my weekly calendar.  It is also the middle of Ramadan, a time of great importance to all of Islam, a time of self-purification through fasting, prayer and particular focus on self-restraint.  The month of Ramadan began about ten days ago.  

Usually, I drive across Monterey from Pacific Grove, traveling around the curve that borders The Defense Language Institute, passing through the tunnel underneath the Custom House Plaza, along Del Monte Avenue, then past El Estero Park to Monterey Peninsula College where the market is held every Friday from 10 to 2.  It is a very simple but beautiful route across town that showcases some of Monterey's best public areas including the wharf, the harbor, a pretty lake, avenues lined with leafy trees and distant views of oak- and pine-covered hills.  

Monterey is often a feast for the eyes, a lively town in certain ways, and has inspired exuberant expression in artists, writers, and visitors all through time.  Today, I took in the views as I drove to the market where I planned to fill my shopping bag with all sorts of delicious goods.  Quiet contemplation was not on my mind nor was I interested in subduing my impulse to savor and sample wares.  No, shopping at the market is all about taking tastes of fruits bursting with sweet juicy flavor and trying baked goods or seafood concoctions or condiments made from summer herbs and seasonings.  

As expected, the market was busy with buyers and sellers talking about the goods on display.  Flowers were appraised carefully by those hosting parties or dinners over the coming weekend.  A few women discussed the various ways gerber daisies, proteus, flox, statis, and other summer blooms could be combined in beautiful ways.  A fiddler played lively tunes next to his open fiddle case.  Everywhere I could turn I saw fresh flavorful things in stall after stall.   

At the far west end of the market, I came to Zena Foods, a stall new to this marketplace.  A man with a middle Eastern accent and wearing a blue shirt was busy handing out samples of Mediterranean foods.  A cluster of women leaned in, asking questions, intent on learning about his products.  His energy was high and his smile was quick.  He was selling hummus, pita chips, pita bread, tabhouli salad, carrot dip, olive spread and other delicacies I was hoping to try.  His prices were very good.  

"What do you recommend?  What is this?  What is your favorite?"  Were the questions from the curious shoppers.  

"Today I have no favorites. It's Ramadan, and I am fasting.  I am smelling all of it, and I cannot eat any."  He looked down at all of the food spread on his tables in stacks and rows.  "Everyone, take samples and try this.  It is very good, very pure food." 

"Fasting?  Not any of this?  What about water?" It seemed remarkable.  No one seemed remotely ready to fast, especially considering the bounty tempting them right under their noses.  The shift of interest from feast to fast was immediate, and the contrast was surprising to many.  Certainly one of the most difficult things to do is carry out a fasting meditation while selling piles of goodies to women waving money under your nose, asking for fragrant samples all day long.  

"Ramadan goes from dawn to dusk, every day for a month."  I had to stop and think about what might be similar in the Catholic tradition.  Lent, maybe, was vaguely similar.  Years ago I had to abstain from eating meat on Fridays as a young Catholic, but denying myself food and water every day for a month was impressive in comparison.  

I introduced myself.  He shook my hand warmly.  "My name is Ahmed.  I love this, to meet my customers, to talk with people here."  Then, just like that he was off to help the next customer waiting with hands full.  Clearly, he was a happy man, a good ambassador for his faith and his business.  His prices and fine quality were attracting steady customers and endless questions, all of which he answered one after another, far better than I would if I had been fasting.  

Ahmed, a newer citizen of our nation, was still busy with his work as I drove back home.  He had offered a glimpse into a belief system native to him but foreign to me.  Ramadan will continue on for three more weeks or so, and I probably will have little or no other contact with it that I will be aware of.  It's the way things go in life.  Whole communities within this community come and go, live and celebrate in discrete places and ways that do not require a spotlight or trumpeting to remain holy or significant.  

A marketplace brought hundreds of people from all parts of the Peninsula, a random mix of beliefs, interests, ideas, all as fascinating to try in different combinations as the flowers and vegetables that were displayed in their full splendor at every turn.   

Newton's Laws of Figs

I just ate a Fig Newton and thought of the statue of David.  The real David (not the marble version by Michelangelo) did not wear a stitch but did carry a belt, usually slung casually over his shoulder, sort of pre-GQ, a pose male models have adopted rather shamelessly since that time.  Most people believe he slew giants, but this is a misperception that has gained momentum on the internet over the past few years.  In actuality, he was a simple farmer who grew up on a fig plantation in southern Italy.  It is known that he met Sir Isaac Newton, a lawyer, who was wandering the countryside discovering physics, when Newton, who had fallen asleep under one of the fig trees, was hit on the head by a fig.  David had been practicing his pitching motion, using figs since they were so abundantly available there in the orchard.

By now you have guessed correctly that Fig Newtons are named after the man wrote the laws of motion, especially after David hit him on the head with one, which hurt a lot.  Pain is often the precursor to invention.

As you may also know, figs can be construed as apples if you really squint.  Newton, being English, had never seen figs before, but he had certainly seen apples.  The fig that collided with his skull was so painful that he believed it had actually been a much more solid missile, an apple.  To this day, we have been led to believe that the original beaning Newton experienced was actually by an apple.  Now you know the truth.

If Newton hadn't described laws of motion, including falling apples, we might never have been able to play pool or ride in bumper cars.  That would have changed summer carnivals as we know them.  So, here's a problem for you physics fans:  Suppose David was carrying a pool stick instead of the belt.  Say he was out looking for a game of pool and no one would take him up on it because he was such a well-built fellow and intimidated all the beer swillers at the pool hall.  I mean, you show up looking like that, and you probably aren't going to get any takers, naked or not.  Here's the question:  Would models still pose in the same way?  It's quite an open-ended question, and at the next physics convention being held this fall in Sheboygan, this will be addressed and hopefully solved once and for all.

So, David goes to his fig orchard, grabs a few of the figs and starts throwing them around, just to pass the time.  Then, he notices that his purse/belt thing can be used to throw the figs pretty far, so he practices and throws them extremely far, gets in the Guinness Book of World Records, and then hires an agent who signs him up for a Nike contract and the pro fig-flinging circuit.  He goes worldwide and eventually faces a nasty-looking Viking or Cyclops or some awful stinking troglodyte in Las Vegas.  He wins, gets written up in the Bible, and Nike gives him a bonus.  No problem.

Then, David realizes he's the only guy around with no clothes on, and since it's pretty cold in Oslo where the fig-flinging World Championships will be held, he'd better get some on.  So, he trots back home to the farm again, and there is the familiar fig orchard.  Having just trotted, he's pretty warm and doesn't really want clothes after all, but certain of his anatomy tends to cool down faster than the rest, so he takes a fig leaf and places it just so, thereby inventing the first Euro-style men's bikini.  He, being an Italian (remember, Michelangelo invented him), looks good in the leaf and he starts a new line of fig-leaf clothing.  More fame, more glory.  He invites Newton to the fig flinging championships so he can witness his laws in motion.  And the rest is history.

Newton, being a lawyer, keeps writing laws and people realize they must obey them or find themselves at odds with all of nature including figs, which have been falling from trees ever since.

Gabriel At One Week

A very small human was handed to me today, my great-nephew.  Gabriel The New slept peacefully in my arms, radiating heat, smiling and grimacing while the traces of dreams flitted across his face and his arms flopped back and forth.  He is one week old now and, by all accounts, the most beautiful boy we have seen in a long time, possibly all time.

His mother is tired and a bit unsteady, weighed down by uncertainty and inexperience.  It's her first baby and, having done so many things right in life, wants everything to go wonderfully for Gabriel.  Her anxiety is born of love and exhaustion and will gradually relent as she gets more used to nursing, napping when he sleeps, and letting the house go for now.

Women collected in the livingroom and filled it up with love, clucking and laughing, unsure of how to help Gabriel's mother be perfect and also knowing it is a false hope.  She is doing fine, which is better than perfect because it's normal.  He is the proof of that, gaining weight, wetting diapers and paying no attention to anything but her heartbeat and his hunger.  They are still very much connected and interdependent, one week past birth.  She will gradually trust that nature is setting the pace, calling the shots, making all things possible for him to thrive now.

He was sweetness itself while he slept in the crook of my elbow, a very tiny person with miniature everything.  I think I held my breath the whole time, thought he would disappear like a bubble in the midday sunlight, a tiny swaddled boy.  But, seeing my niece wilting with lack of sleep, I was the one who left, to return sometime soon for another close look.

Mary in Darkness - 2

On Saturday morning, when the air was still cool and damp with dew, I slipped out of bed, past sleeping sisters, through the middle of the house to the kitchen.  The air felt like hope, fresh and light.   Morning birds were not yet calling, and our cats were still in small heaps, piled onto each other for warmth.

I tiptoed lightly and slowly around the kitchen, waking up in time to my breaths and heartbeats.  My thoughts gradually cleared.  Mary, huddled last night, afraid to go home.  I was safe, and she was not.  I felt I was rich, and I knew she was not.  Her home had screams and terror, and I did not know what sounded like.

I was nine and Mary was ten.  Grownups had found her and talked about her and kept their voices down low.  I knew Johnny, her brother, might be at his house and might want to run away, too.  I'd always seen him moving disjointedly, awkward, mute and strange in the classroom.  He might want to cry.  But, I'd never heard him cry nor heard Mary cry or even sniffle.

I went to our laundry room and looked around for ideas, things, salvation to give.  If we found a stray cat or small bird, we gave it a box with a rag to be safe inside.  Maybe Mary was just like the cats we had found, even though I knew she was an older girl than I.  She was alone and had no friends.  She needed things and warmth, I thought.

I found our collection of our old, clean towels in a stack, took two and looked around for something else to put with them.  Candles.  We had old leftover candles.  I took a fat low candle, a red one.  I found odds and ends, rolled them all in the towels like a saddle roll. I'd seen cowboys in TV westerns crossing the great plains with their cattle. All they needed was a tin cup and a roll of supplies.  I found a plastic cup and stole it from the kitchen.  I found the matches and stole them, too.

With the bundle under my arm, I set out for the post office, walking up a small hill on our street, around a bend up into the village and then along the main street two blocks to the post office.  My mind was racing with ideas about fear and pain, angry parents, rage, but they were vague and brief.  Mary was so deer-like to me, so defenseless, so quiet.  What had happened, I repeated, what was it like in her house?  I tried to conjure huge pain that would make me run and hide, but I always got to a point of blankness and anxiety.  Mary's fear was a doorway to a world beyond the village where I was living, a doorway to an obscure and odd world.

At the post office, I stood looking at its glass and aluminum door.  I tested it.  It was open. The lobby where the brass-doored boxes lined the three walls was passive, silent, official.  No Mary.  I had been imagining her left alone there by the grownups because she had brought herself there.  Where else would they make her go?  I got the sudden shock that she might have been brought back home and hurt some more.  It sickened me.  I was seeing Mary as a hurt cat, the only other helpless thing I'd ever known.  Silent skinny Mary needed help and I wanted to give it to her, keep her from the dark anger of her house.

I trotted back home with my bundle and set it down under my bed, shoved out of sight.  I heard my mother, awake now, in the kitchen.

"Such a shame," she said.

"What's a shame? I was alert for clues, some way to know what had happened.

"Beaten children.  No one should live like that."  She stirred her coffee and began a pot of oatmeal at the stove.

"Where is she?" I stood at her side and peered over the edge of the pot, watched the salt tossed into the water and the blue flames touching the bottom of the pot.  She smelled like lavender.

"They took her in to town, to a different parish.  You might not see her for a while."  Her hand was  holding the wooden spoon and stirring the warming water in a figure eight.  "You mustn't think badly of her.  She's been through a lot and she needs to heal."

"Badly?"  I watched the oats pour down in an arc from the cardboard Quaker box.  "Is she going to need towels?"  The oats were slowly sinking into the water.  "You know, stuff?"

"I suppose she will.  The family's destitute.  Something very bad has happened, and she couldn't help it.  It's her daddy.  He's a mean drunk, a filthy mean drunk who beats his wife and children.  He ought to go to jail for that, and now maybe he will.  Mary was very brave, but she's afraid and hungry, and she needs understanding and kindness.  Go wash your hands and get your sisters.  Breakfast is ready."

"What's destitute?"

"It's when you have nothing at all.  You against the world in a way.  Go on.  Oatmeal's ready," my mother said and bent down to kiss my head and then smoothed my hair.

"What if we get destitute?"  I was thinking about the bundle under my bed.

"We won't.  We have each other and we're good people.  Her daddy is not a good person, and he could have killed her.  Everyone's very worried about her.  It's very complicated.  I'm going to eat this oatmeal by myself unless you kids come in here and help me."  She sat down at the table and looked at me, raising her eyebrows.  "Hungry?"



"That's what destitute means, not having anything.  You said it twice, so that's redundant.  She's being taken care of.  She's not destitute anymore, but she was.  You cannot give her your oatmeal.  We will help her some other way.  You going hungry will not help her."

My mother was beautiful to me, but I was not getting anywhere, and we were both hungry now.  My sisters trailed into the kitchen, like hungry cats themselves, sleep in their eyes, hair in rumpled tangles.

(to be continued)

Skilled Barista, Delicious Coffee

Horrible coffee was established and bubbled along dismally for decades in this country, at least at diners and coffee shops.  Usually, we were sold weak, drab brews where you could taste the coffee filter paper more than the coffee - essentially just dark water.

A few determined coffee lovers who were fortunate enough to travel abroad brought back espresso pots from Italy and presses from France, obtained real coffee beans to grind and savor by rich cupfuls.  They were on to something, but the enjoyment was not widely known on this side of the Atlantic.  

Ever since the 50's percolators sporting glass bubble gauges on their lids brewed Folgers freeze-dried coffee grinds, accompanied by catchy ad tunes and smiling hostesses wearing aprons and helmet hairdos on TV.  Worse yet, Sanka crystals promised to release "that rich just-brewed coffee flavor" into our instant cups every morning.  It was all there was for most of us.  

Then, from the soggy realm of Seattle, Starbucks woke the masses up to freshly ground, richly flavored towers of coffee heaven.  It made the ordinary instant coffees we were swilling all those years literally pale in comparison.  Now, we have become a demanding and fussy coffee-imbibing public that demands perfection in flavor and presentation.

In response to demand for a place in a paradise that includes a good cuppa java, coffee shops have brought baristas to the fore and the best shops have begun competing for honors in coffee presentation regionally and nationwide.  Temperature, flavor balance, residue, foam percentages, and patterns of decoration in the foam on coffee concoctions factor into choosing barista champions.  The bar has been raised again and again by competing specialty coffee bean purveyors to my and all other coffee lovers' delight.  Not only do great baristas understand the difference between different beans and roasts, but they care about the presentation of a great cup of coffee in its many forms and drinks.

In Capitola today, a barista at Verve handled her pots, steamers and frothers with such panache and, well, verve, that I decided to give her and the cafe my unsolicited Five Beans Up award of excellence.  My barista has not competed for awards, she said, but others in the shop have and were awarded prizes, which are display at the counter, an impressive distinction for the shop.

I had only found one barista in Monterey in the past five years who could approach the artistry and attention to detail I found at Verve today, and the shop he worked in has now closed, so my search will continue here.  I hate to think I'm spoiled in terms of coffee enjoyment.  Let's say I'm highly interested in a peak experience when I can find it.

So, that will be a cappuccino double-shot....

Mary In Darkness

"I remember the moment I saw her, and my life hasn't been the same since then."

I don't remember the first time I saw my mother, and I didn't ever think about being loved or loving back.  That was no more a decision or consideration than having to decide how to digest a meal.  It was part of my life.  It would have been ludicrous to think otherwise, make it a conscious choice or evaluate the quality of love, just like it was ludicrous for Mary to assume the opposite.  She had no more idea about love than I did about fear, especially her fear, which consumed her.

It could have been a mistake to have been so naturally loved and unconcerned with the bigger world around me, but that was my existence.  I lived, I was healthy and I was confident.  I grew strong among a family of five, thrived on many things that were good in life for children.  My life was good.

Childhood memory begins at some point when the brain is developed enough to retain it.  Maybe many points in time are blended into a softly blurred image, a quiet development of solid clear memory.  The effect is that your memory has no exact starting point; you just exist and life moves forward and then you start to be able to recall things that happened before the present time.

That's true if your life is serene and tranquil.  If you're like Mary, thin and trembling, with meager clothes and a spooked appearance, nothing is safe, and many memories are horrors.  She was the older of two children and was one year older than me.  I had seen newborn foals in movies, and she was built like one, all gangly and awkward, with sweet pale blue eyes, but she was not growing strong like a foal does.  Instead, she had haunted eyes that seemed very old.  She seemed something other than alive, but I was too new at life myself to know what she might need.  I knew who she was, but her life was unknown to me almost entirely.

Her brother Johnny was as quiet as Mary and had no friends.  He stuck beans in his nose and wrote scrawling doodles on his papers.  He was incomprehensible to me, but I had no point of reference other than my own safe existence with which to compare.  I watched him sometimes at his desk, a few rows over from my own.  His hair was cut with sheep shears, and it stood up here and there in tufts.  He had a few small bruises on his arms and he rubbed his ears.  He couldn't answer questions and was left alone eventually, sitting still, going nowhere, not even forward.  There was something about him that did not invite friendship nor did it repel it.  It was almost as if he didn't really exist in spite of his small, odd behaviors.

I saw Mary sometimes at our church, and I noticed eventually that she wore one dress almost all the time, and I began to wonder what a girl was like who had one dress and was so quiet.  The memories I had stored in my mind that included her by then amounted to a girl who did not move or speak or laugh with the same joy that I felt.  I saw that she shrank away from people and looked down at her shoes most of the time.

By the time I was nine, I had known of Johnny and Mary for about two years, but they could have been around longer.  Their reticence and my lack of outward awareness prevented clearer images of them.  They remained thin, always thin and ragged.  I was swept along on my way by a thousand things to notice and feel every day, so I did, and most of the time I had no awareness in the slightest about Mary and Johnny.  I am pretty certain the entire community experienced them in the same way, as if they were thin ghost-like resemblances of children who did absolutely nothing to draw attention to themselves.

One night, while I was at home with my family, I heard my parents begin an animated talk, an agitated interchange that caught our attention.  My brother and sisters and I moved toward the talk and began to overhear the words.  "...found at the post office lobby, cold, by herself..."  and "...crying, shaking..."  My hair began to prickle, a new sensation for me.  We glanced at each other and sidled closer to hear better.

"The sheriff is trying to contact someone, but they think she's been hurt.  She can't talk."

"Mom," I called.  "Mom, what's going on?" I was trying to imagine someone hurt, but my mind could only think of scraped knees and cut fingers. It was all I had to go on.

"You know Mary?  She's about your age?  Older?  Someone found her at the post office, in the front part, the lobby.  She was all curled up in a ball, crying, and can't talk.  She could have been abused by that awful father of hers, but they're not sure. She won't go home, so it's kind of a mess.  No one knows..."

Mary had an awful father?  I'd never seen her father, but now I remembered hearing some whispers about him, how he was loud and mean at home, but even that information was barely more than words to me.  I felt a shock inside, a small jolt of recognition, of dots connecting, the words "awful father" and the appearance of Mary and Johnny, ragged and uncertain.  I'd been missing something.  Now it was big, frightening and the thin boy and girl were in danger.  Wherever they lived was an ugly place.

"Mary and Johnny's parents are alcoholics, and they have been hurting their children.  No one did anything about it because...They wanted to.  I mean, that is, the kids probably wanted to say something.  We weren't sure what we should do.  Parents are allowed to keep their own children even if they are rough on them.  No one wanted to interfere, butt in, but I guess they should have.  Something bad must have happened for Mary to go hide at the post office in the middle of the night."  My mother was standing near a doorway glancing outside of it, as if the world out there was going to shove its way inside and confront her.  She looked edgy and unhappy.

"Mom, why does she always wear the same dress?"  I asked, looking past her out into the dark yard.  "She's so skinny.  Where do they live?"  I felt sick for Mary, did not know where to begin, but also felt a strange sense of curiosity.

"We'll wait to hear from the sheriff if they need help.  It's time for you to go to bed now.  Try not to think about it."

Naturally, I couldn't stop thinking about it at all.  Eventually I fell asleep with unclear and jumping images of a girl in a dress she always wore hiding in a cold place where strangers found her crying and shaking.  I woke up in the morning with the same shivering cold ideas in my head.  I was resolved to do something though.  My sleep had given me an idea.  

(to be continued)

My Fridge, My Friend

It's a friend of sorts, my fridge. It knows me, my hopes and has seen me at my worst without making judgement.  As I sit here tonight, its fan is humming, it's making gurgling sounds and it has a purpose in life.  Some people I know have achieved far less than that.  

There's no other sound in the house this late at night, and the world outside is very quiet.  The fridge, covered with magnets, pictures, clippings and odd little things that define me, has a personality, a certain kind of beauty, although the beauty is more a function of usefulness and familiarity to me than of true elegance or prettiness.  It's sturdy, has modern lines, a practical demeanor.  This model - an Amana - has the fridge on top and a freezer drawer down below - I don't have to kneel on the floor to get to the vegetable bins inside.  It hums, sighs, ticks, rattles and buzzes - all small sounds that register in my consciousness as indicators of a pleasing normality, a comforting home.  

Sometimes I think about what I'd do in a disaster, what I'd take with me in a rush to save myself.  People are told to prepare a box of important papers, family photos and important things like safe deposit box keys and medicines. I'd like to roll my fridge away and save it from ruin.  It knows so much about me and has seen me in so many moods. You don't just walk away from something like that. 

I don't have a pet or therapist.  I have my fridge.  It's held my various foods for ten years or so and knows all my habits, all my odd behaviors.  If I am bored or have no idea what to write, I stand there with the door open, staring blankly at the contents.  The fridge obliges me, stands before me, open, offering no opinions.  It clicks its fan on when the interior has warmed too much, a reminder to pay attention, close the door.  

I've never thought of my fridge as a machine, even when it nearly died - especially then.  Once it stopped running, like it was dead all of a sudden, which was very surprising.  I realized I'd been taking it for granted, neglected it, and suspected I may have abused it somehow.  I fussed over it, cleaned it meticulously, made desperate promises and was wildly relieved when, revitalized, it began to hum again after I plugged it in.  It was a moment of grace, and I felt completely grateful.

Who'd have thought the near-death experience of a fridge would have taught me something about love and appreciation. But, it's true.  I confess to loving my fridge and its soft gurgling sound after the fan turns off, like right now with the rest of the world out there all quiet and dark.  

Pacific Grove: Concours Car Rally

Pampered and exotic cars gleamed under a cloak of gray fog, proving that nothing short of complete darkness can keep away fans and admirers.  Classic and a few antique automobiles do turn heads.  Dream cars in a picturesque town like Pacific Grove?  Lots of fun.

192 various and sundry highly polished four-wheeled "children" lined up, parked but ready to roll.  Owners were happy to answer questions about their cars, talk about the modifications and restorations they'd completed to bring the car bodies and engines to mint condition.  It really goes without saying that all of them are fanatics about the particular model they own and don't keep track of how much they invest in the process of restoration.  One car owner went to the trouble of displaying before and after pictures of his project.  He'd found a rusted pile of rodent-infested junk and restored it to full glory again, a beautiful old Corvette that now gleams with lustrous paint and beautiful interior work.

I talked to one gentleman, an owner of a replica Cobra painted in blue with white stripes, who said he takes his car out every week for drives on winding and twisting country roads wherever he can find them.  His insurance is less than most people pay for an ordinary Ford, $400 a year.  Another owner who was there with his wife in a '59 Corvette Stingray goes to rallys and car events all year long, and he said, "I have to keep an eye on her (his wife, who drives it) because if she's not careful, she can really lay down some rubber before you know it."  He looked like he was having fun keeping an eye on her to me.


The cars roared to life at 6 PM, with engines low and throaty as well as harsh and loud, and made a quick loop through town, and then out to the coast for an hour-long tour of Pacific Grove, Pebble Beach, Carmel and then back to PG for a barbecue dinner later for the owners at Chautauqua Hall, hosted by the Rotary Club.  The crowd cheered, whistled and clapped their approval as the lineup rumbled out of town, one after another, showing off, tooting horns and loving all the attention as much as the crowd did, probably more.

Gabriel Arrives

So, that's a generation.  A young woman who was one week old when you first saw her grows up and  35 years later becomes a mother herself right before your very eyes.    

Gabriel was born today at 9:01 PM and we toasted him with champagne sips from paper cups while his mother, who looked like the eternal madonna, put him to her breast and spoke to him endearingly, in love.  His father proudly showed us into the birthing room with a grin so wide that he lifted right off the ground.  This was a very good beginning, what decent people hope and pray for.   The next generation became visible and knowable, the newest human in our midst, setting forth on his life's journey, wherever it may take him.

This boy, born to a mother from a line of mothers traceable back to the beginning of mankind, wriggled vigorously in the presence of his forebears, us, who came before him.  Now he springs into the future, taking our lead, our cues, and our energy forward.

Long life, health and wisdom for tiny 7 lb 2 oz Gabriel and his parents.  Our hands are held out to guide him and steady him on his way.  To Gabriel!  

Love Cars? Come to Monterey

This is it, the big cars-are-everything week on the Monterey Peninsula. It includes everything from exotic car auctions at Portola Plaza in downtown Monterey to the Concours d'Elegance at Pebble Beach where cars of exquisitely rare marques are rolled down the 18th green to the ooohs and aaaahs of hundreds of onlookers.

This is the most rarefied of all precious atmospheres that this region hangs its hat on - and there are many - including an all-Italian sports car display of vast proportions, a scenic car tour, historic car races at Laguna Seca and the piece de resistance, the Concours.  In spite of the immense wealth required to own and show even one of the automobiles (and some owners are here with a truckload of them), shuffling crowds of ordinary folk are invited to join in the oogling at certain venues for free.

Pacific Grove will host one of the most accessible aspects of all, that being a driving tour that begins with all entrants parking up and down Lighthouse Avenue with owners buffing and shining their precious steeds, answering questions and posing for pictures.  At a predetermined time, the engines roar to life and cars line up for the beginning of a tour of regions of the downtown area and coast.  Like a similar lineup in Carmel, the cars entered must be road worthy and able to drive on surface roads.  Spectators pick out key spots, usually with spectacular vistas to enjoy beyond the cars.

Whether you love the yesteryear elegance and chrome-laden designs of big monsters like Rolls Royces or dirt track wonders like Hudson Hornets, you can be sure that at least one car somewhere on the Peninsula this week will turn your head and quicken your heart.  I'm rather crazy for Cobras; love the sound of them.  

The featured marque (brand to the rest of us) at Pebble Beach this year is the Alfa Romeo.  Every year, the entire peninsula is crazy with cars, and they are everywhere, usually driving in touring groups.  You'll see a line of Vipers or a few Ferraris zooming up hills in the forest or a scattering of Jaguars or late model Chevys too cool to ignore.  Every single one of them has been lavished attention and money, the object of fascination and desire of an owner for years, some of them passed down from parent to child and with quirky histories attached.

I'll keep you posted on "sightings" and events.  It's fun, mostly because the expense and attention associated with this hobby is light years beyond me, all fantasy, and no stress to enjoy at all in my part, or yours.

A Scene

There is a large silver car with chrome wheels and chrome trim down its long curved sides, idling at the curb.  This car is a real ride, a heavy beauty meant for long drives on the open highway.  It is sleek, rounded and powerful.  It rumbles and purrs as it idles.  A man steps out of the driver's side door.  He wears pressed slacks with a cuff, and they billow when the air catches them.  His shoes are buffed to a dull glow, a cool idea of handsome.  His fedora is pulled down level, and the grosgrain band is level with the horizon.  His eyes are shielded by the hat.

The man steps to the rear door of the car, and he glances inside, pausing a beat, then opens it wide.

A neat,  black 3-inch heel clinging to a beautiful foot begins its descent to the street from within.  He admires the toe of the shoe, with its peek-a-boo opening, the arch of the foot, the curve of the ankle and the long curving lines that are interrupted by the hem of the skirt.

He helps her step across a puddle at the curb, shuts the rear door and tosses the keys to the waiting valet. The valet looks at the woman in the black pumps and long legs and whistles silently at the other man, who suppresses a smile, tips his hat and turns to offer her his arm.

"Shall we?"

Not so simple

Boy meets girl, boy wants girl, slays dragon.  Boy gets girl.

What does girl want?

The Gravity of the Scene

I was rummaging around in the flower pots, my head down and my sleeves catching on the twigs and thorns on the rose bushes.  I had to squat down to reach a recalcitrant weed and it seemed gravity was working overtime when I had to stand again, but I made it.  I stood there surveying my work and heard the electronic-sounding squeaks of hummingbirds nearby.  They jetted from perch to perch, one elongated thorn with wings and a ferocious demeanor.  They are like miniature Inigo Montoyas from The Princess Bride, wrapped in iridescent feathers, challenging each other, all at 200 mph.  "I am one ounce of feathers, you took my perch, prepare to die!"

Other birds, twittering on nearby perches, looked awkward and slow in comparison to the hummers.  A female titmouse, rumpled and molty, held still as the tiny aggressors darted back and forth near her.

I went back to work weeding, pruning and then dragging the hose around to water plants and finally sweeping up.  It was steady methodical work.  Overhead, the sun was playing coyly with the pashmina-like fog wisps. They tumbled together in a very slow silent ballet.

Done with my work, I faced north from the front of the house and looked out across Monterey Bay.  The water's surface was scuffed by the onshore breeze from northwest to southeast and set the whole bay moving.   Beyond the bay, past the shreddy scarves' edges, layers of storm clouds were piling up against the hills of Watsonville and Corralitos.  All the sky, the ocean, birds, everything moved elegantly and inexorably, and I stood stock still in the middle of it all like a peg in a board, my feet rooted to the ground.

All the moving parts looked like a child's spinning lampshade painted with a diorama, but in truth I was standing on this big blue ball moving at a thousand miles an hour, the one we call Earth.  Time flattened out and space became visible.  I had a sense of the relative positions of the planets and moon and sun, and the earth revolving very rapidly, all of them locked in a dance through eternity, a rotating frenzy of molecules, matter and mass.  I, the very puny human, stood agape at it all.

Hummingbirds zapped past my head at light speed, and I imagined myself one of them, but all that sound and motion made me feel the pull of gravity under my shoes more than ever.  My legs felt stretched and my arms lifted away from my sides a bit as if weightless.  I sensed that without the glue of gravity under my feet, I'd be tumbling away into intergalactic space like a rag doll.

I looked down at my shoes, scuffed and muddy, very much on the ground.  I felt like Dorothy with her ruby slippers:   "There's no glue like gravity, there's no glue like gravity..."  A little bit of vertigo goes a long way.  I'd had a quick glimpse at the machinations of nature relative to my own position on terra firma. That's all it was, but those forces are immense, formidable and really magnificent.

Bocelli And Beans With Sun

It's high noon and I'm about up to here with vampire weather.  We throw aside the morning paper and head for the door, eyes fixed on points east sure to be frying in hot sunshine.  I want to throw a shadow, not belong to the cast of Dark Shadows (ancient vampire soap opera from the 70s).

We aim the car at San Juan Bautista, a teensy town in San Benito County just this side of Hollister.  The itsiest of bitsy burgs (pop. 1500 or so) embraces a beautiful Spanish mission built in 1797, dedicated to St. John the Baptist.  It's well worth a special trip, a real gem.  We zoom along for miles under a gloomy sky.  But, we are hopeful.

An hour later, we roll to a halt in front of one of at least a dozen antique stores in the middle of town.  San Juan's charm immediately slows my pace.  Is there sun?  I am relieved to say yes, the sun is out.  I think to take a picture of the bakery across the street, which proves to be my last photograph.

The worst I can say about San Juan Bautista is that it's quiet - drowsy, actually -  but that's exactly why you come to it, so there's really no knock at all.  We realize our stomachs are growling and then fall into a deep sadness when we arrive at Poblanito's on the main street.  It's been closed.  Their mole' sauce was fit for royalty and had no comparison anywhere.  This is a blow, but it's not the end of the world.  We are fine with Jardines de San Juan, a rambling property with a casual and gracious garden dining area under spreading pepper trees, riots of scarlet geraniums and potted plants adorned with flowers.

I order ablondigas soup and tortillas and settle down to wait. We crunch our tortilla chips and savor the brilliant red chile salsa.  The garden begins to have its effect on me, as gardens do, and I notice this place is actually romantic and wonderful looking, especially with bolts of bright sunlight splashing all over the ground.  Red, gold, blue and green umbrellas are rich accents against dark shadows.  I think to myself:  I love shadows! and how peculiar that would sound out loud.

There has been music playing, and the romance factor is fairly undeniable.  We are smiling a lot and cannot button our jackets with all the love we are full of.  I am thinking it's largely the effect of seeing sunshine for the first time in two weeks.  Until...I hear Andrea Bocelli's song begin.  Exactly then, in an ironically perfect swoop and looking immensely pleased, the waiter sets a huge plate of beans down for me to eat with my soup.

Con te partiro, he sings.  I become a fool for love and imagine iconic moments with the music swelling in the background.

This is a song you reserve for hearty food served with loving flourishes, sweeping gestures, penetrating looks deep into each other's souls.  It's operatic, emotional and surely was sung with such intensity by the two singers that their buttons popped off and their hair stood straight up.  Drama is required, demanded, and I feel like obliging.  If I were in Italy, I would not hesitate. But, we are in a Mexican restaurant in a sleepy town just past the edge of a penetrating fog, so mild restraint of one's wild emotions fits better.

In a surge of joie de vivre and misty-eyed romanticism, I salute my friends wherever they find themselves, moments we've shared together or simply written words read across miles.  I take the small caresses of sunshine deeply to heart.  Life is where you feel it, and it was all heart today.  (A special salut to Sharon W., packing for Uganda.  Long may you sing, my friend!)



  

Hand to Hand: A Farmers Market In August

At the market today, I watched people move among tables and bins piled with edible things, and I watched the way everything was lifted, turned, touched and weighed by many hands reaching, tapping, squeezing or gripping.  Hands connected buyers, sellers, and the living gems laid out before them.

August, hot and dry, beats down hard in the Central Valley of California.  In fact, not too far from the cold, mist-laden coast, in closer coastal valleys, heat is a daunting challenge for farmers and growers.  Care must be taken to preserve moisture in the soil so that roots are not desiccated and ruined.  Crops must be timed so that peak growth occurs before the severe heat of August comes.  What was green last month is exploding this month with sweet and juicy flavor.

Today, in cool Monterey, we shoppers saw ripened fruit lying in heaps, fresh from Hollister, Gilroy, San Juan Bautista and further south, appreciated that hot sunlight in those areas produced all that vivid glory.  I was excited by all the market offered and the brilliant colors of August.  I joined the crowd of shoppers, my hands telling me what I needed to know beyond what my eyes could see.

Peaches and plums, berries and tomatoes are at their peak right now.  We know this by seeing their varieties and plenty, but we know it because we pick them up and feel them, heft them in the cup of our hands, compare them to past memories of hoisting fruit at markets in other towns or countries, as grandmothers and mothers taught us, or friends and fathers did.

A hand that has lifted a thousand red bell peppers knows that the heavy one with cool firm skin is the one going into the bag.  We shoppers trusted our hands.  With eyes moving over the surfaces and shapes of what the hands were to touch, palms and fingers were moved quickly and lightly, or slowly and very gently grasping tender small things.

Toughened hands of farmers reached across tables to offer parts of pluots, hoist bags of berries and measure the weight of squashes.  Their blunted nails and cracked skin, roughed with dirt and burned by the August sun, handed us our carefully chosen, beautiful food.  Our smoother hands received the bags and boxes to carry home in sacks hung from the crooks of our fingers.  We formed a link - across miles, regions, generations - each time we passed coins for what we'd selected, from hand to hand, on this summer morning in the midst of August.

Pacific Grove: Nothing's Changed In Spite Of Many Changes

There was at one time a very large salt-water pool in Pacific Grove at Lover's Point.  Now it's a volleyball court.  There were lots of people who used the plunge, as it was called, probably even on invigoratingly cool days like today.  The shore inlet is tranquil and quiet, safe for everyone.  Back in the early 1900s, someone examined the natural curve of the shoreline and decided it needed improvement, lit some dynamite and blew the smithereens out of it.  That was nearly the only noise ever to affect the sensibilities of the town, other than church bells on Sundays.  Even the blast itself was for the good of all, wasn't it?  I should think so.  

We have had our pranksters, as most towns do, but we have always recovered from them and remain to this day God fearing and law abiding.  One gentleman brought in a small herd of buffalo to amuse himself and drove it right through town.  It ended up at Lovers Point, and the wooly beasts ran all over, back and forth, trying to elude capture.  They even swam out into the water, around and back until they were corralled.  

Another fellow years later got himself up onto the highest part of the Holman's Building and decided to sit on the flagpole for as long as he could, trying to set a record.  It was a popular thing back in the day to roller skate around flagpoles on tall buildings.  The problem for him was, other than a lack of toilet facilities on the pole, Scotch Bakery was down there right across Lighthouse Avenue from him.  I'll bet he could smell the fresh doughnuts every morning.  He eventually got down, and now even Scotch's is gone.   

Gone, too, is the large livery stable that stood between Fountain and Grand Avenues on Pine Avenue, not too far from where I sit here writing.  There, a citizen could stable their team of horses or rent one for the day to ride out to the sand dunes.  Of course, the little train that ran every day could take you to Asilomar, too, and you could lie about with your picnic and your sweetheart by the lake over there.  

That's all gone now, but the town is still just exactly the same.  The land and weather shape events here, always have, just like every place shapes its people.  They say you could take every last person out of France, repopulate it with new people, and they'd all be the same as they are now.  Pacific Grove's seagulls screaming, doves cooing, waves rumbling at the shore and, of course, wind rushing across the point of the bay make us exactly who we are.  Top it all off with dripping cold fog in the summer and there's no place quite like it.    

Obsidian Blood Brothers

"My dad gave me this rock. It's obsidian." A hunk of hard, black glass-like rock was being held up before us. Sherry was showing it around with a confidence she usually didn't have. It was elegant. It gleamed with curved wave-like surfaces, had a fine, sharp edge on one side. It looked potent.

"Oh," breathed the class, "show it over here." All our eyes followed it around.

"Indians would make a little cut on their finger, and they would mix their blood and become blood brothers. That means friends forever. You can't break the bond. It's sacred. My dad said so," she intoned.

We were in a group, circled around Sherry, eyeing the obsidian, considering friendship bonds. We thought about the idea of being a blood brother. I wasn't very sure about making my blood flow or who I'd want to be bonded to for all that time. But, I didn't want to be a chicken either.

I wondered how she knew about blood brothers, and I looked at her. She had blue eyes, wore a yellow dress and had white shoes on with little white socks.

"Are you a Cherokee or something?" I asked, "because if you're not a Cherokee, you're not an Indian."

"My dad is, but I'm not." I accepted that as proof enough, but I was uncertain about her standing there with the glittering black rock.

A boy stepped in closer to her. "Lemme see that obsidian."

She handed it to him, keeping her eyes on him. He held it, put it close to his thumb and made a small cut, just like that. A red drop of blood came out like a scarlet bead on his skin. No one moved. Since one person was cut, another had to be cut or there could be no blood brother for the one.

The boy handed the black rock to another boy with an underhanded gesture of his arm, like an easy pitch. The other boy caught it, frowned, looked for a second at the rock and then looked at his own thumb with raised brows and pursed lips. He jabbed quickly and his own scarlet drop formed. The two boys held up their thumbs and pressed them together. Everyone had become very quiet. The boys looked at each other while the thumbs pushed one against the other, and then they released. It was done. They smiled and one slung his arm over the shoulder of the other.

Sherry said, "You're brothers forever now. Say it."

The boys said, "Blood brothers."

"Let's see!" We demanded to see their thumbs, saw the mixed blood smears and looked at the obsidian rock. It was so dark. There was a murmur around the circle. We looked at Sherry. I saw her holding the rock, the black hardness of it and the soft frills and ribbon on her dress, looked at her wide blue eyes and saw freckles below them. Now she's different, I thought. The boys now believed they were best friends, that her rock had given them the new rank as blood brothers, and all of us accepted that the bond was good forever.

"Anyone else want to be blood brothers?" We all leaned in, holding our breath and in the anticipation of being bonded to someone - who? - we were held together, bonded already by mystery and promises of friendship symbolized by a gleaming sharp rock.

The bell rang. The two new brothers strolled back to the class door to line up, and time regained its usual pace. One or two other pairs formed more secretly in the girls' bathroom or behind the playground equipment later that day. I heard about them, but I was more interested in the power of the strange rock Sherry had brought to us. Did it give the boys a sacred bond? What did sacred mean? Ritual and belief had made themselves known to me in real terms for the very first time.