My iPhone 1G Camera Retires

In the wilderness of the urban world, I've been carrying my iPhone 1G to photograph what I see.  It's the original first-generation iPhone I bought when they first came out.  It only has 4 GB, and I've never maxed out the memory, probably because I don't use videos a lot on it.

What's interesting about using a very simple camera like this all the time is:  Its restricted technology makes me deal almost solely with composition.  You cannot rely on tricky features of the camera to get your image right.  No flash, no zoom, no macro focus, just compose and shoot.  I sometimes get a little cranky with the limits it places on focusing sharply and controlling things about it that other cameras can do, but I think that overall I've learned more about what I'm looking at and thinking about why I'm shooting the picture instead of what the camera can do.  I have learned to shoot quickly and pay attention to light that's available to me.  Also, I have to hold very still (reiterating the very first thing I learned in photography).

Now that's about to change a bit.  I'm finally upgrading to a 4G (fourth generation) phone/camera.  It's the same size as the 1G that I have been using.  But now I will have a reversible lens (shoots at me or at you without turning the phone around), more megapixels per file (image), a flash, selective focus and some zooming ability.  Immediately, it makes me think more about the camera than I did before.  It will be that way until it, too, becomes second nature to use, but I don't think it will take long.  Apple makes very intuitive products, and the camera on their phone is designed to be a tool to use and not an implement that introduces frustration like so many other cameras tend to be.

I'm posting a few images here from the last couple of days.  Kind of a tribute to the little iPhone 1G I've carried with me, a trusty tool I've grown to respect and admire.  As I've stated before, probably 90% of my images on this blog are from that iPhone.

Brain Shift

I drove along the ridge top through the ink-black forest and then down the winding road home.  Cold rain pelted everything and dragged moss from the trees to the road where it lay in limp clumps in the black night.  Everything in the world seemed wet, and it was as if all light had seeped into the cracks of pavement, down into the dark earth to be held there by the wearying winter storm.

How closed in and dank the night seemed, with no moon visible and creatures huddling in hidden thickets, waiting until light would rise from the ground at daybreak.  I drove through wafting curtains of rain that moved like drifting mist in my headlight beams, and I noticed I was tense and tired from work.  Then the part of the mind that notices but does not comment on what it sees began taking its turn after a long stint at work, and I felt both grateful to be away from the minutiae of patient care and alert for road dangers in the enveloping rainstorm.  It had been a busy night, but it was time to leave it behind for good.

At four miles -- about ten minutes -- my commute is nothing, almost too short to be able to unwind before arriving home.  But there is a point when I feel a mental shift happen, from detail-oriented work think to a free-form, more relaxed and creative musing.  I breathe better, I become more relaxed and I remember other parts of life than work.  

It is said that our minds are divided into a primitive brain and a more sophisticated higher-functioning brain that makes executive decisions quickly and fluidly when we are presented with various situations.  We are constantly receiving sensory input, and we must do something with the information, either instantly forgetting about it or reacting appropriately.  At work, phones, computers, and demands are constantly present, stress is increased and creative-artistic thinking is not usually possible.  But later, when I want to think creatively, what happens?

fMRI is a short name for functional MRI, a scan of an actively working brain that detects where neurological activity is increasing and decreasing during tasks given to a person in the MRI scanner.  What doctors have seen in studies is that there is a shift in brain activity that is noticeable when a person is asked to begin a creative skill - like writing or playing an instrument - and when they've "warmed up."

Think of playing tennis or playing a keyboard.  You begin the task and you feel awkward, conscious of all the parts of your task, and you just can't find your legs, so to speak.  Stiffness, nonfluency, or a feeling of dullness make you feel slow and clumsy, but after a few minutes of "warming up" you have a feeling of being in the zone, of energetic creativity, and off you go.  You lose track of the world around you as your thinking begins to be done in a different part of your brain.  You begin in the frontal cortex and switch to less conscious, more automatic areas and exist almost in a dream-like state when "flow" is really happening.

What's writer's block?  You don't make the switch.  You stay in the conscious, executive-thinking brain and cannot access the dream world where creativity flows easily.  Who knows why; it just doesn't happen.  There are probably many things that block you from accessing that flow, and it's frustrating when it happens.  When you're in the zone and your brain activity has switched from conscious effort to automatic free-flow thinking, it's a relief and a pleasure.  By practicing meditation and mindfulness, you can train your mind to switch earlier, and you get better at it.

I arrived home in a steady rain and hurried inside out of the dark and cold.  I'd left work behind and would need to sleep soon, so my mind had to relax even further until sleep and then dreams could overtake me.  Consciously going to the unconscious, I was able to drift off to sleep very shortly afterward, unaware of work or the sheeting storm outside.

Hangin' With My Swim Buddies

Wow, I miss one day of swimming - Monday, which was a holiday actually - and my swim buddies are all over me.  What was my excuse?  Not anything I'd hang a hat on, that's for sure.  "Where were you, Christine?  We were here....(implying "you were definitely not.")

I guess I've found my tribe.

On a regular weekday, there are workouts available, and each one is slightly different than the others.  My group gets in at 5:30 AM and goes for 90 minutes, doing sets of pulling, kicking, drills, and swims.  Go anywhere in the world, and this is what swimmers will be doing when they work out. The intensity of the 5:30 group is consistently good and people are in the pool to improve, swim hard and get fit.

The 9 AM group is pretty much the same, but they only go for an hour or so.  Some swim fast, but most don't.  Most of them are people I've known for a while, and they're a fun group, but the focus is more on socializing and doing a shorter workout.

Then there are the 11 AM and 12 PM groups.  One or two people do both hours, but most people in those time slots are floppers and don't really care about the workout that's up on the board.  Their disinterest is, unfortunately, contagious.  Attitudes affect others pretty easily in groups; swimmers at noon are  certainly influenced by them.

We who swim in the earliest group are the biggest group and the most intent on getting a solid workout.  The only thing I miss is sunlight, but even that has its downside:  I get more distracted by almost everything when I can see it all; predawn limits my field of vision.  Our pool is outdoors, no roof, so it'd be nice to get some sunshine and a tan which translates nicely to Hawaii when you go.  If you go, that is.  

This is about the one-month mark in the semester, and those who had misgivings about swimming early have quietly dropped away, leaving slightly more room in the pool now.  Each lane still has three swimmers or so, which is a good number for a pool of this size and level of ability.  We have sorted ourselves out by pace, so when we circle in the lane (you have to stay to the right of the black line or end up with a concussion after smacking into someone), we are all swimming at the same pace, less likely to catch up with and pass anyone.

With our routine well established and everyone familiar with each other, it's getting easier to tell when someone doesn't show up who is usually there - like me yesterday.

You know, it's not like they'd sit and wait for me to catch up with them in the workout, because they're almost all faster than I am.  I hold my own and swim hard, but my pace is not quite up to their speed just yet.  Someday, I'll surprise 'em. The point is, they know I'm part of the group, and I'd left a hole by not being there.

It was pleasing in a certain way to know I'd been missed, that I mattered and had created a blank space by my absence.  Team-building, even if it occurs by simply showing up, gradually creates a willingness to make an extra effort.  You sense that the work has an importance that's greater than yourself where loyalty and trust are intrinsic parts of the whole.  Those qualities get you through difficult work sets and challenging efforts that you almost always lighten up on when you're by yourself.

I've heard people say, "I always go harder when I'm swimming with someone (and/or) there's a coach up there on the deck."  Camaraderie and friendship are the most valuable aspect of sports teams, the elements athletes miss most when they retire or a season ends.  The strengthening bonds of friendship reinforce group ethics.  Our group's ethic is don't miss a workout, as I found out.

It was good to be missed, to be included in a group of people I admire and respect.  I'll really hear it if I miss a practice, and believe me they will hear from me if they miss now, too.  The kidding is fun, but the underlying message is:  We're in this together, we need each other, so show up and do your best.    

Beauty at Sunrise: A Gift

The sun was coming up over the eastern hills beyond Salinas and Hollister as I journeyed north on Saturday. Tentative at first, then bolder, light rays burst forth from beyond the Gabilan Hills and danced across the tips of branch stems and wingtips to the ocean of Monterey Bay.  The beaming light set small hills, ridge tops and marshes in sharp relief and revealed new details of farmlands I had driven past hundreds of times before.  Distances between things seemed lengthened as their forms became more distinctly gold-edged.  The slanting light was as if shot parallel to the ground from a stage light even as the sky overhead was a dark gray-blue.  All things, slumbering in a darkened world moments before, pulsed newly alive.  

Dove-white clouds drifting in a piled mass were a collage of pastel streaks that looked soft as fine wool. Long glancing beams outlined the landscape for miles and miles, a diorama of cool winter, gilt-edged, with dark wet earth and gray-brown tree trunks brooding and still.  Beautiful?  It seems such a weak word now.  It was the kind of beauty that brings the heart to a standstill, the mind struggling to grasp such an exquisite thing as a winter sunrise after rainfall.

Drive north from Monterey some morning as the night sky pales into daylight.  Take the coastal, bay-skirting route or go more inland where the rolling undulations of San Benito County stretch from one horizon to the next.  The open land lies in repose, as it has for nearly all time. It is lovely and gentle, tender and complex.  It is a heartland, a centering place of graceful and timeless beauty.  Where oaks, laurel and buckeye trees growing on the hills' flanks have both a delicate texture and a sensual undulating roundness.  

Get up before dawn in winter, drive out away from loud, stinking towns and cities into California's curving beauty and watch how wet leaves and arching branches of old oaks catch the sunrise and give it to you like the beautiful gift that it is, not speaking, but singing a sweet enduring melody.  Like as not, your heart already knows the song, doesn't it.  

Posting Less, Writing Better

Over the past year, I've written every day, posted something most of those days and looked at what it means to me.  Essentially, writing every day is a discipline and a goal that I've reached as of the beginning of the year.

Now, looking back on the year or more of daily discipline, I've noticed a few important things.  One of them is that there are some major steps to producing a publishable work.  Obviously, the prime step of sitting down and writing out an idea comes first.  Then comes the next step or steps you must take to refine work, edit and hone ideas.  That's something that has not been given enough attention in the past, and it's showing up as an annoying problem, in my mind anyway.

Some ideas or subjects are pretty quick to develop, and I'm satisfied with what ends up on the "page" here. Others I would have liked to have taken a lot more time with, and of course I still can go back and rework them.  This leads me to the next step now, which is that for the most part, I will be posting less often and developing ideas and themes to a fuller extent so that they seem more complete to me.  I want to take more time to delve into that creative space and see what can come of it.  After that, I will submit finished work for publication and see what happens.

Most, if not all, creative thinking requires a warm-up period when the mind is set to work on a task and needs to be let loose and wriggle around a bit before really hitting its stride and feeling good.  Athletes and other folks call it "the flow."  You know it when you feel it.  After some warm-up time, you feel less hesitant and more energized.  At the same time, you're less aware of the immediate surroundings and distractions that may pop up.

It's that feeling of flow that I have had not found enough time to reach.  By imposing the daily post goal, I've often rushed to use time and get something posted, whether I really was fully satisfied or not.  On the other hand, it does take me less time to write out what I want to than it used to.  The daily discipline has been excellent in that regard.

So, I will write daily but only post every other day or so.  If I hit a stretch of time when I can write for a longer period of time during the day, I may post something here more frequently, but the goal will now be for quality instead of quantity.  I hope that makes sense.

Thanks for reading, subscribing and passing my posts forward to friends.  I know quite a few people are subscribing and checking in regularly, which is cool.  I appreciate you having you as a reader, wherever you are.  Anytime you want to respond, you can do so by posting a comment or emailing me at bottaroc@gmail.com  .

Storm's Afoot

There is a restless cold, an unruly power loose in the world outside.  Crashing hail descends from dark gangs of cumulus run through with lightning.  Galloping thunder barrels overhead like a herd of heavy beasts clattering through a narrow rocky canyon.  It is dripping and dark.

The heavy weather seems potent and unpredictable.  It warrants respect and preparation, glowering up there, wet and gloomy, laced with ice that rattles down on slicked gray city streets.

What are we to make of this?  It's day and night, both.  Darkness and light collide in a fury of pounding rain and cold.  Step aside and let the powers clash until they weary of it and leave us.  Patience is the only thing.  Wilderness is everywhere in storms like this, stretching its talons, flexing its claws.  Your beating heart is answered by the drumming rain, and it in turn is echoed in the rush of wind.

Cold Swim: My Bag Of Mental Tricks

 I looked at the satellite weather forecast in the local paper today. It showed a near-vertical red swooping arrow that indicated the jet stream's path.  It's lassooing straight down from the arctic today, taking no prisoners, laughing at us here in California, bringing icebergs with it - or so it seems.

We're fresh off a week or more of false summer weather, sitting happily in warm pools of sunshine.  The AT&T Pro-Am Golf Tournament came and went, accompanied by the best February weather you could possibly imagine.  Right on the heels of the tournament, real winter weather has blown in.  Yesterday dropped temperatures to freezing.  There has been hail, wind and rain - quite a contrast for everyone to adjust to.

Skiers are happy; a friend is jumping up and down with joy in the Sierra, anticipating a long weekend skiing up there.  Not a skier, I am trying to be happy for her and readjusting myself to winter's icy fingers in a hurry.  Most, if not all of my adjustment is mental:  I have to play little tricks on myself to cope with the cold.

Some examples I tell myself as I swim:

*  Just think how warm the showers are going to feel once you're done with this swim.  And they are.  There really is no better way to enjoy a hot shower than after a challenging workout in the dark in winter with coaches yelling "now go fast!" as if you weren't trying before.  I try to concentrate on how miserable the coaches are up there on the deck; their murderous swim sets are matched by mother nature's crankiness.  Then again, maybe they make up murderous swim sets because mother nature got cranky first.  I'll have to think about that one.

*  Imagine how good you will feel if you don't indulge in a dessert; you'll step on the scale and you'll have lost weight.  That's a hard sell, mostly because the gratification is very delayed.  Hasn't anyone invented delicious food that makes you lose weight instead of gain?  This also means I can't reward my hard work with something like a big stack of pancakes or a caramel macchiato.  Newp, a hot shower will have to be the big reward.

*  Be nice to old people.  They've lived a long time and can do whatever they want; they deserve some elbow room and no restrictions.  I want that when I get old.  But, jeesh, where does that meanness come from anyway?  And how is it that one very slow swimmer can take up an entire lane so you can't pass them and share the lane?  I've had long discussions with friends about "floppers" who do that at our local sports center that has an indoor pool.  It's one of the main reasons my friends and I don't swim there.  Can't pass old people; they're like spider monkeys or something, with legs and arms stretching vast distances as they make their way slowly down the center of the lane.  It really defies logic when you see it in real time.  They drive like that, too.  Slowwwwwly.  Very tiny old ladies in big giant cars so big that they can't see over the steering wheel.  You just see this little bit of the top of their heads.  If not for that, it looks like the Oldsmobile or Cadillac is empty, driving itself down the road.  Slowwwwwly.

*  Be nice to young people.  Their hormones are fogging their vision, and life is one big drama after another.  I don't want to be the one to inform them they don't really know anything yet and won't until they hit 50.  Just because they can swim like dolphins means nothing, right?  I just remind myself - as they blur past me - that I'm at least 30 years older and could have swum circles around them in my day.  A little self-aggrandizement goes a long way when you're dragging buckets up and back in the pool.  Yessir, it does.  

*  Someone will discover me and my raw talent someday and I will have my 15 minutes of fame.  That's a good one and gets me through most everything.  I imagine glorious, wonderful, awe-inspiring performance that brings the whole pool to a jaw-dropped standstill.  Heck, not just the pool, the world.

With a virtual bag of tricks I carry everywhere, I can deal with just about anything.  I'm pretty sure all the other swimmers do the same thing.  Then, when the workout is over and coaches have toddled off home, we recount it all in those awesome hot showers for a long time afterwards.  The retelling is pretty close to what happens in the mind, in the pool, in the dark, on cold winter mornings.  Nothing but glory.

A Decision About Crunch And Squish

I needed some crunch in my life.  You just do every so often.  Too much is mush, too many sounds are very close to squish, and not enough has the defined snap of this being different from that.

Decisiveness can be very refreshing.  You know what you're dealing with when a decision has been made.

So, thinking of carrots and decisions, I decided to go ahead and make a good salad for dinner.  At the end of the day you can relate decisiveness and salads and come out okay.  Except for the olives I bounced into the bowls, the ingredients were all from farms close by.  I sliced open a large Russian radish.  It looked like a little slice of watermelon.  I thought of summertime heat and spitting watermelon seeds with my friends when we were kids.  The lettuce was crisp and tender, which seems like an impossibility as I write it now, but it was.  I had thought that crispness was more a close cousin to efficiency, but it seems more likely now the sister of delicacy and tenderness.  How unexpected.  Celery had the merest saltiness.  I thought of girls eating "ants on a log" - peanut butter and raisins on celery - and telling lies to each other to see who would believe them.  No one believed anyone else, but everyone wanted to.  No one was disappointed, but instead planned bigger lies for next time.  It's like that when you're seven.  Your friends' audacity and willingness to travel down the rabbit hole into a dimension of ridiculously funny falsehoods always won your admiration.  It proved you were not anything close to adult.  And you could luxuriate in the further untruth that you were not planning to grow up.  Ever.  

Olive oil slicked the lettuce leaves in my bowl, coating them and readying them for herbs and sea salt.  The nectar of olives has no equal for me when we're talking about food.  Garlic and olive oil with nearly anything elevates it, and somehow mysteriously gives you access to dreams and subtleties you might have overlooked before.  Handsome men and crisp linens laid upon aged wooden tables set at twilight.  The snap and hiss of a wooden match struck into flame and the pungent odor of sulphur and smoke.  The gleam on a pearl at the throat of an olive-skinned woman with dark eyes and rich tumbling hair, who sips some Chianti from a small coarse glass.  The pale green olive oil on my salad, its very light fragrance and delicate flavor brought me back to earth, and I stood in the kitchen thinking I should make risotto, too.  I wonder...

Just One Second

What happened in between the minutes, at the apex of breaths, when I was caught unawares?  I had let go of one thought and was reaching for another when I realized that daylight was blooming softly.  When did that happen, I thought.  When did the dreams depart and consciousness stride forward?  It must have happened when I was lost in thought, rocking gently in the arms of time.

Say Hello

Uh oh, here comes Valentines Day.

I know, the day when cupid shoots his little arrows into the hearts of lovers.  Or something.  Hearts, roses, lace, chocolate, valentines.  All that.  Isn't it for the people who already know they love each other?

What about everyone who isn't sure?

I am not a fan of big loaded-expectation days for this reason:  They are exclusive more than they are inclusive.  I do believe this particular day results in far more people feeling saddened and lonely than loved and adored.  I wonder if anyone has done a survey to see if there is a majority or minority who are happy on Valentines Day.  My guess is it's a minority.  We are all so set up by the commercialism of it that it's virtually guaranteed that you will be disappointed.  Especially if you are a teen or very young adult.  Physical attraction and emotional intensity are so tied to self-worth that if they are missing, happiness goes right down the toilet.

Valentine's Day is delightful for the people who are within immediate range of embracing arms and puckered lips.  I'd like to think more in terms of paying love forward on Valentine's Day, of surprising people around me with a quick expression of unconditional warm regard.  I'm thinking of a National Say Hello to People Around You Day.

If I were Queen of the Universe, I'd ban the day and advise hugs and handshakes.  Kisses would be okay, of course, but I think a National Say Hello Day would be much more realistic and far less likely to be a minefield of loneliness and depression than Valentine's Day is.  Most of my patients are sick because they're lonely when you get to the root of it all.  

A few years ago Sick Puppies put out a music video showing a man with a sign saying Free Hugs.  He waved to passers-by in a mall, offering hugs.  At first, the potentially hugged were skeptical and turned away, but some overcame inhibition and fear and took him up on it.  How odd to be accepted and regarded as friendly, you know?

Consider hugging someone tomorrow instead of feeling left out of the Valentine's Day push to go commercial.  Hug - or at least say hello - someone who's an acquaintance or you see occasionally but usually keep a distance from for no good reason.  Muster up your courage and give them a quick hug.  Let love go.  Just let it go then see how you feel.  One little squeeze for a plain ol' person.

My guess is the gloom will be a little less intense.  You'll feel a bit more that possibility exists in the world and that you are actually the solution to your own problems.  Love does that.

Curiosity: Small Feats of Courage

At the merge zone between wet and dry that we call Asilomar Beach, courage and curiosity did a quiet duet.  The dancers -- a dog, a girl and a dancing woman -- were and curious fearful explorers where the ocean breeze and bright sun played off one another in counterpoint.  Shorebirds looking for tidbits in the sand seemed indifferent but kept their eyes on the dance, a tiny audience that moved about on stilt-like legs at the periphery.

Creatures and people walked or trotted along the shallow water's edge, but in the heart of one small black dog courage and curiosity took hold in equal measure.  He was a runner, a dog whose body built speed quickly and stretched out with long beautiful strides as he went after his bright orange ball.  The ball, thrown by his master far down the beach, barely kept ahead of the dog who stretched his body out straight with the effort of each stride.  Then, with the ball caught, he would slow, taking a dozen more strides to reach full stop, and then galloped back with the ball in his jaws.  He was a canine athlete, exceptional in his running ability, and we stopped to watch.

The master had a throwing tool popular at the beach, and the dog was eager to go.  The throw was long again and the dog launched himself into a reckless run, bound to catch the devil ball as soon as he possibly could.  But this time the ball arched out over and then into the ocean water's heaving swells, and it became immediately apparent that the dog was not a swimmer.  He had no idea that the water would only go up to his chest and no further. His perspective only allowed for the fact that there was no firm ground on which to stand where the ball was and that he saw it plain as day, bobbing in the surf.

He trotted to and fro, glancing at his master and then eyeing the ball intently.  It may as well have been on the moon.  Where before he had had the heart to run to tomorrow and back to retrieve his ball, he was undone by the fear of water.  He trotted in up to his elbows and retreated, anxious to get to the ball but held as if by a leash.  The master and his friends walked up and encouraged the black dog to go out, go on, you can do it, but it did no good.  His eyes were locked on the ball, but fear had a firm lock on him.

We looked in the opposite direction to the north end of the beach.  A strong young man walked out into the wide shallows where rippling remnants of waves lapped at his ankles and calves.  He carried his little girl whose hair lifted on the luffing breeze, and her arms were loosely hung around his shoulder.  When you are two and carried up high, the world takes on a very different dimension.  She was carried by her striding father far out into an endless ocean, where she lost reference points and did not understand the new liquid dimension before her.

He bent over and showed her the rippling surface and the shallow sandy bottom, held her out like a little airplane and let her examine the water for a long time.  He let her down low to dip her toes in.  She was having none of it, no sir.  She curled up like a pillbug and refused to touch the wet coldness.  She was interested, curious to know about the ocean, but she always curled up her legs and avoided the final knowledge through touch.  It was far too big and uncertain for her to cope with, not at all like her bath at home.

A dome-like sandbar had formed offshore, a hundred yards long and a hundred yards out beyond a lagoon-like area of rippling tidal movement.  A young woman waded steadfastly out to the sandbar and stood there looking for all the world like Christ walking on water.  The sandbar was partially submerged, just deep enough to have wavelets wash across its surface but only ankle high on the young woman.  She trotted back and forth out there, thrilled apparently with the unusual sand formation and the vantage point that it afforded.  She danced and twirled and stooped to look for things.

The small girl watched her from her own perch in her father's strong arms and looked down at the water.  She pointed to it and he swooped her down again, an airplane girl with wide wings.  She reached for the water and touched it with her fingertips and then was swooped up again, smiling.  A sailboat rounded the point to the north and bent to leeward as it sailed south.  The man with his daughter held snugly watched it with shaded eyes.  The white sail was full and taut and cut a fine figure as it moved across their view.

The black dog waited until the tide brought the devilish ball closer in.  Then he timed its rise on a small swell with a quick lean farther out over the water and snapped it up in his mouth and turned to hear the applause from his people who were still gathered behind him on the firm sand.  The shorebirds skittered away and continued their hunt while the ocean moved making burbling sounds everywhere.

Where Possibility Lives

The trip across town early this morning for my swim workout was dark, of course, as the swimming begins predawn.  Street lights were still bright at that hour, and the air was cold.  Later when the sky faded from indigo to pale blue, it was evident that the day would be clear and promising.

I made a second trip later back to the college, where the farmer's market is located.  The sky, ocean and everything in between was glistening as if it had just been scrubbed and polished.  The workout had been good, and I was hungry afterwards.  Even a bowl of oatmeal and some fruit did not keep the hunger down for long.  The market, I hoped, would fill my shopping bag with more satisfying fare.  

The market, as it is in the "off months," was peaceful and calm, and vendors spent time in conversation with each other and passersby, and many basked in the sun as they wiled away the time between 10 and 2.  If you'd have heard a loudspeaker playing a gentle melody, it would have fit between the conversations and rounded them to a point of ripeness.

A covey of four-year-olds arrived, guided by patient teachers who had brought them on a field trip to see the market .  They gathered around the Zena Foods booth, eyes dancing, looking for free samples of what might be offered.  They had been coached to keep their hands off of things, but the table top was only four inches below their noses, far too tempting for anyone that age.  Ahmed, attentive and enthusiastic, kept busy giving small triangles of pita bread to the small extended hands.  He spotted us and exclaimed that "Egypt's president is finally going away."  Mubarak was leaving his office, he said, much to our surprise.  We had not heard the update of the news, so we talked about it for a few minutes.

The children, never still for a moment, lost interest in the food and began to drift away.  They all waved good-bye and moved away in a wriggling cluster of energy, and the market gradually quieted again.  They had been a surge of controlled chaos with no intention except to move into the future where they might change it simply by arriving en masse and knocking the usualness of the past aside.

"This is a very good day.  Very good for Egypt.  Good that the people have made their voices and can make their own minds."  He shook our hands and said "We will talk again next week, eh?"  

In the middle of the day when the sun was at its highest point over the southern hills bordering our bay, we met a dear friend in Carmel and were again dazzled by the sparkling splendor of the day.  This is no winter; it is something particularly fine.  Heaven perhaps or the place where possibility dwells.  She had not been to Dametra Cafe, she said, when we suggested it.  Nor had we for some time now, so it became our destination.  Faisal's brother (just as hospitable and about 6 inches taller) was host and the servers were our warm-hearted friends in a matter of just less than a minute.  They dispense hospitality as if it were on sale.

As we had hoped, the oud was pulled down from the wall and the cook pulled from the kitchen to sing a romantic and poignant song to everyone, which he loves to do.  The tall and swarthy host, a man from the Middle East with a warm and charming smile, played the instrument that looks so much like a large brother to a mandolin and walked slowly between the tables.  Everyone was prompted to sing and clap in time to the chorus, which we did with gusto.

On television this evening I saw that Egyptians were washing and cleaning the streets of Cairo, proud of their city, the city they claim as their very own, wrested from the hands of an authoritarian ruler.  Egypt, said one young Egyptian, has lived through a wrenching change that was the will of the citizens, and it will be felt for fifty years now.  The light in his eyes was a reflection of the city lights around him, which shone in the night air while voices sang in the distance.

Golf Fans Sighted: AT&T Under Way

After my early morning swim I started to see them.  Yes it's true, golf fans are peeking out from behind signposts and over steering wheels, looking for arrows pointing the way to shuttle bus stops.  There is very limited private vehicle access to Pebble Beach.  The intrepid fans who are bound and determined to see early morning golf action are everywhere.

For intstance, I spotted a cluster of fans - men all dressed in requisite Docker pants, knit shirts and vests and the usual black baseball caps - walking along Foam Street examining store fronts together.  It was an odd thing to see at 7:30 in the morning.  It's not a street tourists usually stroll down for any reason and looks utilitarian at best. I can't say I really know what they were doing in that part of town at that early hour, but they looked harmless, curious, excited.  Just a little off course.

Locals who have been volunteering at the tournament for years ever since it was called The Crosby are talking about what it was like to do various jobs from year to year, and they're feeling quite a bit of nostalgia.  The tournament has been around long enough that people mark phases of their lives with it.  Most begin volunteering when they are teens in high school and continue on when they can.  It's usually the best way for them to see the action as well as behind the scenes.  I recall friends of mine in high school who used to carry leader boards when they were high school students, especially boys who were on the golf team.  It was quite a plum job and earned them bragging rights.

Today was the first day of play, which will continue on until Sunday.  We'll see if this fine weather holds.  So far it has been spectacular and a huge contrast to two years ago when the event was rained out  in spite of heroic efforts by greenskeepers to squeegee off greens and provide shelter for fans and players.  It was awful.

As a matter of fact, with Valentine's Day coming up, the AT&T in full swing (oops, pun), and gorgeous weather shining in every direction, folks are getting a little giddy around here.  A fine state of affairs for everyone.

When I Found Happiness

In cold night air

Stars fell down like crackers

White flowers

On green curved stems, leggy and slim.  Black patent shoes

dancing on crumbs crunched like ice

chewed on a hot day

swinging, looping down long, up breathless

on a creaking rope

over willow-edged water

Joy jumped up

and flew out when I opened my mouth

and made itself known to me.

People Watching at Pebble

I was unable to post yesterday due to technical difficulties which have been surmounted, so here I am once more, intrepid blogger that I am.

In the middle of this week, we will begin play on the AT&T Pro-Am Golf Tournament over in Pebble Beach as well as two other courses.  Locals call the whole kaboodle Pebble Beach, so you may as well do the same.  Everything within the confines of the smartly guarded gates of Del Monte Forest is referred to as Pebble Beach, including Spanish Bay, Monterey Peninsula Country Club course, Spyglass Hill, Cypress Point, Poppy Hills and of course Pebble Beach itself.  Just like every country in Africa is called Africa by Americans.  We are just so odd that way.  Just lump it all into one and call it Pebble Beach, and you're good.

So, back to Pebble Beach.  The pros have been doing practice rounds to get used to the various courses and adjust to wind, sun, lack of snow and deer wandering around on the greens.  Up until today the weather has been summer-like and stunningly perfect.  Just to put a scare into the hearts of organizers, the weather is changing; it's blustery and much cooler outside.  Whitecaps are dancing across the waters of the bay like charging herds of sheep.  Or maybe like dolphins.  Dolphins are fast, but sheep are white, so I'm going with sheep.  Fast sheep.  There is a gusting wind from the northwest that is spanking flags out to horizontal on their posts, which should make tee shots be rather unpredictable at times for the golfers.

It is said that Bill Murray is in fine form this year and ready to play ball.  Always a fan favorite, galleries lean in close to overhear his quips and try for autographs.  Local boy and one of Pebble's august owners, Clint Eastwood may show his face here or there.  He and his friends are usually busy with guests and duties, but he may make some official appearances if he's in town.  Other fairly recognizable celebrities are signed up to start play on Thursday.  Most take the game very seriously, even clowns like Mr. Murray, and do their best to put on a sporting show for the galleries.  Fans often try to spot Mr. Eastwood at The Hogs Breath Inn in Carmel, but they'd have better luck in the evening down at Old Mission Ranch in the lounge where jazz musicians gather after hours.  Mr. Eastwood is a long-time fan of jazz and tasteful tunes, and he is more often seen there (he owns the Inn, by the way) than anywhere else.

Have fun exploring the Peninsula if you're here for the tournament - or any other time for that matter.  Carmel will be dense with fans once the rounds are done for the day, but relaxing, eye-catching beauty is rampant here this time of year, so almost anywhere you go will feel like a really great idea.  Just watch your hat.  That wind is tricky.

Downsizing to iPhone

This is a first for me - blogging using my iPhone. To be brief, my laptop is refusing to connect to the Internet server, so I'm literally downsizing and using my trusty smart phone.

Thanks for checking in. I hope to be back in action tomorrow if I can get in to see a genius at the Apple store. Computers are so strange sometimes.

A Superior Show - And It's Free!

The United States went into a big football spasm today and sat down to watch the Super Bowl, called it the championship of the world (what other country even plays the game?) and were entertained by large athletic men crashing into each other, bad halftime entertainment and violent physical humor wrapped up as advertising.  How many billions of dollars were spent on the pre- and post-game "shows" as well as the game itself are yet to be tallied, but to say it was overblown is really hardly stating the case.

Luckily for the NFL, the game was a relatively close match.  Lucky for me and my companions watching the game, we had good food to share and a placed our two-dollar bets on the score, which was enlivening.

Knowing I was going to be sitting, eating and watching the game in the late afternoon, I got my inert self up out of bed early and went for a walk out in the great outdoors.  The sun is practically dancing in the blue sky these days, and many locals were out enjoying it in a variety of ways.  I walked from my house down to the rec trail near Lover's Point, then headed east along the flat scenic route to Hopkins Marine Station and then back home.  Harbor seals and shorebirds were very active at the protected cove at Hopkins.

Families out for walks, bike rides and surrey rides along the trail often stopped at the fence that lines the bluff above the cove.  One little boy shouted to his mom, "There's animals out there in the water and they're wiggling!" The seals are worth spending time watching.  They haul up onto the curved beach just past the high-surge area and barely lift their heads and tail flippers if a big wave rushes up the sand.  Sometimes they log-roll down the sandy slope again and seem to enjoy being lifted and rolled in the edge of the waves, re-emerging later when they want some sunning time.  There were hundreds of them, big and small, and the view was free for anyone who took time to stop.

Folks who are headed to the Monterey Peninsula this week for the AT&T Pro-Am Golf Tournament are in for a certain treat weather-wise.  It has been absolutely beautiful for the past two weeks or so and the same is predicted for the coming week.  The whole area sparkles with vivid color and dramatic coastal scenery.  Red Hot Pokers, the tall succulent-type plants are blooming still and early blooms are bursting out all over cherry trees and ornamental fruit trees.  It's pretty spectacular and, in my opinion, a far more incredible show than the overpriced, overblown and self-important spectacle called The Super Bowl.

Real and Old

Our new flooring was installed yesterday by James, a wiry and energetic individual who has been installing floors for 32 years now.  He got the job done in a few clicks over four hours and left with a wave of his hand and a quick good-bye.

After I put my kitchen back together, I looked at the floor.  It felt like I was regarding a new pet or something.  Hello, floor.  We are getting acquainted and figuring out what our mutual needs are.  It's a nice texture under bare feet, and it has a handsome faque slate appeal.  Nothing beats true stone, but for a little apartment, imitation is okay.

I wanted to dance on it, break it in, celebrate all over it, twist and shout maybe.  It has a certain warmth and willingness to accept what life bounces off of it, a lack of pretension.  You can live with a floor that does not aspire to be anything else; it is not a work of art and yet it has just enough pride in its appearance that I will be happy to show it to its best advantage.  

It is said that under the carpeting in the rest of the place, a hardwood floor is hidden.  I've seen what work it is to restore and refinish a hardwood floor, and I am not eager to take that step, but I know just how beautiful the fine ones can look.  A friend has one that stirs hearts and souls with its clear-grain fir beauty.  She seems to have a knack for making it glow, too, which a fine floor demands.

No, my new floor is an up-to-date modern impressionist floor.  That is, it gives the impression of something else that it is not.  And all the while, it patiently resists stains, dings, dirt and scuffs: The very things we seem to admire in old natural things when we see them.  Old stone or wood things, well worn and used by people over a long period of time, earn our admiration in a much different way than does an imitation flooring material when it has become tired and worn out.  Old things made of metal, wood or stone endure and develop a patina, a certain je ne sais quoi that suggests a story may be revealed with close inspection.  Look, they seem to say, I am an old step that has been trodden by thousands of shoes.  An antique wooden table plank that has been smoothed by hands and been leaned on by elbows while voices recounted the events of the day is something more interesting than a new table is.

Old, well-worn things endure us, but faque things?  Not so much.  They eventually look shabby and cannot be restored if they've been used a lot.  When you take away nostalgia and the charm of kitschy style inherent in various pop eras, wood, stone and metal seem to hold up better over time and even have an improved appeal that old plastic does not.  Old stone steps of a centuries-old cathedral are remarkable to see, and certain very old wooden musical instruments are sometimes priceless.

Ultimately, it's the interaction with human hands and feet that brings beauty to the things we build.  The stone steps are interesting to us especially if they are worn by thousands of feet.  The old wooden instruments sound far better if they've been played vigorously all their lives, and a house unlived in is nothing without human inhabitants breathing life into it.

My floor is a fine new floor, doing what it was meant to do, and it's an improvement over the one it replaced.  It will do well until it doesn't someday, and then that will be the end of that.

A Blaze of Glory: Reward For Hard Work

I had been swimming for over an hour when the world went up in flames.  Or so it seemed.

Unfortunately, a lot about life is actually pretty predictable and even boring.  Life is pleasant here, and I am happy.  But, I don't want to be complacent and ordinary.

That may be one reason I get up early in the morning and shake my own tree, so to speak.  The idea is that you have to find some way to push your own boundaries or challenge yourself or you end up going through life half asleep and dulled, a plodder.  No thank you.

This morning the house seemed cooler than usual.  I went through my routine of preparing to go and then drove across town to the pool.  It feels colder there.  And very dark.  Campus lights don't come on until 6 AM.  The only ones on are at the pool.  As you approach, you see steam from the boiler room  backlit by the floodlights and when the pool covers come off, the pool glows a pale blue.  The pool is a creature unto its own, it seems.  It's old, worn, used hard and very little improvements made to it over its 50 years of existence.  This early morning swimming thing is not for neophytes.  You jump in because you know the pool and how it feels, not because its especially attractive or appealing.  You have a relationship with it, know its quirks, and you begin a sort of conversation with it in a way that's especially noticeable when your vision is limited by the darkness.

This was the last workout of the week, but that does not mean the work was any lighter.  It was, as it has been, meant to build strength.  Hello, tubes and paddles.  Tubes are small inner tubes you inflate and put around your ankles to emphasize stroke faults so you correct them.  That's the hope you have, that the suddenly magnified swaying of your hips from side to side will be much more detectable and you can then correct that.  Easier said than done.  You swim more slowly with tubes on your ankles, and you feel much more of a flopper than ever before.  Today, I flopped a lot.  My pride went and sulked in the locker room while I plodded on, back and forth in my lane.

I was game to do the work and make myself a faster, smoother swimmer, but the truth is I never felt that way today.  I felt tired, slow, hopelessly uncoordinated.  I wondered when the strength would ever show up.  The tubes dig into my skin if I don't have them on just right, and the younger swimmers on the other side of the pool looked ridiculously fast and unconcerned with the myriad challenges presented by using an inner tube on one's ankles at 6 AM in the dark on a cold morning.  What the heck?  I wondered. Why was I going through all this discomfort anyway?  Some questions are better not asked.  Not at 6 AM anyway, in the cool pale steam of a winter morning.

I stuck with the work as best I could, imagining myself finally getting more fit and more capable of doing the whole workout.  It was a mental morning.  The bear was jumping up and down on my back and considering a piano when, eventually, Mark, the coach, took a little pity on me and had me do some breaststroke work.

That felt better.  I had more focus, more interest in the drills and understood the reasons for them.  I thought maybe there was actually some hope for myself in the long run.  Maybe there is a God.

Then I noticed a beautiful thing.  Far over in the east a big heavy cloud formation was lurking ominously.  It glowered and threatened a change in the weather.  I had begun to notice it at about 6:30 and during a break between swim sets.  I looked up without my goggles on and there it was - the blaze of glory - the clouds had turned blood red and were streaked with orange.  A fabulous sunrise was spreading itself from north to south, from the far horizon to overhead and reflecting off the surface of the pool.  It looked like a furnace turned sideways and magnified by a million.  The colors kept changing from crimson to scarlet to vivid shades of orange and then gold-edged fantasy.  A technicolor show on the highest order, and I had paid the admission price.

If I hadn't been up to swim in the cold and dark, I'd have totally missed the entire extravaganza.  I paid with some humbled pride and tired arms and shoulders, but what a way to end the workout, eh?  I'd do it again in a second.

Winter Gardening With A Friend

When I was a neophyte gardener a few years ago, I was timid about pruning back older plants.  I thought they'd die of shock if I trimmed them.  Not so.  One friend has been a great sounding board for my gardening questions through the years and she has given me dozens of cuttings and starter plants.  She gave me my gardening gloves and showed me the how-to about nearly everything in my garden.  It's quite a thing to have a mentor, whether they see themselves as one or not.  In this case, we see each other as friends and agree that digging in the dirt to make things grow is a huge pleasure.  She's just been doing it a whole lot longer than I have.  

Thanks to her, I am bolder and more at home in the garden - just like I imagined I would be.  But I needed her guidance, and she has been giving it steadily through the past dozen or more years.

My friend grew up in a family of siblings who all admire a fine garden and who are all resourceful and don't mind rolling up sleeves, donning gloves and getting to work if it's needed.  They cook what they grow and spend time with each other talking and working.  And laughing.  I just listen, lucky me, and join in the work, which never seems like work at all.  

So, two days ago when I had a day off, my friend and I went out into my yard, took a look around and then drove over to Cypress Garden Nursery in Monterey to see what we might see.  One mustn't hurry through a garden center on a fine day with a good friend at one's side.  This is early in the year to be looking for six packs of color spots for a spring garden, but what we did see satisfied us, and I made a few purchases.  Euphorbia was one choice, and I've put it in a fine old terra cotta pot an uncle gave me a few years ago and it has a sunny spot where it will look handsome.

Once I said good-bye to my friend that day, I set to work pruning the abutilon monster that had taken over one whole area.  That bugger just needs a dose of rain and then grows like wild, and it's always blooming. I finally pruned the roses and everything got fertilized and watered.  It felt good to do the work, all preparatory tasks and chores that will ensure a bounty of blossoms later on.

Gardening is satisfying, so much so that a sense of generosity somehow arises as the tasks are undertaken and your hands have been busy with roots, stems, tools and soil.  The earth and plants will do what they do, but to be able to facilitate the life within them to become optimal so that they flourish and thrive can be the most nourishing and calming things a person can ever do.  

Ready to Eat? The Monterey Peninsula Beckons

It is no secret the rest of the United States is buried in snow and ice.  The jet stream, the high-altitude current of air that moves rapidly from west to east across the North American continent is coming to the United States from the heart of northwest Canada and points north, and everyone is looking very seriously at going to Hawaii, Mexico or California to escape the unrelenting cold.

Take a break from that misery and visit us here.  The weather is predicted to be fine for at least the next week, and there is no snow at all here on the central coast.  Chilliness extends down into the 40s at night, rarely into the 30s (Fahrenheit),  so you will need a few layers of cool-weather clothing to be comfortable.  Let me say right off I have no real recommendations on where to stay because I've just lived here, never stayed in hotels.  Prices for hotel/motel rooms seem to range from about $60 to $600 a night, which is just nuts.  Trip Advisor and other online sites are pretty accurate as far as I can see.

So, restaurants.  I'm going to assume you're waking up hungry and want to eat a bit more than a croissant and a cup of espresso.  A very popular place with locals and visitors alike is First Awakenings right near the Aquarium, and it can be reached on foot from either Monterey or Pacific Grove since it's also right by the Recreation Trail.  They don't take reservations, and if you go on the weekend after 10 AM, you're going to have a wait.  Portions are large, fresh and very tasty.  They put a whole carafe of coffee on the table as well as a water pitcher, and you can have fun shooting pigeons and sparrows with water pistols if they begin to be a nuisance.  Our other favorite place is Holly's Lighthouse Cafe in downtown Pacific Grove, probably the most local-flavor cafe in the area besides The Old Monterey Cafe on Alvarado in Monterey.  Both are friendly and offer pancakes, omelets, breakfast burritos and keep the coffee coming.

Bring a day pack and consider a good long walk and outdoor picnic lunch somewhere, almost anywhere, as this area is well known for naturally spectacular sights.  Google Nob Hill market in New Monterey, Grove Market in Pacific Grove or any supermarket, pick up some cheese, locally baked bread, sliced meat, fruit and drinks, fill your pack and head over to Asilomar State Beach or Carmel River State Beach where parking is free and where nature gives and gives all you can handle all day long.  Restrooms are available at Asilomar Conference Grounds uphill from the beach in Pacific Grove and you should see signs for it.  At the Carmel River State Beach, there is a public restroom right next to the parking lot.  Just beyond that beach (accessed by going west on Rio Road and following signs past Carmel Mission and then Mission Ranch, which Clint Eastwood owns, to get to the beach.  You'll be driving through a well-established and classic California-style residential area worth driving slowly through.

If you want to go farther afield, take the backpack down to Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, pay the ridiculously low fare to get in and enjoy your day.  Buzzard's Roost Trail is a steady uphill that is wide and easy to follow and will afford you a beautiful view of the Big Sur Coast that will have you reconsidering possibilities in life in a good way.

So, you've spent your day out hiking, beach combing and ogling nature, and your appetite is kicking up again.  If you're way down in Big Sur and want to stay on a little longer, you have some choices.  Huge favorite with locals and visitors is The Big Sur River Inn where food has really improved in the past five years.  You have the option of taking your burger or other portable food item down to the river and sitting in chairs in the stream while you eat.  It's quite a treat.  Famous places that ooze Big Sur?  The Big Sur Bakery, Nepenthe (a view that will make you weep), Ventana Inn (keep weeping, view's fantastic if you sit outside) or Deetjens, but check to see if dinner is available.  It's a legendary and wonderfully whimsical place.

Not ready for the 30-mile trip down to Big Sur?  Well, make sure you go sometime in your life; it's very special.  But, okay, so pizza might be good.  Google Gianni's Pizza in New Monterey.  Very busy, energetic and delicious.  Consistently good, and kids really love it there.  A sure bet.  Locally here in Pacific Grove pizza is great at La Piccola Casa on 17th St, a tiny little converted Victorian house that's neat as a pin and offers food that will make you want to sing Neapolitan songs.

Feeling romantic and want the best food on the Peninsula?  Well, you would do well to decide what kind of food that might be.  There are that many good choices.  Okay, so it's seafood.  Passionfish.  Hands down.  Why?  It's all locally sourced, sustainable-harvest, intelligently produced delicious food.  If I were eating the food at home, I'd be licking my plate.

Not focused on seafood but still want romance?  Bistro Moulin near the Aquarium on Wave Street.  The chef really knows his food and has a large following around here.  They do have seafood items, but there are other choices, too.

Cheap eats?  Papa Chevo's on Cannery Row at the far east end.  Giant burritos for $6 or so.  Ambrosia India Bistro for their lunch buffet.  Hula's Island Grill in New Monterey is fun and donates a lot to local charities.  Island style food and great energy.  There are a few more choices, but these stand out.

Most hospitable, everyone-loves-everyone and the music is wonderful?  Dametra Cafe in Carmel.  It's jammed every night - lunch is a good option - for a good reason.  You will feel, as everyone does, that Faisal, the owner is your long-lost brother and has missed you all these years.  You most likely will hug and kiss him by the time it's time to go.  I'm not kidding.

I have lots more to say about food choices around here; I'm only getting started, but this will give you some options.  It is probably true that if you wanted to eat at a different place every night of the year on the Monterey Peninsula, you could do it without much problem.  Amazing.

Where Shall I Go For Dinner on the Monterey Peninsula - Part 1

Where should I go for dinner when I come to Monterey? you ask.

You want something special?  You're going to spend about $65 a person at least.  The best places have food that sourced locally:  Fish from this bay, salad ingredients grown in Salinas and Watsonville, sometimes as close as Carmel Valley, meat from upper Carmel Valley or Big Sur if it's grass fed.  Cheese is made locally.  Wines are world class from this region.  But, it does get expensive if the chef is going with sustainable, locally sourced, properly prepared food.

Service will vary, but it's generally competent.

So?  What do I recommend?  Here's my list:

Passionfish in Pacific Grove
Bistro Moulin in Monterey (near the Aquarium)
Roy's at Spanish Bay
Ambrosia (Indian cuisine) in Monterey
Demetra Cafe in Carmel

Granted, these are placed I have personally been in the past year, and I am not a food critic, but I know food pretty well.  There are about 25 other places I would readily recommend to anyone, and I may put that list together soon, but this list consists of places where I have eaten and not only enjoyed the food but loved it, without any quibbling.

Tomorrow, I'll go into more detail, and I'll also let you know what places to avoid and how to enjoy the Peninsula like locals do.  Like any other tourist destination, a few places trumpet themselves as must-see spots but seldom are.