Incongruity in a Cloud

I am driving up the road north of Gilroy. I muse about going to Hawaii tomorrow, leaving chilly nights and gray surroundings behind. The car is moving, yet inert and lifeless, and I accept it without thinking, detached, only peripherally aware of anything.

I have driven for miles across a dun-colored autumn landscape laced with concrete roadways that serve us with smooth cunning; we are soothed into complacent living this way. I used to ride my bike everywhere and was a more fit human being then. That was years ago, and I have changed, I often say.

Glancing up at the sky, I see slate-gray clouds mounded over the coastal range to the west and the more distant hills to the east. But look there! High over the Santa Clara valley is a rose-colored beehive-shaped cloud formation that's reflecting the setting sun, now out of sight beyond the western hills. It's gloriously incongruent, soft and formless, with shifting vapors that seem turbulently alive, energetic, free and lovely.

I can imagine there are black insects buzzing around it or that it's a whirling fat tornado of pink migratory birds, like the blackbirds that flock in their millions over marshes and tidal flats. What does it mean, I wonder. Would a wizened soothsayer glean information from such a cloud? Imagining myself to be such a crone, I try but fail to see the future, discern new wisdom. Nothing else anywhere is anything but a shade of gray; the cloud fairly shouts its existence to me.

Who else sees it? Who are all these people traveling on the highway as I travel alongside them? I always wonder and never know. In our billions, we hardly know anyone; we are faceless, sometimes even to ourselves. It's the oddest thing, the anonymity of our existence most of the time. What do they notice, those people I cannot see hunched in their cars; what stirs their hearts and sparks their thoughts? That cloud? The evening sky? Or all those headlights and engines?

The evening twilight is dimming away, the air cooling and the pink cloud now far behind me. I drive on into the night, my destination a large hotel and a warm meal. I am plunged back into the rigid world of our human construct. My mind and soul remain abstracted, extracted from the right angles and petroleum products that surround me everywhere.

Incongruity as a cloud above the highway:  The natural world will not be denied. I am better for the reminder of it all, and thank every single lucky star emerging in the night's dark veil.

What Matters

Now that Halloween is in the rear-view mirror, the long slow slide to Christmas has begun.  I'm thinking it's going to be okay if I keep on keeping it simple.

First of all, let me explain one thing.  I think of the year in terms of being on a big looping circle, like a roller coaster.  It begins an uphill swing starting on the winter solstice and reaches its apex at the summer solstice.  After that, as the days get gradually shorter and shorter we descend, so to speak, toward the winter solstice once again.  Upswing, then downswing.  It's my visual, and I'm sticking with it.

Here in California, the big circle idea is overlain with the peculiar and unique weather pattern of the California coast, where summer is cold, late autumn is warm and dry and winter generally very mild.  Late winter and early spring both throw storms around and we get wet.

Today, like yesterday is warm, bright and, well, pretty.  It feels very pleasant.  It doesn't feel like Christmas is coming.  Instead, Easter should be coming.  It's that pretty.  But, Christmas really is coming and friends are talking about changes.  No one is talking about giving big gifts or going shopping.  They're talking about making gifts, being outside where the biggest gift waits for them every day.  No one is taking life for granted.  Maybe it's the election, but the feeling is we've skimmed by a tough spot and need to hang on to what's important.  Most of all, friends are looking at each other with appreciation.  Just because we show up day after day.  It's not a bad thing, this thing called love.  

Life is pretty tough sometimes, and it's complicated.  Showing up for a friend, plain and simple, is what Christmas might be about this year.  Giving of oneself, expressing gratitude.  They're free to give and priceless to receive.  

 

Summer Rhythm

Sunlight is darting through shreds of fog that trail about like visible dreams.  The drifting vapors make shifting shapes overhead, now thickening densely and then thinning into transparency again.  The fog seems bound straight for inland valleys but then pulls back again, as if breathing heavily, in and out, over the course of the day.  

The dance moves mysteriously and silently without end all summer long, tempo quickened by northern or southern breezes in the afternoon, quieting after the sun sails over the western horizon.

You see a grey smudge heaving over the hilltops in the distance as if the hills themselves were pulling a gray blanket up to their chins and curling up for a nap.  But, the stern draping blanket cools the hills down and they lie shivering and damp in the cold gray light.

It's the summer rhythm of our coast, the respiration of an ecosystem, visible as moving moist air and the rise and fall of varying breezes.  If the sun glances back at a certain time of afternoon and finds thin spots in the fog, the tawny grasses that flank rolling hills are set alight and glow.