Early Bird Calling

I heard a small bird calling this morning as I was waking up, a sweet plaintive call that seemed to echo and trill the very song of life.  I remember long ago, hearing the same calling birdsong on dewy mornings in fall.  The cats, who lived outside all the time, would ignore them in favor of piling themselves together under a shrub, flattening the foxtails and grasses with their sleep-warmed bodies, making no noise at all, deeply relaxed in slumber.

In the cold and damp of predawn autumn, small birds, too chilled to do anything but fluff their feathers and wait, gripped the small branches and high wires near the roof tops.  One bird, in a hiccup of discovery, would make a tentative chirp, and it would be a signal, like house lights flashing before a performance, that something was beginning to change.  In response, other birds would begin to rustle, chirp, flap and preen until everyone would declare themselves loudly from every corner of the yard and beyond, a feathered company of shouting, singing birds waking the world up in their own words.

The first chorus of songbirds in the morning has no real equivalent in our human world.  I don't know of any place where people wake up, stand up on their chairs and sing loudly to the world, uninhibited,  before they do anything else.  "This is my house, I am here, the sun is coming up!  Tra la la la!"

The little bird I heard today was a bit more wistful than other birds usually sound.  He was still sounding his call, though, a little sparrow with something to say, singing sweetly from a branch high in the neighbor's yard.

There isn't any calling right now; it's the middle of the day and everything, everyone is going about their business, done with declarations of existence for the time being.  What a treat while it lasted, though.  Because they called out and announced themselves at the top of their small lungs, I knew I was alive, too.  Can I imagine a world where there are no birds singing up the sunrise?  No sweet voices that seem to express life itself?  Only when I am in cities, but even then I imagine the voices I have heard in more-whole places as a means of soothing myself.

I'll be listening for the sweet little call tomorrow morning, a signal that a day is coming 'round, and that that little bird knows it is alive, part of the whole of nature.  

Lauren Artress: Still Walking A Sacred Path

I was invited to help celebrate the 65th birthday of Dr. Lauren Artress, author of Walking The Sacred Path, a seminal book about labyrinths.  I joined about 70 of her friends and supporters, many whom had come from distant states, during an evening of festivities held at Grace Cathedral.  We had a fine time eating, listening to stories and sharing anecdotes about our connection to labyrinths and Lauren.  

Regarding a labyrinth, do not confuse it with a maze as they are almost totally opposite in intention and design.  Mazes are meant to confound and confuse those who enter them.  A labyrinth is meant to promote meditation, prayer and contemplation.  Ancient labyrinth designs have been discovered in the ruins of the ancient Greeks, and the most iconic holy labyrinth is at Chartres Cathedral in France.   

Lauren has worked long and hard to encourage the use of the labyrinth in churches, schools, prisons, and public spaces. People who walk its path as part of their spiritual practice are found all around the world, truly representing a nondenominational, nonsectarian population.  

Pilgrimage, inner journeying, and many other ideas reflected in myths, stories, songs and prayers are all reiterated in the curving, winding path to the center of the labyrinth.  Its use clarifies thoughts instead of clouding them, promotes a sense of well being and healing from the effects of stress and fear.

Like listening to a story told with twists and turns, the labyrinth requires presence of mind and attention while walking its path.  There is a beginning and an end, a path to follow and yet it is a mysterious symmetrical configuration that has an undefinable quality about it.  Sometimes people who feel restless and unfocused about an idea or situation find clarity and integration as they walk the circuitous route, back and forth, round and round, in toward the center and then back out again.  It's a directed wander, really, that you take at your own pace.  

Lauren has influenced many thousands of people around the world to consider the labyrinth as a symbol of peaceful unification of body, mind and spirit in these days of conflict, suspicion and divisiveness.  Certainly, it was worth the quick trip to the city to raise a glass to her and her work.  The mysterious and undefinable beauty of labyrinth drew Lauren to it years ago.  Her work has drawn thousands, perhaps millions, of others to it in return.  Someone nearly a thousand years ago designed the 11-circuit pattern and set it in stone in cathedrals all across Europe.  The name of the original designer has never been known, but its iconic shape and ability to calm and still the restless hearts and minds of people down through history is as unmistakable as the delightful energy of its modern-day champion, Lauren Artress.   

A Dash to France? No, It's San Francisco!

 
We are up in The City after helping a dear friend celebrate her birthday.  The weather is very warm - much more so than Pacific Grove, two hours south of here.  Fleet Week is going on and The Blue Angels were practicing right overhead as we arrived this afternoon, ripping the sky apart and stopping people in the middle of the sidewalks and streets with their fingers in their ears.  It can be pretty distracting to see F-18s doing vertical loops in the distance as you are watching for freeway offramp signs in rush hour traffic.

Two blocks up from Union Square on Bush Street is Cornell Hotel de France.  It offers a complementary American-style breakfast, wifi, and a unique San Francisco-French style.  That is to say it's a Victorian six-story hotel built in about 1895 or so.  Many guests are French, speaking their native language with the proprietress who is also French.  

The elevator to our top floor is a funky old thing with an iron grille through which you can see and smell the grease and cables working.  "It was built in 1897. I wasn't here then, but that's what I'm told," said the proprietor dryly as he carried my suitcase up to my room for me.

All the art is by French artists and a statue of Joan of Arc (Jeanne d'Arc) stands in the hallway.  The hotel's restaurant is named after her.  Recommended as a clean, perfectly adequate and quirky place to stay in the heart of the tourist area of the city.  Je l'aime.  

On The Fly

There's a fly zig-zagging around the room.

The door's open to let in fresh air, but with the fresh air in came a fly.  It has settled into a flight pattern that doesn't seem to really be accomplishing anything obvious.  It is not near food, other flies or me.  Nor does it seem to be ready to go sit down and read the latest National Enquirer, a publication certainly meant solely for flies.

Don't you sometimes wonder what in the world is going on in a fly's mind that makes it decide to get up off its sofa and fly around and around, acting like a tiny flying pinball?  Whatever serves as a "mind" in a fly instigates a flying mode and it flies until - what?  What the heck is it doing anyway?  

Most likely, it is both avoiding and seeking.  It's avoiding bats, birds, lizards and human fly swatters and seeking manure, dead things and slime.  Flies are attracted to moisture and suck it up with their mouth parts.  Females lay their eggs and then keep on going, flying, zig-zagging and - actually - pooping almost constantly.  Great, huh?

A while ago, a very small fly-like insect seemed intent on hovering about three inches away from my nose no matter how I waved and fanned it away.  Very irritating behavior.  Whatever the fly-like bug was doing to avoid my hand - easily a million times bigger than it was - as I swatted back and forth very spastically, is probably worth studying.

Flies are definitely alien looking with their weird multi-lensed eyes and buzzing wings.  They have two wings where most flying insects have four.  They're not cute like bees, and they carry diseases on their feet, bad diseases like cholera, dysentery; they are vectors for nearly everything we humans try to avoid in order to stay healthy.

Dogs, cats and I love to nab flies, especially right out of midair, although I have never eaten a fly like a dog will.  Not on purpose anyway.  Once or twice on bike rides, one has achieved total engulfment in my mouth, but it was rapidly ejected.  Followed by shouts of disgust and revulsion, which flies are pretty much masters at generating.  I do have a grudging admiration for their flying though, now that I see this particular fly wearing itself out as it goes about its business in the middle of the room.

If flies had been invented by, oh, terrorists, they would have no redeeming value whatsoever and annihilation of all flies would be completely justified.  Before you kill every last fly, try to imagine that they are part of the Big Picture of nature.  Other creatures find them delectable and depend on them as a major food source.  Disgustingly, they begin life as maggots, the most repulsive things of all, pretty much.   But, if you watch shows like CSI, you know that maggots do a pretty important job in the world of leftover body parts, gobbling them up rapidly, recycling like no other.

I'm not saying refrain from killing flies.  Just realize that as creepy as they may seem, as annoying as they always are, they have a place in the ecosystem.

Okay, now that I've admired this fly, I'm ready to kill it, but I'll keep my ears open for news about how flies make decisions.  Then, maybe I'll understand some politicians.

Mystery Meat Helps Me Prepare For My Vacation

In my own special way, I began an effort to train for my upcoming trip to Hawaii in November:  I saw a can of Spam in my cupboard (long story), opened it,  cooked it up with some pineapple and ate it.  Now I'm ready.

A bit of poetry appears on the side of the Spam can where a Spam Quesadilla recipe is shown:


Do not be fooled by the simplicity of this recipe.  Yes, it is easy to make, but the flavor is complicated and exotic.  Like something that fills your senses and pulls at your heartstrings and the flies away, wanting to be chased.  And you will chase it, oh yes, you will.  

What more could you want?  Pink mystery meat and purple prose.  Very cool.

Spam is a local staple food in Hawaii, a proud centerpiece of family cuisine, and common item of elaborate display in supermarkets there.  It's uniquely alluring in a weird salty fatty way that defies logic.  I am strangely proud to say I grew up on fish sticks and Spam as a child and believe it has made me the person I am today.  Okay, you can take that and run with it.