Ridges, Valleys, and Wallows

 Last weekend Tyler and I took a short camping trip. Our first stop was outside of Pt. Arena on the north coast. Tyler was following some back roads that Google maps had directed us to. The drive was beautiful, even soothing, and when we arrived at the coastline, the view, of course, was vast and stunning. The traffic was surprisingly light; I would even dare to say easy going. Our intention was to attend an art fair the next day. The campsite, located on a ridge outside of town and privately owned, was quiet, and we both appreciated the view. Although the fog did eventually roll in, the weather was mild. In the morning we heard peacocks, crows, owls, and several other birds who had much to say about the beginning of the day. Two deer walked into the clearing where we were camped, and they seemed surprised to find us there, and were not particularly comfortable with our presence. Deer are wisely wary, and these two had upright and surprisingly large and agile ears that appeared to be always listening. The size of the ears leads me to think these were mule deer. 

We arrived at the art fair a little early, and we walked along the couple of blocks of Pt. Arena's main street where the fair was being set up. Most of the residents seemed to be in good spirits as the annual event was getting underway. However, we really did not see anything that we found particularly interesting, with the exception of some succulents one woman was selling. She said she grows them herself, and I am a little sorry I did not pick one up. The weather was mild enough that it would have probably made it home. However, we are definitely in a "no more stuff" stage of life. We decided to leave town earlier than expected and drive on to Boonville, where again, we had reservations to camp on private property. Tyler opted to take the winding Mountain Blvd. route, a journey of about an hour, mostly through forested areas. 

Tyler and I are of a different mind when it comes to forests. He finds healing when he is among those tall beings and their long shadows. I tend to get a little claustrophobic. It is not that I do not love trees; it's just that I prefer them to be a little more spread out. Too much shadow and density feels slightly menacing, and  whenever we come to a clearing, however briefly, I find I breathe a little easier.  

As we journeyed, Tyler looked at the map and announced, "We are crossing Bear Wallow Creek." My own deerish ears came to attention. "There are bears here? We don't have a bear box to store our food!"  I thought he seemed remarkably unconcerned. As we travelled on, I realized that while we have driven through Anderson Valley many times, I knew nothing about the mountains that surround the valley. (I also did not know that bears like to wallow.) When we met the property owner of our campsite, I asked if he had ever seen a bear on his property. He replied no, only boars. We saw neither bear nor boar while we were there, but when we took a walk on Sunday morning, we came across an uneven area where wild pigs had been rooting. As I walked across it, I wondered if there was not some benefit (other than to the pigs) in the resulting upheaval. I looked down as my footing was unsteady, and in the early sunlight, I could see many small spider webs that were spread across the areas that had been ripped apart. The dew was heavy that morning, so the webs were adorned with glistening drops that looked like tiny jewels. Suddenly, I felt I was the invading marauder as I became aware of my alien hiking boots and pole. 

The Anderson Valley was stunning. While the drought had obviously killed some trees, we saw many healthy large trees, including live oak. Grass and wildflowers were growing everywhere and the day temperature was moderate, although the night was chilly, and the morning dew was very heavy.  At one point I stepped out of the camper in the early morning just as the almost full moon was setting.  Stars were clearly visible in the very dark sky, and the bright moon was vanishing behind a layer of fog that had turned a deep pinkish orange - a startling contrast and an exquisite sight. Our time there was idyllic; for a while we had no thoughts of politicians, climate change, or bay area traffic. We had to do nothing but enjoy tending to our camp and relishing what we were seeing and experiencing. 

When we arrived at the property, it took awhile to find it as we had to navigate another winding road up into the Yorkville Highlands. Eventually, we were able to reach the property owner who guided us to where we needed to be. He asked if we wanted to camp by the creek or on the ridge. Tyler was leaning towards the creek option, but I was concerned that it would be damp and shadowy. He agreed, and the ridge was beautiful. Our Sunday morning  was filled with a choir of birdsong, including, yes, the sound of peacocks. 

 I took very few photographs on this trip because I was experiencing some issues with keeping my phone charged. It is also not an easy area to photograph. There is a lot of fencing present, probably to deter deer, boars, and maybe the occasional bear. Yes, there are bears in Mendocino County.  The large predators have not fared well as farms, towns, and vineyards became more prevalent, but I read they may be making a comeback. The perpetual question is how do we humans live in balance with wildlife that also includes other large predators beside ourselves? We humans may need to realize that no matter how settled we might feel, we are all just temporarily camping here. 

 

We are enjoying our truck because it gives us some freedom to explore which was exactly what we were hoping for. We are very much aware of the serious issues concerning fossil fuels, so we try to offset our consumption at least a little bit by driving an electric vehicle when possible, composting and recycling, tending to a pollinator friendly garden, and paying attention to packaging. We are describing these first short camping expeditions as practicing. We are learning what we need, and the most economical, both from a practical standpoint as well as environmental, way to pack it. We have always travelled well together, mostly because we usually listen to one another, and that usually enables us to find compromises that allow wisdom to surface. We both are curious and respectful of the flora and fauna and we recognize that they are the true residents of the land. I feel these journeys to be a deep calling to simply go,  see, and reflect. I am convinced that we first world humans need to experience more of nature, rather than just trying to conquer it.  Such explorations may help us learn the fine art of appreciation, which hopefully will lead us to more deeply rooted conservation efforts.

 

We rely on GoogleMaps and a backup of a paper map, although I forgot the paper map this time. Fortunately, we did not need it. Yes, we were relatively close to home, but I find paper maps helpful and informative, and cell coverage can be spotty. Our reservations were booked through an app Tyler discovered called Hipcamp, which worked flawlessly for us, and we will use it again.    

       

 

  

image: View from our campsite in the Yorkville Highlands. I cropped the image to make the file size a little more manageable. The actual view is much more vast, despite the fencing. Anderson Valley gets very hot in the summer. Go now if you can! 

 

Just a Note

 In the dream I am waking only to realize that I had slept through a math class. I then deduce that the math class will never be completed. I move to a courtyard and there a woman asks me, "Have you graduated yet?" I tell her that I think I have a degree, but I am not sure. I decide to go see the registrar. 

I then go into an office and I explain why I am there. She looks at her computer and replies, "Well, you need to take a day class of Tai Chi and learn the Funky Chicken." I ask rather incredulously, "The one where you flap your arms around?"  She assured me my understanding was correct. She then adds, "And one more thing..." Alas, then I woke up. This is at least the second time I have received this open ended message, but I have yet to hear what that one more thing is. Maybe one more thing is ongoing?

In a few hours Tyler and I will leave for what I am calling, "a short jaunt up the coast". I love the word jaunt. Thank you for helping me remember the dream. Actually, I think one of the great gifts of friendships is that we help each other remember who we really are.   

 Now I am wondering if you do the Funky Chicken but no one sees you, does it still count?  I start physical therapy on Monday. Maybe I should wait until then to begin my training. For now, I think I probably need to simply tend to my travel preparations. 

     

   

image is from a walk this week. This is part of a very large plant. The branches are so large and heavy that they are falling over onto the sidewalk.  This is quite a spring. Even some of my own irises are blooming!

In a Midwest State of Mind

This is one of the most beautiful poems I have read in a while. As soon as I read it, I thought, "This is the voice of a Midwesterner."  I was correct. Ted Koosner was born in Ames, Iowa in 1939, and was one the first poet laureates from the Great Plains. Although I have been in Oklahoma which I believe is the bottom of the Great Plains, I have never seen the Great Plains themselves. However, they do make themselves known as they speak through tornados, poets, and I would think also canned tomatoes.  

May we never take this diverse land for granted. There looks to me to be a typo in the fourth line, but I looked at three sources and they all read the same. Maybe Midwesterners are trickier than they have led the rest of us to believe, or maybe we rely too much on cut and paste. Regardless, this is a poem of love and it makes me happy.

     

"Mother"  

    

Mid April already, and the wild plums
bloom at the roadside, a lacy white
against the exuberant, jubilant green
of new grass an the dusty, fading black
of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet,
only the delicate, star-petaled
blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume.

You have been gone a month today
and have missed three rains and one nightlong
watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar
from six to eight while fat spring clouds
went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured,
a storm that walked on legs of lightning,
dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.

The meadowlarks are back, and the finches
are turning from green to gold. Those same
two geese have come to the pond again this year,
honking in over the trees and splashing down.
They never nest, but stay a week or two
then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts
burning in circles like birthday candles,

for this is the month of my birth, as you know,
the best month to be born in, thanks to you,
everything ready to burst with living.
There will be no more new flannel nightshirts
sewn on your old black Singer, no birthday card
addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand.
You asked me if I would be sad when it happened

and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house
now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots
green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,
as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that.
Were it not for the way you taught me to look
at the world, to see the life at play in everything,
I would have to be lonely forever.

~ Ted Kooser

   

image: Not from the Midwest, but from my neighborhood this afternoon. These iris blossoms were the largest I think I have ever seen. Here in our neighborhood it seems to be a very good year for iris. That must surely mean this is a good season for us all.   

  

Learning to Journey Through the Seen and the Unseen

 In a previous post, I mentioned that one day I hope to see a bighorn sheep. The quest began years ago during a trip through Yosemite and down into part of the Eastern Sierras. As we passed through Yosemite, all who travelled in a vehicle passed by a windowed kiosk with a ranger inside. I suppose he was passing out a brochure with a general map; my memory here is not at all clear. However, what is clear is that we all received a warning, and what I heard was "Watch out for big orange sheep." After we passed through, I asked Tyler about this creature that I had never heard of but was already beginning to loom large in my imagination. He replied, "Bighorn sheep. Horn, not orange." We both laughed and comismerated with a ranger who had to repeat the same phrase over and over as travellers passed through, receiving a map they may never use.   

As often as we could, we looked upward, but we never did see a bighorn, orange or otherwise. However, the orange sheep took on mythic proportions and became part of our travels, as a symbol of a delightful, but unattainable goal. Last year when we journeyed to Joshua Tree, I thought we might see a bighorn there, but again, the creature was not to be seen. As we began our return trip to Desert Hot Springs where we were staying, I just had to stop at the gift shop. There I found a nice grey hooded sweatshirt that had a small image on the left front of the chest - a nice drawing in black ink of a road that leads to a mountain, and above the mountain are two male bighorn sheep, heads colliding in the quest to prove their prowess. In the spirit of supporting our national parks and my love of grey zippered sweatshirts and of gift shops, I bought the jacket that I found to be so discreet.  

However, it was not until I reached our car did I look at the back of the jacket. At that moment I realized that the back was not nearly as subtle. There I found an image of a really large bighorn, and on its body was the same image that was on the front, only much bigger and done in several more or less desert colors. For a moment I thought of returning the jacket, but I decided not to. Why? Well, to return it just did not seem to be in the spirit of supporting the national parks. In addition, it would remind me of Joshua Tree, an area I had grown to like very much. It would certainly remind me of our trip, which I was enjoying. Why, the jacket just might even be a reminder to maybe look at things a little more closely. It has proven to be a conversation starter of sorts, one that often begins with "What is that thing on your back?" I usually forget about it until that question comes up, and more than once I have jumped to the conclusion that a large spider had hitched a ride with me.  

I am reading once again a book that has stayed with me for many years: The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen. First published in 1976, my copy was published in 1987. It is the story of the difficult journey that he and field biologist George Schaller undertook to study the snow leopard in Nepal. Such a goal meant a long trek of traversing on foot high passes in the Himalayas in both rain and snow. 

It is known that the favorite fare of snow leopards is the Himalayan blue sheep, also known as bharal. When I read that, I became concerned that I would become possessed about seeing yet another elusive sheep, blue no less, but that is not the case. As much as I love tales of the Himalayas, I shall stay focused on a sheep that I just might be able to spot without a passport. 

If I am remembering correctly, on this particular journey of Mattheissen's, not one snow leopard was ever seen. I think this memory is what has kept the story alive for me all these years. We humans undertake all kinds of journeys, and the Western mind can easily get caught up in the duality of declaring a journey a success or non-success. I remember reading the last page of the book, surprised that I had just read 321 pages about the quest to see a creature that never appeared. Yet, Matthiessen was a student of Zen Buddhism, and he was a great chronicler of the subtle "in between". I did not realize it at the time, but I think he was one of my early teachers. I am grateful to return to this book once more. 

          

       

“The typical snow leopard has pale frosty eyes and a coat of pale misty grey, with black rosettes that are clouded by the depth of rich fur. An adult rarely weighs more than a hundred pounds or exceeds six feet in length, including the remarkable long tail, thick to the tip, used presumably for balance and for warmth, but it kills creatures three times its own size without much difficulty (page 153)."

   

When this book was written not much more about this predator was known. I pray they have been able to stay at least somewhat elusive. The world is encroaching on too many of the beautiful creatures. They need the space of the mystery of the unknown (to us) to survive, and so do we.    

Travel Prologue, Part 1, Practicing

Some of you know that Tyler and I bought a used Tacoma truck at the end of last year. In January, we drove to Harker Outdoors in Salt Lake City and had a wedge camper put into place. We both really love this truck, and I have been driving it around town to see if I really feel comfortable with the idea that  it may be time to sell my Elantra. Surely three cars for two people, even when one is electric, is one too many.  I am beginning to rest a little easier with the decision. However, sometimes I feel I should at least be dressing a little more Gypsy-ish. Of course the images of what I might look like are left over from the movies I watched as a child when the women, all beautiful and confident, had long dark hair, golden hoop earrings, and always wore colorful dresses and scarves. I remember them as being rather fiery tempered, opinionated, and absolutely confident. Somehow, a Land's End turtleneck, black pants, and sneakers seem all too ordinary as I motor about.   

This morning after tending to a couple of errands, I stopped by our local produce market. I parked in front of the donut shop which is right next door. I got out and opened the back so I could get a couple of shopping bags. A man who was backing out of the spot next to me stopped, rolled down his window,  and asked if what I had was actually "one of those campers that open up and has a sleeping bed."  I replied yes, and he ended the conversation with "That is so cool!" I had to smile. Cool and I typically do not reside in the same sentence.  

As my asparagus, fresh bread, goat cheese, and other items that suggest that spring is really here were being checked, I saw another man, probably a few years older than me, pause by the camper and take a long look at it. I spotted him again when I was getting into the truck and he had entered the donut shop. He looked surprised. I suspect he did not expect to see a slightly aged and rather ordinary looking woman getting into the driver's seat. I was hoping that I did not run into anything as I backed out. I did not want to interfere with my new found parking lot cred. 

I still get nervous backing up, and that includes backing into our driveway. Tyler's work car is electric, so he parks in one part of the driveway where he can recharge the car. Our house was built in 1939, and while we have one of the few driveways that can hold two cars side by side, the space is not expansive. This morning as I turned onto our street, I thought that I should at some point ask Tyler to critique my approach in case there is something I can do to make it a little easier on myself, and maybe not worry the neighbors.  Despite my concern, I successfully pulled in after two repositionings.  As I was getting out of the truck, Tyler, who unbeknownst to me had watched the landing from the upstairs window, surprised me by opening the garage door and saying, "All you need is confidence. You had it the first time."  

It is raining today, and I am grateful to be home. However,  I am also dreaming of crossing the Sierras, and exploring again the eastern side. And maybe actually seeing a big-horned sheep and visiting the home of Mary Austin. And then driving a little further. Right now we must balance work schedules that are different, and our responsibilities. Yet, I also know we cannot postpone the dreams of travel too long unless we opt for a cruise ship. That, at least as of now, does not intrigue us. It is the desert, and then a little further, that calls.   

   

image:  from January 2024. Yes, today the camper is much cleaner. Hopefully, for not much longer. However, I must give thanks for the rain.     

A Fine Spring Morning

 This morning's walk was full of flowers, glossy green leaves, tiny buds, and exuberant birdsong, all lit by sunshine. So full, in fact, that I announced to God right out loud that surely we are not done yet. I came to trust that we have spring for a reason. 

    

"Love Flows Through"

   

Your job and your joy
is to trust yourself and
what you find yourself knowing.

Pause. Ask. Listen.
Feel the answer.
And then dare to do it.

When you do this,

you become the place
where love flows through.

~ Erich Schiffmann

         

  

A Walk in the Park

 Last Saturday, Tyler and I decided to go for a walk in part of the East Bay Regional Park that is not very far from our house. When we got out of the truck, we could hear a whistle coming from the far side of the crowded parking lot. We noticed a group was gathering, and we were both pretty sure what we were hearing  was a child blowing a toy whistle. We really did not think too much about it, other than take it as a sign that we needed to get on our way. We walked for a while, and then we began to hear not one, but several toy whistles coming from behind us. We turned and saw a fairly large group coming in our direction. We paused on a small side trail to let them pass. Every child had a whistle, and each seemed quite engaged with blowing it as loudly as possible. One of the male leaders was singing to Jesus in full, but slightly off key voice. He would periodically pause and enthusiastically voice encouragement to both adults and children to keep going. As more children equipped with whistles passed by, Tyler mentioned that we probably would not be able to do our usual full loop due to recent storm damage. We decided to turn around for fear that the rest of the hike would be accompanied by a cacophony of sound that neither one of us found particularly endearing. 

 

 We have had enough rain that the trail was muddy, and we often had to maneuver around puddles, sticky mud, and streaming water. I now hike using two poles, and I walk carefully. However, I was intrigued as I watched a young girl pass us. She was actually dancing around the puddles and over the streams. Her mother, who was a little out of breath and not quite so light on her feet, looked at me and we smiled in acknowledgement that such ease of movement was beyond both of us. As I remember the child's (probably a pre-teen) absorption in her dance, I realize that the difference between her actions and the actions of the rest of the children was that she was actually interacting with the environment as she lightly moved through. She was fascinating to watch. 

    

Yet, walking slowly has its advantages, and I believe my current pace allows me to notice more of the beauty around me. I took only a couple of photographs that day, but I am grateful for this picture of a mushroom I spotted along the way. I was initially drawn to its color, and I did not notice the spores. However, I realize now it is a picture of a cycle of life that is quiet, at least to a human's ear, and often out of our sight.    

       

This poem reminds me we are all knitted together in this life whether we are a mushroom, a young dancer, or one who is simply pausing by the side of the road to look around and hopefully take note. 

    

"Your Moment to Shine"

  

The moment is here,
the moment you step
forward from fear
into light, the moment
that your soul takes flight.

Burrow no more in darkness
and despair. Dare to show
your radiant self,
the miracle of awakened
energy giving you wings
and the courage to be
human and divine
at the same time.

With this breath, you are
initiated into the depths
of freedom and love,
into the peril and perfection
of the moment as it truly is,
and you are right with it,
open, refusing to close down
or cower no matter what
challenges find you inside
or outside. This is your
moment to shine.

~ Danna Faulds

image: March 2024

Spring in the Neighborhood

My morning schedule opened up because my flute teacher needed to cancel our time together.  Both Covid and our recent rain storms disrupted my walking schedule, so this morning seemed to be a good time to step out. Several people were out in their yards, including one soft spoken man who told me he was from Boston."We are not used to seeing flowers so early in the year." I think he told me that last year as well, but it is true; flowers are erupting everywhere, and people in general were in friendly moods.  

I then walked on and passed a house with a driveway full of children's bicycles and one aluminum boat. A young girl came out. I said hello and asked which bicycle was hers. She pointed to the pink one and then added, just in case I might be confused, that the boat belonged to her dad. Her mom called to her from the front door, so I peeked around the corner, waved and said hello. My mother-in-law lived in that house for a couple of years. In that house the front door and the back door by the kitchen are almost in complete alignment, and on many days, if the doors are open, a cool breeze blows through. I know very little about feng shui, but that design must surely be in good feng shui alignment. We have air conditioning, and I am glad, but I think I will remember that breeze long after I have forgotten about our Carrier heating and air conditioning unit. 

A house a few doors down has the largest ceanothus I think I have ever seen. It is as tall as the house, and covers almost half of it. The bush is right now full of blossoms and is abuzz with bumble and honey bees. I find the sound of bees encouraging.  I am out of practice with photographing bees, but it seemed worth a try. They are definitely doing their work. I then came home to discover that one of the purple lupines in our yard is blooming. 

Neighborhoods, like churches, can be places of healing and connection. I am grateful for where I find myself today. I think Jesus would appreciate both, and yes, I try to make it known that he is always welcome. Even when a sales person comes to the door. Yes, that just happened. Life is a curious thing and I think Jesus has more of a sense of humor than we hear about.    

     

San Leandro, March 2024

Calm Mind, Calm World

I first came across this poem last year, and was grateful to see it come up again in my email. Learning to befriend all is a worthy endeavor to begin in Lent and to continue for as long as we live - maybe even longer.  I particularly like the phrase, "make the mind your friend."  There really is no other way to calm the mind without first befriending it.  A calm mind can help everyone and everything around us be a little calmer.  And then calmness can continue on its beautiful journey.  

Fear cannot lead us home. It does not know the way.     

"Full of trust you left home,

and soon learned to walk the Path—
making yourself a friend to everyone
and making everyone a friend.

When the whole world is your friend,
fear will find no place to call home.

And when you make the mind your friend,
you’ll know what trust
really means.

Listen.

I have followed this Path of friendship to
its end.

And I can say with absolute certainty—
it will lead you home."

~ Mitta

From The First Free Women: Poems of the Early Buddhist Nuns

   

image:  Lake Chabot   

Revisiting

 On Wednesday, I was poking around one of my bookcases again, in search of a poem. Every Wednesday, two friends and I gather. I read a poem, and we then meditate for about 20 minutes, and then I read the poem again. The discussion that follows is always enriching.  

In yesterday's search, I came across a small publication, Sacred Journey, The Journal of Fellowship in Prayer, Spring 2011, vol. 62, no. 2.  I pulled it out, and noticed a bookmark. As I opened the marked page, I remembered that I had a poem published in that publication. I was re-discovering my own poem.    

As I read it, I smiled. The same question I was pondering then, I am still pondering.  What I wrote then I could write today.  I remember writing it in the predawn. I was sitting in the same place I am now. I am writing this not quite as early in the day. I am moving more slowly because of  a case of Covid. This morning there is no rain; the sun is shining. Yet the question remains after all these years. 

I know I shared this poem after I wrote it because first of all that is what I do, and secondly, I remember a friend's written one word response. Her physical health had deteriorated considerably by then, and her one word then, and now seems generous. Her "Wow" still reverberates through the stillness of time. 

*** 

By what name do I call God? Neither this question nor the poem may be completed in my lifetime. This morning it is enough just to love the beautiful light.  

  

This morning I call God Essence

and I call God Rain  

and I call God Coffee, 

strong dark and fortifying 

and Apple, 

the sweet harvest.  

   

I call God Candle, 

that lights my way 

from slumber. 

  

I call God the Book of Meditations 

that calls my heart to the 

Heart that yearns to call us Home. 

   

As I wonder what to call God this morning, 

I hear the answer, 

   

Everywhere. 

***  

   

image was taken in San Leandro, August 2023

   

If you are interested in joining us for Wednesday's lectio, please send me a message.

Grounded

 I came across the poem below in my Facebook memories. It is definitely worth reading again, especially in a week when I have not felt particularly well, even to the point of losing my voice. Losing my voice happens once or twice a year, and by now I can simply take it as a sign to rest. There was a time when I would panic. "What if my voice never comes back?"  Well, yes, that could happen. However, one of the things I appreciate about preaching in my 70's is that I am aware that my preaching time is finite, even if I never lose my voice again.  

This week the San Lorenzo church joined the Eden UCC Church for Ash Wednesday in Eden's Pioneer Chapel that we rent from them for our Sunday services. For me, it was a rich time of connection to those who approached me for private prayers, as well as to the anthem that the San Lorenzo church sang. I also found myself giving thanks for my singing friend who suggested that when tears threaten to interfere with my singing to simply smile. I used that strategy through most of the anthem, and I made it through without a complete collapse.  

It is a blessing to sing in that small chapel. It has beautiful acoustics, and gives me the sense that our choir is larger than we appear. I attribute that to not only thoughtful architecture (it was built in 1867), but to angels and others who happen to pass by.  I try to leave the door open when we are there on Sunday mornings. I would not want to miss anyone. Yes, it does get a little noisy sometimes, but the tree across the street tells me to know deep in my being that we are all connected. In that message is the encouragement to stand firm and let my roots grow.      

 

"It Is Enough"

To know that the atoms

of my body

will remain

to think of them rising

through the roots of a great oak

to live in

leaves, branches, twigs

perhaps to feed the

crimson peony

the blue iris

the broccoli

or rest on water

freeze and thaw

with the seasons

some atoms might become a

bit of fluff on the wing

of a chickadee

to feel the breeze

know the support of air

and some might drift

up and up into space

star dust returning from

whence it came

it is enough to know that

as long as there is a universe

I am a part of it.

~ Anne Alexander Bingham

First Sip    

  

image:  This is not the tree across the street from the chapel. I believe this photograph was taken a few years ago during a hike in the Morgan Territory outside of Livermore. 

Heart o the Matter

 I have mentioned before how grateful I am for the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. Kimmerer's book has taught me to walk a little more gently and leave things as I found them. (In other words, don't turn everything I can pick up into a personal souvenir.) She also has taught me about lichen, something I have never paid much attention to. I have learned that they are not a plant, but rather a combination of an algae and a fungus. Here in Northern CA, if our air is healthy (clean air critical for lichens) we often see them on rocks or tree bark. They do no harm to either, but they provide food for many creatures, including humans. I have no interest in eating lichens; I munch my way through the world enough as it is. Yet, what I love about them is when we see them we have reason to celebrate. Lichens are not alone in requiring clean air, so when we see a nice healthy patch we can gratefully take a deep breath in. While I was cropping the attached photograph, I realized that the shape of a heart was appearing. I feel like I am passing on a message from the lichens reminding us to love this world.

Another thoughtfully written book has come into my hands, The Comfort of Crows, a Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl, wonderfully illustrated by Bill Renkl, her brother. Even the paper is beautiful. The book contains a devotion for every week of the year. In her devotion for week 2, Renkl advises that according to birding traditions, the first bird you see on the first day of the new year sets "the tone" for the next twelve months. While I can't remember the first bird I saw that day, more than likely it was either a house sparrow, crow, or a scrub jay. They tend to be out early. I will just go with the trio since seeing and hearing those birds are everyday occurrences that gives me delight.

We are in Week 8 of this year. Tomorrow is not only Valentine's Day, it is also Ash Wednesday.  Neither is mentioned in Renkl's devotional. I am okay with that. There is no shortage of writings dedicated to them both. Today I find myself yearning for another viewpoint. Fortunately, life seems to always be willing to provide just that as long as we are willing to try to learn how to both look and see. 

   

"We were never cast out of Eden. We merely turned from it and shut our eyes. To return and be welcomed, cleansed and redeemed, we are only obliged to look."  

Margaret Renkl  

 

Image is from the Huckleberry Botanic Regional Preserve Trail in Oakland, a truly wonderful place that has been lovingly tended to.  A valentine for us all. February, 2024

    

   

      

Not a Book Review

 

"Creaking to the post office 

on my rusty bike 

I saw one purple iris 

wild in the wet green 

of the rice field. 

I wanted to send it to you. 

I can only tell you 

it was there.  

 

Maura O'Hlloran 

  

This poem is from the epilogue of one of the most captivating books I have read in quite some time: Pure Heart, Enlightened Mind, The Zen Journal and Letters of Maura "Soshin" O'Halloran.  While traveling in 1979, this young Irish-American woman found her way (or the way found her) to a Buddhist monastery in Tokyo. In the three years she was there, she received the transmission of her roshi. Six months later, on a circuitous route to return to the West, she died in a bus accident in Thailand. I believe she was still in her late 20's.    

  

I have not yet finished reading this book. So many thoughts keep coming up, and I am not quite ready to try to form something cohesive. Yet, this morning, I decided to read the epilogue, and this poem is indeed the last word of Patricia Dai-En Bennage's afterward.  She also wrote, "Maura's practice was formed from both these halves - of zazen and Bodhisattva Way, meditation and sacrifice. Her journals are a poignant record of this practice and will make Maura's unique understanding available for the benefit of others. The Buddhadarma as lived by an Irish American female monk is now a part of modern Zen history." As I reread these lines, I am filled again with gratitude for Maura's writings. They are honest, moving and inspiring, even if one is not Buddhist. In her journal she wrote, "I want to be a Zen master." And she became one, even in a male Japanese speaking monastery with no other women. She was, and is much loved. 

  

This eloquent afterward, which I read in the pre-dawn hours, brought tears to my eyes. I was reminded of the importance of paying attention to our journeys, trusting who we are, and for me, the importance of writing. I do not believe it is a coincidence that after reading Bennage's words, I set the book down and walked outside. In the clear dark sky I could view the waning crescent moon. When the sky is clear, one can see not only the sparkling crescent, but also the faint outline of the new moon, or I often call it, "the moon that is coming." 

  

This book has changed my way of thinking about my own struggles with fear and discipline. I now realize that these struggles are universal, even for Zen masters. Standing in the clear darkness this morning, I knew that at the end of my own story, fear would not have the last word. Until that last word is known, I shall keep writing. I hear Jesus' words from last week's  lectionary text: "That is why I have come (Mark 1:38)." 

    

I am grateful for Maura Soshin's words, and for those who decided to share those words with the wider world. Thank you.  

        

image:  No, not from a rice field, but from my neighbor's fence where flowers have been planted every year since sometime in the 50's when Sally and Dean moved into their house down the street. They both have passed on, but a daughter keeps the tradition of greeting those walking by with flowers along the fence.   

  

I am grateful for it all.       

      

image:  No, not from a rice field, but from my neighbor's fence where flowers have been planted every year since sometime in the 50's when Sally and Dean moved into their house down the street. They both have passed on, but a daughter keeps the tradition of greeting those walking by with flowers along the fence.   

  

I am grateful for it all.       

Viewing

 Early this morning I had a dream that took place in a church building. In the dream I am the pastor, and while in the dream we were not in our current location, I see people from the congregation I serve today. There were also several new people coming through the front door. I could hear the choir rehearsing, and in my waking life I do sing with the choir. In the dream I am thinking that while I should be rehearsing, I felt it was my responsibility to greet the visitors. I talked to each one. There was a young man and woman who were married, and several men who arrived separately. 

The young woman mentioned that she had never been baptized. Baptism to her meant that there were all sorts of rules to follow. I wanted to talk to her more about that, but just then I looked up and I could see a full moon through an overhead window. The moon appeared large and very close. I then realized that the moon was tilted on its axis, so I was viewing the "bottom" of the moon - a view we never see. For a few moments I was captivated by this tilted moon that seemed to be just outside the window. There were sparkles emanating from it, and the moon itself was a beautiful navy blue color with some other colors swirling around it, somewhat like Jupiter, but with colors that were darker and richer. I could see craters. Sparkles were flying everywhere, but did not seem to land on earth.  

I gasped and asked the young couple if they had seen the moon. They, rather matter of factly, replied that they saw it on the way to church that morning.  I then realized that while yes, it was Sunday morning, the sky I was looking at was a nighttime sky with a very large, tilted and energetic moon.   

This morning I woke up thinking of the dream, and also thinking of Lent. Even now, it  is easy to get caught up in the idea that Lent is just one long slog.  Yet, it can be a time of freedom. We can let go of a habit that holds us down, or we can explore something new. We can give away possessions that we really don't need, but someone else might. Just as there is no rule about how one should live into their baptism, there is no rule (I guess my Protestant roots are showing) on how we approach and move through Lent. 

May we all find a way to give us a new view of who we are in relationship to ourselves, one another, and the universe that surrounds us. That universe, which I understand to be God, is also within us. Lent gives us time to do some excavation and tidying up, so we can give God a little more room to move. I sense there are many surprises in store.  

            

     

    

image: I do not have an image that comes anywhere close to what I saw in the dream. A photograph of what looks to be a silver ocean will just have to do.  Light is a wonderful thing. Santa Cruz, 2019    

Not Lost

 I am a woman in search of a poem. Yes, that thought got me out of bed at 4:30 this morning.  I had just awakened from a happy dream. In my waking life, I take yoga at our local community center. It is an austere environment. However, the teacher of Iyengar yoga is methodical and caring, and some of my fellow students and I enjoy taking classes together. Across the street from the center is a busy park where students play baseball and other sports. Dog walking is also practiced there. In the dream, I cross the street, and walk through the park. In a back corner I discover a Japanese garden in need of attention.  

In the dream I am standing in front of a chain link fence with tall plants growing alongside it.  However, the plants had not been pruned well or regularly, and I could see a tennis court through the plants. I thought it was sad that the plants did not fully cover the fence. 

As I continued to stand there, a male employee walked up to me. We talked about how the garden needed attention. In just moments, I was given a green button down short-sleeved shirt, a badge declaring me a volunteer for the garden, and a key - to what I do not know. What I did know was that I was happy. I drove home in our truck and delightedly showed Tyler what I had been given.  

When I woke, I thought of a poem that had sustained me in my early days of seminary. I could remember only the first line: "Cut brambles long enough". I was concerned that I might have lost the poem. Fortunately, I could sort of remember part of the poet's name. That was enough, and I found the poem in a book, The Flowering of the Soul, edited by Lucinda Vardey. The book is a collection of poems and prayers written by women through the ages. This particular poem has no title, but it was written by Sun Bu-er, a female Taoist sage who was born in 1124. The date of her passing is not known. My New Testament professor, who also had a fondness for poetry, told me that there are those who believe that she did not actually die, but rather ascended. 

I am grateful for the reminder to return to the practice of tending to brambles. That is what writing does for me. It seems that is where my happiness resides. Perhaps that is both the key and the door.  

    

"Cut brambles long enough, 

Sprout after sprout, 

And the lotus will bloom 

Of its own accord:

Already waiting in the clearing, 

The single image of light. 

The day you see this, 

That day you will become it."   

 

Sun Bu-er  

    

When I pulled the book off the bookshelf, I was transported to the bookstore on the SFTS campus, where I purchased it. Both that bookstore and the one on the GTU campus were closed decades ago. I am grateful I was able to peruse both bookstores many times. Among their shelves I often found solace and inspiration to continue my studies all those years ago. This morning I sip oolong tea in celebration of it all. 

 

The image was taken a few years ago on a happy day with friends at Butchart Gardens in Victoria B.C.  

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