A Blessing and a Story

 Last night I came across this lovely poem written by James Wright that I received through First Sip in 2024. It speaks deeply of a Spirit of Place. I need these reminders to look and take in the grace.

Yesterday, I found myself almost overwhelmed by some frustrations I was experiencing with Kaiser. Kaiser's system works well until it doesn't. I almost decided to not go to yoga; I felt maybe I was too frazzled and distracted. I did go, and of course that was exactly what I needed to do. After our lovely class, a fellow student came up to me and said, "I noticed your God Is Still Speaking bag." (I bought this small bag at a UCC conference years ago. It is the perfect size to carry my water bottle and other items I might need for class. I don't think I have ever carried anything else in it.) He then added that he had a story I might like to hear. I was happy to listen.

He said that years ago, a friend told him that his young son had run excitedly into the house after spending some time in the backyard. The child exclaimed, "Dad! The trees talk, but they talk very slowly!" I was delighted to hear this, and selfishly wanted to know of other conversations the child might have had with the trees. He knew of no others. Regardless, I hope the child was able to continue to ponder the experience. I am grateful to add my ponderings to his.

I am reminded (again) that the Holy Spirit always offers inspiration and healing, and speaks in many surprising ways.

A Blessing

Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me

And nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

photograph: Petaluma, 2024

Correcting the Course

"I wonder how many times the world will change before we learn that the world IS change. I wonder how long we will struggle against change like a fish on a line, rail against it like children, build fortresses of sand around ourselves only to see the waves of change dissolve them again and again. I wonder how long it will take for us to learn that stability is vulnerability, that resilience is strength...

This is what it means to be resilient: to mourn a thousand endings and celebrate a thousand beginnings, to be as strong as steel and as soft as warm butter, to practice both resilience and acceptance, to cradle both life and death in our arms."

 Ethan Tapper, Vermont forester and founder of Bear Island Forestry and author of How to Love a Forest  

 

I found this quote in this morning's email from First Sip. I am unfamiliar with Ethan Tapper's writing, but now I am intrigued by his work. I have said and written more than once that I really am not a forestry kind of person. I generally prefer a more open landscape, preferably a dry one with a vista. However, on our last two camping trips I was able to see some tall healthy ponderosa forests in Northern New Mexico, as well as camp in a beautiful old oak grove in Central CA.  Not sure the latter counts as a forest, but there I was standing, sleeping and breathing among the silent ancient ones. I knew only awe and gratitude. Perhaps I am learning how to love a forest. Maybe I should get the how to guide book.  

Yet, what caught my eye in this morning's email was the reminder that the "world is change". Earlier this week I found myself praying, "Please guide us through these correcting times." The word correcting surprised me. Yet, I do believe these are times of correcting our course. Certainly what we are moving through feels to at least some of us as harsh, traumatizing, even dangerous. However, there is much about our nation that has long been harsh and dangerous. Harsh and dangerous to the land. Harsh and dangerous to those who were enslaved. Harsh and dangerous to the Indigenous people who were part of the land long before the settlers arrived.  Harsh and dangerous to those who simply want access to education, affordable health care, and a chance to work and support a family. Harsh and dangerous to those whose lifestyles and beliefs just seem too different. All of this reflects a resistance to change and growth, and that resistance is throttling us.

I am reading Kaitlin B. Curtice's book Native, Identity, Belonging, and Rediscovering God. I am not very far into the book, but she writes eloquently about what it means to her to be what she described as "a white-coded Potawatomi woman". It is a book about reclaiming her Indigenous roots and about reclaiming her own story, as well as the story of her people, while also exploring what it means to be an Indigenous person of Christian faith. She, too, is moving through a correcting time. We all are.  

Her writing reminds me that we must all remember our own stories as well as the stories of others and our nation. Yes, even the inglorious ones that embarrass, sadden and even frighten us. Curtice writes: "So with that in mind  we journey through our own stories, carrying our own experiences, living lives beyond the times of our ancestors. We step through that reality in trust, and we find a depth of God we could not have known existed - a depth  that holds us in a space where we can speak the truth to a time in which the rich and powerful express their power through oppression and not compassion."   

Let us all go forth courageously, shedding our own outdated codes in order to remember and reclaim our own stories. You might ask "Well, where are the guide books?" Everywhere. Both ancient and new voices are rising up, including our own. We just need to learn to listen and speak with discernment, not prejudice. With courage, not fear, and always with the intention to let love surface. Easy?  Probably not. But truthfully, I know no other way.     

  

 

    

image:  Wagon Caves, Los Padres National Forest, May 2026    

Sights and Sounds on Prewitt Ridge

 "Our lives, our circumstances, and our choices are uniquely our own. There are no right answers. But there is a right question. It's the one that rubs against our self-righteousness, resistance, and fears. The one that revolves a never into a maybe into an okay, let's see.

When you ask yourself, 'Why not?' you may find that you are no longer stepping reflexively backward or standing rigidly still. You could instead find yourself in motion, across a vivid and unpredictable landscape, over impossible mountains and beyond the deep blue water's edge, where you surprise yourself, once and for all, by getting wet."

Karen Maezen Miller

On the second day of our trip we drove up a winding and narrow road in Big Sur to Prewitt Ridge. The road is steep and unpaved, so patience and a sturdy 4 wheel drive vehicle are needed. Having experienced Big Sur only from the coastal highway, I was surprised to discover how high the terrain is. (AI tells me that the altitude is "roughly 3,200 feet" and roughly is a good way to describe every inch of those feet.) Nonetheless, we were able to wind our way to the top of the ridge and found a beautiful campsite that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. We could not actually see the water because there was a layer of fog on the ocean as far as we could see. It would move back and forth along the coast and the valley below us, but it never climbed to where we were, nor did it recede far enough so that we could actually see water. After we set up camp, Tyler took a short walk, and I sat and read for a few minutes. Eventually, we both settled in and simply watched the fog. The movement was mesmerizing. Tranquil is a word I don't get to use much, but that is how I would describe our day and evening. However, late in the night that tranquility was interrupted by a loud scream. We both sat up with "What was that?" rushing from our mouths. We listened and heard the unnerving scream again. Our minds settled enough so we could agree that the scream was probably not of human origin. I mentioned that I had heard that at times some wild cats such as a mountain lion can at times sound human-like. The piercing sound was quite unnerving, and my envisioning a nearby screaming mountain lion did not bring me comfort. The next morning while still in my sleeping bag, I looked out the window and saw a creature running quickly along the side of our camp. I still had cat on my brain, so I told Tyler that I just saw one run by. He asked what it looked like. I reported that it was tan and smallish with a remarkably long black tipped tail. He then asked if maybe I had seen a weasel. I could not answer the question because I had no idea what one looked like. At that moment we had no cell phone coverage, so the research was delayed, but once I could investigate online, I concurred that I probably did see a weasel. I also learned that in times of high stress or territorial disputes, weasels can and do emit a piercing scream. As alarming as the whole experience was, I feel fortunate to have gotten a glimpse and sound of this creature. When we camp we see and hear birds, mostly jays and woodpeckers, and we often spot lizards and squirrels, but otherwise we do not see much wildlife. Yet, a couple of years ago, we decided to meet two longtime friends at a KOA in Petaluma. They travel in a RV, so we camped among the RVs for two nights. Even in that full campground, a fox and I startled each other on our solitary predawn journeys, and from our friends' campsite I was able to watch an owl taking flight at dusk. I treasure all these brief sightings. Karen Maezen Miller's quote resonates with me as I learn how to camp. Unlike Tyler, I did not grow up camping, but even in my 70s, I find it a worthwhile endeavor. I am grateful for his skills that help me to get out in nature so I can get a glimpse of some of her landscapes and wildlife. Most of us need to fine tune our senses. Otherwise, we risk becoming lulled into giving developers a free hand to pave and overbuild. It is too easy to forget that we are all in this together, and we all need space to thrive.

Image: Yes, there is an ocean, and goodness knows what else, out there! May, 2026

Mariposa Lily

I have fallen in love with a flower. On one of our walks during our recent trip, we spotted these lilies growing among the grasses.  It is a CA native, so it has an intricate role in the  pollination of the life around us. There are several varieties of this lily, and I have just learned that it was/is also an important plant for the Native American culture, both as a source of food and for medicinal purposes. I am smitten.   

I recently have been reminded of the resilience of hospital and hospice chaplains. I have been visiting a friend who was a member of the church that helped inspire my unsteady steps as I dealt with my aging parents two states away. It was at that church where I began to understand the importance of a faith community.  She is now in the hospital, and the medical staff is trying to help her restore some of her physical strength after her recent heart attack so she can go home and receive care there. She is in her 90s, and not yet in hospice care.   

For most of us, hospital rooms are not places of luxury. I find myself trying to fit around equipment, the priority of the schedule of the medical personnel who are tending to her, and family members. Frankly, I am not as agile as I once was as I try to stay focused and attentive to the Spirit and to the physical priorities of what is going on around me. 

So, this morning I pause and ponder a lily blooming among the tall grasses.  On the same trip I also was blessed to see many bees busily visiting blooming flowers, not in suburban gardens, but growing wild. I also came across several patches of the California native milkweed, Asciepias speciosa or showy milkweed.  It was not yet blooming, which is why I could recognize it. I have tried to grow some in a large pot with no success. Yes, failure can be a very good teacher, as many of us are learning in these times.  

I must add one more thing. As we Californians prepare to vote for a candidate to run for governor, I believe it is our responsibility to keep our environment in mind. I will simply say that candidate Hilton appears to hold little regard for the environment. Please vote, and please vote for the health of our land. Yes, it is a balancing act. Let us be attentive to what we are trying to pollinate as we find ourselves trying to live in these rocky times. 

      

Meaning and Beauty on a Monday Morning

 "You take the pen -- and the lines dance.
You take the flute -- and the notes shimmer.

You take the brush -- and the colors sing.
So all things have meaning and beauty 

in that space beyond time where You are.
How then, can I hold anything from You?"

~ Dag Hammarskjold~   

As quoted in First Sip    

    

Image: 

Tyler took this picture, and I think the photograph does a fine job of showing just how large some of the oak trees are in the Valley of the Oaks,  Wagon Caves Rock Formation, Los Padres National Forest.  Although we did see several caves on our hike we did not find the actual Wagon Cave. Now there are at least  three items on our to do and see list: seeing the caves, viewing bighorn sheep, and witnessing condors in flight.   

Early this morning we had very high winds. The winds have returned, but are a little milder.  Alas, our planet continues to grow restless. Why wouldn't she?  

    

        

Message from the Ancients

 We slept two nights 
among the old oaks. 
They are quiet in that grove,

and probably always were. 

Yet, as I walked in the morning light, I heard one, 

(or maybe all in perfect unison) say,

"Stand tall to withstand.

Let your roots anchor you. 

Let the sun grow you. 

Do not be afraid of decay.  

You may live 200 years,

or maybe 2,000, or maybe a mere 20 years more.  

Regardless, decay is inevitable.

But remember, your decay will nourish the world."     

             

   

     

image: Wagon Caves Rock Formation, Los Padres National Forest. From Wikipedia: "The location is known for huge valley oaks that are up to 100 feet (30 m) tall with trunks 6–7 feet (1.8–2.1 m) across." Beautiful area. Most of the oaks there are large and healthy,  but even those that have perished are beautiful. The remnant you see in the foreground is taller than we are.  A true sanctuary that I miss today. To sleep and spend your waking hours among old oaks is life changing.  This the woodpeckers and jays know. I think generations of those birds and even some owls have sought sanctuary there. We camped at a site under a large oak and were greeted with bird song from morning to night.  At times we just sat, listened, and marveled. And at night we saw stars. I think we are better humans for it.         

Another Look

 This morning I woke with an image in mind of a series of archways, one above the other, each growing just a little larger than the one before. There was not much color; the space between each arch was a fairly nondescript cream color. Wondering where it came from, I jotted down the image in my journal, and then stood up with the intention of going upstairs to retrieve my reading glasses. Walking past one of our bookcases, I spotted a newspaper clipping that I found yesterday while going through some old newsletters. It was a clipping of an article entitled "Memory, migration and the startling art of Martin Ramirez" written by Caille Millner who at the time was writing for the San Francisco Chronicle. Unfortunately, the page is not dated, but I read online that she wrote for the Chronicle from 2012 to 2020. I think I initially discovered the article in 2019 or 2020. I rediscovered it this morning with a celebratory "Aha!" and examined the article more closely than I did yesterday. The article also included a photograph of some of the art with the description: "An untitled work by Martin Ramirez from a 1970 show at the San Francisco Art Institute".

Millner began her article with, "Born into an impoverished farming family in a rural province of Mexico, Ramirez joined that country's first wave of economic driven migration to the United States in 1925. He worked his way to California, only to find his prospects dimmed by the Great Depression. When the San Joaquin County police picked him up on the street in 1931, it set in motion the then simple process of having him committed to a mental institution for the rest of his life. That was the last episode of his public life in any country."

Yet, Ramirez, who eventually received a diagnosis of schizophrenia, drew and painted on any piece of paper he could get, including paper bags and gum wrappers, and did so for the rest of his life. It is a complicated story, but his story and his art have endured. Millner cites the research of Victor Espinosa who even met with Ramirez's family in Mexico to try to more fully understand Ramrez's life and art so that his story did not completely disappear.

I am sure that when I first came across this article, I was more intrigued by the art rather than trying to take in the story. However, I believe many of us are now understanding more fully that our nation has long found immigrants, the ill, the impoverished, and generally those of another culture as more of a nuisance rather than people with a history worth listening to and exploring.

Second image is from Lena Young's fb page that I found in my search for more of Ramirez's work.