Returning

 Sorting through my books is bearing some good fruit! I am finally reading the book Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey. The book was published in 1968, and Abbey was already bemoaning the decline of our national parks. He was no fan of the tourist industry. This book, written while he was working as a seasonal park ranger in Arches National Monument, is illustrated by Peter Parnall. The illustrations are black and white drawings of Abbey's sketches of petroglyphs he discovered in the area. The images are distinctive and wonderfully alive. Abbey was a keen observer of the natural world. Athough he passed in 1989, we need his witness more than ever.

I have also returned to The Comfort of Crows by Margaret Renkl, illustrated by her brother, Billy Renkl. It is a beautiful book of 52 seasonal meditations about the animal and plant life Margaret witnesses on her walks, or even just looking out the window of her home in Nashville. The general idea is that one reads and returns to the same meditation for about a week before moving on. The first time I tried this practice, I was just too restless, and I would find myself thumbing through the book, partly because the illustrations, done in paint, drawings, and collages, are so beautiful. I am grateful I picked up the book again when I have some extra savoring time.

The full moon tonight is called the buck moon, a time when male deer's new antlers are in full growth mode. I just read that the full moon will peak tomorrow morning. While we here in North America will not be able to witness the moment of absolute fullness, hopefully we can remember to look up tonight and watch a beautiful full moon rising in the southeast sky. We humans have been viewing the moon for a very long time. Let us join our ancestors by looking up in awe.

From this week's meditation from Margret Renkl (page 163):

"In one fallen tree, the transformation has been unfolding for so long that a little cave has opened up where a branch once joined the living oak. Over years, dead leaves collected in the cavity and turned into soil. In the shelter of that death-opened place, new green life has sprung up; moss and clover and some sort of trailing vine I can't identify. In the center, as carefully arranged as if a florist had planned it for a centerpiece, rises one woodland violet. Everytime I see it, I remind myself to come back in springtime to see it in bloom."

I am reminded that life renews life in mysterious ways. May we all take a moment tonight and receive the moon's healing light.

Translating

 From Father Richard Rohr's post this morning: 

"The word translated “mercy” … isn’t a cold, condescending kind of mercy such as one in power might extend to his victim in return for gratitude or service. It is warm, compassionate, tender, and never seeks to barter. It is almost exactly the same word that Jesus uses later on in the Sermon in referring to “almsgiving.”… Jesus rescued that word from the mere act of proudly pitching a coin to a beggar and made it into a whole attitude of life." 

Clarence Jordan (1912–1969)   

    

I  was  not familiar with Clarence Jordan, but I have learned he was a New Testament scholar, ordained Baptist minister, and Georgia farmer. He was also one of the founders of Habitat for Humanity. This morning I ponder what our nation might look like if we made mercy, not fear and greed, our cornerstone. That, of course, leads me to ponder my own life.      

   

The photograph of the bouganvilla was taken at the fence of a long vacant house in the neighborhood. The house is quite dilapidated and has been vacant for years. However, laborers have recently begun clearing it out. I think they should be wearing hazmat gear, but I take the clearing out as a positive sign, and the pink blossoms remind me that life's current endures.       

            

A Leaf Is More Than a Leaf

 A few days ago, I noticed some crescent moon shaped bites had been taken from the two Serviceberry plants in the front garden. Yesterday, I became concerned enough that I plucked a leaf and took it to our local family owned nursery. There, a man, someone about my age, approached me and asked if I had any questions. I pulled the leaf out of my pocket, told him its source and explained my mission. He looked at the leaf, and then looked up and smiled as he explained,  "You have leaf cutter bees!" 

Never had I heard of that particular bee. He went on to explain that the leafcutters take those lovely shaped bites and use them to build their nests. In response to my question about whether or not there was anything I needed to do, he added that they never take so many leaves that the plant is in danger of dying. They take only what they need and move on. He then asked, "Isn't that lovely?"   

I had to agree, and he and I took just a moment to gaze upon the leaf.  It was a very pleasant moment of sharing our mutual admiration of what we were seeing.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of the book, Braiding Sweetgrass, wrote a beautiful book about the Serviceberry. This berry is also known as the Saskatoon in Canada, and I don't think there is a more fun word to say. The berries are very sweet and Kimmerer advises that birds, as well as humans, love to eat the berries. I have not yet seen any birds pecking at the berries, but our two plants are fairly new. 

As I ponder the pollination that the leafcutters provide (they carry pollen on their abdomen), I wonder if the experience would have been a little different if I had simply taken the picture I have of the crescent moon bites. At the last moment before leaving, I decided to take an actual leaf as I talked to an actual person. It was a very rewarding experience of holding the leaf in the palm of my hand as we expressed our mutual respect, with both words and silence, for the work of these bees. 

 

      

"The practice of observing the living world and taking inspiration for human ways of living from its model is an essential element of Indigenous science. It embraces the reality that there are intelligences other than our own, from whom we might learn."

Robin Wall Kimmerer, The Serviceberry, Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World, page 67

           

    

Claiming Our Belonging

 “Our belonging is rooted in the living body of Earth, woven of the flows of time and relationship that form our bodies, our communities, our climate… When we turn and open our heart-mind to Earth, she is always there. This is the great reciprocity at the heart of the universe.”

A Wild Love for the World, Joanna Macy 

Early this morning I woke from a chaotic dream that began with the search for a lunchtime tuna sandwich.  I was working in a busy downtown area, and many people were out and about. I discovered a food court, and found someone making sandwiches. As I waited for my order, I began to talk to two people standing on either side of me. One was a young boy, and the other was an adult male. Both had large and elaborate models of futuristic cars, and both were quite excited. I thought the cars were rather odd looking, and not very practical. For one thing, neither car had a roof or a hood, but did have what appeared to be engines with many hoses and valves.  Actually, I don't even think the cars had doors, but they did at least have a single seat for the driver and a steering wheel.  

I bought my sandwich, said my good-byes, and left. There was a band playing just outside the food court. I knew I was running late, but I stopped to listen. On the ground in front of the musicians (maybe a quartet?), there was a wooden instrument, kind of a cross between a flute and an oboe without a reed. I thought it was lovely. One of the members said, "Take it; it is yours."  I picked it up, but woke before I tried to play it. 

Yet, perhaps I heard it in Joanna Macy's quote. I am reminded that the heart of the universe  is everywhere, and we are part of it. Yes, our love can and does run that deep. We are connected. Even when we think we do not want to be.           

     

image: The photograph that is attached was taken in May at the Nacimiento Campground in the Los Padres National Forest. A beautiful creek runs nearby. If you go, definitely look for the creek, the tree with a heart (a good reminder that they all have one) and definitely bring mosquito repellent. The mosquitos we noticed fairly soon after we got out of the truck. The heart in the tree Tyler noticed the next morning.  

 

       

    

   

"God, Spirit of all goodness and love, open within us quiet places where fear cannot dwell. Help us to create spaces and opportunities for others to know and experience your loving presence and grace."     

Franciscan Action Network, June 16, 2026    

Mission San Antonio de Padua

 When Tyler and I began discussing taking a fairly short camping trip in early May, I mentioned that I had always been curious about Mission San Antonio de Padua, about 26 miles off of HWY 101, north of San Luis Obispo. A friend told me that the mission was interesting, and that there was some good hiking in the area.  I had always been curious about the mission because it seemed to me to be a fair distance from Hwy 101, originally known as El Camino Real. We decided to check it out. This was the trip where we camped in the Valley of the Oaks, which was so beautiful.  

We arrived at the mission just after noon. We paused to have a snack on the tailgate before going in. The weather was warm and quite sunny. The grounds were very quiet, and again, I was struck by its remoteness.  Even Mission San Miguel, only a little further south, is just off of Hwy 101 as is Mission San Luis Obispo. Mission San Antonio does have a close neighbor, Fort Hunter Liggett Military Reservation, but even those grounds were quiet. 

We walked into the main building and were greeted with a warm welcome. We never learned the  name of our greeter, but she encouraged us to look around, and that we did. I am pretty much past the stage of romanticizing the missions, however beautiful and interesting the buildings might appear. The missions were institutions of enslavement for the Indigenous population, many of whom died due to diseases that they had not been exposed to before, and maybe even heartache (my theory). As we explored the mission, there was a short cello piece that played repeatedly over the speaker system. I love the cello, but this repetitive strain was so melancholy that I began to feel I was experiencing the weight of the sorrow of the members of the Salinan tribe who were moved there. Tyler and I went on to find our way to the courtyard, and then to the sanctuary.  Tyler expressed surprise at the number of rooms encircling the courtyard, and when we went back to the main entrance, we were told that those rooms, now used as retreat rooms, were where the "neophytes" were housed. How strange and confining those rooms and that role must have been for the Salinans. 

I mentioned to the woman who greeted us that I was surprised at the distance from 101 to the mission. She replied that it was because the builders of the mission were following the water, not the road, which did not exist at that time.  However, the mission was not all that close to water either, but they were able to build an aqueduct system which was pretty sophisticated for the time. 

We were told that services are still being held in the sanctuary, but only about 50 people from various communities in the area attend. We were also told that in the summer a few more attend, due to the arrival of those training at Ft. Liggett.     

We then decided to motor on to the campground on Nacimiento Creek that Tyler had found online. There was an open space, and it was wonderful to camp by the creek. We did have a few mosquitos join us just to keep it real. The next morning Tyler spotted a staircase going up a hill. Alas, it was covered with some also very real poison oak, so we decided to simply let it be.      

Attached is a view of part of the courtyard at the mission. The figure in the foreground is a sculpture. Tyler is standing further away. I am the unseen one lurking in the shadows.

             

And Then Came the Coyotes

 This is our first full day of being back from a two night camping trip on Mt. Diablo. It seems the summer rush has not yet started, so we pretty much had the camp ground to ourselves, with the exception of two lizards who had claimed the bathroom building as their refuge, and one female turkey who Tyler named Mildred, but we called her Millie. She appeared to be the sole turkey in the area, and we decided she was probably an older bird; her tail feathers were a little tattered, and her overall color was muted. We watched her methodical comings and goings, including a surprising brief flight. She even walked into our campsite as she went about perusing the area for food. She was definitely much less impressed by our presence than we were with hers.

Many birds live in the Mt. Diablo State Park, so the day into night was filled with bird calls, including those of ravens and a Great Horned Owl. The weather was definitely warm, but not overly hot as that area can get. I spotted a gopher snake that was stretched out as long as it possibly could be to take in the sun. Tyler also saw what he thought was a California striped racer snake who stopped by, but a visit to the Mt. Diablo Summit Visitor Center on Wednesday morning revealed that what he had actually seen was the Alameda whipsnake which is considered rare and endangered. I am sorry I did not get to see this seldom seen creature, but I am grateful for the photographic display at the visitor center.

We did not get to see many stars. While it felt to me like we were surely far away from any possibility of light pollution, we were actually only 14 to 16 miles from the large human settlements of Danville and Walnut Creek. That means a lot of light is being generated, and 16 miles is not nearly far enough for complete darkness. I am still amazed at how remote our campsite felt, but the bathrooms were a clue: they included flush toilets, showers, and even hot water.

While we weren't able to see a grand celestial show, we did have a nice view of the moon. It was just past its full moon phase, so it was still round and bright in the sky. Nonetheless, the night held a surprise for us. We were awakened from our nocturnal rest by the piercingly loud sounds of yips, howls, and other mysterious vocalizations of what sounded to be a pack or maybe even two of at least a hundred coyotes. The sound seemed to be all around us. We heard them again around dawn. Once again we found ourselves outside cell phone coverage so we could not do any research about what we heard so we were left to our fertile and imaginative musings. Such musings can be misleading, and facts can be helpful for holding misleading notions in check.

I have long respected the resourcefulness of coyotes, but after my morning reading, I find myself even more in awe. I have learned that most packs of coyotes include the alpha male and female, maybe some adult offspring, and pups. Their vocalizations are varied and yes, can be loud, due to the distances the sound must cover. They are social animals who mate for life. What we imagined to be several packs coming together, was probably just one group consisting of maybe 15 animals of various ages and hierarchical levels. Their vocalizations are not idle chatter, but rather fairly sophisticated communications between pack members. Such enthusiastic vocalizations also alert others about who is in the territory. The second night we were there, we heard them again, but they were further away. When we woke Wednesday morning we heard them once more and they were much closer. That morning we also woke up in dense fog and the temperature was much cooler. When I ventured outside the camper, it was still foggy. I saw a smallish solitary coyote over by the restroom. I watched it sniff around some, perhaps intrigued by the scent of a tasty lizard or two. However, there was little chance they would be out in that early chilly morning. The coyote then began to walk in our direction. At that point I took the advice of the lizards and retreated back into the camper. I know coyotes seldom want to engage with humans, but I was not awake enough to press that assumption. I also read this morning that solitary coyotes are typically younger coyotes who have left what is called their natal packs in order to find a mate and start their own pack in another territory. My respect for these fascinating and resilient creatures has grown because of what we experienced and learned.

I have started keeping an informal log of the creatures we see and hear on our outings. I am also going to order a field guide to the animals found in the West to take with us because we periodically find ourselves without a cell signal. Climate change, an administration that does not seem to have any interest in conservation whatsoever, and, of course, my age are all telling me to pay attention to who and what I am and am not seeing. The photograph I am attaching is the view we saw from our campsite. The woods that surrounded us support the life that we were able to get a glimpse of and enjoy in our short time there. Our state and national parks, already understaffed, are not immune to a marauding government and disrespectful human visitors. Many of the beautiful sandstone rocks and caves in the park are covered with graffiti, and there is a real danger of some of our currently protected public lands being sold off for private production and development. I was at risk of ending this post on a somber note, yet this morning, just in the nick of time, I received this encouraging reminder from Rabbi Yael Levy:

"As many ways as there are to get lost

that’s how many ways there are to return

.Let us walk with care

and lift up lightsfor and with each other."

Let us continue to celebrate what we have, and work for the good as best we can.

If you want to explore coyote vocalizations, YouTube is a good place to start:

https://youtu.be/l-0aK59t42g?si=mm3bCYX9ZQkrRNgP

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