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.

Considering

 On Tuesday of this week Tyler and I were able to spend a few hours with two friends we have not seen in about ten years. They arrived via cruise ship on a return trip to Canada, where they have lived for many years. We met in the morning and since we had lunch reservations at a restaurant in North Beach, we decided to take a cab (yes, there are actual taxis that line up at cruise terminals) we decided to go on to North Beach. Tyler asked if anyone would like coffee and I quickly voted yes. He led us to Caffe Trieste. I was grateful  that there was an available table inside. The sky was overcast, and the weather was chilly and a little damp.   

We sat in that small cafe and talked for at least two hours, probably longer. At one point a guitarist and mandolin player took their places in a corner, and played at just the right level so they could be heard while still allowing ample space for the conversations around them. This appears to be a time honored and well honed tradition at this cafe that just celebrated its 70th year.    

I began to feel uncomfortable about our taking up a table for so long. People were lining up at the counter, but it was pointed out to me that most were getting their coffee to go; there were still vacant tables in the cafe. We continued our conversations. Being able to linger over coffee and conversation is a gift of retirement. The week before I went with Tyler to listen to a friend's band. There we also lingered at a table with a friend. I had not spoken with her in over a year. 

When a woman I once attended church with retired a few years ago, she named retirement as her time of  "refreshment". For me, I think it is a time of reconnecting. Not only with friends, but with those parts of me that have slowly been buried over the years. I want to reclaim my spirit of exploration, both the world around me, and the world within. In order to do this, I need to accept that my balance is not what it was, my hearing is not what it once was, and my hands often do not do what I want them to. I am learning to ask them nicely, and yes, that does help. At times I simply must claim the right to not move as quickly or efficiently as I once did. This is true of writing as well.     

The Gospels tell us that Jesus knew that his physical time on earth was limited. So, what did he do? He walked and considered wild flowers and vineyards and workers. He lingered at tables and talked. He touched those who yearned to be touched. He refused to be rushed. He prayed that he could do what needed to be done.  

 This tells me that the practice of connection and reconnection is a worthy endeavor, and I will dare to say that it is a holy one. That is just how sacred this life that we all share is.         

"Sometimes by chance I am the first one back from Communion and I watch as they [his sons] approach, wading gracefully through the shivered colors of the sun streaming through the windows. Time stutters and reverses and it is always yesterday and today. Maybe the greatest miracle is memory. Think about that this morning, quietly, as you watch the world flitter and tremble and beam."  

Brian Doyle, One Long River of Song            

       

     

           

  

  

image: One of my favorite photographs. I etitled it, "Family"

   

Through the Market Place

 Yesterday, Tyler and I went to the Protest/May Day Celebration in Oakland, just off the BART Fruitvale station. It was young, loud, and wildly diverse. We walked through the market area, greeted people, signed petitions for support of issues like public transportation and schools, joined in some chants, and even stopped at a Native American restaurant for tea and appetizers. The restaurant, Wahpepa's Kitchen, is committed to traditional Native cooking and local ingredients, and seemed appropriate for the day committed to not supporting corporate businesses.     

 At the other end of the market, we came across a circle of people dressed in a variety of feathers and beaded costumes. One woman was holding a container with burning incense, and she walked among the costumed people in the circle. We paused to see what would happen. The dancers eventually spread out in a large circle, resulting in the gathered crowd being pushed back as far as possible. The drums commenced, a conch shell was sounded, and it often was in the dance, and the rattles rattled, and the dance began.  

The dance was lively and very focused, and the costumes were colorful. Yet, the dance was not really joyful, in the way I understand joy. I think the dance was both a protest and also a determined prayer. One of the dancers was dressed differently from the rest: Her face was masked and she wore a camouflage jacket. On the back of the jacket was the message, "Chinga La Migra". Yes, it is an obscenity, but these are obscene times. 

 

As I reflect on the day, I find myself thinking about all the young and earnest faces I saw. They are inheriting a hurting world, so it is no wonder they protest, speak loudly and bluntly. I  think we owe it to them and the world to join in this chorus. 

    

Most of the photographs I took of the dance are simply not very good. If you are on Facebook, I suggest that you go to Tyler's page. He took some beautiful pictures. 

    

      

The Path of Peace

 I found this poem in my draft queue. I do not remember the dream, and I am grateful that it is being revealed now. The image is from November, 2025. It reminds me that at times the path of peace will include tears. 

Last night I dreamt 

that a friend and I 

went together to the funeral 

of someone her father knew. 

I knew neither her father nor his friend.

When we arrived at the chapel 

we found  that in order 

to enter, we needed to pass 

through a garden of 

many paths and levels. 

Any confusion we were feeling

eventually dissolved, and 

we simply walked, 

along one of the many paths leading 

along streams of flowers, shrubs, and trees.

When we arrived at the chapel door 

we found that we each carried 

a perfect blossom.  

We took our seats in the stillness,  

each holding a flower,

as the service began for 

a man who released his hold 

on this life to lead us 

on a journey of peace.     

     

     

What About Albuquerque?

 On March 26, Tyler and I left Gallup, NM and went on to Zuni and El Morro. As I have mentioned, all were memorable places.  While we hoped to camp at El Morro, the small campground was full, so we decided to drive on to Albuquerque, which was about 2 hours away. While we were on the road, I called and reserved a room for four nights. When we arrived, I happily popped out of the truck and went in to register us. I took my place in the short line. 

The person at the front desk appeared to be efficient; she obviously knew her job. However, as I watched, I realized that she was not really interacting with the guests. She knew what she needed to say: "Fill this out and sign and the bottom. We will need your license plate number and your credit card number". She never really looked at the guests while doing what needed to be done. It was around 5:00 p.m. or so, a time when travelers and out of town workers are often tired and want only to settle in their room. For some, this interaction might be enough.         

When it was my turn, she realized she had not pulled our reservations. I told her that I was not surprised, I made the reservation only about an hour or so ago. She, on the other hand, expressed much surprise. Talking more to herself than to me, she replied, "But I always have things ready." 

I, however, am at the stage of life when efficiency has pretty much lost its luster. I smiled and said, "What beautiful earrings you are wearing." On each ear she wore a large blue circular disc surrounded by beads. She stopped and looked at me. She then touched one of her earrings, a movement that many of who wear earrings often do when someone notices what we have on. Maybe I am not alone in needing to touch them to actually remember what I am wearing. She then added, "I am an Indigenous beader. I usually sit here and bead." I would have liked to have learned more, but there were weary people waiting behind me. I thanked her for her help and her beautiful work. This time, she smiled. The next day I saw her again. She was holding her beading project close to her face and was working with much attention. As I needed nothing from the front desk, I chose not to interrupt her. I did not see her again.

This interaction set the tone for my trip to Albuquerque. Tyler and I had come for one reason: to see if we believed that we could live there. For me, that meant talking to people. It was a wonderful experience. I even talked to the wind. On our first full day there, the wind came through, stirring up a sandstorm. Tyler made just one comment: "You have got to be kidding." I laughed, and said, "Hello Wind. I remember you from my childhood. I see you have come to welcome us." I grew up in West Texas where one is often greeted by wind and dust.     

Yet, it seems that even in an arid land, lilacs grow. The scent was so enticing, as the people, the art, the food, also proved to be. More to follow.      

  

    

 image: Lilacs growing in Old Town Albuquerque