Dreaming

 "I believe Earth is dreaming us into a new way of seeing, a new way of being, if we will favor our senses and receive what is coming to us through heartbreak and love."  

Terry Tempest Williams, The Glorians    

   

When I read this sentence, I thought of the photograph I took yesterday, September 4. I know some of you saw this photograph on Facebook, so please excuse the duplication.  What came to mind today was, "What if this turkey vulture is dreaming the world into existence?"  Yesterday, I watched it fly away. I had no idea why it flew. I have no doubt it saw something I did not; that it sensed something I cannot yet articulate

Creation is ongoing. Despots and authoritarians have their primitive, punitive, and selfish dreams. Let us remember that we, too, are being called to fly.   

Last night I dreamed of a bighorn sheep standing on a high boulder. I am grateful for the encouragement. Creation is indeed ongoing, and according to author and teacher,  Rev. Dr. Randy Woodley, who is of Cherokee descent, creation is also healing. I am beginning to believe that the destruction and chaos we are experiencing now may prove to be healing. Perhaps that is the message of the turkey vulture who certainly knows that death never has the last word.    

   

My gratitude to Rabbi Yael Levy who recommended The Glorians. I am on page 3.     

       

image:  East Bay Regional Park, September 4, 2026

Revisiting Prewitt Ridge 2026

 This morning Tyler received a text from a friend who said that Prewitt Ridge has burned. When Tyler told me, I immediately thought with sadness of the weasel that I did see, and the condors and other creatures that I did not see. I thought of the lizard who joined our camp site, probably because he was there first. Nonetheless, he quietly made room.

When Tyler shared his news with me, for a while I could not speak. I have learned that when I camp in a spot, its presence stays with me. 

So many fires in the West now. So much damage. So many frightened and thirsty creatures on the run, including humans.  Yes, I mourn. I mourn for the lives lost in the Grand Canyon, and in Nepal. We keep trying to conquer the earth, but she will submit only for so long. May we learn to work with her, rather than demanding that the earth work for us.  

The 2026 World Day of Prayer for the Care of Creation takes place on Tuesday, September 1, 2026, marking the official beginning of the ecumenical Season of Creation. It will run through October 4, 2026, the Feast Day of St. Francis. Quoting Diana Butler Bass: "During these weeks, Christians are urged to recognize the theological centrality of God as Creator, Creation itself, the human vocation of caring for Creation, and doing justice on behalf of the Earth and all creatures."

Let us pray, remember, and act accordingly.  

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Resending my post from May 26, 2016  

"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 being 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 out there, and goodness knows what else! 

May, 2026

View from a Window

I  have decided to return to my practice of doing three yoga sun salutations most mornings. I do these in front of either the bedroom or the living room windows. In the middle of each salutation, I do what is called a child's pose. In this pose, I am on the mat curled up into a ball with the top of my head on the mat, arms at my side. In this position (more comfortable than it sounds) I say a spoken prayer of gratitude, and then I move into what is called a Sphinx pose where I am lying prone on the floor with my legs stretched out behind me. My elbows are close to my body and I lift up my upper torso, not with my arms but rather my chest, resting for a few moments on my lower arms. On Monday morning as I lifted my torso, I was greeted with a view of beautiful pink clouds strewn above the Dunsmuir Ridge. I confess that in that moment I did feel rather Sphinx-like as I silently looked out over land and sky before I continued my movements.

We also had a beautiful sunset on Monday. Our view to the west out our kitchen and dining room windows. revealed a red sky that was stunning in its intensity, unfortunately perhaps because of the Timber fire in Monterey County. Our view to the east was also dramatic. A line of pink clouds stretched along the horizon. A bright waxing Gibbous moon shone above.  No, none of our views are entirely clear due to trees and houses in all directions, and certainly the view of Hwy 580 in the east is less than scenic, but over time we have come to love the views we have. Last night the not yet full moon shone brightly, pouring light through our bedroom window. If our sky is clear on the 26th, we should be able to witness the Sturgeon full moon.

I am grateful that I can look up and see the sky, even if we cannot see many stars because of light pollution. I am also grateful for my yoga class. Over time, I have learned to live with my arthritis, and to respect it. Some poses I simply cannot do. So I pause and rest, and practice honoring what my body can, and cannot do. 

Our neighbors across the street and down a couple of houses are having a new roof put on their house. Roofing is noisy, strenuous work. However, one of the roofers whistles beautifully, and I often hear him whistling, despite the sound of hammering. He reminds me of a bird that has alighted at the top of the roof to sing his song. Yesterday, I watched one of the roofers, not a particularly young man, pause for just a few moments before he began to climb the ladder to the roof. Perhaps he was saying a prayer, or maybe he was just focusing his attention, so his steps and balance would be sure.     

      

See wonders.  

Bow to Mystery.  

Act for the benefit of all.   

      

Rabbi Yael Levy,  

Psalms, Ancient Songs for These Times     

       

         image:  Backyard Iris, 2026

Shedding

"Frequently we do not leave the past behind. We clasp on to it. We dissect it, and let fears for the future, tempered by the past, unconsciously prevent us from taking up the task eternal."

 Exploring Celtic Spirituality by Ray Simpson    

    

I received this quote from Friends of Silence a few days ago, and I have been pondering it ever since. This morning I realized that as I am going through my books, it feels like I am shedding my skin, much like a snake. I think that once a snake begins the shedding process, it does not cling to its old skin. The snake disgards it and moves on. Snakes continue to grow their whole lives, but their skin does not.  

It will always be a temptation for me to hold on to books. Ever since I was a child, seeing one of my books is like seeing the face of an old friend. Books have been trusted companions for many years, much like this house. However, as Tyler and I age, we cannot stay in this house, and truthfully, we cannot stay in the Bay Area. My heart is in Albuquerque. And yes, concerns about the heat and threat of fire also reside in both our hearts as well. We know enough to never underestimate the desert. It is what the writer, Belden Lane, describes as a "fierce landscape". Like the ocean, it must be treated with caution and respect. We know to keep a watchful eye on both.       

This morning as I was waking, I heard a coyote. The animal was far enough away that I could not be absolutely certain that what I heard was a coyote, but nonetheless, I woke in wonder and gratitude. At a minimum, we periodically need to hear and see a wild creature to remind us of the vastness of this life and our connectedness. We need to be reminded of the beauty of this earth, and her fierce independence, despite our efforts to dominate and tame her which we attempt at the peril of not only humanity, but of all of life.   

May I always hear the coyote call as a reminder to awaken from my dreams, and to make at least some of those dreams a pilgrimage. Perhaps this is my "task eternal": to continue to let go and travel light. 

      

 

image:  FCC Albuquerque, Spring 2026

Moving Forward

 In the dream I am running through scruffy brush and prickly plants. I am very uncomfortable and incredibly anxious. I am moving as quickly as I can. I am anxious because I believe I am being chased. I keep looking back, but the light is very poor. I can see little.

Suddenly, I stop running. I stop looking back. I announce in and to the dream, "I am not being chased. This is a dream."  

I wake smiling. I now know some of my personal truth. I am not being chased. Not by a wild animal, an ill-intentioned human, or even by my own feelings and thoughts of personal inadequacy. Today I am not worried about the future nor am I experiencing regrets about the past. I am not afraid of who I am and who I am not. 

I climb on in peace. One step at a time is enough.      

 

Love,

Sue Ann 

    

     

image: Mt. Diablo, June 2026

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.