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.  

+++

     

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.       

            

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

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.