Sanctuary

 When we camp, we almost never have access to water, so we bring our own. We have a tank that Tyler has mounted on the inside wall of the camper, and it holds close to ten gallons. The tank is connected to a hose and a pump, giving us fairly easy access. Nonetheless, when camping, especially in an arid land, we don't want to be frivolous with our water use. That has been our practice, regardless of where we camp. 

On March 31, we found a campsite tucked in among some sycamore trees that were growing close to the Gila River. The next morning before we left, I told Tyler I wanted to wash my face and hands. He turned on the pump and poured some water into my cupped palms. After I washed, I did the same for him. That moment of holding the water in my hands and pouring water into his felt both sacred and humbling.  

Two days before when we were preparing to leave Albuquerque, we bought water at a local market to replenish our tank. Tyler undertook this transfer in the parking lot of our hotel.  

We stayed four nights in this Best Western hotel. The hotel was pretty standard, but our room was on the third floor and there were two trees growing right outside our window. Their location meant that our window was at leaf level. Every morning we would wake to birdsong and green leaves. It was as if the trees themselves were singing the day into existence.  

When the tank was full, we had  about half a gallon of water left over. I took the container over to the trees and gave them both a drink, and thanked them for their presence. They had given sanctuary to the birds and to us. Trees in an arid land are allies indeed. May we learn to be as well.     

  

"I will travel pathways of connection,

for you have expanded my heart."   

Psalm 119:32

Psalms, Ancient Songs for these Times 

Rabbi Yael Levy      

              

    

  

Only This and More

 I have been thinking of this beautiful poem all week. I woke this morning thinking of this photograph that I believe was taken from our campsite on the western side of the summit of Sonora Pass.Tyler is not sure of the location.  I do know it was taken on the day before we drove home because the eye phone keeps track of dates. If you look to the right just below the peak, you will see a patch of snow.  If you look lower and to the left, you can see falling water, more than likely runoff from the snow. This is not a gentle, rolling hills sort of land.

I find our journey across the Sonora Pass is staying with me. We take for granted being able to pass through the mountains (Although if you lived there you might not.)  This morning, I feel like we should have asked their permission before traversing. I still feel their presence, and I am humbled.     

  

This Only

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map led him here.
Or perhaps memory. Once, long ago, in the sun,
When the first snow fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast of motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

~ Czesław Milosz   

From Wikipedia:  Czesław Miłosz was a Polish-American poet, prose writer, translator, anddiplomat. He primarily wrote his poetry in Polish. Regarded as one of the great poets of the 20th century, he won the 1980 Nobel Prize in Literature.     

     

On to the Desert, Part 2

 After a day of exploring the Tablelands, we settled on a campsite. It was located a little closer to Bishop than we intended, but that really was not a distraction, especially since later, another camper drove past our site and parked at a slightly higher elevation. He was a paraglider, and his rig included a beautiful yellow wing. It was soothing to watch him soar and dip as the day came to a close. 

After dinner, we settled in our chairs and waited for the night sky to be revealed. As we looked up and watched the Milky Way become apparent, I thought of our ancient ancestors who were probably so much more knowledgeable about what they were seeing in the night sky. As we continued to sit and gaze upward, a sense of awe enveloped me. I am convinced I felt the love of the universe that I believe is always present for each of us. I did bring my wooden flutes, and as I was packing for the trip, I envisioned playing one under the stars. Yet, the silence was so beautiful, I felt I should not disturb it. I have tinnitus (ringing in the ears), so I really never experience complete silence, but that night I came close. I let the flutes rest.  

   

The next morning I picked up my smaller flute and walked across the unpaved road that led us to this site. Some of you know that I intended to play a flute in memory and gratitude for Rev. Earl Kehert who passed away shortly before we left. He was supportive of my going to seminary all those years ago, and he introduced me to the book, The Land of Little Rain by Mary Austin. I knew I was in that land.  As it turned out, we did not go see her house where she lived in Independence. A friend of Tyler's who owns a brewery in Mammoth Lakes had invited us to dinner that night. Tyler really wanted to go, and I knew I would enjoy seeing Sean again. To go to Independence would have meant an additional 80 miles.  Yet, standing there looking at the mountains and again feeling so much love, I knew I was indeed visiting Mary Austin's home - the desert that she wrote about and loved. I felt complete. 

  

As I began to play, I was a little tentative, however I remembered the advice that I had received on a YouTube video by Charlie Mato-Toyela of Blue Bear Flutes. He suggested to play to the mountains, or to a tree, or to someone or something. Beautiful mountains were before me, so I played to the mountains, especially since part of the range looked like a person reposing on their back in deep rest. I thought of Earl with deep gratitude and I wished him well as his journey continued.    

I then felt that someone else was playing. I was no longer tentative; I simply got out of the way. I let the desert sing through the flute. When the song came to an end I spoke a prayer and wept. I then crossed the dirt road once more, and we left for Mammoth Lakes to enjoy some time with a friend. Yes, we rented a motel room because I really wanted to show up for dinner clean. Tyler tried to convince me that Mammoth was just a ski town. It may be, but probably for not much longer. When we arrived, construction was going on everywhere in anticipation of the ski season, and major high end hotels were moving in. Even after briefly experiencing the desert, such commotion was jarring.  

There is a part of me that always yearns to return to the high desert. Tyler loves the mountains and the trees. We will probably always need to find compromise, and that is okay. In November we will celebrate our 37th wedding anniversary.  On this trip we learned much, and laughed much. Where to next and when?  We do not yet know.  However, I am confident that love will show us the way.  On our way back across the Sonora Pass, I played to a pine seedling growing among trees that were struggling to survive. I was filled with hope. I still am. 

   

  

Love and Blessings to you all. Pack a warm cap; you never know when you might need it. Oh, and one more bit of travel advice.  If, as you are driving, you suddenly realize that you forgot to pack your shirts, I do recommend stopping by Big 5 in Oakdale should you be in that area. The staff was helpful and kind, and in about 15 minutes I bought some very soft shirts in lovely pastel blues and teals. Between Big 5 and a sporting goods store in Bishop (I believe it was Reagan's) where I bought my cap, I realized that my needs are shifting, and that makes me smile.    

  

           

"I lift my eyes to the mountain peak -
Where does my help come from?
It comes from you
Maker of heaven and earth
Who holds my foot on the path up
Who's constantly present
Everywhere aware"

from Psalm 121, Opening to You, Zen Inspired translations of the Psalms, Norman Fischer

          

     

image:  Camp site, September 24, 2024

Learning the Art of a Short Pilgrimage

 Tyler and I spent last weekend at a KOA campground in Petaluma. We are not KOA campers, but two good friends were passing through in their motorhome, and it had been a few years since we had seen them. We decided to pack our camper and meet them there. The weekend proved to have some surprises for me. The campground is beautifully landscaped with pollinator friendly plants, and many of the tall redwoods and other trees still stand throughout the grounds. Everything was immaculately maintained. This property is owned by a fourth generation family, and it seems that they have learned their lessons well. I was stunned at how large some of the motorhomes were, and almost every one of them had a car or motorcycle in tow. Our little camper looked to be something that had gated in from some archaic planet, but we did have a few of our temporary neighbors stop by to inquire about our curious mode of travel. We even got a couple of thumbs up.  I did not expect to see much wildlife in such an environment, but in the early mornings and evenings, we were graced by the sound of two owls calling back and forth. On Saturday evening, I saw one take to the sky as the neighborhood crows adamantly  voiced their absolute disdain of them. Yet, my biggest surprise came on an early morning walk to the restroom when beautiful fox crossed the path ahead of me. Despite my mission, I instinctively stopped and stood very still. The fox took a moment to look at me cautiously, and then continued on. I felt honored to see this beautiful creature so close, and that moment still comes to mind. More than likely it was a California grey fox, but I have too little knowledge of these beautiful creatures to say for sure. 

On this short trip I began reading a book that a cousin recommended to me: the Cascadia Field Guide edited by Bradfield, Fuhrman, and Sheffield. The book is filled with information about the flora and fauna of Cascadia as well as lovely drawn illustrations and poetry. In the book all life that is found in Cascadia is referred to as beings, giving me hope that as dire as things often seem to be, we humans are making some incremental shifts in how we relate to the life around us.   

Tyler and I do not live in the vast area known as Cascadia. A drawn map included in the book shows that Cascadia stretches from southern Alaska, through western Canada, along the western side of the Rocky Mountains into Washington, Idaho, some of Oregon and part of northern California. I had never heard the term Cascadia, and I am grateful for the introduction.  

This trip was our third "practice" of the art of camping. We are settling into the rhythm of the packing and unpacking. Our hope is to take a longer trip in the fall. My thanks to our friends who invited us to join them for this weekend of pilgrimage, inspiration, and much laughter.       

"This book is for fellow beings - for those who leap, flap, walk, root, crawl, swim, and slither.  It is for a region we love and would love to love more fully." 

introduction to Cascadia Field Guide. May this be a mantra for us all. 

      

image: Tyler, surrounded by largeness. Photograph taken by a small phone.