PEELING BACK THE LAYERS
I like onions. Thanks to my wonderful latino son-in-law I have also discovered the wonders of leeks. Venezuelans love flavorful foods. Hidden in many of their specialty dishes are a variety of pureed veggies which greatly enhance the robust explosion of tastiness. Dicing/slicing vegetables welcomes a 'Zen-like' warm hummmm in my bones - which my dear daughter is quite puzzled about. She has decided to capitalize on this as we have been hangin' out together for weeks. On a regular basis she will say, "Hey Mom, how about making me a yummy salad?". Of course I gladly oblige! A wedge of red onion, a thinly sliced leek, a lengthwise section of tender green onion, red cabbage, orange sweet peper - all beautifully revealing layer upon layer of nutrient-rich goodness. Voila' - salad extraordinare. This past week the layers of our life, the layers of our 'mind-works' have been front and center for most of us. The tragedy at the Sandy Hook School in Connecticut continues to unfold and with it, a great many online posts about mental illness. It is so very tempting to just shove all the news of this atrosity under the rug and forget that it happened. But we must not. Finding the middle ground on needful awareness and unhealthy fixation is a decision individually that we must make. God-talk and prayer are heard from the lips of many. In the midst of questions, God's presence is the salve that nurtures our spirits.
This past Sunday it was my delight to visit yet another new church. This has been a very enriching part of my yearly sojourn across the U.S. I have been to a variety of worship centers - some mega-churches, some micro-churches, some rock-the-rafters-type churches and some quietly cadence-oriented churches. Reading online reviews of churches before attending can always be an insightful moment. Most people (I believe) come to a particular church with expectations for what 'they need' for their worship to be meaningful. "I get that." - it's important to feel your spirit challenged, and to give God heartfelt thanks and praise. Worship, however, I understand to be - 'the work of the people'. In all the churches I have worhipped, I have been able to shut my eyes and reach out to God within my thoughts, prayers, and thankfulness - some places more easily than others.
As one may expect, Sunday was a day where pastors across the world addressed the tragic losses of Newtown. Together we are examining the eternal 'whys' of this monstrously sad event. I have found myself thinking often of the mental health part of questioning. For me, mental challenges are highly personal. I have read a great deal on the subject. My past struggles with panic and anxiety have led me there. I am one of the lucky (or blessed) ones. A new life was born in me 20 years ago, thanks to the gift of a pharmaceutical compound found in a miniscule pink pill that regulates my brain chemistry imbalance. Millions of people are not so fortunate - for as many reasons as one can conjure up. This past week I viewed the movie, "Silver Linings" - a story of the impact mental illness had on two families. It was an extremely insightful movie. When I look back on this week, I have so many feelings - profound gratitude for the help I have received and the life I now have, free of my past mental bondage.. Conversely, I have profound sadness for those who still live within the grip of this bondage - many who do not even realize the cages of their life. The pastor I listened to this past Sunday reminded us of this scripture verse - "Whatsoever is pure, whatsoever is lovely - think on these things." I have been attempting this all week - with 'some' success.
Thinking about 'lovely things' brings to mind the pleasure that was mine this week when I visited the J. Paul Getty Art Museum in north LosAngeles. It was a sunny but brisk day, as California weather goes. I really had no expectations of my adventure as I drove up 'the 405' mid-morning. I listened to the beautiful Christmas carols of the season on the car radio as I crept along in the famous LA traffic I'd often heard about. As art museums go, I would rate 'The Getty' in the - 'Creme-de-la-Creme' category. Not only does it have a great variety of art, but the building architecture and garden architecture are nothing less than stunning, as it sits impressively on a hilltop overlooking LA, with a view of the ocean in the distance. It was built in 1997 and is a contemporary, white stone geometric marvel to behold. The 3 hours I spent there were hardly enough. A highlight of my day were the illuminated 14th and 15th century biblical manuscripts in Latin. Couple this with the special presentation of Renissance Devotional Art that was currently on display, I was greatly enlightened in my spirit. It was a God-moment I will cherish when I look back on my pilgrimage journey in years to come!
When the rush of this weeks' Christmas celebrations, worship experiences and foodie festivities is past, I hope you, my blog readers, find some private moments to peel through the layers of your life and find the life-lessons and life-missions that bring new meaning to you.
As a new year approaches, together, I pray that we all can journey into our unknown futures with hope - still - for peace and healing in our world and for the souls who walk upon it.
Intothewind with Naturegirl
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Sunday, December 9, 2012
FARMHOUSE PORCH TALKS
The late 1950's had it's moments of magic. My world as an grade-schooler living a farm-kid life in Iowa was about the size of a postage stamp when placed alongside my present life as a coast-to-coast traveler. I am not sure if the magic superceded the melancholy or not in those distant days. Life was hard - filled with labor-intensive chores, and few extras to bring on a sky-high moment. Ours was a household of verbal barage - more than I care to remember. Conversations today with 'old-timers' will often elicit a dream-like comment such as, "Those were the good ol' days!" In many ways they were. Media influence was far less prevalent; family dinners around the table a staple of everyday life back then. If, however, abuse and degrading words were the hidden secrets of families, the days of old were far from good. Intermingled with those realities of my youth are also enough funny moments and average evening-togetherness to suffice for a smile now and then when remembering those youthful days.
The 8 ft wide wooden porch steps were splintered and weathered, mostly like the rest of the big square white country house I called home. No fine chairs sat on this porch. There were a few small floor-board holes a kid could peer through to scout out the cat that was hiding there, or a mouse or two. Plenty of make-believe happened on this porch through the years. Occasional props included a wobbly doll buggy, or a tea party setup on a big cardboard box hauled up from the dank musty basement. A few important conversations about the important things of life took place on these steps - like, 'Do you think Suzy hates me?' or... 'Will I get picked first or last when we play "Red Rover, Red Rover, why don't you come over" at school tomorrow?' This porch is where I'd often come to sit when life was boring. This is where my 'wondering' began, and where I first thought about the meaning of my life on earth and what happened after my heart would stop one day. Kids DO think about these things. And - big kids (adults) think about it too. I remember feeling scared quite a lot. The flavor of spirituality I grew up with dished out plenty of fear with a small pill of 'love' stuck in there somewhere. My cousin Don, who lived a stone's throw away on the other side of the road, was often my 'fellow wonderer' about these things. It's funny - the things one remembers from their youth. Even as I contemplate life in my 6th decade, I still remember the day Don and I sat on those front porch steps and asked each other, "Just what is the center of our being here in this world. What is beyond this world?" And, I now have some answers, but still, questions linger.
My God-focus, through christianity, Jesus and the Spirit have been nurtured through the years and my faith still moves - two steps forward, one step back. Books have been escapes for me, as well as stepping stones in my life and faith journey. As a preteen I escaped into the mystery world of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, as their stories transfixed me on those front porch steps for hours. This past week, a book at the local bookstore jumped out at me. I bought it - then devoured it. Proof of Heaven is a book written just a few years ago by a neurosurgeon about his near-death experience as the result of bacterial meningitis. I am by nature, an open-minded questioner. This read was a soul-fascinating cluster of chapters. Eben, the highly intelligent, brain scientist (author) finds his life transformed, his mission changed, after his week-long coma. Today's science-oriented doubters will be challenged in their God/Heaven beliefs after reading this book. Happy am I, to have been found by it! Confidence and comfort was mine as I closed the cover of this book.
Porches as a housing feature tend to be found in regional clusters. When I was rolling down the roads of the Carolinas on the East coast last month, I was intrigued by the number of houses that sported a very large veranda/front porch. When I contemplate the lifestyle and culture of these southerns, it is no surprise to me. Passing time on the front porch with the neighbors or family with big glass of lemonade seems to be a staple of everyday living down south. Now, as I travel the streets of Orange County, California, seldom do I see a front porch. Go figure - no surprise here. I confess that I have never watched the TV program, "Housewives of Orange County", but I'm told their lifestyle has little to do with passing time on a front porch! I personally would advocate for more porches in this world!
Speaking of rolling down the road - i was delighted to answer my 'cell' this past week when a South Carolina # showed on my ID. My insurance adjuster had good news for me. My RV is going to be repaired! Resurrection time! I've got a smile plastered on my face! Come January I should be reunited with 'Pedro' and on the road again in this pilgrimage journey of mine. How appropriate that this is the season of Advent - a time of waiting. I have been waiting to hear the good news for 5 weeks now. My 'Pedro' is being (re)born! Hallelujah!
I suspect that my Minnesota friends will not be sitting on their front porches for a chit-chat in the next few months. News of a midwest snowstorm has blinked on my computer screen. My hope is that a rocking chair or two will be drawn up by a big cracklin' fireplace in the coming weeks of family Christmas celebrations. I bid you - share your deep thoughts - share your joy - share your hopes for a spirit of peace in this world of ours.
From my rocking chair to yours -comfort and peace to you!
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
The late 1950's had it's moments of magic. My world as an grade-schooler living a farm-kid life in Iowa was about the size of a postage stamp when placed alongside my present life as a coast-to-coast traveler. I am not sure if the magic superceded the melancholy or not in those distant days. Life was hard - filled with labor-intensive chores, and few extras to bring on a sky-high moment. Ours was a household of verbal barage - more than I care to remember. Conversations today with 'old-timers' will often elicit a dream-like comment such as, "Those were the good ol' days!" In many ways they were. Media influence was far less prevalent; family dinners around the table a staple of everyday life back then. If, however, abuse and degrading words were the hidden secrets of families, the days of old were far from good. Intermingled with those realities of my youth are also enough funny moments and average evening-togetherness to suffice for a smile now and then when remembering those youthful days.
The 8 ft wide wooden porch steps were splintered and weathered, mostly like the rest of the big square white country house I called home. No fine chairs sat on this porch. There were a few small floor-board holes a kid could peer through to scout out the cat that was hiding there, or a mouse or two. Plenty of make-believe happened on this porch through the years. Occasional props included a wobbly doll buggy, or a tea party setup on a big cardboard box hauled up from the dank musty basement. A few important conversations about the important things of life took place on these steps - like, 'Do you think Suzy hates me?' or... 'Will I get picked first or last when we play "Red Rover, Red Rover, why don't you come over" at school tomorrow?' This porch is where I'd often come to sit when life was boring. This is where my 'wondering' began, and where I first thought about the meaning of my life on earth and what happened after my heart would stop one day. Kids DO think about these things. And - big kids (adults) think about it too. I remember feeling scared quite a lot. The flavor of spirituality I grew up with dished out plenty of fear with a small pill of 'love' stuck in there somewhere. My cousin Don, who lived a stone's throw away on the other side of the road, was often my 'fellow wonderer' about these things. It's funny - the things one remembers from their youth. Even as I contemplate life in my 6th decade, I still remember the day Don and I sat on those front porch steps and asked each other, "Just what is the center of our being here in this world. What is beyond this world?" And, I now have some answers, but still, questions linger.
My God-focus, through christianity, Jesus and the Spirit have been nurtured through the years and my faith still moves - two steps forward, one step back. Books have been escapes for me, as well as stepping stones in my life and faith journey. As a preteen I escaped into the mystery world of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, as their stories transfixed me on those front porch steps for hours. This past week, a book at the local bookstore jumped out at me. I bought it - then devoured it. Proof of Heaven is a book written just a few years ago by a neurosurgeon about his near-death experience as the result of bacterial meningitis. I am by nature, an open-minded questioner. This read was a soul-fascinating cluster of chapters. Eben, the highly intelligent, brain scientist (author) finds his life transformed, his mission changed, after his week-long coma. Today's science-oriented doubters will be challenged in their God/Heaven beliefs after reading this book. Happy am I, to have been found by it! Confidence and comfort was mine as I closed the cover of this book.
Porches as a housing feature tend to be found in regional clusters. When I was rolling down the roads of the Carolinas on the East coast last month, I was intrigued by the number of houses that sported a very large veranda/front porch. When I contemplate the lifestyle and culture of these southerns, it is no surprise to me. Passing time on the front porch with the neighbors or family with big glass of lemonade seems to be a staple of everyday living down south. Now, as I travel the streets of Orange County, California, seldom do I see a front porch. Go figure - no surprise here. I confess that I have never watched the TV program, "Housewives of Orange County", but I'm told their lifestyle has little to do with passing time on a front porch! I personally would advocate for more porches in this world!
Speaking of rolling down the road - i was delighted to answer my 'cell' this past week when a South Carolina # showed on my ID. My insurance adjuster had good news for me. My RV is going to be repaired! Resurrection time! I've got a smile plastered on my face! Come January I should be reunited with 'Pedro' and on the road again in this pilgrimage journey of mine. How appropriate that this is the season of Advent - a time of waiting. I have been waiting to hear the good news for 5 weeks now. My 'Pedro' is being (re)born! Hallelujah!
I suspect that my Minnesota friends will not be sitting on their front porches for a chit-chat in the next few months. News of a midwest snowstorm has blinked on my computer screen. My hope is that a rocking chair or two will be drawn up by a big cracklin' fireplace in the coming weeks of family Christmas celebrations. I bid you - share your deep thoughts - share your joy - share your hopes for a spirit of peace in this world of ours.
From my rocking chair to yours -comfort and peace to you!
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
Friday, November 30, 2012
WALL-STREET-PANDEMONIUM
Waiting for my Knarly Head to arrive, my elbows lean on my hightop, hands clasped in, 'here's the church - here's the steeple' kidplay mode. I stare wondrously at the massive glittering wall in front of me. It is beautiful. Hidden fluorescents illuminate the great expanse of mirror and glass shelves, artistically arranged with hundreds of bottled spirits, and a few brightly colored art-glass artifacts. Only a handful of patrons surround me at T.L. Schmit, a new establshment to me. The music is soft, but spunky. A multitude of glaring screens that portray a variety of sporting events in progress hang suspended in space around the perimeter, volume off. So pleasant. I smile, masking the turmoil alive and well in my gray matter. Closing my eyes, I soak in the calm, but nurturing atmosphere, hoping for clarity to arrive. As my server boldy places the stemware of deep velvet red in front of me, I return to the moment. Lifting the goblet, I swirl briskly, forcing the liquid up in waves close to the rim. Embedded in my cerebral moments my eyes fixate on the rolling of the fruit of the vine. I think - I wonder -things I'm good at. Finally I try out 'the nose' of it. Oh yes....hmmm, nice spice, smoky but fruited - perhaps blackberry and apricot. A smooth palate of flavors. Quite a nice 'Zin' for this evaluating and thoughtful moment..
It is a rather delightful game to engage in - "I wonder what..." - when enjoying an evening's happy-hour, solo. A look around displays a handful of occupied tables. Three suited and neck-tied gents, intense in discussion lean into their conversations, sometimes frowning, and then a gentle 'yes' - shake' of the head - a firm affirmation of their proposed business plan. In the far corner, four 20-something couples laugh, poke at each other, animated in their pleasure moments of friendship. A single finely-aged woman brushes past my table, perching herself confidently barside, her motions lively, a certain flair about her. With lively engagement she places her order with the bartender. From an obscure angle, I subtly read her ambience. I will call her Vanessa - carefully coiffed, white-haired classic boufant-headed Vanessa. Intuition tells me she is in town on business, a briefcase at her feet. Her chardonnay arrives. She reaches purposefully and with a gentle grasp, no swirls, she sips at the buttery spirits. Both she and I peruse our shared-wall view. She wears finer dress on this evening than I, but I wonder how 'fine' are her inner thoughts. Have you ever observed the hand movements of a person, alone, waiting barside for their meal or just speculating in their private world? One can learn plenty from silent observation.. Vanessa sits stoically upright on her stool, hands folded as in prayer, resting on her counter. She stares into space, perhaps evaluating her business of the day. I continue my reading and notetaking of the current book of interest in my life, glancing occasionally at Vanessa. One moment she rests her chin on her cupped hands, ring-bling glaring at me. The next moment her arms fold on the counter edge before her, waiting. My velvet Zin slinks over my palate in microns, warming my spirit, assisting my focus on the decisions I must make in the coming week, evaluating the options to come. Vanessa's meal arrives and she delicately cuts, spears and savours her fish and vegetables. No fine food for me this night, only my Zin and a few almonds from my jean pocket (frugal female that I am). Vanessa makes her graceful exit a few minutes after her meal has disappeared. No eye contact has passed between us. The thoughts of our day, the roadways of our lives held captive and inward.
Turmoil and confusion enter us all at one time or another, uninvited. Some souls live in a virtual state of turmoil, perhaps self-imposed by bad decisions, some as a result of no fault of their own. The confusion that is presently occupying my thoughts is the result of my RV accident of a few weeks ago. It would seem that though the damages were what I considered minor, the repairs required add up to a much larger sum of money than imagined. Amazing how that happens! My dear Pedro is almost 13 years old, and therein lies the problem. Insurance companies that declare vehicles a 'total loss' use current vehicle value as a primary indicator. If the percentage of cost of repair is at a certain level in relation to the vehicle value, the result is: a total loss declaration. Pedro's damages are riding on a thin line for resurrection or death. This is the reason for the pandemonium in my brain. How to approach the new direction of the pilgrimage I am on is the decision that lies before me. Options for a new vehicle - RV or otherwise - more stationery art-time in specific locations, or more time in California with family all occupy my thoughts. Prayers for the right doors to open flow freely. Walls have a way of turning us in a '180' oh so quickly.
The urban freeways of many a great city now erect great walls at the perimeter of the multi-stripped concrete roadways. Noise pollution has become a popular discussion in city council chambers nationwide. Environmental design engineers are having a hay-day as they strive to out-do each other in their creative ways of planning these massive functional walls. Some of these walls I have seen on my travels have scored an A+. Esthetics aside, these dividing barriers have created more than a little confusion in many a driver, myself included! I would surmise that you may have a story or two for sharing as well!
The imaginary walls that I have begun to contemplate this week as a result of my 'accident diddy' have left me feeling like a critter in one of those fancy Halloween hay-bale mazes created at countryside orchard stands for October kid-entertainment. 'How do I get out of this crazy jigsaw of walls that I'm running into!" You've seen a 5-year-old's temper tantrum when told they can't have that cookie? Well, I'm stampin' my feet, folding my arms over my chest, jutting out my chin and sayin' "Really?,...come on now!!!" (We all revert to kid-dom at times, don't we?!) I'll let you know when my tantrum is over.
By the time I'd drained my glass of Zin at T. L Schmit I had a notecard of options before me. Carefully tucking it into my bag for later reference, I floated out, past a few patron tables, feeling lighter. I'd sent my turmoil packing into never-never land - at least for now. Walking purposefully to my car (well, OK, Michelle's car) I pass the line-up of newpaper dispensers. The Wall Street Journal stared at me. I imagined the pandemonium that is a constant on their trading floor, and I breathed a prayer of thankfulness that I am not one of them. I will delight in the relatively peace-filled retired life I now life - though minor turmoil does show up as an appetizer on occasion. By the time desserts arrive, I will be a happy girl. (Note: try spelling 'desserts' backwards! ... a bit of humor. The moral of this: Eat more dessert!!)
As I finish this blog, listening to my Pandora selections through my earbuds at my local tea-hangout, the words from Yanni's relaxing music is the encouragement I need for today. "Let your arms enfold me, through the dark of night. Let your angels surround me until I see the light." I will cleave to this prayer as I wait for the apparent walls to be removed and the new doors to be opened.
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
Waiting for my Knarly Head to arrive, my elbows lean on my hightop, hands clasped in, 'here's the church - here's the steeple' kidplay mode. I stare wondrously at the massive glittering wall in front of me. It is beautiful. Hidden fluorescents illuminate the great expanse of mirror and glass shelves, artistically arranged with hundreds of bottled spirits, and a few brightly colored art-glass artifacts. Only a handful of patrons surround me at T.L. Schmit, a new establshment to me. The music is soft, but spunky. A multitude of glaring screens that portray a variety of sporting events in progress hang suspended in space around the perimeter, volume off. So pleasant. I smile, masking the turmoil alive and well in my gray matter. Closing my eyes, I soak in the calm, but nurturing atmosphere, hoping for clarity to arrive. As my server boldy places the stemware of deep velvet red in front of me, I return to the moment. Lifting the goblet, I swirl briskly, forcing the liquid up in waves close to the rim. Embedded in my cerebral moments my eyes fixate on the rolling of the fruit of the vine. I think - I wonder -things I'm good at. Finally I try out 'the nose' of it. Oh yes....hmmm, nice spice, smoky but fruited - perhaps blackberry and apricot. A smooth palate of flavors. Quite a nice 'Zin' for this evaluating and thoughtful moment..
It is a rather delightful game to engage in - "I wonder what..." - when enjoying an evening's happy-hour, solo. A look around displays a handful of occupied tables. Three suited and neck-tied gents, intense in discussion lean into their conversations, sometimes frowning, and then a gentle 'yes' - shake' of the head - a firm affirmation of their proposed business plan. In the far corner, four 20-something couples laugh, poke at each other, animated in their pleasure moments of friendship. A single finely-aged woman brushes past my table, perching herself confidently barside, her motions lively, a certain flair about her. With lively engagement she places her order with the bartender. From an obscure angle, I subtly read her ambience. I will call her Vanessa - carefully coiffed, white-haired classic boufant-headed Vanessa. Intuition tells me she is in town on business, a briefcase at her feet. Her chardonnay arrives. She reaches purposefully and with a gentle grasp, no swirls, she sips at the buttery spirits. Both she and I peruse our shared-wall view. She wears finer dress on this evening than I, but I wonder how 'fine' are her inner thoughts. Have you ever observed the hand movements of a person, alone, waiting barside for their meal or just speculating in their private world? One can learn plenty from silent observation.. Vanessa sits stoically upright on her stool, hands folded as in prayer, resting on her counter. She stares into space, perhaps evaluating her business of the day. I continue my reading and notetaking of the current book of interest in my life, glancing occasionally at Vanessa. One moment she rests her chin on her cupped hands, ring-bling glaring at me. The next moment her arms fold on the counter edge before her, waiting. My velvet Zin slinks over my palate in microns, warming my spirit, assisting my focus on the decisions I must make in the coming week, evaluating the options to come. Vanessa's meal arrives and she delicately cuts, spears and savours her fish and vegetables. No fine food for me this night, only my Zin and a few almonds from my jean pocket (frugal female that I am). Vanessa makes her graceful exit a few minutes after her meal has disappeared. No eye contact has passed between us. The thoughts of our day, the roadways of our lives held captive and inward.
Turmoil and confusion enter us all at one time or another, uninvited. Some souls live in a virtual state of turmoil, perhaps self-imposed by bad decisions, some as a result of no fault of their own. The confusion that is presently occupying my thoughts is the result of my RV accident of a few weeks ago. It would seem that though the damages were what I considered minor, the repairs required add up to a much larger sum of money than imagined. Amazing how that happens! My dear Pedro is almost 13 years old, and therein lies the problem. Insurance companies that declare vehicles a 'total loss' use current vehicle value as a primary indicator. If the percentage of cost of repair is at a certain level in relation to the vehicle value, the result is: a total loss declaration. Pedro's damages are riding on a thin line for resurrection or death. This is the reason for the pandemonium in my brain. How to approach the new direction of the pilgrimage I am on is the decision that lies before me. Options for a new vehicle - RV or otherwise - more stationery art-time in specific locations, or more time in California with family all occupy my thoughts. Prayers for the right doors to open flow freely. Walls have a way of turning us in a '180' oh so quickly.
The urban freeways of many a great city now erect great walls at the perimeter of the multi-stripped concrete roadways. Noise pollution has become a popular discussion in city council chambers nationwide. Environmental design engineers are having a hay-day as they strive to out-do each other in their creative ways of planning these massive functional walls. Some of these walls I have seen on my travels have scored an A+. Esthetics aside, these dividing barriers have created more than a little confusion in many a driver, myself included! I would surmise that you may have a story or two for sharing as well!
The imaginary walls that I have begun to contemplate this week as a result of my 'accident diddy' have left me feeling like a critter in one of those fancy Halloween hay-bale mazes created at countryside orchard stands for October kid-entertainment. 'How do I get out of this crazy jigsaw of walls that I'm running into!" You've seen a 5-year-old's temper tantrum when told they can't have that cookie? Well, I'm stampin' my feet, folding my arms over my chest, jutting out my chin and sayin' "Really?,...come on now!!!" (We all revert to kid-dom at times, don't we?!) I'll let you know when my tantrum is over.
By the time I'd drained my glass of Zin at T. L Schmit I had a notecard of options before me. Carefully tucking it into my bag for later reference, I floated out, past a few patron tables, feeling lighter. I'd sent my turmoil packing into never-never land - at least for now. Walking purposefully to my car (well, OK, Michelle's car) I pass the line-up of newpaper dispensers. The Wall Street Journal stared at me. I imagined the pandemonium that is a constant on their trading floor, and I breathed a prayer of thankfulness that I am not one of them. I will delight in the relatively peace-filled retired life I now life - though minor turmoil does show up as an appetizer on occasion. By the time desserts arrive, I will be a happy girl. (Note: try spelling 'desserts' backwards! ... a bit of humor. The moral of this: Eat more dessert!!)
As I finish this blog, listening to my Pandora selections through my earbuds at my local tea-hangout, the words from Yanni's relaxing music is the encouragement I need for today. "Let your arms enfold me, through the dark of night. Let your angels surround me until I see the light." I will cleave to this prayer as I wait for the apparent walls to be removed and the new doors to be opened.
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
A GENTLE TETHER
This partially completed life of mine has seen it's share of greatness and grit. You have, no doubt, learned from my writing that the almighty tree is my favored metaphor in life. When I feel fragile, I see myself hanging on a thin limb -oh so close to breaking- falling into the abyss below. When I am filled with confidence and strength, my core is a great and massive trunk, upholding a million branches of living, breathing organic matter. The wind of life's trials blow - sometimes gently - sometimes with great power. Such a mystery, it is. The great flow of inner strength and alternate disconnect. The connecting cord - the tethering to the Life-Source of renewal for body, mind and spirit can be so fragile - strength, only a dream away.
Riding a wave of forgotten reservation, the young girl's dreams catapulted her into a sphere of brave advance. She was rising, rising - to the stage of no return, captive to her inner strength. Determination and confidence etching her face, she launched her charge down the carpeted runway to the vaulting table whose menace was sure to be defeated. Airborne for the vault, her position perfect, her hands sure she twists and spins midair, sticking the perfect landing. Triumphant in her smile, she exits her stage. A heart throb like no other. But then - bolting upright in her bed, she awakens from her dream of magic. Today was her chance. The dream - was it a sign? Would today be the day she became the confident gymnast of her dreams. Would she break through her ceiling of fragile brokenness?
This naturegirl's days of rolling down the highways and byways of the great U.S. have been interrupted by the great invader - called, 'accident'. Pedro is broken - I am not. Or, am I? I seem to be hanging on a thin limb on this day.
Today is Sunday. I attended church this morning, not far down the carefully manicured boulevard from my temporary home with my dear family in California. Isn't it funny how sermons sometimes have a way of burroughing into the heart and breaking it wide open. I am here today, as a result of today's churchgoing, to be R-E-A-L. My great admission - today's declaration -- for the last 24+ hours, I have been feeling B-R-O-K-E-N, rather defective - at the bottom of my game. There - I said it. I don't like saying it. Why? Because - does anyone ever really reach out and embrace a fractured vessel? Not usually. Humankind gravitates to the 'best of show'. And, who doesn't want to be the winner?!!!
Yes, I AM traveling, cross country - alone - a woman - and, I hear it often.... "Wow! That is brave!" , or, "I could never do that," or, "Seriously, you are joking, right?" I admit, the commentary pumps-up my inner 'feel-good' monitor. My admission - today's declaration - however, is not about courage or doing the unusual. My declaration is about, liking and accepting the real core of 'who I am' - my daily activity preferences and avoidances, my personality strengths and weaknesses, my caring and my indifferences - the natural flow of how I choose to fill my day when living with little to nonexistent external directives in my current life. Part of this pilgrimage journey of mine is 'inward.' Finding my way forward in my new single life requires a new awakening to 'the core of me'. Identifying the core is no easy task. Why is it so tempting to observe others who are a source of inspiration, and wanting to 'be like them' - to be someone else. I am pretty sure I am not the only one in this camp, though I am not condoning it. I am beginning (with a capital 'B') to 'know', who I really am. The past few days has enlightened my 'knowing'. I am still chewing and digesting. I am praying for a new freedom of acceptance in 'being me'.
I have loved my days on the road. This past 10 days I have missed the new landscapes that fly by me as I venture into territories unknown. I miss the funny roadside signage, the amazing (and sometimes not so amazing) architecture, the new cultural dialects I hear in the coffeeshops and grocery stores along the way. I miss the movement. I miss the wide open spaces. I am learning just how much of an earth-woman I am. That would explain why I am forever picking up leaves, and twigs and feeling flower petals. Perhaps the change in my daily routines have upset my equilibrium - my rhythm. I am untethered from my mobile living quarters - my dear Pedro - cantankerous mobile home that he is!!
Tethering is all about connectedness. Our connections help us feel grounded - anchored in familiarity. As I have studied the botanical worlds of the many regions of the country, I am most fascinated with the moisture-laden subclimates where greenery flourishes without man's hoses tethered to the faucets of city water systems. The profuse branching of ivy as it climbs the tree trunks and overruns the ground in a covering of lush green. What is unique about all this ferocious fauna is that it's connections can easily be loosened, removed, or altered. Tethering is different from the technique of tying - an element not easily removed. I love the though of being 'gently' tethered - to our loved ones, to our rituals, or to our natural instinctive choices. It is a softer connection, flexible, more readily negotiated. When I contemplate 'who I am', I wish to think in terms of a more flexible being, a bendable connection. I wish to remove the rigid knots that tie me to a 'prison of being'. Knowing that I am movable, but connected to a core gives me comfort, and comfort is something that is easy to live with.
The stuff of dreams and longing, of realtime challenges and hopes, and the regrets of unresolved conflict live in every human soul, at one time or another. We all navigate our days in varying degrees of wanderlust. The timeless question, 'Who Am I' has been queried daily by the masses, looking for the perfect formula of how to live out a life of peace and honesty, while maintaining intimate, equal, and bendable relationships with those we call dear.
Soul work is difficult. Finding balance between one's discipline to become 'more' or making choices for the sake of relationship compromise, and one's choice to rest in the comfort of living with our natural inclinations will forever be the stuff of daily life. This much I know - giving V-O-I-C-E to issues of the heart and soul is a requirement if one is to sift through the jumble of tomorrow's choices and arrive at the coveted prize of inner peace.
Riding on the wind of change, I am comforted in my tethering to the Source of all life, the great I AM - God the Father, Son and Eternal Spirit. Even when I occasionally lose touch with 'Who I am', I am confident of 'Whose I am'.
In this I find today's peace - buoyed by life's sometimes wild, sometimes gentle wind currents - carried to a new place with each new day.
Intothewind -
Naturegirl
This partially completed life of mine has seen it's share of greatness and grit. You have, no doubt, learned from my writing that the almighty tree is my favored metaphor in life. When I feel fragile, I see myself hanging on a thin limb -oh so close to breaking- falling into the abyss below. When I am filled with confidence and strength, my core is a great and massive trunk, upholding a million branches of living, breathing organic matter. The wind of life's trials blow - sometimes gently - sometimes with great power. Such a mystery, it is. The great flow of inner strength and alternate disconnect. The connecting cord - the tethering to the Life-Source of renewal for body, mind and spirit can be so fragile - strength, only a dream away.
Riding a wave of forgotten reservation, the young girl's dreams catapulted her into a sphere of brave advance. She was rising, rising - to the stage of no return, captive to her inner strength. Determination and confidence etching her face, she launched her charge down the carpeted runway to the vaulting table whose menace was sure to be defeated. Airborne for the vault, her position perfect, her hands sure she twists and spins midair, sticking the perfect landing. Triumphant in her smile, she exits her stage. A heart throb like no other. But then - bolting upright in her bed, she awakens from her dream of magic. Today was her chance. The dream - was it a sign? Would today be the day she became the confident gymnast of her dreams. Would she break through her ceiling of fragile brokenness?
This naturegirl's days of rolling down the highways and byways of the great U.S. have been interrupted by the great invader - called, 'accident'. Pedro is broken - I am not. Or, am I? I seem to be hanging on a thin limb on this day.
Today is Sunday. I attended church this morning, not far down the carefully manicured boulevard from my temporary home with my dear family in California. Isn't it funny how sermons sometimes have a way of burroughing into the heart and breaking it wide open. I am here today, as a result of today's churchgoing, to be R-E-A-L. My great admission - today's declaration -- for the last 24+ hours, I have been feeling B-R-O-K-E-N, rather defective - at the bottom of my game. There - I said it. I don't like saying it. Why? Because - does anyone ever really reach out and embrace a fractured vessel? Not usually. Humankind gravitates to the 'best of show'. And, who doesn't want to be the winner?!!!
Yes, I AM traveling, cross country - alone - a woman - and, I hear it often.... "Wow! That is brave!" , or, "I could never do that," or, "Seriously, you are joking, right?" I admit, the commentary pumps-up my inner 'feel-good' monitor. My admission - today's declaration - however, is not about courage or doing the unusual. My declaration is about, liking and accepting the real core of 'who I am' - my daily activity preferences and avoidances, my personality strengths and weaknesses, my caring and my indifferences - the natural flow of how I choose to fill my day when living with little to nonexistent external directives in my current life. Part of this pilgrimage journey of mine is 'inward.' Finding my way forward in my new single life requires a new awakening to 'the core of me'. Identifying the core is no easy task. Why is it so tempting to observe others who are a source of inspiration, and wanting to 'be like them' - to be someone else. I am pretty sure I am not the only one in this camp, though I am not condoning it. I am beginning (with a capital 'B') to 'know', who I really am. The past few days has enlightened my 'knowing'. I am still chewing and digesting. I am praying for a new freedom of acceptance in 'being me'.
I have loved my days on the road. This past 10 days I have missed the new landscapes that fly by me as I venture into territories unknown. I miss the funny roadside signage, the amazing (and sometimes not so amazing) architecture, the new cultural dialects I hear in the coffeeshops and grocery stores along the way. I miss the movement. I miss the wide open spaces. I am learning just how much of an earth-woman I am. That would explain why I am forever picking up leaves, and twigs and feeling flower petals. Perhaps the change in my daily routines have upset my equilibrium - my rhythm. I am untethered from my mobile living quarters - my dear Pedro - cantankerous mobile home that he is!!
Tethering is all about connectedness. Our connections help us feel grounded - anchored in familiarity. As I have studied the botanical worlds of the many regions of the country, I am most fascinated with the moisture-laden subclimates where greenery flourishes without man's hoses tethered to the faucets of city water systems. The profuse branching of ivy as it climbs the tree trunks and overruns the ground in a covering of lush green. What is unique about all this ferocious fauna is that it's connections can easily be loosened, removed, or altered. Tethering is different from the technique of tying - an element not easily removed. I love the though of being 'gently' tethered - to our loved ones, to our rituals, or to our natural instinctive choices. It is a softer connection, flexible, more readily negotiated. When I contemplate 'who I am', I wish to think in terms of a more flexible being, a bendable connection. I wish to remove the rigid knots that tie me to a 'prison of being'. Knowing that I am movable, but connected to a core gives me comfort, and comfort is something that is easy to live with.
The stuff of dreams and longing, of realtime challenges and hopes, and the regrets of unresolved conflict live in every human soul, at one time or another. We all navigate our days in varying degrees of wanderlust. The timeless question, 'Who Am I' has been queried daily by the masses, looking for the perfect formula of how to live out a life of peace and honesty, while maintaining intimate, equal, and bendable relationships with those we call dear.
Soul work is difficult. Finding balance between one's discipline to become 'more' or making choices for the sake of relationship compromise, and one's choice to rest in the comfort of living with our natural inclinations will forever be the stuff of daily life. This much I know - giving V-O-I-C-E to issues of the heart and soul is a requirement if one is to sift through the jumble of tomorrow's choices and arrive at the coveted prize of inner peace.
Riding on the wind of change, I am comforted in my tethering to the Source of all life, the great I AM - God the Father, Son and Eternal Spirit. Even when I occasionally lose touch with 'Who I am', I am confident of 'Whose I am'.
In this I find today's peace - buoyed by life's sometimes wild, sometimes gentle wind currents - carried to a new place with each new day.
Intothewind -
Naturegirl
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
LOWDOWN IN LOW COUNTRY
LOWDOWN IN LOW COUNTRY
A Minnesota gal, I am. Conversation with many a friend of mine, back home, may sound a bit like this - "So, what plans do you have for the weekend?" -a response - "I think we're headin' up north to the cabin." In Low Country, the replay is likely to be, "We are goin' down south to our sea place!" What may be a cabin in MN with a deer and pine tree motif of earthen browns, moss green and brick red would be rewritten in Low Country with white pillared porches and rocking chairs, surrounded by clusters of waving sea grass, bowls of shells and sky blue cushions trimmed in coral or lemon. The beach hats hang neatly on the porch hooks, beckoning a beachcomber to a stroll in the sand.
Low Country was something I'd read of in a few previous novels, but really had very little idea what the 'lay of the land' might look like, or even where it was. A bit of education was called for after seeing a few 'Low Country' road signs as I rolled down a South Carolina highway. My research told me it is a section of the east cost surrounding Charleston, South Carolina and Savannah, Georgia. Sea level is an operative word, when thinking 'Low Country'. Salt marshes pepper the landscape of this slow-goes-it part of the U.S. On a sparkling sunny day, the waving marsh grasses move in shades of celery, emerald and toast, outlining the puzzle-shaped patches of crystalline ocean waters. These saline swamps are teaming with all manner of sea life. A visit to the local supermarket is testament to this. The deli cases are lined with bowls of fresh crab cakes, mussels, shrimp and clam chowder.
The harbors along the fingerling-shaped coastline dock a multitude of shrimp trawling boats and seaworthy vessels loaded with the day's catch. Having never lived in this culture, my curiosity pushes me to peek around a corner here, a narrow street there, and a drive around the bend in the road reveals a line of pillared historic old south houses. A seaside bench beckons me for a few contemplative moments. Sun shining warm on my face, I recall the clip-clop of the horse-drawn carriages of Charleston, and the open door of the centuries old Catholic church within the historic downtown sprawl of ornate iron-gated walls. Organ music spilled out the doors of the church. Drawn into the sacred space of the empty sanctuary, I sit a few moments on a pew, listening – music and voices - of yesteryear - of what was - of what is to come. A wondering – what will a year - or two - or ten bring to my life. Always within me, the tree-climbing girl that swayed in the wind, wondering about my tomorrows. A cessation of the music jolted me back to real-time. Unseating myself, I left the sacred space of my wondering. And, once more ….I snap back to the present, as I sit on the bench of the dock of the bay. Rising, I walk to Pedro, and the next Low Country stop.
Octopus arms - that's what they look like! Giant trees of the costal Low Country frame the road with their magical limbs. These angel oak trees are like no other oaks I have seen. A light-strewn roadway tunnel formed by their canopy mesmerized me on the drive to Kiawah Island - one of 20+ Low Country sea islands. There was a tugging at my heart - "Stop! Go climb them!" Then good sense took over - no longer am I the 'small fry' on my Iowa farm with nimble knees. Instead I stop and stare up through the maze, thick with hanging 'beards' of Spanish moss. The mystery of this moment consumes my being. Squinting and turning circles, diamonds of light swirl above me. I breathe in the moist Low Country air, feeling the goosebumps on my arms. And on I go, to the local Java-Java haven, and my morning tea.
Brookgreen Gardens lies about an hour north of Charleston. It is 9,000 acres of pristine nature at its best! As I drive the short distance to Hilton Head on a cloudy misting day, I rehearse the delights of my visit there. This oasis is home to a multitude of winged creatures, creepy crawlers and of course, an occasional alligator. The many life-sized bronze sculptures scattered on the grounds awakened plenty of artsy inspiration for me. Grinning to myself, I recall the humor of the moment as the great blue heron stared at me, lifting and retracting his thick S-shaped cordlike neck, like a child and his slinky. A stone’s throw away, 2 turtles sit, head-to-head in some turtleland conversation, a seemingly romantic turtle-moment. The tupelo trees and great palmettos drip on this dewey day and I find shelter for the moment under the angel limbs of a monstrous oak. The short-lived shower allows me to roam for another hour, listening to many a fountain singing its water-song and walking the secret wooded winding paths to charming green corners and a child’s fairyland of nature’s magic. I welcome the tsunami of new world images that settle in and fill my soul, floating down ‘the 17’ on my way to the next bridge and island paradise.
Most everyone, at one moment or another in their life, find themselves facing a trial, a trauma – a few seconds can change everything. My journey has had it’s share of trials – a time here and there where I ‘lost my grounding’, feeling a little low in spirit. I’ve ridden the wave out and landed on solid ground again, in time. Sporadic times of ‘the terrific’ have also been a part of this pilgrim journey – euphoric minutes of pure pleasure and joy. It all comes with the territory. This, my friend, is life! Giving and receiving remains central to my purpose as I roll off the miles. The solitude of letting both God and my heart speak has allowed me to find healing and wholeness.
On my morning’s drive to the Hilton Head library last week, it was my great misfortune to face one of life’s little traumas. The stop light hidden around a bend in the road was red – a stationary car in front me. Squealing brakes and …CRASH… then silence. I feel only a twinge in my ankle – no other pain. The car in front drives through the intersection and parks. 9-1-1 – time elapse – emergency squad – police – tears – confusion. As I pace on the roadside, answering questions for the report, I am filled with regret. Why, did I choose that moment to glance out my side window. Everything has changed. Pedro’s engine will not start. It is time for Plan B.
My accident - terrible but not tragic. Inconvenient, but not the end. I am amazed that with my dear daughter’s help, I am sitting on an airplane in Savannah 6 hours later bound for California. Pedro has been towed to a collision center. From the west coast, I will navigate the repair to my RV on the east coast. My journey is delayed, but still I will write. There is always an inner journey – and there will I go. Perhaps come January I will reunite with Pedro for the remaining 5 months of my pilgrimage.
A low moment – feeling down, but not out in Low Country. Through life’s highs and lows I go on, confident of God’s presence, always.
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
Friday, November 2, 2012
ALL HAIL THE HORIZON - THE GREAT DIVIDE
The design element of 'line' has always been a big deal to me. As an artist, the importance of line has been drilled home time after time. Fat ones, skinny ones, curved, broken, short and long. Lines are snakey, sleek, interrupted and oft-times solid. These relaxing days on the ocean have, for me, heightened my love of line.
I am presently cocooned in a lovely condo on the edge of the Atlantic ocean - Myrtle Beach style. "Hey, wait a minute, I thought you were living in a micro mobile RV these days", you might say. Well, compliments of a generous brother who owns this 'pad', I am being graced with a week of expansive living. An indulgent pleasure, it is! The fact that I am suspended about 90 feet above ground, but surrounded by every creature comfort a person might expect, does not fully explain the euphoria I have been privy to over the past few days. There's not much in life, more magical than witnessing the sunrise and sunset high above the pounding surf from the balcony that sits on the eastward side of this resort-style living space.
My first evening on the beach graced me with a splendid sunset display, capping off an enjoyable travelers' birthday! Sunsets from my present perch are not the California type. One needs to be facing west to witness the dropping off of the great 'sun-orb' at day's end. However, sunsets when facing east at the Atlantic ocean are more about the horizon's great color divide as seen in the southern sky. Cloud formations have everything to do with the striated display of color as the light of day withers. The peachy slivered dagger of reflected sun that was my birthday sunset was a delight beyond measure. A large cloud cover left only this narrow-arrow of light with a few needle-like clouds casting a shadowed display of blues, oranges, pinks and mineral grays. Oh the glory of it!
As I have lingered over many-a-cup of tea, contemplating the great expanse of water and wave, of foam and seagulls, of the flip-flopping of light and dark at the horizon, I realize the great powers that are held in the atmosphere and movement of the ocean. This is the week that Hurricane Sandy hit the eastern seaboard. Though the outer bands left only a day's worth of rain in this locale, the day before I arrived, good fortune was not to be realized in the states north of here. As I have listened to the media's portrayal of the devastation in the New Jersey and New York areas, I moan in sorrow for the gross loss that lies to my north. How can it be? Somehow, the pleasant view I enjoy today, looking oceanward, brings to mind the Disney movie "Beauty and the Beast". How appropriate, the analogy - incomprehensible beauty when admiring a calm sea, and the most ferocious of beasts when 100 mph winds gobble up homes, neighborhoods and business districts, too close to water's edge.
Why is it that the ragged edge of human experience is seen most easily in giant-sized discrepancies -polar opposites. A new love begins for someone, and a long love ends for another. A lucrative new job offer comes to one, and a job termination arrives at the doorstep of another. A new life comes to one family, and a loved one leaves this earthly life for another family. Nature has its vast differences as well. I have witnessed for days now, the light changes where the line draws a horizon - one moment the sky is light, the ocean is dark, and 10 hours later, I behold a darkened sky and a shimmering moonlit ocean. Two nights ago a large hovering cloud-mass hung overhead, long after sunset. I stepped onto the balcony for a last look before I snuggled-in for the night. There I beheld - a grace moment. A small circular 'hole' in the clouds allowed the moon's rays to plunge downward, casting a small circular spotlight on the ocean's surface, halfway to horizon's edge. To me, it spoke of the Almighty, a sign of God's presence. The site held me captive for a good long while before I padded off to bed with the words of Amazing Grace ringing in my soul - a song most poignant with memory for me. I recalled with wonder and warmth a moment in my life when visiting Peter Island - of Sir Francis Drake Channel-Caribbean fame. On that evening, forever etched in my mind, I stood at midnite on a secluded mountaintop with 6 dear ones, listening to a native-of-the-island lift his voice to the heaven in song - the same song - as a full moon sent a million diamonds scattering across the ocean and a gentle wind blew my hair, face lifted to the great Creator. I need say no more.
About 10 weeks ago, I stood at a spot in Wyoming where an invisible line was drawn in the earth. On one side of the line, all water drained eastward, and on the other all water seeped away in a westerly direction. This line is called, 'The Great Divide' on geography maps. It was a rather profound thing to contemplate as i stood there. There was nothing totally captivating in the 'picture' of this area, but the spot held a great significance. The great divide has taken on a new meaning this week as I have gazed relentlessly out my condo window. Asians are well versed in the ying and yang of life. The word 'balance' comes to mind. This concept has fixated me for many a year. Some do the 'balance thing' better than others. Usually there is a consequence to 'out of balance' life issues. This, I will let you ponder on your own. For me, I will declare that this is among the more important of my daily life goals. How successful I am, I must say, fluctuates more than I would wish, but a goal has a boatload of worth! The balance I am most intuned to on this pilgrimage has to do with 'giving and receiving'. Art gift and outward-in hospitality, my common denominators for this traveler.
Tonight I have a fisherman and 'his line' in sight. So carefully he baits the hook, wades into the surf, pauses, pulling back his rod and with a gentle swing, out flies the line, a gesture of intention - a hope to reel in 'the gift - the catch'. Down the line of beach a young gent has reeled in his catch - a warm embrace for the lucky lady. Together they face the horizon, an evening of closeness. Ahhhh. Perhaps the same should be for me, again, some day. For now, the nurture of nature warms my soul - the knowledge of God's embrace is enough.
So slowly the sky grows darker, the horizon fainter. The south sky turns from baby-butt pink to cherry blossom to brandywine. A fading, fading and a return to blueberry skin and pewter until nothingness - a perfect balance - the horizon is lost to blackness. The moon is in hiding, until later, when once more, the reflected light will give birth to the glittered nighttime striation of waves. And God divided the day and the night. And another day.
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
The design element of 'line' has always been a big deal to me. As an artist, the importance of line has been drilled home time after time. Fat ones, skinny ones, curved, broken, short and long. Lines are snakey, sleek, interrupted and oft-times solid. These relaxing days on the ocean have, for me, heightened my love of line.
I am presently cocooned in a lovely condo on the edge of the Atlantic ocean - Myrtle Beach style. "Hey, wait a minute, I thought you were living in a micro mobile RV these days", you might say. Well, compliments of a generous brother who owns this 'pad', I am being graced with a week of expansive living. An indulgent pleasure, it is! The fact that I am suspended about 90 feet above ground, but surrounded by every creature comfort a person might expect, does not fully explain the euphoria I have been privy to over the past few days. There's not much in life, more magical than witnessing the sunrise and sunset high above the pounding surf from the balcony that sits on the eastward side of this resort-style living space.
My first evening on the beach graced me with a splendid sunset display, capping off an enjoyable travelers' birthday! Sunsets from my present perch are not the California type. One needs to be facing west to witness the dropping off of the great 'sun-orb' at day's end. However, sunsets when facing east at the Atlantic ocean are more about the horizon's great color divide as seen in the southern sky. Cloud formations have everything to do with the striated display of color as the light of day withers. The peachy slivered dagger of reflected sun that was my birthday sunset was a delight beyond measure. A large cloud cover left only this narrow-arrow of light with a few needle-like clouds casting a shadowed display of blues, oranges, pinks and mineral grays. Oh the glory of it!
As I have lingered over many-a-cup of tea, contemplating the great expanse of water and wave, of foam and seagulls, of the flip-flopping of light and dark at the horizon, I realize the great powers that are held in the atmosphere and movement of the ocean. This is the week that Hurricane Sandy hit the eastern seaboard. Though the outer bands left only a day's worth of rain in this locale, the day before I arrived, good fortune was not to be realized in the states north of here. As I have listened to the media's portrayal of the devastation in the New Jersey and New York areas, I moan in sorrow for the gross loss that lies to my north. How can it be? Somehow, the pleasant view I enjoy today, looking oceanward, brings to mind the Disney movie "Beauty and the Beast". How appropriate, the analogy - incomprehensible beauty when admiring a calm sea, and the most ferocious of beasts when 100 mph winds gobble up homes, neighborhoods and business districts, too close to water's edge.
Why is it that the ragged edge of human experience is seen most easily in giant-sized discrepancies -polar opposites. A new love begins for someone, and a long love ends for another. A lucrative new job offer comes to one, and a job termination arrives at the doorstep of another. A new life comes to one family, and a loved one leaves this earthly life for another family. Nature has its vast differences as well. I have witnessed for days now, the light changes where the line draws a horizon - one moment the sky is light, the ocean is dark, and 10 hours later, I behold a darkened sky and a shimmering moonlit ocean. Two nights ago a large hovering cloud-mass hung overhead, long after sunset. I stepped onto the balcony for a last look before I snuggled-in for the night. There I beheld - a grace moment. A small circular 'hole' in the clouds allowed the moon's rays to plunge downward, casting a small circular spotlight on the ocean's surface, halfway to horizon's edge. To me, it spoke of the Almighty, a sign of God's presence. The site held me captive for a good long while before I padded off to bed with the words of Amazing Grace ringing in my soul - a song most poignant with memory for me. I recalled with wonder and warmth a moment in my life when visiting Peter Island - of Sir Francis Drake Channel-Caribbean fame. On that evening, forever etched in my mind, I stood at midnite on a secluded mountaintop with 6 dear ones, listening to a native-of-the-island lift his voice to the heaven in song - the same song - as a full moon sent a million diamonds scattering across the ocean and a gentle wind blew my hair, face lifted to the great Creator. I need say no more.
About 10 weeks ago, I stood at a spot in Wyoming where an invisible line was drawn in the earth. On one side of the line, all water drained eastward, and on the other all water seeped away in a westerly direction. This line is called, 'The Great Divide' on geography maps. It was a rather profound thing to contemplate as i stood there. There was nothing totally captivating in the 'picture' of this area, but the spot held a great significance. The great divide has taken on a new meaning this week as I have gazed relentlessly out my condo window. Asians are well versed in the ying and yang of life. The word 'balance' comes to mind. This concept has fixated me for many a year. Some do the 'balance thing' better than others. Usually there is a consequence to 'out of balance' life issues. This, I will let you ponder on your own. For me, I will declare that this is among the more important of my daily life goals. How successful I am, I must say, fluctuates more than I would wish, but a goal has a boatload of worth! The balance I am most intuned to on this pilgrimage has to do with 'giving and receiving'. Art gift and outward-in hospitality, my common denominators for this traveler.
Tonight I have a fisherman and 'his line' in sight. So carefully he baits the hook, wades into the surf, pauses, pulling back his rod and with a gentle swing, out flies the line, a gesture of intention - a hope to reel in 'the gift - the catch'. Down the line of beach a young gent has reeled in his catch - a warm embrace for the lucky lady. Together they face the horizon, an evening of closeness. Ahhhh. Perhaps the same should be for me, again, some day. For now, the nurture of nature warms my soul - the knowledge of God's embrace is enough.
So slowly the sky grows darker, the horizon fainter. The south sky turns from baby-butt pink to cherry blossom to brandywine. A fading, fading and a return to blueberry skin and pewter until nothingness - a perfect balance - the horizon is lost to blackness. The moon is in hiding, until later, when once more, the reflected light will give birth to the glittered nighttime striation of waves. And God divided the day and the night. And another day.
Intothewind,
Naturegirl
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
BUMPS, PATCHES AND CRACKS
A ride down the back roads of West Virginia in October is a year-end bonus with a capital 'B'. The rolling hills show a bounty of confetti popcorn - verde, crimson and amber - weaving their foothills into a lattice valley of emerald green grass, a lime river carpet. As one might imagine, the road is not of particular pristine smoothness. Pedro gives no claim to a Cadillac ride. I feel the bumps. I notice a truckload of patched road cracks on my Saturday morning drive. However, the nostalgia of appalachian culture I witness roadside, distracts me. I am, at the same time, acutely aware of a squealing noise every time I steer to the right. Towns with a population of over 500 are scarce in the neck of the woods I'm traveling. My atlas tells me that I should arrive at a college town in an hour or two. Before my descent into collegetown USA, I am stopped on the winding mountain road by a long line of cars. The flashing red lights ahead speak of an accident. I see the ambulance. In a moment, I see 2 smashed cars. I pray. I wonder. I am reminded - life is precious. After the chainsaw splits the air, a time lapse - the ambulance drives off, siren-on. The road is cleared. I proceed, praying for the victim(s). God, ever-present - be my protector. Soon, my college town is in sight.
The bumps in 'my road' have landed in my lap. My left front wheel/brake issue from earlier this summer has resurfaced. I'll not list the number of 'check-up's I've had related to this issue. My wheel problem peaked with an on-the-tollway 'bang-thump-rattle-knock' event, shortly after my college town check-up, where a loose wheel was 'diagnosed' (a not-so-small safety issue) and Pedro was given a 'patch job' to get me to my nephew's home in North Carolina. The patch did not work. A two-hour delay for towing landed me at a repair shop that would 'reopen' on Monday morning. As per a book I am reading, I have decided to "Take refuge in the present moment", aka - Hampton Inn (INSIDE). That is - relax - unwind - read - soak in a real tub - be inspired - and let 'the fix' come to me. Thus, I have taken some hours to think of the soul messages meant for just now.
The people I have encountered as a part of this event are numerous, and represent a full spectrum of personalities and stations-in- life. I might preface this expo of events by reminding you that the language of West Virginia is considerably different from 'talking Minnesotan'. Did you ever see the movie - "Coal Miner's Daughter' starring Sissy Spacek? Well, 'that thar' would indicate all manner of speech, 'raught here-raught naow'! Don't get me wrong - there is not a thing wrong with this picture- the people I've met in the last 3 days of my motel hiatus have peppered me with 'sweetie' and 'honey' and - 'enytheng aelse I can dyuh fer ya, m'am' and 'teak care dear!'. It's all rather endearing, I must say.
The big burly man who rescued me from my roadside perch (tow truck guy) was a quiet but kind-faced gent, intent on his work of hooking up Pedro to all the gadgets required for a safe tow. In the half-hour commute with him I learned of a smattering of the challenges in his life. He was 1-week into this new job - a paramedic turned tow-truck guy. At last count, the deaths he'd witnessed in his line of work was 246. The nightmares were eroding his life. His fall-out with a relative who had a perfect 'God-fix' for him was troublesome. Did I have the perfect words - I think not, but I offered the best I had - a listening ear and my care. In private, I pray... for healing to come to his soul.
The two 'lube-shop-boys' who applied the temporary lock-washer patch (45 minutes pre-roadside breakdown) were a genuine 'south of the Mason-Dixon line' duo who tell it like it is, straight up and with a bit of colorful language (complete with .. 'scuze me m'am' after explicatives). After their half-hour work to tighten up my wobbly tire, I asked for the bill... to which one responded -' don't worry 'bout it m'am... my good deed for the day.' I wish I had time to 'detail' each of these do-gooder-boys, it could be a fine moment!
I could elaborate on the tire-shop stop, 5 minutes prior to the do-gooders stop, but the bruskness of Mr. Tire-shop guy would only be good for a quick roll of the eyes.
The young-dude at Sheets Dodge who shuttled me to my Hampton Inn hangout was another of the quiet, gentle ones, who'd just lost his job, elsewhere, 2 months prior. I sensed he was grateful for his new job. He wore his kindness well.
I contemplate these, and a bundle more of those I've been rubbing shoulders with during this 'bump-in-the-road' event. My prayers cover them. God intercedes in sighs, too deep for words. He knows them all. This pilgrm is poised to listen.
The book that inspired my pilgrimage tells me that a pilgrim progresses - across time and space. For me, the time now ticks off just over 4 months. My odometer tells me I have traveled 15,000 miles. I have visited 10 extended family members. Hospitality offered by hosts along the way contributes immeasurably to personal delights and gratitudes. We wandering-folk experience the world in a new way. The customary vernacular of others rings new in our ears, firing new thoughts-new questions in the pilgrim's mind. Paying attention to the lives of 'the small ones', rather than the grandeur of the famous, or of relics of notoriety paves the way for the inner journey to life's deeper meaning. Let me explain - As I travel, there are many historical monuments of significance along my pathway. I have, on occasion, taken time to have a quick 'look-see'. However, the inward journey of the soul, both of mine and of those who cross my path holds greater meaning to me. The works of artists, whose paintings I have observed in a multitude of galleries/museums are, to be sure, part of that journey. Contemplating the lives of the artist-folks, the met-along-the road folks, and the next-of-kin folks has illuminated for me both the pain and the exhileration of life.
As contemplation leads to the deeply embedded values that run the motor of daily living for all of us - the 'How' of it - the 'Why' of it - I find myself in conversation with God. Sometimes I think I have it right - sometimes I'm sure I must have it wrong. One day is sweet - on another day its a mountain to climb. On occasion I think I hear God's voice - on another I can see and hear only a big white, empty space - But, I KNOW the Spirit remains - I BELIEVE in the promises of God, and so - I hang on, for the sweetness and 'The Voice' to return. The scriptural Proverbs are a virtual storehouse of Godly advice on 'how to live'. On a prior visit I had this summer with a nephew on the west coast, he shared with me a poem that helps him in his daily choices. He granted me permission to post the poem on my blog. To me, it is profound. I am certain that every principle in this poem could be found in Proverbs.
I share with you.... "IF" by Rudyard Kipling:
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
..... (and, may I add my 'take' to the last line... '..which is more - you'll soar, my earthling traveler!")
As I meander, I learn from others - I observe with open-mindedness - I learn from the bumps. God willing, I give from the heart - I am becoming - MORE than I was - at least, for today.
Intothewind - Naturegirl
A ride down the back roads of West Virginia in October is a year-end bonus with a capital 'B'. The rolling hills show a bounty of confetti popcorn - verde, crimson and amber - weaving their foothills into a lattice valley of emerald green grass, a lime river carpet. As one might imagine, the road is not of particular pristine smoothness. Pedro gives no claim to a Cadillac ride. I feel the bumps. I notice a truckload of patched road cracks on my Saturday morning drive. However, the nostalgia of appalachian culture I witness roadside, distracts me. I am, at the same time, acutely aware of a squealing noise every time I steer to the right. Towns with a population of over 500 are scarce in the neck of the woods I'm traveling. My atlas tells me that I should arrive at a college town in an hour or two. Before my descent into collegetown USA, I am stopped on the winding mountain road by a long line of cars. The flashing red lights ahead speak of an accident. I see the ambulance. In a moment, I see 2 smashed cars. I pray. I wonder. I am reminded - life is precious. After the chainsaw splits the air, a time lapse - the ambulance drives off, siren-on. The road is cleared. I proceed, praying for the victim(s). God, ever-present - be my protector. Soon, my college town is in sight.
The bumps in 'my road' have landed in my lap. My left front wheel/brake issue from earlier this summer has resurfaced. I'll not list the number of 'check-up's I've had related to this issue. My wheel problem peaked with an on-the-tollway 'bang-thump-rattle-knock' event, shortly after my college town check-up, where a loose wheel was 'diagnosed' (a not-so-small safety issue) and Pedro was given a 'patch job' to get me to my nephew's home in North Carolina. The patch did not work. A two-hour delay for towing landed me at a repair shop that would 'reopen' on Monday morning. As per a book I am reading, I have decided to "Take refuge in the present moment", aka - Hampton Inn (INSIDE). That is - relax - unwind - read - soak in a real tub - be inspired - and let 'the fix' come to me. Thus, I have taken some hours to think of the soul messages meant for just now.
The people I have encountered as a part of this event are numerous, and represent a full spectrum of personalities and stations-in- life. I might preface this expo of events by reminding you that the language of West Virginia is considerably different from 'talking Minnesotan'. Did you ever see the movie - "Coal Miner's Daughter' starring Sissy Spacek? Well, 'that thar' would indicate all manner of speech, 'raught here-raught naow'! Don't get me wrong - there is not a thing wrong with this picture- the people I've met in the last 3 days of my motel hiatus have peppered me with 'sweetie' and 'honey' and - 'enytheng aelse I can dyuh fer ya, m'am' and 'teak care dear!'. It's all rather endearing, I must say.
The big burly man who rescued me from my roadside perch (tow truck guy) was a quiet but kind-faced gent, intent on his work of hooking up Pedro to all the gadgets required for a safe tow. In the half-hour commute with him I learned of a smattering of the challenges in his life. He was 1-week into this new job - a paramedic turned tow-truck guy. At last count, the deaths he'd witnessed in his line of work was 246. The nightmares were eroding his life. His fall-out with a relative who had a perfect 'God-fix' for him was troublesome. Did I have the perfect words - I think not, but I offered the best I had - a listening ear and my care. In private, I pray... for healing to come to his soul.
The two 'lube-shop-boys' who applied the temporary lock-washer patch (45 minutes pre-roadside breakdown) were a genuine 'south of the Mason-Dixon line' duo who tell it like it is, straight up and with a bit of colorful language (complete with .. 'scuze me m'am' after explicatives). After their half-hour work to tighten up my wobbly tire, I asked for the bill... to which one responded -' don't worry 'bout it m'am... my good deed for the day.' I wish I had time to 'detail' each of these do-gooder-boys, it could be a fine moment!
I could elaborate on the tire-shop stop, 5 minutes prior to the do-gooders stop, but the bruskness of Mr. Tire-shop guy would only be good for a quick roll of the eyes.
The young-dude at Sheets Dodge who shuttled me to my Hampton Inn hangout was another of the quiet, gentle ones, who'd just lost his job, elsewhere, 2 months prior. I sensed he was grateful for his new job. He wore his kindness well.
I contemplate these, and a bundle more of those I've been rubbing shoulders with during this 'bump-in-the-road' event. My prayers cover them. God intercedes in sighs, too deep for words. He knows them all. This pilgrm is poised to listen.
The book that inspired my pilgrimage tells me that a pilgrim progresses - across time and space. For me, the time now ticks off just over 4 months. My odometer tells me I have traveled 15,000 miles. I have visited 10 extended family members. Hospitality offered by hosts along the way contributes immeasurably to personal delights and gratitudes. We wandering-folk experience the world in a new way. The customary vernacular of others rings new in our ears, firing new thoughts-new questions in the pilgrim's mind. Paying attention to the lives of 'the small ones', rather than the grandeur of the famous, or of relics of notoriety paves the way for the inner journey to life's deeper meaning. Let me explain - As I travel, there are many historical monuments of significance along my pathway. I have, on occasion, taken time to have a quick 'look-see'. However, the inward journey of the soul, both of mine and of those who cross my path holds greater meaning to me. The works of artists, whose paintings I have observed in a multitude of galleries/museums are, to be sure, part of that journey. Contemplating the lives of the artist-folks, the met-along-the road folks, and the next-of-kin folks has illuminated for me both the pain and the exhileration of life.
As contemplation leads to the deeply embedded values that run the motor of daily living for all of us - the 'How' of it - the 'Why' of it - I find myself in conversation with God. Sometimes I think I have it right - sometimes I'm sure I must have it wrong. One day is sweet - on another day its a mountain to climb. On occasion I think I hear God's voice - on another I can see and hear only a big white, empty space - But, I KNOW the Spirit remains - I BELIEVE in the promises of God, and so - I hang on, for the sweetness and 'The Voice' to return. The scriptural Proverbs are a virtual storehouse of Godly advice on 'how to live'. On a prior visit I had this summer with a nephew on the west coast, he shared with me a poem that helps him in his daily choices. He granted me permission to post the poem on my blog. To me, it is profound. I am certain that every principle in this poem could be found in Proverbs.
I share with you.... "IF" by Rudyard Kipling:
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
..... (and, may I add my 'take' to the last line... '..which is more - you'll soar, my earthling traveler!")
As I meander, I learn from others - I observe with open-mindedness - I learn from the bumps. God willing, I give from the heart - I am becoming - MORE than I was - at least, for today.
Intothewind - Naturegirl
Monday, October 15, 2012
SAND CASTINGS
The wind off Lake Michigan blows ferociously at times. The trademark shoreline in southwestern Michigan is abundandant with gently curved and thinly structured grasses that perch on mound after mound of sifted tawny sand. A barefoot walk through the dunes is an experience I highly recommend. Not only will your muscles get a workout as you churn upwards through the sifting dune-sand, but the cold silky-smooth grains submerge your feet in a pleasure moment all its own!
The past four days have been spent near this favorite spot of mine, Benton Harbor, Michigan. The arts are alive and well in this city. A friend I have come to know in recent years is a pewtersmith and resides in this delightful city. Her studio is located in an old Box Factory - a place that many artists call 'home' for their creative ventures. She creates some of the finest pewter vessels and wall art that one can find, having recently been selected for a special award at our own Twin Cities-St. Paul Arts and Crafts Show at Xcel Center this past April. One of her techniques involves casting molten metal in various shapes. She can also be found pounding, torching, coloring, pitting, etching, fusing and twisting this malleable metal. Her patinas and style is truly unique. With a gentle spirit and committed daily routines, her work has caused me to examine my own life-journey through the eyes of her labors. As I contemplate my life as the metal in her hand, I have felt my share of blows, a pounding of the spirit. Sometimes the cutting edge, an etching if you will, of words, has brought a measurement of pain and the heat of conflict has torched my soul on, but a few occasions. These are real-life experiences most all of us face in life as we are cast into a being that hopes to find beauty in the end. Allowing ourselves to be shaped by The Creator, we learn through our own efforts, to create through individual experiences a meaningful, peaceful and fruitful life. Each of us are a piece of art, working our way to life's completion as we receive from others and give from our soul, the best we have to give. And so, the days pass one by one as we step off our future.
Taking a break, yesterday, from the collage-art I am creating on this pilgrimage journey of mine, I ventured down to Silver Beach in St. Joseph, MI, a large and impressive beachfront, as beaches go. A mild breeze prevailed on this day with temperatures feeling colder than the weather-person declared. I was amazed on my first visit to this fine place, how the beach resembled the winterscape of Iowa on a snowy day. That is, the wind-born sand at this spot creates drifts more than 3 feet high! I am told by locals of the invasion of tractor-sized equipment with their mammoth shovels being brought beachside with regularity to clean up the massive drifting. After a redepositing of the sand at water's edge once more, the monster wheels roll off the beach, leaving gigantic herringbone tire track castings for beachcombers to contemplate. As I walked swiftly toward the water's edge yesterday, clutching my sweater tightly to my neckline, I stared at the castings in the sand. Big tires tracks, smaller tire tracks, perfectly imbedded jogger shoe tracks and of course, plenty of webbed seagull bird-prints. The sand flats are water sodden on this day, making castings with perfection. I contemplated the lives of those whose footprints were left here at Silver Beach for my scrutiny. Perhaps a contemplative beach visit, an exhuberant moment, a love-struck moment, a sorrowful visit to water's edge - only God knows the souls of those who stood here, where I now stand in my own contemplative moment. A prayer flung upward, to The Keeper of those who still walk this earth, for good welfare, peace and life-direction, I turn away from the pounding surf on my walk back to Pedro, my home on wheels. I smile at the multitude of patterned designs the jogging shoe industry comes up with to plaster on the soles of their brand, each etched to perfection in today's sandscape. I could easily have material for a one-person art show today, if I reverse-casted the variety of jogger-sole imprints left for my perusal on this nostalgic day. I will resist the urge and return to my collage-art still in process in my own art space.
The wind of change is blowing in my life. Having retired within the past year from a good many years working as part of a hospital team that gives care to children, I have been searching for my next life-focus. It is at once, a bit unsettling as well as totally exhilerating to have such a freedom. I usually find my days unfolding in a relatively intuitive manner. This can be a good thing and, oft-times not so good, depending on the need at hand. If the 'to do list' is long, intuitive living is rather conterproductive. However, given my current 'life on the road' with relatively few deadlines and a great deal of flexibility, intuitive living works quite well. Life as a single person also allows for decision-making with less restrictions. Being a third-of-the-way through my year-long travels, I am beginning to gain a new focus for my future. This years' purpose, for me, involves both a committment to connections with family and extended family as well as exploring with more regularity the creative side of me, through the art I am making and giving to those I visit. The states I pass through (12 at last count) have shown me a multitude of landscapes and people-cultures which have broadened my understanding of life. I spend time (almost) daily at coffeeshops (and I am sitting in one at this present moment), a place were a person can get a great 'read' on the workings of life and the people who frequent these establishments. Business transactions happen here, studying happens here, relationships are started and broken here, personal enlightenment through reading and conversation happen here. I've seen it all. I've cried, I've laughed and I've 'stewed' in these places. I've cast off the old and welcomed the new.
Having arrived at this moment, this coffee shop, in the early part of the day after my beach-walking day in Michigan, I am filing away my thoughts on 'casting' that have become a new awareness to me. People-cultures, whether socio-economic, race or religious heritage have always had their own 'cast systems'. This type of 'casting', a people orientation, brings to mind a different definition of the word. To illustrate - the route through the Indiana city I arrived in following my 'beach day', took me through a lower class part of the city. Moments of discomfort as I stopped at the traffic lights illuminated for me the relative life of priviledge I now have. I wondered, as I studied the ragged-edged people on these streets, how they arrived at this place they call home. Are they held (cast) in this locale by choice or by mandate? Lest I 'cast my cares to the wind' and forget the less fortunate of this world, my day's events served to remind me of both the role of re-creation and responsibility that is expected of me and all of mankind.
The last thing I did before departing the shores of Lake Michigan where I spent the previous four days was to return to the same beach. My return trip revealed a very different sandscape - dried out sand, now-ferocious winds covering the intricate sand-casted footprints, I realized the temporal nature of all of life. Things change. New realities unfold. God takes the old and makes a new tomorrow.
As I rolled down the road and out of the town of my pewtersmith friend, windshield wipers moving to and fro, I relished the joys of new friends, of the lessons of nature through grains of sand and the anticipations of new life-scapes as sand sifts through the hourglass of the days of my life.
Intothewind-
Naturegirl
The wind off Lake Michigan blows ferociously at times. The trademark shoreline in southwestern Michigan is abundandant with gently curved and thinly structured grasses that perch on mound after mound of sifted tawny sand. A barefoot walk through the dunes is an experience I highly recommend. Not only will your muscles get a workout as you churn upwards through the sifting dune-sand, but the cold silky-smooth grains submerge your feet in a pleasure moment all its own!
The past four days have been spent near this favorite spot of mine, Benton Harbor, Michigan. The arts are alive and well in this city. A friend I have come to know in recent years is a pewtersmith and resides in this delightful city. Her studio is located in an old Box Factory - a place that many artists call 'home' for their creative ventures. She creates some of the finest pewter vessels and wall art that one can find, having recently been selected for a special award at our own Twin Cities-St. Paul Arts and Crafts Show at Xcel Center this past April. One of her techniques involves casting molten metal in various shapes. She can also be found pounding, torching, coloring, pitting, etching, fusing and twisting this malleable metal. Her patinas and style is truly unique. With a gentle spirit and committed daily routines, her work has caused me to examine my own life-journey through the eyes of her labors. As I contemplate my life as the metal in her hand, I have felt my share of blows, a pounding of the spirit. Sometimes the cutting edge, an etching if you will, of words, has brought a measurement of pain and the heat of conflict has torched my soul on, but a few occasions. These are real-life experiences most all of us face in life as we are cast into a being that hopes to find beauty in the end. Allowing ourselves to be shaped by The Creator, we learn through our own efforts, to create through individual experiences a meaningful, peaceful and fruitful life. Each of us are a piece of art, working our way to life's completion as we receive from others and give from our soul, the best we have to give. And so, the days pass one by one as we step off our future.
Taking a break, yesterday, from the collage-art I am creating on this pilgrimage journey of mine, I ventured down to Silver Beach in St. Joseph, MI, a large and impressive beachfront, as beaches go. A mild breeze prevailed on this day with temperatures feeling colder than the weather-person declared. I was amazed on my first visit to this fine place, how the beach resembled the winterscape of Iowa on a snowy day. That is, the wind-born sand at this spot creates drifts more than 3 feet high! I am told by locals of the invasion of tractor-sized equipment with their mammoth shovels being brought beachside with regularity to clean up the massive drifting. After a redepositing of the sand at water's edge once more, the monster wheels roll off the beach, leaving gigantic herringbone tire track castings for beachcombers to contemplate. As I walked swiftly toward the water's edge yesterday, clutching my sweater tightly to my neckline, I stared at the castings in the sand. Big tires tracks, smaller tire tracks, perfectly imbedded jogger shoe tracks and of course, plenty of webbed seagull bird-prints. The sand flats are water sodden on this day, making castings with perfection. I contemplated the lives of those whose footprints were left here at Silver Beach for my scrutiny. Perhaps a contemplative beach visit, an exhuberant moment, a love-struck moment, a sorrowful visit to water's edge - only God knows the souls of those who stood here, where I now stand in my own contemplative moment. A prayer flung upward, to The Keeper of those who still walk this earth, for good welfare, peace and life-direction, I turn away from the pounding surf on my walk back to Pedro, my home on wheels. I smile at the multitude of patterned designs the jogging shoe industry comes up with to plaster on the soles of their brand, each etched to perfection in today's sandscape. I could easily have material for a one-person art show today, if I reverse-casted the variety of jogger-sole imprints left for my perusal on this nostalgic day. I will resist the urge and return to my collage-art still in process in my own art space.
The wind of change is blowing in my life. Having retired within the past year from a good many years working as part of a hospital team that gives care to children, I have been searching for my next life-focus. It is at once, a bit unsettling as well as totally exhilerating to have such a freedom. I usually find my days unfolding in a relatively intuitive manner. This can be a good thing and, oft-times not so good, depending on the need at hand. If the 'to do list' is long, intuitive living is rather conterproductive. However, given my current 'life on the road' with relatively few deadlines and a great deal of flexibility, intuitive living works quite well. Life as a single person also allows for decision-making with less restrictions. Being a third-of-the-way through my year-long travels, I am beginning to gain a new focus for my future. This years' purpose, for me, involves both a committment to connections with family and extended family as well as exploring with more regularity the creative side of me, through the art I am making and giving to those I visit. The states I pass through (12 at last count) have shown me a multitude of landscapes and people-cultures which have broadened my understanding of life. I spend time (almost) daily at coffeeshops (and I am sitting in one at this present moment), a place were a person can get a great 'read' on the workings of life and the people who frequent these establishments. Business transactions happen here, studying happens here, relationships are started and broken here, personal enlightenment through reading and conversation happen here. I've seen it all. I've cried, I've laughed and I've 'stewed' in these places. I've cast off the old and welcomed the new.
Having arrived at this moment, this coffee shop, in the early part of the day after my beach-walking day in Michigan, I am filing away my thoughts on 'casting' that have become a new awareness to me. People-cultures, whether socio-economic, race or religious heritage have always had their own 'cast systems'. This type of 'casting', a people orientation, brings to mind a different definition of the word. To illustrate - the route through the Indiana city I arrived in following my 'beach day', took me through a lower class part of the city. Moments of discomfort as I stopped at the traffic lights illuminated for me the relative life of priviledge I now have. I wondered, as I studied the ragged-edged people on these streets, how they arrived at this place they call home. Are they held (cast) in this locale by choice or by mandate? Lest I 'cast my cares to the wind' and forget the less fortunate of this world, my day's events served to remind me of both the role of re-creation and responsibility that is expected of me and all of mankind.
The last thing I did before departing the shores of Lake Michigan where I spent the previous four days was to return to the same beach. My return trip revealed a very different sandscape - dried out sand, now-ferocious winds covering the intricate sand-casted footprints, I realized the temporal nature of all of life. Things change. New realities unfold. God takes the old and makes a new tomorrow.
As I rolled down the road and out of the town of my pewtersmith friend, windshield wipers moving to and fro, I relished the joys of new friends, of the lessons of nature through grains of sand and the anticipations of new life-scapes as sand sifts through the hourglass of the days of my life.
Intothewind-
Naturegirl
Saturday, October 6, 2012
HEADIN' EAST
For the past 5 weeks my trusty RV has not left Minnesota. I have enjoyed these weeks of renewed friendship with loved ones in my home state. I am getting restless for the road. Something wonderful happens to my soul when I head out onto a ribbon of highway. Tomorrow my RV, Pedro, will transport me to a new state, new adventures and opportunities to enrich my life. Looking back to the time of planning my journey, it seemed as though I pulled an Alice-in-Wonderland trick. I found myself slipping down, down, into the virtual abyss of a botanical world in my mind. I knew my travel time would need to focus on 'all-things-nature'. Thus my journey's purposes unfolded, as the petals of a rose slowly unfold from bud to bloom. "I must," I told myself, "visit as many botanical gardens as possible as I move from state to state." My travel days are filled with observations of the earth-life vegetation that passes by my RV window, as well as those special spots where public gardens are highlighted in travel magazines as great spots to visit. Whether I'm viewing natural habitat or carefully manicured formal gardens, I delight in each equally. Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio....where is my next glorious garden to be found? You can be sure to hear from me when it's discovered!
The days of autumn are at peak here in Minnesota. I sat, yesterday, outside a friend's house, relishing the day, cup of jasmine tea in hand. The green of the moss-carpet that blanketed the pond a short distance away was outlined in early evening shadows. A nearby aspen released its overripe golden leaves, descending on a swift breeze - a ticker-tape parade of golden chips that was the endcap of a perfect day. If the next month on the road heading south and east unfolds as I dream of, it should be an ongoing display of colored autumn splendor. The great river road that follows the Mississippi southward from the Twin City area will be on my proposed itinerary. Somewhere halfway down Iowa's east boundary I'll angle east through the Illinois countryside. I am eager to take in all the sights of a landscape that has already seen the season's transition to frosty mornings and pumpkins on the doorsteps of midwestern homes. The same eagerness I felt in June as I left on my westward journey is settling into my bones. I wish for sunshine and mild temperatures. However, I suspect I'll take what I get.
I am a farm girl. Born in Iowa, raised on 160 acres of flat, fertile soil, where tall corn grows like bacillus in a petri dish. I usually fondly say I 'survived' life with four brothers - all limbs and cranium intact. My life was filled with plenty of the great outdoors. Much to my mothers' displeasure, I preferred being out on a tractor or playing Ms. Robinhood in the woods, just a stones' throw from the big white farmhouse I called home. It was in the drippy-nosed days of my youth that I began to crave digging in the dirt. One fine midsummer day I suddenly noticed the sea of orange that clustered in the roadside ditch at the east edge of our so-called lawn. The seed catalog that had arrived midwinter informed my curious nature that these were indeed a hearty bloom called day lilies. Thus began my self-education in botany, a fascination that continues still. That would explain why I find myself standing in the aisle of Home Depot reading plant books in all parts of the U.S. as my travels take me from one region of the U.S to another.
Learning early in my youth that some flowers were perennials and some annuals, I nourished my love of flowers by planting different varieties each spring. I voraciously would peel through the catalog pages that pictured delightful new blooms I'd never before seen. Bedtime dream fantasies were of snapdragons and dahlias, sunflower and bachelor buttons. Planting time each spring, pleasured my days as the cherished new flower garden burrowed into the black Iowa soil, bordering my mother's vegetable garden. Then, the great wait - when would those minute spears of green first appear? A day of glee, when they burst forth stretching up through the clumps of black, looking for the warm sunshine and nourishment to fortify their grand stalks to come.
Another of my passions, collage-art, has occupied a tidbit of my time as I have enjoyed my mid-trip Minnesota re-connect. A weekend in the Brainerd Lakes area a few weeks back with friends allowed me a couple special days to do my artmaking out of doors, lakeside and flanked by some wonderful northwoods pines and the smell of a crackling fire come evening. I wish I could package moments like these - the tranquility - the inspiration that comes when immersed in nature's best - the creativity that flows so easily. I am finding my niche in this new art medium. It was a delight to present one of those art creations to a niece and her family recently. The family connections I continue to make on my pilgrim-journey seem to be filling me with a new and deep joy. Giving is truly more blessed than receiving! Having completed 5 art projects to date, I keep looking for those special ideas that come to me as I cruise down the country roads of state after state. I suspect the remaining 8 months of my journey will be filled with plenty more 'ah-hah' art moments.
You are, I hope, getting the 'gist' of this 'Art and Soul Journey' I am on. This (my journey) is, I am beginning to believe, one of my central life purposes. At least it feels that way to me today. I am grateful for the opportunity, and I highly recommend a road trip- with a purpose - to all you blog-readers.
Think of me - pray for me, as I will for you - as I am 'on the road again' come Sunday. The journey continues!
Intothewind-naturegirl
For the past 5 weeks my trusty RV has not left Minnesota. I have enjoyed these weeks of renewed friendship with loved ones in my home state. I am getting restless for the road. Something wonderful happens to my soul when I head out onto a ribbon of highway. Tomorrow my RV, Pedro, will transport me to a new state, new adventures and opportunities to enrich my life. Looking back to the time of planning my journey, it seemed as though I pulled an Alice-in-Wonderland trick. I found myself slipping down, down, into the virtual abyss of a botanical world in my mind. I knew my travel time would need to focus on 'all-things-nature'. Thus my journey's purposes unfolded, as the petals of a rose slowly unfold from bud to bloom. "I must," I told myself, "visit as many botanical gardens as possible as I move from state to state." My travel days are filled with observations of the earth-life vegetation that passes by my RV window, as well as those special spots where public gardens are highlighted in travel magazines as great spots to visit. Whether I'm viewing natural habitat or carefully manicured formal gardens, I delight in each equally. Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio....where is my next glorious garden to be found? You can be sure to hear from me when it's discovered!
The days of autumn are at peak here in Minnesota. I sat, yesterday, outside a friend's house, relishing the day, cup of jasmine tea in hand. The green of the moss-carpet that blanketed the pond a short distance away was outlined in early evening shadows. A nearby aspen released its overripe golden leaves, descending on a swift breeze - a ticker-tape parade of golden chips that was the endcap of a perfect day. If the next month on the road heading south and east unfolds as I dream of, it should be an ongoing display of colored autumn splendor. The great river road that follows the Mississippi southward from the Twin City area will be on my proposed itinerary. Somewhere halfway down Iowa's east boundary I'll angle east through the Illinois countryside. I am eager to take in all the sights of a landscape that has already seen the season's transition to frosty mornings and pumpkins on the doorsteps of midwestern homes. The same eagerness I felt in June as I left on my westward journey is settling into my bones. I wish for sunshine and mild temperatures. However, I suspect I'll take what I get.
I am a farm girl. Born in Iowa, raised on 160 acres of flat, fertile soil, where tall corn grows like bacillus in a petri dish. I usually fondly say I 'survived' life with four brothers - all limbs and cranium intact. My life was filled with plenty of the great outdoors. Much to my mothers' displeasure, I preferred being out on a tractor or playing Ms. Robinhood in the woods, just a stones' throw from the big white farmhouse I called home. It was in the drippy-nosed days of my youth that I began to crave digging in the dirt. One fine midsummer day I suddenly noticed the sea of orange that clustered in the roadside ditch at the east edge of our so-called lawn. The seed catalog that had arrived midwinter informed my curious nature that these were indeed a hearty bloom called day lilies. Thus began my self-education in botany, a fascination that continues still. That would explain why I find myself standing in the aisle of Home Depot reading plant books in all parts of the U.S. as my travels take me from one region of the U.S to another.
Learning early in my youth that some flowers were perennials and some annuals, I nourished my love of flowers by planting different varieties each spring. I voraciously would peel through the catalog pages that pictured delightful new blooms I'd never before seen. Bedtime dream fantasies were of snapdragons and dahlias, sunflower and bachelor buttons. Planting time each spring, pleasured my days as the cherished new flower garden burrowed into the black Iowa soil, bordering my mother's vegetable garden. Then, the great wait - when would those minute spears of green first appear? A day of glee, when they burst forth stretching up through the clumps of black, looking for the warm sunshine and nourishment to fortify their grand stalks to come.
Another of my passions, collage-art, has occupied a tidbit of my time as I have enjoyed my mid-trip Minnesota re-connect. A weekend in the Brainerd Lakes area a few weeks back with friends allowed me a couple special days to do my artmaking out of doors, lakeside and flanked by some wonderful northwoods pines and the smell of a crackling fire come evening. I wish I could package moments like these - the tranquility - the inspiration that comes when immersed in nature's best - the creativity that flows so easily. I am finding my niche in this new art medium. It was a delight to present one of those art creations to a niece and her family recently. The family connections I continue to make on my pilgrim-journey seem to be filling me with a new and deep joy. Giving is truly more blessed than receiving! Having completed 5 art projects to date, I keep looking for those special ideas that come to me as I cruise down the country roads of state after state. I suspect the remaining 8 months of my journey will be filled with plenty more 'ah-hah' art moments.
You are, I hope, getting the 'gist' of this 'Art and Soul Journey' I am on. This (my journey) is, I am beginning to believe, one of my central life purposes. At least it feels that way to me today. I am grateful for the opportunity, and I highly recommend a road trip- with a purpose - to all you blog-readers.
Think of me - pray for me, as I will for you - as I am 'on the road again' come Sunday. The journey continues!
Intothewind-naturegirl
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
TREE TALES
Kids do the darnest things when they are in the way of behaviour's trouble. A hideout under the bed - the back of the closet behind clothes is always a great hiding place - putting a favorite blankie in a doll suitcase and 'running away' is the story of a few ...at least a trip around the block before they change their mind. As for me..?... well, when I was a kid I headed for the tree south of my farm-home driveway and climbed to the top in about 30 seconds flat! The view from the top was always calming and I felt safe (at least until my hunger got the best of me and I descended to face my punishment). It was in the treetops as a kid with the gently swaying branches that I fell in love with trees. My tree-fascination remains all these years later, though a climb to the top is no longer an option for these 'mature adult' joints of mine.
A couple months ago I sat under the shelter of a tree, resting against its trunk, looking out over the California seascape before me. My spirit roamed. Connectiing with the tree, I was anchored to the earth I love. My fingers curled around the thick grasses, coarser than than the turf back home. The salty sea air brushed my face sending a tingle down my spine. Even on a hot summer California day, a beach breeze brings a cooling that refreshes the weariest of earths' warfaring strangers. How is it that I, this meandering midwestern soul, should find myself at this time and place in life, with a journey before me, unencumbered by responsibilities of yesteryear? Was this always part of a plan? I think of the plaque hanging in my mobile home, gifted by a friend - it declares, "Life is about how you handle Plan B." The singleness of my Plan B is feeling more normal as the days tick off the calendar. This tree I'm attached to ... is it living Plan A or Plan B? Was it intended to grow straight up and branch out evenly? Are its left-leaning branches formed as a result of Plan B - the devastating storm that ripped off its right side, leaving it to repair itself through the years with the uneven scars of a trunk that lacks symmetry. Yet, it thrives - still. Such a great metaphor for life.
The Oregon coast trees bend, curl and chisel in the oddest directions, altered by the unrelenting costal winds. Their foliage stripped away with such repetition that they resemble wire sculptures, fashioned for a gallery of curious onlookers to interpret. These barely breathing towers of sculptural beauty are as varied as the stars in the sky. Battered by nature's fury, their lifeblood seeps away leaving a once glorious tree to its twisted, petrified skeletal state. Even now, as I re-live my day's journey on the Orgeon costal highway of a month ago, the artist in me delights in the 30-second peek at these beauties as my RV motored through the fog. The great white blanket of mist drifted down and vanished in ghostly fashion. Oregon pleasures live on in my memories.
Trees sacrifice themselves without intention. Shelter for us human-folk are among the devouring lions. The great rainforests south of the equator are disappearing, sacrificed for the cause of beef-eating human carnivores. Therein lies a much larger story on the eating preferences of the world's population. The green movement has made great strides in the past decade, restoring some hope for our grandchildren and the generations to come. Tree replanting, sometimes with human intention and sometimes through the course of nature's regenerational habits inspires me. My 'Yellowstone in a Day' journey a number of weeks back enlightened me to the miracles of nature. The great Yellowstone fires of the 1980's wiped out roughly 40% of its forest. Viewing the thriving new green terrain gave this nature-girl hope for tomorrow's forests, worldwide.
It is fall in Minnesota. I walked today on the trails of a nature reserve I frequented in my life of a decade earlier. The leaves are turning. The smells of autumn fill the air. I kick at the fallen leaves and relish the moment. Sunshine floods my face and I hear the birds. Raising my arms and a Mary Tyler Moore twirl (without the hat), I stride to my Mr. P, smiling at natures beauty. God has done a 'bang-up job' with nature today. Life - such a gift.
Regeneration, whether inward or outward, in nature or in nurture of our souls, brings vitality to life. A seed, a bud, sunshine and rain, a flower for our tomorrows.
Intothewind-
with NatureGirl.
Kids do the darnest things when they are in the way of behaviour's trouble. A hideout under the bed - the back of the closet behind clothes is always a great hiding place - putting a favorite blankie in a doll suitcase and 'running away' is the story of a few ...at least a trip around the block before they change their mind. As for me..?... well, when I was a kid I headed for the tree south of my farm-home driveway and climbed to the top in about 30 seconds flat! The view from the top was always calming and I felt safe (at least until my hunger got the best of me and I descended to face my punishment). It was in the treetops as a kid with the gently swaying branches that I fell in love with trees. My tree-fascination remains all these years later, though a climb to the top is no longer an option for these 'mature adult' joints of mine.
A couple months ago I sat under the shelter of a tree, resting against its trunk, looking out over the California seascape before me. My spirit roamed. Connectiing with the tree, I was anchored to the earth I love. My fingers curled around the thick grasses, coarser than than the turf back home. The salty sea air brushed my face sending a tingle down my spine. Even on a hot summer California day, a beach breeze brings a cooling that refreshes the weariest of earths' warfaring strangers. How is it that I, this meandering midwestern soul, should find myself at this time and place in life, with a journey before me, unencumbered by responsibilities of yesteryear? Was this always part of a plan? I think of the plaque hanging in my mobile home, gifted by a friend - it declares, "Life is about how you handle Plan B." The singleness of my Plan B is feeling more normal as the days tick off the calendar. This tree I'm attached to ... is it living Plan A or Plan B? Was it intended to grow straight up and branch out evenly? Are its left-leaning branches formed as a result of Plan B - the devastating storm that ripped off its right side, leaving it to repair itself through the years with the uneven scars of a trunk that lacks symmetry. Yet, it thrives - still. Such a great metaphor for life.
The Oregon coast trees bend, curl and chisel in the oddest directions, altered by the unrelenting costal winds. Their foliage stripped away with such repetition that they resemble wire sculptures, fashioned for a gallery of curious onlookers to interpret. These barely breathing towers of sculptural beauty are as varied as the stars in the sky. Battered by nature's fury, their lifeblood seeps away leaving a once glorious tree to its twisted, petrified skeletal state. Even now, as I re-live my day's journey on the Orgeon costal highway of a month ago, the artist in me delights in the 30-second peek at these beauties as my RV motored through the fog. The great white blanket of mist drifted down and vanished in ghostly fashion. Oregon pleasures live on in my memories.
Trees sacrifice themselves without intention. Shelter for us human-folk are among the devouring lions. The great rainforests south of the equator are disappearing, sacrificed for the cause of beef-eating human carnivores. Therein lies a much larger story on the eating preferences of the world's population. The green movement has made great strides in the past decade, restoring some hope for our grandchildren and the generations to come. Tree replanting, sometimes with human intention and sometimes through the course of nature's regenerational habits inspires me. My 'Yellowstone in a Day' journey a number of weeks back enlightened me to the miracles of nature. The great Yellowstone fires of the 1980's wiped out roughly 40% of its forest. Viewing the thriving new green terrain gave this nature-girl hope for tomorrow's forests, worldwide.
It is fall in Minnesota. I walked today on the trails of a nature reserve I frequented in my life of a decade earlier. The leaves are turning. The smells of autumn fill the air. I kick at the fallen leaves and relish the moment. Sunshine floods my face and I hear the birds. Raising my arms and a Mary Tyler Moore twirl (without the hat), I stride to my Mr. P, smiling at natures beauty. God has done a 'bang-up job' with nature today. Life - such a gift.
Regeneration, whether inward or outward, in nature or in nurture of our souls, brings vitality to life. A seed, a bud, sunshine and rain, a flower for our tomorrows.
Intothewind-
with NatureGirl.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
SHELTER
Given the opportunity to luxuriate in the guestroom of dear ones of my family this past week, I find myself having a conversation with - myself. To have or not to have - the benefits of micro or macro space. On the one hand, a person can move, unrestricted, in a large bedroom and, on the other hand, the cocooning nurture of a micro-mobile bedroom seems to foster unrestricted soul work - a contemplative space. My cerebral conversation has been quite a lively one. Case in point: I find myself at this very moment in my mobile digs writing this blog, something I have been attempting to do, unsuccessfully in the guest-space bedroom where I have been hanging my hat the past week. Seems to me I am more creative in littel ol' Pedro's small space, invigorating my spirit. As I glance through my RV window, a cluster of sheltering maples defines the beach of the azure lake a stones' throw away. For this time in my life, this pilgrimage I am on, I have found my contemplative spirit thriving in this micro world of mine.
An inspirational book responsible for my present journey continues to enlighten me to the purpose of my pilgrimage - a set apart journey, to give birth to a life with greater meaning.
Tibetan pilgrimages, I've learned, are undertaken with a vibrancy for the giving and receiving of both spiritual and material blessings. Tibetans practice pilgrimage by circling mountains. The aboriginals of Australia are a wandering people. Nomads of the middle east (Bedouins), are a wandering people as well. Simplicity - mandatory - for a nomadic lifestyle. My life over the past 3 months has been a conglomeration of uncomplicated days, filled with mystery, discovery and revelation. Naming the purpose of my journey was, for me, the lid on my soup kettle. My journey was thus christened: "A Reclaiming of Family Relationships - a Rediscovery of my Future." It is happening folks. The embryo is present. I am blessed to be giving a small tidbit of my gifts - an art piece to each niece or nephew I visit and I am blessed to receive - tidbits of insight and wisdom from the generation of folk younger than myself. The birthing of my future will commence - in God's own time..
A conversation with a niece I recently visited, enlightened me to a surprising attitude about 'shelter'. One fact-finding study by an acquaintance of hers, relative to homelessness, revealed this interesting data - some people are homeless - by choice! Is it the wandering they find satisfying or is it simply they do not want to work. Therein lies a month's worth of debate. Seeking and creating daily shelter is required by the homeless, as well as the pilgrim, the complexity of which varies greatly. In my present 'mode operendi', a pilgrim on the road with my trusty RV, my daily challenge is simple - where to park for the night. Mostly, it has been rather easy, though I could indeed share a few stories in that regard! The easy places- RV resorts, state parks and driveways of relatives. The 'not-so-sure' places I have hidden away for another time and place! Shedding the extraneous and needless encumbrences at the periphery of my contemporary life has lightened my pilgrimage journey.
As my wandering year continues to unfold before me, the way of the pilgrim is settling into my days. A true pilgrim's progress is twofold in measurement; exterior progress -- the movement of your body in a mobile vehicle or on a foot path - as well as interior progress -- the movement of your soul from one consciousness to another. Journeys welcome mystery - not the problematic sort - the awakening and transformational sort. Shelter is primal for all living creatures. Indulge me for a moment as I share a California story.
My daughter and family recently relocated to southern California. Eighteen hundred miles and 10 days after I embarked on my journey, I landed in the shelter of her loving arms. To say that I felt a bit of paradise invade me is an understatement as I relished the embrace and surveyed the beautiful palm-treed community she now calls home. My sleep space in California became even smaller - sharing a bed with my 5-year-old granddaughter. Who is to complain though, when a tiny hand slips into mine in the middle of the night. Daily walks on the sidewalks of her gated community became my norm.
On a particularly nostalgic day in June, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a curious new phenomenon to this midwesterner. Lumbering ever so slowly in front of me was what looked like a dagger-shaped earthworm carrying a very large rockish parcel on its back. I had heard my daughter talking about all the snails on the sidewalks, but had not witnessed them myself, until this particular day. " So this is what a snail looks like," I thought. I crouched down to observe the intricacies of this little guy with the big burden on his back. With agonizing delays, Mr. Snail made his way across the great space of concrete leaving a mucousy sludged trail in his wake. The sliver-sized antennae with the micron orbs on their tips must, I muse, contain some radar-scoping capabilities. Curiosity in high gear, I decided to 'fool around' with Mr. Snail. I reached down with a stick in hand and touched his large shell perched on his rail-thin body. With lightening speed, his whole earthwormish body retracted to within his shell and there he sat, still as the rocks on the edge of the sidewalk. "Wow, pretty nifty," I thought. A real-life example of 'shelter' - a recluse from the storms of life and potential storms of life was staring me in the face. My ensuing days brought a great many life metaphors to my thoughts as I recalled my curious investigation of this little creature. l will leave you to excavate life's meanings in this story of a snail's shelter.
In the quietness of my midnight's meditation, I heard, on that night in my consciousness, the strains of an oft-sung melody - 'On Eagles Wings'.... "You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord who abide in His shadow for life....He will raise you up on eagles' wings - bear you on the breath of dawn - make you to shine like the sun and hold you in the palm of His hand..."
Flying free in the face of life's storms, I am assured of the protection of the Almightly, of the shelter promised repititiously in the psalmodies of David. The great 'I AM' is renewing - who I am.
In this I rest.
Intothewind
with Naturegirl
Given the opportunity to luxuriate in the guestroom of dear ones of my family this past week, I find myself having a conversation with - myself. To have or not to have - the benefits of micro or macro space. On the one hand, a person can move, unrestricted, in a large bedroom and, on the other hand, the cocooning nurture of a micro-mobile bedroom seems to foster unrestricted soul work - a contemplative space. My cerebral conversation has been quite a lively one. Case in point: I find myself at this very moment in my mobile digs writing this blog, something I have been attempting to do, unsuccessfully in the guest-space bedroom where I have been hanging my hat the past week. Seems to me I am more creative in littel ol' Pedro's small space, invigorating my spirit. As I glance through my RV window, a cluster of sheltering maples defines the beach of the azure lake a stones' throw away. For this time in my life, this pilgrimage I am on, I have found my contemplative spirit thriving in this micro world of mine.
An inspirational book responsible for my present journey continues to enlighten me to the purpose of my pilgrimage - a set apart journey, to give birth to a life with greater meaning.
Tibetan pilgrimages, I've learned, are undertaken with a vibrancy for the giving and receiving of both spiritual and material blessings. Tibetans practice pilgrimage by circling mountains. The aboriginals of Australia are a wandering people. Nomads of the middle east (Bedouins), are a wandering people as well. Simplicity - mandatory - for a nomadic lifestyle. My life over the past 3 months has been a conglomeration of uncomplicated days, filled with mystery, discovery and revelation. Naming the purpose of my journey was, for me, the lid on my soup kettle. My journey was thus christened: "A Reclaiming of Family Relationships - a Rediscovery of my Future." It is happening folks. The embryo is present. I am blessed to be giving a small tidbit of my gifts - an art piece to each niece or nephew I visit and I am blessed to receive - tidbits of insight and wisdom from the generation of folk younger than myself. The birthing of my future will commence - in God's own time..
A conversation with a niece I recently visited, enlightened me to a surprising attitude about 'shelter'. One fact-finding study by an acquaintance of hers, relative to homelessness, revealed this interesting data - some people are homeless - by choice! Is it the wandering they find satisfying or is it simply they do not want to work. Therein lies a month's worth of debate. Seeking and creating daily shelter is required by the homeless, as well as the pilgrim, the complexity of which varies greatly. In my present 'mode operendi', a pilgrim on the road with my trusty RV, my daily challenge is simple - where to park for the night. Mostly, it has been rather easy, though I could indeed share a few stories in that regard! The easy places- RV resorts, state parks and driveways of relatives. The 'not-so-sure' places I have hidden away for another time and place! Shedding the extraneous and needless encumbrences at the periphery of my contemporary life has lightened my pilgrimage journey.
As my wandering year continues to unfold before me, the way of the pilgrim is settling into my days. A true pilgrim's progress is twofold in measurement; exterior progress -- the movement of your body in a mobile vehicle or on a foot path - as well as interior progress -- the movement of your soul from one consciousness to another. Journeys welcome mystery - not the problematic sort - the awakening and transformational sort. Shelter is primal for all living creatures. Indulge me for a moment as I share a California story.
My daughter and family recently relocated to southern California. Eighteen hundred miles and 10 days after I embarked on my journey, I landed in the shelter of her loving arms. To say that I felt a bit of paradise invade me is an understatement as I relished the embrace and surveyed the beautiful palm-treed community she now calls home. My sleep space in California became even smaller - sharing a bed with my 5-year-old granddaughter. Who is to complain though, when a tiny hand slips into mine in the middle of the night. Daily walks on the sidewalks of her gated community became my norm.
On a particularly nostalgic day in June, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a curious new phenomenon to this midwesterner. Lumbering ever so slowly in front of me was what looked like a dagger-shaped earthworm carrying a very large rockish parcel on its back. I had heard my daughter talking about all the snails on the sidewalks, but had not witnessed them myself, until this particular day. " So this is what a snail looks like," I thought. I crouched down to observe the intricacies of this little guy with the big burden on his back. With agonizing delays, Mr. Snail made his way across the great space of concrete leaving a mucousy sludged trail in his wake. The sliver-sized antennae with the micron orbs on their tips must, I muse, contain some radar-scoping capabilities. Curiosity in high gear, I decided to 'fool around' with Mr. Snail. I reached down with a stick in hand and touched his large shell perched on his rail-thin body. With lightening speed, his whole earthwormish body retracted to within his shell and there he sat, still as the rocks on the edge of the sidewalk. "Wow, pretty nifty," I thought. A real-life example of 'shelter' - a recluse from the storms of life and potential storms of life was staring me in the face. My ensuing days brought a great many life metaphors to my thoughts as I recalled my curious investigation of this little creature. l will leave you to excavate life's meanings in this story of a snail's shelter.
In the quietness of my midnight's meditation, I heard, on that night in my consciousness, the strains of an oft-sung melody - 'On Eagles Wings'.... "You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord who abide in His shadow for life....He will raise you up on eagles' wings - bear you on the breath of dawn - make you to shine like the sun and hold you in the palm of His hand..."
Flying free in the face of life's storms, I am assured of the protection of the Almightly, of the shelter promised repititiously in the psalmodies of David. The great 'I AM' is renewing - who I am.
In this I rest.
Intothewind
with Naturegirl
Thursday, August 30, 2012
COMING HOME - MY JOURNEY'S FURLOUGH
What is it about 'the home stretch' that makes the heart beat a little faster, the foot press the gas pedal a little harder and the pot at the end of the rainbow loom large in one's consciousness. After 2-1/2 months of travel, visits, spectacular sights and a few average days, I looked at my mileage gauge on Pedro. It tells me I have posted almost 10,000 miles since my journey began. Anticipation was high, and my attention to landscape details rolling before me was at fever pitch. Today, I'm headed 'home' - that is - to Minnesota - for a 5-week reprieve before I launch into the remainder of my year-long journey. Next up, I will travel east and south as I set my sights to California again, and Christmas with family. Studies in contrast have always peaked my interest, which is why black and white have held prominent display in the homes I have decorated over the years. With wild displays of contrast, God has painted his earthly domain - nature's treasure trove. Today, as I relive the past 3 days' travel, natures' contrasts loom large.
Having visited America's premier national park, Yellowstone, once before, I began my small group guided bus tour with a degree of mediocre anticipation. It was a stellar day, in terms of temperature, however, the forest fires that were burning in the surrounding 3 states created a gray haze that obscured the distant mountain ridges from visibility. Not to be deterred from the day's enjoyment, I dismissed this as a small inconvenience, listening with great interest to the avalanche of wildlife and nature-knowledge our tour guide rattled off with gaity and encyclopedic verbage. Nothing less than astounding - the wall of data she could produce in a short time. I engaged my audible filter on occasion, but at day's end, the park was so alive to me with understanding and meaning, that I was grateful for the experience. At another time and place, I could expound on Queen Elizabeth's collar, the palisades, the caldera, which conifer needles are square and how you can tell the temperature of the thermal pools of Yellowstone by just looking at them. The highlight of my day, and nothing less than awe-inspiring, was the 'grand canyon of the park', a wonderland of color and depth I'd not seen on my first visit.
Plateaus and plains - an enthralling contrast to the numerous mountain ranges I'd traversed in previous weeks - now the panorama that surrounds me as I make my way eastward through Wyoming and South Dakota. The color of my world in a single word - amber, with smatterings of pale lichen verde. The crevasses, clefts, and butts interrupt the swathe of flatness with regularity, giving in to staccato of nature's variety. Mesmerizing - it is - the great expanse of sun scorched grasses and nubby shrubs - signs of the prevalent drought of this year. The hours roll off in succession, captivating my attention to an audio book, though with some effort. A degree of lethargy invades my day, longing for a sliver of 'normal life'. What are my friends back in MN doing - how is their golf game - what flowers are blooming in their gardens - how many coffee dates have I misse? - a longing for home fills my being.
RV parks become oases in the lives of those wayfaring strangers who live in a residence with wheels. The truth is, not all are created equal. The clean-quotient, the natural environment, the services provided, the supplies available - just to name a few of the desirables. This Friday evening I am to be graced with a very pleasurable 2 night stay-over - my Pleasureway rig and me. My laundry stash was spilling over, my living space not passing the white-glove test and oh yes, the bug bombs clinging to Pedro was disastrous. It was time for a cleanliness overhaul. Mountain View (aptly named, as the Black Hills are just beginning at the eastern Wyoming perimeter) RV park passes the critical review with an A+ - a special spot indeed. Maybe part of it is my discovery as, I headed to the privy - a delightful open-air recreation area with 2 digital TV's displaying Friday Night football - yes - it's the Vikings!! Whoa, now this feels like home!! Where's the chili and popcorn? A splendid night for me, indeed.
Bidding goodbye to the friendly RV custodials I sense an energy drawing me to 'my roots'. Could I make it all the way home, today?? It's a long shot - off I roll, a new energy replacing the lethargy of the previous day.
The back roads of South Dakota are new territory for me. One sees far more 'real' life on the back roads than what is afforded on the interstate system. Leaving I-90 an hour east of Rapid City, I launch into a new kind of custard grassland world. Herds and herds of cattle dot the countryside. I am still trying to figure out why so many times the herds of cows are all facing the same direction at the same time - a most curious phenomenon. I'm hopeful someone will unwrap this folly soon for me! I almost expect the herd to do a 'quarter-turn-to-the-left' as I gaze out my window on their world.
Today is a 'no-no' day - mostly junk food (hate it when I do that!), but I don't want to take time to cook or stop at a restaurant - I'm longing for HOME. At days' end, I realize I will need another 1/2 day of travel to arrive home in some semblance of order. I roll into a comforting Walmart for my night's sleep and a bit of NFL pre-season amusement on my nifty RV-TV, before giving into REM-sleep.
Southeastern Minnesota feels like an 'Iowa space' to me - resembling the lay of the land I knew for the first 18 years of my life - Norwegian Iowa farm girl that I am. A smile is pasted on my face - I'm going home. The land has become an intensely deep green, lying in the ribbed lines of soybean and cornfields I am so familiar with. The geometry of the nation's bread-basket continues to intrigue me - the way the oat and alfalfa fields square off with the corners of the bean and corn fields - great lined patches that give air-travelers a quilted-view of the world that is Minnesota and Iowa. I will bet that the farmers of Montana and Wyoming know not what a drainage ditch is. My smile turns to a giggle as I glide gently down the asphalt country road near St. Leo where a large antique sign is posted in the farmers front yard, reading: 'Coca-Cola-Fountain Service' - yah, 'Right'!! Minnesota nice, the rural Minnesota mentality displays a 'hard-working-class' where the lion's share of farms are carefully manicured with prolific garden plots. Rolling into Danube, the sign says - "The Town with Heart". "Nice, .... oh, what's this... a self-service vegetable stand - to be sure - only in rural MN!!" I stop, pick out my potatoes, onions, watermelon and banana peppers, place my cash in the chained-down money box and I'm on my way again.
Loving the familiarity of silos, cattails, holsteins, bales of hay and vintage threshing machines gracing the line of trees on a rare farmstead, I grin, full of pride in my home country. I fly past the Bootlegger Supper Club, a small town hangout for the locals, and an occasional vagabond traveler. As I coast into Bird Island, I roll to a stop by the local quilt shop. One last stop before I am 'home'. A few 'must-haves, bit of jolly conversation, and I'm on the home stretch.
How to celebrate my personal homecoming - an afternoon at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum. Nothing finer, except that the drought has left it's mark on the usual pristine display of botanicals. There are no guarantees in life, but the condition of the roots in both the botanical world and the human world give way to hope for new growth, new seasons of life.
I sit on a bench overlooking the bog - green with algae, but beautiful in texture and depth. Here I rest, a traveler who is safely home - wiser, more enlightened, finding energy and nourishment in my roots, in my faith, in my future. Thanks be to God!
Intothewind-Naturegirl
What is it about 'the home stretch' that makes the heart beat a little faster, the foot press the gas pedal a little harder and the pot at the end of the rainbow loom large in one's consciousness. After 2-1/2 months of travel, visits, spectacular sights and a few average days, I looked at my mileage gauge on Pedro. It tells me I have posted almost 10,000 miles since my journey began. Anticipation was high, and my attention to landscape details rolling before me was at fever pitch. Today, I'm headed 'home' - that is - to Minnesota - for a 5-week reprieve before I launch into the remainder of my year-long journey. Next up, I will travel east and south as I set my sights to California again, and Christmas with family. Studies in contrast have always peaked my interest, which is why black and white have held prominent display in the homes I have decorated over the years. With wild displays of contrast, God has painted his earthly domain - nature's treasure trove. Today, as I relive the past 3 days' travel, natures' contrasts loom large.
Having visited America's premier national park, Yellowstone, once before, I began my small group guided bus tour with a degree of mediocre anticipation. It was a stellar day, in terms of temperature, however, the forest fires that were burning in the surrounding 3 states created a gray haze that obscured the distant mountain ridges from visibility. Not to be deterred from the day's enjoyment, I dismissed this as a small inconvenience, listening with great interest to the avalanche of wildlife and nature-knowledge our tour guide rattled off with gaity and encyclopedic verbage. Nothing less than astounding - the wall of data she could produce in a short time. I engaged my audible filter on occasion, but at day's end, the park was so alive to me with understanding and meaning, that I was grateful for the experience. At another time and place, I could expound on Queen Elizabeth's collar, the palisades, the caldera, which conifer needles are square and how you can tell the temperature of the thermal pools of Yellowstone by just looking at them. The highlight of my day, and nothing less than awe-inspiring, was the 'grand canyon of the park', a wonderland of color and depth I'd not seen on my first visit.
Plateaus and plains - an enthralling contrast to the numerous mountain ranges I'd traversed in previous weeks - now the panorama that surrounds me as I make my way eastward through Wyoming and South Dakota. The color of my world in a single word - amber, with smatterings of pale lichen verde. The crevasses, clefts, and butts interrupt the swathe of flatness with regularity, giving in to staccato of nature's variety. Mesmerizing - it is - the great expanse of sun scorched grasses and nubby shrubs - signs of the prevalent drought of this year. The hours roll off in succession, captivating my attention to an audio book, though with some effort. A degree of lethargy invades my day, longing for a sliver of 'normal life'. What are my friends back in MN doing - how is their golf game - what flowers are blooming in their gardens - how many coffee dates have I misse? - a longing for home fills my being.
RV parks become oases in the lives of those wayfaring strangers who live in a residence with wheels. The truth is, not all are created equal. The clean-quotient, the natural environment, the services provided, the supplies available - just to name a few of the desirables. This Friday evening I am to be graced with a very pleasurable 2 night stay-over - my Pleasureway rig and me. My laundry stash was spilling over, my living space not passing the white-glove test and oh yes, the bug bombs clinging to Pedro was disastrous. It was time for a cleanliness overhaul. Mountain View (aptly named, as the Black Hills are just beginning at the eastern Wyoming perimeter) RV park passes the critical review with an A+ - a special spot indeed. Maybe part of it is my discovery as, I headed to the privy - a delightful open-air recreation area with 2 digital TV's displaying Friday Night football - yes - it's the Vikings!! Whoa, now this feels like home!! Where's the chili and popcorn? A splendid night for me, indeed.
Bidding goodbye to the friendly RV custodials I sense an energy drawing me to 'my roots'. Could I make it all the way home, today?? It's a long shot - off I roll, a new energy replacing the lethargy of the previous day.
The back roads of South Dakota are new territory for me. One sees far more 'real' life on the back roads than what is afforded on the interstate system. Leaving I-90 an hour east of Rapid City, I launch into a new kind of custard grassland world. Herds and herds of cattle dot the countryside. I am still trying to figure out why so many times the herds of cows are all facing the same direction at the same time - a most curious phenomenon. I'm hopeful someone will unwrap this folly soon for me! I almost expect the herd to do a 'quarter-turn-to-the-left' as I gaze out my window on their world.
Today is a 'no-no' day - mostly junk food (hate it when I do that!), but I don't want to take time to cook or stop at a restaurant - I'm longing for HOME. At days' end, I realize I will need another 1/2 day of travel to arrive home in some semblance of order. I roll into a comforting Walmart for my night's sleep and a bit of NFL pre-season amusement on my nifty RV-TV, before giving into REM-sleep.
Southeastern Minnesota feels like an 'Iowa space' to me - resembling the lay of the land I knew for the first 18 years of my life - Norwegian Iowa farm girl that I am. A smile is pasted on my face - I'm going home. The land has become an intensely deep green, lying in the ribbed lines of soybean and cornfields I am so familiar with. The geometry of the nation's bread-basket continues to intrigue me - the way the oat and alfalfa fields square off with the corners of the bean and corn fields - great lined patches that give air-travelers a quilted-view of the world that is Minnesota and Iowa. I will bet that the farmers of Montana and Wyoming know not what a drainage ditch is. My smile turns to a giggle as I glide gently down the asphalt country road near St. Leo where a large antique sign is posted in the farmers front yard, reading: 'Coca-Cola-Fountain Service' - yah, 'Right'!! Minnesota nice, the rural Minnesota mentality displays a 'hard-working-class' where the lion's share of farms are carefully manicured with prolific garden plots. Rolling into Danube, the sign says - "The Town with Heart". "Nice, .... oh, what's this... a self-service vegetable stand - to be sure - only in rural MN!!" I stop, pick out my potatoes, onions, watermelon and banana peppers, place my cash in the chained-down money box and I'm on my way again.
Loving the familiarity of silos, cattails, holsteins, bales of hay and vintage threshing machines gracing the line of trees on a rare farmstead, I grin, full of pride in my home country. I fly past the Bootlegger Supper Club, a small town hangout for the locals, and an occasional vagabond traveler. As I coast into Bird Island, I roll to a stop by the local quilt shop. One last stop before I am 'home'. A few 'must-haves, bit of jolly conversation, and I'm on the home stretch.
How to celebrate my personal homecoming - an afternoon at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum. Nothing finer, except that the drought has left it's mark on the usual pristine display of botanicals. There are no guarantees in life, but the condition of the roots in both the botanical world and the human world give way to hope for new growth, new seasons of life.
I sit on a bench overlooking the bog - green with algae, but beautiful in texture and depth. Here I rest, a traveler who is safely home - wiser, more enlightened, finding energy and nourishment in my roots, in my faith, in my future. Thanks be to God!
Intothewind-Naturegirl
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
THOSE MAGNIFICENT MOUNTAINS
Mountains are the majestic part of my pilgrimage journey that I never seem to tire of. Of course, if I am on non-interstate roads as I traverse these giant masses of earth, rock and trees, the attentiveness required can be quite tiring. Yesterday morning I was driving East on Hwy 2 from north Seattle (Monroe, actually) at a very early hour of the day. The mountains of Stevens Pass were still hiding the morning sun. The black silhouette of the evergreen-covered mountains loomed large in front of me, ever so gently turning gray as the sky began to 'pink and yellow-up'. Without warning a streak of bright white flashed from behind the silhouette. What a spectacular show over the next 5 minutes. With more regularity I have seen the sunset as I drive, but this early morning drive was a rare treat.
Five states have seen my finger tracing on the atlas that lies on my drivers side-table over the past 8 days. I love maps. It is something that reminds me of my Dad. He was an avid studier of maps. My Dad left his earthly home when I was 19 years old. The last words he said to me were, "I wish I could go with you." (in response to the news I'd shared with him that I was moving to Seattle, Washington to attend school). On more than one occasion over the past 3 months of travel, I have thought of Dad and hope he is smiling on me as I run off the miles of this country. He would have loved it!
When I need a Starbucks or a public library, my GPS is invaluable - otherwise, my atlas is my friend. As I study my route, I note the names of the mountain ranges I will pass through. The song -- "I've Been Everywhere Man.."-- has come to my awareness of late. I'm thinking I should write a song with all the names of the mountains I've seen!! Remember the part in the 'I've Been Everywhere' song where the singer starts rattling off about 30 names of towns - it's a linguistic feat to be sure! Wonder if I could do that with the list of mountains I've seen, which reads like... 'Siskyou, Shasta-Trinity, Sapphire, Salmon, Smithe Redwoods, Humbolt Redwoods, Grizzley Creek Redwoods, Scott, Trinity, Cascade, Rocky, Garnet'... so many mountains, such variety of trees, smells, rock formations, grasses, shrubs, wild flowers, and riverbeds.
Mendocino County lies just north and west of the well known Sonoma/Napa wine region of California. The mountains of Mendocino are babies compared to the Rockies, but beautiful, nontheless. Mendocino has wonderful wineries - none better than Parducci, where my friend and I spent two days . Their wines are terrific. Ninety-year-old vines hug the patio area where we lunched on both days. Interstate highways do not bisect this rugged county, thus the narrow roads are one curve after another, hugging the hillside and revealing hidden farming and vinyard treasures as Pedro makes the 1-1/2 hour trip from Willits to the small town of Mendocino on the coast. The treasure of Mendocino, other than the cute shops of the town, is the sprawling Botanical Gardens that sit on a piece of land that meets the ocean's surf. The view from a bench I occupied as I studied the pounding surf and the masses of rhododendrons behind me, was mesmerizing. I wonder how I might encapsulate this feeling of euphoria forever?!! Leaving Mendocino I began my 8 days of mountainous exploration.
The intoxicating smell of the redwoods through my open windows not far north of Mendocino is ingrained in my consiousness. There is nothing quite so wonderful as that smell! This day's travel saw a 50 degree change in temperature from the coastal winds to the inland mountains of northern California. Driving from noontime and into the late evening of the Trinity Mtn range and descending sharply through dozens of curves as I enter the city of Redding is intense, a test in focus and stability. The promise of tomorrow's freeway travel into Oregon is indeed welcome as i lay my head on my pillow on this night.
The days tick off my calendar and the mountains change from massive walls in front and beside me, which I experienced in Washington and Idaho, now giving way to level plains of grasses that pave the way for the rise in the distance of the rounded-top mountains in mid Montana. Today I will arrive in Yellowstone. A special treat for me will be a bus tour of 'the park' with a busload of other folks. I look forward to all I will learn and see tomorrow.
As I contemplate the images of mountain and forest, I think of the metaphors they are to human life. Some are rugged, tough, difficult to navigate - quite like life at times. Some are gentle-sloped rises and descents with occasional trees and greenery - a pleasure to glide over. When the denser forests collect too much decay, fires are the great purger of the debris. Our earthly journey sometimes must face the purging of debris in our lives - not pleasant to be sure, but one can be assured of new growth to come when nurtured with the great soft rains and sunshine of tomorrow's day. I have been blessed with the nurture of friends and dear ones in my days of the scorched earth of my soul. They have been the sunshine and gentle rains of my life - blessed am I.
Intothewind - Naturegirl
Mountains are the majestic part of my pilgrimage journey that I never seem to tire of. Of course, if I am on non-interstate roads as I traverse these giant masses of earth, rock and trees, the attentiveness required can be quite tiring. Yesterday morning I was driving East on Hwy 2 from north Seattle (Monroe, actually) at a very early hour of the day. The mountains of Stevens Pass were still hiding the morning sun. The black silhouette of the evergreen-covered mountains loomed large in front of me, ever so gently turning gray as the sky began to 'pink and yellow-up'. Without warning a streak of bright white flashed from behind the silhouette. What a spectacular show over the next 5 minutes. With more regularity I have seen the sunset as I drive, but this early morning drive was a rare treat.
Five states have seen my finger tracing on the atlas that lies on my drivers side-table over the past 8 days. I love maps. It is something that reminds me of my Dad. He was an avid studier of maps. My Dad left his earthly home when I was 19 years old. The last words he said to me were, "I wish I could go with you." (in response to the news I'd shared with him that I was moving to Seattle, Washington to attend school). On more than one occasion over the past 3 months of travel, I have thought of Dad and hope he is smiling on me as I run off the miles of this country. He would have loved it!
When I need a Starbucks or a public library, my GPS is invaluable - otherwise, my atlas is my friend. As I study my route, I note the names of the mountain ranges I will pass through. The song -- "I've Been Everywhere Man.."-- has come to my awareness of late. I'm thinking I should write a song with all the names of the mountains I've seen!! Remember the part in the 'I've Been Everywhere' song where the singer starts rattling off about 30 names of towns - it's a linguistic feat to be sure! Wonder if I could do that with the list of mountains I've seen, which reads like... 'Siskyou, Shasta-Trinity, Sapphire, Salmon, Smithe Redwoods, Humbolt Redwoods, Grizzley Creek Redwoods, Scott, Trinity, Cascade, Rocky, Garnet'... so many mountains, such variety of trees, smells, rock formations, grasses, shrubs, wild flowers, and riverbeds.
Mendocino County lies just north and west of the well known Sonoma/Napa wine region of California. The mountains of Mendocino are babies compared to the Rockies, but beautiful, nontheless. Mendocino has wonderful wineries - none better than Parducci, where my friend and I spent two days . Their wines are terrific. Ninety-year-old vines hug the patio area where we lunched on both days. Interstate highways do not bisect this rugged county, thus the narrow roads are one curve after another, hugging the hillside and revealing hidden farming and vinyard treasures as Pedro makes the 1-1/2 hour trip from Willits to the small town of Mendocino on the coast. The treasure of Mendocino, other than the cute shops of the town, is the sprawling Botanical Gardens that sit on a piece of land that meets the ocean's surf. The view from a bench I occupied as I studied the pounding surf and the masses of rhododendrons behind me, was mesmerizing. I wonder how I might encapsulate this feeling of euphoria forever?!! Leaving Mendocino I began my 8 days of mountainous exploration.
The intoxicating smell of the redwoods through my open windows not far north of Mendocino is ingrained in my consiousness. There is nothing quite so wonderful as that smell! This day's travel saw a 50 degree change in temperature from the coastal winds to the inland mountains of northern California. Driving from noontime and into the late evening of the Trinity Mtn range and descending sharply through dozens of curves as I enter the city of Redding is intense, a test in focus and stability. The promise of tomorrow's freeway travel into Oregon is indeed welcome as i lay my head on my pillow on this night.
The days tick off my calendar and the mountains change from massive walls in front and beside me, which I experienced in Washington and Idaho, now giving way to level plains of grasses that pave the way for the rise in the distance of the rounded-top mountains in mid Montana. Today I will arrive in Yellowstone. A special treat for me will be a bus tour of 'the park' with a busload of other folks. I look forward to all I will learn and see tomorrow.
As I contemplate the images of mountain and forest, I think of the metaphors they are to human life. Some are rugged, tough, difficult to navigate - quite like life at times. Some are gentle-sloped rises and descents with occasional trees and greenery - a pleasure to glide over. When the denser forests collect too much decay, fires are the great purger of the debris. Our earthly journey sometimes must face the purging of debris in our lives - not pleasant to be sure, but one can be assured of new growth to come when nurtured with the great soft rains and sunshine of tomorrow's day. I have been blessed with the nurture of friends and dear ones in my days of the scorched earth of my soul. They have been the sunshine and gentle rains of my life - blessed am I.
Intothewind - Naturegirl
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
'SAN FRAN GOLD'
Layers rim the horizon of my world. Not far off to the west of the mountain I am perched upon lies the Golden Gate Bridge. Though my naked eye sees it not, I know it is there. Blazing orange, the late afternoon sun hangs low. The heat swallows me as I step from Mr. P, my now rather disorganized, collage-filled mobile living space. Mountain ranges, peaks and ridges lie between my solo mountaintop camping spot and that great double looped expanse of metal that defines San Francisco.
Mount Diablo State Park caught my eye while studying my map earlier this day. Needing a place to rest my head for the night, I shift into 'drive' after programing my trusty Garmin, and commence a short hour's trip to my destination. The soft-spoken lady at the north gate entrance completes my registration. The Juniper Campground, she informs me, is 7 miles 'ahead'. No problem, more treasures to see, right? Well now, isn't it great, and sometimes a bit scary, when the destination is not at all what you expected. Instead of a simple jaunt around a few corners in the park, I find myself climbing, climbing climbing, S-curves, hairpins, you name it.... the operative word is 'up'. When about 1/2 hour later I find myself overlooking the whole San Francisco Valley, it takes my breath away. I observe four other camping comrades who occupy this pinnacle east of the 'The Bay', though they are not visible from my nook on the mountain-side. Exploration o fmy domain reveals a warning about rattlesnakes (yikes, this causes a bit of dis-ease), and posted on the 'rest station' wall is all I need to know about the animal kingdom thriving in this neck of the woods. I decide I'd rather not meet up with a coyote, mountain lion or any of the other 4-legged creatures described, so I find comfort in close proximity to Mr. P. Relaxing is a bit of an issue for me on this night. A soft serenading CD comes to my aid, and a resurrected exercise in deep breathing. As the lights of the city below begin to flicker on, the scene below takes on a rather magestic aura.
Settling into the comfort of my bed for the night, the window drape creates a 2 sq. ft opening on the glittering night lights below. With a smile on my face, warm memories of the previous week steal into my consciousness. It had been too long - the visits with my California family. The thief of family connectedness, it seems to me, is distance, work and obligations to people who fill our lives. I sent the thief on a short vacation! As I now recall our time together, my soul is warmed as I remember the reminsicing over meals, the laughter, the realtime stories of new hills to climb - all touching the familiar part of my life from long ago. Dreaming together, we talked of future desires - wishing each other well in our journeying. To bear one another's burdens gives each other strength for the next step - together, the challenges and dreams were layed bare. A poem, penned years ago by Rudyard Kipling was placed in my hands by one of my 'next of kin' this past week. Re-reading the poem at this moment, I find myself deeply moved. Such an inspiring thing, when the generation younger shares their lofty purposes in life. I contemplate all the poem says. My eyelids grow heavy - I curl into the deeper comfort of my bed. Safely nestled in, I lift my eyes one more time to the flickering lights of the urban sprawl far below me. Mesmerized by the view, I linger, then gently give way to my dream world.
Descent on the morning after is far less anxiety-ridden than expected. No traffic and a ride in low gear makes my 15 mph trip downward rather enjoyable. The morning view of Diablo's golden rolling hillside delights every sense of my being. I spot a coyote a stone's throw away, minding his own business. A few photo-op stops interrupt my trip. Rolling through the entrance gate once more and through the very upper class neighborhood of Walnut Creek, I find my entrance to freeway mania. Pedro will carry me swiftly to the streets of San Francisco. Oh so quickly the city skyscrapers envelop me. Weaving my way through the throngs of people at Fisherman's Wharf, all the food vendors and pleasure seekers, I marvel at the diversity. A smartly dressed young man walks in front of my stopped vehicle, a grin on his face and a bundle of flowers in hand. Who, I wonder will be the lucky recipient? Rounding the next corner, there it stands - the Golden Gate Bridge, in all its glory. Maneuvering my way slowly, I embark on the drive across. The bridge is filled with pedestrians and bicyclists - cameras in hand, straddling each other, the masses traverse this world renown structure. I'm told, the thing to do is ride a bike over the bridge to Sausilito on the western side of the north bay, board the ferry and enjoy the return trip to San-Fran. Later in my week, on an excursion to Sausilito's bayfront, I understand. A sea of bicycles wait for the ferry's arrival - what a view!
Mill Valley lies a few minutes north of the Golden Gate's western entrance. I decide to pass some idle time in this idyllic place - a surprise 'find' for me. Serendipity never grows old, I say. My friend I am to meet is not available until early evening, so I park Pedro on a small side street outside a delightful art gallery. I've struck gold - art galleries, fine dining, boutique shops and little brick alleyways are thick in this 5 block area. Meandering through the galleries I discover that an 'art walk' is to start in 2 hours. Voila! So blessed am I! As I enter 'Moss and Moss', an "oh-so-small" home and gift boutique, I hear classical piano music -an elder gent plays the notes passionately - a nostalgic mood settling in. The shop is so artfully arranged. A book catches my attention - The Art of Losing. It is a book of poems. Why am I always attracted to "The Art of......" books? The Art of Pilgrimage; The Seekers Guide to Making Travel Sacred was the book I read 6 months ago that inspired my present journey. Hmmmmm. The book I am now holding costs too much. I buy it anyway. It seems pertinent to my life. The gracious lady, who has about a decade on me, takes my money, and asks where I'm from, when I tell her I'm a new visitor to this little village. I tell her a bit of my pilgrimage story. The piano continues to play. Transaction complete - she asks me to wait a minute. Retrieving something she wraps up, she tucks it in my bag saying, "A little something extra for you, my dear. I admire what you are doing." I'm touched, of course.
My mood commands me to savor some fine dining on this evening. El Paseo hides in one of the darling brick-lined, plant-strewn alleyways of Mill Valley. A peek through the low, unshuttered windows that are open to the alley reveal the white clothed, carefully coiffed tables surrounding the old world fireplace. I must - I say. They are not open for dining for another hour - no problem. Plenty art to see until then. It was well worth the wait. The moustached senior gent who attentively served my dinner was a treasure. His eyes twinkled - he gently touches my shoulder, "Is there anything else I can get for you, ma'am?" Dessert seems in order tonight. Waiting for my last course, I peruse my new book. Even as I read, I think of all that I have gained, in the midst of the losses in the past 2 years of my life. Dessert arrives. The chocolate and red wine are a fitting end to my Mill Valley soiree. Does this day really have to end? Oh yes, my friend is now waiting for me. Garmin leads me to her door. Hugs ensue. All is right in my world today.
Into the Wind - Naturegirl
Layers rim the horizon of my world. Not far off to the west of the mountain I am perched upon lies the Golden Gate Bridge. Though my naked eye sees it not, I know it is there. Blazing orange, the late afternoon sun hangs low. The heat swallows me as I step from Mr. P, my now rather disorganized, collage-filled mobile living space. Mountain ranges, peaks and ridges lie between my solo mountaintop camping spot and that great double looped expanse of metal that defines San Francisco.
Mount Diablo State Park caught my eye while studying my map earlier this day. Needing a place to rest my head for the night, I shift into 'drive' after programing my trusty Garmin, and commence a short hour's trip to my destination. The soft-spoken lady at the north gate entrance completes my registration. The Juniper Campground, she informs me, is 7 miles 'ahead'. No problem, more treasures to see, right? Well now, isn't it great, and sometimes a bit scary, when the destination is not at all what you expected. Instead of a simple jaunt around a few corners in the park, I find myself climbing, climbing climbing, S-curves, hairpins, you name it.... the operative word is 'up'. When about 1/2 hour later I find myself overlooking the whole San Francisco Valley, it takes my breath away. I observe four other camping comrades who occupy this pinnacle east of the 'The Bay', though they are not visible from my nook on the mountain-side. Exploration o fmy domain reveals a warning about rattlesnakes (yikes, this causes a bit of dis-ease), and posted on the 'rest station' wall is all I need to know about the animal kingdom thriving in this neck of the woods. I decide I'd rather not meet up with a coyote, mountain lion or any of the other 4-legged creatures described, so I find comfort in close proximity to Mr. P. Relaxing is a bit of an issue for me on this night. A soft serenading CD comes to my aid, and a resurrected exercise in deep breathing. As the lights of the city below begin to flicker on, the scene below takes on a rather magestic aura.
Settling into the comfort of my bed for the night, the window drape creates a 2 sq. ft opening on the glittering night lights below. With a smile on my face, warm memories of the previous week steal into my consciousness. It had been too long - the visits with my California family. The thief of family connectedness, it seems to me, is distance, work and obligations to people who fill our lives. I sent the thief on a short vacation! As I now recall our time together, my soul is warmed as I remember the reminsicing over meals, the laughter, the realtime stories of new hills to climb - all touching the familiar part of my life from long ago. Dreaming together, we talked of future desires - wishing each other well in our journeying. To bear one another's burdens gives each other strength for the next step - together, the challenges and dreams were layed bare. A poem, penned years ago by Rudyard Kipling was placed in my hands by one of my 'next of kin' this past week. Re-reading the poem at this moment, I find myself deeply moved. Such an inspiring thing, when the generation younger shares their lofty purposes in life. I contemplate all the poem says. My eyelids grow heavy - I curl into the deeper comfort of my bed. Safely nestled in, I lift my eyes one more time to the flickering lights of the urban sprawl far below me. Mesmerized by the view, I linger, then gently give way to my dream world.
Descent on the morning after is far less anxiety-ridden than expected. No traffic and a ride in low gear makes my 15 mph trip downward rather enjoyable. The morning view of Diablo's golden rolling hillside delights every sense of my being. I spot a coyote a stone's throw away, minding his own business. A few photo-op stops interrupt my trip. Rolling through the entrance gate once more and through the very upper class neighborhood of Walnut Creek, I find my entrance to freeway mania. Pedro will carry me swiftly to the streets of San Francisco. Oh so quickly the city skyscrapers envelop me. Weaving my way through the throngs of people at Fisherman's Wharf, all the food vendors and pleasure seekers, I marvel at the diversity. A smartly dressed young man walks in front of my stopped vehicle, a grin on his face and a bundle of flowers in hand. Who, I wonder will be the lucky recipient? Rounding the next corner, there it stands - the Golden Gate Bridge, in all its glory. Maneuvering my way slowly, I embark on the drive across. The bridge is filled with pedestrians and bicyclists - cameras in hand, straddling each other, the masses traverse this world renown structure. I'm told, the thing to do is ride a bike over the bridge to Sausilito on the western side of the north bay, board the ferry and enjoy the return trip to San-Fran. Later in my week, on an excursion to Sausilito's bayfront, I understand. A sea of bicycles wait for the ferry's arrival - what a view!
Mill Valley lies a few minutes north of the Golden Gate's western entrance. I decide to pass some idle time in this idyllic place - a surprise 'find' for me. Serendipity never grows old, I say. My friend I am to meet is not available until early evening, so I park Pedro on a small side street outside a delightful art gallery. I've struck gold - art galleries, fine dining, boutique shops and little brick alleyways are thick in this 5 block area. Meandering through the galleries I discover that an 'art walk' is to start in 2 hours. Voila! So blessed am I! As I enter 'Moss and Moss', an "oh-so-small" home and gift boutique, I hear classical piano music -an elder gent plays the notes passionately - a nostalgic mood settling in. The shop is so artfully arranged. A book catches my attention - The Art of Losing. It is a book of poems. Why am I always attracted to "The Art of......" books? The Art of Pilgrimage; The Seekers Guide to Making Travel Sacred was the book I read 6 months ago that inspired my present journey. Hmmmmm. The book I am now holding costs too much. I buy it anyway. It seems pertinent to my life. The gracious lady, who has about a decade on me, takes my money, and asks where I'm from, when I tell her I'm a new visitor to this little village. I tell her a bit of my pilgrimage story. The piano continues to play. Transaction complete - she asks me to wait a minute. Retrieving something she wraps up, she tucks it in my bag saying, "A little something extra for you, my dear. I admire what you are doing." I'm touched, of course.
My mood commands me to savor some fine dining on this evening. El Paseo hides in one of the darling brick-lined, plant-strewn alleyways of Mill Valley. A peek through the low, unshuttered windows that are open to the alley reveal the white clothed, carefully coiffed tables surrounding the old world fireplace. I must - I say. They are not open for dining for another hour - no problem. Plenty art to see until then. It was well worth the wait. The moustached senior gent who attentively served my dinner was a treasure. His eyes twinkled - he gently touches my shoulder, "Is there anything else I can get for you, ma'am?" Dessert seems in order tonight. Waiting for my last course, I peruse my new book. Even as I read, I think of all that I have gained, in the midst of the losses in the past 2 years of my life. Dessert arrives. The chocolate and red wine are a fitting end to my Mill Valley soiree. Does this day really have to end? Oh yes, my friend is now waiting for me. Garmin leads me to her door. Hugs ensue. All is right in my world today.
Into the Wind - Naturegirl
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