Gifts From The Sea

If it comes from the ocean, I give thanks unconditionally. Blood, guts, bleached bones, hungry gulls. It's not always pretty but it is always beautiful.

If I am not at the ocean and a gift of grace comes my way, I can only hope that some residue of the sea renders me worthy and humble enough to receive the gift.

My $10 Poem, written by Abigale Mott.

Inspired by pain,
it unexpectedly pokes at that pain by suggesting
these are questions I should,
perhaps,
be asking
of myself.
  It unexpectedly eases that pain by suggesting
 the answers lie
within.
In other words, 

attainable.

Thank you, Abigail.

Betrayal

My gut has thrown up

Questions - -

They run basic & deep:

"Why did you do this?"

"Why force this loss?"

I am unnerved,

regarding my emotions,

Trying to find a still,

quiet place

in myself - -

A warm, comforting

fire

where I am fine,

Where I can ease

the trouble of forgiving you.

Abigail Mott

Hood River, OR

11/10/13
Abigail Mott. 
A Place of Truth.

New Moon

This poem was inspired by Mary Oliver's powerful 'Strawberry Moon' in the collection "Twelve Moons"   It is stormy and violent and dark at the beach this weekend; outside as well. 

New Moon, All-Hallow's Eve, Samhain and Dia de Los Muertos blessings to you all.

New moon.

We must mark it.

Always.

If we don’t who will?

Delicate as a sliver of ice;

Sickly sharp even as it melts to nothing.

Do not be fooled by

The remains.

The remains of the moon.

The remains you thought you left behind.

Is it any wonder you burned us?

We who were not witches at all;

We who were a living breathing Holy testament to

Your utter unholiness.

Of course that’s what you had to do.

Fucking cowards.

And in that

We can find compassion.

But only the disinterested compassion of the hunter

Who can’t be bothered with such puny kill.

Our delicate sickly sharp sliverness . . .

Do not be fooled.

I Can't Not Write At the Beach

Recent beach musings. For Evisceral I used essentially the same prompts I used for this post. Wildly different poems, huh? Today a friend told me the only thing new under the sun is the infinite possibility of metaphor. I love that.

Evisceral

It was raining the night I awoke.
The night I knelt and sucked the silver-painted brine
stirred by shifting claws.
The night I stood naked
and opened my arms and body to the sharp cutting needles,
welcoming the evisceration to come -
the tearing open.
The night I heard the whispers of the ancestors
rise to a shrieking roar amidst the raging storm
imploring me to fling the heavy, suffocating blanket
protecting my womb-box of dried, shriveled memories
hidden away as the undead, cringing from sun.
The night I felt the terror of exposure -
scurrying, crab-like, for shelter that was no longer there.
Eventually stilling in hopeless exhaustion
and surrender to the pour.
And in the stilling,
began to swell with life again.

Ode To A Seagull

I don’t know how long the bird shit had been on the window.

Months.

Long enough to not see it anymore.

I looked around it and through it;

Over it and under it;

I had stopped seeing it.

Was oblivious to how it colored everything I saw.

Colored with bird shit.

Everything.

But yesterday I saw it.

I don’t know why.

Suddenly it was just there.

In the way.

I couldn’t see what I needed to see.

It was the work of sixty seconds,

A paper towel and some Windex.

And suddenly everything was clear.

No shit.

Addendum: The photo for Evisceral is one I found on Google.  The seagull photo I took myself while sharing a bagel with some very hungry seagulls. I will confess that while I was thrilled to have such contact with the gulls, Hitchcock's 'The Birds' was definitely in the back of my mind.

No Place For Sissies

I know the ocean is unforgiving. From day one of this blog I've contemplated and written about the evidence of the cycle of life and death that continually revolves in this place I love so much. But today I didn't just stumble on the sterile, bleached bones of it. I participated in the blood and guts of it.  I wish I had done better.

Reggie and I were out for an afternoon walk. He was doing his best mighty dog impersonation and I was occupied collecting trash. I looked up to see Reggie bouncing playfully around a small, dark duck. He'd jump towards it then dash away, only to circle back and downward-dog with his little butt raised in the air, begging the duck to play with him. It was clear the duck was injured.  His little wings splayed oddly and flying wasn't an option. It looked like he would be easy to catch. I debated about whether I should interfere or just let nature take its course.  At a minimum, I called Reggie off and carried him back to the house. 

I couldn't get the duck off my mind. I knew of the Wildlife Center of the North Coast in Astoria and called. They encouraged me to catch him if I could and bring him in. I grabbed a beach towel, prepared a holding box and headed back to the beach.  I couldn't have been gone more than ten minutes.

I looked where I had last seen the duck . . . no sign. I wandered in broadening circles, thinking to myself he couldn't possibly have gotten far. That's when I noticed two large crows occupied with something among the rocks about fifty feet away. With a sinking heart I walked over, knowing what I was going to find before I got there.  In the ten minutes it had taken me to make up my mind and act, the crows had killed the duck and ravaged his tiny carcass.

I know . . . It's nature. It’s the cycle. Survival of the fittest. Perhaps he’d been too injured for rehabilitation. It was undoubtedly a quick death.  I tell myself all those things. And I know there are many more pressing issues.

Still, tonight my heart is sad for that sweet little duck. For the record, his bones are resting in the earth. I hope peacefully.  Brachia matris revertaris in benevolum, little one.  

Addendum: April 5, 2014.  While walking the beach with a friend and Reggie, we spied another injured duck. This time I didn't hesitate.  I pulled off my raincoat and quickly threw it over the duck and captured him. We called the Wildlife Rescue hotline and discovered the Seaside Aquarium will hold injured animals until some one can retrieve them and we delivered him safely to their care.  I don't know the final outcome, but the crows didn't get this one for dinner!

A Pledge of My Own

The great 10-1-13 Government Shutdown. I am militantly apolitical but even I can’t avoid this news. So I did the most sensible thing I could think of and hopped on my bike to seek out community and fine coffee at the Seaside Coffee House.

I love my bike.

It is teal and rust (the real stuff, not the color) and, in spite of its gear shifters, only goes one speed. No spandex required with this baby. Hell, most of the time I don’t even wear a helmet. Its best feature is the iridescent purple and pink streamers with the flower pinwheels that really spin. I always smile when I ride my bike. Even when the government has shut down. Maybe even especially when the government has shut down.

So, I’m cruisin’ down the prom on my pimped out bike, feelin’ groovy, when I see him in the window of a yellow cottage I've rented in the past.  The 3-second clip as I ride by turns into a movie in my brain. I know the set. There's grungy, yellow-brown shag carpet, a ratty recliner and an antique lamp that no longer has it's expensive glass shade.  He’s maybe sixty, salt and pepper beard, blue bathrobe and he’s standing with his right hand over his heart as he looks out the ocean-front window.  My first thought is to hope he’s not having chest pain (will that nursing instinct ever leave?).  I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. I’m also pretty sure he’s not reciting the Pledge of Allegiance – at least not in the usual way. My guess is his heart can’t contain the magnificence of the beauty he’s beholding. He needs his right hand to help hold it in.

What would the world be like if we pledged allegiance, daily, to look at something beautiful every morning, find some small good to do, look someone in the eyes to the point of discomfort, say “Thank you” to whatever it is we are grateful for, strike up a conversation we might not have had?  Because in the end, government or not, apocalypse or not, those are the things that will be left standing. On my death bed, will I even think about the 10-1-13 government shutdown? Nope. Will I remember your eyes, Deanna-from-Palm-Springs-In-Seaside-For-The-Bridge-Tournament? Yep. That’s my pledge.

Isn't It Ironic

The Daily Astorian: PACIFIC and CLATSOP COUNTIES —  A high-wind watch has been upgraded to a high-wind warning, in effect from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. Saturday for the south Washington and north and central Oregon coast . . .sustained winds of 30 to 40 mph, with gusts to 60 to 70 mph near beaches . . .

 . . . and this didn't even mention the rain. The kind of rain that pours right into your boots, rendering the waterproof part of the sales pitch just kind of cute.

I don't even know what time it was. I didn't want to know. Just barely light. That's what time it was. What I did want to know was the tide schedule and my best guess was less than an hour to high tide in the middle of a kick ass storm. Perfect.

The bull kelp is back; as is the feather boa kelp. And these worm-like things??  I picked up a handful of flat, smooth seaweed and the wind moved it in such a way that it  felt alive in my hand.  For as far as I could see it was just me, the seagulls and an awesome wrack line.

Then in the distance I saw a lone figure. Another soul drawn to the early morning beach under conditions forcing all the rest of Seaside to stay hunkered down inside. We were walking towards each other and the first thing I noticed was the bright orange, hooded rain jacket. And black pants. We were dressed exactly alike. Except he was barefoot while I was baptizing my no-longer waterproof boots in the sea. We just waved as we passed each other, but on the return we met halfway between the rocks and the water, complimented each other on our fine choices in rain wear and introduced ourselves. We exchanged mutual admiration of  the exceptional weather and I learned his name was Casey, he was from Utah, traveling with his wife and two small children and he teaches math. He wanted to  know if I was looking for anything in particular on the beach and I said, "Not really. Just whatever I find - or whatever finds me."  He nodded, there was a little more beach chat, we bowed in honor to each other and continued on our way. 

A few minutes later I was sitting in the Boneyard, having found a couple beach pea blossoms and a slug willing to eat them. I looked up in surprise to see Casey walking towards me. We said hi, again, and he asked what I had found. So I had to explain I liked feeding the slugs . . .  and he hardly batted an eyelash. Impressive. But then he really blew me away. "You said you were  looking for whatever you find - and you found me. So I came back to see if you needed anything".  Seriously? He was that wide open, honest and kind; no ulterior anything. Just human goodness.

Ok. I will admit I instantly flashed on Alanis' Ironic lyrics - "It's meeting the man of my dreams. And then meeting his beautiful wife." - but only for a moment.  The real take home was the pure pleasure of meeting a kindred spirit in my most sacred place who totally gets it.That's exactly what I needed to find this morning.  Sea magic indeed.

Slug Magic

It's back to the beach today. No stretching of the imagination required this time. 

If you read my Boneyard entry you might remember this:

My friendship with slugs started right there.
I know, I know . . . you gardeners out there hate them. I disliked them as well. About 20 years ago I did some gardening and while I don't specifically recall battling slugs, I do remember curiously pouring salt on one to see what would happen. Watching him squirm, in presumable anguish, was so awful I had to rinse him off with water. I don't know whether he survived, but I never repeated that form of slug control. 

Tomato hornworms were another story.
I collected them off my precious tomato plants, put them in a mason jar with the lid secured, set them in the sun and hung around to watch them convulse to death and explode.
I recently had the opportunity to save a sphinx moth.

In beautiful, poetic reversal he was trapped in a mason jar, from which I freed him. At the time I didn't know it was the moth that evolves from a hornworm - and I'm not entirely sure I would have picked honeysuckle and mixed sugar water nectar for him if I had. I am grateful to have made the tiniest dent in my vast, negative hornworm karma and will humbly accept any further assignments the Universe sees fit to send me.

But back to slugs. My morning rambles through the Boneyard have given me opportunity to observe and develop a quiet admiration for slugs. There were enormous numbers of them making their slimy way (did you know slugs produce TWO kinds of slime?) among the rocks, plants and sand. At times there were so many I had to gauge every step to avoid squishing them. If there was a mishap, I'd quickly apologize out loud, "Oh no! Sorry, dude." and then look around in hope no one heard me.  One morning I noticed a particularly large slug draped across a low growing plant I've come to know as beach pea (Lathyrus japonicus) I was intrigued and stopped to watch his progress. It turned out he wasn't going anywhere. He was eating breakfast. I knelt there on the ground for twenty minutes or so, watching him eat the delicate purple blossoms. When I leaned in close enough I could actually hear the crunch. Like a kid eating frosting off a cupcake, he ate only the blossoms, leaving all the green stuff behind.

This weekend I found myself wondering about the lifespan of slugs and how much longer I'd get to hang with them. I noticed the blossoms were mostly gone from the beach pea and, in general, Boneyard plants seemed to have peaked and were on the wane. Were the slugs still around? What would they be eating now? Do they bitch amongst themselves when they are reduced to eating the green stuff? Do they hibernate during winter or do they die? I have a lot to learn about slugs. But in the midst of my wandering wonderings I saw one fine specimen heading towards a blossomless clump of beach pea. There were no blossoms remotely near him and, feeling generous, I managed to find a handful of purple slug crack and returned - terrifying him into total retreat. I wonder what it was like for him to squinch up his optical tentacles and shrink up, expecting to die and then, when he didn't, open up to see a mountain of his favorite food.

By this time the sun was rising over the east hills of Seaside and, as it hit the Boneyard, generated what seemed to be a clear signal for all slugs to return to their hideouts. I stood by one huge fallen log and, without moving, counted 37 slugs all gliding determinedly towards it as if some invisible tractor beam was pulling them in. . . . Must. Return. To. Log. . . . Must. Return. To. Log. . . . I was bummed I didn't have my camera and made a mental note to bring it next time.

Yesterday morning I was quite late getting out to the Boneyard and didn't expect to see any slugs at all.         I poked around a bit and was finally rewarded with this beauty:

AND I spied one last clump of beach pea blossoms.

In exchange for a little purpley sweetness, slug teaches me to keep moving, be content with slow progress, have patience, leave a trail, take things slowly and know when to retreat.
That's a pretty fair trade, buddy. 

Thank you.

September Crossings

The best I can do for a sea reference on this one is that it involves crossing the Columbia, which eventually makes it's way to the ocean. I know. It's a stretch.

Seems like every September at least one golden afternoon takes me across the river to travel Highway 14 in Washington. Today was one of those days. I didn't have to work and decided to hike Wind Mountain - something I've wanted to do for ages. It was a perfect day for a hike and I had a wonderful time, but what I really want to tell you about is why I love driving Highway 14 in September when the wheel has turned just slightly towards autumn and the light has changed.

His name was Carl and all I knew about him was that he had congestive heart failure and was being admitted to hospice from a nursing home. The weekend on-call nurse processed the admission and I made arrangements to visit him on Monday morning.

Carl lived in a single-wide by the train tracks on the Washington side of the river. He no longer drove, but he was able to get around his house. A nearby nephew helped him with groceries and transportation. He was on hospice because he told the doctors and the nursing home to go fuck themselves and discharged himself, against medical advice, to go home and die on his own terms. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I met Carl that Monday and he was a delight - a little rough around the edges, but I liked him immediately. We talked, I did the usual assessments, coordinated his medications and arranged a home health aid, chaplain and social worker. As I recall, he politely refused the chaplain and warned me the social worker would be useless, but he was cautiously willing to meet everyone else. I don't think he quite knew what to make of us.

Then the reports and medical records started trickling in and a strikingly different image of Carl began to emerge. One he freely confirmed as the weeks progressed. How should I put this? He was, on paper, a nasty, mean son-of-a-bitch who did battle with everyone he ever met. Every record documented non-compliance and anger management issues. He claimed to have killed someone in a drunk driving accident and to have done time in prison. He was a huge man and I sincerely doubt he ever lost a fight. We knew none of this when we met him. He was just a nice, old man in need of hospice care and we treated him as such.

Every time I, or the home health aid, visited (and sometimes we coordinated our visits just for the fun of it) he would wonder out loud, "Why do you pretty, young girls come here to see me?  I don't know what I did to deserve this!"  Most of our visits consisted of chatting and him telling his stories - and he didn't hold back the ornery ones. He let us see who he was. I still cringe over the tale of euthanizing a stray cat with a shotgun in the abandoned bathtub in his back yard. But by then we liked him and I'm pretty sure he liked us back

We spent just a couple months with Carl in a season that spanned bridge crossings to Highway 14 on golden, September afternoons. Watching him soften and sink down into the time he had left was humbling. It wasn't something we talked about - that would have just gotten in the way.  It was enough to be a witness.

On the day I found Carl dead, in his own bed, on his own terms, I brought with me a Tupperware container of home-made ice cream. Hospice care that day would have consisted of a few good stories shared over a couple bowls of ice cream. I would have documented 'improved appetite' on his dietary assessment and Medicare would never have known they'd been party to a party.

It's been about eight years now. Of all the patients I worked with, Carl has stuck with me - and he always comes back in September. I hope I never forget what he taught me. It was simply this - kindness, love and respect trump everything.

Thank you, Carl. I remember you. And I hope there is good ice cream wherever you are.

The Edge of the Last Exhale

This came out of a weekend writing workshop at  Sitka Center for Art and Ecology last month, taught by Sarah Rabkin and Chuck Atkinson. Thank you, Peggy, for instigating that fun! I am fascinated by the idea of ebb tide. Joan Anderson writes beautifully of it in A Year By the Sea.  I think the next time I am at the beach I will sit quietly through the tidal transition and, for just a bit, forget to breathe.

It's rumored to be there.

An infinite space of quietness

right there in that tiny, little place.

As the breath flows out of my body

I hear and follow the sound
as far as it, or I, can go.

Until I feel my belly contract with the pushing,

just the smallest bit more.

And it's there.

That transparent window of -

What is it? Time? Space?

where nothing is happening.

The ebb tide of breathing,

yet to turn around. 

Just a whisper of a moment

before that automated reflex to breathe kicks in.

The very beginning of some vague need that will soon be air hunger.

The window through which, if one were going to die, they would.

That's where it will happen, isn't it?

Someday I'll come to the edge of that last exhale 

and in the skipped heartbeat of time before the next inhale 

I will cross an altogether different edge

into that infinite space of quietness.

And while, at one time, that thought bore horror -

the thought of dying; 

of not being -

it's just not the case anymore. 

No.

When it comes I think it will be

the most unimaginably exhilarating slipping-through-the-crack

into the next thing.

The polar opposite of not being.

Being-er.

And I am so, so curious.

It Wasn't Us (or Sympathy For My Ex's Exes)

This is a slight change of pace. It may appear there's no direct "Sea" reference.  I would argue that any sure knowledge, any knowing, for me, will stem from time spent connecting to source - the sea. 

For every woman who's ever gotten in line . . . and for every man who eventually looks up in surprise to find nobody there.

They just get lovelier,

Each consecutive one.

Eyes sparklier,

Smile brighter.

And with each new one I wonder,

“Where was the . . .

(chocolate cake, hand on the small of the back, lingering gaze, flirty whisper)

when I was there?”

And then the eyes and the smile change
(a knowing);
 And then the eyes and the smile CHANGE
(a going).

And I realize, I too sparkled and was bright.

I was simply the first in the sparkly, bright line.

And the liberating truth is that

None of us was ever anything less than sparkly and bright.

It. Wasn’t. Us.

Pond Sure (or Dances With Dragonflies)

It turns out that water magic and boneyard magic are not limited to the sea. 

I suspected as much and perhaps the real truth is that wherever you are, there they are too. 

I'm pretty sure that will turn out to be the truth. 

I will have fun proving it.

There is a place, not far from here, where the magic runs deep. 

I can't tell you how to get there (or I'd have to kill you),

but I will take you there if you want to go. 

You'll have to be quiet and you can't disturb the naked ladies. 

Promise?

Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Once. Twice.

There.

Can you smell it?  

Dust. Dry pine needles. 

Grass and old wood.
Forest.
Wet dock and pond muck.
Fresh coffee.
The all's-right-with-the-world scent of it all blended together
and baking in eighty-four degree July sunshine.
And, okay, when nature calls, a tiny hint of eau de outhouse. 

Yeah. It's that kind of place. 

You can hear the wind in the pines and scrub oaks, 

the drone of a distant plane,

water lapping at the edges of the pond,

an occasional fish breaking the surface ,

the buzz of insects . . .

 And when you are floating silently in an inner tube, you can hear the dragonflies. 

So many dragonflies! 

It's maybe an acre. 

Maybe two. 

Do you measure a pond in acres? 

I don't know. 

Remember Bramasole in 'Under The Tuscan Sun'? 

"The land it takes two oxen two days to plow"? 

This is "The pond it takes about 30 minutes to lazily circumnavigate in a paddleboat". 

It's green (a healthy green, I was assured),

 has bluegill, channel and bullhead catfish, yellow perch, black crappie, large mouth bass,

bazillions of tiny, baby fish,

a 58 year-old, 4-foot long sturgeon named Daisy

and one bad ass catfish that. as of yesterday, is swimming around with a hook in it's mouth and towing a yellow and red float.

The cabin . . .  a very simple, two-story building. 

Everything it needs to be and nothing it doesn't.

Built by a father, now gone. 

Cherished by his daughter. 

No plumbing. 

There's a pull-start generator if you REALLY need to inflate that air mattress (we did),

a luxurious propane-heated outdoor sink/shower, fed from an up-hill water reservoir

and a deck that looks out over the pond -

perfect for outdoor sleeping under a nearly full moon.

And did I mention the outhouse? 

A deluxe, two-seater 

with copies of Finding Her Here and Warning on the wall . . .

and awesomely bad art scattered along the path from the cabin.

Next to the cabin is a home-made, rough-hewn bar with stumps for chairs 

a red, white and blue pinwheel 

and a battery powered iHome. 

The red wine, margaritas, whiskey and Izze flow freely. 

You don't have to drink

but you do have to answer the beige, push-button phone if it rings. 

There's no cord.  

But you never know. . .

(I told you the magic runs deep).

The occasion is an annual-if-we-can-get-our-shit-together gathering of dear friends. 

We couldn't quite remember if we've done this two or three times before. 

Last year it didn't happen at all. 

On a good year there could be a dozen of us. 

This year there were six and a 9-week old baby Bug (Boston Terrier/Pug mix). 

We gather, we eat, we drink, we laugh, we cry, and we play in the water. 

One year we wrote and moved each other to tears as each shared her story. 

This year's escapades included

topless SUPing, 

 naked inner-tube floating 

and a late night gab session under an almost full moon. 

We toasted Ilene's Willow Dock with Prosecco and grapefruit Izze. . .

and it was from Ilene's dock that the catfish made his dramatic escape.

It's a one-night event that goes by much too fast. 

All too soon one of us has to leave for work, 

someone else for a family commitment, 

someone else for a birthday party. . . 

I had no appointments and no particular agenda. 

So, in exchange for promising to haul out the garbage, I snagged a couple solitary hours in this beautiful place.

I won't give it all away, 

but I will say that every middle-aged woman 

deserves to be 

a naked goddess in her own private Eden 

for a day.

You CAN dance with dragonflies.

The bones will find you wherever you look for them. 

The magic will happen. 

And if, tomorrow, it seems more like a dream . . . 

I'll have the sunburned breasts to prove it.

PS The dragonfly photos are courtesy of Google search and accurately depict the amazing dragonflies we saw this weekend. I had no idea there were red dragonflies!

Father's Day, Pig-N-Pancake and the Gospel According To Carrie Underwood

Father's Day kind of came and went without a lot of fanfare this year. My dad has been gone for 26 years and the kids' dad was out of the country. I got Kelvin a nifty wood tie and thought about my dad, and that was pretty much the extent of it.

Now, two weeks and a couple days later, I'm at the beach and life has slowed down enough to let my mind wander a bit. I didn't really expect inspiration to strike at Pig-N-Pancake but, hey, turns out my muse has a fondness for that fat little piggy. 

And there it was . . . 

 about half way down the column under the various pancake options . . . .

Potato Pancakes. 

My dad loved potato pancakes.

I think I remember him saying it was from his time in NYC during WWII. But that could be a mixed up childhood tale. At any rate, we were always happy to see Mom grating potatoes on the random Sunday mornings she decided to make them; but none more so than Dad. We ate them with sour cream and homemade applesauce and lots of gusto. Exactly like the above picture.

So I'm sitting in the place I love most (that would be Seaside, not Pig-N-Pancake) and wondering how Dad might have felt about the ocean. We rarely  got to the beach  when I was a kid and I have no real memory of how it might or might not have moved him. I know he spent some time in southern California, but don't know if that included any beach time. But given Dad's appreciation for majestic mountains I know almost for certain that he must have loved the ocean too. 

I thought about the lyrics in Lee Ann Womack's song ''I Hope You Dance' . . . 

"I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean" . . .

and instinctively know Dad would have seen the ocean that way. 

He loved nature and saw his God in it - as I have grown to.

And he heard God in music. I know this. I remember watching him listen to dramatic organ music, soaring violin solos, beautiful vocal harmonies . . . and I would see him close his eyes and get lost in it. And I know where he went. I go there regularly these days. 

My higher power and spiritual path bears almost zero resemblance to Dad's. I'm not entirely sure we could ever have shared a conversation on this earth about those differences. 

But just at this moment I'm watching the sun drop into the ocean. 

I pause and give thanks to whatever it is that has brought me to this moment and the beauty I get to witness. 

And I can smile knowing Dad would do the exact same thing. 

Which makes me wonder if our paths were really that different after all.

Just different names for the same thing.

So why all the fuss?

One of Dad's favorite hymns was "How Great Thou Art".  

How I wish he could have lived to hear Carrie Underwood shred that song.

He had little use for the entertainment industry and I know he would have winced at Carrie's short dress, make-up and jewelry.

But now he's in a place where I'm pretty sure none of that matters. So, here ya go, Dad.

And while you're at it -

I hope you dance.

PS Thank you Taylor Scribner and Jesse Mendez for help with the pictures!

Cruisin'

June 2, 2013

Yesterday was a day of observation.  I observed some things that made me feel good. I observed some things that made me feel not so good. I got to observe the effect of really great music on my soul.  I even got to observe that sweet potato fries with honey mustard sauce are the bomb. I think the good won.

Observation #1.  I was sitting in a coffee shop near a couple who were both working on their computers. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, but the vibe was definitely comfortable. At one point he bought a pastry. After a few bites he mentioned how good it was.  She picked up the pastry, had a bite and then declared that she was going to eat the rest.  Here’s where it got interesting. There were no derogatory remarks, no whining, no grumping about how she always does that. He simply, graciously, let her have it and good naturedly got up and bought another. He sat down with the new pastry and happily commented, again, on how good they were.   I guess the most telling thing is how stunned I was.

Observation #2.  I was walking down the sidewalk, looking for a place to eat dinner, when I passed a 60-something man.  About 25 feet behind him was a woman about his age. As she passed I heard her call after him saying, “I’ve asked you to slow down. Will you please wait for me?”  He didn’t even acknowledge her.  He just kept walking.  I’m pretty sure his hearing was just fine.  In this case I was not stunned.  Sad is more like it. With a hint of weary. And gratitude for the reminder that alone is not the worst thing one can be. I continued my search for a place to eat but eventually gave up.  I was no longer hungry and it just wasn’t worth the effort.

Observation #3.  Having given up on dinner, I rode my bike to the turnaround  and sat on a bench to watch people. My attention settled on a family walking across the sand.  There was a man and a woman and three young boys. He was strikingly handsome and fit.  She was not.  A second couple with a new baby joined them.  I watched as the woman took pictures of everyone . . .  the man with the 3 boys . . . the couple with the new baby.  She was not included in any of the photographs.  Then the entire group migrated down the beach towards the water and she slowly followed after them. Those are the facts.   I was too far away to hear conversations or tones of voice or observe details like wedding bands, so anything beyond those facts is made up.  But I suddenly had the very surreal sense I was watching a movie of my life 15 years ago. Had she been young and beautiful and fit at some point?  Had she lost herself in the mire of being a wife, having babies and raising babies and making sure everyone was taken care of? Was she exhausted?  Hopeless? Invisible? Did she take comfort in food and bottles of wine after everyone went to bed?   I sat there on the bench and cried. Yes, I know I was just projecting my own shit in her general direction, but I also recognized that slump to her shoulders - and I don’t think I was too far off.  But the cool thing is, there was a lot of release in those tears. And I know how the story goes – at least up to this point. And it isn’t all bad. In fact it just gets better. I wanted to tell her that, but in truth, I don’t think she was the one who needed to hear it.

Observation #4 . Still sitting on the bench . . .  from somewhere nearby, music starts to register.  It’s an electric guitar, being played in a very slow, mellow, jazz style and an exquisite voice gently singing some old Smokey Robinson  “ . . . I love it when we’re cruisin’ together”.  I sat there listening till the sun set and it was too cold to stay any longer.  I put money in the musician’s jar, looked him in the eyes, told him his music was beautiful and thanked him.  It occurred to me that he had fed my soul. That’s what I was hungering for.  And all of a sudden I was ravenous and knew exactly what I wanted.  And yeah, that U Street Pub veggie burger with sweet potato fries couldn’t have tasted any better.

Addendum: September, 2013 . . .
I printed out this story and kept it at the Seaside house. This month, I came across the same musician playing on the Promenade. I raced home, grabbed the story and hurried back to the musician. I dropped some money and the print-out in his jar; told him he had made a real difference in my life and had written about it and then went on my way. He just nodded and smiled.

Addendum: May, 2014 . . .
Same musician at the Seaside Turnaround . . . I dropped a few dollars in his jar and asked if he'd play 'Cruisin' again. He smiled and immediately complied. I was listening to the music, swaying to the tune, when I saw a young woman amble into the middle of the sidewalk and start dancing to the song. I said, 'Right on!' and joined her. We danced and chatted. . . . the only two people dancing as Promenade traffic moved around us. Her name was Rachel and she's a shipwright newly moved to the coast. We shared one dance, hugged and moved on to the rest of our evening. I know the musician saw us connect through his music. I can only imagine it was pretty cool. Can I convey to you how much I love this place???

The Boneyard

May 4, 2013 I participated in the "Interesting Gorge" event in Mosier, OR.  When invited to speak I was fresh off an inspiring weekend at the coast and was feeling brave. Ha!  Then the terror kicked in. What did I have to offer a room of several hundred people. What was I thinking?!!!  But I had been contemplating the ideas discussed below and felt so passionately about them I didn't care if I sounded a little crazy.  I saw it through and was stunned by the response. Weeks after the event people I didn't know would still come up to me in the grocery store with kind comments about my talk.  I have come to the conclusion that when one speaks an authentic truth, people respond.  So I kept writing. And then some poetry started flowing out of my pen and again people, especially lovely, powerful women I admired, responded. The floodgate appears to have opened. And so, in the words of Cheryl Strayed, I started to "write like a motherfucker".  For what it's worth, I share it here. 

May 4, 2013

Over the last 5 years I have fallen in love with the Oregon coast.  

I love the gray, the wet, the rocks, the grit, the smell, the taste. . . 

There is a particular spot I return to over and over again. 

It’s a rocky area near Seaside’s cove that covers many acres.  

I return visit after visit and love exploring the nooks and crannies. 

It is different every day – 

four times daily in truth – 

I never know what the last tide will have washed in - 

or out.

But the day I came face to face with a dead seal I began to look differently at what I’ve affectionately come to know as The Boneyard.

As I watched that seal slowly decompose over the better part of a year, 

I began to notice all the other remains in The Boneyard . . . 

shells that used to house sea creatures, snails, bird skulls,  wings . . . 

and then I started thinking about the floats and baskets and entire trees and ropes and fishing lines and lighters and toothbrushes and syringes . . . 

and it began to seem that this was a place of endings. 

Even the rocks and driftwood began to look like bones.

This brought to mind one of the teachings of Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron - 

the ‘charnel ground practice’. 

In some areas of Tibet the ground is too frozen to bury the dead, 

so they cut the bodies into small pieces and leave them at the charnel ground for birds and animals of prey to scavenge. 

This place can be very frightening and uncomfortable . . . 

eyeballs, hair, fingers and bones are scattered everywhere. 

The monks living nearby go to these grounds to sit and meditate, getting in touch with the discomfort and their fears. 

It isn't just about sitting with the fear, but learning to regard whatever arises as the very energy of wisdom. 

In Pema’s words, it allows us to “look at our propensity to be bothered and our lifelong efforts at avoiding that which bothers us.”

So I started looking at my Boneyard as a sort of charnel ground with the opportunity to contemplate the sometimes messy, violent and uncomfortable endings  . . . 

seals oozing away to a pile of scattered bones . . . 

birds that look like an explosion of bone and feathers . . .  

strands of kelp and seaweed that looked like entrails, 

the silent remains of a campfire,. . . 

my own broken heart . . .

and somewhere along the way the awfulness faded away to a strange kind of beauty . . .

 the sand dollar perfect in its brokenness. 

The endings became new beginnings . . . 

whether a dead body providing nourishment for another creature, 

a sad little lost red shovel that will bring joy to the kid who finds it,

the mossy, spring green slug moving slowly past the remains of its cousin’s abandoned snail shell,

 brilliant green plant seedlings magically appearing out of the dead looking sand . . .

And the constancy amongst all that living and dying is the Ocean’s unending waves. 

The waves that carry these treasures in to shore. 

The waves that carry them all back out again.  

All in her good time. 

All to her own rhythm. 

Every six hours.  

Without fail. 

I have grown to love this place.

 It’s where I will live someday. 

It’s where my ashes will be scattered. 

I want to always be part of this beautiful cycle. 

I recently came across the following passage, written by Terry Tempest Williams in her book “When Women Were Birds”.  I don't think I could express it any better:

“ . . . it is here I must have fallen in love with water, recognizing its power and sublimity, where I learned to trust that what I love can kill me, knock me down and threaten to drown me with its unexpected wave. If so, then it was also here where I came to know I can survive what hurts. I believed in my capacity to stand back up and run into the waves again, no matter the risk."