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

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 realized 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 - well, minus the bacon.

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 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.