New Year And Its Discontents

    Raised Catholic as a child, I made many promises to be good.  Each time I went to the confessional to unload my petty sins, I promised to do better next time.  A few Hail Marys were all I needed to send me on my way to a better life.  And any time I faced  fear, I bargained hard with my goodness in order to avert disaster.
“ Oh please God, I promise I will always believe in you if you just don’t let Mom and Dad die in a car accident.”
   This prayer was invoked  when I babysat my brothers and sisters, and thought  my parents were overdue from whatever journey they were on.   Staring out the window, I willed their car to appear and implored the deity to keep them safe.
    Praying is the primary attraction of Christianity, the idea that by asking an invisible entity for help you can improve your chances for a positive outcome.  It was a good tool, right up until I realized I was just talking to myself.  Then I was left with resolutions, backed up with only my good intentions, which are not easily able to surmount the ever heavier burden of past behavior.  We are repetitive creatures!
    So to prove this point I offer a poem from ten years ago, which reiterates some nearly  identical concerns of myself today.  The only solace is that my failure to keep these resolutions has not seemed to interfere with my general enjoyment of life as it is, even as I miss that perfection of what I imagine I should be.

2001 (or 2011) Resolutions

The year electricity gave out, stopped answering our call,
petered out before it ever got to the switch.  Finally in the dark
we see light as a treasure instead of a given.

The year coffee turned from medicine to poison, addicted,
overly devoted to dosage, technique, bitterness, I give it up
turn to milky tea, and sky becomes the first thing in the morning.

The year the newspaper stops landing on the front step,
cigar of wasted tree, smeared with words I am greedy for
redundant, trivial, disturbing, using up the free spaces of morning brain.

The year I see the commuting miles piling up, slowing me down
I-205, Powell Bvd to Oregon City, etched forever behind my eyeballs
even the hawk hunting the median strip can’t relieve my boredom. 

The year I hear the hammer hit the head of the cow
minced into hamburger, see the chicken on the guillotine
feel the loneliness of the fish as it takes the hook, and back away.

The year I read less, stop looking for answers, imagining
what might happen, and do what I can, find a candle,
make a fire, start living life and writing down as I go.

Dark Thoughts For Solstice

A Different Twist on Yeats

When he mentions the widening gyre
did he have my slackening belly in mind
circling the umbilical dimple, spreading
beyond the natural buttress of the pelvis,
toward a curve ever further.

Did he mean to invoke the slouching
of each cell, leaning with gravitational
tide, threatening at all times to body slam
my whole raison d’etre from whence
I derive and eventually succumb.

When birds express their harsh indignation
by ripping into my flaccid flesh
will there be a line of ants assembled
to receive communion and transport tiny parts
of me into the mouths of babes?

12/21/10

Plants and People United

Today I went out to play my role as crew leader for Friends of Trees, the group in Portland whose mission is spreading woody vegetation throughout the city.  There are so many reasons why this is a good idea, but today rain was constant for the entire time, testing our resolve and waterproof clothing.  With excessive precipitation in the northwest and blizzards in the midwest and Europe, I wonder if this is the increased intensity of weather that is promised by global warming.  If so, it seems like it will be tough to adjust to, but buying shares of GoreTex, or at least plenty of articles of clothing of that miracle fabric might be a first step.

A neighborhood treeplanting appears to operate on the exact opposite premise of the old movie, Field of Dreams.  In the movie the catch phrase was “If you build it, they will come,” referring to a magical baseball game that would happen when a baseball field is created.  For a treeplanting, it seems like the adage should be “If they come, we will build it,” because the trees just can’t get planted unless the volunteers show up with their trucks and muscles and willingness. Every time it comes together, and every time it is a magical thing.
In reality of course, volunteers and the paid staff have spent months getting all the parts together so that  we can’t help but rise early, don our raincoats and go out to get very wet and dirty and put some trees in the ground.   Today, two dozen crews planted 250 trees.

My crew were all homeowners who had signed up to get a tree in their planting strip by the curb.  City inspectors had previously inspected for the placement and size of tree, probationers had come and dug the holes, utilities had marked the placement of their lines, and neighborhood association volunteers had solicited donations from local eateries so that the planters could be fed both breakfast and lunch.  Other volunteers had coordinated the ordering of the trees, the operation of the food preparation, and the all important sign-up of trucks and truck drivers.  In the city, people who own pickups are always beseeched by their neighbors, and this is one of those times.

Because of the torrents of rain I didn’t expect a lot of manpower, but we had what we needed, including a chef, two teachers and a social service provider.  There was also the nine year old son of the chef, who assisted at the site of the first tree, but rather wisely retreated to the truck and his book for the remainder of the exercise.

Maybe because we were all skilled at working with others, after I gave the demonstration on planting, everyone literally dug in and worked great together.   I’m sure it also helped that we were all quickly sopping wet and on the verge of being cold if we didn’t keep moving, but we got the work done and were back for lunch by 12:30 PM.  After stripping off at least one layer of wetness, we were spooning into homemade soup and bread and exchanging business cards and email addresses.  Each and every time I plant trees, in the perhaps vain hope of making a dent in carbon dioxide levels of the world, I coincidentally  gain a palpable sense of goodwill towards my fellow humans.   For whatever reason, it always works!

Trying To Keep Up With Myself

 The challenge of my life has always been how to schedule enough doing to feel busy, healthy, creative and effective, and still have time to recollect the meaning of it all along the way.  Here we are at the end of November and I never finished my California trip in October.  I never mentioned walking in the redwoods which felt more like a cemetery than a refuge.  So many trees were chopped down for so little and now only a token is left.  The one part I appreciated were the plaques commemorating the selfless effort of a few conservationists to save each  grove from the chainsaw.  Even with the underlying sorrow, each tree is amazing.

That night we stayed at a little campground on the Klamath River and met the only other campers, a couple from Eugene.  We bonded over Robert’s interest in their teardrop camper, and the fact that the other woman was another tall Ellen.  It’s the little things that bring us together.

The next day we drove up the coast through a very foggy tip of California into sunny Oregon, right after Gold Beach.  We hiked out to Blacklock’s Point, and then up to the Oregon Dunes, staying in Eel Creek Campground.

Then we are back and life resumes, and now I am trying to write a novel in thirty days which is impossible, just in case you wondered.  But I am up to 27,000 words and I have to persevere simply because I said I would.  I am also helping to put together my neighborhood’s annual street tree planting next weekend and getting ready for several Christmas recorder gigs.  Going to work is mercifully nonthreatening for the moment.  No killer custody trials are looming.

I just returned from the place known as The Swamp for Thanksgiving.  A cabin set on the very northern edge of the Klamath Marsh, it is owned by Robert’s sister and husband, and is isolated and beautiful.

We had to leave early for fear of getting snowed in.  This didn’t seem like a bad fate, but I was overruled.  Goodby herd of chickadees, hello Willamette Valley skies.

Under the Sea Wind

I am writing a novel this month, with all the crazy folks of NaNoWri Mo, or National Novel Writing Month.   This little endeavor is getting in the way of my blog.  But I want to finish telling of my trip in California, before I forget it all.

From Point Reyes to Harbin Hot Springs we followed twisty roads through golden hills and then miles and miles of grape vines, in regimented lines.  Although you see a lot of wine in the grocery store, I didn’t have a mental picture of how many grapes it takes.  And we were only passing the elite wineries.   Finding Harbin was a little tricky, as it is tucked into the hills, but once there we entered a world of body and mind consciousness raising planted in the ‘60's and flourishing ever since.  Centered around several pools of various temperatures, visitors strip off their clothes in a unisex changing room, shower and partake of the waters in a hushed reverence.  We were hungry so we had to cut short the power of hot water to eat various heathy options in the restaurant.  Because it was the one night a week staff were served free, there was a big crowd in a great mood.  They were especially excited because the founder, was on the premises.

We stayed in a geodesic tent cabin with one side of clear plastic so we could look out on the woods.  It was a peaceful place.  Rob woke up in the night and went to the hot pools but I slept on.  In the morning I did a session of yoga in the temple which was hard and great.  Then we were on out way, to a place we really knew little about, Sinkyone Park.  This  is adjacent to the Lost Coast, a part of the coast that has no road next to it and is undeveloped.  Following directions both on the internet and by the person manning the nearest post office, we turned onto a dirt road so steep and narrow, we doubted it could be the right way.  I turned around after about a quarter mile and went back to the pavement and then saw that someone had actually drawn an arrow with the name of the campground, Usal, on the road.  So this was right.

 After about six miles of a very primitive road, where we were singing the Subaru song the whole way, we came to the campground, which was next to the beach.  There were a couple of people on the beach when we arrived and two vehicles parked in the campground, but we didn’t make contact with anyone once we got there.  Only a couple of elk.

 Up the coast the land fell straight into the sea.  The waves roared up the pebble beach.  It was beautiful and empty.  Back at the campground, we set up out tent in a grove of alder.  The moon rose as we cooked dinner.  We slept well.

In the morning the tide was lower and gave us room to walk down the beach less than a mile.  We slowly ambled, picking up souvenirs and listening to the restless sea.  Then we were gone, back on the scary road and heading north to the redwoods.

 

California Dreaming

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We left San Fransisco in early afternoon and headed over the Golden Gate Bridge and up twisty Highway One. With eucalyptus trees scenting the air like a big cough lozenge, we stopped for views at the first place where the road found the edge of the cliff.    The point had a complete view back to the city and north to Point Reyes.  We were joined by two  ladies who were still using film in their cameras, and three giggling chicas taking pictures with their I-Phones, who were from Dominican University, only about ten miles away.  Of course we all  traded cameras to take pictures of each other.

Heading north, past Stinson Beach, at the visitor center for the Point Reyes National Seashore we got a permit for a hike-in campsite.  We then went to the trailhead and packed our backpacks for the two mile, one night expedition.  This was ultralight backpacking!


We hiked through the grassy, sandy hills to the campsites close to the beach, throwing our backpacks into the metal boxes provided for raccoon protection, and headed down to the water for the sunset that was fast approaching.  What a beautiful scene, with crowds of sandpipers and dowitchers on the shore and no houses as far as the eye could see.

The few other campers all came down to watch the sun sink into an pumpkin puddle.

We went back to the campsite and set up the tent and cooked dinner by headlamp.  The air was still warm and the moon was up.  It was easy to sleep well in our flyless tent, looking through the screened roof at the stars.


The next morning we caffeinated and went back to the beach.  I ducked into the water which was cold but nothing like Oregon cold.  Robert waded and thought about getting all the way in but never quite made it.   We sunbathed in various states of undress, and I tried to capture the scene with colored pencils.   Then late in the morning we went back to pack up and head out.  Getting back to the campsite, where I had left my backpack on the table, I found that my wallet had been rifled and my money was on the ground.  A five dollar bill had two corners chewed off.  The dread raccoons had struck!  We hiked back to the car, meeting several locals coming in take advantage of the rare October sun and heat.  Then we headed for Sonoma and Harbin Hot Springs.




Reading about Point Reyes in the giveaway newspapers in the local stores, I learned that this place was saved for my public use as a result of a familiar struggle.  First, a developer declares that he wants to build hundreds of houses and a small brave band of citizens tries to stop him.  Locals are divided between those who can't understand why anyone would want this land and those who love it.  The National Seashore designation came in 1962.  We spent less than twenty-four hours there, but could have easily stayed a week.

On the Road Again

I’ve just been traveling by car through the top half of California for the last two weeks and have seen enough beautiful interesting places to talk about for weeks to come.  But given that we are in election time, I feel the need to speechify against the nabobs of negativism that seem to have gained the rhetorical upper hand.

What a great place we have!  I haven’t done the carbon footprint math yet, but I have to say the USA has great roads.  Maybe we don’t always appreciate how you can get from here to there, mostly on cruise control, but it keeps us tied together in ways the internet can never do.  And wherever I went, there were road construction projects financed by — Stimulus Money, that’s what.  Just look for the ARRA sign, indicating the funding and realize the a whole lot of people are working on the one thing we Americans really depend on, giving our vehicles a smooth ride.

Yosemite was the first place on our itinerary, and because the weather was rainy and cold for the first few days, I had more reason than usual to use all the amenities of this great National Park.  There are a lot of people employed in that park, gladly warning you of bear hazards, and patiently entertaining all manner of anxious questions about the weather, road closures, bus routes and camping reservations.  Although when we came back the fifth time to the wilderness permit office to return the bear cannister we has thought we needed but then realized we wouldn’t need, the ranger banned us from returning for at least a day.  If this is government excess, then we are all a lot better off for it. And by the way, Yosemite is beautiful and spectacular, even in the rain and more so in the brilliant sun that finally appeared.

Next we went to San Fransisco, where every block seems to have ten restaurants and tourists from all over the world were spending freely.  We happened to tour Alcatraz Island on Columbus Day and were nonplussed by how the welcoming presentation glossed over the Indian occupation of the island in 1969 and 1970 as a necessary prerequisite for the better economic opportunities now offered to Native Americans through casinos.  However, the audio tour of the island, actually paints a fair picture of the misery of the prison, or at least as much as the average person can stand to hear about.  It is one of the many chapters of our history that we have belatedly started to come to terms with.  Overhearing comments of several visitors talking about the hard time they had done elsewhere and how Alcatraz compared, I thought how education is valuable in so many different ways.

The next day we went to Golden Gate park, to visit the serene Japanese Tea Garden and the impressive de Young museum.  Although admission prices everywhere started to add up, I accepted this as part the American “you get what you pay for” mentality.   We were kinda ripped off by one cab ride but entranced by another, who gave us a short history of the city from 1968 to the present day as he experienced it, and then said we were his last fare of the day (at one in the afternoon) and he was going home for a beer.  Isn’t this the way travel is supposed to be?  Disappointment around one corner sets up amazement for the next turn of the road.

There are more places to tell about, but the real story of this trip for me is that despite the impression you get from the media, every part of this country has its own unique geography and history.  The fact that this is true proves that we are doing something very right.   I was also very glad to see that Robert’s “smart phone” didn’t work very many places, and for the most part we were at the mercy of the place we were at.  Which always turned out better than we expected.