the next season approaches

In two days it will be the autumn equinox - on Sept. 22nd. Fall used to be my favorite season for reasons I've batted around forever.... it's cooler.... school began and I have cellular memories of being back in school and out of the house.... wow, check out the leaves!, no wait, I live by the beach, we don't have that many deciduous trees here, oh well... perhaps some karmic lifetime hoo-hah. "I've always hated summers," I've moaned. Wait wait, surely there's an audience... listen to me whine! I can elucidate this wretchedness, you know. And then this past summer came out of the attic, dusted off its need to be real, and I had the best SUMMER since I don't know when. 

I couldn't paint or draw well as a young child. Matter of fact, I don't find myself doodling now, basking in the glory of chest-beating artistic bliss. So I would get paint-by-numbers kits from some pokey Santa Monica art shop and make believe that I could paint. Put this color here and that color there. And it would almost look like a horsie or a mountain. I needed direction and I loved the seamlessness of connecting the dots. In a chaotic childhood, anything that made sense to my mind was a refuge in a storm. Even a $2.99 paint-by-numbers kit.

I am connecting the dots from summer and finding gifts that bless and surprise me. "There" and "here" used to be separate universes. Three guesses which was better, safer, quieter, yearned for. Not here. So this little survival glitch has followed me for quite some time. Of its many voices, "Go NOW!" is one of its most insistent. Battling with that voice has brought numerous opportunities for AFGEs (go ahead, Google it). The Good Girl voice says, "You be good. You show THEM how well you can be ... strong/committed/brave/intentional/{ad nauseum}." That's right! And then I fall into another dissociated depression and wonder what went wrong and where's the Holy Spirit? It just might be considered an instance of "tempting God" when I cut myself off at the heart chakra and solar plexus while I tell a Power Greater than myself to shower me with balance, blessings and not a small amount of chocolate. 

I am connecting the dots from summer and finding marvelous things. I am learning that I can have an authentic voice, clear boundaries, yippy pleasure and not be a self-indulgent 3-year-old (sometimes; I'm still a work in progress). This summer, to my quietly trembling surprise, wasn't an either/or. "I had a really good time and so I'm going to go NOW!" Of course I can. Why do you think I drove almost 8,000 miles? So I could say "yes" or "no" to all that I encountered, a pattern I negated in myself in times past. Control issue? Sure. But not only that and it doesn't mean I'm merely an unevolved wimp-ass. I am connecting more dots, giving breath to more voices and finding cohesion where before there were little neat, separated compartments that had no intercoms or walkie-talkies between them. The DSM-IV has cool names for this kind of stuff (e.g. dissociation) and they can play with it. I'll color slightly outside the lines and take God's grace where I can breathe it in.

On another hand, I can tell I'm back in California. I was joshing with a friend about Botox, mildly bemoaning a few imperfections I'd like to make go away. It's a joke, of course. I mean, really. Botox? Please. How..... critically voiced! And my friend responded, "Well, you know the costs have really come down in the past few years." Thud. And those embarrassing spider veins in my legs, well, maybe it's time I saved for that non-insured cosmetic visit to the dermo and lunge again for some physical perfection now that I'm chugging along in midlife wonder..... 

There's a car with North Carolina plates parked on my Berkeley street. They too drove a long way. It's dusty. I wrote in the dust on the back window, "Welcome to Callie!" I didn't know we wuz called that until I drove back East. Last night I parked behind this car and wondered if he or she would've washed off my friendly intrusion. Beneath my still-scrawled words were "Thanks!" I added a little more. Eventually I'll get to introduce myself.... or not. The financial markets have been outer-galactically insane lately (perhaps you've noticed). Little bits of earthiness give me a reason to be present in my life with and without reminders of Ram Dass's Be Here Now catapulting through my consciousness. 

I am connecting the dots from this summer and today, here is a very good place to be. 

7,884 miles and 7 weeks later

I made it back to Berkeley (photo proof at left, if there was any doubt).... in one piece for the most part. I will share more deeply as I continue to untangle the fluttered pattern of this summer's outstanding gifts from the giddy-up thud in a re-landing. In other words, a closing paragraph..... that ooooh-no of the college essay. I will be accepting applications for various titles. Prize options will be subject to my approval and mood at the time, not to mention legal, financial and moral applicability.

Eye Five

I can tell that it's time to return to a less exhaust-fumed normalcy when my 

attempts at humor annoy even myself. I'll shoot up the famous San Joachin Valley Interstate and land back in Berkeley sometime this evening. It's probably reasonably clear that I have no excitement about doing so. Were it not for the facts that I have a boatload of work to catch up on plus that I miss friends from my church, my choir and other spiritual corners of my life (you know who you are), well.... I'd be doing something else. And it's being swirled about and prayed over.

Susan and I hit PCH yesterday and cruised to Malibu. Portions of the beach are clearly delineated; this area for surfers only, this for swimmers and those otherwise sloshing about. The weather was Southern California perfect, in the upper 70's with a gentle haze muting too much glare and melanotic taunts. The traffic was normal, meaning almost bumper-to-bumper en route out. Alice's Restaurant is no longer at the Malibu Pier, I am sad to announce. No star sightings, although we looked while trying very hard to seem as though we were not. 

I did however spot a true California Beach bunny! 

It must be a Malibu phenomenon. We never saw them in Venice.

I saw a roadrunner scamper across the highway as I entered Arizona. We'll see what I-5 has to show.

heading for Venice Beach

I'm heading to Venice Beach right now to say hi to my Dad. I grew up on Ocean Front Walk, before the Venice Pier, before the Marina del Rey was dug out and created. My dad passed away in 1988. The tug and sensations are powerful. 

It is at least 15 degrees cooler in West L.A. than the Bay Area, so I am here for now!

I'm staying with my friend Susan. You can tell we took this photo just yesterday! For those who are au fait with code, we'll be heading to the Brentwood Thursday night meeting tonight. When I phoned Central Office to verify that it was still around, the woman quipped, "Sure is!" It's a rather large and popular meeting. "So I'll arrive half an hour early to save a seat, right?" I said. "You should arrive three days early to save a seat," she said. That's the Westside!

here in Arizona's Verde Valley and then soCal

... or as new friends from North Carolina have referred to my old stomping grounds, "Callie." 

Click here for a new Gallery of photos from Sewanee, Tennessee to Sedona and Cottonwood, Arizona.

Tidbits from the road include kokopelli overkill, more Historic Route 66 souvenirs than one could possibly consider brainstormable, do NOT mess with Mother Nature thunder- and hailstorms, and a renewed visit with cherished friends here in the Verde Valley (that's sort of kind of northern Arizona). Nickie & Dirk & I met over 21 years ago in northern Virginia; Pushpa & Brent & I go back a mere 15 years. 

Tomorrow, West L.A. for 2-3 days, and then..... back to Berkeley. Sigh. 

hotel hair and deep brain thrombosis

Chlorine in the water gets my hair every time!

Gilda Radner - bless your spirit always - is one of my secular saints. When at the end of my rope, when every available recourse from decades of spiritual practice seem a distant there-there now, I can hear her voice saying as a character I can't quite pinpoint now, "It's always somethin'!" Once in a blue moon that keeps me from continuing to take myself so seriously that I land in a heap on the floor, panting.

Long drives and more to come.

Friday was Lonoke, AR to Oklahoma City. Saturday motored on to Santa Rosa, NM. Today I head for Flagstaff, AZ, pondering Sedona. 

the angel of safe journeys

I have been wished good and safe travels from those dear to me and those I have passed briefly while journeying. This angel hangs on a wall at St. Mary's in Sewanee, Tennessee. She exudes grace, beauty and quiet strength. I'll carry her and my friends' wishes with me as I journey on each day.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, however, which can resemble a fairly disheveled attic without a heads up (look! we're having a disheveled brain moment!), I decided that the key to a successful road trip was putting as many miles in a day as one could do without succumbing to serious physical or psychological damage. Fortunately the wisdom and clunkiness of aging also allow me to reconsider such lunacy. I don't have to pull 18-hour driving days - or even half of that. But oh how those old ideas die slowly. Somewhere in my cellular memory is the utter conviction that if I drive forever, I've done well.

"It's Friday night. Book the room online now, don't just drive 'until it feels right' or you begin hallucinating." An inner wise parent and the Holy Spirit are coming through.

So instead of fueling the hours on the road with more than too much caffeine, just enough pure water to nod in the direction of hydration, listening to my Fr. Tom 12-Step CD collection once more, the occasional stop and blurry-eyed glance through kitsch shops with funky postcards AND that slightly naughty sense of I'll drive until I'm damn well done driving, thank you very much, I have a room booked for tonight. I feel so boring. I also feel as though I'm acting mildly intelligently. 

I drove through a fairly severe thunderstorm yesterday about an hour to the east of Memphis while driving westbound on Hwy. 64. I had checked the weather on TV and online that morning and noticed the band of heavy thunderstorms moving slowly N/NE. Well, by golly, they were right. Cartoon scary movie lightning bolts shot through the charcoal gray skies while rain pelted my little car. I slowed. I thanked God for my new Michelin tires. I dialed 511 and tried the voice prompts to check for flooding alerts. The obsequious recorded voice, who otherwise sounded like a rather hunky guy, could not make out my clearly articulated words. The failures of voice recognition systems were again demonstrated this morning while I watched the Weather Channel with the sound muted. The text read, "Saddle light images show......" Well giddy-yup meteorology! So it rained, I drove slowly, I got Google Maps up on my iPhone (which checks for traffic but not sinkholes as far as I can tell), I prayed, I called two friends to ask them to check for floods, I made it.

Today I'm leaving Lonoke, Arkansas. A Super 8 Motel. Tonight, a Holiday Inn Express in ..... come on, be nice, I'm not a kid anymore..... Oklahoma City! 358 miles give or take. See you then. 

it's time

I'm ready to begin the return journey.... ready in a heartful sense. Today it begins. My two days at St. Mary's (conference center, not the convent) gave me the opportunity to realize that I'm 'done retreating'. I've had a majestically exultant time since mid-July. Thank You, God: It's enough for now!

I'm overlooking the still misty valley below 'the mountain' here in Sewanee, Tennessee. I leave in 20 minutes. I have been given backroads insights from here to Memphis. After that, it will likely be some variation following I-40 westward for at least 2,400 miles, possibly routing through L.A.

Possibly not.

Next time I plan a road trip, I'll consider a motorcycle.... with or without a pink flamingo.

up close and personal with Reggie

It has been a quietly blissed and blessed week with Susan & Klaus (& the kitties plus a cast of others) in Roswell, Georgia. I left with sadness today, their company swooning softly in my heart. My last full afternoon yesterday included an hour and change back at the Chattahoochee Nature Center, revisiting the little Eastern screech owl Reggie (to whom I am blowing a kiss at left), scratching the back  of Camden's head while she seemed to like it, and meeting The Beav. Unlike the character from the early 1960's TV show, this was a strawberry-snarfing, buck-toothed sweetie with thick fur and beady little eyes. I was a bit daunted with this 55-lb. paddling rodent, but his sweetness was endearing. Susan is a champ with these rescued wild creatures. I've added some more photos to our existing album. 

I wanted a relatively benign drive away from the comforts of the Roswell respite. St. Mary's is a mere 160 miles or 3 hours drive away in Sewanee, Tennessee. It seems to have had several incarnations including school, convent and currently a center for retreats and programs, many for Contemplative Outreach which teaches Centering Prayer. This connects with my profoundly moving stay at St. Benedict's Monastery in Snowmass, Colorado in mid-July. I "just happened" to have arrived on the afternoon of their weekly Centering Prayer sitting, which offered an amazing if seemingly momentary healing of my jittery road brain. We even watched some of Fr. Thomas Keating in an older video of his "Spiritual Journey" series. This prolific author and gifted teacher, now in his mid-eighties, is a wondrous inspiration.

"You've made it to the mountain!" smiled more than one person after my arrival. Not adept at remaining neutral while feeling a bit dumb, I managed to splutter, "Thank you. What mountain are we on?" "This is the Cumberland Plateau, a portion of the Blue Ridge Mountains." All I had intended was to arrive somewhere safe and "spiritual" (I know that's a loaded term). I hadn't actually invested the energy to examine the area in more depth. I'm endeavoring to de-spazz. I think this is a very good place for that. 

moving Skye

Told you she looked like an otherworldly mop! 

pause

I had not a teensy tiny amount of anxiety while luxuriating with my friend Joan in Maggie Valley and then attempting to learn a few rudiments of shape note singing with the brilliant music camp up in rural North Carolina: What next? 

I fog myself up with a lack of clarity or when desires clash with otherwise well-meaning shoulds. It's time to go back. "I don't wanna!!!!!!!!" Crinkle crunch hmmm. Kick shuffle grumble. Breathe. 

In a delicious sweep of surprise I was invited back to Susan & Klaus's in Roswell, Georgia.... to let things settle. To rest. To gather perspective. And so I am here, grateful, resting, laughing and this weekend in particular, cat-sitting while my friends are off on a Kentucky cave camping adventure. Kelsey, Nova, Fiona and Skye are special-needs felines from Susan's prior work at a vet clinic. Kelsey is the Grande Dame, gentle and sweet; Nova is the needy, limping vocalist with a deformed front paw, which renders her incapable of swiping back at Fiona, who has a seizure disorder and to whom I am giving meds twice a day; Skye looks like an otherworldly space mop and a smaller 2nd cousin to an English Sheepdog with a Charlie Chaplin moustache. She tends to hide under the bed until I start brushing Kelsey. Then she thinks about coming out.

So after bidding farewell to some of my new musical buddies at Camp DoReMi, I pointed my car south and drove 258 miles. I'm in mid-mundane: Regular 12-Step meetings of both persuasions (friends of Bill and Lois), my continued market research (we will not talk about the current precious metals correction), a few jogs at the local park, dusting off my cooking skills for my generous hosts, and attending to the needs of my 2003 Honda Civic. Yesterday I had 4 new Michelin "Destiny" tires put on in a stunning display of warding off a 70 mph catastrophe. At nearly 60K miles it's time. Today I get a wheel alignment and oil change. I have driven 4,729 miles and spent $440.50 (roughly) on gasoline. 

The return journey is still unfolding. I leave here Tuesday for St. Mary's in Sewanee, Tennessee. After 2-3 days there.... well, stay tuned. I'm breathing and praying.

The photo is from Bat Cave, NC, outside of Asheville. I uploaded it because it's cute. 

They will sing the old time songs

My ego had squirmed a bit when I squeaked out that I had attended something by the name of Camp DoReMi. 

Oh how silly. How goofy. 

It was neither. 

I first stumbled upon a group of Shape Note Singers at a Seattle Northwest Folklife Festival 8-10 years ago. I was both in a pro folk/Celtic group and worshipped Sundays in St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral where we sang hymns (and the Cathedral Choir did anthems that brought tears to my eyes). The tsunami of passionate "old time" singing that almost tore through the walls had my jaw falling open. Over the coming years as I shifted my musical expression into choral and liturgical singing, the intricacies of worshipful madrigal music captivated my heart. That is my core today. 

Shape Note singing pulls at another visceral level.

"Shape note singing began in the late 1700's as a teaching device in American singing schools in the Northeastern United States. People were looking for a way to make singing arts more accessible. Shapes were added to the note heads in written music to help singers find pitches within major and minor scales without the use of more complex information found in key signatures on the staff. This sight-reading device really worked... and still works today." Click HERE for a fine link that continues to expound.

I wove this "music camp" into my summer road trip that focused on the Southeastern corner of the Lower 48. When I finally arrived at Wildacres Retreat up in the teensy mountain hamlet of Little Switzerland, I began to experience occasional moments of cultural discomfort and hiccups of insecurity that can follow showing up somewhere without knowing anyone. I allowed myself to be a rank beginner. This was a useful attitude because, as far as Shape Note or Christian Harmony singing is concerned, I am. Reality check points aside, I struggle when learning new things. At the evening singings which lasted 2 hours I quickly found the strongest readers and vocalists and politely sandwiched myself between them. I cannot sight read "the round notes" particularly well. Interval training with shapes was another experience. I made tiptoes of progress. And I sang my heart out when I could. 

They say that if you can hear your neighbor singing, you're not singing loud enough. This does not work with my Church choir. But it works here. Here's another link on YouTube. Turn up your speakers.

I was the Other.... that Californian who'd driven 'all that way'. I was also one of the beginners. Patiently and excitedly they wanted me to grasp it, to love it as they do. It was a powerful start. 

And the meaning of the sacred harp? 

It's you. It's your voice.

Maggie Valley to Wildacres Retreat

Up in the exceedingly rural hills of Little Switzerland, NC, the satellite internet connection I am loathe to call broadband is clunking along. There may or may not be a catch-up 'hi, y'all!' from another time.  I won't know until I hit the right button. 

The porch which I hope will stay to my left is one of several of my friend Joan's. Her jaw-dropping gorgeous home is an occasional respite from her whirlwind world travels, primarily for the consulting work she does. The 4000' elevation makes the water pressure weak. That was absolutely the only complaint that could be made (and even that was a chuckling stretch) about her glorious perch high up in the mountains. We had a ball. Note to visitors: You can give Ghost Town a miss. But we did it all (such as was doable, including Skeeball which I had not played since, oh, I was 12?) in an hour. 

Butterflies are everywhere on this journey, in this part of the world. I'm not a butterflyologer so I can't name 'em, but they breeze past human presence while on a get outta my way NOW mission to every blooming flower imaginable. Their collection of nectar is almost ferocious, after which some of them seem to need a day-long siesta within the petals of the nearest mammoth bloom. 

There are a few dear souls on this planet to whom I continue to offer a measure of unconditional love in spite of their audacious and might one even say cruel poking fun of my latest venture: Camp Do Re Mi. Go ahead. Laugh. There are 70 of us here including commuters (now that's a stretch!). I believe two dozen were turned away. It's their 2nd year, it's connected to Shape Note Singing about which I know almost nothing, I'm the only Californian, and so far - while, well, a bit different, it is fun. As my choir director has said and about which only ten or so people will smirk, they all sing like Jack. For those of you who don't know Jack, let's just say that Shape Note or Christian Harmony singing isn't about subtlety and nuance. It is ALL THERE and more. Part of the reason I am here is because my church choir (as most) takes the summer off and if I don't do something then my voice gets out of shape. If last night is any promise of our two-day vocal extravaganza, I will be hoarse before Sunday morning. But smiling.

Asheville to Maggie Valley NC

Two people have said in the past 24 hours that they have never heard of Maggie Valley. I hadn't heard of Asheville two years ago. 

North Carolina is beautiful, whether in the muggy Outer Banks or chorusing tree frog populated mountains where I am now visiting another dear friend from Findhorn days. It's simply beautiful. Grab a Thesaurus and go to town; it's really that stunning. 

As well the people are kind. I lost my cars keys while jogging in the North Carolina Arboretum the other morning. I won't turn that tale into a drawn out oh please can we just get on to something else? bleating. It was annoying. To say the least. The trials of the day and night also included some honest gratitude, for example being relieved that I had left my armed Honda in a secure parking lot a stone's throw from above and beyond helpful Arboretum gatekeepers rather than say in the middle of the Blue Ridge Parkway. This was a good day not to have ventured too far. Long story short, they were found by that evening. I have also become a new convert to the idea of taking one's 2nd set of keys along on extended journeys. Yes, they were FedEx'd that day, and yes, I now have them. Along with the few self-defense martial arts moves my friend Greg showed me before I left the Bay Area, I hope I won't need them.

Maggie Valley is beautiful. I am told that its normal population of around 761 swells to over 15,000 in the pristine summer months, with many Floridians escaping their swelter to cooler mountain summer homes. Joan and I will explore the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, a Ghost Town and other nearby adventuring morsels. 

Lessons for the day: Breathe. Pray. Hydrate. Give thanks.

The Outer Banks to Asheville

What was I thinking? A hostel? I never wanted to stay in them when I was 22. Thirty years on my initial opinions have been utterly revalidated. I have learned to take notice at the difference between what is supposed to be happening and WHAT IS. And I have learned to take steps, even baby steps, back into something more ably resembling reality. 

I am so not 17 or 24 years old any more. Yet I felt safe if awkward, and eager to leave after my road weary collapse into my $60 (!) private room with one bathroom shared by, oh, ten kids. Amazing that this gets to be shoved into the been there done that portion of our show.... one night at a hostel before I die! It was too Adams Family 1970's hippie bullshit almost spooky weirdness. The young folk were nice, though. These could be my children; we were like you when we were your age, idealistic and adventurous. What is the cookie cutter carryover from one generation to the next? My parents' peers built bomb shelters in the backyards.

The last Pelican House retreat morning was an exultant lingering. We ate our last breakfast together and said some of our goodbyes. I had some scrambled eggs which stayed soft and delicate even over a burner, and let either Scot or Luba plop a spoonful of grits onto my plate. One bite of the salty blobbiness was all it took. It was later gently pointed out to me that it might be in my best interest to not be quite so vocal about disliking grits, at least around here. 

This swirl of coming together and then moving apart.... 

I went back to my room and, fueled but not full, jogged barefoot on the beach one last time. I didn't put on bug repellant. This is the last and I mean the last time in the South I go out in the summer for more than 2 minutes without bug repellant. My legs and bits of my arms are covered in welts. I can't even see 'em coming! These must be American Midgies (the Scottish term for Terminator gnats), 'cause I can hear the mosquitos a foot away.

I jogged through the shallow water. I saw little kids playing and looked at their seashells spelling out an upside-down HAPPY BIRTHDAY in a graveyard Scrabble. We scour through the skeletons of the dead. That's what seashells are. And we call them beautiful, scoop them up and take them home. 

I miss the ocean. Asheville is beautiful, cute, artsy, retro, hip - read all about it. And I'm jonesing for the waves, the sultry hot air that steamed my eyeglasses every time I stepped out of the air-conditioned retreat house looking for my beach flip-flops. I miss the pelicans. I miss the chorus of tree frogs every night that almost drowned out the sound of the waves. 

It was a long and numbing drive. It took over 8 hours. Unlike Trinity and Pelican in Salter Path, where I had friends before I even arrived, I know no one here. I feel a bit daunted. My replacement lodging of a Country Inns & Suites room is a Holiday Inn Express cousin and will do jest fine until I meet with my friend Joan in nearby Maggie Valley on Monday for a few days. After that... stay tuned. In the meantime, there's much to explore. And Church on Sunday at All Souls Cathedral!

the beach in front of the Pelican Retreat House

Heaven. I'll risk the hyperbole. For all of my tendencies to whine, taking pea princess into cartoon land, my loudest inner moan today is not wanting to leave tomorrow morning. Of course I may ask to stay longer, however I am booked into Bon Paul and Sharky's Hostel (can you believe it?) in Asheville, to the west and in the mountains. At least close to the mountains. I'm not prepared to cancel the hostel's one private room.... just yet. 

I'd booked this self-directed time here at the Trinity Conference Center's Pelican Retreat House (that was a mouthful) called Personal Time. I found it by scouring through various websites with criteria such as "retreat centers," "Episcopal," "religious communities." Piecing together this so far wondrous USA Road Trip has been a bit of a hiccupy process....but stumbling across a beachfront Episcopal retreat house in North Carolina felt like finding an enormous chest of golden treasure. I have a room with a view, like-minded and really interesting retreat housemates, catered meals that are just way too delicious for words, the Holy Spirit present while two-lane resort traffic zooms by on Hwy. 58.... for $70/night. I had felt edgy about having 'five whole days' with less structure than my normally manic whirl of a life is used to. It is in fact such a sacred and restful space in which to sink that I have abandoned otherwise laudable desires to explore the Outer Banks (Kitty Hawk, Nags Head, every lighthouse imaginable), particularly since realizing that it's just not a day trip unless you have your own boat. 

Instead I sit in the sand and watch for ghost crabs, who are more hypervigilant and skittish than I can be. I do not envy a life of being constantly on the lookout for sea birds who are constantly on the lookout for their next meal. This might be analogous to the movie Finding Nemo except I have not seen all of it although I do remember one crab holding up another above the water line with the diving gulls crying, "Mine! Mine! Mine!" A ghost crab and I got into a staring contest. The crab won. 

I have not been in the ocean in many many many years. The water is warm here, unlike the Pacific. I last lived close to the ocean in Venice Beach in the late 1980's and early 1990's. The Santa Monica Bay was and is still renown for being so polluted it could send you to the local ER, so I wouldn't even wade. Yesterday I went in up to my chest. I felt like an exultant 5-year-old. Today - if the waves and rip currents are kind - I shall dive in as long as a strong swimmer is close by. One of the retreatants is a young lad who claims he was on his high school swimming team. Score! For the record I have taken swimming lessons three times in my life - at ages 6, 14 and 35. In spite of this, I have almost drowned on perhaps four occasions. Deep water and I keep a cautious distance. Today we explore the friendship. 

Susan & Klaus & Jesus & the Goddess

Deep breath. I feel inadequate to express the enormity of this precious visit. It took my heart, gently embraced it and said "here, breathe!"

Susan & Klaus & I met at the Findhorn Foundation in northeast Scotland in 1993. It is an international spiritual community and education center that began in the early 1960's; those unfamiliar with it can readily score its history online. Susan & I worked in Cluny dining room; Klaus worked in Accounting. They fell in love and married; we all grew to be friends. After years of Christmas cards and invitations to visit them, I did. 

I spent a very long time vehemently dismissing my "new age years." I think that one of my core issues now is not to dilute my relationship with the Risen Christ but to consciously breathe in a similar manner to Thomas Merton's open-hearted ecumenism. Focus ought not translate to closed-mindedness; attention need not grasp at rigid dismissal. I'm not advocating polite whitewashing or avoiding conflict at all cost. I'm a mere mortal learning sometimes clumsily that "your God" and "my God" need not be glaring at one another in the Shootout at the OK Corral. 

One of the many gifts of my time at the Foundation is the emotional intimacy I encountered there. When people asked you how you were, they stopped what they were doing and wanted to know. Really know. How you really are. I stopped saying "fine, thank you," although I do that now. We began our work shifts with a time of speaking personally with one another called "attunements." One might glower that it reduced efficiency. This is not The American Way! It altered my inner landscape however in a manner that stays with me today. My visit with Susan & Klaus in a sultry Atlanta suburb brought back memories, healed old wounds (not every day was bliss and joy) and reminded me that love is a grace of God. Here are some more photos! (I hope your browser gets along with my MobileMe Galleries! If there are glitches, downloading the latest version of Firefox could help. The photo opps might cough and splutter on older software.)

Susan has worked with the Chattahoochee Nature Sanctuary over the past decade. The photo album linked to this post includes a visit with some of their rescued wildlife. I've waited for years to get that up close and personal with owls, for those of you recalling my Seattle folk-Celtic trio of the same name. I even got to scratch the back of Camden's head! We also visited the Holy Spirit Monastery in Conyers. The merging of dualism was not lost on us as we wandered the grounds and saw a snake in a tree. A large nest was high above in the branches. It was lunch time for all including us as we joined the retreatants in a silent meal. Jesus, the Goddess, the black snake and the tame geese all nodded that day. 

the circuitous route to the Atlantic shore

This is my room at the Pelican Retreat House in Salter Path, North Carolina. The link is down below where the links live. It's part of the Trinity Conference Center which I found by Google slogging my way through various Episcopal diocesan websites. My room is called St. Hilda and the waves are so loud at night I don't want to fall asleep because I am so enraptured hearing them. I've driven over 3,000 miles to hear the sound of the waves breaking, a memory from my childhood growing up in Venice Beach. When I walked into my room, my heart leapt and I cried. 

Yes, I realize that as a Berkeley resident I am about an hour and a half from the Pacific. I like sharing the idea that I felt like going to the beach, turned around 180-degrees and hit the road. No, not this ocean; that ocean.

Getting here I had a less than graceful encounter with what had at the time seemed like a great idea: Heading to the Coast from the Atlanta area, spending the night north of Charleston, South Carolina (to avoid resort mayhem) and then meandering my way up Hwy. 17 to these lower Outer Banks. I took goofy silly back routes to pass through Denmark, as one of my Roswell friends is half-Danish. I landed at a reasonably cute and unremarkable Jameson Inn in Georgetown, adjacent to a huge bridge and a fog-shrouded bog. I wanted wifi, a nice bed and palatable coffee after I arose. Check. I headed out after a leisurely morning and slammed head-on into a really old, dilapidated billboard living in the nether reaches of my mind. Why I thought that driving up the coast would be something out of a 1962 TV commercial, with big ole cars and a sea breeze blowing.... I don't know. It was bumper to bumper traffic. It was one of my worst city-fried, claustrophobic nightmares. After crawling 35 miles in 90 minutes while what might've resembled my patience dribbled into a crumb-scattered corner of my messy Honda, I'd had enough. Another 140 miles of that was not something I was willing to gamble on, so I drove an extra 100 miles inland and staggered into the Point of Arrival at Trinity after another 8-hour driving day rather than a leisurely 4-1/2 one. Sometimes I can seamlessly shift out of expectations into life on life's terms. Yesterday was not one of those days. 

It's worth it being here. I jogged on the beach this morning, hot and muggy before 9 am. I saw pelicans, and small planes from a local airport. I eyed the seashells and saw a ghost crab dart back into its burrow. I'll sniff around for some friendly adult supervision and splash in the water. I hear the rip current danger is low today.

Happy Birthday!

How could I not have a yum yum THANK you happy birthday when my friends Klaus & Susan have said that every day I'm here is my birthday? The last two natal whirls have been not too good to say the least, particularly having the big five-oh subsumed under a miasma of neo-community blur when with the Iona Community. This week I feel loved, cared for.... yes. All that. And with cake, too!

I'll upload a new photo gallery in the coming few days to include photos of the three of us, the owls and eagle from Chattahoochee Nature Sanctuary and today's eagerly quietly yes-anticipated visit to the Holy Spirit Monastery in Conyers (Georgia, in case you forget where I was). 

first, the virtual or at least a nod to memorabilia

I know grown men who were traumatized as little kids by seeing the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. Decades later I still cry when I hear Judy Garland sing 'Over the Rainbow', which I cannot imagine anyone else in the entire universe attempting to do. I am a sap. And with a 2-day driving trip that was SO not smart I still managed to budget an off-road jaunt to a little Kansas museum filled with Ozesque memorabilia. I think I am still trying to atone for having attended the 1970 MGM Studios sale and not paid $5 for some used period dress. For my $6 admission fee (with AAA card), I wandered, I gawked, I roared in silent mental outrage at the tchotchke markups, I bought, I left. 

It was worth it. I couldn't not have gone. It was silly and I loved it. 

Driving nearly a thousand miles in two days was not terribly bright. However I arrived at Susan and Klaus's beautiful home in Roswell, Georgia (it's a gracious Atlanta suburb) with 45 minutes (rather than the 3-4 hours originally hoped) in which to shower and stagger into their car for a BRILLIANT Wynton Marsalis concert at the Atlanta Symphony Hall. I do not have a fine-tuned lust for jazz. I don't listen to it for the most part. I was jaw-dropping stunned in sheer delight. What a birthday treat and as well to reunite with my beloved friends!

I'll write more later on where we met 15 years ago, musings on why some resonances continue while others sigh and wander off.... and say thanks to you who sent birthday emails and calls and real cards waiting for me in Berkeley, to which I can only respond monosyllabically for the present moment. Yes. Thank you again.

from Kansas to Georgia

I was talking to my dear friend Ruthie today while motoring along I-70 through Missouri. I shared that it didn't make a lot of sense to be catching up with cherished friends after a 14-year absence and then excusing myself to huddle in the basement and write about it. Bilocation remains a dream, but perhaps that is for the continued desire to multi-task. Sort of Whites Out the present moment. My time with Carlisle and his wife Geri (plus their dog and two cats) was heart-warming. I would have preferred more time outdoors in their rural orchard (Coyote Oaks) but alas my wimpy California limitations had me lunging back to the air-conditioned car after even 15-minutes in the 95-degree direct sun withering heat. Cold I can dress for and huddle against. Extreme heat demands acclimation. You can only take off so many clothes and then it's still a meltdown. I nod to the generations of prairie farmers who have a non-coddled intimacy with their land. 

Carlisle is a magnificently talented multi-creative who has lived several lifetimes in this one, from professional recording artist to landscape architect to creator of Vantage Quest... well, I'll leave many things out, I am sure, but currently he is a therapist, author and turning his 80 acres into a space for sacred gathering, a vineyard and soon a home. 

He's building it from scratch (photo at right with a mind of its own):

It is hot in Kansas. I wilt in the heat. I knew I'd be catapulted into one of my 'no nevers' on this trip and it is a worthy venture (if at times very uncomfortable) to push this envelope. I'm not a ditch digger. I can find air-conditioning eventually. I can walk in the still sultry dusk and hear cicadas, see fireflies and a few bats, catch sight of wild bunnies in the overgrown neighborhood yards. The local laundromat vending machine had Hostess Sno-Balls. A meeting room I visited had Decoupaged plaques on the walls straight out of the 70's. Midwest towns have more taxidermists than the Bay Area. 

Parts of the Kansas landscape via I-70 remind me of the Grampian region of northern Scotland. I'm startled to have noticed this, but there's a beauty to Kansas that I did not expect to encounter. Missouri flew by in a blur. I drove 12 hours (around 550 miles) today to arrive in Mt. Vernon, Illinois before I reconnect with my dear friends Susan and Klaus outside of Atlanta tomorrow afternoon. A birthday gift of a Wynton Marsalis concert and seeing them again are pushing me to not drive smart but with adequate vitamins, hydration, prayers, rest stops and judicious use of sugar and caffeine (plus beddie bye time soon), I think I'll make it in one piece. I'm spacey, grateful and very excited!

Goodland, Kansas and heading to Salina

Why is it both so tempting to make some idiotic Wizard of Oz comment and so utterly clear that it is just too goofy for words? Aha. Fooled you. Now you can think the phrase while I send hellos from yet another (yes another!) Holiday Inn Express, this time in Western Kansas. I am so far driving smart. This time I prayerfully consider stopping when I am very tired, unlike the olden daze when I would motor along in a completely altered state of phasey dissociation before thinking, 'hey, it's 11 pm, I've been driving for 14 hours, like, wow....' My birthday is this Saturday. Enough already for midlife!

My long weekend retreat at St. Benedict's Monastery in Snowmass, Colorado was so heart-expanding and head chatter-quieting that all I can do - and in fact, with huge excitement - is to say, please, check out the photos. I can't find the words right now. Drink in this place. Those of you with an eagle eye will also see a change in the URL. Apple is busy shifting .Mac to "Mobile Me." I have no idea why. But be on the lookout for future email address confusion.

My photo gallery of St. Benedict's is HERE

I'm torn between sharing insights and foolishness. I'll settle by offering a dollop of the mundane: There is no gas crisis in Colorado. You wouldn't believe the number of spaceship-sized SUVs and trucks that went blazing past me and my 4-door 2003 Honda Civic LX as we went a top speed of 70 mph. I made a mental note to not only return to St. Benedict's but to explore the Glenwood Canyon and Glenwood Springs in particular. Wanting to hang in something called the Vapor Caves is particularly appealing. It is gob-smackingly beautiful in this part of the world. And I only had to stop myself 4-5 times from mentally cooing John Denver tunes. (I'm not joking). In 12-Step land we say 'some are sicker than others'.....

Gasoline costs vary, for those of you curious. I filled my car at $4.48/gallon in some high-falutin' Rockies Conoco before sighing at the collection of later stations boasting $4.09 for regular unleaded. I'm topping off this morning for $3.98. It is amazing what my chipmunk mind can attach to.... look, 35-cents cheaper! Hello? My Prius-envy however is being assuaged by finding that, with sensible road speeds of around 68 mph and cruise control (Thank You God for cruise control), I've been getting 44-46 mpg with the a/c on. Whoa! 

Of course I know people who would've walked or bicycled across country, so I'll be quiet now.

I have no GPS or weather-tracking devices in my car but when I see thunderclouds looming unlike anything Berkeley has shown, I call my friends. "Any tornadoes?" I tuned in to the local radio stations but the one I found spoke of putting on your snow chains early. 

To Salina! My friend Carlisle's book "The Coyote Oak" is linked below. It's been, what, 13 years? We met 30 years ago at Cal's Corral in the South Bay of Southern California. Some friendships stick and I am grateful this one has. 

and a Google Map or two

Here's the scoop for the 1st two legs..... 

You've noticed by now that I'm a fan of hyperlinks......

And from C to D will get me to Snowmass, Colorado

from Green River, Utah

I can thank my friend Greg and a combination of my propensity for "contempt prior to investigation" (friends of Bill W. will know that phrase) coupled with sheer exhaustion in finding me at.... at.... a Holiday Inn Express. Normally the terminally cute, quaint and unusual call to me (speaking of accommodation for now). On my 2nd day of hours and hours of driving, this town reminded me of junior high school days listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival and as well told myself, 'I'll stop here, somewhere, anywhere' rather than motoring on to Grand Junction, Colorado for the night before my private weekend retreat at the Benedictine Monastery in Snowmass.  

Greg is a soft-spoken and unassuming man. He's generous and kind, deeply philosophical and talented. Here's a photo of him (I may hear about this):

So I'm spending the night at a cookie-cutter box joint and am grateful. The air-conditioning leaves a sorry carbon footprint but eases the outside air temps in the mid-90's. And while Day 1 out of Berkeley was a 533-mile slog all the way to vaguely cutesy Ely, Nevada, today's 330-miles came to a halt with another two hours looming for Grand Junction by 7:30 pm. It's cool, it has wifi, I had a lovely salad for dinner while a big fat red sun set over the Green River, and it is a very good thing to have stopped driving for the day. Last night I collapsed at the Bristlecone Motel in Ely (pronounced ee-lee). I'd perused the online reviews and it was a pleasingly, middle-of-the-road thumbs up. The huge room boasted multi-toned thick carpet, a bordello-themed bright red sink in the corner, faux wood paneling and probably die-of-asbestos-poisoning ceiling tiles. I loved it. 

The smoke throughout the Sacramento Valley (is it?) was so thick I felt ill. The visibility was 1-2 miles at the most, and this was for over an hour. It was mildly smokey all throughout the drive towards Reno. I sent a silent blessing to the firefighters and those struggling with the losses from these. The heat only added to its weight.

I drove Route 50 throughout all of Nevada and so far much of Utah. It's called "The Loneliest Road in America," and has a quaint history. Its beauties are subtle and sometimes stark. In western Utah it is far more remote, reminding me of one of those classic images of a single road extending in a straight line forever. There was not another single car on the road for long stretches of time, neither did I have a cell phone signal (thank you, AT&T). I pondered being stranded in the 95-degree heat. I stopped that thought as quickly as possible. 

This portion of Utah through which zooms I-70 is a kissing cousin to Sedona, Arizona where I once lived and still have good friends. Red rocks and otherworldly formations are strewn in all directions. I felt rebellious and took photos from my iPhone rather than stopping every mile or so. Perhaps I used up my daily quotient of Doing Something Stupid by taking blurry low-res photos while cruising along at 68 mph and so could stop in a pleasingly ordinary place for the night without driving myself into bleary-eyed oblivion. I can thank Marilyn for that one; "Drive safely and be smart." I think I've got a sliding scale for grading with the internal peanut gallery for that one....!

the countdown continues

I'm still in Berkeley, avoiding writing that I am 'at home' since I whirl in and out of having mixed feelings about that - the 'that' being my experience of home at all and in the Bay Area of California in particular. I'm listening to a track from Piffaro, The Renaissance Band - "Canzoni e Danze," wind music from Renaissance Italy.... I dance in and out of my Renaissance phases and I'm luxuriating in one of them now. I don't yet know how to upload tunes to this blog. It seems like a nice idea until I think of going to websites that force you to listen to their music (of course while I'm playing mine). Trust me that it's lovely. Perhaps you're listening to some of your own. 

The image is from a train in southwest England. It's moody as I was at times then, summer of 2007. Now I prepare for a good old American road trip unlike any I've taken. I squirm as well with my blogishness, both wanting to share broadly and fighting the old demeaning mindset of and who is even interested? You can see why I work not one but two 12-Step programs and find soulful meaning in my Christian faith. I didn't pop out feet first (I was indeed breech) with everything wired to perfection. When I was a child, I recall a birthday party where I ran and hid when the room began singing "Happy Birthday" to me. My mother's solution to this was to threaten to give the cake to someone else unless I came out. Nothing like love and affirmation to build a strong emotional body into adulthood, eh?

So I wish to share aha aspects this journey. Juicy morsels. The oddly mundane. And I'm a bit shy, believe it or not.... which is a delight of this blog. You can bookmark it and check it as often or as never as you please. I can work my Alanon issues and not wonder who and when, et cetera. This could work. It mitigates the still lingering guilt that I can rarely respond to personal emails any more in more than three sentences. I work in front of the computer; in this journey, I'll spend a fair amount of time driving. I have only so much oomph left for sitting on my butt, which is attempting to take on a mind of its own in midlife. Soon it'll be time to walk back to the North Berkeley BART station to retrieve my 2003 Honda Civic LX getting its $109.00 check EVERYTHING now, will you? servicing. 

'Why are you driving? Isn't it expensive now that gas is $5/gallon? You're not driving alone, are you? Where are you going?' I'll touch on these (or not) in the future. For now, my work and the trip prep continue...

It all starts with a thought and some prayers

It'll be 93º in Berkeley, California today; it was even hotter yesterday. In the Great South, for which I shall be seeking an appropriate moniker as my Honda Civic and I draw closer, it will be that and drippy sweaty humid, as well. I prefer the cool and I love a gentle breeze, however I have friends to see and hopes to unfold. This will be a place-keeper while I intend a little bit of slippery getaway, irony notwithstanding..... with a photo from a recent weekend journey to the Monterey peninsula, a little wildflower amidst a tangled sandy dune.