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!