Har den äran

High noon. I roll the car out of the garage. The top is already down. There is a blanket in the passenger seat, a book of Rumi's poetry, a bottle of water, and my camera. The weather is brilliant. I've got two days of sunshine left before I return home to Oregon, where it is raining. Of course. I love Portland for its rain, for its cool misty mornings, for the volcanic skyline and the unpretentious , surprisingly sophisticated people. But I am a California native, a 5th generation California Girl, and this--this land of golden hills and winding roads, of sunlight and fog--this land is in my blood. And in the past few days it has called to me, and I've recalled what I loved about it.

California Highway 1 again, across the Golden Gate Bridge. This time I do not stop in Sausalito, I press on, up to Mt Tamalpais, over and around, winding my way through groves of Eucalyptus and wildflowers that perfume the air with citrus sweetness. The car hugs the curves, growling up from the shaded sylvan corners into the sunny straightaways--the entire drive to Stinson Beach done in 2nd and 3rd gears. A blast of salt-scented air and warmth, and I am on the west side of the mountain, the car in neutral, gliding down the narrow highway toward the Pacific Ocean. A hawk follows my descent, gliding with me. Stinson Beach appears below, and I am awed by the power and beauty of nature. And deeply, deeply grateful that I am here to see, feel, and smell it. I am alive, despite the death and dying around me. And perhaps because of it, I am keenly aware of the joy and beauty to be experienced in my everyday life.
There are few people on the road with me. I thought there would be more, seeing as today is Good Friday, but I share the road with a few other people in convertibles and a lone highway patrolman. Most of the traffic on the road is cyclists, actually, and their stamina and svelte physiques awe me almost as much as the engineering wizardry that went into making this powerful car so very quiet. There is a 10 mile section of Highway 1 between Stinson Beach and the hook-up near Muir Woods where most of the drive is 20 miles per hour. Winding switchbacks that give teasing views of San Francisco to the South, before turning inland again.

The day, the drive, the car, me... it is all poetry. But it gets better!

Around 4pm I cross the Golden Gate bridge again, going south. I prop my camera on the steering wheel and got this shot, even:

Over the bridge, through the crossover to Presidio Park, make a right at Geary, two more rights to get onto Clement (it takes three rights to make a left in SF), and I am headed the right direction to pick up a very special cake for MR's birthday. My friend Janne is always talking about his swedish princess cakes and how much he loves them, and I'd despaired of getting one here in the States, but I found a German bakery in San Francisco called Schubert's that makes princess cakes. I know MR likes raspberry, and almond/marzipan, and I figured he would enjoy the kirsch custard and whipped cream and moist white cake. I mean, what's not to like? So I have my usual excellent parking luck in SF and got a spot a half block away from the bakery. I walk in and pick this up:
A swedish princess cake with a pale yellow-green marzipan icing, and the words "Har den äran Älskling!" which is the Swedish equivalent of "Happy birthday, my love" but literally says "In your honour, lover." It is a very light cake, airy. Even the custard is light. The raspberry layer is fresh raspberry, hardly sweetened at all -- it tastes vividly of sunlight and whole raspberries. MR approves. Yum and Yay.

First Day of Spring

I have a confession to make. I've never had a thing for cars. I've never cared much about what I drove or what others drove, so long as it got me where I needed to go with minimum muss or fuss. This, despite the fact that I grew up with a father who loved to restore old cars. When I was in high school he had a 46 Ford that he restored, painted cherry red, and drove around town with a huge grin on his face, and I never really understood the feeling he had driving that car, until today.

Today I hopped into a black BMW Z3, dropped the top in under 30 seconds, and drove the Pacific Coast Highway 1 to the Golden Gate Bridge, and then back, to Golden Gate Park. It was glorious. It felt like the first day of Spring. I could feel the heat and light from the sun soaking into me, and I smiled, really smiled, with all of me. For the first time in a long while I felt like I radiated joy. Part of it was the beautiful weather, I know, but part of it was the car. It was a joy to handle such a smooth manual transmission. The engine is so responsive. The suspension is amazing. Cruising the patched, bumpy streets of San Francisco just inches from the asphalt was surprisingly smooth. With the top down, the sun poured down on me, and the wind blew my hair into fly-away ringlets. I eventually put it in a ponytail, but soon took it out. Restraining my hair restrained my joy.

Just as I was passing the Conservatory of Flowers I saw an open spot, so I whipped the car in, raised the top, and in three minutes was paying my $5 to get in. It was worth it. I particularly liked the right wing, where the pools are. There was lots of penjing and orchids, and they misted the room regularly, which gave things a dreamy quality. I got some interesting photos, some of which I'll probably post eventually.

I left the conservatory at 4:30, and when I realized the time, my gut knotted up a little. Getting from Golden Gate Park to I-280 during rush-hour is supposed to be a nightmare. I rushed to the car, put the top down again, and pulled out onto JFK. It was cooler, so I zipped up my black jacket, turned up my hot-pink collar, and switched on the seat-heater. And then I turned on the stereo, and as soon as I did, I relaxed. I could hear the music perfectly, despite the traffic. And I reminded myself that I wasn't in a hurry. I turned onto Fulton with a completely different attitude, and had a great drive, smiling all the way. I was in such a good mood I even stopped at Trader Joe's to get the ingredients for one of MR's favorite meals--croque monsieur.

All in all a great day, for a change.

Awake to the Weather

We've been having schizophrenic weather here in Western Oregon. The sun shines, and 15 minutes later there is a fierce storm, and then glorious sun and blue skies, with only the downed branches and the wet pavement to attest to the fact that a storm came though. The best part is that the air smells so good. It smells fragrant with flowers and clean and pure. This photo is of the Grand Canyon. I took it about two years ago, on a hike with a friend and a hail storm blew up. It was beautiful and exhilarating and bitterly cold. I remembered my trail manners and spoke to a couple pressing on to let my partner know I was heading back. He caught up with me shortly and we agreed that conditions were more adverse than we planned for. So we retreated back up to the rim and went back to our cabin, where we spent the rest of the day warming up and watching the storm form through the window.

I have a huge respect for Nature. I find in it an endless source of wonder and beauty. I also find displays of Nature's ferocity highly erotic... probably because I feel so alive, so present to the moment, pumped full of adrenaline and feeling with every part of me... even the tiny hairs on my arms. I dance in the rain. I turn my face up to the sky. I love the feel of thunder's 'boom' on my skin... I can feel the impact of the sound against my body. The lightening's flash, so jagged, seems to illuminate my mind even behind closed eyelids. And I know myself alive in a way I'm rarely awake to.

What is it about modern life that makes us numb? I think it is the routine. We like our routine, we like the certainty of knowing what our day will be, what the weather will be, who we will see, what we will do. We like life predictable as possible, because uncertainty makes us anxious. And yet it also makes us feel alive. The greatest certainty in life is death. And the greatest uncertainty is when death will claim us. And in the face of death we cling to what we can control, to certainty and predictability, and in that process, we leech ourselves of life, of vitality, of aliveness.

Reclaim the wonder of your daily life. Dance in the rain. Hike in a hailstorm. Stop what you are doing and tip your face to the sky. Disrupt your routine: try something new every day. Do something you fear. Take a bite of the unknown. Awaken to the sensual immediacy of life. Its so fucking short!

Photographic Weekend

This weekend brought a long-awaited visit from a friend in Seattle. The weather cooperated, in that it did not rain, and the diffuse light from the cloud-cover meant stable conditions for photography. I brought my point-and-shoot Olympus and he brought his lovely SLR and off we went to the Classical Chinese Garden and the Japanese Garden. It was one of those weekends that reminded me of why I've chosen to settle in the Pacific Northwest. I enjoyed sharing my love for my home. I enjoyed sharing that quiet appreciation, and the mutual awareness of our environment, its beauty, and the need to take time to get the composition right for capturing what our eyes saw in a snapshot. We were at the Chinese garden before 10am, which meant it was not yet crowded with people. I'd last visited it in mid-March with the Englishman, and the change was quite dramatic--all the bare-branches have fleshed out, and where once there were hints of dramatic colour, the entire garden is alive with it. We stopped in the Tower of Cosmic Reflection for tea and steamed buns. I wished it was warm enough to throw open the windows for an unobstructed view of the garden, but the view was very fine all the same. Before we left he bought a painting in the chinese peasant style, called "Cat Heaven". We were both amused by the comments of the staff as he waited for them to ring it up -- apparently it was one of the favorite pieces on display and they were sad to see it go.

From there we headed up into Washington Park to the Japanese Garden, which is about four acres of every possible colour of green known to man. I wished I could have recorded the sound of the water, which was every where. It rushed from the waterfall, it trickled from fountains, it flowed over stone and rippled the ponds. There was no wind and few birds. There were people, but it was not crowded, and people were respectful of photographers, trying to stay out of the frame.

I enjoyed two of the children there. A boy and a girl, dark haired and dark eyed, both with magic wands, and her in a tutu and diadem. I asked if she was a princess and her brother said "yes" and that she had wings, too, but mom took them away so they wouldn't get lost. I parsed that two ways--the way he intended, ie, that her wings were probably in the back of the car, so mom didn't have to listen to his sister cry if the wings fell off somewhere unnoticed. But I also heard it another way, that mom had taken away his sister's wings for fear her daughter would be lost. Some parents do that--some adults do that--keep children safe by clipping their wings.

My friend from Seattle mentioned the theory as to why Man likes gardens so much. He said it is because they illustrate the illusion that man can conquer nature. I suppose that might be it. Certainly, I enjoy the symmetry and the tidiness of contrived landscapes, but I also enjoy nature unleashed, in all her wild, tumbling glory. Its just not as safe. So perhaps... perhaps Man likes gardens so much because in the tamed and cultivated places we can enjoy the beauty of Nature while feeling safe and at peace. Which reminds me of an EB White quote: I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.

Home from Thanksgiving Vacation

Home.

I am sitting at the dining table sipping jasmine tea and nibbling on dark chocolate with bits of crystalized ginger in it, watching the black bamboo and the sweet orange osmanthus sway in the breeze. It is silent except for the deep thrum of the windchimes and the tap of my fingertips on the keyboard. I forgot how much I relish silence.

Ten days of travel. The joys of seeing family and friends and children. Road noise, airport announcements, beeps and flashes, the annoying endless loop of television programming.

And now, home. Silence. People say silence is golden but I think few really understand what that really means. It seems to me like so many people fear being alone with their thoughts, fear the silencing of the external noise that drowns out their internal dialogue.

And now that I am alone, I'll let my thoughts flow, unedited, from my fingertips...


The photo above is of my niece gathering up the golden leaves of the ginkgo tree. I braided some of her hair and put ginkgo leaves in it to form a crown. She looked like a princess with golden butterflies in her hair. A lovely child of four, with mossy green-brown eyes, so solemn and wide, and hair the colour of tobacco, brown and gold, with the same curls as mine. She resembles my mother in ways, particularly her mouth and chin, and she has the permanent sun-kissed tan that mom always had and which my sister's and I did not get. Lucky girl. I brought her Dr Seuss books and read to her, and she read the stories back to me, even mimicking the accents. She is so articulate, so expressive, so impossibly bright. I taught her fencing poses and lunges one day last May and she still remembered them. When she wrapped her arms around me and told me she loved me and missed me I fell in love with her all over again. My sister and her husband have done a fine job of raising her.

My nephew is a source of wonder to me. In January he will be 14. He is 5'9" already, and wearing a size 13 shoe. His hands are larger than mine, and mine are large for a woman. He is big and fleshy, poised for another spurt of growth. His nature is similar to what mine was at his age... he is very empathetic and kind, good-natured and friendly. He is popular with his peers but does not seek it. He does phenomenally in school--my sister was concerned that he was not bringing home any school work and met with his teachers, but the truth is that even with the GATE program he is hardly challenged at all. He finishes most of his homework before he leaves school for the day. I was prepared to find him at that age where teenaged boys don't want anything to do with their family--that age when they are exerting their independance and withdrawing from their family in favor of their friends. But he's not there yet, and perhaps never will become that self-isolating. For now he is thoughtful, affectionate and snuggly. I loved snuggling up to him and listening to him breathe, listening to him talk about the things that are important to him. Manga. PS2. Yugi-oh. Movies. Swimming. School.

We talked about girls. He said there are girls at school who say they are in love with him and I could tell that it confused him. "I'm too young for a relationship," he said to me with such seriousness. I always have condoms with me and I offered to leave him some but he blushed said he was fine--my sister has made some available to him but he doesn't plan to use them any time soon. I like him. Smart, articulate, brave, sure of himself in ways few teens are. He knows he is loved. My sister marinates him in it. I have faith that he will survive adolescence with his 'self' more or less intact.

As for my sisters, both are well. The one who was ill, well, she's getting better physically, but she drifts around a lot, somewhat out of sync with reality in ways that are hard to pinpoint. Some of that is being on morphine for pain, I know, but some of it is residual psychosis from advanced Beri-beri. She is existing right now... exisiting, and not in a place to care much for herself or others... she keeps falling asleep with lighted cigarettes in her hands, leaving burn-holes in carpets, blankets and clothes, freaking my other sister out. They fight over the smoking... my youngest sister fears that she is going to wake up to her house burning down. And so it goes.

Wednesday night I made yellow curry with vegetables and chicken for everyone. I decided it would be a good idea to have something completely different from what we'd be eating on Thanksgiving. Its a speciality of mine and my brother-in-law and my nephew were dubious, but find themselves enjoying it rather a lot.

Thursday's Thanksgiving dinner was delicious. My sister cooked the turkey in cheesecloth, which kept it very moist. There was cornbread stuffing cooked in a muffin pan, acorn squash, green beans with bacon, mashed potatoes, yams, and cranberry sauce. Dessert (much later) was pecan pie or chocolate cream pie. I had the pecan pie, of course. The best part was snuggling up with my nephew for a nap.

Friday the six of us drove up into the Sierras to Shaver Lake, which is located about half-way between Yosemite and Sequoia-Kings Canyon. We had some of the best pizza I've ever eaten and strolled around the town a bit. The kids got their photos taken with Santa and my brother-in-law snapped a photo of my sister and I clowning around at the base of the town's Christmas Tree. It is a good photo. I think I'll have it printed and send it to my sister.

During the course of writing this I've gotten several phone calls and IMs. It is good to be home and good to know I was missed. I'm ready to resume my life here in Portland, even with the spectre of 8 weeks of 10 - 12 hours days at work on the horizon. Ah well, the joys of being in the accounting field.

Change

Its been very stormy here. I've watched in delight and awe at the high winds making 60 foot trees dance like palm fronds in the hands of children cavorting after church on Palm Sunday. I've listened to the rain pounding my window; record rains that are washing out roads and flooding homes. I live where two rivers meet and every morning I've looked with wonder at the new heights the water reaches, wondering if the State parks that border my home will flood again, as they did in January.

This morning, it stopped raining long enough for the sun to peep through the clouds, creating a golden stage that I fully expected angels to appear upon, blowing their horns. It was so glorious I stopped my car and pulled out my camera and snapped a photo. People looked at me--other drivers, their passengers--they looked at me and they looked in the direction I pointed the camera, looking for what I was photographing, and their faces wore puzzled expressions. I realized that they did not see the sunrise. It made me sad that nature had put on such a gloriously, exquisitely beautiful display for us as a consolation for two weeks of rain, and it went mostly unnoticed.

The trees are still changing. Some still wear green, but many are golden and ruddy, and some look ragged, with their leaves torn from them prematurely, leaving baldspots amongst the colour. At lunch I put on my rain-slicker and my Tevas and went for a walk. And as I walked, I noticed the ground was littered with jewel-toned leaves. I chased the ones recently torn from their trees, gathering them up into my hands, delighted with their singular beauty, each one unique as a snowflake.

I walked back to the office soaking wet. Cold. Ankles muddy. Hands and nails dark with smears of leaf litter. A colleague held the door open for me, and I grinned at her, filled with a child-like glee, and showed her the treasures in my hands. She shook her head, this woman a dozen years younger than me and said that only I would be chasing leaves in a storm. Her smile was condescending. The leaves were unremarkable to her. She has a whole front-yard full of them, she said.

A conversation with a friend, someone I love deeply, oh so deeply, and whom I miss every day because I seem him so rarely. We talked and I spoke of how pleased I am with the amazing people I am inviting into my life. And we talked of change, and in his frustration he mocked me, stating that perhaps the best way for him to effect change in his life was to "start pretending that everybody in this world is fucking amazing."

That hurt. It brought tears to my eyes. I said, "Its not my place to tell you whether or not you need to grow or change, and it is not my place to tell you how. I am the child, remember? I am the idiot who chases pretty leaves in a storm. And looks like a simpleton grinning ear-to-ear because they are so beautiful to me. But they are just leaves to everyone else, you know. You are a leaf. You are beautiful to me. Perfect as you are. And I don't need you to change in order for me to see you that way. But its silly of me, isn't it? Pretending that there are so many fucking amazing people in my life? They are just people. Just leaves, you know? I find them beautiful and incredible, but to other people they are just people."

He said, "Your people aren't my people, and you seek to find the silver lining in the clouds. You are free to look at people however you like hon. What upsets me is that I feel you are telling me what I cannot do, ie change."

I responded with, "I thought perhaps it would be good for you to try being more like me, to see the possiblity and the beauty in even the littlest thing--I thought maybe if you could see the world from a perspective of change, it would give you hope and pleasure... But I want you to know that I recognize that my child-like enthusiasm for the adventure of both my inner and outer lives is not a paradigm that is for you. And I am trying to apologize for trying to get you to look within and explore the possibilities that changes inside you might create outside you, via a change in attitudes/perceptions."

He said, "Change for the mere sake of change, is a waste of energy. Change, to impact that which brings the most unhappiness in one's life, is meaningful."

I thought for a moment and said, "Indeed. Pity so much technological progress is tied to change for the sake of changing, of trying something new... "

I felt an ache in my solar plexus. I had trouble fitting my mouth around the next words, but I managed. "The truth is I should probably be more like you. Obviously, you only embrace change when it is absolutely necessary. You have your feet firmly planted on the ground and change is something that comes to you, not something you seek. You are perfect as you are. I love you as you are. And as you say you are happy as you are, I am happy, too. You don't often seem so to me, but maybe I need to grow up and live in the real world, like you do. Its rather ugly, it seems, and unhappy, too, but its real."


There are days like this when I go to bed wondering when the curse of experiencing reality differently will be lifted.

And with that final thought, I'm off to bed to catch a nap. I'll be in California for about 10 days. It will be lovely to see my friends and family.

Transcendant function

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I was sorting through this weekend's photos and stumbled across this one. Something about it really appeals to me...

Which is water, which is sky? What is real and what is reflection? The beauty of such illusions is that they simultaneously provide us the opportunity to suspend disbelief (holding two conflicting perceptions in mind), and to recognize the illusory nature of our perceptions.

Last week I remarked how bothered I was by my awareness that I have become a walking contradiction. I later had a conversation with a friend who remarked on my ability to hold two seemingly paradoxical or conflicting concepts in my mind and see them both as being valid. Then, in my reading on Jung, I stumbled upon his mention of something called the "transcendent function:"

Transcendent function. When there is full parity of the opposites, attested by the ego's absolute participation in both, this necessarily leads to a suspension of the will, for the will can no longer operate when every motive has an equally strong countermotive. <...> a damming up of vital energy results, and this would lead to an insupportable condition did not the tension of opposites produce a new, uniting function that transcends them. (Jung)

A couple of weeks ago I was babbling about fluidity, flexibility and adaptability as characteristics that are key to experiencing something as transformational rather than tragic. According to the Jungians, it seems that, in order for us to function under the tension that the awareness of opposites engenders, we create a transitional, symbolic, expansive, transcendent, play space in our psyche. It is in this internal landscape that we hold experiences and perceptions prior to applying meaning to them. The larger this space, the greater the potential to experience the moment as something new, rather than applying old, preconceived meanings to it. We suspend the will, the drive to label and judge, and allow the meanings of experiences to unfold with time, without exerting control. This allows tensions to co-exist in conflict and collaboration until balance or harmony is achieved. It is in this transcendent space that we come to understand that control is an illusion, that our internal realities are subjective, that 'meanings' are ascribed according to our attitudes.

Contradiction. Paradox. Tension of opposites. Transcendent Function. Perhaps this, too is a key to experiencing life as transformational instead of tragic: creating a space in ourselves large enough to hold ideas and experiences in suspension until the meanings arise of themselves, instead of making snap judgements.

It goes without saying that some of us create larger spaces than others. For some, the boundaries of that space are clearly defined, for others, they are limitless. I wonder, is the 'size' of this space related to fluidity, flexibility and adaptability? Do they develop in concert? Which came first? The water, or the sky? I digress. Or it is "regress"?

Ah, the power of illusion to make me think.
(PS: The photo was taken looking down into a pond...and up into the sky. Life from the perspective of the koi.)

bumming at the beach

[click here for audio]

Sun's rays slanting eastward, kissing my skin, its warmth chasing away the wind's icy touch. Wood-smoke on the air, beach fire, scent of scorched meat--a family roasting weenies. Man and his kite, dipping, twirling, flirting with the breeze. Children with spades, real spades, heaping sand into piles for castles. Sweet buzz of sauvignon blanc on a mostly empty stomach. Sand between my toes, warm against my heels, grounding me. Dungeoness crab and shrimp louie. Sourdough fresh from the breadmaker. More wine. Dipping sweet dark cherries into chocolate fondue. Oralgasmic dessert--the best nature and man can offer. The warmth of a thigh pressed against mine, cool lips on my neck. Feelings of well-being. Warm Fuzzies. Companionship. Voices, lulling, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Conversation...

What are you doing? Silence. My name. Looking up from the moleskine journal, pen halted. R's voice, R's face, weathered and freckled, hair wild--from her helmet, of course. She rode the Harley here with J. Three pairs of eyes, expectant. What are you writing? A dismissive, self-conscious shrug. Recording the moment. A dirty habit, writing. I'm not supposed to do it in public. I'm sorry. Moving to put the journal away, opening jacket pocket. Read it, says J, his voice firm. I am his guest. Complying, I read: Sun's rays slanting eastward, kssing my skin... Their eyes on me, thoughtful, listening expressions. Voice trailing off on "conversation"... Wow, how do you notice that? Does J even know I write? How do you not notice? I ask. C chuckles. He knows me so well. How do you not notice the moment? How do others do it? I'm lost in sensations, sensate me, like a child--see the birdie? Quick! Kiss me, taste the wine and chocolate on my lips, smell the cherries on my breath, breathe me in, save me from self-conscious awareness. Let me just be. Here. Now. With you, in this moment.

Mini-vacation

It was a perfect morning. We drove up into the Sierras with the windows down and the stereo turned up. As we got into the foothills, we hit patches of fog that wrapped the trees and outcroppings in filmy shrouds. Each time our spirits started to flag, worried that the weather was going to be poor, the mist would thin and the lapis-lazuli of the sky would appear. Eventually we reached 5000ft and the rarified air was crisp and clear--no mist, few clouds. We skipped gleefully around the Sequoias, those wonderfully shaggy giants whose trunks beg to be stroked. I love the feel of the bark--its like petting a dog with a wiry coat. And then there is the way the forest smells... the scent of pine and oak and dampness.

I decided I wanted to see Hume Lake, as I had never been to that area of the Sequioa-Kings Canyon Park. So we headed deeper into the wilderness. Its a rather sensual experience, this penetration of nature, delving into areas where the only human marks upon the landscape were the roads we travelled. We curved around one mountain, only to come face-to-face with an entire jagged range of snow-capped peaks. I felt like I had eyes for the first time, like this was soul-food for the eyes, this view. The sun made my skin smart, and the air made my lungs expand, as if saying "now this I can breathe." I felt so very alive.

We wound our way down into the Hume Lake area, and when we got there, found this perfectly groomed lawn dotted with prettily-painted adirondack chairs. There is apparently a christian camp here, and they've maintained the land well, if a little too perfectly. We parked and grabbed our picnic stuff and headed down a trail alongside the lake, until we found a big slab of slanted granite that faced north and looked across the lake. The sun pounded down on us and the wind flirted with our hair and after we ate our sandwiches we stretched out on the slab and sunned ourselves like lizards. At 2pm we decided to start working our way back out of the Park area, which we knew would soon be swelling with people determined to enjoy their 3-day weekend. Just like us.

A bath worthy of a Sybarite

My dream bath.

When I build my house, I will have a separate bath house. It will be a a place apart from the rest of reality, that opens up to nature, and yet is private. There is something about the japanese bathing ritual that is very relaxing. Shower to rinse off. Enter the tub and soak for a few minutes. Return to the shower area and sit upon the little stool. Soap up and scrub down. Scoop warm water from the tub with the bucket and pour it over your head, rising off. Re-enter the pool and soak for as long as desired, until you are limp as an udon noodle, if you wish. Leave the pool, towel off, put on a yukata, and take tea in the garden, your body radiating heat.

This ritual is simple and beautiful. It is elegant and calming to the soul. It is ultimately a most sensual experience.

Contemplation at dawn

I greeted the sun this morning after I dropped SP off at the airport. I went to my favorite spot to watch the sun rise over Mount Hood. It was a cool, refreshing morning, all the more sweet for knowledge of the heat to come. I spent several minutes practicing stillness, just breathing, listening to the sounds of an awakening world and savouring the splendid isolation of each moment as it blended into the next. I was moved to photograph the sight of morning mist flying the sun's colours, gentle herald of the light's upcoming triumph over darkness. I do so love that timeless moment before the sun crests the horizon, when I am swathed still in the embrace of night, and my eyes see anew the shapes of things, cast as they are into sharp relief.

Afterwards, as I drove home, I listened to the Sonata No. 1 for violin and piano by Camille Saint-Saens. I considered again the Philosopher Serf journal entry on a Herbert Marcuse quote, still formulating my thoughts on the way human beings recognize themselves in relation to what they own, and what they want. I thought about dawns and dusks, beginnings and endings, births and deaths, depletion and renewal, gain and loss, achievements and failures. I recognized that when I achieve something I have worked toward, I feel reborn.

And yet, as I grow comfortable with this feeling of renewal, something familiar arises: anxiety and fears are born from the ashes to which they were rendered by my triumph, success, acheivement, or acquisition. On occasion, my new possession or state loses lustre as something within me catches glimpse of the next thing I desire. Or more often, my joy is slowly tempered by a growing awareness of imperfection. Dissatisfaction thus creeps in, and sometimes anger, or pain, because that which I have attained has resolved nothing, it has only created the need to adapt to something 'new', with its oft unexpected complications. I try, I do so try, to accept that this is the nature of reality, that it flows and changes from moment to moment, that fearing what this mutability will bring is not only fruitless, but harmful to me.

In a moment of naked self-honesty, I asked myself why I had bound myself to this cycle of wishes fulfilled and wishes feared and wishes denied. Why can I not simply be pleased with my joys and my achievements, fully accepting and appreciating that life and everything in it is tragic, changeable, transient, cyclic, poignant, and occasionally, when I am lucky, joyful? Because I operate under the illusion that perfection is possible. That attaining what I desire will alleviate that pervasive sense of confusion, loss, and fear.

I recognize in myself that tendancy to feel that all I have gained and achieved is imperfect, insignificant, unworthy; thus my habitual rejection of abundance in my life. And so the cycle begins again, as I move on to the next new goal, or wander, listless and lost, overwhelmed with dissatisfaction, acheiving little more than a creative repetition of the past.

What I have and what I want are all the same, in the end. They have no intrinsic value in and of themselves, other than what I project onto them. They are merely projections of my longing to be free of the condition of suffering which we call "living."

[audio-entry]

Retreat Day Two

Misty morning in Manzanita, Oregon. How is that for a view? I love the coastline here, it reminds me of the Hebrides. 

It is a beautiful, misty morning here in Manazanita, Oregon. I awakened around 6:00am, my usual time, and threw open the curtains. The sky was still mostly dark, but light enough for me to see the foam of the waves breaking on the beach. I opened the sliding glass door and let the salt smell of the air in, revelling in its cool moisture after being closed up in a heated room all night. I dressed and waited 10 minutes for the sky to lighten a bit more,
and then headed to the beach, which is down a set of stairs and
across a street.

The beach was deserted - except for the sea gulls -- still is, mostly. I found a sand dollar, slightly nicked, and some black
basaltic pebbles -- pieces of Tillamook Head most likely,
worn smooth by years of rolling in the sand. A man and his dogs soon joined me on the beach. They frolicked in the waves and chased a ball that he threw using some ergonomic tool that allowed him to throw again and again without tiring.

One of the dogs came to say hello, a beautiful black lab that sniffed and snorted and dropped a piece of driftwood in front of me. He was foaming a bit at the mouth from the salt in the water. I threw the stick a couple of times and then the owner came abreast of me, said good morning, and the dog heeled, following his master up the beach.

It don't know that the temperature is, probably in the 50s. I wore my windbreaker but didn't really need it, Manzanita is sheltered by Tillamook head so there is very little wind. Nature called, so I hurried back to the motel, a nice, vigorous walk. Its amazing how fast you can walk when you really need to.

I don't have to check out until noon, so I'll probably stroll the
four blocks into the center of town and find some breakfast, and
perhaps read. I will move on from here today, but I don't know if I will head north into Seaside for the Jazz Fest there, or south, toward Lincoln City, where the casino and the nightlife are.

I want to drive, whatever I do... I have been enjoying driving along the winding Pacific Coast Highway with the sunroof open and the radio turned up. Its a very relaxing experience.

Anyway, I'm off to score some breakfast. I might post again later today.