Saturday, November 1, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
ann cooper
Ann Cooper: Reinventing School Lunches on Ted Talks. I can't get it to embed...
http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/ann_cooper_talks_school_lunches.html
talks like these are like a multi-vitamin, or a shot of espresso to me.
http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/ann_cooper_talks_school_lunches.html
talks like these are like a multi-vitamin, or a shot of espresso to me.
Monday, September 22, 2008
dark times
"In a dark time, the eye begins to see."
Theodore Roethke
As pundits, experts and anchors dispute the good, the bad and the ugly, I guess this is what we can only hope. That through the dark times we might actually begin to see. That through economic collapse we might see the faults in what we'd built. That through media tainted public political opinion, we might see the truth of the people behind it all. That behind frightening possibilities, we might see the truth behind platforms and chose a future rather than a past.
or maybe we'll just remain as aimless as wild turkeys, beating their way through the underbrush...
Theodore Roethke
As pundits, experts and anchors dispute the good, the bad and the ugly, I guess this is what we can only hope. That through the dark times we might actually begin to see. That through economic collapse we might see the faults in what we'd built. That through media tainted public political opinion, we might see the truth of the people behind it all. That behind frightening possibilities, we might see the truth behind platforms and chose a future rather than a past.
or maybe we'll just remain as aimless as wild turkeys, beating their way through the underbrush...
Monday, September 8, 2008
pundits
"Wilderness holds an original presence giving expression to that which we lack, the losses we long to recover, the absences we seek to fill. Wilderness revives the memory of unity. Through its protection, we can find faith in our humanity."
Terry Tempest Williams, Red
The further into the political race we get, the more I feel the need to seek out the wilderness...
Terry Tempest Williams, Red
The further into the political race we get, the more I feel the need to seek out the wilderness...
Monday, September 1, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
nature
"We are nature. We are nature seeing nature. The redwinged blackbird flies in us."
Susan Griffin
Susan Griffin
Sunday, August 24, 2008
busy days, not many thoughts
I've been thinkin' thesis... I'll be back later.
Probably with pics and not too many words...
Probably with pics and not too many words...
Thursday, August 7, 2008
weather
The weather has been unpredictable lately. Even more so than usual. And while I know this is natural, nature showing her fiery and moody side, I sometimes can’t help but wish it differently. Lately they predict rain for a week, and the storm clouds just hover above, threatening like a teacher desperate to control an unruly class. Or they predict, finally, a summer day, and I look out the window and it’s raining on the clothes hung on the line outside. And while this means every day is different, while this means every storm is new, unpredicted and therefore more mysterious or dare I say miraculous, the weight of the unknown can still be too wearying.
I’m a planner. I make lists and when I’m done with them organize them. But I love sudden storms, unpredicted with thunderous lightening and a booming voice. I love a sunny day when a cloudy one was expected. I love the thick fog on early fall mornings which others find to be a nuisance. But weeks and weeks of the weather patterns and storm clouds doing as they will, and to hell with the weather forecasts is wearying. It’s wearying from the effort to overcome it.
People used to predict the weather by smell, sight and sound. They watched the behavior of animals, or maybe the direction and way that the breeze blew the fields of wheat or the leaves in the tallest of trees. Now we go to weather.com or check out cnn. If we predict things we avoid catastrophe. If we predict things we can keep them under control. If we can predict everything we’re never surprised. But by doing this it feels like most surprises that creep through the cracks are bad ones. The good ones are rare. I read somewhere recently that your chances of wining the lottery are less than your chances of dying in a car on your way to buy a lottery ticket. That’s great. So how do we possibly keep from getting pessimistic when the only things to happen by chance are bad? How do we stop ourselves from trying to look further and further around the corner, further and further into the future trying to keep the next bad thing from happening. And do we actually do it. If we see the bad thing from around the corner do we actually make it better or just dwell on it further.
So maybe I should stop predicting the weather. So maybe I should go outside and see if it’s raining, or see if it’s sunny. Maybe if I look hard enough at the sky, even though it’s sunny, I’ll be able to see the storm clouds far away that the internet can’t seem to find. So maybe I should just go out in the rain, get as muddy as possible, and let the rain wash the clothes if the sun won’t dry them.
I’m a planner. I make lists and when I’m done with them organize them. But I love sudden storms, unpredicted with thunderous lightening and a booming voice. I love a sunny day when a cloudy one was expected. I love the thick fog on early fall mornings which others find to be a nuisance. But weeks and weeks of the weather patterns and storm clouds doing as they will, and to hell with the weather forecasts is wearying. It’s wearying from the effort to overcome it.
People used to predict the weather by smell, sight and sound. They watched the behavior of animals, or maybe the direction and way that the breeze blew the fields of wheat or the leaves in the tallest of trees. Now we go to weather.com or check out cnn. If we predict things we avoid catastrophe. If we predict things we can keep them under control. If we can predict everything we’re never surprised. But by doing this it feels like most surprises that creep through the cracks are bad ones. The good ones are rare. I read somewhere recently that your chances of wining the lottery are less than your chances of dying in a car on your way to buy a lottery ticket. That’s great. So how do we possibly keep from getting pessimistic when the only things to happen by chance are bad? How do we stop ourselves from trying to look further and further around the corner, further and further into the future trying to keep the next bad thing from happening. And do we actually do it. If we see the bad thing from around the corner do we actually make it better or just dwell on it further.
So maybe I should stop predicting the weather. So maybe I should go outside and see if it’s raining, or see if it’s sunny. Maybe if I look hard enough at the sky, even though it’s sunny, I’ll be able to see the storm clouds far away that the internet can’t seem to find. So maybe I should just go out in the rain, get as muddy as possible, and let the rain wash the clothes if the sun won’t dry them.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Bertha's Arrival
I'm pleased to announce the arrival of Bertha. 500 + pounds. 30 inches tall. 22 inches wide.
PS. This room used to be a windowless bathroom...
PS. This room used to be a windowless bathroom...
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
on love and difficulty
When you’re a kid and you get a job dog-sitting, or your family takes a visit to the local animal shelter, you’re told not to get attached. You’re told not to get attached to one dog in particular because you can’t keep it, you can’t take it home, or you can’t get a dog yet. Or something like that anyway. Something appeasing. You’re appeased so you don’t cause a scene or whine to your parents for 3 weeks about why you HAVE to have THAT dog. But you’re really being told not to fall in love. You’re told to guard yourself, protect yourself from heartache. Protect yourself from the heartache of lost ice cream cones, stolen toys, no more trips to the amusement park, not having that shiny gold bike, loosing your purple shoes, or that unfulfilled crush in high school. By the time you’re an adult you have a strongly built protective wall around you. You apply for a job, but don’t get too excited or attached to the idea just in case. You find a new apartment, but don’t expect much when you turn in the application just in case that old boss gives you a bad reference. You meet a cute boy/girl and don’t let yourself think past flirtation because it probably won’t work out. And if you get your dog, it’s usually after research into breeds, approval from your landlord, and any other precautions taken.
Of course this isn’t always, and many people still do spontaneous things, and many things probably shouldn’t be done spontaneously. But by the time most people reach adulthood, they’re well trained as to the dangers of the heart. Love makes everything more. Things can happen to something you love and it makes your emotions and attention start swinging on a pendulum of passion. Things can happen to something that you don’t love, and even if you like it a lot you can react objectively. Looking through love, everything you see is more intense, and your whole body can feel what your heart or gut might just hint at.
When I was a kid I never remember minding moving. I don’t remember even once thinking that I wish we didn’t have to move. I don’t remember once wondering why we had to move. By my teens my ability to move myself within 3 days, no help needed, in only my sporty jeep was more than something I was proud of. It was a part of who I was and how I identified myself. But until I was 20 I never loved a place I’d been. I had a brief torrid affair with England, but with the brief kind of passion that can only come from something you know isn’t really real, and more adventure than anything else.
I’ve loved two places since then, one I live in still. But living in this place, this area, this state, makes everything more. My joy is limitless, the beauty is the closest thing to spirit I’ve ever found, but the frustrations are nearly heartbreaking. So as each day throws me on the pendulum of emotion, swinging me this way and that, it’s only through commitment that I center myself. Like any longer love, things are never perfect, especially as they become more and more familiar. But the passion remains. Maybe some days it remains only in frustration or anger. But if I walk through each day intending to be here still, I can move that pendulum back to joy and perfection. While the intensified frustration and anger is sometimes enough to make me flee, for now it’s worth sticking around for the other end of the pendulum swing. For life is so full of questions and unknowns, that when you find the place with the air that when you breath it deep into your lungs gives your body the stillness it needs to look for the answers, it’s worth the stay.
Of course this isn’t always, and many people still do spontaneous things, and many things probably shouldn’t be done spontaneously. But by the time most people reach adulthood, they’re well trained as to the dangers of the heart. Love makes everything more. Things can happen to something you love and it makes your emotions and attention start swinging on a pendulum of passion. Things can happen to something that you don’t love, and even if you like it a lot you can react objectively. Looking through love, everything you see is more intense, and your whole body can feel what your heart or gut might just hint at.
When I was a kid I never remember minding moving. I don’t remember even once thinking that I wish we didn’t have to move. I don’t remember once wondering why we had to move. By my teens my ability to move myself within 3 days, no help needed, in only my sporty jeep was more than something I was proud of. It was a part of who I was and how I identified myself. But until I was 20 I never loved a place I’d been. I had a brief torrid affair with England, but with the brief kind of passion that can only come from something you know isn’t really real, and more adventure than anything else.
I’ve loved two places since then, one I live in still. But living in this place, this area, this state, makes everything more. My joy is limitless, the beauty is the closest thing to spirit I’ve ever found, but the frustrations are nearly heartbreaking. So as each day throws me on the pendulum of emotion, swinging me this way and that, it’s only through commitment that I center myself. Like any longer love, things are never perfect, especially as they become more and more familiar. But the passion remains. Maybe some days it remains only in frustration or anger. But if I walk through each day intending to be here still, I can move that pendulum back to joy and perfection. While the intensified frustration and anger is sometimes enough to make me flee, for now it’s worth sticking around for the other end of the pendulum swing. For life is so full of questions and unknowns, that when you find the place with the air that when you breath it deep into your lungs gives your body the stillness it needs to look for the answers, it’s worth the stay.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
here and now
There are wild roses run amuck all behind my house. Tiny little white blossoms at the end of thriving thorny bushes and branches. They have made clearing in the back nearly impossible, but they’re also somehow what make it worth it. Their claws are more fierce than the claws of any cat I’ve ever met. Yet once our paths were cleared, and they suddenly blossomed, they looked like the most delicate beauty of nature. They did to the paths and bushes and trees what the fog does to the rocky seaside, somehow making it more peaceful, deep, and silent within sound. But unlike the fog, which can seem to last forever, and often comes back the morning after it left, these roses are fleeting. They blossomed lightly one weekend, the next they were in their full glorious bloom, and now most have turned light brown, begun to whither and disappear back into the thorny bushes.
The most important things, the most striking things, often seem to be the most fleeting or the longest lasting. Maybe because time is the uncontrollable thing that nobody has yet to conquer. Middle things are just normal. Fleeting things are delirious, exciting, like a cold shower on a sweltering day, or like a car race going so fast to be done before you know it. These fleeting things, tulips at the beginning of spring, the first steps of a child, that new car smell, the new year’s countdown, or wild roses in the backyard. We give them importance because of their brevity. I don’t stand with awe in the backyard and look at the strong long stalk, now nearly blossom free, with its strong thick thorns and wonder at its strength and tenacity. It’s always there, it grows consistently. I hardly notice it.
Or we embrace those things that seem to last forever. Old couples celebrating their 70th wedding anniversary, old redwoods in California, the mountains in the Rockies, the rocks by the sea, the cathedrals in England, the cliff-dwellings in the southwest. These are so amazing for their timelessness. As if time somehow doesn’t affect them. As if they’ve lasted so long to be beyond us, beyond the daily grind, beyond even the fleeting beauties of nature.
Maybe we only see these things as markers, reminding of us our lives… living. Maybe seeing the fleeting blossom of the wild rose helps us appreciate the fleeting taste of fresh strawberries, or any of the other brief flavors of life. And maybe seeing things that seem to last forever remind us of the long time-line of our own lives, their histories reminding us of our own. But while the scent of lilacs, new baby or the air before the rain may seem to disappear, every breath still breathes in smells. Every day there is something fleeting to take notice of, some are just less obvious, like the shiny new green thorns on the wild rose bushes before they are their full darkness and strength. And everyday there are things around which seem to last forever, or at least contain deep history within them. Like this street in front of me, that now stands with a streetlight standing tall, but which was once the only road in and out of town, carrying many walkers and buggies. Maybe we don’t see that old couple every day, but what about all the sisters, brothers or friends that have lived in thought together forever. Or what about that pet dog that lives all it knows of forever with complete devotion
I don’t know. Maybe seeing those redwoods just makes us believe in forever, or in true love. Or maybe by believing in both fleeting beauties and things that last forever, we can live fully and appreciate today.
The most important things, the most striking things, often seem to be the most fleeting or the longest lasting. Maybe because time is the uncontrollable thing that nobody has yet to conquer. Middle things are just normal. Fleeting things are delirious, exciting, like a cold shower on a sweltering day, or like a car race going so fast to be done before you know it. These fleeting things, tulips at the beginning of spring, the first steps of a child, that new car smell, the new year’s countdown, or wild roses in the backyard. We give them importance because of their brevity. I don’t stand with awe in the backyard and look at the strong long stalk, now nearly blossom free, with its strong thick thorns and wonder at its strength and tenacity. It’s always there, it grows consistently. I hardly notice it.
Or we embrace those things that seem to last forever. Old couples celebrating their 70th wedding anniversary, old redwoods in California, the mountains in the Rockies, the rocks by the sea, the cathedrals in England, the cliff-dwellings in the southwest. These are so amazing for their timelessness. As if time somehow doesn’t affect them. As if they’ve lasted so long to be beyond us, beyond the daily grind, beyond even the fleeting beauties of nature.
Maybe we only see these things as markers, reminding of us our lives… living. Maybe seeing the fleeting blossom of the wild rose helps us appreciate the fleeting taste of fresh strawberries, or any of the other brief flavors of life. And maybe seeing things that seem to last forever remind us of the long time-line of our own lives, their histories reminding us of our own. But while the scent of lilacs, new baby or the air before the rain may seem to disappear, every breath still breathes in smells. Every day there is something fleeting to take notice of, some are just less obvious, like the shiny new green thorns on the wild rose bushes before they are their full darkness and strength. And everyday there are things around which seem to last forever, or at least contain deep history within them. Like this street in front of me, that now stands with a streetlight standing tall, but which was once the only road in and out of town, carrying many walkers and buggies. Maybe we don’t see that old couple every day, but what about all the sisters, brothers or friends that have lived in thought together forever. Or what about that pet dog that lives all it knows of forever with complete devotion
I don’t know. Maybe seeing those redwoods just makes us believe in forever, or in true love. Or maybe by believing in both fleeting beauties and things that last forever, we can live fully and appreciate today.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
on upcycling
Upcycling is the new, or at least relatively new to me, phrase for using something that might otherwise be thrown away. It’s another one of those things, those words, those ideas that I stumble upon and say to myself, “self, that’s great! That’s radical! That’s the way life should be!”. Then, after my total excitement about how “new” this great idea is I realize how far we’ve strayed, and how far we have to go.
Upcycling is a new word for making do, using up, not wasting, being frugal. Upcycling is what every family history story I’ve ever heard was all about. My New England ancestors upcycled, but would have laughed at the word. They didn’t do this on purpose, they just did it because it’s what you did. How silly is it to travel crazy lengths to buy something for a lot of money that you could make yourself for free with what you find around the house in an hour. It was probably entertainment and adventure before the days of 24 and Lost.
In the very recent past I thought I had to move, today, immediately, or at least as soon as life would allow it. There are too many reasons for this to understand or fully explain, but a huge one was that this house, this lot and this place couldn’t do what I wanted and needed to do with my home right now. It couldn’t. It just couldn’t and I was weary from trying to figure out a way AROUND being able to do these things I needed.
I needed to grow some food. Because I think we all should (I recently read that the average American grass lawn could provide over 50% of the food for the family inside the house). Plus, it’s cheaper which right now is a plus. And it gets me outside… which just makes me better.
I needed nature and had no transportation to go find it, and the birds sitting on the power lines just weren’t doing it. Yes the morning dove seemed to try it’s best to sooth me with it’s coos, but when I looked out at it I just saw the power lines. I needed nature. I needed peace and quiet. I needed to be away from here.
But then, a month later, after we bushwacked, arms scarred from the feisty wild rose thorns, arms covered with a modern art fresco of tan lines, one arm filled out with large shoulder muscles (one side looks like pop-eye, one side still looks like me), and with a few too many new slug friends… I don’t need to leave, at least not right now, not immediately.
An overgrown, thorny, thick, ugly, and I thought completely inaccessible lot behind and to the side of the house has been burrowed through, and I can again get excited about seed catalogs. Yesterday walking through I was amazed we did this in a month, especially since the in-house projects have continued.
Today it would seem that it’s often easier to throw away than to keep. It’s easier to move than to make it work. It’s easier to quit than to deal with it. I don’t think this is always true. It’s easier to think about these things. It’s harder to think about staying with something, keeping something that’s causing pain, anger or frustration. But putting the same energy into staying, making work, upcycling as we do trying to move away or throw away, seems to accomplish about the same. The later is less wasteful, and maybe, at least sometimes, more fulfilling. While sometimes we do need to quit, move or leave, maybe sometimes we really should stay.
Upcycling is a new word for making do, using up, not wasting, being frugal. Upcycling is what every family history story I’ve ever heard was all about. My New England ancestors upcycled, but would have laughed at the word. They didn’t do this on purpose, they just did it because it’s what you did. How silly is it to travel crazy lengths to buy something for a lot of money that you could make yourself for free with what you find around the house in an hour. It was probably entertainment and adventure before the days of 24 and Lost.
In the very recent past I thought I had to move, today, immediately, or at least as soon as life would allow it. There are too many reasons for this to understand or fully explain, but a huge one was that this house, this lot and this place couldn’t do what I wanted and needed to do with my home right now. It couldn’t. It just couldn’t and I was weary from trying to figure out a way AROUND being able to do these things I needed.
I needed to grow some food. Because I think we all should (I recently read that the average American grass lawn could provide over 50% of the food for the family inside the house). Plus, it’s cheaper which right now is a plus. And it gets me outside… which just makes me better.
I needed nature and had no transportation to go find it, and the birds sitting on the power lines just weren’t doing it. Yes the morning dove seemed to try it’s best to sooth me with it’s coos, but when I looked out at it I just saw the power lines. I needed nature. I needed peace and quiet. I needed to be away from here.
But then, a month later, after we bushwacked, arms scarred from the feisty wild rose thorns, arms covered with a modern art fresco of tan lines, one arm filled out with large shoulder muscles (one side looks like pop-eye, one side still looks like me), and with a few too many new slug friends… I don’t need to leave, at least not right now, not immediately.
An overgrown, thorny, thick, ugly, and I thought completely inaccessible lot behind and to the side of the house has been burrowed through, and I can again get excited about seed catalogs. Yesterday walking through I was amazed we did this in a month, especially since the in-house projects have continued.
Today it would seem that it’s often easier to throw away than to keep. It’s easier to move than to make it work. It’s easier to quit than to deal with it. I don’t think this is always true. It’s easier to think about these things. It’s harder to think about staying with something, keeping something that’s causing pain, anger or frustration. But putting the same energy into staying, making work, upcycling as we do trying to move away or throw away, seems to accomplish about the same. The later is less wasteful, and maybe, at least sometimes, more fulfilling. While sometimes we do need to quit, move or leave, maybe sometimes we really should stay.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Wendell's nature
"The human definition of the natural world is always going to be too small, because the world's more diverse and complex than we can ever know. We're not going to comprehend it; it comprehends us. The question is whether we can use it with respect. Some people in the past who knew very little biology were able to use the land without destroying it. We, who know a great deal of biology, are destroying our land in order to use it."
Wendell Berry in July's Sun Magazine
Wendell Berry in July's Sun Magazine
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
things that are slightly different if you're causing a ruckus
If you are renovating, remodeling yourself, doing demolition, gardening, homesteading, roofing, bushwacking, farming or generally causing a ruckus more days than not, there are a couple things that are probably different about your life...
1- you shower at 5, because you can't eat over the smell of your own stench. In the mornings, there's no reason to be clean and fresh.
2 - you are excited when your weekend is over, because you get to sit behind a desk, or stand still and talk to people
3 - you are genuinely excited when new construction books arrive at the library
4 - you dream about having goats, because they would eat the lawn and almost everything else... so you wouldn't have to
5 - you crave lemonade, sandwiches and pasta at every meal
6 - you own more pairs of overalls and boots than you do pants and shoes
7 - you don't understand why people need to go jogging
1- you shower at 5, because you can't eat over the smell of your own stench. In the mornings, there's no reason to be clean and fresh.
2 - you are excited when your weekend is over, because you get to sit behind a desk, or stand still and talk to people
3 - you are genuinely excited when new construction books arrive at the library
4 - you dream about having goats, because they would eat the lawn and almost everything else... so you wouldn't have to
5 - you crave lemonade, sandwiches and pasta at every meal
6 - you own more pairs of overalls and boots than you do pants and shoes
7 - you don't understand why people need to go jogging
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Fog
One reason I think photos and songs are so powerful is that they are singular. A photo of a flower lets you see the flower, the petals, the slight touch of moisture on each rise of the leaves. A song, especially sung by a beautiful voice lets you hear each tone, each melody, each word with such focus that no other sounds can be heard.
It is hard to savor each moment of life. It is hard to notice all the small things that are out there to be noticed. Because there are so many. Every backyard has almost an infinite number of photo opportunities, quiet moments and details worth distinction. It’s just difficult to focus on them with so much there. Every moment passes quicker than we can fully process it. Every twig of grass completely hides amid a lawn. Every day becomes one pretzel in the big party mix of life.
Unless we’re really paying attention.
There are some things which demand presence, or demand to be noticed. It may be a screaming toddler in a grocery store while a mother is just looking for a nice bar of soap. Just a bloody bar of soap. It may be the car as the engine starts smoking on a hot day on your way to a meeting. It may be the downtrodden shingles on your roof, as water drips down onto the dinner table. It may be a butterfly, landing in your laundry basket as you hang clothes out to dry. Or maybe it’s just a breath, in the middle of the storm of life, that lets you feel where you are again, and maybe even why.
For me an occasional, and sweet-natured, reminder is the fog horns. I live near the ocean. I try to go see it once a week. And while I wouldn’t want to give up my proximity to it, to be honest I rarely see it and sometimes forget that it’s there. Some days I’ll start to realize it’s foggy outside. The other day I was working outside, fighting back the overgrown and thorny bushes, sweating and not feeling the cool, salty, heavy dampness of thick fog. The kind that only really happens near the ocean. Then the low and quiet foghorns sounded. Boats talking to each other. Guiding each other through the fog. Surrounded by trees and birds, it sounded like a birdcall. Well, maybe a Buddha kind of monk of a bird, with a very deep, clear, quiet, completely omniscient voice. Fog horns are sounded to give direction and a sense of place. They’re sounded to give whoever might hear them a sound map, so they can hear where they are, because most other senses are blinded. And the fog horns do just that. Something about their call makes me immediately present and aware of the weather, aware that I’m on a mountain, in the backyard, above the town, by the ocean, where boats and sea guide each other through the fog. Everything is connected in that the sound puts me on a map where I know I am here, and the sound is there, and here we both are going about life.
And when I quiet myself down enough to notice that. Notice it for just a minute, I can almost distinguish each blade of grass, and feel the fog all around me. And when I’m aware of where I am, and when I’m able to notice things, I wonder why did I ever think I needed to travel the entire world, when there really is a world on this mountain, in the town, near the ocean, and where my feet stand.
It is hard to savor each moment of life. It is hard to notice all the small things that are out there to be noticed. Because there are so many. Every backyard has almost an infinite number of photo opportunities, quiet moments and details worth distinction. It’s just difficult to focus on them with so much there. Every moment passes quicker than we can fully process it. Every twig of grass completely hides amid a lawn. Every day becomes one pretzel in the big party mix of life.
Unless we’re really paying attention.
There are some things which demand presence, or demand to be noticed. It may be a screaming toddler in a grocery store while a mother is just looking for a nice bar of soap. Just a bloody bar of soap. It may be the car as the engine starts smoking on a hot day on your way to a meeting. It may be the downtrodden shingles on your roof, as water drips down onto the dinner table. It may be a butterfly, landing in your laundry basket as you hang clothes out to dry. Or maybe it’s just a breath, in the middle of the storm of life, that lets you feel where you are again, and maybe even why.
For me an occasional, and sweet-natured, reminder is the fog horns. I live near the ocean. I try to go see it once a week. And while I wouldn’t want to give up my proximity to it, to be honest I rarely see it and sometimes forget that it’s there. Some days I’ll start to realize it’s foggy outside. The other day I was working outside, fighting back the overgrown and thorny bushes, sweating and not feeling the cool, salty, heavy dampness of thick fog. The kind that only really happens near the ocean. Then the low and quiet foghorns sounded. Boats talking to each other. Guiding each other through the fog. Surrounded by trees and birds, it sounded like a birdcall. Well, maybe a Buddha kind of monk of a bird, with a very deep, clear, quiet, completely omniscient voice. Fog horns are sounded to give direction and a sense of place. They’re sounded to give whoever might hear them a sound map, so they can hear where they are, because most other senses are blinded. And the fog horns do just that. Something about their call makes me immediately present and aware of the weather, aware that I’m on a mountain, in the backyard, above the town, by the ocean, where boats and sea guide each other through the fog. Everything is connected in that the sound puts me on a map where I know I am here, and the sound is there, and here we both are going about life.
And when I quiet myself down enough to notice that. Notice it for just a minute, I can almost distinguish each blade of grass, and feel the fog all around me. And when I’m aware of where I am, and when I’m able to notice things, I wonder why did I ever think I needed to travel the entire world, when there really is a world on this mountain, in the town, near the ocean, and where my feet stand.
Friday, May 30, 2008
from Turning The Mind Into an Alley
"Seeing through ignorance and realizing the meaning of our lives is very precise work -- work for a mind that is stable, clear, and strong. It takes patience to do this practice. As my father used to say, it's like combing our hair over and over again. We're becoming familiar with thoughts that will shift the stream of our being, the direction of our lives -- if we let their meaning penetrate us. In becoming familiar with love and compassion, karma and samsara, the preciousness of being human, the inevitability of death, we train in diving deep into the truth and awakening our dormant wisdom."
Sakyong Mipham
Sakyong Mipham
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Bushwacking
The beautiful story of the secret garden almost makes me sad. There is an exquisite, gaping need that a secret garden can fulfill, which is as sharp as it is meaningful. Why does it need to be a secret? Why isn't there another, more welcoming garden. As a kid I read the book, watched the movie (the best one with the beautiful music) and dreamed of my own key that would unlock my own garden. But what is it that makes one want possession of a garden.
People need places. They need secret places, adventurous places, places to challenge them and places to be comfortable. Maybe a secret garden is a place of ultimate privacy. A place like those darkly colored places in your mind or imagination which only you know about. A place that is safe, because nobody will ever find it.
But the story makes me sad because it doesn't show the other places. Wouldn't an open, sunny, welcoming garden be more cheerful, more joyful, more friendly. Wouldn't this, I might assume, be more fulfilling in its splendour than the garden that was closed off from the world. Wouldn't a welcoming, open garden be a sign of life, a celebration of activity. A PART of life. A secret garden somehow feels too separate for me. Too separate from life, and somehow unattainable.
But we all need those secret places, perhaps, as much as we need the public. And if the comfortable garden can't be found, maybe a secret one can be made somewhere. Maybe we need them both. Where I live now I can't have the garden I'd like, can't have the homestead I'd like, and I have no vegetables planted at all. But I am, slowly, burrowing my way through the deep underbrush, fighting through the thorns, to make paths to my own secret place.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Spring
I forget sometimes how much I need silence. There is something about silence that makes me feel like I need less than I might have thought, like everything might actually be... OK. Have you ever been out on a hike or walking on a spring day, or working outside during a weekend, maybe preoccupied with something that happened. Maybe worried about something that might happen, not really thinking about what you're doing at this moment, when all the sudden you breath, notice the sunshine, and realize that right now all you really need ist he feel of that sun on your skin. Somehow everything else feels further away. Not more distant, still right there, but separated from you somehow.
Every spring in Maine is the same. Everything starts to speed up in a big exciting race to the fourth of July, then swinging back toward fall, descelerating, like a pendulum. As the days get longer, more shops on main street open, traffic picks up, construction crews get working, events get flanned and put in the paper... For the most part there is a fun, exhilarating energy that comes with the quickness of spring. But as we go about in our cars, the birds are building their nests, the chipmunks are buiding their dens, the trees sproud new shoots, the bulbs blossom new tulips and the plants and flowers grow and change as quickly as an infant, in a rush to grow tall enough to touch the sun before the fourth of July. For the most part this activity is fun, exhilarating, with the same energy as a field of lightening bugs enticing each other into matrimony in a field of snow. But with all this fun the deep silence of winter disappears, and with it my ability to notice each thing, individually, and really see it. Wearry from all the activity, in the forest behind the house and on the road in front of me, I fail to appreciate the extent of the beauty and life that I've waited for all winter.
But then after a busy Sunday, when most everything is finished, just as the sun starts to go down, I hear no noise, or at least, only one noise at a time. I hear the birds chirping out back, and nothing else. And somehow the quiet of that one moment, with no talk, no engines, no music, no tv, no appliances (I have a very loud bread machine that gets quite the workout on Sundays), I'm able to recover enough, catch up to my senses. I hear not only the birds now but the ones from earlier in the day. I notice the trees across the street that are full, ad the ones not greet yet above them, seeing the different layers of growth as the blend together in new life. I can think of the events happening around town and distinguish the festivals and the farmers' markets from one another. Just one moment of quiet, stillness helps me process. Just the one moment helps me catch up to my senses and enjoy what I sensed through the day.
Every spring in Maine is the same. Everything starts to speed up in a big exciting race to the fourth of July, then swinging back toward fall, descelerating, like a pendulum. As the days get longer, more shops on main street open, traffic picks up, construction crews get working, events get flanned and put in the paper... For the most part there is a fun, exhilarating energy that comes with the quickness of spring. But as we go about in our cars, the birds are building their nests, the chipmunks are buiding their dens, the trees sproud new shoots, the bulbs blossom new tulips and the plants and flowers grow and change as quickly as an infant, in a rush to grow tall enough to touch the sun before the fourth of July. For the most part this activity is fun, exhilarating, with the same energy as a field of lightening bugs enticing each other into matrimony in a field of snow. But with all this fun the deep silence of winter disappears, and with it my ability to notice each thing, individually, and really see it. Wearry from all the activity, in the forest behind the house and on the road in front of me, I fail to appreciate the extent of the beauty and life that I've waited for all winter.
But then after a busy Sunday, when most everything is finished, just as the sun starts to go down, I hear no noise, or at least, only one noise at a time. I hear the birds chirping out back, and nothing else. And somehow the quiet of that one moment, with no talk, no engines, no music, no tv, no appliances (I have a very loud bread machine that gets quite the workout on Sundays), I'm able to recover enough, catch up to my senses. I hear not only the birds now but the ones from earlier in the day. I notice the trees across the street that are full, ad the ones not greet yet above them, seeing the different layers of growth as the blend together in new life. I can think of the events happening around town and distinguish the festivals and the farmers' markets from one another. Just one moment of quiet, stillness helps me process. Just the one moment helps me catch up to my senses and enjoy what I sensed through the day.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
spring ponderings
I made friends with a chipmunk yesterday. I feel i should maybe questions why this was so important to me. Why was this one moment of eye contact, this brief game of hide and seek, this rush when he ran toward me and looked, such a powerful moment, powerful enough to effect my whole day.
the green curtain is filling in
This time of year I can't keep myself inside, and I physically can't imagine living in a city anymore.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
effortful sight
Noticing things can be difficult and paying attention can be painful. I don't think we think about that much, which is why those painful things can stay hidden so easily. It is not just that something around us is camaflouged, it's that we put on the camoflauge. So when we open our eyes trying to notice, record, and take in the beauty, we can't help but also notice things we'd prefer be covered up.
I've often heard people encourage gratitude. I've heard people expound on the joy of simple things. I myself try to notice things, think about things which seem invisible in the movement of today's world. Usually these things are undertaken when we want to understand things better, or slow down our lives, or practice everyday acts of kindness or beauty or gratitude. I look at a bottle of cleaner and try to think what's in it, is it bad for me or the environment? Do I need it? Should I pay money for it? Could baking soda do? Who put this liquid in the bottle and how did it get here... to inspire curiousity and the passion for life of a child, if for no other reason. I try to notice little things in winter that still have some color, even if faded or covered up. I try to notice different kinds of snowflakes that fall at such different times of year, and how sometimes they dissapear into the crowd they fall into. I try to notice these things to stay present in my life, to be aware of my surroundings, and to get out of my modern day, quickly formatting, technology driven mind and rhythm every once in a while. But inevitably you'll also notice things you prefer not to, and you have to either shut down your sight again or continue living life half blind, or you can live through the undesirable, notice, feel and survive the copious amounts of bad stuff there is to see, in order to also see the good.
In trying to understand and notice where things come from you may notice that your toilet paper comes from clearcut forests, and a factory where the people and the town around them suffer from the effects of chemicals and fibers in the air. In trying to notice things you'll realize the coffee you drink every morning is picked in a town that can't grow its own food anymore because they've damaged their forests and fields with pesticides needed to grow your coffee beans. In trying to notice things you'll see the beautiful elderly lady reading the newspaper in the library with bright and interested eyes. You see her jean covered legs tucked neatly under the chair and her peachy, leathery hands waving at almost everyone, since she probably knows everyone in town. But you'll also notice the hunch of the shoulders and the sad challenging eyes of the teenager as she's confronted by the librarian for her noisiness. When trying to notice theings you'll not just hear her loud voice, disturbing the peace of the library, but you'll notice it's 4:00 and must not have anywhere better to be, or anything else to do. You'll notice that when she's convinced she has to leave she suddenly looks younger, not so angry and turns around in an almost circle because she doesn't know where to go or what to do, and who hasn't felt that way at some point, and who hasn't gotten angry about it at least once.
Trying to write about a project of mine, trying to write about this story of mine, I think about things and try to notice them. I have to notice things to remember, I have to notice things to really see and not just get a glimpse. For I am really only half living if I don't. Purposely not looking at something is really the same as looking and turning away, the first just saves you the guilt. But not looking at all also saves you from a lot of joy, a lot of humanness and a lot of small moments that in the act of noticing give you still moments and at least a second where you can say I see that, this is where I am and this is who I am.
But there are still times when I am not ready to sit in the stillness long enough to see, to feel, and to know the whole story. So for the past couple weeks I haven't looked at my story, I haven't tried to notice my place. I've needed to not see, so I've kept my myopic sight by joining the rest of our society and just keeping busy.
I've often heard people encourage gratitude. I've heard people expound on the joy of simple things. I myself try to notice things, think about things which seem invisible in the movement of today's world. Usually these things are undertaken when we want to understand things better, or slow down our lives, or practice everyday acts of kindness or beauty or gratitude. I look at a bottle of cleaner and try to think what's in it, is it bad for me or the environment? Do I need it? Should I pay money for it? Could baking soda do? Who put this liquid in the bottle and how did it get here... to inspire curiousity and the passion for life of a child, if for no other reason. I try to notice little things in winter that still have some color, even if faded or covered up. I try to notice different kinds of snowflakes that fall at such different times of year, and how sometimes they dissapear into the crowd they fall into. I try to notice these things to stay present in my life, to be aware of my surroundings, and to get out of my modern day, quickly formatting, technology driven mind and rhythm every once in a while. But inevitably you'll also notice things you prefer not to, and you have to either shut down your sight again or continue living life half blind, or you can live through the undesirable, notice, feel and survive the copious amounts of bad stuff there is to see, in order to also see the good.
In trying to understand and notice where things come from you may notice that your toilet paper comes from clearcut forests, and a factory where the people and the town around them suffer from the effects of chemicals and fibers in the air. In trying to notice things you'll realize the coffee you drink every morning is picked in a town that can't grow its own food anymore because they've damaged their forests and fields with pesticides needed to grow your coffee beans. In trying to notice things you'll see the beautiful elderly lady reading the newspaper in the library with bright and interested eyes. You see her jean covered legs tucked neatly under the chair and her peachy, leathery hands waving at almost everyone, since she probably knows everyone in town. But you'll also notice the hunch of the shoulders and the sad challenging eyes of the teenager as she's confronted by the librarian for her noisiness. When trying to notice theings you'll not just hear her loud voice, disturbing the peace of the library, but you'll notice it's 4:00 and must not have anywhere better to be, or anything else to do. You'll notice that when she's convinced she has to leave she suddenly looks younger, not so angry and turns around in an almost circle because she doesn't know where to go or what to do, and who hasn't felt that way at some point, and who hasn't gotten angry about it at least once.
Trying to write about a project of mine, trying to write about this story of mine, I think about things and try to notice them. I have to notice things to remember, I have to notice things to really see and not just get a glimpse. For I am really only half living if I don't. Purposely not looking at something is really the same as looking and turning away, the first just saves you the guilt. But not looking at all also saves you from a lot of joy, a lot of humanness and a lot of small moments that in the act of noticing give you still moments and at least a second where you can say I see that, this is where I am and this is who I am.
But there are still times when I am not ready to sit in the stillness long enough to see, to feel, and to know the whole story. So for the past couple weeks I haven't looked at my story, I haven't tried to notice my place. I've needed to not see, so I've kept my myopic sight by joining the rest of our society and just keeping busy.
Friday, February 15, 2008
weather
The weather can effect mood in a way comical, like in a badly written movie with overly moody music. A couple meets after a long time, violins crecendo just as we zoom up for a close up of the kissing couple. A woman stands alone, minding her own business in her kitchen, slow dawnting music gets louder and louder, as fear creeps in and we all KNOW there is an axe murderer around the corner. A man sits at a desk looking out at a cloudy grey day, an hour still before 5. Suddenly the sun comes out, warming the green grass and pushing the clouds away. The man smiles, energy revived, and moves fast to try to leave work early. Cheesy maybe, but true.
This morning I awoke to a blizzard, or at least a lot of snow. I caffeinated myself and went out to shovel the long steep drive. The fluffy snow was just heavy enough to make me warm... sweating... breathing heavier... I enjoyed teh cool air. I saw a friend and neighbor who lives down the road driving an old pickup with a plough on the front of it. I waved, he waved, then backup up and ploughed a good portion of the drive. We visited for a couple minutes, be drove away, I continued shoveling what snow was left, and around the mailbox. Another neighbor came out, beginning to shovel his drive. We waved. A small grey car began to drive toward us, with mountains of snow on top of it. No other cars had driven the snow, unwilling to tackle the 4 inches that had fallen since the city's plough had come by. The little grey car stopped, waved at my neighbor. He leaned down to the passenger window, then walked away, coming back to the car with a broom, and pushed the snow off the back window. I eventually finished, then went to get the big dog to play in the snow in the backyard.
Quaint... hun...
But then as I sit at the table, looking out the window, eating cereal, it starts to rain heavy drops of rain from the grey thick clouds above. I find I have to fight a deep sadness that comes as fast as the water from the sky. Maybe it feels like a rush of the seasons. Maybe its that it makes it harder to stop, notice and enjoy the snow. Maybe its the unexpected, raining down on my happy parade. But it effect my mood, my day, my energy and my body as I trade my parka for a raincoat.
We are so effected by our environments, our places, and yet most of the time ignore them. But their effects on us cannot be ignored. Our bodies bring us back into our places. If it's freezing outside, our bodies need parkas, or we'll die (at least eventually). This place, this day, this weather, demands that I be present, enjoy the snow, sit in the sadness that comes with the rain, and hopefully enjoy the clean air after the rain finally ends. For it can't rain forever, even if it feels like it will right now.
This morning I awoke to a blizzard, or at least a lot of snow. I caffeinated myself and went out to shovel the long steep drive. The fluffy snow was just heavy enough to make me warm... sweating... breathing heavier... I enjoyed teh cool air. I saw a friend and neighbor who lives down the road driving an old pickup with a plough on the front of it. I waved, he waved, then backup up and ploughed a good portion of the drive. We visited for a couple minutes, be drove away, I continued shoveling what snow was left, and around the mailbox. Another neighbor came out, beginning to shovel his drive. We waved. A small grey car began to drive toward us, with mountains of snow on top of it. No other cars had driven the snow, unwilling to tackle the 4 inches that had fallen since the city's plough had come by. The little grey car stopped, waved at my neighbor. He leaned down to the passenger window, then walked away, coming back to the car with a broom, and pushed the snow off the back window. I eventually finished, then went to get the big dog to play in the snow in the backyard.
Quaint... hun...
But then as I sit at the table, looking out the window, eating cereal, it starts to rain heavy drops of rain from the grey thick clouds above. I find I have to fight a deep sadness that comes as fast as the water from the sky. Maybe it feels like a rush of the seasons. Maybe its that it makes it harder to stop, notice and enjoy the snow. Maybe its the unexpected, raining down on my happy parade. But it effect my mood, my day, my energy and my body as I trade my parka for a raincoat.
We are so effected by our environments, our places, and yet most of the time ignore them. But their effects on us cannot be ignored. Our bodies bring us back into our places. If it's freezing outside, our bodies need parkas, or we'll die (at least eventually). This place, this day, this weather, demands that I be present, enjoy the snow, sit in the sadness that comes with the rain, and hopefully enjoy the clean air after the rain finally ends. For it can't rain forever, even if it feels like it will right now.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to my house! Ah... life in Maine. And I live in town!
I think they were trying to make their way to city hall to caucus.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
From Four Seasons in Five Senses by David Mas Masumoto
"Once, I stopped a widow after hearing a deeply moving, personal tale of their family farm and the late farmer's ties to the land - emotions rarely expressed nor seen by the family. After a pause, she whispered, "This place... it was his baby."
I stopped and said, "I know your children, they've left the farm. But you shouldn't be telling me these stories. You should tell your children. They need to know."
Her eyes were glassy; she rubbed together her rough, dry hands, which had been quietly folded in her lap. Then she quickly answered, "Aren't you trying to be a writer?" Her hands stopped. "You tell them for me." Then she gently smiled; I swear it looked more like a grin.
I returned to the farm to hear stories. The widow's words became inspiration and simultaneously a "burden of tradition" one generation passes on to another. Here on the farm, voices fromt the past live in the present."
"Once, I stopped a widow after hearing a deeply moving, personal tale of their family farm and the late farmer's ties to the land - emotions rarely expressed nor seen by the family. After a pause, she whispered, "This place... it was his baby."
I stopped and said, "I know your children, they've left the farm. But you shouldn't be telling me these stories. You should tell your children. They need to know."
Her eyes were glassy; she rubbed together her rough, dry hands, which had been quietly folded in her lap. Then she quickly answered, "Aren't you trying to be a writer?" Her hands stopped. "You tell them for me." Then she gently smiled; I swear it looked more like a grin.
I returned to the farm to hear stories. The widow's words became inspiration and simultaneously a "burden of tradition" one generation passes on to another. Here on the farm, voices fromt the past live in the present."
Monday, February 4, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
One of the first times I felt destructable was as a teenager, while driving. Everyone says "teens feel like they're indistructable" as if it's a bad thing, a reason why they're so irresponsible, a reason for their behavior. But shouldn't everyone start out this way? In a world that to me sometimes feels like an accident or tragedy waiting around every corner, it is entirely beautiful and unique that toddlers, and teenagers, actually don't know that they can be hurt. How beautiful. How innocent. How ideal.
When I realized my own destructability is wasn't from an accident, it wasn't from witnessing anything, and it wasn't from anything happening. It was a moment. I was driving on the highway home late one night. I was listening to music, singing, and then realized I was at my exit. Even as I slowly merged onto the exit ramp an enormous feeling of disorientation consumed me. I literally did not remember driving home. I wasn't aware of my actions or time passing in the 15 minutes or so that I had been on the highway. I wasn't kidnapped by aliens (at least that I remember), I had been day dreaming, zoning out. I had done this drive so many times, and I was comfortable enough driving now that it was habit, instinctual, routine. I didn't really need to be fully conscious in order to drive, or drive this path. But the knowledge that I had done this so subconsciously, so instinctually, completely terrified me. Life, apparently, could be lived unconsciously, unintentionally, unnoticed, and this made me incredibly uncomfortable.
How many more times has this happened to me? Who knows. Too many for me to notice them all. But that's just the thing. I didn't NOTICE them all.
As I get older and life gets, I don't know, however it gets when you become more and more of an adult, this not noticing can happen on a grand scale. We fight through life, we move through our days. We react to things, bills, co-workers, events, the weather, car repairs, tragedies, collaborations... But amongst all this it's hard to find those moments to stop, notice, and decide if we're living intentionally or daydreaming our way down the highway. So often one day we wake up and realize that this job, this relationship, this project, this house, this town, this country, this war, are not what we want. We come to a point where we suddenly see our exit on the highway and wonder "where am I, and how did I get here?"
When I realized my own destructability is wasn't from an accident, it wasn't from witnessing anything, and it wasn't from anything happening. It was a moment. I was driving on the highway home late one night. I was listening to music, singing, and then realized I was at my exit. Even as I slowly merged onto the exit ramp an enormous feeling of disorientation consumed me. I literally did not remember driving home. I wasn't aware of my actions or time passing in the 15 minutes or so that I had been on the highway. I wasn't kidnapped by aliens (at least that I remember), I had been day dreaming, zoning out. I had done this drive so many times, and I was comfortable enough driving now that it was habit, instinctual, routine. I didn't really need to be fully conscious in order to drive, or drive this path. But the knowledge that I had done this so subconsciously, so instinctually, completely terrified me. Life, apparently, could be lived unconsciously, unintentionally, unnoticed, and this made me incredibly uncomfortable.
How many more times has this happened to me? Who knows. Too many for me to notice them all. But that's just the thing. I didn't NOTICE them all.
As I get older and life gets, I don't know, however it gets when you become more and more of an adult, this not noticing can happen on a grand scale. We fight through life, we move through our days. We react to things, bills, co-workers, events, the weather, car repairs, tragedies, collaborations... But amongst all this it's hard to find those moments to stop, notice, and decide if we're living intentionally or daydreaming our way down the highway. So often one day we wake up and realize that this job, this relationship, this project, this house, this town, this country, this war, are not what we want. We come to a point where we suddenly see our exit on the highway and wonder "where am I, and how did I get here?"
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