Someone is messing with my Zen.
Mind you, it’s there for the taking if I don’t keep guard.
Thanks for the reminders.
The universe has conspired, you see. It began at the start of the new year when I decided to set intentions and not adopt resolutions. I would choose a few words to inspire and guide and teach me and leave it to the universe to make of that what it would.
And the words that came and set roost were:
”The universe is conspiring in your favor.”
And conspire it has. In my universe of loved ones, there have been three deaths, a diagnosis of stage 4 breast cancer and the start of two painful divorces. All in the last six weeks. Plus a health scare of my own.
I began to reconsider my choice of words.
Maybe choosing to conspire was a tad risky.
Maybe I should have chosen something like “grow” or “prosper” or “flourish.”
But conspiracy sticks, it seems.
For while there have been tears and anxiousness and sadness and fear, there have also been celebrations of lives well-lived, time given, perspective gained, peace promised in the future and a biopsy that was benign.
In this time, I have been lovingly surrounded by the presence and spirit of family and dear friends. I have watched the moon kiss a mountain and hiked the ridge of another with friends of dear connection. I have spent time with my grandson and my granddaughter. And I have moved toward the next big step.
My Zen might have been rattled. But it’s still there.
Ever conspiring.
And so, I think, am I.
2/6/2012
Along the road to the top of the world is a path and a stream and a tree.
Where the three meet lives a wise sage who goes for long periods of time without the pleasure and burden of company.
In the cold of winter mornings, when the ground outside the window is lit by the lamp and the fire warms the room, the sage is writing a memoir.
Progress is slow as memories are faded and mostly unremarkable and the pace along the road to the top of the world is lackadaisical.
One day the sage decides to break from the task to follow the path further into the forest. In the stillness of the ponderosa pines, the sage comes upon an elk who is gazing back with a look of great curiosity. The two lock eyes and assess one another and the sage sees that the elk is unafraid. Minutes pass before the elk ambles off, leaving the sage to speculate about the things the elk will do that day.
The sage proceeds along the path for a long while and comes upon a clearing at the time when the sun is straight overhead. There is call for water and a rest so the sage lies with eyes closed on the warmth of a large flat boulder at the edge of the open space. The sun moves further west before the rustle of wind and the sense of shared space prompts the sage to wake and to spot, off on the other side of the meadow, a moose. The magnificence and strength of the moose is duly respected before the sage tiptoes backward, downwind and away.
At the part of the path that climbs higher, where rocks encumber and a steep incline challenges, the sage spies a group of mountain goats who are foraging for food near tree line. They are hungry and surefooted and move resolutely step by thoughtful step toward nourishment. The sage watches and feels satisfied.
As the sage returns home to where the path and the stream and the tree unite, there is a quail at the feeder who busies itself with gathering what it needs. Ever circumspect, one of its eyes constantly sees the entire circumference that surrounds the yard, and the quail watches as the sage and the dog who is always there go inside the house.
And there, by the warmth of the fire and the light of the lamp the sage still cannot think of a remarkable memory to add to the memoir. Instead, the sage manifests the following:
May you move along your path with the grace and bravery of an elk.
May you feel as strong and magnificent as a moose.
May you be as steady and resolute as a mountain goat as you make your journey.
May you have the vision of a quail so you can see clearly to gather what you need.
And may you always be surrounded with love and companionship, like that of a good dog.
Have a great week!
1/29/12
This slideshow requires JavaScript.
If I were to begin on a Saturday, I would tell you about the boat from St. Kitts that advances toward the island as I sit on the top deck wearing a sun hat and watching as Mt. Nevis grows larger and the clouds ringing its peak grow distinct. I would tell you that the cottage faces the sea, the gardens are lush and wild donkeys bray outside the open windows at night. I would share the sweetness of the oleander and the Bougainvillea and the sharp sting of a daily swim in the salt.
Immersion has its advantages. It is easier to forget the expectations of nicely paved roads and well-stocked groceries and consistent internet service. It is not hard to slow to the local tempo, to dawdle deliberately on the black sand of the cove or to linger for an afternoon or two in the seclusion of Lover’s Beach. Amenities left behind are eclipsed by the luxury of a breakfast of papaya picked from the tree just outside the window.
Exploration is necessary. The car belongs to the caretaker of the cottage and he gives few guidelines other than a suggestion to follow the highway that rims the island. Without stops, it could be done in just shy of a couple of hours but with curiosity at the wheel, the car veers away from the road and up to the hills where lie the remnants of old sugar plantations. These are the last remains of a time when colonists brought iron and industry and dresses that were too confining for the climate and refinement of a type that might not have been particularly welcome.
For a time, more sugar was produced in Nevis than in all other Caribbean islands combined. Changing economies and British laws about slavery kept the boon short-lived but there is still evidence of profiteering all about the island. At the first stop, the path is overgrown and murky and the only other visitors are monkeys, who are shy and too quick for the camera. This site has been largely untouched, except by weather, and seems forgotten.
The second stop is Golden Rock, where visionary folks from New York City and afar have reinvigorated the property by blending contemporary orange furniture and Zen taste with centuries-old stone walls. There are spectacular trees in the entry to the property and lodging in cottages and the renovated sugar mill. Lunch of lobster salad is fabulous.
The third stop is Montpelier Plantation which operates today as a Relais and Chateaux property. Here Admiral Horatio Nelson married a wealthy widow on a hill overlooking the ocean in 1785 when the plantation was at its zenith. He did her wrong before he met his end but there is still today an amazing view off of the dining room and pool at this plantation.
From the green and abundance of the plantations, the car turns toward the ocean where the wind picks up and the vegetation is sparse. There is evidence of hurricane damage on the beaches and between that and the strong currents, there is not much enjoyment to be gained from snorkeling. What is enjoyed is that there are no other people on the beach. A cooler of chilled Caribe is perfect company.
Aside from the Four Seasons and the renovated plantation inns, development has come slow to Nevis. The town of Charlestown, where Alexander Hamilton spent his childhood, is the capital and hub of commercial life. Asset protection and off-shore tax haven advantages are marketed by the banks. Outside one of these is a walled alley marked as the place where slaves were traded long ago. As the car moves through the narrow streets, an arm reaches out from the shuttered window of a house built up to the edge of the road. The arm is within grasp of mine, and I hear a giggle as the car weaves, startled.
If I were to end on a later Saturday, I would tell you that as the boat leaves the dock and I turn to look again at Mt. Nevis, my skin is browned and my hair is light and my feet are bare and what I carry with me is lighter. I would tell you that as the roll of the ocean picks up, I say goodbye with a tear in my eye.
I will not be returning this winter. It is not that I did not love it nor is it because my wandering is over. It is simply that I have a large list of places to where I hope to wander.
What is on your list?
1/17/12
I write because words go round inside my head and I want to mold them like a potter does clay.
I write and like the way the words feel on my tongue and the way my eye follows them on the page and the way the voice inside my head speaks them.
I write when the words spill down the page and there is nothing to stop the flow. No damming it up or sandbagging the words that like to slip through the cracks.
I write and am okay with messy because sometimes the best things come out of the abyss that is on paper.
I write to share my way of seeing all sides, my roundabout point of view that should be expressed so others will not be so narrow.
I write because it gives me hope and discipline and it expands my capacity to feel and to touch.
I write because what I want to say I cannot say by speaking. I am quicker writing with my hands than I am speaking on my feet.
I write because writing 1000 words of something good is better than finishing a 1000 piece puzzle. Each word has its place and they all fit together tightly and if there is a word missing, it is incomplete.
I write because I am pegged to do so. Others draw, or run, or count, or sing, or quilt. I write.
I write because there are cloud shapes that others cannot see and the touch of a prickly pear that others will not feel and the sound of spring runoff in a mountain creek that others will not hear and the taste of my mother’s mashed potatoes that others will not taste. Unless I write about those things.
I write and find myself in times and places that I will not otherwise experience.
I write when it feels like my brain is a walnut and the words are stuck inside and it will take a quick and strong twist of a nutcracker to pry open the goods.
I write to recall how I felt when someone long ago read to me and I first knew words and stories can be symphonic.
I write to collect my thoughts in one place and to put them out into the universe before I forget what I was thinking.
I write and find myself spiraling backward, to reexamine what happened long ago, going round and round like I am following the rings of a snail’s shell to see what I can see.
I write to get the long view of mankind, to find the common denominators I share with people who live half a world away or down the street, and to understand that we are more alike than not.
I write because there are times when it is the best medicine I can take.
Thank you for your words of encouragement and concern after my last post. My mother is at her home in Kansas and now in the good care of her doctors.
1/3/2012
My mountain home is 5 miles up a gravel road that turns off between mile marker 9 and 10 of a two-lane highway. The 9 and the 10 are in Colorado and if you were a crow and flew 5 miles to mile 0, you’d be in New Mexico.
If you traveled another 70 miles along the road that twists along the Chama River, you would reach a stretch of land that was granted to a fortunate loyalist by the King of Spain in 1766.
It is said that the spirits already living in this corner of Northern New Mexico were unhappy with this turn of events. Native people and early settlers believed the vast valley was enchanted by sorcerers and witches. Stories of murder and spirited mayhem continued through the late 19th century, when the Archuleta brothers ran cattle in what by then was known as Rancho de los Brujos, or Ranch of the Witches. Later, it came to be Ghost Ranch.
With or without spirits, it holds remarkable beauty.
When she who introduced it to the world first saw this country in 1917, she said, “when I saw New Mexico, that was mine.”
As a matter of fact, it has come to be called O’Keeffe Country by the New Mexico tourism pundits. But Georgia cannot lay sole claim. She never owned Ghost Ranch–when she arrived its ownership had passed on to the Pack family and she had to talk them into renting her a small house on a spot of land within their property.
She left her husband and New York each summer and traveled west to her retreat. She explored miles of Northern New Mexico on horseback and in a Model A and took in the red cliffs and the white bleached bones and the high desert plants and the white shining rocks.
She stayed permanently in this place after her husband died. She purchased and lived in an adobe home in the nearby town of Abiquiu. In the last of her 98 years, she moved to Santa Fe. But the land in and around Ghost Ranch was her solace and her home and the place where her ashes were released when she died in 1986.
It was here she found energy she did not feel elsewhere. It was here she noticed that the sun’s light was different and the dry air made things in the distance look sharper. It was here she saw architecture in rocks and an enormous and vast sky. It was her respite. It was her opportunity. It was her inspiration. And she created.
On the next to the last day of December, I drove from my cabin in Southwest Colorado to Taos and then made the loop on around through Espanola, and back up Highway 84 through Abiquiu. It was late afternoon and there was a touch of snow on the ground when I arrived at Ghost Ranch.
I took pictures as the sun began to set. A few cars passed by, workers or visitors of the conference center that is to the east of where Georgia O’Keeffe first stayed. Ghost Ranch is owned now by the Presbyterian Church and functions as a place for remarkable and ordinary folks to gather and stretch their minds and souls in a setting that underscores the splendid surroundings. The Lindbergh’s, D.H. Lawrence and Robert Oppenheimer all walked and gazed at these cliffs during Georgia O’Keeffe’s lifetime. It is amazingly inspiring, even today.
If you become quiet, you sense that this land is not owned by the Presbyterians, nor Georgia O’Keeffe, nor the Packs, nor the Archuletas, nor the lucky Spaniard. You sense it is still owned by the spirits.
If you become quiet, you can feel them. And you are inspired.
1/19/2012
My aunt moved to the desert from the Midwest when she was a young bride. She fell in love with its sparse beauty and never left.
There must have been many a dry hot spell when she missed the snow and the rain and the humidity and the green. But she rarely left the desert.
She had a big smile that might have been prettier with dental work but was beautiful as it was because it was enveloping. She would smile and scan the horizon and say softly, “I love my desert.”
My young mind believed the desert actually belonged to her and to my grandparents and to my uncles who did own a patch of it on which they ranched and raised turkeys before the snowbirds came to be the more prevalent of the species in that place.
I have been a recurring visitor to the desert. I find it quiet and subtle and if it is not too hot, nourishing. You have to get out of your car and examine the desert up close to see and feel its life. It would be easy, otherwise, to think it drab and dull.
If you are driving south from Tucson and look to the west you cannot miss the contrast of the brilliant white walls of the Mission San Xavier del Bac against the bright blue sky and the sand colored landscape. It stands out against the desert like the single and short-lived bloom of a cactus. Long ago, the mission drew the native people in and helped the Spanish acquire souls and land when they were building an empire. Though it is old and somewhat tired, it still beckons, a relic of the power of conversion.
My aunt was converted not by a mission but by the desert landscape. She left the elm trees and the robins and the abruptly changing seasons. She walked in the desert and saw beyond her dusty shoes and watched for the errant snake and the Gambel’s quail and the Gila woodpecker who lived in a tall saguaro. If she could slip away unnoticed at day’s end, she would go to the desert to find solitude and peace and grace and inspiration. All out her back door.
There are places that acquire our souls.
This was hers.
Where is yours?
1/13/12
I am in Arizona helping my parents make an unplanned journey back to Kansas. My mother is not well.
My arrival coincided with the appearance of an amazing Wolf Moon, which I spied out of the corner of my eye, off to my left. I was taking pictures of the mountains that are due east of the home my parents rent when they visit here. At sunset the mountains turn a wonderful shade of red which is what I was trying to capture.
In just the nick of time, the moon redirected my attention. It was there, a huge orb of light and peace, kissing the mountaintop before it rose into the night sky to peruse the valley floor.
When I was a little girl my mom taught us songs that we would sing as we traveled in the car. My favorite went like this:
I see the moon
The moon sees me
Shining over the old oak tree
Please let the light that shines on me
Shine on the one I love
Thank you, moon, for your nudge. I needed to see your brilliance. And please keep shining on the ones I love.
