Have you ever heard something fall under water, the dull scrape of a fishing weight onto granite rock, the drag, fisherman on the surface, oblivious to you hiding, suspended alongside dull mossy green bass, still and not struggling between crevasses of boulders, tumbled by time into that glacial abyss; now tugging his thin nylon line free, only to break calm waters to cast again, this time perhaps successfully;
The shafts of brilliant sunlight as they pierce the shimmering pond, how they illuminate that same boulder, glint of metal on stone, almost too startling for limited vision, breath taken in order to descend, lungs now burning, foolish gill-less fish, unable to remain submerged indefinitely;
And now I rest under the bluest sky, breathing in, exhaling that thin mountain air without effort, cracking of beaks breaking seed or the snoring of dogs, discerning sounds as if in command of my own destiny, which, as we know, is as indistinct a fabrication as those distant lakeside conjurings.
We are all moving on to the next level, just as he did after coming through walls, us sitting at our kitchen table, pleading eyes confused, conflicted;
Nobody spoke of suicide in that place, yet there he was, and I had to ask another neighbor if she knew what had happened;
I remember passing by a lone figure walking a small white dog, and sometimes I thought it a woman, sometimes a man; ahh, this being was mahu, a two spirited one, yin and yang that might have merged into a lovely ebony and ivory symbol, while instead, his Japanese parents felt only shame, and so freedom was sought by moving to a large east coast city where those of like kind could seek a life free from judgments that bound them in ties far too snug to house the beauty of their souls;
Distressed parents conspired somehow to bring their son back, yet back to what? A life in this tiny town with its own ideas of how firstborn sons should act? Instead in despair, they found their son hanging limp from a rope in the garage, imagine;
When his spirit came to us, it was with a desire to find a way to transition between this world and the next, and so we envisioned a beautiful beanstalk, glistening ivy green with heart-shaped leaves, its sinuous vines a strong rope without obligation of gravity, and it grew and branched out, carrying this dear one into a magical realm where harmony might prevail, higher, further from the suffering of simply living with yearnings his broken family could never comprehend.
The music of the universe greets me daily, voices on the wind, crackling through heavily laden boughs of pine trees, chattering black and blue birds arriving in massive flocks every morning to the feeder, ravens and magpies keeping their distance, waiting on fence posts out by the fields, trusting that what fed them yesterday will show up in perpetuity, abundance in the midst of winter’s cold; meanwhile the pack of coyotes howls and yips, acknowledging the bounty tossed across the road nearly every day; with compost tumblers full, we have enough to share;
None of us knows what will greet us as we open eyes and senses onto a new day, fresh start for every sentient creature on earth; how we meet the Mystery is up to us, cranked on caffeine and sugar, boarding the train to a city high rise, or quietly, softly, in wonder at another precious gift, the sky, the clouds, the breath we have drawn since birth, bellows of lungs automatic, in, out, are we aware of their significance? Are we grateful for the intelligence of these bodies, treating them kindly, reverently even, as we stroll into brilliant rays of blessed sunlight?
Some things are not meant to be, though I still save space for them, not knowing divine timing or even my own mind sometimes, and what is this compulsion to occupy perceptual emptiness, is it simply creativity seeking a natural outlet, the crashing surf carving out caves on Mt. Desert’s rugged shoreline or the smoothing of lava rock at the base of Halawa’s thundering waterfall?
I can wish, and in wishing place my desires on the altar of possibilities, then forget them if I am wise, releasing attachment to outcome, opening time’s parachute upside-down, the beggar’s empty cup yawning with space minus the desperation of those truly in need of wish fulfillment;
Meanwhile the two empty chairs sitting next to and caddy corner from mine leave room for those yet to arrive, and even they do not know, anymore than I, what seats will be occupied when and where in the near or distant future;
Imagine my surprise then when, one day and least expected, the fulfillment of those forgotten desires returns to gladden or to haunt, depending (be careful what you wish for); the unexpected visitor materializes, and I am left to wonder at which juncture I might have yearned for such an encounter, prepared or not.
There are confusing encounters leaving one gasping for breath, the mind grasping for understanding; such is the nature of life and death, the latter being more recent in my world of experience;
I eschew addictions, just as they are sought to resolve what seems unfathomable to others, and I know in this life I am meant to demonstrate more understanding than my petulant inner child might conjure; still, it is the most natural direction in which to gravitate these days, the world being as unknowable now as it was then, and who am I to judge?
Thus when I see this precious one, once strong and vital, now weak and yellow and skeletal and all this happening in the span of a year in a life too short to be terminal, feelings arise, and more and yet more questions on the meaning of existence;
This time last year, we were wrangling with thorny bushes that had become trees, both cursing, he more ardently, as this was not his first rodeo in these mountains, and yet there was laughter, good humor, companionship of then-strangers taking the measure of the other’s character;
Loved ones gather now, and I feel not at all out of place in this tiny trailer amidst people of a culture I don’t need to understand; the old man’s body the main event in the living room, surrounded by photos of the past, and who could know fifty years ago how fate would hold them now in its thrall?
Two weeks ago, he seemed empty of life, yet his spirit still felt strong; today that spirit had its due; jaundice had receded, and flesh had mysteriously begun reassembling on his bones, and once again I marvel at the same sorts of questions I have asked all my life, how does the journey begin to make sense in the face of what we are dealt?
I am but one minute speck on the face of this earth, the same countenance reflected back to me in field and forest, in the shriek of bats as well as the sonar they emit, the whistling and bellow of elk as they descend from higher ground for the winter, the piñon jays, sapphire blue bodies so different from their indigo Stellar relations, gliding in for their morning seed;
When I peer into a body of water, I see not a mirror, but a plethora of faces of untold numbers of creatures that dwell in the depths as do I, in my own element;
Yet what is this element spoken of? Is it the air I breathe? The earth walked upon, the blazing fire of the sun, cool slices of moonlight or the quarter-sized drops of rain that splash upon my forehead?
What am I, if not an assemblage of all these components, sheathed in the thinnest veil of skin, so transparent that I can glimpse blood coursing through a busy network of veins, necessary waters of my body, invisible synovial fluid keeping joints in motion, bending and lifting to the billionth degree, work I have happily performed since my youth, preparing for winter, spring, summer, fall;
It’s all the same, here on the mountain where life at altitude is as unpredictable as nature can be anywhere, anytime, only here it cannot be ignored, and the garden thriving in the heat today can be frost-encrusted by tomorrow morning, who can predict?
This time last year, birds were falling from the skies, a freak storm that bent trees over double, and some we lost while some grew back, and isn’t that life? Is that not, at its root, the existential distillation of our existence?
Slipping under the covers last night, nestling into his sweet warmth as we both gaze, astonished at the crystal quarter moon, hung in the twilight sky as if borrowed from a Saint-Exupéry watercolor;
This morning I awaken to the morning star, ready to begin the day regardless of the hour, observing the sturdy old adobe on the hill, standing in stark relief to the distant rising sun, a behemoth so devoid of sound or movement as to appear adhered to the moving earth as she rotates on her illusive axis;
Elk graze silently in distant fields, nuzzling frosty grass with their soft muzzles, whiskers lifting dew from disturbed blades, as they have done seasonally for generations and more, having just returned from higher ground; they portend an early fall, though one never knows at this altitude, frosty mornings replaced by soaring daytime temperatures reaching well into the eighties by midday;
We celebrate daily the return to the land of wilderness, the tracks of deer, howls of coyotes, the surprise of a snake stretched or coiled in the heat of the day, gathering warmth for bodies lacking the ability to generate it on their own; and await the return of the resident Red Tail hawk, whilst rejoicing at the sight of occasional Great Blue Herons or the honk of Canadian geese down by the river; displacing these creatures from their accustomed habitat would be wrenching, and there is no plan as yet, this is protected forest land at least for now, yet we humans must advocate daily for this shared place we all consider home.
When first I arrived ahead of him, to put this new house in order while he remained in Hawaii, finishing up what needed done in that place we had resided for fifteen years, it was chaotic;
Covid had created seeds of disorder that have now germinated and sprouted into some sort of angst-mongering monster, sower of division, pitting fear against dread, as humans question, aloud or in private, the duration of their own tenure here on earth, stripped down to primal longings;
Sitting in this big ranch house, back to the utter silence I craved all those years on the islands, surrounded again by forest and fields, the glowing eyes of nighttime creepers, tracks laid everywhere, elk, deer, turkeys and other travelers, an alien weed in fields of another’s familiar;
Lying in a bed left by prior occupants, grateful for the gesture, yet not mine, nothing ours, not yet, the tailings of other soul paths, confusion accented by harsh designs that agitated rather than soothed my jangling heart; and then it came, a series of yips and howls, accompanied by a steady bark, threaded with eerie whines looping through, a mad conductor whipping up a frenzied forest symphony;
Coyotes circled the house, not once but several times, bark, bark, yip, yip and that unhinged high-pitched wail, a beau geste causing hair to rise on my forearms, thrilling as it disturbed, while my nerves settled, bit by bit, as, like faeries in ancient fields, they performed their welcoming ritual, bringing me back to the ancient tones inhabiting a once-tribal land; and I laughed along with them, howling like a madwoman, while the sound faded out of range, having accomplished whatever they came to do, despite my own interpretations.
Our backyard forest, populated by the healing herb mullein. ~ b
It’s a new day, and I awaken tired, having not slept much; perceiving the fear of the collective, the hum of impending doom, as a worldwide virus continues to mutate, according to a greater plan than we can imagine, and the vaccinated among us may actually be more culprit than cure, causing an explosion of variants to proliferate;
We are a world accelerated beyond any means possible, faster is better, internet warp speed lives, packages replacing hands in earth, chemical drinks in cans replacing pure water, food sources separated from our bodies by poisonous fertilizers, distance and desire, fresh tropical fruits delivered in winter, shipped green to ripen by gasses in warehouses, and how can this offer nourishment to strengthen our immunities?
I watch sick native people in our community, addicted to alcohol and worse; soda, canned food and the hypnosis of television, vulnerable to viruses, partisan news and soul sickness, shamans of old far from their rightful place as healers in the scheme of things, bowed and beaten into submission by priests, bent into homogeneity by the white man’s schools, forced into dubious medicine designed to fight perceived disease rather than working with the rhythms of the body and Mother Earth, and they are dropping like flies, one by one or in groups, whole families murdered by their own offspring, a sad fallout to the speed and separation our species was never meant to cope with;
I am a generally optimistic person, yet I am also sensitive to the greater vibrations of earth and her creatures, humans among them, caught now in a crux of our own making, having so thoroughly trashed our perfect planet with the byproducts of instant gratification, that we are faced with Holocene extinction;
Make no mistake, these are perilous times, and yet we must somehow be able to help ourselves and others to what extent we are able, to remain centered and focused, in order to best know how to move forward in spite of it all;
And so we retreat, again and again, to our beautiful high mountain vista with its varied wildlife, who seem not to have a care in the world, survival their primary mandate, as it has been since their time began;
And yet last fall, a freak snowstorm and cold snap caused songbirds to fall from the skies dead; the raptors are as mysteriously absent as bodies of water, while wildfires rage over most of the West, and it is hard to ignore the fallout of our Creation, not being gods in the least, so much to learn, so much to lose.
BJ photo – Polar bear, Albuquerque Zoo, as its natural home in the arctic becomes more imperiled by the day.
Mysterious new things move to the cadence of nature’s drum, the cry of destruction loudly rings; Aloha aina, care for the land, it matters not where we choose to root ourselves, the mandate is the same: we must return to the Garden, discover innocence lost when simple was subsumed by life so complex that some days I wonder how long I can manage it, threads frayed, threatening to unravel;
Yet when I walk out into messy, immerse my hands in soil, work at amending what has been stripped by too many years of consumption without consideration, my spirit calms, settles into what is there in front of me, head not spiraling out into orbit, here. And now, now, now;
This is what we are given, this moment, breathing in, then out, listen to the heartbeat of nature; observe with a raptor’s eyes all that surrounds, notice the little things, the seemingly unimportant, purpose-less details in a world fixed on production, and learn; for we might well need that sort of knowledge in the days to come.
Photo taken on our ranch. This Redtail Hawk watches over us, observes everything we do. Pretty cool.
belas bright ideas 