Gratitude

Summer. I am watching sun filter through old planks of a barn, prayer flags faded and torn, old couches softly decaying in still light. My desk is an old board nailed to sawed off two by fours, light green paint chipping and floating to join the pine needles and crunchy leaves on the dusty floor. Mosquitoes fill the evening-lit air with motion; a thousand specks of life and movement, no reason, no destination.

I am full of gratitude for this past week (and for this year, this life, but I will be specific in an effort to name my joy). This is how:

I am grateful for home-made, home-picked blackberry pie bubbling over and through buttery crust pressed into a cast iron skillet and the smell that fills the house as it bakes.

For the voices of a dozen men and women gathering on the front porch last night to do nothing but sing melodies and harmonies, sing for singing’s sake, sing for the pleasure of listening.

For a discussion at a potluck on that same porch nights before that ended with a promise to think about shooting deer in her backyard to dress, store, and eat for the winter. And how many island gatherings have had conversations centering around self-sufficiency and efficiently and sustainably maintaining an omnivorous diet in non-conventional (but really traditional) ways.

For a swing in the trees that makes my stomach drop every time as my body flies out of the forest and over the road far below.

For telling fantastical stories after the candles are blown out, the darkness ringing with bright laughter. And singing softly to sleepy ears upon waking.

For a house full of lovely people who grow vegetables and make food and call for community in so many different ways.

For the opportunity to open myself ever more deeply to love and connection in all of its various forms.

For bone broth soup made with beef from cows raised less than a mile away and veggies from the garden I help to grow.

For dolphins (porpoises?) surfacing in the sound as my kayak paddles touch glassy cold water. 

For dancing and running and leaping on the beach reminding me that all we are meant to do in this life is have fun and that fun comes in many different forms as does love and pain and growth.

For a tree rotting from within shepherded reverently from sky to ground.

For sleeping outside underneath the stars, underneath a bright moon, circled by a quiet army of trees, circled by quiet arms.

For sipping dream tea in the evenings, laps covered in quilts, bullfrogs shouting stories across the pond, owls questioning everything.

A story of a seal

In case you have been wondering the bones called to me first. 

I wouldn’t have found him if it were not for the rock to wake me in its insistence of another form. 

I caught my breath, a seagull overhead screamed down to me: That is not the truth! That is not what you seek! 

I kept walking, stepping over the carcass of stone and kelp. My breath returned and I weaved through driftwood and shells to the detritus far up the beach. I did not gasp as I nearly stepped right through the ribcage and onto the heart. There wasn’t time. 

I almost crushed the gut under well-trod boots.

I caught my breath again. How did I know there would be a body? Was it the scent rolling down the sand? Or the bones pulling me towards the rock-like body melting into the tideline? 

Clavicles bright white in the dying light of the day. 

Pools of saltwatery crimson between the ceiling beams of the heart, those ribs half thatched in nubbled grey. 

The weight of the belly sank into the sand but held its form. 

How was this not strewn every which way? How were the guts so intact with the skin so not? Yes the intestines began to spill onto the driftwood cradling the skeleton, the skin flailed towards the earth in tumbling waterfalls of what it used to contain, but the guts lay in the center of this undecipherable creature (save for the possibility of wings or fins) undiminished. That belly glowing and shimmering lavender and the faintest of blues. 

I wanted to touch, to wrap myself in the folds of this life, but the perfection of decay and untouched insides- vulnerable and resilient to the outside forces- I could do nothing but whisper gratitudes down those bones, into that gut, into the sand absorbing the life ebbing between its grains. 

There is life. 

There is death. 

There is all that intact, vulnerable beauty that lay between ribs and fins.

Among the Giants

  

I wander over frost-crunchy meadows and marvel at maple leaves like snowflakes frozen in their gorgeous rust-colored decay.

Quietness settles over the valley as I weave towards the shore. 

The mountains shake with sunlight and stretch their dreams into the still blue sky. 

I pull my scarf more tightly around my chin, pull my hat down over my ears; I have not tasted winter in many years. But it is not yet winter, it is still the fall and I have a long descent ahead of me: nights of clouds obscuring those bright memories of light overhead, mist snaking through the dying grass, murders of crows screeching behind a curtain of early sunset. 

My breath comes in fogbanks, my laugh a blast of warning to those off my weaving bow. 

I see Tahoma on the horizon, a watery chasm between us, drift wood reaching spindly arms for the snowy peaks encircling this island. 

I walk these beaches, through these woods, through my door knowing I am Home. 

For now, forever, for as long as the island wants me, I am here and I am grateful.

Get Storied

I see him every morning.

He appears before my tea is ready, between my sun salutations and watering of the rosemary and peas. Sometimes I see him walk to his spot, but most of the time he is just there: a boardshorts-wearing fixture next to the catamarans and seaweed resting on the sand.

He is sleeping now, cloth over his face, body tilted in a fetal position away from the climbing sun. Yesterday I watched the seagulls flock around him as he ate out of a plastic bag. Somebody's leftover sandwich? A burrito? Crackers from a cocktail party he threw last night?
I have not seen his face up close. I squint and make out a pale mustache on a tanned face. He must be older. Is he homeless? Where does he spend the night? But he doesn’t have much with him- just a simple backpack, a sweater, a baseball cap. Does he live nearby?

Why does he come to this beach everyday, settling in precisely the same spot to stare out at the bay, the gulls, the airplanes screaming overhead? Is it his communion with nature? Or is it simply the least awful place to sleep the day away after wandering through the night? Is this a choice?

He hasn’t always been here. This is a new thing. Months of a new thing, but my view was void of mustachoed sleepers until relatively recently. The moms with their strollers and running pants and cell phones all in simultaneous use ignore him. The hung-over muscle-y boys don’t give him a second glance as they recount the previous night’s adventures on Garnet beach-cruising on by. The dogs occasionally circle him wanting to play but their owners cut the frolicking short, apologizing while grabbing at collars, their bodies question marks against the shimmering water.

He has a story. I am sure of it.

We all have stories of course. Why does he seem like such a mystery? Do I have the courage to ask? He is a part of my life, my routine, now. I feel obligated to learn more about the face I see (or squint to see) everyday, right?

But that might lead to me becoming more curious about the other folks I see everyday. The man who cleans the common areas with chokingly strong cleaners and a pleasant smile. How did he get that scar on his temple? My neighbor above whose high heals I hear clomping above me long before I see her walk in front of my window to the garage every morning. Where does she go? Is she happy with her job? The barista at 976. What is she studying between frothing up lattes?

The list goes on and on. How do I have time to listen to all these stories? I have things to learn, work to accomplish, places to drive to where I will do lots and lots of stuff. Important stuff.

For my own well being, how can I not slow down and ask, listen to these stories?
They are my stories too.
We all have stories, we all ARE stories.
We complete one another’s chapters, novels, volumes.

Let’s write the world together.
It begins by listening.
And that begins by asking.
Even just a name.

This is my dare to myself: get involved, get storied.

The comfort of confused seas

I step from the hills and divots of dry sand to damp. My footprints follow me to the edge of this side of the world. I stand and wait for her to come to me, frothing and licking at my ankles, tying seaweed around my tight tendons and curling toes.
I am pulled in by the lights on the horizon. Fishing boats gleam in the gloomy dusk. That speck of white elicits a sense of excitement of an impending adventure even if none are on my charts at the moment. I face the beach, the land, the US and acknowledge the life I live here. There.
And I turn back around.

Calves submerged, the goosebumps on my thighs soon underwater. There are surfers right and left. I am boardless, wetsuitless. I wade deeper into an area of turbulence. The seas are coming from different directions, crashing into one another in irregular patterns.
One would say Confused.
I feel like a boat being tumbled and fought over by those confused, world-worn waves. I close my eyes and dream of being in the middle of the Atlantic, sails up, saltwater deluging the cockpit as the random waves hit us from behind and slide us off our course. I am that boat, drenched with surprises, pulled and pushed into conceding to deviations from my carefully plotted rhumb-line.
The waves talk to me through the wood and epoxy and say that even if they appear chaotic, each wave has it's own path and purpose. There is no confusion until their is resistance. Yet through that tension the wave is transformed or complimented or the energy is passed on so another wave can make it to Nova Scotia or Portugal or Brazil.
Or once again be sidetracked, absorbed, reinforced.
The energy never disappears.

I dive into the next breaking wave.
Fully immersed. 
Fully alive.
Fully clear on the beauty of confusion.

The world turns and all I can do is jump in

The seaweed wraps around my leg. Dirt from the farm washes through my toes and into the sand, into the surf. Salt covers my arms, my face. My hair loose and tangled and blond-tipped tumbles in a breeze that drifted past fishing boats beyond the horizon. I wade into the sea shuffling my feet to scare off stingrays and sink deeper into the bed that always comforts me. The sun is setting and I am alone and I am surrounded by people and I am listening to the whooshes and crackles over wet sand. The kelp lies quietly covered with flies and styrofoam and tiny plastic dolls and all other sorts of our land-bred pests. I turn to face the sun sinking towards the water wondering if there will be a green flash and wondering, doubting, hoping: have I actually ever seen a green flash? Do I make it up every time? What else is there to hope for in a sunset?
The seaweed wraps around my torso and the waves push and pull and cover me and I forget who I am and that I'm in the water and that we are usually separate.
The sky is pink and white, the bay purple as I walk home over sand and concrete (sand).
I already miss the water, the me I left in moon-ruled waves and am jealous of the sun seemingly snuggled in the churning frothy sea.

Home in San Diego

The van pulls into the carport and my sisters and I are woken up by the lack of noisy engine, the lack of Johnny Cash on the cassette player, the lack of cigarette smoke filtering into the backseats. We grab our blankets and pillows and stumble into the house in the middle of the night. Or we are fully awake when we get home in the late afternoon and we bound out of the yellow Vanagon and call dibs on the toilet. I'm seven years old and it smells like summer inside the closed up house. We've only been gone for a week, a week of fishing and hiking and oh boy burnt pancakes and greasy Bishop bacon and driving through the mountains of the High Sierras and the desert that is Southern California. We're home and the blinds are closed and the cats and dogs haven't been picked up from the animal hotel (fleas!) yet and the green shag carpet harbors the smell of small chlorinated feet and the damp towels laid out to watch movies- the smell of summer break.
Whenever I come home I expect that smell. Maybe remodeling and insulating and tile instead of shag changed the smell, but the feeling of walking in the door is nearly identical.
The feeling of coming home to the house you grew up in.
I get a glass of water, walk through the house to see what has changed, go into my old bedroom and fall into a deep sleep under the glow in the dark covered (still!) ceiling beams.
The yellow Vanagon is long gone but my dad's legacy of sturdy cars remains. On my first day out of the house I jump into the Chevy Blazer and bump onto the main road. This is what I do:

1) I get a burrito. Usually bean and cheese, maybe a little sour cream and guac thrown in. Any displaced southern Californian can tell you that there is nothing, nothing like a lard infused tortilla full of beans or carne asada, dripping with smoky hot sauce and fresh guacamole, wrapped in paper as an attempt to contain the tasty mess. And at one o' clock in the morning on a foggy San Diego night, even New York pizza can't compare.

2) I drive through my favorite neighborhoods: Kensington, North Park, South Park, Hillcrest and into downtown. Most of the neighborhoods have changed dramatically since my high school days. Hillcrest used to be filled with coffeeshops and used bookstores and sketchy kids asking for money on the street. I used to drink lots of coffee and buy far too many Beat poetry books and makeout with those kids between clove cigarettes. Now there are a few Starbucks and less bookstores and I don't smoke cloves anymore now that I'm in my 30s. I guess Hillcrest and I have grown out of our "pretending to be tough" phases. I keep driving. I mentally list the restaurants and bars I Need to visit. I probably won't but I like the myriad of possibilities.

3) I stop to get coffee, to write, to observe life at one of my favorite coffee shops. It's hard to believe, but San Diego has cooler cafes than New York City. The kind of places where you can sit all day with a mug (hot warm cold coffee) and a crumb of scone on your plate and write and read and just be. You get to know the people at the counter, the regulars. Soon you are a regular and start dating the cute guy with long dark hair who smiles when he serves you tea but he's not the cool intellectual you thought he must be working at a coffee shop full of people studying and you break it off before you go away to college and at college you miss all the neat coffee shops of your hometown and you boycott Starbucks (still do) but meet real intellectuals in sweaters and thick framed glasses. (this is what home does- nostalgia full force)

My favorites:

Claire de Lune in North Park http://www.clairedelune.com/

976 in Pacific Beach http://www.cafe976.com/

Living Room in the College Area (my second home during my teenage years) http://www.livingroomcafe.com/sdsu.php

Zanzibar in Pacific Beach http://www.zanzibarcafe.com/Pacific-Beach.html

There are so many more (and so many that closed down) but these are the must visits.

4)The beach. I head to Pacific Beach. The drive through the bay park area is always surprisingly exhilarating. The water (desert? water shortage?) is everywhere and there are always sailboats and kite surfers and fishing boats making fluffy white wakes in the inlets and under bridges and through sets of jetties. I park at the end of Grand Street where I used to skateboard or go up to Law Street where I used to surf and I walk along the concrete boardwalk and watch the waves.
And I finally breathe out for the first time since getting home.

5) I eat another burrito. I realize that eating burritos for 10 or 20 days in a row before I go back to wherever I may be living at the time is probably not a good idea for my thighs or heart. But I do it anyway because frozen burritos suck and Chipotle is not quite the same.

6) I take walks with my mom and sisters to the end of our street. We talk and we vent and we discuss and we let down guards and we breathe. And we dodge cars with ancient white haired people and surly teens clipping the gutters of the sidewalk-less neighborhood. We look for coyotes and mountain lions and comment on houses (one still looks like a Sizzler, one is painfully misguided Tuscan Villa) and we talk some more.

7) I hang out with friends who still live in San Diego (this isn't necessarily a hometown people are eager to leave) and they show me the new cool spots or we revisit old haunts. We drink beer and wine and eat sushi and sliders and catch up on life. That's what you do when you come home.

8) I go to a film or a play, usually by myself. When I was growing up I would take advantage of the numerous art house movie theaters (all but one or two gone now) and prestigious theaters and dream about acting. The velvet seats of the Old Globe theater, the edgy experimental pieces that La Jolla Playhouse would throw at its patrons (the fudgy brownies I would eat at intermission), the smaller theaters with a few seats but lots of heart. I was a part of that community and I happily did my duty several times a month supporting the local arts when I wasn't in a show myself.
These days when I come home its harder to time my visits with the live shows I really want to see, but there are enough films in non-stadium seating movie theaters to keep me satiated. Even if I am the only one in a theater at the 3:50 showing of a New York City based indie.

9) I go to the Red Fox Room with my family. My grandfather went there, my mom and dad went there when they were young and childless, we Goff girls go when we're all in town (cheers to Dad) and eat carrot sticks and olives dipped in ranch dressing and cold iceberg salad (blue cheese please) and petite filet of steak (medium rare) or halibut almondine (rice pilaf or baked potatoes or fries) and split the carrot cake. We sip small goblets of wine and always comment on how cool it is that the interior wood paneling used to be a bar in England and that the piano singer is really live, not a recording, singing out in the dim red light.

10) I go downtown and walk around and pine for the days of homeless and junkies and falling apart buildings and funky coffeshops and retro hotel lobbies. Yes, I know that San Diego is better off economically with a vibrant downtown, but the rough edged downtown I grew wandering around had more charm. At least to my 17 year old fishnet stocking wearing, Shakespeare tragedy reading, black and white photographing, oh so soulful self.

11) I sit in the backyard and look out at Mission Valley, listen to the cars speeding between the beach and snow covered mountains on the freeway, breathe in the blue sky and green lawn (desert! water shortage!) and slight smell of chlorinated water drifting from the pool I used to splash around in all summer long. I wonder if I could live in San Diego again. I wonder where I am flying off to next. I wonder when I will be back...

...To do my list all over again.