Themes

I have a theme, yo! Which may not sound like a lot. My facilitator friend, in attempting to help me, asked, "Well, what do you want people to take away from your story." If I could state that clearly, I wouldn't need help, would I? My therapist friend is much better at letting me talk around the subject until I arrive at the destination. Anyway, between the two of them last night, some magic happened. I drove away from our meeting happy to have seen them but frustrated that I hadn't found my theme. Then later at home, reviewing the past week's chicken scratchings, I found it. And I wrote it down ten times to give it a test drive. It held.

I think I'm on to something. I'll share that my story involves west Texas, talking ravens, a flying suit, and cowboy ghosts, and a very brilliant and brave girl named Veronica whose hair looks like an explosion in a mattress factory. That's all I can share for now. I have 41,000 words of clay which now must be shaped and hewed toward the theme.

And I'm completely in love with it--my story, my characters, the process. So stay tuned.

The Whole of the Moon

Yesterday I heard this Waterboys song from high school days on the satellite radio, and with the power of itunes I bought the song and listened to it no fewer than 30 times today. Really. I drove my 90 minute each-way drive to our Denver office and had it on repeat play both ways. (The discussion of my OCD tendencies will take place in a different post.)

I had not heard this song in, safe to say, years if not decades. And one of the great joys I had in hearing it again (and again) was the knowledge of who I have become in the ensuing years. And it is exactly related to why I am experiencing so much satisfaction, if not joy, recently at my 137 pages of first draft on a children’s novel. And I feel compelled to get it right because I see the impact this song had on me and the fact that I did fly and I am pretty sure I’ve seen Brigadoon.

Not so incidentally, flight is the superpower I give my main character. And a friend recently then logically asked me if this would be my chosen superpower. I said yes, although I also considered that the superpower I really want is the ability to know what people mean when they say something to me. I couldn’t say this to said friend since he’s confounded me greatly in the past. And I suspect he knows it.

And somehow all wrapped up in this is my new buddy and story therapist. Our time together is coming to a close as the community committee that we’ve both been a part of is being disbanded. Actually I am disbanding it because he and I are the only ones who come—but that has had its own sublime value. He too enjoys talking about how we experience our experience. He’s the friend that you need when you need a friend like that, and he has spurred me to reconnect with some of my other friends who like to talk about how we experience our experience. That in itself is precious.

I’m going to try and keep working with my story therapist, despite the fact that because of learning disabilities and childhood challenges he’s not someone who reads and writes much. The truth is, he is an accomplished storyteller and story creator and he has an extremely sophisticated understanding of theme and arc and character development—he’s a real therapist by trade and he brings that kind of curiosity to characters. Right now I have three different story lines woven together. And I think he can help me develop the theme. It’s there, but I need to talk it out so that I can define it better so that then as I rewrite and do my editing I can have more clarity and focus.

I think the thread that ties this all together—the song and affirmation of life choices, the overwhelming surprise lately of the unbounded, unlimited, unending creativity that I’m allowing myself to have, the multiple perspectives on how we experience our experience—has led me today the feeling that I am hopelessly and desperately in love with this life. And how do I reconcile the end of that while knowing what I know about change and embracing change? (This is part of my very purposeful current spiritual path described in a recent post.)

I guess I’m enjoying, oddly, asking that question. I’m an introvert, what can I say?

I pictured a rainbow 
You held it in your hands 
I had flashes 
But you saw the plan 
I wandered out in the world for years 
While you just stayed in your room 
I saw the crescent 
You saw the whole of the moon 
You were there in the turnstiles 
With the wind at your heels 
You stretched for the stars 
And you know how it feels 
To reach too high too far too soon 
You saw the whole of the moon 
I was grounded 
While you filled the skies 
I was dumbfounded by truth 
You cut through lies 
I saw the rain dirty valley 
You saw Brigadoon 
I saw the crescent 
You saw the whole of the moon 
I spoke about wings 
You just flew 
I wondered I guessed and I tried 
You just knew 
I sighed 
... but you swooned
I saw the crescent 
You saw the whole of the moon 
With a torch in your pocket 
And the wind at your heels 
You climbed on the ladder 
And you know how it feels 
To get too high too far too soon 
You saw the whole of the moon 
The whole of the moon
Unicorns and cannonballs  Palaces and piers 
Trumpets towers and tenements Wide oceans full of tears 
Flags rags ferryboats Scimitars and scars 
Every precious dream and vision 
Underneath the stars 
You climbed on the ladder 
With the wind in your sails 
You came like comet 
Blazing your trail 
Too high too far too soon 
You saw the whole of the moon

Brighter than Sunshine

On the upside, today the storm has left us with an uncommon brilliance of full sun on wet snow. And since I'd already requested the time off, I'm having a long weekend of sequestered writing opportunity. Everyone thinks I'm away.

And so this morning I walked into town to my second-favorite coffee shop, the favorite one in walking distance, for my cuban style coffee and a nice place to do some character development. Along the way I got to experience the release of snow from warming trees--often as heavy clumps (ow, hey!), often as cascades of magically frosted fairy dust, often together with delightful and comical results.

At my cafe I chose the barstool by the window to best absorb the brilliance of the day. Yes, magically frosted fairy dust, that's right. And it's brighter than sunshine.

Mayday!

I couldn't sleep last night so I sat on my sofa looking out the window at the falling snow, admitting it was beautiful. And I was thinking very long and hard about a fantastical story that a friend told me last night about the mother of sounds who don't want to be sounds and its corollary of a child who doesn't want to be a child. It was both stunning as a story and of his way of processing having been a child who didn't want to be a child. Falling snow is maybe a sound that almost successfully denies its sound-ness.

And the thought I came away with, which I often come away with, without violating my friend's privacy more than I already have, is that I have very good parents. I think most parents can be credited with, if nothing else, doing the best that they can. For mine, their best was and is pretty darn good. I get to see them in a few weeks and I just might tell them this in person. I hope they already know.

The Snowy Road to Marfa

I would not have thought that I would have trouble getting out of town for a long weekend in Marfa, Texas, in late April on account of snow. Then again, I would not have thought I would have trouble getting out of Marfa at New Year’s on account of that rare west Texas blizzard. Verily, both have come to pass.

My short stay back at New Year’s cemented my suspicion that I would find lots to like about this small, dusty, arty, middle-of-heavenly-nowhere town. With just around 2000 inhabitants, it has its own Public Radio station, art and literature, significant film history, charming restaurants, and proximity to amazing nature. While lacking the big mountains of Colorado and my beloved Owens Valley, I recently described the Marfa setting as having interesting topography. Nearby Davis Mountains and Big Bend National Park offer an outdoor enthusiast plenty of space for exploration. And the nearby McDonald Observatory—space for exploration indeed.

But what is really driving my current obsession with getting back to Marfa is my recent creative endeavor of writing a children’s book. Yikes, yes, that’s what I’m up to these days in my (not) copious free time. And it is set in a fictional village outside of Marfa. I’ve got 120 pages of plot draft—beginning, middle, end, stick figures of characters. I am now working to bring life to my characters, and one of the characters is definitely this wild landscape in which my human characters and my talking raven characters find themselves. My initial descriptions are based on maps and memories of the California desert, which is a good start but ultimately inauthentic.

So I’m deeply craving a return to the real Marfa landscape—to walk amidst the west Texas vegetation and so-said topography, to sit at diners and absorb the cadence of life and words, to understand even rudimentarily the movement of the sky and the way the sun gets burned into a soul through this sky.

And I’m being thwarted by snow. Most of the winter we Fort Collinsians have had our wishes for snow, precious moisture, dashed by disappearing, dissipating weather. But April has changed that. Two weeks ago, my long weekend plans were postponed by the whopper of the season—two feet of heavy spring snow. Last week we got five more inches. And now tonight and tomorrow we are predicted to get up to nine inches. No, it won’t last long, but likely long enough to postpone my trip again; Marfa is a long day’s drive from here and I won’t attempt it with a late start.

Funny how my main character dreams of leaving Marfa and I dream of getting there. Funny, but not surprising. I know both sides of that coin. West Texas is exerting an ancient pull on me, at once deeply familiar and wonderfully new at how it assembles pieces of my past lives. I feel like there is a lesson there for me to learn…if I can just outrun the snow.

Doubly Blessed

Today is my birthday, the Sunday morning of my birth. My mother made a habit of having babies on Sunday mornings.

And today is Flower Day in Romania, what we know here as Palm Sunday. Next week is Orthodox Easter in that part of the world.

In Romania, most people are named after saints, or some derivative of Saints' names. Then when it the day of your Saint, your celebration is similar to a birthday celebration. Often this celebration is actually bigger than your own birthday celebration. It's kind of fun because people can't forget--everybody knows the Saints days. Flower Day is the day of celebration for people with names associated with flowers instead of saints: Florin, Florica, Viorel, and mine--Margareta. Yes, because Gretel isa derivation of Margaret in German, I was bestowed the Romanian name of Margareta which is a daisy. So Flower Day is my Saint Day, as it were.

And today is the lucky coincidence of having my real birthday and my Saint Day birthday on the same day. I expect no less than wonderful.

Look

It’s always a happy time when I come home to find the latest High Country News in the mailbox, and a happy Saturday activity to bike to a coffee shop and read it. I have the accompanying on-line subscription, but as many of you agree, it’s not quite so satisfying.

Today I had every intention of biking out to the Bellvue Bean to re-introduce my bicycle to the glory of spring after some recent, dramatic April snowstorms. But alas the wind was stronger than I so we turned around and went to a nice place in town for an iced coffee.

This week’s issue has a story about paying attention to the small spring flowers that may go unnoticed. The author concludes with one word of advice, “the single most important word I ever say as a naturalist,” he explains, in response to anything of wonder in nature: “Look.”

Oh yes, it is spring—my favorite season of the year. The time of year when the earth wakes up, I regain my energy, the sun gets up before I do, and popping up all over are signs in nature begging us to look. This is the time of year of bulb pay-off—that exquisite series of moments when the diligence of autumn comes poking out of the ground, then buds, then bursts into dazzling color against the mud and hesitant grass. This is the season of smells long dormant through the winter—again the mud, sunshine on dead fields, the neighbor’s first barbecue. And there on the lake I pass heading to work are white pelicans, dependable as retirees coming back from Baja.

My author today talks about shooting stars, both the small flower blooming now in his Oregon woods and the meteoric wonders above us on a clear night. “What do we owe the natural world that sustains us,” he asks. “The response that I encourage is simple gratitude. And the most basic expression of gratitude is to be mindful of the gift: to pay attention.”

I love it when I read something that so succinctly tells me what I already know in a way that makes the learning/re-learning a delight. To Pay Attention. It’s what we owe the people who sustain us, the plants and animals that provide us food, really everything in our known worlds. What a great attitude to bring to bear as we welcome what, for me, is the season of joy. Oh, spring, my dear, you’ve been so long away. Let us pay attention so that when you have gone away, the blessings will endure.

The Meaning of Life

Recently I’ve had the good fortune to have some really great conversations. It’s not good fortune, actually, but the diligence of making it happen. A couple of weeks ago I said aloud that I was craving a profound experience, knowing the folly of that wish: first, you can’t predict what will feel profound, and second, profound is in the eye of the beholder and maybe I just needed to behold my current experiences as profound. And then I stumbled into a conversation with a colleague that very nicely fit the bill of profound. After which I realized that a rich, honest, probing conversation is just about my favorite definition of a profound experience. Happily, the conversation itself spent time on the nature of human connection. And I was reminded that I have all the components for human connection that I underutilize on a regular basis.

So this week I’m touching base with some old friends, having some overdue meaty conversations, making appointments for more. I’m also taking a slow dive into something that feels like the crossroads of many things in my life right now—a meditation into the nature of death. Does that seem morbid? Why do we let the fear in ourselves keep us from learning about the true nature of death? Some of it is human nature, I suppose, some is societal. But many philosophers and Buddhist teachers would suggest that we cannot understand the nature of life, of our precious human life, without really examining with our full hearts the nature of death. How would I live my life if I very deeply connected with the reality of my death?

I just wrote a note to one of my long-losts whom I get to see next month and asked, “Is there a job I can have that just requires me to sit around with my friends and discuss the meaning of life?” Her response was to ask if we can job-share!

So, death? Shall we begin, continue, deepen our conversation? Naturally, being me, I have a book with some good guidance to lead me down the path through meditation. If I have any insights, I’ll try to share. And let me know if you have any suggestions. The point of life is life, I’ve read. I suspect, as well, the point of death is life. L'chaim.

Showing Up

While I'm not showing up at the blog lately, I have a really good excuse. Last fall I got involved with something called UniverCity Connections, a joint initiative between downtown Fort Collins and Colorado State University which sits pretty much in the middle of town. Seven or eight task groups formed to spend six months developing projects and initatiatives to move our city forward. The task groups dealt with issues such as transportation, arts, and business development. Our group focused on inclusivity and sensitivity. You may also call it diversity.

Our team phase is over, but we are now left with the option to try and impliment our project ideas. I confess our group lost its steam. So I implemented DiverCity Cafe, a weekly informal coffee klatch to see if we could keep moving forward. It's been slow-going and poorly attended, but we may be gathering a little steam. Some new people have come and are promoting Cafe. And we are slowly inching forward. Granted, I'm doing more than I had wanted to, but not more than is comfortable. And I'm meeting great new people.

The funny thing about my participation is that, Manzanar aside, I really don't have a background in diversity and social justice issues. I don't work in the field like most of the people on the task group. What I've got going for me is a fierce and undeniable belief in the power of civic engagement and social capital. I think I'm more passionate about that than the actual issues of diversity, although it's a close race.

So my thing that I can do is show up. Every week. DiverCity Cafe will keep going as long as I keep showing up. Yes, I have many other qualities that contribute to our initiatives and goals. But the one that's gonna make it all work is the most basic.

Learn more about I Am Fort Collins right now. And if you're in town, you can show up too!

The Hair Report

In other news, my fab haircutter, Sara, and I have seemingly stumbled upon the sweet spot between being taken for a chemo patient (too short) and the turf war between my cowlick in the back and goatlick (mini-cowlick) in the front (too long). I've been getting compliments (multiple) from strangers (all women, natch) about my super-short hair. So, hurray for small victories. I hope you're having some too.

Crazy

For many people, the seemingly endless shenanigans in Washington over budget negotiations may be infuriating or frustrating or perhaps even a non-issue. But for many of us directly tied to government spending, it has been downright stressful. I am a permanent full-time federal employee. You may have an opinion about that in and of itself. I will state up front that many of us do greatly value the security and benefits that come with this job (although you should know that federal retirement changed over a decade ago and is significantly less generous than it used to be). Still, job security is really great. But many of my coworkers accept the benefits in exchange for a higher salary that could be made in the private sector doing many of the jobs in the National Park Service that require advanced degrees and very specific technical expertise. Really, we do it because we love our agency—the mission, the resources, the park service family, the sense of service.

In addition, many of my coworkers are not permanent, full-time staff. The government has many ways around that. So that the first to go are the seasonal employees, the term employees up for renewal, and the contracted employees—very essential members of our team. Around the country, thousands of workers receive a paycheck from companies contracted by the federal government to provide some essential service or product. Some people's idea that federal spending goes into a void is not borne out in my experience. I can point to a hundred ways that federal spending affects my daily life.

You may say that now that the sequester is in place, at least we can move forward with our new budget reality; as one person said last week: instead of continuing to try to do more with less, maybe it’s time we come to terms with doing less with less. Yes, contrary to the many stereotypes of government workers, the vast majority of my colleagues have been busting their asses for years trying to make do without a retired employee who won’t be replaced, or with fewer seasonal hires this year, or restructuring to reduce the amount of admin staff. But in fact the new reality is that uncertainty is still a way of life and we really will have to do less. Will we have a budget? A new continuing resolution? A shutdown? Can we perform the essential tasks required to protect park resources and provide for the enjoyment and education of our visitors? Which of our essential tasks in the end will be deemed unessential? Hard to say.

In the midst of Washington power games, here in my office we’ve been facing a redesign of our office space. We take up too much space, too big a footprint, according to GSA (the agency both in charge of federal real estate and known for …um…boondoggling, to put it nicely). So for the past year, we’ve been planning for a complete re-design of our office building, putting most of us in 8’x8’ cubicles. Fortunately or unfortunately, there have been delays. Now, we will surely be delayed again with the sequester. Why spend money on an unnecessary building re-design when Rome is burning? Yet today, our chiefs were asked to sit down and assign the cubicles on the drawings to our staff members. The insanity.

So while I’m getting off easy on the sequester—my job seems secure for now—it does feel like I’m taking crazy pills.

Mom's Turn

What with all the lack of excitement in my life these days (no complaints--love the peace) and a raging blizzard hitting the east coast, I turn over today's blog post to my undaunted mother. Here's her email today:

Gym: Front Deck - 20 and sun and wind
Company & Music: 8 chickadees
Cardio: excellent
Arm muscles: yes
Leg muscles: yes
Weights: roof rake
Resistance: 7" snow
Reward: large mocha hazelnut coffee

And here's a photo of downtown Fort Collins today around 2:30 p.m. where I was enjoying tea and a magazine. We were supposed to be getting snow too. Hmm. (yes, those are port-a-potties in Old Town. Klassy, you may say, but it beats people peeing regularly on the sidewalk like in other cities).

Enjoyed my tea in this cup, familiar to snowbound New Yorkers, made me as nostalgic as this. Reading my new Tricycle today, came across a story about Cambodian monks and the surreal statement that the Khmer Rouge had outlawed nostalgia. 

Later, upon emerging from the Lyric Cinema where I saw this year's Oscar-nominated live shorts, we had gotten an inch of snow--pretty much a non-event. Great collection of films by the way--provocative and satisfying.

So thanks, Mom, for your story. And can someone explain how you outlaw nostalgia?

Sunrise

Phewww…crazy week with three days of work meetings with the NPS national planners (a lot of folks whose salaries double mine) plus wrap-up meetings for the community initiative group I’m involved in (a lot of folks whose time in Fort Collins exceeds mine by decades). All extremely fun and deeply satisfying, and all my little brain cells are on hyperdrive.

And I’ve had to get up at five each morning to head to Denver for my work meetings.

Fortunately, because I live in the land of sunshine, these morning drives have been graced with exquisite sunrises. I drive south on I-25 with the sun coming up to the east, across a never-ending swath of prairie, and the mountains (oh yeah, those Rocky Mountains) in a line off to the west, high peaks draped with snow. About every shade of yellow, gold, orange, salmon, blue, violet, purple, periwinkle and more are represented on one side or another at one moment or another.

Although one could argue I’m a morning person, I cannot claim to be a chaser of sunrise. Personal ads tout long walks on the beach at sunset, but they never mention long walks at sunrise. Bed is warm; the conditions of sunrise often involve cold. Cold. And even coffee can’t fix that equation.

But I have had my moments. Many years ago…maybe the winter of 1999, I was living in Brooklyn and taking flying lessons out on Long Island. I would fly on Sunday mornings which required me to get out of bed at a very early hour and ride my bicycle in the dark to the train station. I remember winter mornings riding the Long Island Railroad with the sun coming up in the east. This was around the time that Lyle Lovett put out his Step Inside This House collection with his version of Townes Van Zandt’s great song If I Needed You with the great line:

In the night forlorn, the morning's born
And the morning shines with the lights of love.
You will miss sunrise if you close your eyes
And that would break my heart in two.

As the sun broke over the horizon in view of my railcar, I often mindfully kept my eyes open to the rising sun, in minor joy, in relief.

The song on rotation in my car this morning was Chris Les Doux’s ode to Western Skies:  “If they ever saw a sunrise on a mountain morning…” And because I am evidently one with my favorite DJs, the sun did not go down today before Meg on the satellite radio played for me Guy Clark’s version of If I Needed You. Still true that you will miss sunrise if you close your eyes.

Let’s be clear that I’m not advocating that anyone get out of bed, the nice warm bed, early to watch sunrise. But if that is your fate, that you must be up and out at that hour, it’s a better reward than even the coffee. Minor joy. Relief. 

Very Important People

A quick shout out today to some Very Important People who constantly impress and delight me: Volunteers in Parks, also known appropriately as VIPs. Most recently I came across some of these fine people in Big Bend National Park serving as campground hosts and staffing the visitor centers. Generally these longer-term volunteers are retired folks, but as I learned at Manzanar, volunteers come in all ages and commitment levels depending on the task at hand. We hosted one-day volunteers to help with Pilgrimage and our volunteer site-clean-up days, week-long volunteers for archeological digs, and month-long volunteers for our artist-in-residence program and other projects. The USS Arizona has Pearl Harbor survivors who volunteer time each week for years to share their stories. Manzanar too was blessed with a cadre of former internees who infinitely enrich the work there with their stories and perspective.

This past summer my family and I had a rare and special opportunity to visit Dick Proenneke’s cabin on Twin Lakes in Lake Clark National Park, a very remote corner of the National Park Service. The cabin and surrounding area are under the care of volunteers K. and Monroe during the summer. K. gave us a wonderful and interpretive tour of the cabin and outbuildings; Monroe has done significant historically accurate restoration of the buildings. They do it out of love.

Upon returning from Big Bend, a coworker asked if I had run into Black George. Ha. No, but turns out I met Black George a few years ago in the Tetons and reported that, alas, George, age 89, is in an assisted living facility outside Dallas these days. George was a park volunteer after a long career as a geologist with the US Geological Survey. George used to split his time between summers in the Tetons and winters in Big Bend and some times of the year in Moab. He’s a character and gave richly of his time and unique spirit. At the Tetons he was known for his root beer floats and his attraction to women’s ankles. My coworker knew George as the volunteer “victim” in some climbing rescue training that he put on in Moab.

And today on a snowy day off, I’m enjoying a new book written by a long-time Manzanar volunteer, Tom Clayton, about a ghost town not too far from Manzanar—photos and stories of a past time and place. Tom has contributed significantly to the photo collection of Manzanar, and he and his wife Mary Lou could always be counted on to help out at the Manzanar Pilgrimage.

Volunteering at a national park is not without benefits; in fact, it is the retirement that I aspire to. Good work, good people, free housing for long-term volunteers, swag such as water bottles and t-shirts. But it does require a passion for the job and a commitment to the mission. I applaud those who give so much for such intangible rewards. It is my utmost honor and pleasure to be part of the same team as these very important people. 

Me and George, 2007. Yes, I'm showing off my ankles. 

Border Music

A Vacation in Four Acts

Act I: “It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, and the major lift—the baffled king composing Hallelujah (Javelina, Javelina)”

My vacation began in a composition of cottonwood trees, grazing javelinas, meditation, literature, and Christmas. I chose the Cottonwood campground in a little used corner of Big Bend National Park because it was available—no reservation required. Three nights of stillness under the bright near-full moon with a serenade of great-horned owls. Days of small walks, intense sunshine, new scenery, warm conversations. The Sarajavoan/Italian man camping a few sites away was also reading Orhan Pamuk and had traveled to Istanbul. I shared some fancy Christmas sparkling lemonade, he shared some date-nut brownies. He didn’t like Pamuk as much as I do.

A waitress in Marfa made hiking recommendations; two of the three I achieved. I asked the volunteer at the Castolon visitor center, just up the hill from my camp, about the waterfall hike which will remain a secret here. He said it is not on any map, but if a visitor asks for it by name, he had a special hand-out outlining the great care that must be paid in visiting. The secret falls were not far, and a pleasant trek. He gave me directions to the enchanted maidenhair fern forest.

In my reading time at Cottonwood, I finished my Pamuk book, a story of people treating each other (and themselves) very badly. I appreciate this author because of his exquisite attention to detail and his creation (re-creation) of his very Turkish world in all the colors, flavors, and atmosphere for an outsider to enter with ease. At the same time, I took a meditation book with me that I began to re-read. The chapter that I began with talked about paying attention. Really, that is what meditation is all about—to practice paying attention. As I sat on my cushion under the cottonwood trees, javelinas grazing nearby, I also watched a young bobcat sit in the sun, stretch, walk with nonchalance down the fence row and into the woods. Be patient and pay attention, he said.

Act II: “I wish I had a river I could skate away on.”

I next spent three nights at the Rio Grande Village campground on the other side of the park, down river many miles. One delight of this corner of the park was Boquillas Canyon where the Rio Grande, the object of our affection like that tall mountain is up in Denali National Park, cuts through a steep-walled canyon. Used to be, and will be again in the near future, that a visitor to the park could legally take a boat across the river to the village of Boquillas and enjoy a home-cooked meal. Today this is off limits, although the neighbors cross illegally to sell trinkets. I met one such a man and practiced my painfully limited Spanish: buenos dias; no, gracias; adios. One walks along the river, amazed that a short wade through lazy water could bring you illegally to Mexico; amazed at the power of water to shape rock, shape lives, shape history.

Another joy was the nearby hot spring. It is drivable, but there is a trail from near my camp over hill and Chihuahua Desert dale to the spring. After a cold night in the 20s, I awoke and dressed and hiked to the spring. Oh, the lovely soak. The natural spring has been harnessed by humans for over a century. It sits just by the river, so one can (if you are like me) hop in the river momentarily to cool down. Just stay on this side, please. The hike back made the most of what turned out to be a glorious 70 degree day. I actually got hot and found one tiny mesquite under which to take a short shady break.

Back in camp, I tackled the long awaited and twice attempted The Sound and the Fury by Faulkner. Rich success this time as I completely gave myself over to the flow of uncommon voices. The lack of sense of my own time and the inability to do anything else in the evening hours led to success. The sun went down around 5:30 and I went to bed usually around 8:30. Big Bend does not allow for fires. So wrapped in my down sleeping bag, armed with hot tea, and sporting my headlamp, I made good use of the evening hours. All my nights at Rio Grande Village were in the 20s. One night across the river I heard a donkey braying.

Act III: “I’m walkin’ with a fortune teller. I can see my own way home.”

Traveled up to the Chisos Basin campground for three nights. Higher elevation, surrounded by a ring of mountains that makes one feel as if you’re in the middle of an ancient caldera—not the case although volcanism created the Chisos. Visited here in my camp by birds and a confused deer. Alas, as well, visited by clouds and wind and rain. Oh elusive stars: first the dazzling moon and then cloud cover.

Nonetheless, settled into a nice routine with a new book about the park itself, a collection of articles and memories from a naturalist/photographer who arrived in the Big Bend area in the mid-1940s. I spent my last few days following his trail and understanding the park through his eyes. I was also reminded of another photographer/philosopher who understood the value of a place “where the clocks stopped long ago.”

Hiked one morning before the rain down to the Window, a dramatic outlet for water from the basin. The trail led downhill to the top of a vast waterfall, dry this time of year. The view was fantastic and the trail took me through the higher elevation vegetation: pinons, juniper, oaks, and an assortment of cactus and agave.

The last day we achieved again sunshine and warmth. I drove west of the park to historic Terlingua, now a strange mélange of espresso joint, foreign tourists looking for The West, hippies, cowboys, and meth-heads. One of the chapters in the book I was enjoying: Smuggling and other Career Paths. I ate a delicious chorizo-egg burrito at the popular breakfast spot.

The brilliant German filmmaker Wim Wenders once made a movie called Paris, Texas. Part of it was filmed in the Big Bend area, including Terlingua. He wrote later that he had intended it to take place all over America. “But my scriptwriter Sam Shepard persuaded me not to. He said: ‘Don’t bother with all that zigzagging. You can find the whole of America in the one state of Texas.’ At the same time I didn’t know Texas all that well, but I trusted Sam. I travelled around Texas for a couple of months, and I had to agree with him. Everything I wanted to have in my film was there in Texas—America in miniature.”

Later I drove down to a state park education center named after a colleague of my naturalist/photographer/memoirist. Learned more about the nature of the area and got recommendations for a scenic drive and a slot canyon hike. Along the way I enjoyed again my new Calexico collection, a Tucson band named for a town in California straddling the Mexican border. I don’t really understand many of the words, but the sound is a rich blend of folk, Americana, and mariachi horns. A compelling soundtrack to the drive.

This night, this last night in the park, this New Year’s Eve in a place where the clocks stopped long ago, the stars came out to serenade me. The dark evening began with stunning alpenglow on the peaks of the basin, followed by the appearance of the international space station blazing across the sky. Then my beloved stars bloomed in the sky. Bundled in down, I watched the sky for nearly three hours. Attention must be paid! Until the clouds rolled in and to bed I crawled.

Artists, filmmakers, musicians, writers, stars, small strange animals: guides along our path, shining a light.

My fortune teller, the roadrunner...

Act IV: “And a screen without a picture since Giant came to town.”

Marfa, Texas, is known for being the location of Giant, the motion picture of epic 1950s Texas. Today it is rather arty and tourist-laden. I had previously ridden the Amtrak through Marfa. I knew I wanted to return. Alas, I was not able to secure a room for New Year’s Eve (and I therefore missed Butch Hancock and Jimmie Dale Gilmore at Pedro’s, but fortunately didn’t know this ahead of time or I would have been tortured) so I arrived on the day of the New Year. I found late lunch at an airstream taco stand and ate up the last of his black-eyed peas and more chorizo-egg corn tacos.

Then I checked into the swanky and historic Hotel Paisano where I took a very long very hot shower. The actors of Giant stayed at El Paisano in the summer of 1955 and guests today can select the Rock Hudson suite or the Liz Taylor suite or the James Dean historic room (Dean evidently didn’t rank a suite). My humble historic room suited me just fine.

Next day I drove north a little to visit the McDonald Observatory and its giant telescopes. Remote and moderately high and dry, this facility—associated with the University of Texas, Austin—is truly world class. You may know StarDate sky updates on NPR: they originate from McDonald. And they offer popular tours for very little money, so I went. With our talented and enthusiastic guide, we went inside the large, squat, domed chamber and saw the telescope. Our man worked the controls and opened and closed the curtain, rotated the dome, and raised and lowered the floor. The only thing he didn’t do was open the bay—must keep the room at nighttime temperature. In the presence, we then were, of those who have taken stargazing to another level. Talk about paying attention.

My departure from Marfa was delayed by the annual west Texas snowstorm, so I had three nights here as well. Good and diverse food and a great bookstore kept me occupied. Picked up one day a book of…well, I think one review called it poetry, but not exactly poetry. But a treatise on love, loss, and life themed on the color blue. She wrote that for years she was writing about blue and that was what her friends knew her by: the person writing about blue. She pulled it off well, I would say, and offered me a good example of a festering writing project of my own inspired by something Pamuk wrote about. For my snow day, I went back and purchased Zora Neal Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, which shamefully I had never read before. Perfect snow day activity as I did a pile of laundry.

Hated/needed to leave Marfa: my new Livingston, my new crossroads.  Worth quoting more of my favorite Lyle Lovett song:

And this old porch is like a steaming, greasy plate of enchiladas
With lots of cheese and onions and a guacamole salad
And you can get 'em down at the LaSalle Hotel in old downtown
With iced tea and a waitress and she will smile every time

And this old porch is the Palace Walk-in on the main street of Texas
That's never seen the day of G and R and Xs
With that '62 poster that's almost faded down
And a screen without a picture since Giant came to town

Coda: “And I’m thankful this old road’s a friend of mine.”

Crawled out of Marfa Friday morning with much snow still on the roads. The 21 miles to Fort Davis took me an hour. The man at the gas station in Fort Davis, on being asked the road condition to Balmorhea, told me it would be fine because there hadn’t been any accidents yet. Impeccable logic. I continued and conditions improved. By Pecos the roads were mostly clear. Multitasking: learning to drive on the shoulder when others want to pass you while escaping the great New Year’s West Texas Blizzard.

Drove long into the dark as the sky cleared and the stars came out. Maybe I just wanted to make up for lost time with my stars. Crossed Raton Pass and settled in for the night in Walsen-Matilda-burg. Came on home at first light.

Spent a dang long time outside which was my goal. Slept ten hours a night, read five books, enjoyed quality time with javelinas and sunshine, learned a few new things about how this world works, got some exercise. And I do believe I paid attention. Yes, indeed.

I: “Hallelujah” Leonard Cohen by way of Jeff Buckley and others, as recounted in a new book called The Holy or the Broken, which was discussed in an NPR story sent to me by my sister while on vacation. Really, sing it replacing the title word with “javelina.” Big Bend locals find the javelinas to be annoying, but I was utterly charmed by these small pig-like ungulates.

II: Joni Mitchell’s “River” but actually I mean the great cover Vin Scelsa played last week by…I want to say Tracy Wolfe, but I can’t get confirmation.

III: “Fortune Teller” off the new Calexico. Listened to it 20 times in the past two weeks.

IV: Old favorite “This Old Porch” by Lyle Lovett and Robert Earl Keen. Absolut Texas.

Coda: Townes Van Zandt’s “Snowin’ on Raton.” Great example of loving a song long before it became geographically relevant. 

Outpost: The End of the Road

Soundtrack: new Calexico, old Lyle Lovett, Townes, Tom Russell.

Cast of characters: javelinas, bobcat, chatty great-horned owls, vermillion flycatcher, nightime braying donkey, helpful park volunteers, friendly park visitors, lots of prickly vegetation.

Setting: desert, river, mountains, a hot spring along the border, endless sunshine (except for the nightly 12 hours of moonlight), cold nights

Plot: apparently, blessedly, none.

Let it Snow

Just in the (Saint) nick of time, winter comes to Fort Collins. Stay safe out there everybody. Looks like we might have a white Christmas after all. Naturally, due to my charmed life, I get to drive south out of it in a few days.  

Today, Happiness is...

Had a particularly enjoyable today for a number of reasons. Let me count the ways.

After yesterday’s shock during my perusal of my job performance plan for the year, seeing a number of incidents of grander expectations than in the draft versions, today I put on my cowgirl boots and said, heck yes I can do all that. A small part of that included making the decision to learn how to create my own Access databases. That may not sound happiness-inducing, but the actual making of the decision and finding someone to loan me the right book indeed brings intense satisfaction. I have two projects that requires such skills and instead of whining and moaning and looking for someone to do it for me, I’m just doing it. Kick that, cowgirl!

I dusted myself with glitter for our office holiday party.

I wore the pretty party dress for our office holiday party.

I made delicious egg salad bites (egg salad on/in small bites of veggies) for our office holiday party.

I completely skipped our office holiday party to drink tea with our dazzling DAZZLING records officer from DC here to help us enter the digital 21^st century. Jason is not from Washington, he’s from the future. And I’ve immensely enjoyed learning more about what he’s doing. (If digital records management sounds less than happiness-inducing, let me refer you to my reaction to Access databases).

I find it very enjoyable to watch geese land on the pond out the window as their butts slide across the ice. Very controlled butt sliding upon landing.

An after-work meeting with my community diversity small-group group about our project plan. I’d drafted a plan and we sat down together to fill in the holes and get it ready for submission to the powers that be. My compatriots both liked and appreciated what I had done ahead of time and also had wonderful, substantive additions. Yay! Must say, I can write a project plan.

Came home to a Christmas card in the mail from a dear old friend.

Finally, I got an email that one of the library books I was wait-listed for was available: Orhan Pamuk’s Silent House. I just picked it up, venturing out in the dark evening. On the cover is a glass of tea in the ubiquitous Istanbul tea glass. Warmth is running through my veins as my own tea kettle hums.

And tomorrow is my Friday off. Admittedly with a list of things to do, but room for tea and book.

Red Mountain

That big ol’ bird circlin’ had white patches on its underneath, musta been a golden eagle and not that you could tell a bald from a golden when they was young like that this warnt where a bald eagle autter live and sides back in the day a her granpappy there warnt no bald eagles round here no how but they’s comin’ back now but not out in the dry lands. And she found herself a little holler to tuck down out of the wind to eat her lunch. Momma had packed her a biscuit, sliced open and put in a slice of sidemeat from yesterday’s supper and she know’d momma wanted to send her off with a little meat for her long journey and the boys woulda complained if they know’d about it but they could get them a little meat for their dinner from the missus who served meals down at the mill and it warnt good meat but them boys didn’t care the difference, they seemed to like the fat more than she did so that was fine anyway. Momma also sent her off with a pail a milk which tasted so sweet after the long morning’s walk. And tucked in the bottom of the sack was a little apple from Mister Jenkins’ tree next door which didn’t produce the best apples but the tang of it was nice to follow on the salty sidemeat and she ate it all up and it was good and set her up fine for the afternoon walk ahead of her. Along the road as she walked she passed through gates that needed to be opened and closed for fear the javelinas would git into the property and root around cause no end a destruction. Ol grammy had a pet javelina when she was a youngster but she never did see no javelinas on the road or on the trail, they’re shy little things and besides most have been hunted up nowadays and ol’ Mister Jenkins next door kep’ his shotgun at a ready and when he heard a a pack a javelinas he’d always go get hisself one and hang it up on a tree outside and them boys’d ask if they could help and get a little piece a that javelina meat, even the fried skin, was liken to Christmas when Mister Jenkins got him a javelina. She saw her a shrike fly away too but did not see no lizard caught up there in his beak. She knew about them shrikes and how they put them lizards on the fence, and that poor ol’ lizard just lay there in the sun til he’s all dried out and jes a shell. She heard about it from ol’ Curtis down the way but she did in fact she saw it oncetime herself on a barb wire fence, caint say what them birds did with the lizards beforn we had barb wire.

My adventure today in the voice of William Faulkner. I’m reading Go Down, Moses and next up is The Reivers. In reality I took a cheese sandwich, potato chips, and a sweet apple on a small hike in a beautiful natural area north of town that closes tomorrow for the season due to it's function as wintering ground for elk, pronghorn, and deer. I did see a juvenile golden eagle, magpies, a shrike, and countless kestrels. Javelinas? You decide.

Who me? Above, javelina bovinalicious. 

Below, track from javelina elkiferous.

Javeline pronghornii.

I Love Toast

I should have a little emoticon heart in place of the "love" in the title. I (heart) toast. Imagine David Sedaris, instead of saying "I...LIKE...GUYS" saying "I...LIKE...TOAST." Or in that episode of That 70s Show, when Donna says to Eric, "I love you," and he responds, "I...love.....cake?" Toast, my friend.

These days I'm enjoying a millet-chia gluten-free toast with earthbalance and Bonne Maman cherry preserves. I often venture into the land of cinnamon raisin toast with peanut butter. Sometimes it's enough to make a literally toasted cheese sandwich.

I don't have a picture of toast. But I do have a picture of our resident geese today trying to wrap their little geese brains around ice on the pond.

 And I have a question for you. My November blogging has been pretty lame. I dream of repeating my marathon February 2011 blogfest. But I need a theme. If you have any ideas for a December theme, I'll be happy to blog most every day. But I think my contented little life is a bit dull for prime time these days. Toast?! Really?!