Through Space and Time

Driving across this vast and beautiful country is like watching the ever shifting canvas of a landscape painting brought to life. 

The low-angled autumn sun strikes the slopes and plains with a luminous glow, intensifying the colors of the changing leaves and dried vegetation. 

A diversity of geologic forms and textures undulate into and out of view as they tell their stories of creation and destruction. 

Drifting clouds decorate the wide blue sky with shades of gray, occasionally obscuring the bright white bulb of the sun.

Mirrored in the lakes and rivers are impressions of a deep blue watery world where trees and mountains ripple in the wind.

The hand of humankind is evident across the blacktopped roads and gently curving wooden snow fences, on the faces of history carved into stone, by the blanket of crops and scattering of cattle, and in the buildings and towns that rise above the horizon.

Each of us at the intersection of past, present and future, moving through space and time, counting down the hours and the miles as we marvel at the miracle of it all.

Lambs Canyon, near Park City, Utah

Along I80 passing through Rock Springs, Wyoming

Late afternoon outside Casper, Wyoming

The Black Hills of South Dakota

Mt. Rushmore

Custer State Park

Sylvan Lake

Rapid City, South Dakota

Where the Great Plains and the Badlands meet

Badlands National Park

Near Alden, Minnesota

Naperville, Illinois

On the Verge

The transition from summer into fall out West has become one of my favorite times of year. After months of heat and dryness under the glare of the California sun, subtle changes begin to occur. Right around the same time the sunflowers and bumper crop of tomatoes start showing up at the farmer's market, the nights get noticeably cooler. A lightweight blanket on the bed starts to seem like a good idea. Windows open up earlier in the evening and stay open longer in the morning. And then one day it happens...

I walk out my apartment door at noon, bracing myself for the blast of heat waiting on the other side. And instead I'm greeted by the pleasant feeling of fresh air with a hint of ocean humidity. The breeze even has a little bit of a cool edge to it. Moments like this feel amazing, especially when they come as a surprise.

This is the time of year that teaches us how to savor. We can't help but enjoy completely everything the world has to offer. Thickly sliced tomatoes layered with basil and fresh mozzarella, ears of sweet corn dripping with butter, ripe peaches and juicy watermelon. Bouquets of cheerful early fall sunflowers, vivid zinnias and stunning dinnerplate dahlias, which all seem so much more colorful and hardy than their early summer relatives. They grew through the heat and will stand until the frost, helping to celebrate the harvest time that precedes the long, cold winter. 

We can also savor those last days of Indian summer, because we know they won't last. Soon the vegetables will all be picked, some of them canned or frozen to eat throughout the coming winter. Soon the trees will start to change their colors and the first cold rain of fall will soak the ground. And eventually, the snow will return.

But not today. Today the sun feels warm and the bright faces of the sunflowers shift as they watch its glow trek across the blue sky. There are peppers waiting to be picked, cucumbers to pickle and a seemingly endless supply of squash to share. And in the evening when the sun goes down and there's a chill in the air, it might be the perfect night for a fire in the backyard. On the verge of fall, it's possible to enjoy the best of both worlds - cherishing the end of one, while welcoming the newness of the next, reminding us yet again that the only constant in life is change. 

Fear of the Unknown

Up before sunrise and out the door. The drive to Hale’iwa is uneventful and quick. Arriving at the marina I see the boat at the edge of the dock with its huge cubic cage of silver bars glinting in the early morning sunlight. All accounted for, we jump on board and head out into the bay.

Calm winds make for a smooth cruise and when we anchor at the site a few miles off shore, the surface of the water is equally tranquil. I’m relieved. My first fear was sea sickness. Quickly followed by worries about the water being too cold. And only after dwelling on those first two items for a while would I allow myself to acknowledge the fact that I was about to go snorkeling in a cage surrounded by sharks.

The first group is called and they head to the side of the boat to climb into the cage. No one makes a sound as they slip into the water. My second worry is allayed a bit. The captain says the underwater visibility is very bright with a distance of over 100 feet. He says the sunlight penetrating below the surface of the water casts an electric blue glow. Could this be a twinge of excitement I’m beginning to feel?

Suddenly, the gray shape of a shark slides alongside the boat. Followed by another. And then another.  Then a pair of shark-like forms glide by. How many could there be? The situation in the cage floating a few dozen feet away from the boat seems very calm. No one even makes a splash. The only sound I hear is the gentle lapping of waves along the sides of the boat and the excited chatter of the other passengers as we all speculate about what it will be like to see these nebulous gray forms take their true shape when our heads slip under water.

Finally the time comes. I lower the mask over my eyes and fit the snorkel piece into my mouth. I step down onto the first rung of the cage ladder and feel the warm water surround my ankles. How is it possible that this is the same ocean that chills the sunny shores of coastal California? Submerged up to my neck, I turn around to face the bars of the cage and sink beneath the surface of the water.

And there they are in all their smooth and elegant glory. Slicing through that electric blue water. Cold, steely eyes meet mine as a shark passes within inches of my face. I catch my breath while I watch it slip by and notice the long, thin scars on its back. Another shark has a notch taken out of its fin. I admire the aerodynamic shape of its snout and the subtle gill slits along its side. They are beautiful creatures.

Sharks weave and circle all around the cage. I twist and turn to try and count them, but keep losing track at ten. Too many to count and too enthralled to care, I continue to take in the view. Smaller silvery fish emerge against the watery background. I’m reminded of the vastness of this submerged world and all its secrets that humankind will never know.

Twenty minutes seem to pass by in the span of a few heartbeats and then suddenly it’s time to leave. Out of the water and wrapped in a towel on the deck of the boat, I feel noticeably changed. I faced my fears and was rewarded with one of the most awe inspiring experiences of my life. How unexpected and how humbling. To know that fear can transform into tranquil beauty as effortlessly as a shark gliding through the deep blue ocean.

Come Rain or Shine

We've been famously short on moisture here in California recently, with 2013 now having the distinction of being the driest year on record. According to tree ring comparisons, climatologists say it may also have been the driest year in five centuries. But no amount of statistical analysis can make a dent in the rainfall deficit.

The drought makes for compelling headlines to accompany shocking images of vastly shrunken water reservoirs and dire predictions of produce price spikes and shortages. Farmers are planting 200,000 less acres this season and in an effort to prevent disease and insect infestation, tens of thousands of mature drought-stressed almond trees are being ripped out of the ground. But while these stories generate sympathy and discussion, they too cannot produce any rain. No amount of knowledge, research or prediction will - all we can do is wait.

On the clear days, I sit outside on the deck in shirtsleeves soaking up the midday sun with a chilled glass of wine and a salad. The weather is perfect for tackling yard work - warm with just a hint of breeze. We rake up dried leaves and cut down dead limbs, hauling everything to a burn pile at the back of the property. I mow the lush green lower part of the yard, where what little rain we've had tends to settle. The scent of narcissus and daffodils rise up around me as I wage my never-ending war against the weed sprouts in the flower beds.

On the infrequent rainy days, I huddle up on the couch under a fleece blanket in my warmest pajamas with a bowl of hot chili. Low gray clouds hide the mountain peaks out the living room window as droplets pelt the skylight above my head. I catch up on my reading while the cat naps in my lap and when the rain really starts coming down I pause to admire the sheer white curtains of moisture drifting across a backdrop of dark tree trunks in the neighbor’s yard. The fire in the wood stove burns all day long as I feed it pieces of the oak trees we cut down last spring.

They say we will not get enough rain the rest of this season to make up for the past few months of sun. Towns around the state need to ration water and so people should expect fewer showers, parched gardens and dirtier cars. No one dares to talk about wildfire season yet. Instead we talk about forecasts and miracles, hoping each new inch that falls will take us closer to that mythical yearly average.

In spite of all the worries and fears, I find myself appreciating more these days. The hot sun on the back of my neck in the middle of winter. The daffodils that sprouted and bloomed despite the lack of moisture. But most especially, those glorious days when the clouds gather and darken overhead, releasing their precious moisture. I breathe in the smell of damp earth as I walk around the yard with my camera, trying to capture the ephemeral beauty of the fallen rain.

On the Day You Were Born...

I wish you could have seen your mother when I arrived at the visitor center. She was wearing her park service uniform with an olive green cardigan buttoned low and tight across her swollen belly. She smiled as I walked up to hug her and I saw the excitement in her eyes. She had started feeling mild contractions just a little while before I arrived, but she wasn’t yet convinced that you were on your way.

We took our lunch out to a picnic table in the sunshine and enjoyed the unusual December warmth. A hermit thrush hopped through the underbrush near the edge of the steep slope that dropped down to the Kaweah River. Your mom lamented the fact that they only sang their beautiful song during the springtime in the forests higher up the mountain. The small contractions continued as we talked and laughed under the bright blue sky.

I ended up driving your mom home early from work, as the contractions become stronger and more frequent with each passing hour. We walked into an empty house and I admit that I felt a little scared of what was to come, but your mom was all strength and confidence. She assured me we had many hours still ahead of us and that your dad would be there soon.

One by one they all arrived. First came your mom and dad’s curious friend from down the street, whom your dad had just called with the news. She was a neonatal nurse and a mother of three, and we were grateful for her guidance. Shortly after, your dad rushed through the door from his job at the hospital and seamlessly transitioned into making preparations for your delivery. Then your grandparents and your little brother stopped by to cheer on your mom through the first part of her labor. The only person yet to arrive was the midwife and it was quickly becoming clear that she might not make it in time.

Ten minutes became five and then two as the frequency of the contractions increased and still no midwife. We sent your brother and grandparents on their way and brought your mom out into the living room to lie down on the bed we had prepared. There was no longer time for worry or apprehension. We put all our energy toward becoming a team, each assuming the role for which we hoped we were most qualified. Your dad and family friend took over the responsibilities of the midwife, which left me to comfort and support your mom.

As she entered the depths of her labor, she began calling out the sound that would carry her through to the end. "Hass, hass, hass," she repeated with changing volume and intensity as the contractions built and subsided. She gripped my hand and squeezed down tight, letting her other arm wave up and over her head in an expanding motion as she focused on allowing her body to do what it needed to do. During the short breaks between contractions, I gave her small sips of water and marveled at the fact that she was the one reassuring us throughout this process.

Your dad was so strong. He held fast to his training as a critical care nurse even as he choked back excited tears the first time he saw the top of your head. The midwife provided instructions over the phone, telling your mom that it was time to put all her effort into pushing and so she gripped both my hands tight and we pulled against each other as she gritted her teeth and pushed. Once, twice, three and four times. With each contraction a little more of your head became visible, until finally you emerged into the waiting arms of your overjoyed dad. Within a few seconds you turned bright pink and let out a strong, healthy cry. We sighed with relief as we let out shouts of joy. Your dad placed you on your mom’s chest and we covered you up with towels warm from the dryer and suddenly there were five people in the room.

Every moment that came after was filled with quiet joy. Your dad dimmed the lights and put on some classical music. Your mom cuddled with you as you nursed. The midwife finally arrived with little fanfare and assured us that all was well. We helped you and your mom into the bedroom and straightened up the living room, so that by the time your grandparents and big brother arrived you were swaddled in a blanket and both resting peacefully on the bed. While they visited with you, I made your mom scrambled eggs and toast and standing there at the stove I could not believe that such arduous and life changing circumstances could lead to this moment, which felt so utterly and completely normal. As if you had been here all along and the past few hours were only a dream.

We all took our turn that evening holding you and fawning over your tiny fingernails and pouting lips, each time returning you to your mom’s waiting arms. From across the bedroom I caught a glimpse of your parents both peering over the blanket at you as you slept. They looked at each other and exchanged a million unspoken words about all that had transpired earlier that evening and all that was still to come in the years ahead. She gave him a tired, contented smile as she nestled you into the crook of her arm and then closed her eyes to rest.