Beautiful Blues

I don't have a strong desire to live by the ocean, but every time I'm near it I can't help getting swept up in the glorious colors and moods it presents. Overwhelmed by the spectrum of blues on display, I could spend hours contemplating the seam where sea turns to sky.

The windward coast of the Big Island

Beach at Pololu Valley, the Big Island

The ceaseless waves interpret both the topography of seafloor below and weather conditions above. Gentle curls of foam near the shore with an unbroken gradient of azure denote the shallow slope of reef or sand, and gentle sunny breezes.

Beach at Lower Paia Park, Maui

Neighborhood beach in Kailua, Oahu

On steeply sloped windward beaches, thick white waves race across the water, buffeted by strong winds that churn the translucent blues to an opaque froth and tear apart the triangular peaks as they roll onshore.

Sandy Beach, Oahu

Churning waves, Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park

The pounding waves highlight the power of water to shape the land, and the tenacity of rock to resist such force. The water as sculptor works with the texture and orientation of the lava rock to create a myriad of forms, from scalloped slopes to thickset walls and arches. Just as the water changes the land, our sun paints the water glorious shades of blue with its light, and so when hidden by clouds a darker, more subdued sea of navy and dark gray is revealed. 

Makapu'u coast, Oahu

Holei Sea Arch, Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park

Few humans will ever intimately know this vast underwater world, yet those of us who remain on the surface still marvel at its mysteries with appreciation and some trepidation. Perhaps these sentiments stem from knowing that the ocean is as impartial as it is beautiful, and that our attempts to enter into a partnership with it require great respect. This entity that so easily supports life also just as easily takes it away, "The water was made to be a nest that gave birth and bore all things in the womb of the deep." (translated from the Kumulipo, the Hawai'ian creation chant)

Humpback whale off the Kihei coast, Maui

Droplets of oil rising to the surface, USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor

Thoughts Across the Central Valley

I had one of those rare experiences last weekend driving back home from a visit with my aunt in the Bay area, where the beauty of the present moment completely overwhelmed me. I was filled with wonder for the sights I saw while crossing the Central Valley even though I had made the drive many times before. Maybe it was the clarity of the air having finally been washed clean by the previous night's rain after two long parched months, or the disorientation imparted by the high gray blanket of cirrostratus clouds rippling across the sky. Or perhaps as my understanding of the valley culture has increased over time, my resistance to and judgement of the land has been reduced. I see now that where there is conflict, there can also be beauty.

Soil and Sky

The scale of agricultural operations in the Central Valley is epic. Coming down the east side of the coast range, rolling ranch lands give way to a vast expanse of orchards, vineyards and fields. This valley is the primary source of tomatoes, almonds, grapes, cotton, apricots and asparagus for the United States. Hundreds of miles of aqueducts bisect the land transporting snow melt to irrigate these crops. The largest feedlot in the country spreads across hundreds of acres along the interstate. These facts do much to generate controversy and strong opinions in peoples' minds for many reasons.

Grapevines

My very first trip across the seemingly homogeneous landscape left me feeling unsettled. I described the flowering almond orchards to a friend as "living things lined up in a perfect grid pattern with absolutely nothing growing on the ground beneath them. Beautiful, but kind of eerie too." Since that time, I have driven past countless farm workers picking in the fields, purchased local produce from independently owned farm stands and stores, and heard the descendants of migrant farm workers reflect back on their family contribution to valley agriculture with great pride, having overcome adversity and raised children who were able to go to college. I've experienced the impact of weather on the variety of fruits and vegetables that arrive in my weekly local produce basket, and better understand now that while a night below freezing may not affect me, it is a very real financial threat for our farming community. These realizations have given humanity and purpose to an otherwise artificial looking landscape.

Flowering almond orchards in the spring

Conversely, I have connected the sickly brown haze obscuring the mountains and sky at the end of every October with the valley nut harvest when all the trees are being violently shaken, and been cautioned to avoid traveling through the valley when the cotton plants are being chemically defoliated. My job at work revolves around monitoring unhealthy levels of ozone in the summer, and particulate matter in the winter. I have seen how conversations about snow pack, groundwater and water rights immediately increase the level of intensity in a room. I have read about the impacts of shifting wealth over the past few decades, as more and more acreage is concentrated into fewer and fewer hands. The Central Valley is now known as much for its stunning poverty rates as its agricultural power, with isolated rural communities that lack even the most basic services most of us take for granted. History and tradition are now laced with fragility and concern, as the people of the Central Valley come to terms with the results of increased production and profit.

Cotton tufts

It is important for us to consider our need for food in balance with the resources required to produce it. We would do well to remember that although our current agricultural system has changed dramatically over the past one hundred years, it was started by people attempting to meet a basic human need. All of us can appreciate the sense of pride that comes from self-sufficiency, and many of us know a special connection to nature through the seasons. These sentiments are still felt by farmers today, even in an age of industrialized agricultural practices. Perhaps the first step toward compromise involves opening our eyes - to the people who own and are employed by the industry, to the resources that are being used and the impacts that occur as a result, to the consumers who partake of the bounty from this land, and to the land as it exists today. If we can break away from our indignation even for a moment to look around with a fresh perspective, we might see that humans have accomplished the impossible in so many ways, harnessing the power of nature to our advantage for thousands of years. We derive inspiration and connection from the natural landscape at the same time we reside upon it and use its resources. Perhaps in being able to acknowledge both the beauty and complexity present in places where controversy resides, we can find common ground and move forward in our efforts to peaceably sustain.

Ranch land on the east side of the coast range

A Minnesota Christmas

The first days here pass in quiet anticipation. Christmas carols softly playing, a ticking clock, the husky sound of a sleeping baby’s breath, the gentle whir of another load of laundry or dishes being run. Grandparents arrive filling the house with admiration for their first grandchild. As Christmas Day draws near meals are planned, freshly baked goods begin to accumulate on the counter tops and the pile of presents under the tree swells.

Watching from the warmth of the kitchen window, the low winter sun casts long shadows across the barren yard, as naked branches sway in the icy breeze. Surrounding the house as far as the eye can see are rumpled fields of black soil littered with the detritus of this year’s corn harvest. Sporadic clumps of bare trees in the distance indicate nearby neighbors. The chill dry air preserves a light dusting of snow and stands air bubbles still in their escape from a frozen puddle next to the house. High clouds skate across the pale blue sky veiling the sun until the hour before sunset when copper colored light spreads across the landscape. The momentary glow seeps through the windows and fills up the house. Soft pink clouds simmer to a deep raspberry as the horizon continues its turn away from the sun.

My sister and her husband live on a farmstead that has been in his family for decades. A walk around the property may unearth any number of artifacts from previous residents, be it rusty segments of crooked wire, weathered wooden doors, or thick glass bottles frosty with time. Our family has gathered this week to celebrate a baby’s first Christmas in a newly built home, and to add our memories to those contained in these fields and barns.

I wish all of you a Merry Christmas and that many happy memories await you in the coming year!

Memories of Cuenca, Ecuador

This is the first of a series of blog posts I'll be writing about our recent trip to Ecuador. It’s hard to believe that we spent three weeks there, though looking back I honestly can’t decide whether if felt like only a few days or a lifetime. Enjoyable in a traditional sense is not the first word I would use to describe the trip, but no doubt it was a memorable experience. Other words that come immediately to mind are colorful, thrilling, perspective-altering, joyful, relaxing and intimidating. We visited three different locations along 300 miles of the Andes Mountains between 5,000-10,000 feet. After meeting up with our friends Keith and Liz in Quito, we flew down south to the historic city of Cuenca, and then spent an additional week with them traveling around the Quito area. Finally, Peter and I headed off on our own for a week in Otavalo. During our trip we learned a great deal about the history and biodiversity of the country, but as time went by I began to realize that all the known facts about Ecuador only scratch the surface of understanding its diverse cultures. In my blog posts I will attempt to capture the sights and sounds of Ecuador as I experienced them...

We studied Spanish for a week at the Simon Bolivar Spanish School in Cuenca, a city of a half million people that has been designated a UNESCO world heritage site for its well-preserved 16th century Spanish colonial architecture. We stayed with a wonderful woman named Elena in her hillside home above the city. Every day for a week, our lives followed a fairly predictable pattern – fortified by a breakfast of scrambled eggs, juice and coffee we joined the throngs of business people and students for our twenty minute walk downtown. Across the busy streets, past the house with the flock of chickens in the yard, sidestepping the street vendors and crowds waiting at the bus stop until finally we ducked through the doors of the school where I ascended the four flights of creaky wooden stairs to a tiny whitewashed classroom with a narrow wooden table and three chairs. If our teacher hadn’t arrived yet, I would take a moment to throw open the window and let the sunshine in as I gazed across the rippling ocean of rooftops punctuated by steeple spires. After four hours of class we returned home for lunch, and then back to the city for the rest of the day and evening to explore.

Worlds collide when you stroll through the historic city center of Cuenca. Everywhere you look gracefully embellished pastel colored buildings topped with terracotta tiles line the cobbled streets. Down at street level, electronics stores display an assortment of flat screen televisions where passersby occasionally congregate to watch soccer games and boxing matches. Native Ecuadorian women in their colorful skirts and distinctive hats walk alongside teenagers dressed in the latest fashions. Cars and buses barrel down the narrow streets belching black exhaust, their mechanical noises echoing off ancient walls.

The city is graced with more than fifty beautiful churches. The layers of complex history in Cuenca are most apparent in its oldest church, Iglesia del Sagrario, constructed in 1567. An intentionally exposed section of the foundation reveals massive rectangular stones taken by the Spanish architects from disassembled Incan temples in the area. Repairs to the walls and floors throughout the centuries have uncovered untold numbers of hidden frescos, catacombs, and alcoves masked by a succession of aesthetic and functional alterations. Symbolic bridges abound in the architecture, décor and artistic works displayed in churches across Ecuador. The sun and moon were most commonly incorporated as a way to connect Christian and Incan beliefs. Famous historical paintings depicted llamas present at the birth of Jesus and guinea pig, a native staple, being eaten at the last supper.

Directly across the square from Iglesia del Sagrario is the “new” cathedral, constructed over the course of a century beginning in 1885. Gorgeous swirls of coral, gray and cream marble flow across the floors, up walls and around the curves of massive structural columns. Light reflects luminously off the gilded high alter as it streams through the stained glass windows. Czechoslovakian tiles grace the ethereal blue domes that have become the focal point of the city. Every detail reflects an expression of power.

While there are supermarkets scattered around the city, Cuenca also has a variety of colorful specialty mercados where vendors sell everything from flowers and food to clothing, crafts and household goods. The variety of vendors and services fluctuate daily. Twice a week, curanderas are available at the craft market to treat general maladies attributed to “bad energy”. These specially trained healers provide a cleansing treatment to remove the offending negativity, thereby increasing an individual’s chance of improved health and well being.

An hour south of the city is El Parque Nacional Cajas, an undulating high elevation landscape of peaks and lakes that preserves rare flora and fauna, including ancient miniature forests and the nation’s only bear species. While we were blessed with a sunny, wind-free day it was easy to perceive the forbidding nature of less pleasant weather waiting patiently for the opportune moment to return. Before the highway between Cuenca and the coast existed, the trek was made at great peril by horseback. Just outside the park entrance, La Casa Vieja (the old house) has served as a refuge for travelers in this area for more than sixty years. The third generation of family still operates a restaurant serving traditional Ecuadorian food and fresh farmed trout. We had a lunchtime feast in the adobe home with a fire to take the chill out of the air as Elena’s neighbor Diego, our guide for the day, elaborated with pride about the historic importance of the place and the decades of travelers who had eaten the same types of food at our very table.

I will not soon forget the experiences we had in Cuenca during the first week of our trip. This genteel city provided a soft place to land, a thorough review of the Spanish language and an excellent introduction to such a beautiful and complex country. From this solid foundation we would launch off to the intense urban sprawl of Quito and then to the more rural northern areas of Mindo and Otavalo. To be continued…

Shifting Perspectives at Don Edwards National Wildlife Refuge

If I told you it was beautiful upon first sight, I’d be lying. The landscape is a flat patchwork of open water, barren soil, and dense tule marshes ringed by industrial development. But if I told you it was unique, there isn’t a doubt in my mind you’d agree. Exiting the highway just east of San Jose, you meander from traffic clogged thoroughfares to the neighborhood streets of the incorporated town of Alviso where houses are built on stilts and one street corner has been designated the community sandbagging lot, a sure sign there must be water somewhere. Finally, you turn onto a poorly paved road that takes off across the scrub land as if intending to lead you on a wild goose chase. But just at the edge of the open expanse of the South Bay you come to it – Don Edwards National Wildlife Refuge, the nation’s first federally protected urban refuge for wetland plants and animals.

The wooden headquarters building has the feel of a well fortified tree house with its massive dark beams and narrow spiraling staircase leading up level by shrinking level to a tiny lookout at the very top with windows on three sides. From this vantage point, you can see the refuge, surrounding urban landscape and indeed the entire Bay Area stretched out before you. Coming and going across the sky are dozens of birds in all shapes and sizes. More flocks are scattered across the salty ground and in the large shallow pools. Their mere presence invites you down from the tower to come out and take a closer look.

This habitat has been drastically altered by human beings for over a century through building levees for flood control and the conversion of marshland into salt ponds used to harvest the culinary staple. The newly restored one hundred acre LaRiviere Marsh behind the visitor center shows the next phase of human impact on the landscape here. A wooden boardwalk snakes from the visitor center out into the wetland where sinuous creeks trace through the undulating mounds of silt and picklweed. Northern shovelers float peacefully among the reeds while sandpipers flit across the muddy banks chasing insects. This land was regraded to mimic the original topography and the levee was breached to reintroduce tidal flows from the bay. All that remains to be done now is observe and learn as the bay does its work.

Out beyond this quaint habitat lie miles of austere salt ponds waiting their turn for rebirth. Berms of dredged earth between the ponds allow safe passage across the divided landscape. Adding to the surreality of the whole scene is the fact that an Amtrak line passes right through the middle of the refuge. Because of the flat topography, you don’t even become aware of this fact until you happen upon the tracks or see a train jetting by in the distance. This refuge is in the early stages of undergoing a 16,000 acre restoration, one of the largest and most ambitious to ever be undertaken. A delicate balancing act is required during this process, because while the historic marshes were beneficial for certain species, the current “unnatural” landscape is a boon to others. Natural shallow open water harbors used to exist elsewhere in the bay area to provide a refuge for shorebirds during coastal storms, but now only the salt ponds provide this type of habitat. Some ponds need to remain filled with water in order to ensure that this much needed safe haven continues to exist.

Don Edwards National Wildlife Refuge challenges the idea of what is beautiful, natural and best for all species. Is a natural place more or less beautiful because it exists in tandem with an urban environment? If an artificially created landscape provides a safe port in the storm for wildlife, does that now make it natural? If the train bisecting the refuge allows people to reduce their carbon footprint by using public transport, is it indirectly best for the refuge to keep it running? Perhaps what is most unique about this place is its ability to challenge our perceptions, help us clarify what we value, and guide how we go forward from a century of human-centered progress into an era of development in partnership with the natural world.

No Easy Answers

I have this book of daily meditations called The Celtic Spirit, by Caitlín Matthews, that I picked up from my local thrift store one day and I’ve found it to be pretty instructive and inspiring at times. On occasion, I’ve marveled at how accurate a specific day's meditation was to my own life, but this morning’s entry for September 11th, left me speechless…

Cutting Through the Celtic Twilight 

Facks are chiels that winna ding. [Facts are things that cannot be shifted.] - Scots proverb

The reappreciation of the Celtic tradition in the nineteenth century led to an overly romantic view known as the “Celtic twilight”. Professor J.R.R. Tolkien once remarked that “anything is possible in the fabulous Celtic twilight, which is not so much a twilight of the gods as of the reason.” It is a very dangerous place to inhabit, this twilight, as the poet W.B. Yeats discovered; he, who had himself been instrumental in the formation of that twilight, hit the hard iron of reality during the savage Irish civil war, writing in “The Stare’s Nest by My Window”:

We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love.

Many of the popular myths and fantasies that have been woven around the Celts – some self-fabricated – have been designed largely to mantle the unpalatable facts of conquest, colonization, and cultural diminishment. Romantic traditions are tales that both colonizers and the colonized have spun after the event. The living, transformative myths are those that speak to us in all eras and conditions. But the minute we listen to romantic traditions, with their victimhood and inadequacy thinly veiled by bombast and boast, we mire in a quicksand that will suck us out of reality into a jealous cauldron where bitter nationalism and retributive terrorism can be brewed.

Take a hard look at the romantic traditions concerning your own people. What enemies to the common good are lurking behind them?
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The book was published in 1999. At first, I didn't want to share this meditation in a public forum, because the mix of emotions and thoughts is complicated enough today, but ideas related to this meditation swirled and coalesced in my mind. I appreciate how it weaves a thread through many thoughts and ideas I’ve been mulling over and discussing with friends and family the past few months - injustice, tradition, culture, romanticism, nostalgia, myth, reality. In the past I might have found the message disheartening in its timelessness, but today it feels sobering and contemplative. Because of understanding gained through conversations with others, I have a new awareness of the tug between emotion and intellect in my mind when thinking about the complicated themes associated with September 11th, and the chain of events in the decade that followed. Perhaps when answers are hard to come by that awareness is enough.

For me the hardest part is still discerning between romanticism and reality, while quelling the judgment in my heart for those who feel and think differently than me. This is a challenge for all time, for all people across all situations. While we must seek to understand and learn, perhaps it is only with an awareness of our romantic human tendencies that we might rise above to discover those “living, transformative myths” – the shared truths that connect us, as well as those that divide.

The August River

The river behind our house is a reflection of the seasons. In the fall and winter, its flows fluctuate with the rain and then ebb with the snow. The moisture remains locked up within the frozen high mountains until the warmth of spring returns. Thin ribbons of melting water descend and merge along the length of the mountain until finally they converge, turning the river into a roaring torrent.

The Kaweah River is an altogether different body of water in the late summer season. As the weeks pass, it flows gently through the valley with ever decreasing velocity and volume, creating a serene oasis of cool moisture in the hot, dry foothills. Aside from an unusual pulse of tropical moisture which pushed its way up into the central Sierra for one day at the end of July, the mountains have not seen a drop of precipitation since late May. All but the last remaining patches of stubborn snow have melted in the high Sierra, feeding the river with scant trickles of moisture.

The gradient of the riverbed is more perceptible now that the level is lower, turning torrid rapids into steps and terraces which create a cascading effect. The resulting white froth contrasts sharply with the earth toned rocks obscured just under the surface. Paths of safe passage out into and across the river emerge as the shallow water allows increased visibility of rocks both above and below.

 The rounded angles of the boulders create all manner of seats and perches for experiencing the flow of the water. Although cold to the touch at first, it takes only a minute to recognize the temperature as refreshing rather than freezing. Sitting on a boulder above the water, flecks of cool spray periodically jump up to dot my back and legs. Fingers outstretched with palms upstream I feel the buffeting current thread through my fingers.

One of last year’s sycamore leaves long since dried and curled, is dislodged from its limb by the breeze and descends, gently landing onto the surface of the river. Its golden orange color is similar to the patch of rocks in the water below. I watch it bob and shift with the current, navigating the ripples for a while before tipping and plunging under the water. It moves swiftly now with the flowing water in the direction I expect it to go until suddenly it veers sharply with a much stronger current. I follow it just a little further before it gets sucked into an eddy amongst the boulders and I lose sight of it altogether. My gaze returns to the bed of the river and I notice that it is a patchwork of yellow, cream, dark gray, reddish brown and tan interlaced with and covered by clear greenish blue water. Looking upstream the rounded granite boulders are awash in sunshine, suspended in a plain of undulating glass.

The golden summer season will linger for many more weeks, but in spite of the scorching direct sun and brittle blanket of spent vegetation covering the ground, the days are somehow sweeter this time of year because of the knowledge that they will not last. Long to-do lists and a hurried pace are not compatible with this time of year. Better to make a priority of finding some time to take a dip in the river or rest in a cool patch of shade along its banks. Flowing water demands alignment, which is easy to realize when dangling a foot in the water. Kept toes pointed up or down stream, it’s possible to achieve relative stability and balance, but the moment your foot turns broadside to the current, the river exerts its force. Observing the river, I’m reminded of the peace that comes with slowing down and the awareness that even subdued pressure can realign obstacles.