Liquid and Light

I've been stuck for weeks trying to figure out what to write about for my next blog post. This is not to say that I've done nothing worth writing about - a succession of house guests have inspired numerous adventures in Yosemite Valley, including a hike to the top of Yosemite Falls and two visits to Mirror Lake. But for some reason, each time I pondered how to write about these experiences, I could not capture them in words.

Six weeks overdue on my monthly post, I tried this past week to write about other topics that have been on my mind lately - the one year anniversary of our move to Mariposa, or maybe my desire to see Yosemite Valley from a different perspective by exploring the legends that inspired the Native American names of its iconic landmarks. Each of these essays faltered due to the complex nature of human interpretation. I view my beloved new hometown through my own lens and do not wish to imply this as the truth for anyone else. A similar lesson applies, it turns out, for the history of Native Americans in this area. During my research, I learned that two different tribes claim the valley as their historic home. The park currently interprets one tribe's perspective, while the other feels slighted and fears their ancestors will fade into undocumented history.

I could not begin to untangle the complicated and often subjective truth of this dispute, so I decided to go back to the basics. Yesterday, I closed my eyes and scanned through the much loved photographs I hold in my heart as a reminder to never stop paying attention. Those images which resonated most involved both liquid and light, whose basic properties are taught in most science classrooms, usually as a stepping stone to more advanced theories and discoveries. And yet the delicate and ephemeral truths they reveal remind us of the beauty that can always be found in this world of often painful subjectivity.

What do I know to be true? That I unconsciously hold my breath when I stumble upon a perfect sphere of water clinging precariously to the surface of a petal. I pour over flowers drenched in newly fallen rain for those droplets that capture an inverted version of the world in miniature, the magic of light passing through a curved surface. I marvel at the jewel-like brilliance of resinous sap as it imperceptibly drips down the contours of a pine cone. I believe there are few things in this world more beautiful than dew drops suspended in a net of cobwebs.  

I scan the sky for arcs of color against billowing mounds of dark cumulus after a rainstorm. In the morning and evening I scout out iridescent sun dogs in the crystalline drops of water that form wispy cirrus clouds. This temporary separation of light into its bands of distinct color reminds me that there are yet more wavelengths I don't see. I cannot even fathom what it would be like to see the world from the ultraviolet view of a bee or the infrared glow of a python.

This spring in Yosemite Valley, I experienced the occasional miracle of rounding a bend in the trail on a clear blue day to see a rainbow emerge out of a waterfall's mist. One was so close I could almost reach out and touch it, but it always stayed one step ahead of me. I walked among the tall trees through this spray of moisture with the scent of bay laurel and incense cedar hanging in the cool morning air. Thousands of years of memory may be lost or misinterpreted in this place, but liquid and light always reveal their truth.

Mindful, by Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made out of grass?

Patient Hopeful Waiting

About a month ago we crossed over the invisible line that separates darkness from light. While the very next day brings on average less than 60 seconds of additional sunshine, it is the beginning of an accumulation that will accelerate as the winter wanes and a subtle reminder of the springtime soon to come. Generations ago this moment was marked with great ceremony and reverence because of its significance for survival. The return of light meant the eventual return of migrating animals and the passing danger of frost, so that crops could be planted. It was a hopeful sign during a time of pensive waiting.

Nowadays, this moment on the calendar passes by mostly unnoticed, but for those who strongly desire daylight and warmth a little internal sigh of relief occurs at this small token of hope. Ever so slowly and in fits and starts, the signs of spring will begin to emerge. Vivid green shoots will poke through the decaying leaves. Perhaps you’ll walk by that same flowerbed you pass every day, only this time you’ll spot a patch of paradoxical crocuses. Isn't it amazing how something so fragile in appearance can be the harbinger of spring? Tiny nubs will emerge along the skeletal branches of trees, eventually swelling into buds and then fully fledged leaves. You might notice a particular bird you don’t recall seeing since last fall. Pretty soon the melting, flittering, greening landscape of springtime will be unmistakably all around.

But there are also days when it will feel so very far away. A cold front passes through bringing with it blustery winds that steal warmth from soil and skin. That last gasp of winter snow that briefly drains the world of its color. Weary of sweaters and sock and stew we cringe and sigh, but as the axial tilt of the Earth increasingly favors its northern half, the hopeful sun will continue little by little to rise earlier and set later. I find great comfort in the constancy of that pattern in the early days of spring and then again in summer when the reverse happens, and I’m reminded to cherish the unbearably hot days a little more so that I might mentally store up some of that warmth for the winter yet to come.  

Albuquerque from Above

We arrive at the balloon launch site around sunrise. As the pink cirrus clouds above begin to fade to white, a myriad of supplies are unpacked and three long rainbow colored carpets are laid out along the ground. A confusion of cables is unfurled and generator-driven fans roar to life. Jets of wind ripple into the gaping mouths of fabric as three immense balloons begin to take shape.

The burners are ignited and that’s when the magic starts. Hot pulses of air blast into the supine balloons changing their hummocky exteriors into taut teardrop-shaped globes. Finally, ever so gently, each balloon uprights to its full vertical stature and ten individuals are loaded, like so many chocolate Easter bunnies, into each empty basket below.

Objects of reference on the ground begin to fall away and shrink as the buoyant balloon rises into the air. A surreal sense of stillness abounds, made all the more palpable by the contrast of occasional combustive bursts from the burner. Everyone is transfixed by the beauty of the topography below, and by the rare opportunity to experience a sweeping aerial view of the world unencumbered by glass.

The air is cold and still, not even a hint of breeze. We fly parallel to the Rio Grande and see a flock of Sandhill cranes wading below, their long dark shadows cast across the flat surface of the river. The late autumn trees glow like golden torches in the morning light, sharply contrasting with the elongated strands of shade that darken the ground at their feet.

We drift south of the river over the intermingled neighborhoods and fields of Albuquerque. Densely packed developments of pueblo-style homes create a harmonious mosaic of rectangles. Large tree ringed farm plots are dotted with a variety of structures – houses, outbuildings, fences, fountains, pools, ponds, gazebos, orchards, gardens and paths. Each property a sprawling testament to the lives, occupations, and histories of the generations that have resided there. In that moment, a multitude of scattered dog barks filter up unhindered through the air to join in a morning chorus punctuated by the occasional rooster's call.

As the balloon slowly descends back to the ground, it passes over a mining operation. The juxtaposed gentle curves and stick straight lines make for a mesmerizing composition. Miniature dump trucks glide lazily around the sculpted piles of gravel and sand, shaping and reshaping a landscape created by an infinite accumulation of energy - eons of geologic deposition and centuries of human innovation. I cannot get the word ‘industrious’ out of my mind.

And then I am reminded of a quote I read recently, one which I could not understand fully until this moment, "It is from the air that the true relationship between the natural and the human landscape is first clearly revealed. The peaks and canyons lose much of their impressiveness when seen from above. What catches our eye and arouses our interest is not the sandy washes and the naked rocks, but the evidences of man." – J.B. Jackson

I marvel at all the ways across generations that the landscape has shaped us, and how we have shaped it in return. 

Transitions

My husband made an interesting observation while we were walking along a dirt road flanked by rainbow colored maple trees earlier this fall. He noted that unlike flowers, which have adapted their forms and colors to fit the function of reproduction, the particolored leaves decorating the trees each autumn serve no functional purpose at all. The shades of green that we normally see are the result of food production, but in the fall when the trees begin their transition into dormancy and so stop producing food, a tapestry of gold, scarlet, terracotta and plum suddenly begins to emerge. Isn’t it miraculous? What a gift to the human soul that the trees set the world alight with their beauty just as the long dark of winter is settling in.

Such times of transition are ripe with anticipation. The resulting energy fills with air around us and charges us with emotions. Sometimes we welcome these feelings – the first rainy fall day that generates the desire to curl up on the couch under a blanket with a warm mug of cider in hand. Our first collective glimpse of the bride as she steps into view and begins her slow walk down the aisle. The joyous moment of reunion with an old friend after too many years gone by. These are the moments that remind us how sweet life can be.

But transitions can set off emotions that are not always so welcome. There are times when the crush of the unknown weighs heavily on our worried hearts. The night the rain won’t stop – it just keeps falling and falling, and so the water keeps rising. Waiting for the test results, as the known world hangs in the balance. The point at which the decision is made, whether by choice or by force, and tentative steps are taken down an unfamiliar path. These are the moments that remind us how fragile life can be.

But just as the coziness of that first chill fall day fills the soul with the sensation of pleasure, so too does that first summer-like spring day, when we cast off our layers and drink in the sunshine. We know warmth, because we know cold. The beauty of love and reunion are more palpable because we know loss. Tradition comforts all the more because we know the uncertainty of change. This oppositeness provides the frame of reference for all we know in the world.

What we sometimes lose sight of is that those times of transition we resist out of fear, are also the times that unite us together. We tend to each other’s needs in times of sorrow, just as we celebrate our joys – with a heart wide open to the emotional spectrum of what it means to be human. Compassion is cultivated most readily when we support others during times of difficult transition. At these times, we are all reminded of who we hold most dear, and what really matters most. We come to know the essential aspects of our life that do not change, even as chaos is swirling all around. Perhaps it is the tenuousness that makes this one life so precious.

There are times when the only thing we can do is love. All the words have been said, there are no new ideas to impart and the answers are suspended in time. Somewhere out beyond the fear and worry lies the reason behind our anguish – we love. In this life we will all know pain and suffering, but we will also know love, because at the heart of it all this is what we are. Isn’t it miraculous? That in such fragile moments our true nature can be revealed. Even in the darkest times it can set the world alight with its beauty.

Morning Miracles

At some point in the middle of the night, I remember waking up in the tent with the scent of smoke filling my senses. Given the recent drought conditions, I momentarily worried that we had not doused our campfire thoroughly enough before going to bed, but I quickly realized that I had no immediate need for concern. Campfire smoke has an acrid, almost sour smell that lingers for days in hair and on clothing, eventually fading to a stale memory, but distant wildfire smoke is different. It is sweetly spiced and clings not to objects, but to the air itself enveloping everything in an invisible blanket of warmth that gets heavier and more stifling with proximity. Even from afar, its presence is overbearing on a hot, dry midsummer day, but in the slightly humid, chilled air of this autumn night the sensation was pleasant, if slightly unsettling. Though no immediate threat to me, I knew there was a fire burning to the south just over a ridge from the town of the Jackson, and that friends faced the possibility of evacuation. I lifted a few thoughts of uncertain hope up to the heavens for them and the town as I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

Some hours later I woke up just after sunrise. I gathered my down jacket and gloves, unzipped the tent and slipped out into the quiet cold. Perched on a large rock at the edge of Leigh Lake, I observed the stillness all around me. Looking to the east, I saw a hovering wall of mist rise to blur with the smoky air aloft. The veiled sun reflected on the rippled surface of the water filling the air with a lavender gray light. Male elk bugled from distant valley meadows, their piercing screams muted to a high, haunting whistle. I was enchanted, although not unexpectedly. Such morning miracles are not uncommon in this special place.

A few hours passed with the usual tasks of breakfast and breaking camp, but even at ten o’clock when we were ready to leave, the stillness had not lifted. Without even a hint of breeze, a thick layer of cold, smoky air remained undisturbed across the obscured horizon and the lake reflected a perfect image of the surrounding trees and mountains. We slipped our canoes into the water and floated across the simulated sky. Gliding with effortless strokes, I watched as concentric rings rippled out from each droplet that trickled off the tip of my raised paddle. I heard a gentle shush as the hull split the surface of the water into two rivulets which then snaked along the side of the canoe before smoothing back into the water. It surprised me to realize this was another kind of miracle, to be suspended safely above the fathomless depths by a thin piece of concave plastic.

On and on we paddled that morning away from the peninsula where we had camped, around the shallow fringes of Mystic Isle and over to the inlet at the base of Mount Moran. I meditated on the pull of the paddle against the water, the cold air that filled my lungs and the refraction of light off the surrounding rippled sea of glass. Eventually a gentle breeze did begin to stir, breaking up the stratified air. Warmth crept back into the world and the haze slowly lifted. As the mountains regained their clarity, I shed layers until my skin felt the light of the sun. The peaceful spell was finally broken as our canoes scraped against the rocky lake shore at the portage site, but I was not sad to let it go. Even then, I knew that I would remember this experience not as a dream, but as the best kind of reality – one that I could have never imagined for myself had it not actually happened.

In Mary Austin Country

I first heard of Mary Austin when searching for a new book to read. While perusing a list that the San Francisco Chronicle put out a few years ago ranking the 100 best nonfiction books about the American West, I noticed her book, The Land of Little Rain, at the very top. A laundry list of thoughts began to pile up in my head - I had never heard of her; I had never heard of this book; It was written in 1903 (by a woman roaming the high desert on her own, no less); How did this book make its way to the top of the list? As it turns out, this slight, unassuming collection of short essays opened my eyes to a whole new way of looking at the world.

Austin wrote about the West through her own direct experiences and observations. She reflected for a sentence, a paragraph or a whole chapter on subjects as small as an insect or as expansive as the sky. It was all connected in her mind, and therefore worthy of the time it took to explain how. She became a student of sheepherders and Native Americans - two groups who were marginalized and disdained by society at the turn of the last century. Her careful, compassionate observations of their daily life now provide us with a window into their world and an opportunity to reflect on our own perceptions and prejudices.

While on a road trip on the east side of the Sierra last weekend, I passed through the little town of Independence and took some time to visit the place Mary called home while writing The Land of Little Rain. At the local history museum I learned about resident Native American tribes, the Manzanar Internment Camp for Japanese-Americans during WWII, area mining claims, the Owens Valley water battle with Los Angeles, and details about many important local figures. Regarding Mary Austin, they had arranged a small glass case with original copies of a few of her books, a single photograph and a brief biography. I left the museum somewhat disappointed by this very humble tribute to a woman who has so illuminated our cultural and ecological understanding of the West. On the way out of town I passed by her home. A small historical marker stands out front with little information provided beyond a short, albeit compelling, quote. The 'no trespassing' signs around the property make it clear that this home serves as a monument only and not a museum. 

As I walked back to my car, I happened to glance to my right and noticed the flat wide street in front of her house heading due west out of town and straight up into the mountains. I heard her words in my head, "All streets of the mountains lead to the citadel; steep or slow they go up to the core of the hills." I realized that although her contributions may be assembled in a shadow box, summarized in a paragraph, or analyzed by professors in a classroom, Mary's real tribute is written across the vast landscape of the Eastern Sierra. She is a kindred spirit to those who wish to view the world with an unbounded sense of curiosity and wonder. How could such a spirit be contained inside four walls? 

And so here is my tribute to Mary...

"There is a Paiute proverb to the effect that no man should attempt the country east of the Sierras until he has learned to sleep in the shade of his arrows. This is a picturesque way of saying that he must be able to reduce his wants to the limit of necessity. Those who have been able to do so, and have trusted the land to repay them, have discovered that the measure is over-full. A man may not find wealth there, nor too much of food even, but he often finds himself, which is much more important."
-Mary Austin

"The shape of a new mountain is roughly pyramidal, running out into long shark-finned ridges that interfere and merge into other thunder-splintered sierras. You get the saw-tooth effect from a distance, but the near-by granite bulk glitters with the terrible keen polish of old glacial ages...When those glossy domes swim into the alpenglow, wet after rain, you conceive how long and imperturbable are the purposes of God."
-The Streets of the Mountain



"The lake is the eye of the mountain, jade green, placid, unwinking, also unfathomable. Whatever goes on under the high and stony brows is guessed at." 

- Water Borders

"The arrow-maker had a stiff knee from a wound in a long-gone battle, and for that reason he sat in the shade of his wickiup, and chipped arrow points from flakes of obsidian that the young men brought him from Togobah, fitting them to shafts of reeds from the river marsh...They drove bargains with him for arrows for their own hunting, or for the sake of the stories he could tell. For an armful of reeds he would make three arrows, and for a double armful he would tell tales."

- Mahala Joe

"Sometimes she plaited willows for the coarser kinds of basket-work, or, in hot noonings while the flock dozed, worked herself collars and necklaces of white and red and turquoise-colored beads, and other times sat dreaming on the sand." 

- The Coyote-Spirit and the Weaving Woman

"It is difficult to come into intimate relations with appropriated waters; like very busy people they have no time to reveal themselves. One needs to have known an irrigating ditch when it was a brook, and to have lived by it, to mark the morning and evening tone of its crooning, rising and falling to the excess of snow water; to have watched far across the valley, south to the Eclipse and north to the Twisted Dyke, the shining wall of the village water gate; to see still blue herons stalking the little glinting weirs across the field."
- Other Water Borders

"None other than this long brown land lays such a hold on the affections. The rainbow hills, the tender bluish mists, the luminous radiance of the spring, have the lotus charm. They trick the sense of time, so that once inhabiting there you always mean to go away without quite realizing that you have not done it." 

- The Land of Little Rain

"But if ever you come beyond the borders as far as the town that lies in a hill dimple at the foot of Kearsarge, never leave it until you have knocked at the door of the brown house under the willow-tree at the end of the village street, and there you shall have such news of the land, of its trails and what is astir in them, as one lover of it can give to another." 

- Quote on the historic marker outside her former home