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.

A Year in Photographs

JANUARY brought an opportunity to share the winter beauty of Yosemite Valley with my whole family...

FEBRUARY provided moments to appreciate the coziness of a warm house on a cold day...

MARCH saw some much needed rain and a profusion of flowers...

APRIL was full of visits with family and friends in both Yosemite and Indiana...

MAY allowed time to reflect on the past and ponder my path into the future...

JUNE foreshadowed the forest fires and home repair projects that would persist throughout our summer and fall...

JULY offered an escape from the intense California heat to the cool shores of Lake Superior and a chance to hang out with my sister and nephew in Minnesota...

AUGUST afforded us a break from home renovating to explore the Monterey coast and Sierra Nevada high country...

SEPTEMBER was full of fun times with good friends in the Tetons and Oakland...

OCTOBER was a challenging time of transition and loss for loved ones back home in Indiana...

NOVEMBER made me grateful for unexpected moments of beauty and relaxing family vacations...

And DECEMBER has been filled with winter wonders...

Happy holidays to all and best wishes for the coming new year!

Sunrise Over Sanibel Island

I opened my eyes in the dark bedroom and noticed a trace of morning light reflecting off the walls. Quietly I slipped downstairs to the living room where out the window I saw dark grey cirrus clouds streaked across the eastern sky, their undersides tinted a deep raspberry pink. I ran back upstairs to throw on a sweater and grab my camera, and then headed out the back door and down to the boardwalk with high hopes for a colorful sunrise.

A fresh green scent mixed with the salty air as I walked along the trail through the dimly lit stands of sea grape and oat grass toward the ocean. Osprey in flight called to each other from the tops of the tall pines. I stepped beyond the shrubs and onto the soft, silvery sand. The tide was low, exposing a vast expanse of beach fringed along the shoreline with shallow pools of water. A glowing band of coral light across the eastern horizon cast a subtle glow all around.

Waves crested lazily onto the beach and spilled into the shallow pools, creating small ripples that traveled across the water. The rebounding ripples interfered with oncoming waves, exchanging energy with each other and filling the surface with a geometric dance of infinite troughs and crests. Out beyond the pools, sea-going birds alternately plummeted toward the ocean and soared across the sky while fishing for their breakfast.

All at once, the coral pink color of morning began to seep from the horizon onto the clouds above, except for where a distant thunderhead cast two conspicuous streaks of gray shadow. A spectacle of iridescent light began to fill the sky as the long rays of morning sun stretched across the Earth's curved surface.

With the increasing amount of daylight, I began to notice ripples of sand at the bottom of the pools which mimicked the movement of the water that formed them. Some of the sand ripples broke the water's surface creating linear chains of tiny islands floating in a sea of pink and blue. These ripples looked very much like those preserved and hardened in the sandstones I collected as a geology student in college. Layer upon layer of wavering sediments deposited over hundreds of millions of years under the same sun and perhaps on a morning just as beautiful as this.

Further up the beach I saw a banded sea star on thousands of tiny, undulating legs slowly making its way toward the water, its appendages leaving long furrows in the wet sand. A small crowd gathered around to watch the progress, until a knowledgeable man stepped in to say that the star would die if it remained on land too long. He gathered up the creature into his hands, its arms threading through his fingers and trailing down the sides of his palms, and gently carried it to the rippling shallows as the sun peeked over the horizon.

Everything Changes

“When you open yourself to the continually changing, impermanent, dynamic nature of your own being and of reality, you increase your capacity to love and care about other people and your capacity to not be afraid."
-- Pema Chödrön

You've probably heard the saying "the only constant is change", but how many of us let that truth really sink in? So much of the fear, anger and pain manifested in this world comes from not fully accepting this reality. I'm not saying that it's an easy thing to do, or that people who don't accept it are wrong or bad. But as with any fundamental truth of human existence, when we argue with it we will lose - every time. How frequently and for how long are the only variables.

I'm beginning to think that acceptance is the key. Not to happiness exactly, nor to never feeling fear, anger or pain again. It's the key that opens the door to whatever comes next. When I accept my reality for what it is without all the blame and judgement (aimed at others, at God, but also especially at myself) I gain the ability to see more clearly the path that is in front of me. We cannot navigate freely into the future by constantly looking through the lens of the past. What has happened cannot be undone and what is to come is wholly unknown, and therefore directly influenced by each choice we make from this moment to the next and beyond.

"The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.” 

-- Howard Zinn

Change, acceptance, choices - three forces that will dance in lockstep with each of us throughout our entire life. This concept can seem overwhelming at times, even daunting. Especially when the change is particularly jarring and choices appear to be undesirable or nonexistent. This again is where acceptance comes in. I've had to get over the idea of equating acceptance with liking or condoning the situation. I used to think that if I didn't resist that which offended me, I would just give up or give in. But what I missed in all of this was that by resisting, my perception of the whole situation was blurred and so any solutions or alternatives I might try to apply were incomplete. In order to accept my present circumstances, I've had to cultivate a lot compassion and patience, particularly for myself. I am, as they say, my own harshest critic.

With patience, compassion and an absence of judgement, the world is a much kinder place than I once perceived it to be. I realize that I may not get to where I thought I was going, but everything changes and when I accept that fact, I see choices open up to me that I did not notice before. When I begin to feel fear and apprehension, I will meet those thoughts with compassion and wait patiently for them to dissolve. Slowly, slowly, I am returning to myself and I find that by doing that, I am better able to embrace the gifts I have been given and then share them with the world.

"Dissolution is needed for new growth to happen. One cycle cannot exist without the other."

-- Eckhart Tolle