I can't shake this dream

I can't shake this dream.
Almost everyone I knew and cared about was already on the ferry - my sons, Portland friends, Montessori friends - and it was ready to leave. Somehow I had come to the dock without luggage. I had to make my way back to my hotel to check out, which became increasingly difficult.
Apparently I was on an island, but an urban one, a warren of alleys, canals and dense housing reminiscent of Amsterdam (a city I know well now, but in which I got seriously lost late at night on my very first visit). To make matters worse the city/island was filling up with partying young people and my cell phone kept ringing as people called me by mistake, confusing my number with that of some popular young reveler.
And then I awoke, with this sinking feeling of loss, as if many people I loved had left me behind.
Okay, self-styled Shrinks. Have a field day. I do feel isolated and alone at times in Palm Springs. These folks, nice as they are, are not my peeps, and no replacement for my Portland community. Of course I had 30 years to build my Portland community. It would be a sadder comment if I COULD replace them overnight, if at all.

the joys of home ownership

I keep my phone on "vibrate" much of the time so as not to disturb a classroom I'm visiting or interrupt a staff or parent meeting. And so I was awakened this morning at 5, not by my melodious ringtone but by the angry buzz of my cell phone trying to vibrate off the counter. Mary assumed it was simply her husband snoring louder than usual, turned over, covered her head with a pillow and went back to sleep, whereas I grabbed up the phone and stumbled out into the dark hallway, closing the door behind me.

It was my Florida realtor calling to inform me that our little condo in Florida was flooded. My sleep-shrouded brain had difficulty processing this statement. I pay attention to the "Tropical Update" on the Weather channel for just this reason, and had heard of no tropical storm threatening the "Treasure Coast" so the best response I could muster at this drowsy moment was, "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Your tenant called me a minute ago upset because there's two inches of water on the floor. Apparently the water feed to the toilet burst. What do you want me to do about it?"
The words, "What do you want ME to do about it?" were forming in my mind, but fortunately I thought better. When you are a couple thousand miles away, have a flood and an unhappy tenant, you need allies, not enemies. I managed to squeak, "Uhhhhhhh, what do you recommend?"
So, now my realtor and her handyman are on their way, and I have an image in my mind of dollar bills floating away on the crest of a bathroom flood. Ah, the joys of home ownership.

Cabrillo

It's a week later and I'm still dreaming about it. After checking out of our hotel and before heading home from a weekend in San Diego, Mary and I took a side trip to Cabrillo National Monument. It sits atop point Loma, the bay serene and blue and far below on the one side, the Pacific serene and green and far below on the other. From that height we watched three long boarders who had anchored their sailboat off the point and paddled into the line-up at the rocky point. The swells rolled in endless lines, lifted at the point from beneath as if by a giant hand and breaking there, peeling down the line from south to north. It's this jade wall the surfers head for and, if they make it, drop down and left, staying just ahead of the collapse and working the wave gently down and up, until they must pull out or risk the deadly rocks. The whole ride only lasts a few seconds but for those few seconds he is poised right at the brink of unfolding time, a part of the elements as surely as the pelicans, or the sea, rock and sky themselves.

it's a dry heat

114 today in Palm Springs, but very dry, less than 10% humidity. So dry that when I went to the pool this evening, I was cold when I got out! Evaporative cooling. I'm trying to get the hang of this desert lifestyle. How to cope with the heat without merely staying indoors.
Mostly we coped this weekend by escaping -- yesterday taking the tram up to 8500 feet (and 85 degrees) for hiking and birdwatching, today by driving to the coast (4 foot waves and again 85 degrees).
It was strange at the beach. I paddled my body board out beyond the break, waiting for a decent set to come in, watching porpoises and pelicans, and realized that a large group of people had congregated on the shore and were clapping and hooting. I caught a wave, rolling down the jade green hillside of water, feeling it rise then break and crumble behind me, taking it all the way in as it re-formed to make a decent shore break. I weaved my way between bathers standing in the shallows and heard "Praise the Lord" and realized this was a church group conducting full-immersion baptisms in the Pacific. Of course, heathen that I am, I sing a song of praise every time I catch a wave, every time the sun rises or the moon sets. Next time I feel the ocean rising beneath me and i manage to kick and paddle hard enough that gravity takes me down that living translucent miracle, maybe I'll let out a "praise the Lord" or two, or at least, a big Thank you.

the queen of the tiki bar

Last night just for fun Mary skipped her usual west coast dance and asked if I would like to go to the Tiki Bar. The tile floor is a little hard on my knees, but the chance to dance to live music, even if it is only covers from the 60's to 90's, is hard to pass up.
The desert had warmed up to 101 in mid-afternoon, but by 7:00 it was already cooling pleasantly, especially in the breezy courtyard at Las Casuelas. We ordered Mexican beer and the band played Santana and Stevie Ray, and we danced and sweated.
Natalie is a regular at Las Cas. She's older, taught as a rope, dressed to kill in polka dots way off the shoulders. Every waitress and server drops by to say hello and she clasps each by the arm in turn, calls each by name. The band pays its respects during breaks, and plays one of her requests in each set. One of her favorite dance partners has come tonight, for the honor of taking her out on the floor, and they rumba, and swing, and cha cha, and even waltz.
And she's the queen of Las Casuelas, and life is sweet, if short.

Hallelujah (written on the return trip from PDX 5/11/09)

Half way back to SoCal and Leonard Cohen sings through my ear buds "a cold and a broken" (but nonetheless exultant) "Halleluja." Sometimes on these trips, with so many people expecting something from me and seeing me through the filter of those expectations, I start to lose touch with who I am. Maybe it's because I'm on my way home, maybe it's because I touched base with Lise today, or Aimee and Maegan last night, or my sons yesterday morning, or maybe it's Leonard's voice in my ear, but I feel the light within me rise and shine through my fingertips and I think maybe I can be who I am, at least for a little while, after all. And, maybe that's even enough.

Ironically, at this moment I see an angel. She's across the aisle and two rows in front of me, in pink pajamas with footies. She looks at me, her blue eyes to my green, her soft smooth tiny pink face to my my big old blotchy one, and she gives me a squinty smile -- no guile so she expects no guile, no judgment so she expects no judgment, no hidden recesses so she allows me none. Her mother looks around wondering to whom her infant daughter is suddenly paying such rapt attention, sees the 3-year-old in the seat in front of me and makes the natural assumption. But no, she's communing with the old grandpa another row back.

Years ago, one night in Eugene, Baba Ram Dass said that he can always see God looking out at him from any person -- the checker at the grocery store, the pedestrian he's passing on the street, even the the helmeted policeman. So, maybe it's not an angel I see, but God looking out at me. And she smiles that toothless flush-faced clear-eyed smile, clasps her hands together and pulls them in to her tiny chest in a gesture of utter wholeness and authenticity.

Halleluja.

A Royal Tanenbaum Moment

In Portland recently, I had a Royal Tanenbaum moment. You know, the Wes Anderson film?

Royal: "These past few weeks have been the best of my life."
Narrator: "Saying this, Royal realized it was the truth."

Or, words to that effect. Anyway, at the "Dinner with Peter" party, sold at the MSB auction, I was repeatedly asked how things were going in Palm Springs, how was Mary, etc., and found myself saying:

Peter: "These past few weeks Mary and I have been happier and more in love than we have since we first married."
And the narrator inside my own head: "Saying this, Peter realized it was the truth."

It's funny, isn't it? Some times you don't know what you are going to say until it comes out, and sometimes you don't realize the truth until you say it.