Not to take it for granted

In Portland, I would have this experience on one morning each year.

I would get up early and go for my walk, bundled up against the cold and protected from the rain, and after perhaps four months of being greeted daily by stinging rain and bone-chilling wind, I would feel instead a balmy southern breeze, tumescent with the promise of warmth and growth and comfort and spring.

This morning here in Palm Springs I set out for my walk and was greeted by that very same comfortable caress. I sighed, and flashed back to those rare Portland mornings, made all the more piquant by their rarity. And it occurred to me that my duty, privilege and challenge, here in this land of perfect mornings, is to notice it with gratitude and awareness and appreciation, not to let the experience become commonplace, not to take it for granted.

sounds

Sounds of the neighborhood on a Saturday morning: as always, a mockingbird repeating prhrases and grabbing all of the attention; the peculiar whir-r-r-r of the house sparrows' wings as they return from the patio to their lofty nest in the fan palm with strands of dried Bermuda grass; the futility of our neighbor calling his dog, "Kismet! Come!"; the rising and falling background "shoosh" of breeze through the trailing edges of the of the palm fronds; the barely audible background hum of the moths and bees and flies; the startling sharp buzz of a hummingbird chasing away a territorial intruder; a fan rotating and gathering speed as a nearby a.c. condenser kicks on. So much to notice when I stop for a moment, am patient with myself and life, and simply listen.

impressions of the Holy Land

Rocky hills of craggy limestone and sandstone, with churches, walls, houses uniformly built of the same stone, and uniformly creamy off-white; terraces thousands of years old; hilltop villages and cities; an intense concentration of churches and holy sites: Jewish, Moslem, Christian, with every sect and sub-sect represented; dust -- remember, Oh Man, that dust thou art, and to dust thou shalt return. For thousands of years people have been building, leveling, building, destroying, building again. Everything here is in layers, the deeper you dig the farther back in time you go, way back, back to the beginning...

the scar

I have a tiny crescent scar just touching my upper lip. These days it's almost lost in the growing wrinkles and puckers of age but this morning while shaving I noticed it. And I think I know why. The mind is always at work, making connections between random events seemingly unrelated in content, and even in time.

Last night my youngest son called me. Out of the blue, and late for me as I'm traveling and on east coast time. I don't like to talk on the phone. I've had to do so much of it in my professional life. So, a phone ringing to me is an intrusion, and I usually end calls as quickly as possible. He knows this, but wanted to touch base with me anyway. Of course, for my children I'll always make that exception.

I tell people I have four children, when a more strictly accurate accounting would be that I have one child and three step-children. Perhaps because he's the youngest, perhaps because he is my only biological child, I have always felt a passionate attachment to Niles. For this reason, I have struggled with maintaining the proper amount of distance with him, trying to give full expression to this intense love I feel without smothering or overwhelming, disrespecting his space and differentiation. I am a teacher, after all. I have not always succeeded in finding that balance, and at times have felt him pull away to reestablish a comfortable equilibrium in which he could thrive.

So, it's a thrill when he calls and has no question or request but just wants to talk to the old man.

I have a scar on my lip. I earned it as a child when I lay down next to my dog. Bagel the beagle summed up all things admirable to me. He was fearless and adventurous, the terror of the neighborhood, and I loved him passionately. I especially loved the way he smelled, right around his ears, the utter doggyness of him. So, as I lay down next to him and put my arm over him, I pressed my face into his neck, my nose under his ear. And he, startled awake and smothered, reacted with a harsh growl and a snap, nipping my lip with his teeth.

My mind is always at work, making connections between random events seemingly unrelated in content, and even in time, sharing wisdom with me that I otherwise might have forgot, wisdom contained in a little crescent scar by my lip.

my moment of fame

As I posted on Facebook, I won a writing contest in my new home town. The Desert Sun Newspaper asked local resident and best-selling author, Joseph Wambaugh, to write the first three quarters of a murder mystery short story, then invited readers to finish it in 500 words or less. It turned out to be quite a challenge, especially the "500 words or less" part. As anyone who knows me can attest, I'm a decent writer and public speaker, but concise is not the first description of my prose that comes to mind. In fact, I have a friend with a personalized license plate "WORDY ONE" which I have often thought would have fit me even better.

But I accepted the challenge, pecking away at it in the morning on my patio, when not writing letters to old friends or musings for this blog. It was not an easy set-up to conclude -- too many characters and potential story lines to draw together in such a short amount of space. I decided to follow the great tradition of mystery writing. I chose the least likely character as my perpetrator. Since hard-working, reliable Pepe was in my opinion the most admirable of many characters with which Mr. Wambaugh had salted the field, I chose him. Then I needed to imagine a motive, and set up the conclusion by subtle suggestion. I'll let you be the judge of whether or not I succeeded by visiting www.mydesert.com. My apologies, as it's not an easy site to navigate!

coffee and Le Tour at St Honore'

I'm back from Portland, back to the reality of work and 114 degree heat, but one morning from my recent trip lingers in my memory.
My hotel didn't have Versus as a cable choice, so I only managed to watch the Tour de France once in five days. Sunday morning I made a date to meet two of my sons, Monty and Niles, at St. Honore' Bakery in northwest Portland, where I knew they showed the tour on a large screen TV.
It was THE place to be.
It seemed that every hardcore biker (in a very hardcore biker town) was there. They rode their treks and cervelos down to 25th and Thurman to gather in their spandex, campanello hats, and race jerseys to watch the most important alpine stage of this year's Tour in the company of their peeps.
So, there I was, a cup of french press (of course) and a pain au raisin, surrounded by bike people obsessing (like me) over every detail of the race, and with my boys. I don't know when I've been happier.

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.