Tag Archive | friends and neighbors

Learning to Fly

Dec28

In what might have been the last cheese sandwich of 2025, I used romaine, cheddar, mayo, mustard, hibiscus-raspberry jam, and a quick turkey salad made from Thanksgiving leftovers I had picked from the carcass and frozen for Wren. It was a big container and I found enough pickings to make a couple of meals for me.

The uncanny weather finally got wintry with a trace of snow last night, and a seasonal drop in temperature. Before the rain on Christmas, we took a startling walk through the woods. I’d hoped to walk to the rim since the mud had dried enough, but just as we turned east a neighbor across the canyon started shooting, which frightened Wren and made me turn west, taking the short loop back to the house. The mosses were vibrant, and a fall aster was in bloom. This is all wrong.

We humans are making so much progress on so many fronts that it just makes me sad to see how the species insists on escalating its rapacious slaughter of the planet and sabotage of our species. Scum does indeed rise to the top, and now that it’s followed Russia’s lead in this country and many others, the potential of power-hungry malignant narcissists to irreparably break our world with greedy extractive industries is coming to a head just at the time when medical science is on the cusp of discovering treatments for Alzheimer’s, advances in consciousness studies and the intersection between science and spirituality give real hope for finally understanding the imperative to cooperate rather than compete, and the flowering of Buddhist philosophy as a path to peace is growing loving kindness and compassion at an exponential rate.

Amy randomly sent me this recipe for sourdough discard dinner rolls, so I made them on Christmas Eve and have been enjoying them in various ways since. As soon as they came out of the oven I poured some almond butter into a little bowl, with just a hint of recurring aggravation—you can’t really call it butter if you can pour it straight from the refrigerator—and spooned some jam, and enjoyed a simple lunch.

After some very fat sandwiches that night, I sliced the rolls into club style threes to make a sandwich with havarti, lettuce and mayo on one layer, and havarti and lemony pesto a friend made. I’ve eaten them several other ways and still have a couple left, but it’s almost time to bake sourdough focaccia.

The week overflowed with baked gifts as well as abundant sunshine. Among the cookies and biscotti that arrived also came the annual Potica delivery from the next door elves. Last year I was caught taking a shark bite right out of the bag; this year I restrained myself to just sniffing.

I’ve spent part of the weekend in retreat via zoom with Tergar Meditation on Dream Practice, learning how to meditate while sleeping, and how to cultivate lucid dreaming. Some of the most blissful dreams of my life were the few in which I could fly. I used to either jump off a roof, or take a long, slow running start with strides extending longer and higher until I achieved liftoff. But it’s been decades since I could fly in a dream, despite my longing.

It’s been decades since I experienced any kind of lucid dream, until last week when I realized I was dreaming, almost woke up, made myself stay asleep. I’d signed up for this retreat weeks before that, and was pleased to learn during the talk this morning that I had just overcome one of the main obstacles to lucid dreaming: realizing you’re dreaming and immediately waking up. I’m on the right track! And it turns out, the next step after you realize you’re dreaming is to do something, almost anything, to anchor yourself in the lucid dream: taking off flying is the easiest thing to do! Far simpler than transforming a flower into a building or a person into another kind of animal, or even transforming yourself into a newt.

My favorite Christmas gift: a perfectly small bowl with a fucking grasshopper built right in, from someone who knows me too well.

I’m grateful for a week filled with kindness, connection, and compassion in my little bubble, and a week of hopeful exploration of the rich potential and beauty in the human spirit worldwide. We are not prisoners here, nor potted plants. Action is the antidote to anxiety.

Savoring Connections

Dec19

Moments of joy came throughout the week from connections with friends. Jennifer sent this marvelous photo last weekend of a redtail hawk perched on her fire escape in downtown San Francisco. I’m grateful for friendships through the years and across the country, new and old, simple and complex, in person and online. With the common ground of mindfulness and gratefulness, I’ve formed meaningful friendships with people I may never meet in person.

I had hoped to be generous with the three leftover lemon tartlets, but only managed to give away one of them. The other two I savored for breakfast last weekend. I found a little pot of leftover cream cheese frosting in the fridge, so I topped the first tart with that and the last raspberries.

The final tart cried out for a little leftover lemon curd since there was only a lonely dollop of icing left. I’ll definitely make these again.

My Colorist friend sent this gorgeous Christmas card she created. She explained that the passion flower represents “the Passion of Christ in all its beauty and terror,” with Mary “looking adoringly at and embracing the end of Jesus’s earthly life instead of the beginning” as in traditional nativity scenes this season. And of course, the sumptuous colors.

She also introduced me to the Hugo Spritz in her comment on my last post. I made mine without the prosecco using soda water only for the bubbles to give it less of a kick.

I’m grateful that grownup vitamins come in gummies too.

I sometimes wonder where the day goes, these short winter days. It seems like I get the bare minimum done and then it’s dark. One fun task each day is feeding the birds, and an especially meditative part of it is spreading the Bark Butter on various limbs and posts. Bark Butter, created by the founder of Wild Birds Unlimited, is a “spreadable suet” that includes peanut butter and corn. I put it out for the nuthatches who love it, but the jays come to devour it too.

A local friend sent this picture of an anomalous goose down in Delta with a flock of Canada geese (genus Branta). INaturalist identifies it with 100% certainty as belonging to the Grey Goose clan (genus Anser). A delightful conundrum.
This week’s sourdough, with a seasonal star.

I’m grateful for the great healthcare I receive from Delta Health, one of the many rural hospitals threatened by the Republicans’ healthcare plan which Andy Borowitz says is “Move to Canada.” I had a late afternoon appointment with my PCP for a checkup. I love her. She’s quick, thorough, listens well, trusts me with decisions, and we have had some hearty laughs, especially last week. And then the drive home from town was exquisite. I’m so rarely out of my little hollow at sunset, it was a treat.

My friends Ted and Cathey live about 80 miles north of Selma, Alabama, where the Walk for Peace monks stopped midday today, then walked across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. My whole day was infused with the joy of knowing my friends were there, carrying a little piece of my heart with them. Ted posted this and more photos on his daily blog, and will share more tomorrow.

This week of savoring friendships included some great phone conversations with friends from Florida to Virginia to Oregon, all of which also included some hearty laughter, such balm for the sorrowing soul in these dark times. Tonight’s small new moon/early Solstice gathering wrapped up this past week like a gift. The bonfire was slow to start but quick to burn, and safe in the bottom of an empty, muddy irrigation pond.

Grateful to feel safe in the bosom of my found family, I yet held in my heart the sorrow of those who lost beloved children, parents, friends, and family in mass shootings this week, to murder, to starvation, to climate catastrophes like floods and landslides, and so many more ways the ravages of human depravity manifest.

May I grow in understanding and compassion, and may my thoughts, words, and actions contribute to peace in this world. May all people grow in understanding and compassion, and may their choices contribute to peace in this world.

At the height of our ritual fire, the FedEx truck came down the driveway and a pack of dogs from three households ran barking off to greet him. He’s a great guy, we’re all grateful for Scott, and so are the dogs because he gives them treats. I whistled for Wren and she didn’t come, I got up and called and finally yelled for her, and still she didn’t come—but then I looked to the left and saw her trying to get to me through the fence—poor baby! She had probably come right away, but she came the wrong way and got stuck on the other side of the studio. I stepped through and gathered her up and held her close the rest of the evening. She’d had on her parka, but still got chilly, and has been sleeping next to me or on the heating pad ever since we got home.

Joyful Surprises

Nov2

Related to gratitude and grief, joy is an essential quality to cultivate for mental, emotional, and physical wellbeing. Big joy had come for a friend who dropped by the other day, and I shared her excitement experiencing empathetic joy, a felt sense of happiness in her joy. I made sure to notice how my joy for her great happiness felt in my body, and savor the tingles and my big smile, and her big smile: Savoring a good feeling for twenty seconds cultivates neural pathways and stimulates beneficial neurochemicals. That empathetic joy came on top of my pure joy at her surprise visit. We walked to the canyon, which gave Wren joy, and took a dose of forest medicine hugging an ancient juniper.

The view from the tree hug

The next day several more joyful surprises came my way. I dedicated myself to fully experiencing them all, opening my heart and my mind. The first was three volunteers who came from North Fork Senior Connections to help with yarden work for an hour, and we got so much done. All were seniors themselves, and from the larger neighborhood surrounding our small town. The program sent a dozen volunteers out into the community to lend hands to five seniors who had requested assistance. I had actually asked for help more than a year ago when I could barely move, but this was the first time they called and though I’m pretty capable by now, I can still use an extra hand with some chores. I baked a big batch of molasses ginger cookies to thank them.

While they did some of the more physical projects, I bent over and pulled a frost-killed sweet potato vine out of the patio planter and dropped my jaw when two fat little sweet potatoes came out with it. After sharing that surprise with Garden Buddy, who had persuaded me to try rooting and growing one two summers ago just for the beauty of the vine, I dug gently into the planter and discovered a handful more small tubers. Not a huge crop, but enough for a few meals, and a strong motivation to try a whole bed of them next year. Amazingly, the grasshoppers didn’t fancy the leaves.

After the helpers went merrily on up the road to another yard, I dug the last potatoes, the red potatoes I had protected under straw mulch until I could set up to save them in sand. The quantity and size of these tubers was another joyful surprise. The grasshoppers had hammered the foliage to the point that the plants never bloomed, and I was not expecting much when I dug my hands down into the cold dirt. I savored that activity so much I can still feel the cold in my finger bones and the rough dry soil in my cracked fingertips.

I love these wire baskets I bought online which no longer appear to be available. The garden hose made quick work of washing all the tubers outside, in the basket, and then they air dried before I brought them in the house.

While I waited for the potatoes to dry, I cut back the dead dahlias and salvias that had filled some of the garden pots, and was met with this delightful surprise of small orange flowers. The plant had died back in summer heat but emerged again a month ago, and was secretly blooming beneath the big red salvia. A honeybee was sipping from it but fled to a snapdragon when I pulled out my camera.

While the potatoes continued to dry outside I washed myself off and dressed to go to a patio party down the road. A friend invited me as her plus one and came to pick me up. It was at the home of a newish neighbor whom I’d been meaning to take a plate of cookies to for a couple of years but… being a reclusive hermit, I hadn’t gotten to yet. I had saved enough cookies to bring him some, and found I was warmly welcomed. Another gathering of neighbors I mostly didn’t know! I listened, and laughed, shared a few baking tips, and met another knitter. I was grateful the party was outside, the weather was beautiful, and the company easy and engaging. The host had asked that guests bring something for his compost pile, which struck me as both creative and courageous. I took a bucket full of the dead annuals I had trimmed in the morning, so that even if something sprouts from my offering it will be a lovely flower and not a weed.

Once home, I packed the red potatoes in play sand in a cardboard box. I still have two bags of the gold potatoes in the fridge I need to cook and eat or freeze in the next couple of weeks. They are more delicate, and probably wouldn’t keep well, but I’m optimistic about these hardy red potatoes. I spread a layer of sand, covered it with potatoes, poured in another layer of sand… and made a three layer sand and potato lasagna, which I then closed and tucked under a chair in the mudroom where it will stay cold but not freezing (I hope) so I can eat homegrown potatoes through the winter. Maybe when it gets real cold I’ll have to bring the box with whatever’s left into the pantry. We’ll know more later. One potato at a time.

And the last joyful surprise is the fragrant orchid that hadn’t bloomed for a couple of years, for so long I had forgotten it’s fragrant. It’s been in this hanger near my desk for more than a week, I’ve walked past it dozens of times a day, when suddenly one midday an exquisite perfume stopped me mid stride. I inhaled deeply, exhaled completely, and breathed deep again. I savored this intoxicating scent for more than twenty seconds, until my scent buds acclimated and could hold no more. It continues to release its sweet aroma a for an hour or two in the middle of the day, and then goes quiet. Each time I pass during one of those fleeting floral exhalations is another joyful surprise that captivates me for several lingering breaths.

If You Bake It They Will Come

Oct27

Working on perfecting the blueberry cinnamon roll. A batch last week from a new recipe didn’t satisfy me though the people I shared it with weren’t so particular. The dough was a little tough and there wasn’t enough filling. The batch I made yesterday had too much filling, but I’m closing in on perfection.

A new tiny friend made a surprise visit Saturday and was entranced with Biko, the first turtle she’s ever met in her whole life. When she was ready, she touched him ever so gently on the top of his shell. Then we took her to the pond, where she spotted her first ever frog. There is still at least one tadpole swimming around, and a few growing juveniles out even after a freeze the night before, and one brand new fingertip froglet on land. I sent them home with the last two rolls of Batch Number One.

I delivered a couple of rolls from Batch Number Two to the Honey Badger at the top of the driveway last night, so we could enjoy one with coffee this morning separately in our own homes together on Zoom. I was planning to deliver most of the rest to a few more neighbors today, but they disappeared before I could do that.

I’m a night owl and don’t see too many sunrises, so I was grateful for the extra motivation to rise in time to catch the morning clouds with the sun just behind Mendicant Ridge. I wish I could want to get out of bed while it’s still dark.

Yarden Helper came unexpectedly with a load of firewood, so I gave him three rolls to take home for his family, knowing that would brighten their day. Remembering the unattributable quote, “Be kind. Everyone you meet is carrying a heavy burden,” or another version, “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

He was heading next to Garden Buddy’s so I gave him two for them, and suddenly, without ever having to leave the driveway, I was down to just enough to sustain me until I muster the motivation to tackle Batch Number Three. I’m grateful for the practice of generosity, a natural accompaniment to the gratitude and grief slow dancing inside me.

I can’t share the recipe for the rolls because I used three of them plus a couple of innovations. But most of the recipes I checked involved brushing the rolled dough with softened butter.

I wasn’t happy with the one cup of whole blueberries in Batch One, so I made a quick jam with two cups, but cooked it down too much, so threw in another handful of blueberries. It might have been ok if I’d only used half of it, or if I hadn’t put lemon zest in it as well as lemon juice.

The brown sugar – cinnamon mix was adequate, but I’ve been including some cardamom and the next batch will have only cinnamon.

Clearly it was too much filling!

And I’ll need to practice my glazing technique before I enter any contests, but at least it’s tasty. And I’m grateful I was still around for sunset.

A Little Light

Oct23

Our world lost a little light this week. Wren’s little buddy up the road was run over and killed. He had just celebrated his two years old birthday. It was instantaneous. He chased a car out the driveway into the county road and a tanker truck took him out, probably without even knowing it. His person had chased after him and found him. Barely a minute had elapsed. As she stood in shock, a cowboy stopped to offer help. She called a couple of friends, one of whom notified me; the other, whose car he had chased, returned with a third friend and began to dig a grave.

At our first meeting

We met him shortly after he came to live on the mesa, when he was not quite three months old (see Puppies). Most of my pictures of him then, and later whenever he came to visit, are blurry because he was always in motion when I saw him. He loved to run, to hunt, to chase, and in true terrier fashion once he set his mind on something he did not willingly stop.

Last month in his courtyard

I’ve loved dogs who have died in far worse ways, long slow agonizing deaths, from stomach cancer, or drinking anti-freeze, or even being struck by a truck and lingering long enough for their people to watch them suffer, unable to help. Oso’s untimely death, like any death that touches us personally, that wracks our own little world, is a poignant reminder that anything can happen at any time, that we’re given this one precious day as a gift each time we wake up alive. We don’t know if we will even have tomorrow, or if life will be the same for us tomorrow as it was today.

I had been making chicken broth when I got the text “Our sweet Oso is in doggie heaven…” I was ladling the broth into pint jars, and knew in my bones the right next thing to do was to drive up with a jar of nourishing broth, knowing she wouldn’t have had anything to drink or eat and may not remember to do either for hours. When I arrived they were putting the last rocks over the small grave under a juniper in the center of the driveway circle. After subdued and tender greetings, I handed off the broth and helped gather tools. Another friend arrived as I was leaving. Altogether five women showed up for our friend in her literal hour of grief.

Last winter playing with Wren

In the slow, mile drive home I felt the weight of the change in her world, the brutal empathy of knowing how I would feel going to bed suddenly bereft of Wren, waking the next morning without her. As I rounded the last corner it hit me how truly terrible I would feel if it had been Oso’s person instead, or any of us five friends who came to offer comfort: It could have been any one of us, on foot, or bike, or in our little metal bucket on wheels, getting smashed by an industrial truck. Or a train. And from there it was a small step to recall the suffering and grief that rocks millions of lives daily when a beloved dies, a pet, a child, a spouse, a parent, a friend, from illness or in unexpected ways, in wars, in famines, in all the ways. A sudden ache for everyone I love, a pre-grief, blossomed in my breast.

At almost one years old

We each respond to grief in our own unique way. I know more than one grown man who has sobbed at the loss of a dog and never shed a tear for a person’s death. I tend to get very quiet for a long time; some might call it shutting down. Oso’s person has been grieving with courage, grace and equanimity, holding the horror of what happened, the self-wounding if only‘s, the surrender of inevitable acceptance. She is grateful that it was mercifully instantaneous; he never saw it coming. She was helpless to stop it. And the cowboy was a gift from god there in her moment of need. It was a horrible accident, the kind of thing that just happens (all the time), nobody’s fault but simply a result of conditions beyond anyone’s control: cause and effect. Even in her grief she is able to express gratefulness for the mutual love in their short companionship together.

Just a week ago
A pine siskin snacks on sunflower seeds in the autumn garden yesterday.

Monday evening a junco smacked into the living room window and broke its neck. Grief took center stage early this week, in the smallest of deaths. And then there was Oso. And just this afternoon, after this blog was largely written, I learned of the sudden, surprising death of a pillar of the community. I barely knew her, but another dear friend was shocked to find her dead on the floor of her garage after she failed to show up at an event. She was a mother, a grandmother, a vibrant healthy elder, and now just like that she is not. Her family, her friends, rocked and grieving. It happens every day somewhere, 150,000 times: a person dies.

I’m reminded to hold my puppy extra close, and my people too.

A shattering twinge of knowing my own death takes my breath away sometimes. This is why we can’t remember it constantly. It’s just too shocking to contemplate our own death, or the fundamental truth that everyone we love will eventually be lost to us. And yet we must, at some point, consider it deeply. Any hospice worker will tell you that many people are filled with regret when they come to the end of their life without having done so. When we think about death (our own and others’) ahead of time we grow in wisdom and compassion. Awareness is a breath away. Death is certain, time of death uncertain. One thing we can know is that life will change after the death of a beloved, but we can’t know in what way: what further sorrows or antidotal joys will arise moment to moment. To live fully is to be present with whatever is, in each moment. Like gratitude, grief changes everything, for awhile.

No Kings II

Oct18

I’m grateful every day I make it to the end alive, I really am.

Fresh yellow ribbon down the middle of the road, glowing October cottonwood leaves flicker in a breeze. They’re the same color: the ribbon not yellow exactly though we call it yellow, but the color of cottonwood leaves when they’ve passed their brilliant sunshine stage and a few days before they brown and fall to the ground. That stripe, those leaves, in perfect harmony; the roadside curve signs glinting the same color pointing the way to town.

A female northern harrier flapping and coasting over the arroyo. Guo Gu says “It’s all good,” and explains that even in the midst of great suffering, we can still choose to do the right next thing, whatever that is.

It’s an utter and complete surrender to how things are in this moment, right here: not anywhere else, not another time, not another moment, this one. May I never know the suffering of eight billion others, but only know and never forget, they suffer.

A golden eagle surveys the rolling sage flats from a power line T towering over the dobies. I’m driving to town for the second No Kings rally and protest. I’m grateful for this glorious morning alive.

The speakers were inspiring, the signs were creative, a couple of Portland chicken riders showed up and a big bad wolf. As she passed us the woman I was standing with said, “That’s ICE!” It certainly crossed my mind, it was jarring to see someone completely masked, but my more generous interpretation was it was someone bashful. Nothing bad happened.

There were young people and just a few children, and like last time, most of the protestors in Paonia had grey hair. Some hobbled on walking sticks and some rolled in chairs. I once again saw many old friends and acquaintances I hadn’t seen for years, and was grateful I could recognize and remember more of their names.

There were signs loving America, loving the planet, loving each other, and my own sign Grow Love. I was grateful I had all the right ingredients to throw it together this morning after thinking about it all day yesterday. I had one old piece of foam core board, remembered a stash of handmade paper, and finally found the Mod-Podge I knew I’d had in a box of magazine pictures for collage under the desk for years, but tidied away this summer somewhere obscure.

The inspiration was a distillation of Martin Luther King, Jr’s quote “Hate can­not dri­ve out hate; only love can do that,” plus the idea that we reap what we sow. Not to mention the nearly two dozen geraniums I ended up with to give away, and Garden Buddy’s basket of sunflower seeds in support of Ukraine. I was grateful to come home with only two geraniums and one of those is spoken for.

After the speakers the crowd I estimated conservatively at more than 400 streamed out of the park and marched through the neighborhood beneath autumn trees down to Grand Avenue. I packed up my stuff with a little help from GB and Son, and headed home. But I saw that instead of dispersing as they had done last time, the crowd was gathered at the south end of town, so I made a couple turns to get there. A cop directing traffic at the Second Street intersection let me turn to park so I could join in. They were singing “We Shall Overcome” in front of the High Country News building and I shot some video as they started walking. But I interrupted myself to get a still when I saw the macaw who was enthusiastically voicing his support for democracy.

The rally was joyful and uplifting, as were the more than 2500 rallies around the country and in some foreign cities. Early reports say that nearly seven million people turned out in the largest single-day demonstration against a sitting president. Friends sent photos from Gainesville and Tallahassee, FL, and these from Lexington, KY.

Cousin Mel knew I’d especially appreciate this Drag Race reference.

Enjoy photos from more protests around the country in this Atlantic photo collection.

Driving home my heart and thoughts again returned to the glory of the undersung cottonwoods, and I stopped on the road down into the Smith Fork Canyon to capture the colors, from the earliest turning in the foreground just beyond the power line to some of those road line golds by the river. I’m grateful for connection today, for the felt sense of interbeing with community and with friends far and wide. We will overcome some day. We’re in this together!

The Sweater

Oct9

I mentioned the sweater awhile ago, how I bought the pattern somewhere between fifteen and twenty years ago but could never muster the motivation to find the perfect yarn, or tackle the complicated pattern; and how I finally did both this summer. I started knitting sometime in June.

By mid-September I had knitted the back, front panels, and sleeves. I had to rip out many inches of the second sleeve after I suspected I’d gone off the pattern by one stitch. I thought, “How can it possibly matter if I purl two – knit one instead of knit one – purl two” but it turns out it gave the sleeve a distinctly different look. But it was worth doing right, so I patiently ripped out six inches back to the cuff and did it right. I learned so much about knitting as I picked up dropped stitches, corrected mistakes, figured out how to tie a secure vanishing knot to connect skeins, weave in loose ends, and unknit complicated stitches when I realized I’d missed one. I learned a new and more refined way to cast on, and several ways to bind off. I took my time assembling the panels and sleeves, and learned different ways to sew knitted pieces together depending if they were vertical to vertical, or vertical to horizontal, or on increasing or decreasing edges. It was really fun! I was grateful for my new skill of patience.

I learned to knit buttonholes when I knitted the two front bands, but here the directions failed me. There was no explanation of why the front bands were shorter than the front panels, so I knitted them long enough to experiment with when I got them sewn on. I had blocked the front bands with special pins and special blocking foam, but they felt very loose when I attached them. I sewed those two seams just as I’d sewn all the others, and the long bands fit the front panels perfectly. Something was wrong.

I went ahead and knitted the neck band anyway, and the whole sweater just felt floppy. I spent one whole day undoing a week’s work, but hey, I had patience! And it was worth doing it right. I ripped out the neck band, unsewed the front bands and shortened them, learning how to sew a short band to a longer panel and make it come out even, and then reknitted the neck band but made it a size smaller. Finally finished! I was sure I had six silver buttons of the correct size in my button jar or button box, but I did not. The best I could come up with were these brown leather-covered buttons, and I kind of like the contrast. One day one of them will fall off, and then I’ll go buy some silver buttons.

I stumbled into accidental cocktails this evening when I delivered a yard sign to dear friends, and since I was wearing the sweater I asked my captive audience which included three crafty women, how can I make these bands less wobbly? They all shrugged. None of them knit. But the retired park superintendent spoke up softly suggesting I block the sweater. I giggle just to think of it. His mom used to knit, and he dug into some memory strands and recalled she laid it out on the kitchen table, put a towel under and a towel over, but he wasn’t quite sure what she did after that. It was all I needed. The vast resource of YouTube knitting tutorials taught me from there. Tomorrow I’ll steam block the sweater and we’ll see what happens.

On the way to accidental cocktails…

The retired park superintendent mentioned a new group that he’d joined, and when I looked it up I realized that I also can join it! It felt great to sign up to join them, and to set up an automatic monthly donation. Only three dollars a month, but if every former seasonal employee like me, or everyone who ever volunteered at a national park, or worked there for a career did that, what a resource we’d be together.

As I was leaving accidental cocktails I savored the view of my friends’ garden with the tentative storm beyond. A small flock of sandhill cranes had just flown overhead seeking their evening roost. I felt their ancient voices keenly.

Arriving home again shortly before sunset.

Looking west from the top of the driveway, a sundog; a few minutes later, looking east, a fraction of a rainbow.

Grief is an acknowledgement of loss, an emotional state in which we exist between what we once understood or knew to be true, and an uncertain future where someone or something we cared about no longer exists with us. For me, acknowledging grief and allowing myself to dwell in this open space, this bardo, is a relief, and a step up from the paralysis of Despair. So I’ve spent a joyful day connecting with people as I ran errands and received assistance at a couple of healthcare appointments, relishing the feelings of simultaneous grief and gratitude, instead of bouncing between the opposites of gratitude and despair.

We walked to the west fence after sunset to see what the clouds would do. But the lone horse in the neighbor’s pasture to the south looked longingly at us. The rescue horses to the west had all gone in, and this sweet mare’s interest in us was compelling, so we strolled the fenceline down to greet her. Turns out, she wasn’t the least bit interested in me: she was fascinated by Wren. The two grazed together placidly for awhile as I watched clouds. But after awhile she snuffled my hand and let me caress her velvet nose, and we communed in silence til the color left the clouds.

Dry Lightning

Jul10
Topaz chittered at me when I dared to invade her private sleeping tower early this morning.

Apparently I slept through several hours of a lightning storm before it jolted me awake around six. Wren was panting under the bed. I tried to avoid getting out of bed, rolling over, dozing, dreaming that the fire trucks came down my driveway and I invited them through the gate to get to the woods, and worried how I would ask them to take off their boots to go up in my tower. It was dry lightning, and had been crashing since two or three in the morning, with only a couple of spatters of rain. A perfect fire storm: heavy lightning, no rain. I opened my eyes a couple times to see blazing strikes out the French doors, and finally decided I’d better turn off Do Not Disturb in case there was a fire. Certain there would be a fire.

Not two minutes later, the phone rang. “Yes, what?” I answered, knowing it could be only one thing. Dawn saw and smelled smoke which turned out to be on the canyon rim between her place and mine. I climbed the kiva ladder to the tower and scanned with bleary eyes, but did not see it. My view of the place it burned, I learned when I climbed up again this evening, had been blocked by some other trees. Fortunately, it was just one juniper, and a team of neighbors and at least one volunteer firefighter found it and put it out. We knew there was a forecast for serious winds this afternoon. Several other neighbors reported strikes that they also put out. It was a busy early morning on Fruitland Mesa.

Mr. Wilson took this shot of the folks who put it out. I’m fascinated that they dug all around and piled the dirt up around the trunk. So grateful so many people have their eyes and noses trained on the woods around here, and the threads of connections among disparate neighbors knit into a coherent communication network.

photo borrowed without permission from Rosie’s facebook post: the smoke as seen from her deck.

Only then mid-morning, the Watch Duty app alerted me and others to a fire on the North Rim of the Black Canyon, just twelve miles away, and shortly afterward to a fire on the South Rim of the national park. The North Rim fire didn’t appear to exceed a tenth of an acre, and was contained and put out pretty quickly. The South Rim fire grew exponentially, from 50 acres to 100 in less than an hour, then to 300 in another hour, then to 425 in another hour. Then there was an update vacuum until about 8:45 pm, when it had grown to 1640 acres. In between, around 4 pm, Marla heard from a neighbor who spoke with a sheriff’s deputy on the road that it was 600 acres and the Visitor Center was lost. This hasn’t been officially confirmed, and we pray it isn’t true, but…

This photo was posted on Facebook by Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park midafternoon. I’m grateful there’s still federal wildfire fighters and helicopters available. If the Visitor Center truly is lost, I wonder if the federal budget will allow a rebuild, or if the park will close. What a loss that would be to both Montrose and Crawford, in so many ways. And personally: I was planning to take an old friend out there this weekend if she was able to stop by while she’s in the valley for a concert.

Midafternoon, another fire was reported on the Uncompaghre Plateau northwest of Delta. Altogether, Watch Duty recorded twelve new wildfires this morning in Delta and neighboring counties. Most of them stayed small and were put out. The latest update from the Sowbelly Fire came in as I was writing this: it’s now 2,193 acres. Needless to say, we stayed inside all day. I could barely breathe out there. Honey Badger was so kind, she drove down to pick up my garbage, and made an extra trip to bring my mail from the mailbox because I was expecting a parcel. A couple hours later, when the smoke cleared a little bit, I masked and went out to feed the birds, then stepped out on the deck for a better view. On one side of my big tree, the horizon was just a little hazy.

On the other side of the tree the smoke was thick, blowing from the west and likely fed by both the Sowbelly and the South Rim fires. At the house, it wasn’t too bad, so I took the window of opportunity to take Wren and Topaz for a short walk to our west fence, where I could see the South Rim smoke still billowing. I cracked an east window when we returned to the house just to get a little cool air inside, but within fifteen minutes I could smell smoke again. So the house is closed up tight, except for the two tower windows I leave ajar all summer to funnel heat up and out of the house.

It’s the perfect time to cut the budgets for weather science and forecasting, wildfire prevention and protection resources, and FEMA. FDT. Among other things today, I’m grateful for my practice which has gotten me through a day of challenging external and internal weather, for my community of alert, responsive and competent neighbors no matter their political persuasions, and for an oxygen compressor to fill my lungs overnight.

Breathing

Jul2

Fire Season is off to a good start. The watch group dinged this morning with a dark smoke half a mile down the road. Close enough that I climbed the tower ladder with binoculars, and called 911 as soon as I looked out the window. Even as dispatch answered I saw the flashing lights of the volunteers’ pickups. Seemed like a good time to go up the driveway to check the mailbox. On the way downstairs I threw on a couple necklaces I’d hate to lose, then loaded Wren into her car seat. Another neighbor drove down on his ATV and told me that a hay baler had caught fire going up the road. The fire spread into the grass (just steps from dry junipers) and guys were throwing dirt on it until the firetruck arrived with water, putting out the burning baler. I’m sure grateful for the volunteers’ alacrity.

My personal shopper called from the ice cream aisle just as I was getting into the car to check out the fire. Of course I took the time to hear the flavor choices. There weren’t many left because of the great sale, and with no mint chip he wasn’t sure what to get for me. I chose one of each to mix my own Neapolitan. The Colonel once told me my priorities were all screwed up. I think I proved him wrong today.

I’m also grateful that the strong wind that blew up during Bibliofillies this afternoon didn’t happen this morning. And grateful for a thoughtful, intimate book club gathering on Ellie’s terrace, with snacks, and then sour cherry soup. What?! Fresh picked from her cherry tree and chilled in a creamy, spicy dessert soup.

Coming home to an evening cooled by the edge of a storm blowing by, I sat for awhile on the patio. Wren alerted me to the bluebird babies practicing hunting at the edge of the yard, dropping down to the ground then flitting up to the fence. Then Papa Blue visited the birdbath, followed by a baby. I took a deep breath, and let go. Then again. Letting go of everything that wasn’t this moment, savoring everything that was, grateful for breathing.

Cameras

Jun29

I’m perpetually amazed by having a camera in my pocket at all times, which also functions as a phone, a weather station, and an encyclopedia. I’m grateful for my Girlfriend camera who can capture a bee on a blossom this clearly.

I’m grateful for my Husband camera, too. Here he is poised to capture the bluebirds fledging this morning. Sadly, they had already flown, last evening, but we didn’t know that yet. Stay tuned for the two-day adventure of watching them slowly emerge: nothing like I expected.

After watching the nest for a couple hours after sunrise I was confident enough that it was empty that I asked Girlfriend camera if she could squeeze inside and take a look. The only thing we learned for certain was that it was definitely empty. What exactly we’re looking at remains a mystery. Is the actual nest down inside the wall space on one side or the other of the central platform? What various materials did they build it with? How many chicks were there? It’s been a great mindfulness exercise to observe the stories I’ve made up every step of the process, and realize how little I actually know.

Exquisite pastries from the North Fork Boardwalk chef

At noon I took both cameras to Zenzen Gardens in Paonia to document the celebration of life for a precious friend. It was a beautiful venue in a field of mown clover, with tasty snacks, talented musicians, and filled with my found family, and reminiscences from the wonderful community that had grown around our dear departed neighbor and his lovely wife. What happens when we die? Another mystery to consider. The cameras did a good job but, like me, overheated, so we left early.

I was grateful to rest in the cool house for awhile after so many hours outside in the heat of deep summer the past few days; and to then spend some deeply quiet time in the garden this evening.