Riverside Rendezvous (37)

Mami and Auntie Christel have long met for lunch in Riverside at the Mission Inn each year before Christmas, a halfway destination to share the holiday spirit and hand off gifts in the parking lot when they are done. In recent years each of their Irmgards have joined them, German pair upon German pair, and this year I got to go, too. The inn takes decking the halls seriously, the main entrance lined with 50-yard rows of poinsettias a brilliant red and the lobby sporting a real two-story fir.

Every balcony hosts wooden carolers and toy soldiers who I'm told will move and sing though we didn't get to see that, and there are Christmas figures framed in lights on the massive outside walls, promising more wonders in the dark of night. Our food was both tasty and pretty, and the conversation was as animated as the wooden carolers were not. I has happy to get to meet Auntie Christel's Irmgard who I'd heard so much about, glad to have an unexpected bonus visit with Mami and Auntie Gardi before Christmas and thankful Auntie Christel wanted to include me in their rendezvous.

Before Dusk (36)

I've been indulging in longer walks since Thanksgiving, returning to the trail along the creek bed and crossing over to the bike path whenever time permits. I love this one stretch by the golf course where the trees and shrubs are untidy, and I tend to startle birds and cottontails and squirrels when I pass by. I paused there today on my way home in the last of the afternoon. I stood there on the path, listening to the mix of bird calls in the approaching dusk. I didn't know most of them, but they made me want to hold still there, stroked me, soothed me. A flycatcher caught my eye. He was sallying out from a perch on a bare tree nearby. I looked closer, curious to see if he was a Say's Phoebe.

In the dim light I was surprised to see all the red on him, flickering bright against the darkness of his wings. Here was my first Palm Springs Vermilion Flycatcher. I knew they were here, but I hadn't seen one since I sat on the balcony in Ajijic and watched the antics of the one who liked to hang out on my neighbor's rooftop across the narrow cobblestone street. My Palm Springs flycatcher was sallying forth with gusto. Once I heard the click of his beak when he snapped up an insect. But he held still, too, perching near me, seeming to listen to my words, my own sounds. There was a sweetness in our meeting, and I'm hoping this is one of his favorite places to perch, hoping we'll meet there again one day soon.

[Editor's note: This photograph is from the It's Nature site. I couldn't find a photographer listed, but I trust they've retained their copyright on this image. Here is the page where the image resides: http://www.itsnature.org/air/birds-air/vermilion-flycatcher/. If you scroll down below this image, there's a sweet photograph of a male and female together in their nest.]

A Phainopepla Visits (35)

Yesterday I heard a bird call I didn't recognize. I hunted in its direction and caught sight of someone I didn't know in the pine tree that guards my yard. The sound she made was soothing and odd, one stretched out exotic call. She moved to the pyracanthas before I had a chance to grab my binoculars from the table. There she bobbed about eating the bright red berries. I never did get to study her closely, but I caught sight of her crested head again and again. I was excited and intrigued but had no conscious idea of who she might be. Then a voice whispered, "Phainopepla."

I knew of the bird, but hadn't seen one yet. I must have heard people describing their crests and the unreachable memory drifted up, unexpected and baffling, like the answer to a crossword puzzle that appears, so entirely unknown to me I am surprised to discover it's right. I checked my bird book, and it was true. I didn't get a look at her red eye, but I am certain I had my first visit from a female Phainopepla. I hope it will be the first of many.

[Editor's note: Photograph copyright Scott Streit. The page where the image lives is: http://www.bird-friends.com/BirdPage.php?name=Phainopepla.]

Auntie Christel's Gift (34)

A fairyland of tiny lights, reds and greens and blues. The landscape transformed, the desert shrubs and trees icy with lights, the night air cold. We rode the merry-go-round on big spotted cats. It made me faintly nauseous, the pitching leap of them with the spinning of the wheel. I don't remember ever feeling sick before, don't remember the last time I was on one. The Santa Monica Pier is the only one I can bring back with any clarity, another world, another life.

But we had fun on this one together, going up and down, huge hard plastic endangered animals coming to life all around us. We walked through the rest of the park, after, the occasional bedecked trunk or bush or cactus lighting our way. There was a tree with butterfly lights winking in flight, and a part where the shrubs were layered and deep, the overlapping colors and lights spanning off into the distant dark, like a sea of Christmas. I wore white snow gloves you lent me, and you made fun of me with my bare calves and my sandaled feet. I was glad we went, glad to have seen the desert made otherwise. Thank you, Auntie Christel.

Triptych 3 (33)

The third piece in the triptych was the new first snow the following morning. It wasn't dramatic, but it was the first fall and noteworthy. It completed the series, combining the warm sun on the mountain with the cold of the moon white snow. And it took place in the same western part of my sky, linking place and time.

They were more than snapshots, my three images. The experiences were photographs, my triptych. They were like being painted on. Or I was the negative they were burned into. And like art, their meaning doesn't rush to reveal itself. I wait to understand.

Triptych 2 (32)

The second part of the triptych happened on Saturday. I spied a rainbow from the courtyard. It was lush and also dreamlike, the magic of the rainbow speaking to the magic of the last night's moonlit sky. It touched our mountain, like the moonlight, shining yellows and reds and oranges, warm light to the moon's cold counterpart. The sky was bright blue where the clouds were not. I stood, cradling my cup of tea in both hands, and I sang.

" . . . the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true." I sang it through twice from beginning to end. I didn't think once about my neighbors, felt goofy in only one swift passing moment. I just sang, and the rainbow went on and on and on, outlasting my song, as sweet as the richness and longing in Judy Garland's voice. After, I felt wistful and glad and grateful and not goofy at all.

Triptych 1 (31)

Last weekend I had three images burned into me, three little experiences, my own triptych. I only realized this evening they all took place in the same general direction in my western sky. I photographed the second and the third, though I didn't know they were my triptych yet, didn't know I would use them here, my new things. It never came to me to try to capture the first with my camera, and yet it's the one most vivid in my mind. They happened Friday in the middle of the night, Saturday and Sunday mornings. It wasn't until Sunday night or maybe Monday that I felt the three images inside me. They were a series, all of one piece, and they marked me in their passing. The first one happened a little after three o'clock in the morning. We were having fierce wind. I don't remember waking, only lying and listening to it outside the screen door. After a big gust, I heard birds in the front hedge. It sounded like they were screaming, and then they felt silent. I worried, lying there. I didn't want to go out, but I couldn't bear the thought of a bird knocked to the ground, injured, dying alone in the windy dark. What if I found his still form in the morning? What if I could have protected him? So I found my flashlight and headed out. I checked the ground along the hedge inside the courtyard and out through the gate. No bird, thank goodness. The wind was blowing, the sky intensely clear. The moon was full, heading toward setting behind our mountain. It was other worldly. I stopped on the patio and stared, the bright, bright moon and the tall mountain, the blue black sky, all fierce and piercing like the wind. In the morning it was burned in me, crisp and vivid, like an image in a dream.

My New Phoebe (30)

During one of my bird class field trips we wandered the campus and the adjoining civic center park. We spied a Say's Phoebe sitting on a line of some sort just paces from a Black Phoebe. I identified the Black Phoebe in my yard in Hopland years ago, but I'd never knowingly seen a Say's Phoebe before. The luxury here was being able to watch her for a long time, both through my binoculars and our instructor's scope. She stayed put, sallying forth to eat her insects and returning to her spot on the line.

So I got to study her closely, get a real feel for her. She was less rounded than the black, but I don't know if that's true of her species in general. I remember the rosy cantaloupe blush on her belly and the longer shape of her. She seemed to have a sweet spirit, content in her solitary endeavor. I'd like to think her memory will stay with me, that I'll recognize her when I see her again. I believe she and the black were happy there, keeping each other company in their shared pursuit. I imagine the Black Phoebe glancing over at her after an especially tasty morsel. "Good spot, hmm?" he says.

"Perfect," my Say's says. "They're all over the place today." She's glad the black didn't balk at her joining him, though she'd been mindful to perch several feet away. She didn't tell him, though. It just wasn't done. But she hoped he knew, that he might be as glad as she for the quiet companionship in the autumn afternoon. They continue sallying in silence, their beaks clicking now and then as they snatch someone in flight, the sun sinking in the western sky, the shadows growing longer on the grass beneath their perch.

[Editor's note: The copyright of this photo of a Say's Phoebe is held by the photographer, Terry L. Sohl. Here is their website: http://sdakotabirds.com/species/says_phoebe_info.htm. And the completely unintended line, "my Say's says," was a happy accident that deserves a wink and a grin, eh? ;-) ]

Living Desert Bird Walk (29)

The Living Desert has a monthly bird walk for members. I went the week after I joined. It was low key, a bit more a chance to socialize, it seemed, than about serious birding. But I got to really study a white crowned sparrow and a female ladder-backed woodpecker, which was a pleasure and a treat. Anytime a bird stays put and really lets me look feels like a gift, no matter how familiar or common the bird may be. We saw a wild dark-headed night heron, too, commiserating with his kin in the aviary. And there is much to be said for the potential social aspects of the walk, I am thinking. I'll be back. Oh, and they stop at 9:30am, in perfect time to get to the African section of the park in time to feed my giraffe.

Feed the Giraffes (28)

I got to feed a giraffe. This may be my best new thing of all. The Living Desert folks hand out green pellets about the size of a grape. "Hold it between your thumb and forefinger," she said. "They can't take it out of a flat palm the way a horse will." Always obedient, I did as I was told.

The giraffe leaned over the tall chain link fence, his head dipping down on his long neck toward me and my morsel. I offered it to him, and his long, long tongue scooped it up. His soft, soft mouth closed around my fingers, a gentle caress that made me go tender inside. It was one of my most thrilling, sweetest moments. Now I'm hooked and telling everyone. 10am daily. Feed the giraffes. Don't miss it.

Coming Home (27)

I've taken my first class at College of the Desert, a little one-unit course in the Natural Resources department called "Backyard Birds." Three Thursday nights and two Saturdays, I was surprised how much time it seemed to take up, how much stress it added. It was meant only for my own pleasure, time I carved out months ago for myself. Was it too hard adding this in, trying to get all my work and chores done around it? Yes, I thought, but I wasn't sorry I did it. It inspired me to consider getting my naturalist certificate, maybe both from COD and from the Living Desert. It is likely to take years, but it appeals to me. It is the natural world that draws me, that ties me in, brings me home. And taking this class rid me of my old aversion to the college, clearing away the debris from my nightmare interview experience there years ago. My third trip to class, I had a moment driving onto the campus when my heart fluttered at the familiarity, when I could feel it becoming mine. I had a similar moment riding my bike to the farmer's market a handful of Saturday's ago. My path was known. There was something so satisfying about that. My community college, my desert home. It's all of a piece.

Unseen Blessings (26)

I decided awhile ago I'd allow myself to write about other kinds of new things here, new things outside the usual realm, but I haven't put this to practice until now. Earlier in the semester, I found out I wasn't going to get to teach my creative writing course next spring. I'd taught it for three straight spring terms, and I'd hoped to keep quietly getting to do so. But it turned out one of the full-timers decided to teach it online, so there I went. My new thing is I didn't get angry about it, didn't go to any bitter place I might have visited with ease. (I let myself acknowledge the parts that were crummy without getting caught up in the resentments.) And I resisted my urge to push down my fears about losing a class, to turn away my sadness over the loss. Instead I cried as though my heart were breaking, maybe for a minute, maybe two, sinking to my knees on the kitchen floor. Then I did a little letting go of money fears, my familiar ritual.

I turned my thoughts to the unknown reasons I may not be teaching the class, to that silver lining waiting to be revealed. I wrote an electronic Post-It on my desktop. "Do the English 18 dance." I was going to celebrate my loss with its unseen blessings. Then I found out I would not regain my English 1A from Santa Rosa in the spring, and somewhere in there, not connected to any of this is a conscious way, I made a commitment to myself to complete my two books by the end of next summer. Now I only have to teach 12 units next semester, and I dream of all the writing work I can do. I dream of those two manuscripts finished by the end of July, of each project a complete whole, something I can hold in my hands, begin to polish and hone. Unseen blessings, indeed. My desktop Post-It is still there. But now I have in mind a bigger dance.

Jury Duty (25)

I had my first jury duty summons since I've lived in this valley. It was an exercise in getting it together to leave the house at a specific time and still take care of all my daily chores, still keep up with my work. When the summons first arrived in the mail, I was tempted to postpone it but decided to hope for the best. Maybe my man would be there. Afterward, I told myself maybe he was there and I hadn't noticed him, and our jury duty would be the perfect excuse one day for him to strike up a conversation with me. "I believe we were on jury duty together," he can say. Like me, he'd have a hard time coming up with a way to introduce himself, a way to initiate a connection, but this would be perfect and happen to be true (unlike many of the lamer opening lines I have thought of over the years). I didn't make a point of examining every man in the room, I have to admit. But there was no one who caught my eye. I felt pretty out of my element, in fact, a very different fish from the others gathered there. Still, maybe he was on the other side of that long room. Maybe he watched me, studied me while I read the newspaper, didn't know how to approach me. Next time, he'll have just the ticket.

Not Forgotten

I can hardly believe how long it's been since I've posted here. It takes my breath away to see it. But I wanted to say this time my big gap has not been about falling away from my task, not about flagging interest in my goals. Instead, this time my blog has been with me, an ongoing desire nestled just beneath all my other daily tasks and requirements I've let take precedence. Of late, I've taken much-needed weekends off, too, thinking I might get to this, but long-neglected chores have snagged my time instead, or the sheer indulgence and restoration of long days and nights of reading, napping, reacquainting myself with my celery-colored bike.

But woven into my days, reeds in a basket, are contemplated posts I think of writing. Some of my ideas have even slipped away from me with so much time passing, so I will trust new ones to spring up in their place. I have been casting my thoughts out like a net, trawling for new things to bring here. I feel these pages calling me, and I trust I'll return here in earnest one day soon. It is not like my last big lapse, not gone from me, not forgotten. Instead, I feel like I'm waiting to return.

Horseracing at the LA County Fair (24)

The intensity of driving to Pomona, the old, big, concreteness of it all. The huge endless stretch of parking, the steady stream of cars and people. Waiting in line, excited, childlike, bouncing. Walking through the fair, taking in the booths as I passed but heading straight to the racetrack. The vastness of it all. A long sunny day, alternating between handicapping the races and leaning on the rail at the saddling paddock watching the horses, searching for my sense of each one. Three times in a row my choices turned out to be "schoolers," horses who were getting accustomed to the paddock and the spectators, likely in a race over the coming weekend. Funny, though, a recognition of quality, of caliber, not based on anything "real," not learned. All day my horses finished in the money, though not often as I'd placed money on them.

This seven horse was my favorite of the horses who were actually racing that day, Subsidized, a three-year-old filly with Martin Pedroza riding, heading out here for the post parade before the 11th race. She won like it was easy for her. I left saturated with the life of the racetrack and still yearning for my own Sonoma County Fair. The drive home strained, slowed by accidents. The setting sun a huge fuzzy orange ball in my side view mirror. The relief of leaving the concrete and the craziness behind. Dark mountains looming and welcome, the desert wilderness breathing as I drove through the coming of night. My gratitude spilling, to be able to retreat, to pretend I don't live so close to all that, to have chosen well in my southern California home.

Eat Pray Love Walk (23)

I went to see Eat Pray Love at the Regal Cinemas, my first time at that theater and hence by my strange rules qualifying as a new thing. (Can seeing a movie for the first time not be a new thing, too?) I set up my rewards card with them, look forward to earning a free ticket. I got a kick out of it, felt my exuberance bubble up. I enjoyed watching Julia Roberts because I think she's wonderful. Then I went out into the hot late afternoon and roamed the neighborhood. It held my favorite view, my southern hills, and a small gated community with gorgeous colors and huge second-floor patios that drew me. It was Labor Day and Palm Springs hot, deserted except for one man taking pictures of the little church on the corner. I walked slowly and savored the luxury of the leisure in the day, the lingering matinee mood, the quiet streets, the stunning view. My impromptu stroll on that late afternoon was extraordinary in its stillness, its simplicity, a memory bound to linger.

A Flagrant Flaunting?

I was just typing one of my entries and had one of those moments when you remember something you were supposed to do and it zaps you like an electric shock, a small slice of panic. One of my students was talking about just this kind of moment the other day. For me, it doesn't have to be a real thing. Often, with all the details I am bound to keep track of, I'll have one of those zaps over something I just think I didn't do but I really did do. Or sometimes I just confuse myself and think I was supposed to do something and didn't, but it really wasn't ever true. It was just me scaring myself. I'll do this when a student asks a question. They're confused, and I mix up my classes and think I made a mistake, didn't open an assignment or a discussion or the like. But today when I was typing my entry I realized with a start I had forgotten about my funny little word count rule. Up until this last batch of entries I buzzed through to get myself current again, to not let this project wither away, I made each of the entries about a new thing carry a word count that's a multiple of 52. I liked the idea and had stuck with it, been religious about it, revising and editing to come out with the exact number of words: 364, 572, 1144. But in this recent flurry I never even thought of it. Hence, the panic, the sizzle of shock running through me. It wasn't as though I had consciously decided it was okay to break my rule. I hadn't. I had just not remembered the rule, not once until today. It's like my dreams where I smoke cigarettes and have this clear idea of how many I am "allowed" to smoke each day. I've got it all worked out, only it's never true. I don't get to smoke any cigarettes. This time my rules went out the window without my knowing. So be it. I imagine it's just as well. I bet I never would have brought myself current if I'd had to work that hard on that last batch. I must have known that, so I hid the rules from myself that day. I knew I would never flaunt the rules if I knew, so I didn't let myself know. I wonder how many words this is? Oops--four words shy.

Luscious Lorraine's (22)

The woman behind the counter had short grey hair that fit snug on her head. She was grounded and capable and kind, welcoming, warm. She was patient with all my questions and my eager first-time-here-ness. I ordered the tempeh salad and was surprised to find it crumbled in a pile above the bed of greens. Or perhaps it wasn't crumbled, had never been a firm shape of any sort, a tempeh new to me. I took it to go, enjoyed it at home before I went back to work. It was fresh and lovely, the ginger miso dressing divine. I was surprised and pleased to find how full it made me, more so than my own big salads I always worry are too big. Maybe they aren't too big? I am wondering now, after indulging in the one from Luscious Lorraine's, since the bulk of my salads are greens. Maybe it's okay to eat my big bowl of salad every afternoon. Maybe it's one thing I can stop feeling bad about. Maybe I'll start now.

The Laptop Reading (21)

I'd forgotten this new thing, forgotten to "count" it here. I went to Crystal Fantasies for a reading. I can't remember the name of the "cards"---discovery cards? No, that wasn't it. It's not coming back to me, but there was one thing the reader told me that stuck. She said the year 52 was supposed to be a big deal. There was a something about how if people don't "get" something or put something in place by this year then they usually don't. I didn't know what something that might be for me. My writing? My home? My finances? My mate? Gads. But this claim was part of a series of things that has me committing to finishing the two books I've had going for eons. I haven't figured out the details yet, but I am going to finish them. I will finish one of them within the year. Hmm. Not before I'm 53, though. Oops. Oh, and the title of this entry? The "cards" were on her laptop. It made me miss my old worn deck of Tarot cards with all their vivid colors and their soft scuffed edges. I am thinking of making a set of runes out of mango pits.

All Caught Up, But . . .

I'm all caught up again now after this little flurry I have cranked out today, determined to not abandon my blog even though I can feel the lethargy of just that calling me, luring me, sucking me into giving up. I still don't feel satisfied with the "reporting" aspect of this task. I have told myself I don't need to report each new thing, told myself I can bring in memory or musings or anything I like. This time I even told myself I could just write one sentence for each entry, and as I write this I wonder if one sentence would have been a better choice, instead of succumbing once again to recording the event. Would those one-liners have had more life in them than the paragraphs I ended up writing?

I don't know if it is my critic hounding me, making me unhappy with what I am doing here, or if it is my own framework, my expectations and restrictions I come with to the blog. I don't want to abandon the project. But I don't want it to be like pulling teeth. I don't want to be dissatisfied with my entries. I don't want to be playing catch-up, just writing something to be able to call it done.

So, maybe I need to broaden my scope a bit, let the definition of my new things be a little looser, give myself more latitude, allow for things to arise. I want to feel life on this page. I want to feel vivid when my fingers hit the keys. I want to find a way back into my blog, one that winds its way through me, heart body soul, calls me, rocks me, cradles and delights me. I want my words to sing. I send up prayers, like paper airplanes, and give my thanks (in advance).

A New Return (20)

I swam laps for the first time in I don't know how long, "real" laps doing the crawl with my goggles and earplugs, the first since I've lived in the desert, the first time at Marylou and Richard's pool. We'd had a string of unexpected cool nights, so I thought the pool may have cooled down, too, and it had. I swam near noon, and became almost dizzy from the brightness of the sun and the madly moving reflections on the bottom of the pool. So then I treaded water in the shade of a palm tree. I faced our impressive mountains in the west. I felt fresh and virtuous and happy to be moving my body, to be exercising even in the middle of a summer day in the desert. I watched big, smart wasps touch down on the surface of the pool to drink and then take off again, like wispy agile sea planes. I felt glad and lucky to be in the water, enjoyed the luxury of having the small, pretty pool to myself. I put my clothes back on and walked home, my wet bathing suit keeping me cool. I can't wait to do it again.

Camelot (19)

This time I went to "my" theater for the first time, the Camelot. It's the nearest, and "my" farmer's market sits beside it when it's not summer. I'd hoped for canola oil popcorn from this particular theater and fun condiments for it like brewer's yeast or garlic powder, spoiled as I am by northern California ways. No dice, but the woman who served me smiled a real smile and offered genuine kindness. I'd hoped to love the movie, but I didn't. I wondered later if it was because the audience around me seemed to enjoy it so much, laughing hard and often when I didn't think it was funny. Did that distance me from the film? Would I have liked it better if I'd seen it by myself? I enjoyed watching Annette Bening, though, studying her marvelous, expressive face, her focused intensity. And I was happy to see a mainstream movie featuring two lesbians as an "old married couple." Too bad they had to make her affair still be with a man. ;-)

Jani and Roti (18)

Three happy cell phone calls when my plane landed, headed for luggage, found my bag right away. The perfect bench on a path along the bay. Fresh watermelon juice and toasted walnuts and strawberry-mango puree, made and packed with love. The perfect clean and handy restroom to use in a business building nearby, lots of glass, but no way to know if there were really people inside. Endless hours walking the trails along the bay, along the canals, water and sunshine everywhere. Talking without stopping, loving being in the same place for a change, not talking on the phone, holding hands, laughing, me having to pee again. Happy. Once we heard a song sparrow.

Later, eating the most amazing Indian food of my life at Roti, the combination of spices making me salivate weeks later as I remember. The addictive Indian pickle thing, and drinking tons of water later in reaction to the salt of it. More walking, nearer to Vivie's now, knowing our day was almost over. The birds a wonder, protected in the spot by the wastewater treatment plant. Fields of birds whose names I forget now, in numbers unlooked for on the peninsula, row upon row of them sitting on little sandbar-like mounds in the water, then swooping into the air in a solid expanse of warm wings and feathers. A surprise to become so ungrounded at the end, trying to transition but not wanting to say goodbye to Jani, to our day. So full, warm, welcoming. So rich.

Cinemas Palme d'Or (17)

I parked in the perfect spot in the parking lot, one I'd discovered on my first foray to this shopping center when I went to exchange my Christmas underwear in June. There are three big trees at the edge of the lot, and there is full shade there for hours, a rare luxury in this desert world. I'd felt weird that first time walking through the mall and realized it had been the first time I'd been in a mall in over two years. The last time had been in Cabo San Lucas where I'd end up buying cigarettes when I was trying to quit and got to splurge crazily to undulging in fresh Häagen-Dazs at their store. The mall there was oddly more luxurious than this one in Palm Desert. On this second visit I was late for my movie, so I ran through the mall, dodging shoppers, looking for the theater. I actually had to ask twice for directions. It turns out you can't get to the movie theater from inside the mall. Who would have thought? I ate popcorn and watched Michael Douglas do what he does so well. The movie was sad and weighty, I thought, but it had just enough optimism at the end to avoid bleak. I marveled again over the shade when I returned to my car. It made all the difference in the world.

My Oh Me My

I'm not sure quite what happened, but I seem to have lost my oomph here. I did several new things over the past month but never took the time to write them up. I've even lost track of what week I am in. I am wondering if the fact I was ahead of myself was the cause. I had always hoped to get a few extra posts up so I wouldn't have the pressure of meeting the goal each week. But maybe the fact I was three or four posts "ahead" is what had me disengaging since I didn't "have" to post more for awhile? I'm not sure, but that sounds like a likely culprit. And maybe I can blame it, too, on the heat. ;-)

I plan to write up my more recent new things in very short snippets sometime soon. Maybe I will even turn them into haikus. (Very, very short, indeed!) I just thought I would take a moment to let you know---Marylou and Richard!! :)  ---I have not abandoned my goal or my blog. And while I'm at it, I will pray to become reignited about this plan, to begin contemplating new things to do again in earnest and in eagerness. I still have eight months to go, so it would be a shame to not find joy in this again. I will look for it and be back soon.

Chimney Ranch (16)

I got confused on the drive in, literally drove in a circle before Angelica got me on the right track. Then once I arrived, it seemed all I was able to do is grin and laugh at her for a long time, this woman who is close to my age, who is still the girl I met when we were children. Hers is still the face I remember the last time we saw each other, when we were both young women, just after her father died, almost a quarter of a century ago. Our fathers died a year apart from each other. I remember Angelica's father, my Uncle O., came to the memorial gathering I had for my father in my backyard in Highland Park. I was touched he made a point of being there. It would have been so much easier for him not to. I think he must have come for my sake, and maybe for Auntie Gardi since she was in Germany at the time and couldn't be there. It was awkward for him, I know, and it makes me cry grateful tears remembering him standing there on the grass, leaning forward slightly with his head and chest the way he did, a bit self-conscious, his eyes seeking mine, all kindness. Such a gift.

Twenty-five years later I saw his daughter's face before me again, and it was the same face I remembered, the same clear eyes, the same sweet, somehow secretive smile. She was still slender, graceful, wraithlike, only now her hair is grey, and so I laughed at her and shook my head, again and again. It seemed surreal. I didn't know her husband Barney as well, so the effect when he emerged later from his nap was not as striking, but it still made me grin and shake my head. I so enjoyed getting to see them both again. We ate watermelon, laughed, moved in and out of the spring-fed pool. I got to meet their daughter, Corina, who was a delight--grounded, clear-eyed, kind, interested, bright. I am so pleased for them, so proud, somehow, want to emphasize what a lovely job I think they've done in raising her. (Of course, she is herself, but they had a hand in making her, or allowing her to bloom, perhaps.) Indeed, everyone there was a pleasure to meet, to talk to, to be with, and my shy self-consciousness evaporated quickly. It was good to be with people my own age. And all the young people, too, were terrific--I hadn't realized quite how much I was missing that, the pleasure of spending time with thoughtful, engaged youth. And everywhere you turned on the property there was a striking view, a quirky characteristic, an element of charm. I was taken by the row of pale blue roadrunners traipsing across the wall of Barney's shop (have they been there for decades?) and the small metal bird, wings raised, who sat near the entrance to the pool.

 There was a certain mystical charm that shrouded the outing itself. I felt thrilled and honored to get to visit their property after hearing about their getaway over all these long years. And it carried a kind of mystique because of the way it had unfolded. I'd been walking to the pond one day with Auntie Christel when I first saw the sign for Chimney Ranch. I was so intrigued, so taken with the place from afar, even though you can hardly see it from the trail. I remember seeing the flag with the peace symbol billowing in the wind. I wondered if it was a retreat center of some sort, was hoping I could go stay there one day. "I'm going to Google it," I said. I was determined to discover the secret of the place. It still surprises me how very drawn I was to it. When I got home that day I must have talked to Auntie Gardi, told her about how taken I was by this place we'd seen on our walk. I couldn't believe it when she told me it must be Barney and Angelica's property, the one I’d heard about forever, for decades. And they had even been there the afternoon Auntie Christel and I passed by. How funny it would have been if they'd been out walking, if we'd met up on the trail. No doubt I would have laughed at Angelica in much the same way I did that first hour or so at the ranch. I wouldn't have believed it. I barely believe it even now as I write this. But I would have been grinning long after. I am grinning now.

Howling and the Moon (15)

The Coachella Valley Preserve usually closes at 5pm, but today we have special dispensation, can ignore the warnings posted in the parking lot. Already on my drive in I am lit up by the desert, driving the curving road to the preserve, watching the desert spread out in all directions, mountains near, the last light of the sun sending golds and oranges and long shadows stretching across its expanse. We gather near the visitor center, an eclectic group, some longtime locals and some visitors, mostly older but sporting a thirty-something or two and a not-yet-adolescent boy with a walking stick who knows much more than I do about the desert and its critters. Mark is here--he is co-leading the walk--and he introduces me to his companion, James. Ginny, the woman who runs the preserve, embarrasses him in a happy way with her glowing introduction. ("He knows a lot.") She gathers us under the fan palms and begins talking about where we are. I am struck by her vigor and her firmness of spirit. (Later I tell Mark she strikes me as someone who is really clear about what she likes and doesn't like. I envy that in people. So little strikes me as clear cut.) She is wearing a short-sleeved blouse and these very cool removable sleeves on her arms. She explains the oasis is caused by the water in the ground butting up against the San Andreas fault which runs directly through the grove we are standing in. She points out the call of a cactus wren coming from one of the palms. I am happy, thinking of the one we saw last time I was here, my first sighting. Then we spy two nearby, bathing in the dust in the middle of the trail. The sun has set but there is still enough light for me to watch them with my binoculars. It is serious business, ridding themselves of mites and the like, but it looks like play to me. I am watching, charmed, while Ginny goes back to talking, and I spot a quail crossing the trail. Then it is the whole covey, and I burst into her talk to tell everyone, but I am embarrassed. The covey crosses the trail two or three times, a treat to see them all together and on the move. Perhaps they spark our own departure.

We head north through the shrouded weaving bridges and I cringe at the thought of having to return this way in the dark. I am afraid of what lies unseen. I send up my prayers for the 19 of us and all the desert creatures. May we all be safe one from another. After the bridges, the trail is sandy and my new fun Mary Jane trekkers do not keep it out. Still, I am glad my toes are covered. We walk north, and I check the eastern horizon again and again as the dusk deepens. I am looking for the moon. Later someone spots the glow where it is about to rise, and we all stop to watch. It is otherworldly. We see it all from the first bright glimmering sickle to the big round orange globe balanced just above the edge of our world. It happens in moments and yet the intensity of it is like a film in slow motion, or a news feed coming from another planet, with pauses in between, room for awe. It is extraordinary. I forget to breathe.

We go on, past Barney and Angelica's place, and I am pleased to hear Ginny say they are good neighbors, as though this rubs off on me in some way because I know them. Venus is brilliant in the west, hanging just above the western ridge. We get to the pond, and I am relieved when we head to the west of it instead of looping around to the right. I am afraid to be among all the growth and hanging things in the dark. Ginny has an odd little light and shines it along the trail edges, hunting for something. She finds it and gathers us around. It is a black light she holds, and her find is phosphorescent beneath it, like the little creepy crawly glow-in-the-dark creatures I made when I was six with my Thing Maker. It is a scorpion. People take pictures of it. I refrain. We move on and Ginny continues to hunt, finds two or maybe three more for our perusal. I lose track of how many scorpions she shows us because it is wigging me out. They are everywhere. She leads us off the trail into the sand dunes, something we can only do because she is with us. I never veer off the trail in the daylight, am battling my fear hard now, shrubbery everywhere, people tripping over bushes or clumps of dried twigs. "This isn't my cup of tea," I say, make jokes about turning around now. I am fighting fear but there is truth in my teasing. Now Ginny shows us tracks in the even softer sand of the dunes. There are big, pronged raven tracks. I like seeing those. There are some for a snake that mostly swims under the sand. I find a space for myself between bushes and look at the desert spread out below us, lit by the moon. I am glad I came. Later, there are the tracks of a sidewinder. Ah. I am relieved to return to the trail.

The moon is high in the sky now, almost white again, and the trail is wide and open and lighted. My breath is easier. The mountains are grooved and the moon casts deep shadows along their flanks. It is truly like another world, this desert moonscape. I feel the soft sand give beneath each step. My legs are getting tired, and my trekkers are swimming in sand, but I am not uncomfortable. I drink water, try to take a picture of the moon. I am in no hurry for our time out here to be over, but we are heading back now. We hear coyotes calling from the other side of the wash, a long stone's throw from us. I am glad I am not alone. I know every sound, every shadow would become a coyote. But I am not afraid, not with everyone chatting around me in the moonlit dark. I love coyotes. I stand still and relish their calls. They are the finishing touch to our visit to this other land, their voices familiar and eerie, a discovered species--we are the aliens here. They fall silent, and our long line wends its way toward our beginning. The moon and the stars and the coyotes study us as we make our way back along the trail. Soon the shining desert night will be wholly theirs.

Celebrating the Sun God (14)

I have said for years I wanted to begin observing the eight main pagan holidays. And for years I have mostly given them a nod, maybe lit a candle, said a few words. I liked the idea of them, what little I knew, of the marking of the year, in their ties to the earth, to the seasons, to the turning of our world. But I didn’t do them justice. A year or two ago I realized if I wanted to make them "real" holidays, I needed to take off work. I wrestled with that before I managed to scoff my way past my initial dismay. "You've got to be kidding me," I said to myself. "You can't take off eight days in the whole damn year?" My laugh was harsh, unkind. Maybe that's why it took me so long to get here, to be ready to truly observe them. Maybe I had to move past that meanness.

Yesterday was the summer solstice. Last week I googled "summer solstice" and “ritual,” picked and chose a few tidbits, ideas for my altar, smatterings of lore. One site suggested tying fresh herbs in a bit of cloth, putting in your challenges, burying it in the earth to release them. They called for yellow candles. I found one on an early morning run to Ralph's for goat milk. Honeysuckle. Yellow, for the sun god. How perfect, I thought. It is my goal to embrace the heat this summer, so it seemed right to be honoring the god of the sun. I picked three stems of pennyroyal from my vegetable garden, pinched three sprigs of lavender from my desert plot, and three fresh green tips of the basil my Tante Helga brought me from its spot outside the gate, protecting our home. I layered them in a neat pile in sets of threes, basil-pennyroyal-lavender, wrapped them in a scrap of maroon cloth I had tucked in my arts box and tied the little bundle with a matching ribbon leftover from my birthday. Then I wrinkled it up and inhaled. It smelled sharp, pungent, like the damp earth I would bury it in. I imagined all my old anger, fear, shame, regret, self-loathing, tied up in the scented cloth. The cotton was soft against my nose.

It was an echo of the early morning hours. I had looked it up last week, knew the sun's transit into Cancer happened here at 4:29am. I had no plans to be awake for it, would do what I would do later in the day. The stray tomcat woke me, though, his croaky chorus only feet away from me outside the screen door. I greeted him, shushed him, rolled over on my stomach. My thoughts drifted in that hazy, dreamy place between sleep and wakefulness. I remembered something I was ashamed of doing years ago. I remembered it was the solstice, a time for the shedding of things, thought of letting it go. I already can't reach back to describe what happened even though it was only yesterday morning. It had the soft edges and floating nature of a dream, but I was awake and engaged. I felt things leaving my body, clearing out old pockets, old energy I insist on holding. I imagined it returning to the earth, turning into good things like tulips and sunflowers and fuyu persimmon trees. I lay still for a long time, drifting in and out, but I have no doubt it was real.

In the late morning I gathered the rest of the things to make my altar in our courtyard. I let the wire birds from Mami and the reindeer candle holder from Colleen remain in their places on the table, let them begin the collection. I picked a vivid red hibiscus, a stem of the magenta bougainvillea, some tecoma and a sunflower.

I had the raven join us and the restored red wooden angel with her metal horse. I added a cucumber and tomatoes from our garden and a peach from Trader Joe's. They said to eat fruit after the ritual for the sweetness of summer. I crinkled the cloth bag now and then, breathed it in, remembered the magic of those dawn hours. In the afternoon I lit the yellow candle. I shook my rattles. I dug a small hole with my spade and buried the bag of fresh herbs in the moist earth among the new little blue flowers and the marigolds. I patted the dirt down over it. I said goodbye, gave thanks. I moved a smooth brown river rock above its spot. I had dirt on my fingers, under my nails. I let the yellow candle burn. I could see it flickering through the screen door when I turned over in the night. I ate the peach this morning standing over the kitchen sink. It was sweet, juicy, perfect. I ate the tomatoes in my salad late this afternoon. I am alive with the fruit of the sun.

Whitewater Revisited (13)

It was my second visit to Whitewater, but my first guided bird walk there. Mark, the man who led the walk at the Coachella Valley Preserve, was standing alone in the parking lot. I was not late this time. I laughed. "What,” I said, “are you the only man in the entire valley who leads bird walks?" I think I embarrassed him. Thinking back, there was something presumptuous about my approach. It was without softness. Plus, I was wrong. He was attending the walk, not leading it. I was cold, borrowed a bright pink shawl from lost and found. Our guide was Nick, a young man who had been working at the preserve since soon after it opened a little over two years ago. He was soft spoken and gentle and knew of what he spoke. He led us into a part of the preserve the public wasn't allowed to wander in by themselves, a special treat, I thought. He was grounded in his knowledge, not boastful. He didn't tell us book learning. He told us where he tended to see the birds, what they were doing, named the trees they'd often sit in. It was his own knowing gathered there over time. I think the five of us on the walk all felt lucky in him.

I knew the least, felt silly a time of two, asking the obvious. But everyone was kind, patient. I saw four birds for the first time: the summer tanager, the ash-coated fly catcher, the California thrasher and the song sparrow. Even better, I believe I learned the song sparrow's call, thanks to Nick, but time will tell. We mostly heard house finches, but I can never get tired of their songs. We heard ravens calling from a distance. We saw finches and starlings, mallards and hummingbirds and towhees. After, Mark and I walked up a ways on the lands open to the public and stumbled upon a family of American kestrels. Ah, what a treat. I saw the mother flying with one of the young ones, only for a moment. I've seen this before, had my suspicions it was a parent and child, never been sure. Then we got to watch the small ones for quite some time. It was pure sweetness, their little painted bodies perched in the bare branches of big trees across a meadow. And watching those feathery adolescents together was a good start to our own fledgling friendship, I think. I am grateful for both.

[Editor's note: Here is an image of an American kestrel for your pleasure. Now I want to get a camera with a telescopic lens. This has always been a dream of mine, getting to zoom in sharp and crisp on a little life in the distance, see the wind ruffling fur or feathers. A woman on this walk had a 500-times magnification, if I understood her right. I almost can't imagine it. But even as I write this I think this may not be right. I'll have to investigate.]

Big Morongo Canyon Preserve (12)

Like another world, even in summer. Stopping to study the kiosk, outlines of birds of prey on floor and walls, coded to match up flight outlines, names--ingenious, quaint, giving knowledge. A family ahead of me, disappearing down the raised walkway. Then there is no one but me. Lush, green, quiet. Stark brown hills nearby sharp against the blue, so different from the greens surrounding me. A butterfly garden with all the plants labeled. More sweetness, another offering. So silent. Little benches tucked away, generous, beckoning. I am afraid to sit, afraid of what might come to me from below the jungle walkway. Smiling at myself, but staying upright. Meandering more than walking, like swimming a soft breast stroke in a quiet stream. No destination. Birds calling, unseen. Big white flowers everywhere, reminding me of calla lilies. Later, a bench I deem safe, a rest. Water beneath you in other seasons. I am eager for it.

Yerba mansa

The House on the Hill (11)

I drove to 29 Palms to get the lay of the land, to see what lies between us. There are odd little homestead places for sale there and throughout the valleys between mine and theirs. I am intrigued, off into dreaming a bit. I wanted to know what the land looked like, what the towns felt like, get an overview, a map in my body. I didn't see much of a town in 29 Palms, but I have to say I like the name of it. (My number is 29.) I drove up into their southern hills (my northern range, I am guessing), criss-crossed through neighborhoods. The view is striking because it goes on forever, hills and desert as far as you can see to the north and east.

I was struck by a house on a corner, wanted it immediately. It wasn't for sale but didn't need to be for dreaming. (I am a romantic.) I could see myself living there, planting palos verdes and bougainvillea, building a little patio for my misters, soaking up the view. I stopped to photograph her. The air was hot and dry; no breeze stirred the few bushes planted on that street. The silence was extraordinary. I caught the street signs; the house was on the corner of Twilight and North Star. Talk about romantic. My eyes were pulled back to the north and the east again and again. I can't remember being able to see so far. The view entices travel, begs you to explore the unimaginable distance, to find the edge of the earth. And the quiet feeds a craving deep within.

I could imagine living there with that view and that silence. I would have to plant trees, though, make my garden lush. I needed more than the oleander someone had planted by the porch. Still, I was reluctant to leave "my" corner, but I could imagine someone inside the house wondering what this odd woman thought she was doing in their (almost) front yard. So I headed downhill, saw a cluster of trees in the distance, crossed the highway to find out what they signaled. It was a big green park, so surprising. But the best part were the grackles hopping about, making their marvelous grackle noises. If I lived on the corner of North Star and Twilight, it would be a straight shot, a few blocks downhill to the park. I would come to luxuriate in green and shade. I would visit the grackles.

[Editor's note: I got a small sense of the other towns along the way, too--Joshua Tree, Yucca Valley, Morongo Valley--but I didn't stop to explore them. I'll leave my initial findings about them for another day when I return to get a real feeling for these places. I plan to let them still count as "new" things.]

No Poet (10)

I am not a poet, but when I saw there was going to be a poetry workshop at the city library I decided I would try to get myself there, take advantage of another new thing, maybe get to meet other writers, stretch myself in the poetry department. I've always thought poetry was something I should love to read and write, the essence of playing with words, of being present, making something beautiful or powerful or both. But I tend to be a prose gal, even if my desire is often to write sentence fragments. When the workshop instructor asked us what came to mind when we thought of poetry, the first thing I thought of was not having to write in complete sentences. Poetic, hmm? Second was the immediacy of a poem. When I opened my notebook I found two 3 by 5 notecards with the answers she was looking for written on them. They must be from Richard, the only poet friend I have seen since I started this task at my birthday, when I began this notebook for my 52 things. He must have given these cards to me when we went to the cooking demonstration, but I'd completely forgotten tucking them away in the book. I was flabbergasted to have them appear like magic when the instructor asked us what poetry was, these beautiful quotes about what poetry can be. Looking back on it now I think Richard must have been involved, or angels, or both. But what a sweet thing.

Only two of us arrived for the workshop, and I admit I was disappointed. I had hoped for the charge of a room full of writers, and for that thing that happens when you write in a room together, hearing other pens moving across the page, like the difference between meditating alone or in a group. But two of us meant we wrote more, read more, and that can only be good. I have judgments about the instructor, but I'm not sorry I went. Not at all. I thought she didn't seem relaxed, thought she didn't seem connected to the "lecture" parts she presented, and they lacked meaning for me because of that. After I read what I'd written she said, "That's really good," in a high-pitched voice, and it rubbed me the wrong way. She sounded surprised, too, and I didn't like that either. I understood in my gut why praising people is not the best approach, why I learned to reach for specific, positive truths instead of the more traditional, "Good job." (Although I admit to using both "Good job" and "Good work" in my own comments to students in addition to pointing out specific things I think they are doing well in their writing.) There was something about her (that high note in her voice?) that didn't feel genuine to me, but I can argue she may have only been nervous and not able to be completely comfortable, completely herself. She teaches English full time at the community college, said she is doing these kinds of events two and three times a week. I can't imagine how she does that. She must not sleep.

I liked that she brought photos and I liked that she began with an exercise where the beginnings of each line of the poem were crafted for us (i.e. "I am sad when . . ."). I like that I wrote so much I felt tired by the end. Ah, but I just realized that was kind of odd. Why was I not stimulated and spurred on by the writing? Is it because there were only two of us participating? I felt used up at the end. But I felt like I'd gotten a good work out, so I appreciate that. And though I would have liked to have been asked to write more poetry instead of prose (since it was supposed to be a poetry workshop and I wanted to stretch, expand my perimeters), I was happy to find myself able to enter into my writing and be part of the magic, to have things come to me there, fall on the page. The young woman who was writing with me had a line I thought was exquisite. In that first activity (where the beginning of each line of the poem was provided) we were told to write in the first person as the desert and she wrote, "I pretend to be the sea." I love that. I savor it. My own favorite line from that exercise was, "I cry when the coyote dies of thirst." I guess it makes sense that later, when we were given a map from our local wilderness and told to choose one of the names and write a short narrative, I chose a place called "Coyote Dry Lake," though I didn't track the connection at the time. This is what came.

I've never understood why they named this place Coyote Dry Lake. It seems to me if it was already dry when they named it, then it wasn't a lake. I think it must have had water in it once. I feel the memory of water here, especially at dusk. They say the ghosts of animals who lived by the lake come to its edges at twilight, but I don't see them. I believe they come, though. It makes sense to me. They say an angel named the place because from the heavens you can see the shape of a coyote in the sand. They say the coyote god came here at the end of a long, dry journey and drank the lake one evening, then curled up in the dry lake bed at dusk. I guess this last would explain its name after all. It was a lake and then it wasn't. Then it was the belly and the bed of the coyote, sleeping in the dry darkness.

Whitewater Preserve (9)

My new things got me here on a Saturday morning, that goal and the offer of an "interpretive nature hike." I am liking this, enjoying how my "need" to do new things is paying off so soon. 

I am hopeful in the fall it will call me away from my work, help me be healthier in that way. I am late for the walk by a minute or two. There is a big group and we each sign in. The guide is warm, his voice resonant, and I like the way he makes a point of stopping along the way to tell the whole group in a booming voice what he has to say. It is the story of the aquifer and the happy news the water level is rising; restoration is working. This preserve is a wildlife corridor. Things are coming back into balance. It is good to know, levels out some of the horror. I walk at the back, thirty or more people before me, a long snake through the winding path through the canyon.

The creek is alive and crisp, clear. There are two charming little footbridges, and flowers growing in the water, their tiny blossoms covering the surface where they fall. I peek at them through the wooden slats, a floating bed of lavender. After less than half a mile the guide tells us this is the turnaround spot, so most of us continue on without him. We spread out little by little, and then I am walking alone. I stay on the original trail and head north through the canyon floor. The air is clear, the rocky walls sharp, the snow on Mt. San Jacinto and San Gorgonio framing my view.

I don't have enough water for a long hike, so I take small sips, make it last. I hear soft noises and look around for the raven. One is flying near me, taking slow glides. He is making that sound I think of as their affectionate voice, all round edges, so different from their loud caws. He flies with me for a long time, and I think he is watching over me, keeping me company. My sandals crunch in the white rocky sand and the wind rustles the bushes. I can hear the stream from somewhere on the other side of the canyon floor. The sun is hot. It would be stupid to keep walking without water, so I turn back, take more small sips. 

I chat with a man and woman along the path. I enjoy the warmth of the encounter, ponder the dynamics of their relationship. I dangle my feet in the rocky pool near the parking lot where kids are wading in the cold mountain water. I drink water in the office, talk to a second couple there. The man has a sly smile that confuses me. He has traveled in Mexico. His smile says he has a secret, but I think I am misreading him. They have walked in from where the creek meets the road. They are going to the casino in Palm Springs for a special price on the buffet. People come to the counter asking for free fish food to feed the trout. The man working there shows us a photo on a cell phone of a baby screech owl they rescued today. This evening they’ll return him to the nest in one of the rock faces. I ask if they are keeping him in a dark corner somewhere until then. By the trout pond I see a man with a big blue and yellow bird on his shoulder, and I go to meet him. The man tells me he is a blue and gold macaw. He sits on my hand and drinks water from the plastic cup I got at the office. His feet are strong but he is soft and gentle with my skin. I am startled for a moment when he goes toward my hand. He dries his beak on my finger, and I am charmed. It's a happy morning.

[Editor's note: Here is a link to see a photo of the kind of macaw I met at the trout pond. He was a beauty, very like this guy.]

The Salton Sea (8)

The day is tied to my longing for Mexico. I hope to be immersed in all things mexicano, though I can't say why. I meander along Highway 111 making note of what I travel through for the first time after Palm Desert, of the way these southern mountains I love so much change shape, come forward and retreat as the road winds along. I pass Indio, leave “city” behind, begin to relax. I pass open fields, fallow and planted. I see rural businesses, rusty signs in Spanish. I wonder what makes the air still say United States. Is it the paved road itself, the shape of the electric poles and lines? Or is it some internal knowing that changes the landscape when we cross a border? I pass rows and rows of palms, baffled. Why would so many palms be planted so close together? Ah, date farms. I lick my lips, thinking of their future fruit, enjoy their solid, happy presence. I drive south and the mountains to the right come with me.

I get off the highway at Desert Shores, drive through empty roads. The air is hot, still, and then I hear grackles calling through my open windows. I am taken back to my first morning on the Mexican mainland after crossing from La Paz on the ferry. I was driving south, too, and the first time I stopped after a toll and emerged from the car, the trees were filled with grackles. I didn't know who they were then, only heard their loud exotic voices in the trees. They marked my transition from the Baja peninsula, told my body I was in a foreign land. And I fell in love with them. When I hear them in this different world, I am washed in memory, in an ache that sits just off my center. I drive to the end of the road and see a lot for sale that sits on the edge of the Salton Sea. If you built there you'd have the sea on one side and the mountains on the other. I can picture living there, but now there are flies coming into my car. They make me wonder. (Do they go away when the real heat comes? I'd have to have a big screened-in porch, I think, and then there is the worry about the saving of the Salton Sea itself.) Someone has built a blue house next door that looks like it belongs on the east coast, Newport, maybe, two stories with flower pots crowded on both decks, homey.

I go back to the highway, escape the flies, keep heading south. I wasn't sure if I would circle the lake or not but it now seems as though I will. I see signs for Mexico. I will be 40 miles from the border, realize I'd be tempted to keep going if I had my passport with me. I notice the hills leave at some point and the desert is too bright for my unsunglassed eyes. It tires me. But when I turn east to reach the Sonny Bono Wildlife Refuge, there are planted fields, the green a relief. And there are red-winged blackbirds flitting here and there in among the growing things. I remember falling in love with their odd sounds and their bright reddish orange flashing shoulders when I lived in Cotati and walked out past the old Hewlitt Packard place where the city left off and the open spaces began. They would congregate in the evenings, calling to each other among the swaying grasses.

I pull in to the refuge and I am the only one here. There are no cars, no people, only the sign and the wind in the trees. It is almost eery, like an old Twilight Zone episode I will always remember, where one man survived and was so glad he had the library, endless books and endless time to enjoy them. And then he breaks his glasses. I have always hated cruel tragedy. But I shrug away the wrenching ending of the TV episode and the odd surprise of being the only human there and take the Rock Hill Trail out to the edge of the Salton Sea. There are cottontails everywhere, and wind and sun and palo verdes still in bloom, and then closer to the water there are huge numbers of birds, even this late in May. I watch a pelican glide, think of Todos Santos and the huge flocks of them along my stretch of ocean there, and there is a gull who scares me. He takes me by surprise more than once, screeching in a loud voice from very near me, diving and scolding me, it seems. There are tiny nursery islands they have made to help the migrating birds raise their young away from predators. Maybe he is telling me to go away, to leave them in peace. Maybe he believes I am a threat to his babies. Maybe he is a she.

The wind tries to steal my hat. The waves are strong, their loud rhythm welcome and unexpected. It is a real sea, and I am standing beside it in the middle of the desert. I marvel, wander, watch, listen, breath it in. My walk back is quiet. I take a peace back with me from the edge of the sea. I have been here for almost two hours and have not seen or heard another human, no car, nothing. My own little red car is waiting for me, alone in the parking area. It still feels odd but not eery. I drive away, head north now up the east side of the lake. I stop at the waterfowl viewing area, and it is deserted, too. But I see a canal and a dirt path that follows it to the sea. I will come back here. I stop again at the "town" of North Shore. Riverside County has built a beautiful "yacht club" and community center at the side of the sea. It is contemporary and landscaped and another surprise in a spot where Gertrude Stein would say there is no "there" there.

I am tired now but I enjoy the rest of the drive along the eastern edge of the lake. I can see the mountains, hazy on the western side. The view with the water between us reminds me of my balcony view in Ajijic, looking across Lake Chapala to my favorite extinct volcano. I keep heading north, and a Southern Pacific train is heading south. I am sandwiched between the lake and the slow moving train, and while the long train stays with us it seems as though there is no one else in the world, only me and the conductor. When I drive through Indio there is a small demonstration there against the Arizona anti-immigration law. I am stopped at a red light. I wave my fist, smiling through the open window. Yes! Yes! You go! People are honking, supporting their efforts. A woman sees me and smiles back. I am glad, connected. I have good chills when the light turns green and we all drive on. I have been gone for almost eight hours, driving for about six of them. I am tired but satisfied. I have the lake and its surroundings imprinted on me. I will not lose this sense of it, of how it sits in the world, or where it falls in relationship to where I live, what lives between me and the Salton Sea. I arrive home just after the sun has gone behind our mountain, and it feels good to be back near it again, to return to our protected niche where the mountains curve and cradle us. I am glad I went. I am glad I'm home.

My New Wren (7)

Today I went to the Coachella Valley Preserve for my first guided bird hike. I didn't know this was the last one they had until fall. I would have been sad to have missed so many chances, to have had to wait four months. But Mark, the leader, told me about two other places who have guided bird walks, too, so I won't have to wait, including the wild bird rescue place where I brought the mourning dove last week. And he said they're having a special full moon hike at the preserve in June. Ah. Hiking in the desert in the summer dark will require a bravery I am not certain I can muster, but I want to. I want to bring myself. I can imagine it because most parts of the trails are pretty open there, can picture it luminous on the full moon night, want to be brave enough to go.

Today we had the sun's light, and 7:30 found us gathered under the fan palms, the chill morning air surprising. It was windy, the birds hunkered down, hidden. We heard one calling in the palms. Mark said it was a cactus wren (who I had never seen). The call was familiar to me, one my subconscious recognized, I think. But we didn't see the wren until much later. We saw mourning doves and ravens, all seeming to struggle in the wind. We caught sight of a bird who flitted about, off and on, here and there, but he was impossible for even the experts to pin down. A swift? A tufted something? No one knew. We walked to the oasis, the water clear, still, promising. The house finches lived there, singing and flying about, morning visits. The males have a more vibrant red here than I've ever seen. It's iridescent. We climbed to Vista Point and looked toward the Salton Sea, toward San Gorgonio, the desert and mountains vast and forever. The wind was fierce.

On the way back a cactus wren was kind enough to call to us from the top of a dead palm tree. He was lovely, all softness, somehow, like hawk babies with their fluff. His beak was graceful, and he seemed so cheerful. Standing there in the clear, windy desert air watching and listening, he made me glad. And I knew he was one I was truly learning, his image and his sound imprinting me. It has been my fond hope to learn more and more birds by their voices, the only way I can imagine really knowing them, finding them in the world. As I type this I can't bring his sound back to me, but I hope I'll recognize it again, have it become fully entrenched in me the way a hummingbird is or a red shouldered hawk. When I got home today, I'd only just walked in the door when I heard someone calling outside. Who was that? I reached for my binoculars, moved with care into the courtyard, pointed them toward the voice. I couldn't believe who was sitting there in our pine. You'd think this was fabricated, too perfect to be true. I still can't bring the voice back to me, didn't recognize it then when I grabbed the binoculars, was just fresh from my bird hike, eager to discover more. But I saw the fluff, the speckles, the sweet curve of the beak, watched the body puff and vibrate as he gave his cheery call. I knew him; I'd learned him today. And now he was sitting in our tree as though he'd been there always, and maybe he had. Or maybe he just wanted to be sure I remembered him, the beautiful little happy bird, my new wren.

[Editor's note: Here is a picture of a cactus wren sitting on an ocotillo bush. Ours was atop a dead palm but we saw a blooming ocotillo, too.]

Seven Sisters (6)

Second Sunday in May, Mother's Day. Mami and Auntie Gardi, off to Indian Canyons. The three of us walking through dry desert, full bloom over, flowers sprinkled still. Mami racing ahead, Auntie Gardi and I loitering over hidden flowers, the view each time we turn, round a corner, remember to look up. Hidden white flowers, tiny purple stars on dried stems, large yellow blooms, huge rock faces, and then the stream. Fresh mountain water tumbling across the desert. A shock, a gift, a glory. The sound is everywhere we walk. Crossing the water again and again, the bottom clear, colored stones calling to us. Winding through Murray Canyon, climbing, turning, breezes keeping away heat, becoming strong winds. White puffy clouds, rounded red rock ridges meeting sharp blue sky. A steep slippery scary part, vow to do the downhill on my butt, not taking any chances. A wrong turn, a dead end, no, no, not the waterfalls. Backtracking, finding the path. Folks returning, wet, swimmers. Around the next bend. People snapping pictures of a floundering Monarch with their cell phones. The wind too fierce for him?

The falling water loud, cacophonous. Big rocks like carvings, sculpture, the pool small, inviting, clear bottomed. Stopping later in the shade, eating rice wraps that fall apart on us, small heirloom tomatoes, fresh strawberries. Mami and I with brown desert dirt butts, Auntie Gardi laughing behind us. Counting the crossings on the way back down the winding trail. Well placed stones making paths across the stream, or splashing through the water, the cold on my feet, my calves, sweet in the warm day.

A sea of furry grasses, waving in the wind, brushing bare arms and legs in passing, soft as feathers. Eleven stream crossings in all, each way. Then walking across open desert to my dusty red car, tired, satisfied, glad. We'd seen the Seven Sisters.