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.