Wednesday, March 30

Our Tomorrows

Will you still read me when I'm 53? ♪♫ ♪
http://53at53.wordpress.com/

My new blog link is above.
I hope you'll come visit soon. ♥

P.S. If you can't say your farewells with
a kind of corny poem in your own blog,
then where can you? (See below. ;-)

Tuesday, March 29

Sweet Sorrow

My brain is dead to the truth.
My 52 new things are old now and over.
My mind doesn't grasp it, yet
I am poised to become one year older.
I'm glad I saw the blog through,
But I couldn't have done it without you.
Marylou and Richard, Colleen,
You've been here often, heartened me,
Offered me pleasure and polish and sheen.
Mami and Auntie Gardie, Merissa, Margie, Michelle.
There have been others,
People I know, people I love,
Reading in silence, reading in secret,
The quiet, hidden mourning dove.
And strangers have wandered in, too, though I don't know
If they've stayed to read or have just passed through.
To date it shows 587 page views,
487 from the United States, 8 from Germany, 10 countries all told.
It is more than I can hold.
But with a grateful heart I bid you adieu, and I say
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

Wednesday, March 23

Field Guide Gods and Desert Wildflowers (52)

"Does anyone still need to buy the textbook?" I asked. And then my insides squiggled with both an eek and a thrill when one of my classmate's said, "Yes." I was acting on impulse, the words leaping from my throat. I'd already debated this and had decided I would just keep the book, would perhaps use it to look up extra information about the flowers. But I was taking a chance letting go of it that evening. I'd already copied down all the scientific family names, but I wasn't sure if I'd be able to find all the flowers online to study for the final exam the next week. I didn't want to keep the book, though, didn't want to have spent $30 on something I wasn't likely to use again. Another classmate had shown me her little wildflower guide the week before, and I was sending up prayers they might have it at the Joshua Tree visitor center where we'd be stopping on Saturday.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit it, but finding the guide in their little store was the highlight of the field trip for me. Does that make be grasping and bent on acquisitions, mercenary, blind to the glory of the desert in March? Maybe. But I was so happy my hunch, my impulsive leap of faith paid off, so grateful the field guide gods had granted me this gift. And it was only $21.70, to boot. I got to use it right away to identify the one new flower I happened to notice that day amidst all the others being pointed out to us. It looked like the Desert Chicory but it had some yellow at its center and a dab of rose. I used my new book to look up chicory, and there it was on a nearby page: Ghost Gravel. It reached above my waist, delicate and wispy. And it was my first "find." Maybe I would have relished it more, even recognized it as the highlight of the day for me if my instructor hadn't brushed off my questions about it in annoyance. Ah, well. I know I can be annoying at times, though I'm not sure what I'd done that afternoon to warrant his impatience. It may have been a cumulative thing. But still, it is the pleasure of finding the field guide that comes back to me. Even now, I love just holding the little book in my hands.






















































































[Editor's note: I thought I may as well go out with a bang here and show you several of my favorite shots from the day. For those of you who may be curious, from top to bottom these are Wild Heliotrope, Bigelow Monkey Flower, Rock Daisies, Canterbury-bells and a mix of wildflowers in a Box Canyon wash that include Gold Poppies, Chias and Arizona Lupine---possibly more. All the images were taken at the southeast end of Joshua Tree or in Box Canyon, BLM land nearby.]

My New Sparrow (51)

I realized my lament was beginning to sound too much like complaining. "I'm over saturated," I said to one of my classmates. "I can't take in another new flower, can't enjoy this anymore." I'd already said this more than once. I couldn't handle this rapid moving from one wildflower to the next with no time in between to just be. And besides, I was feeling uncomfortable about all twenty-something of us waltzing off the trail and wandering through the desert wash. It felt wrong to me. So, I bid my fellow stragglers adieu and returned to the trail. I climbed up and over a tiny ridge nearby in search of my abandoned center, my sense of awe, my peace. I didn't go far. I only had a little water left, and I was tired. But I needed to feel the majesty of the place. I meandered along the trail for a few minutes. I saw another gorgeous Beavertail Cactus in bloom. I was hearing sweet birdsong, too, and finally got a good look at the singers.

















They would dart about a bit, but then a bird would sit still, perched on one long, reaching woody stem not far from the trail. They had white lines at sharp angles above and below their eyes. I guessed they were a kind of sparrow, and I knew their markings were so dramatic and distinctive I'd have no trouble finding them in my California bird book when I returned to the car. (I was right. They were Black-throated Sparrows, and I had that lovely little thrill of having identified them on my own.) I stood in the middle of the trail looking and listening for a long time. I took in the stretch of the far valley and the distant mountains. I felt the sun on my back, heard the cars on the highway, saw two hikers make their slow way down a narrow, windy trail nearby. I listened to the sparrows, and I lost that harried edge. I loved watching them. Their whole bodies sang.

[Editor's note: I can't tell you who holds the copyright on this photo but I can point you to their webpage here: http://www.ownbyphotography.com/traveldiaryp37.html. It looks like the photographer has chronicled his or her travels and posted some lovely stuff! I am hoping they won't mind I've borrowed their image of my new sparrow.]

Wednesday, March 9

I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing

Do you remember that commercial? Was it Alka-Seltzer? I can't recall the images, but I can still hear the tone of voice. It's not what I feel now, not overly glutted. But I think the phrase popped into my mind because I do share the stunned quality of those actors, the same shock at the outcome. I only need two more posts to meet my goal of posting 52 "new things" while I'm 52. I guess it shouldn't be surprising to me that once the bulk of the work is done the ending seems to fly by. My school semesters feel that way, too. But for so long this endless line of unwritten posts stretched out ahead of me, and now there are only two left, and endless choices, it would seem, for posting. I begin my native desert plants class tomorrow, so I can easily post two new wildflowers, something to accompany all these birds. ;-)

I plan to do another blog while I'm 53, but this time I will not limit myself to "new" things. I'm considering going with a straight and prosaic "53 Things" for this next one. (Yes, I do hear how dull this sounds. Maybe I'll have an epiphany?) I know it's silly of me to have felt constricted this year by my own guidelines, but I did. I'm hoping I will find a refreshing freedom in the looseness of my next project. I'm imagining I will jot down ideas when they come to me, then have a good list of appealing possibilities whenever I sit down to write. I'm imagining no restraints, sweet creativity welling up and magic happening on the page. I am grinning as I write this, wondering what sort of imaginary blocks or unlooked for troubles I might discover in my new endeavor. Will I be at a loss because there is no imposed structure? But I will hold to the idea of ease and fun and abundance and richness and depth. If the process provides an "otherwise," I'll trust to learn from the experience. What more can I ask for, hmm? Oh, well, maybe to feel good about all my posts? I'd like to have more readers, too. (Or, if I have more readers now, to somehow know they are reading.) And speaking of readers, I will write one more note to you again before I end this blog. I have been very glad you are here.

Sunday, March 6

My New Warbler (50)

I was sitting on the patio Wednesday morning when a bird caught my eye. I don't remember what I had been doing. Maybe I was working and happened to glance up from my laptop. Or maybe I'd been stopped, daydreaming, having just eaten my slice of pumpernickel with goat butter. The bird was on the rocks in the southwest corner of my yard. House Sparrows show up there all the time, finding fallen thistle seeds from the sock feeder, and nibbling on berries that have dropped from the palm tree. I see a Bewick's Wren there often, and White Crowned Sparrows.










 


Myrtle warbler © Lester Rees

 

But something alerted me when I saw this bird, though I couldn't see her colors, couldn't tell until I picked up the binoculars she wasn't one of the usual suspects. Oh, but what fun when I focused in and saw her. She was beautiful, with a yellow throat and other spots of yellow on her body that was shades of grey. She had a delicacy about her I admired, and she was kind enough to stay put while I got a good look at her. After she left, I leafed through my California bird book until I found her. Aside from the treat of watching the birds themselves, I get my biggest pleasure in this when I identify a new bird. I felt that way Wednesday, all happy and proud and satisfied, the puzzle solved. Ah, and grateful, too, for both the visit and the intuition that had be picking up my binoculars for a closer look.

[Editor's note: My warbler did indeed have a yellow throat---an Audubon's Yellow-Rumped Warbler and not the Myrtle you see here---but this east coast equivalent was the closest I could come to how mine looked.]

Salvation Mountain (49)

I've known about Salvation Mountain and the man who has made it his life's work, but I had never visited it before. We went by as a "cultural sidetrip" during a daylong exploration of the Salton Sea for my winter birds class at the local community college. The man who created this extravagant work of folk art wasn't there when we stopped by, but we wandered around a bit and I took some photographs. The part that fascinated me the most is what the artist calls the "museum."































It's built from hay bales and "tire trees" and has windows set into it in high places and odd angles. I also loved the ongoing feeling of the project, of adding here and painting there. It lit up the part of me who longs for hands-on artwork, and I marvel at the scope and longevity of this project. I tend to let the biblical verses trip me up, but my sense is this labor goes beyond its base of Christianity. "Leonard just wants everybody to get along," our instructor said. "He's just about the nicest man you could meet." Maybe one day I'll go back to meet him. [The "official" website is here for anyone who wants to peruse this a bit more: http://www.salvationmountain.us/.]

Sunday, February 20

My Marsh Wren (48)

I'm taking another bird class at the community college. This one is wintering birds. We met last Saturday at the Wild Bird Center. I'd been there before, but this was the first time I'd walked out to the wetlands area. There were a zillion water birds, mostly ducks, I think. I found myself growing frustrated. There was no baseline for observing them. I had no idea how to find the different birds our teacher, Kurt, was calling out. I got cranky. This is not why you are here, I told myself. Look where you are. You are doing what you love. The rest of the class had moved past me on the trail, and I let them go. I stood still and listened to the birds calling from all directions. I knew I was hearing the marsh wren because Kurt had told us. But they were hidden in the high growth surrounding the water, flitting from stem to stem. It was hard to get a good look at them. When I did get a clear view of one, I had an "aha." She looked familiar to me. She made me understand wrens for the first time. They have a delicateness and a curving grace. This one was a brown speckled beauty. I was glad I'd hung back, found my center, met my wren. But I'm happy, too, to think I may recognize the next new wren I see. I may know she is a wren before I identify what kind of wren she is. It sounds so basic when I say it out loud, but it feels like a sign for me of forward movement.

Friday, February 18

My First Rejection (47)

I got my first rejection "letter" the other day. It was emailed to me. "Dear Riba Taylor: We regret that your manuscript does not fit our current editorial needs, but we appreciated the opportunity to consider your work. Thanks very much for submitting. Sincerely, The Editors of Ploughshares." I couldn't help thinking, in this day of cut and paste, it might have been a tiny bit more substantial. I wondered if they had various versions. Maybe mine was the bare bones rejection, the one they sent out to people whose work they thought was particularly inappropriate for their magazine. What was she thinking? Maybe they send out more richly crafted rejection letters to people whose work they liked better. When I saw it in my inbox, my heart fluttered. I don't remember it plummeting when I read the note. I think I just went on, sifted through my other email, made my morning "rounds." But tonight, days later, I'm still wishing there had been more to the rejection letter. And maybe I'd like it better if it had come in the regular mail. Maybe a bow would have been nice. I don't let myself feel my disappointment. I tell myself it is still a beginning. I am moving now.

Wednesday, February 2

The Kestrel Takes a Sparrow (46)

The other day I heard a commotion among the house sparrows in the hedge at the far side of my landlord's yard. I looked over the fence, worried Sofia or Sable might be the ones causing the uproar. Instead of glimpsing their telltale gray or black fur poking out beneath the pyracantha, I saw an American kestrel flying away, a house sparrow grasped in his talons. I watched him fly east, flapping his wings and calling out as he went. I could hear the sparrow screaming. I stood in the courtyard, hands on my hips, listening to them long after they disappeared from sight.

The Talking Hawk (45)

Yesterday I was working out on the patio in my little courtyard, my laptop resting on my thighs, my feet propped up on the chair before me. I'm not sure what made me look up from concentrating on the screen. I think there must have been a subtle shift among the birds. It was nothing like the usual commotion a hunting bird will cause. Even today, when a hawk came calling, they all took wing from the pine tree at once, a dark cloud against the sky, so many more than I would ever imagine resting there. But yesterday there was no big commotion, only a quickening, a quieting. In that lull I brought my head up, and a hawk appeared before me. He perched on the fence, almost lost his balance on the thin wooden slats. I could hear his strong talons clawing for purchase in the wood as he steadied himself. I sat up, brought my feet to the ground. My mouth hung open at the sight of him. He was so big, so beautiful. And gods, he was close. He looked around, his eyes light and intelligent. He acted like this was our ordinary routine, neighbors chatting over the fence. Then he talked. Before that moment, I'd only heard the calls hawks make in flight. But this must have been his everyday voice, the one he used to talk about the weather, about the scarcity of field mice of late, the abundance of cottontails in a certain gully. I wouldn't say he chirped. But it was very close to that, a short, deep, soft sound. He made it a handful of times as he sat near me, alert and interested. I talked back to him, but what I said escapes me now. He seemed satisfied, though, before he launched himself again and sailed away.

Tuesday, February 1

Stolen Moments (44)

One new thing I am doing is working to make good choices in moments. It means being present, and it means not procrastinating. It means weighing priorities and debating lasting pleasure and the value of having a thing done rather than undone. I know I often misgauge a task, especially in my teaching work. I think it will take two hours and it ends up taking five or even seven. But there are times, too, when I think things will take much longer than they really will. I think I am too busy, think I can't possibly stop to take the time to put my neatly folded clothes away after my trip to the laundromat, so they sit on the table in my studio in their pretty woven baskets, and I root around in them whenever I need clean clothes. I don't stop to create a new avatar for my online teaching because as much as I would like to, as much as I would enjoy it, I think other things take priority.

What I am learning is to sometimes stop to do the little thing I have been putting off or not indulging in, to take the little bit of time to cross something off my list or to enjoy the pleasure it brings even in the midst of all my more pressing tasks. Today I acted on a task that combined both the thing needing doing and the thing to be relished. I've had a half gallon plastic pot of snapdragons sitting on my patio, and a packet of catnip seeds lying on the table there, both waiting to be planted for more than a week now. Today I took a handful of unplanned minutes and planted the deep magenta flowers, spread the tiny black seeds and covered them with fresh dirt. I watered them both with my old metal watering can, the sun vanishing behind the mountain, the air cool against my arms. I have plenty of work still awaiting me this evening, but those stolen moments won't change that. Or maybe they will. Maybe I'll feel a gladness when I'm grading assignments tonight, knowing while I type on my laptop the snapdragons sink their roots into the wet earth, and the sleeping catnip seeds dream of sprouting new fragrant green life.

Flights of Fancy (43)

I have begun entering writing contests. It is part of my new commitment to my writing work. The first one I entered was not offered by a literary magazine, but by the Celebrate Urban Birds section of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. The contest was called "Flights of Fancy" and asked for photographs, videos, artwork or writing. It called on us to, "Go outside and notice the wonder of flight. In some creative way, document the way birds take off from a branch, fly in flocks, hover, dive, frolic, and land." So, I wrote a little piece in response to this prompt. And because it is the first writing contest I have ever entered, I am counting it as a new thing and posting it here.

Bird Wings
I begin my qi gong late today. It's the first day of the spring semester, and I devoted extra time to answering questions online, to replying to my new students' introductions. I lost track of time, tore myself away from my laptop, headed back outside. But I am lucky in my timing. The late afternoon sunshine is still splashing across the patio when I begin. I place my bare feet on the sun-warmed cement facing north. My right kidney has been hurting, and north is the direction of the kidney. So I face north, and I move through the ancient Chinese movements.

The San Jacinto mountains are on my left, steady companions in my efforts. The sun disappears behind them early in the winter, but today I bask in the last of its light. I am not rigid about looking straight before me. I take in the sunlight on the mountains, the way it filters through the pine tree, falls on the patio, across the open doorway. At one point, I notice I can see a tiny, distant me, across the living room in the mirror behind the kitchen sink. I stand just so and grin at my reflection. A hummingbird visits the tecoma blooms by the front windows. I move through each exercise, and the teaching world recedes. When I turn to look at my arm stretched out behind me, the dragon looks at his tail, I see between the edge of my body and the sweep of my arm the crinkly papery blossoms of the white poppy that opened this morning.

The last exercise is a standing pose, knees bent, elbows out, arms raised across my chest--the dragon stands between heaven and earth. I close my eyes and breathe. I can hear the mourning doves passing between the tray feeder at the corner of the house and the pine tree in my landlord's yard. The pittery sound they make is unmistakable, not their voice as I'd once thought--declaring their passage? trumpeting their arrival? a kind of happy muttering?--but a sound created by the flapping of their wings. They don't fly close to me; they give me a wide berth, this woman who feeds them but who is unpredictable, prone to sudden moves. I can hear the hummingbirds flitting past. They fly close to my head, their whirring wings and high-pitched calls both familiar and dear. They become second nature, like breathing. The house sparrows fly close to me, too, darting back and forth between the pyracantha, their sounds a quiet backdrop, their wings soft feathery brushes in the air.

When I am lucky, a raven will fly above the courtyard, the slow, strong strokes of his wings loud, a sound from another world. I will turn, wide-eyed, almost startled into ducking, always awed by the big black wings and how near the noise of their flapping, like a creature from my dreams. But today there are no raven wingbeats. Today I keep my eyes closed and my knees bent and breathe the feathered air, and the birds fly back and forth behind my eyelids. The sparrows are almost more presence than sound, their darting flights above my head like shadows crossing between me and the sun. They gather on the ground beneath the feeder. When they startle, they take flight in unison, lifting in a blur of motion, 40 wings whooshing to the shelter of the hedge, one large feathered creature. Then they drop from the pyracantha again, one after another, sinking to the ground like autumn leaves from a tree.

Today I keep my eyes closed, and I breathe. I can feel the sun on my calves. The cement begins to cool beneath my feet. My still form becomes a part of the garden, and the way the birds flit past me, the way they fly near with no fear lifts my heart. Today I keep my eyes closed, and I breathe bird wings.

Friday, January 28

This One's on Me (42)

Yesterday afternoon I was stopped in the shade, sitting in my car, and I saw a crow flying in my direction. I leaned out the window and watched him fly toward me, a field mouse clamped in his sharp, shiny beak. I could see the four tiny, tender mouse feet splayed against the blue of the sky, sharp focus in the slow flight, the crows dark feathers shimmering in the sun. A second crow flew apace, two friends heading off together for a bite to eat.

Monday, January 24

Christmas Lights (41)

I became accustomed this winter to walking in the dark, in my own neighborhood and in the route returning from my creek path. I learned not to stop myself from taking my hour-long walk, or the longer hour and a half version, only because I had waited until it was too late to get home before dark. I learned to go anyway, and my reward was walking in the midst of all the Christmas lights. My reward was not walking in the dark after all.

It stretched out over weeks, watching new decorations appear little by little. Each time it was a surprise, an unlooked for pleasure when a new house was now alight with glowing color. I always appreciate the small, simple touches the most, like the house whose front door awning was framed in big colored lights, one short strand, while their Christmas tree in the nearby window was lit with white lights. One house had only one green strand of lights looped and neatly twisted through a wall in their front yard. But the folks who go all out, even if it becomes too crazed, too tasteless for me, still get my nod for their effort, for their enthusiasm. And my favorite this year was a house where they did go all out, adorning more than I would have adorned, using more colors than I would have chosen, though it still worked. But their genius lay, I thought, in the bright red strings of lights they wrapped with love around the three palm trees clustered in their front yard. I detoured past their home on almost every walk I took in December, hoping to get a glimpse of the three trees, bold and bright and beautiful.

When the new year begins, almost all of them disappear overnight, some odd unspoken rule, I think. Does Emily Post weigh in on this? But I have always felt an affinity for those of us who break the rule, who let our lights slip on into January, who let them linger. I have a secret belief I would like the people who live in these houses where the quiet glow of the lights is still visible on the 10th of January. If you round the corner on my block, you will see my own little cluster of multi-colored lights, a solar string I've wound into the hedge. I wonder if anyone walking by this evening imagines they would like me, too. Rule breakers, yes, but more, I think--lovers of light, of color, of shiny things that lift the heart and feed the soul.

The Exotic Volunteer (40)

I bought four native wildflower plants at the Living Desert and planted them together in a big pot in my courtyard. One, a cantaloupe-colored flower, is for the butterflies. They always come exploring but never find any blooms in my garden they seem to like, so this one is for them in hopes they'll find pleasure or sustenance, be enticed to alight, to linger. The other three are blooming sages, fare for the hummingbirds. One is squat with yellow blossoms and looks like sages I have known. The other two are taller, more wistful. One has tiny red flowers, and the other, who is going great guns, is filled with tiny violet blooms.




























But soon after they were planted it became apparent there was a fifth plant growing, a volunteer. (I have never lived anywhere before where there were so many volunteers! And such a variety, too.) It grew straight up from the almost-center of the collection and formed these three exotic balls. I wondered if this was it or if they would bloom, and then specks of red became the hint of blossoms, and here you see it beginning to bloom. I wonder if it is a medicinal herb, if I would be harvesting the leaves if I knew. I hate not knowing, but I have not tried to hunt for the answer. I just check each day, curious to see what progress it has made in its unfurling and thankful it has come to visit us.

Living Waters Spa (39)

I drove off toward Desert Hot Springs in the morning, excited to be on an adventure. The inn was sparse and white, the pool glistening in the morning light, cactus and a spray of blossoms at the edges of the courtyard, the sky calling from everywhere, big and blue and endless. Mt. San Jacinto held court from a distance, visible in the higher clear glass panes of the windbreak, the lower part frosted for privacy. Because of the mountain's presence, because I couldn't see the valley but could sense it below us, I spent all day with the strange illusion of water spread out beyond the frosted glass. I never shook the feeling I was soaking in the mineral springs in San Juan Cosalá with the lake and the volcano beyond.






































I have to admit it did not compare to my favorite hot springs in Mexico, but it was a delightful day. I liked the owners, enjoyed my interactions with the other guests. I am happy to know now I can trust in the caliber of people the place attracts, the kind of energy they foster. I especially enjoyed a young woman who worked there and her fiance, charmed by their goodness, their bright open faces. And I had a long rambling conversation with a young man, Justin, who was off to Hawaii for a writing and improv workshop with Anne Lamott.

My time there was sweet and social and restorative. I count it a luxury to soak naked in warm mineral water, to lie in the sun, nibble on goat brie and crackers, eat roasted peppers, read the newspaper, daydream. There is something so exquisite about the combination of sun and water and our own skin, a sensory feast and a prayer both, an offering and a gift. The unexpected pleasure in company rounded it out, made the gift more full. And the dreamy, yearning presence of San Juan Cosalá made it something else, as well. It made the day something just a bit otherworldly, made it something more.

My Birthday Dinner (38)

I have thought of my blog often since I last posted, considering and dismissing, selecting and even forgetting the topics I wanted to write about. But I am bemused by how much time has elapsed. Ah, well. Welcome, I think, to 2011.

This post should have been number one in my list of 52. I was new to these new things, though, and no doubt at the time I thought this didn't count, that a birthday celebration, however elaborate and lovely, was not a "new" thing. Since then my definition has expanded, and as I search for ways to bring my blog current yet again, this event feels glaring in its omission.

The day I turned 52, my Auntie Christel gave me a birthday dinner. I was a new vegetarian, and she set to work in earnest, preparing a lavish feast fit for the gods. Or in this case, for the goddesses. She made a carrot soufflé that was both pretty and divine, and countless other creations, all beautifully presented with flowers and glowing glassware and sparkling china. I know there was a dish of baked tubers and onions, and a crispy crinkly convection I thought was made from sesame seeds but wasn't. I remember the new exotic foods kept coming and coming, and I was pleased and humbled by her efforts.

Before, we gathered on the patio, my presents and blooming plants arrayed nearby. There was basil and delphinium from Tante Helga and lavender from Auntie Gardi and tiny white flowers in a green glass planter from Mami. But what I was most struck by was my chance to be there with my elders, these four German women of the generation before me. The evening seemed symbolic, the meaning still a mystery to me. I only know they have fed me and shaped me, these sturdy German women, three of them immigrants, and now we were gathered together for the first time, for maybe the only time, and in my honor. A night fit for the goddesses, indeed. It makes me without words, grateful and quiet.