Derby Day (5)

It was one of those days when you get to the end of it and the morning seems like a dream, like it was a week away, or a month. Already the memory is hazed, distant. I woke up early. It was May Day, Derby Day, Beltane, International Day of the Worker. They were marching in Los Angeles, but I'd already made plans. I was going to watch the Kentucky Derby at Fantasy Springs. I sang my little "I'm On an Adventure" song heading east on Ramon Road, the one I invented years ago to keep myself happy and safe, baying fear, driving that crazed curving highway over the pass between Hopland and Clear Lake, heading to a birding workshop at the state park. Today's event reminded me of going to the Jockey Club, my only other experience with off-track betting, made me think of him. I went early to try to get us seats. Auntie Christel was joining me later. I was so high, so eager, so glad to be having this outing. I told the parking garage man, the hotel lobby person, the woman who sold me the Daily Racing Form. "I'm here to watch the Kentucky Derby." I was excited, gleeful, my child bouncing and bobbing, my grin enormous. "It's Kentucky Derby day," I said. They smiled, nodded, acknowledged me. I scouted for seats. Our best bet was a table for four with one man studying the form. I asked if he'd mind two more, settled my things, saving two spots. We talked for a bit, and he held out his hand to me. "I'm Joe," he said. I almost laughed. Of course you are. "Riba," I said. I've always thought the universe had a wicked sense of humor.

The morning passed in a blur. I won once, that much I know. I remember thinking at one point I should turn around to look for Auntie Christel and there she was walking toward the table. When I parked in the garage I thought, I wonder if Auntie Christel will park beside me here. Hours later when she got out of her car she saw all the bumper stickers on the car next to her, had a feeling the car was mine. It was. It was that kind of day. I remember I was still up, still excited when she got there. I'm not sure when but later I realized I had a headache and my energy had sunk. I went in search of aspirin, saw a blue tie-dye summer dress in a store window. It's been years since I got excited about clothing. I knew I was going to buy the blue, and they had one in green, too. There were only a handful. I heard a voice telling me I'd be sorry if I didn't buy the second one, so I did. I know I'll love both dresses forever, until they're faded and full of holes. The store sold little packets of Bayer, too. It felt surreal.

The aspirin did the trick, and I got my second wind before the derby started. I was all happy again. I bet on four horses, but Lookin' at Lucky and the filly, Devil May Care, were my heart's first picks. Not one of mine finished in the money. I never even saw them in the race. "Be safe, be safe, be safe, be safe" I chanted when the room erupted into sound as all 20 contenders charged from the gates, splashing in the puddled mud of the sloppy Kentucky track as they jockeyed for position. None of my horses won, but it was a good race, and no one was hurt. I would have had a thrill if one of mine had come in, or if my boxed exacta had been the ticket. But one of Auntie Christel's picks was the unexpected winner, so that was pretty amazing. She'd picked the winning jockey. I was impressed and glad. And I'd had a full, full day and big fun. I only won one race, but I had money on horses who almost won, horses who held the lead and lost when someone came from behind, horses who came from behind and almost stole the lead but didn't. They were close, exciting races, more that I remember ever seeing all packed together in that way, the rare race the easy win, one horse way out in the lead in the home stretch. I am rusty at handicapping and I need new glasses, couldn't read the racing form well. I relied more on watching the horses in the post parade, placing last minute bets, a combination of instinct and eliminating some horses by their past performance. I chose names. There was Hidden Blessing, Wise River, Free Soul Flying.

I had a day that already feels like a dream as dusk nears and a breeze flutters our palm tree's fronds and the goldfinches cling to their sack of black nyger seed. I'm going to stop writing and go for a walk. We're talking about going back next year, and I'd like that. We have a plan to look for the same table, meet the couple from Calgary who'd joined us after Joe left. I'd thought maybe I'd want to go back for the rest of the Triple Crown races, but I doubt I will. The clothes I wore are sitting in a pile on the closet floor. They smelled like cigarettes; the smoke must have sneaked in from the casino. The room was windowless and wrong. Give me Sonoma County fairground racing any day. Driving home, the desert and the mountains woke me up again, sent awe hissing through my blood. "Look where we live," I said. I scanned the horizon. "Just look where we live." I've had a month in a day today. Lookin' at Lucky didn't win the derby, but here I am, looking at me--looking at lucky.

[Editor's note: Lookin' at Lucky won the Preakness yesterday, the second of the Triple Crown races. I knew he had it in him. I didn't see him win, but I had my heart hoping for him. I was jazzed this morning when I read it in the Sunday paper. It still makes me grin.]

Native Foods (4)

My third new thing I am counting as the fourth was attending a cooking demonstration at Native Foods. I have never gone to a cooking demonstration at all, unless helping Ed years ago with his zen and cooking workshop at Esalen counts, but I don't see why it should. I made reservations for Marylou and Richard and myself, and if they hadn't still wanted to go that Friday when I needed to confirm our reservations, I bet I would've bailed. I am not a fan of anything that happens on a Sunday morning, even if it doesn't begin until 11:30. Even so, I left Maggie Downs's column and my horoscope unread on the patio table and realized on my hurried walk over I must have recycled the unread comics in my rush. I knew I'd be rooting around in the bin that afternoon.

But I was so glad Marylou and Richard had said, "Yes," and we had all arrived. From the start I was pleased by how well the folks from Native Foods had organized things. It took place in the shopping center's common patio area near the restaurant, and they had lots of umbrellas up to give us shade. The day was growing hot, but there was a good little breeze, and in the shade from the umbrellas it was perfect. Chef Tanya was delightful. She was a pleasure to listen to--charming, genuine, knowledgeable. Her father sat right behind us, and I knew he was proud of her, hoped she knew it, too. The servers brought us little tastes and beverages throughout, an almost constant stream, all of them kind, gracious, smiling. I think I would have felt good being there even if I'd arrived grumpy or depressed instead of eager in spite of my rushing. Looking back on it now I think it was because everyone seemed both present and cheerful. Combine that with shade, a sweet breeze, good food and good company, and how can you miss? It was a surprise to me how glad I was we went. I'd go again in a heartbeat.

The fact it was vegan food was an extra bonus, of course. Chef Tanya told us how they make their seitan, too, and explained what texturized soy protein was when I asked, told her I had always been leery of it. It has something to do with centrifugal force and separating the protein out of the fat. The "Beefy Bourguignon" was almost eery in the way it echoed that meaty broth, and "Tomorrow's Tamale Pie" had a fun mix of flavors and textures. It was pretty, too, all fresh colors. But the "Chocolate Mousse Divine" truly was, and though I never manage to follow recipes, this one I will make. The main ingredient was shocking: avocados. It was rich and creamy and sweetened with agave nectar. I had a moment in the middle of the event when I was relishing the breeze and sipping a sweet pink drink when my heart leapt and I was so glad, so grateful I was there. I'd had a similar upswelling of emotion the last time Marylou and Richard and I went out to eat in almost the exact spot. We'd gone to try the Kasbah Cafe, a new Moroccan restaurant next door to Native Foods. It was funny how many "perfect new things" cropped up in the last couple of weeks before I became 52. I had the urge to save them, to wait until I was 52. I had to laugh at myself, the hoarder of new things. But saving them seemed wrong, so against the spirit of the thing. It made sense the urge to do new things would come to the fore as soon as I'd made my intentions clear, even that the opportunities for them would multiply, the way things work in this mystical world of ours.

So, even though I was still 51 and I knew they wouldn't "count," I indulged in the new things instead of hoarding them: my first neighborhood meeting, my first meal at the nearest Thai place, my first time doing "day use" at the ACE hotel. And the new Morrocan restaurant where, only days before I turned 52, the three of us sat in Kasbah's patio not twenty feet from where we were today and we sampled their fare for the first time. Marylou was regaling me with the after-the-fact funny description of their big annual homeowner organization event, and for once I didn't interrupt when the feelings welled up in me, didn't barge into her story to tell them what I wanted to say. I was listening, noticing how Richard's additions to the story reflected his great pride in her, his fondness for her, and I felt so glad, so grateful to be there with them. I still marvel at the truth of it, to be almost neighbors again, both transplanted from Sebastopol all these many years later. But their presence and Auntie Christel's here has saved me, given me a grounding and companions, the almost impossible chance of having old friends, old connections, in a new place. That hot April Sunday at the cooking demonstration, I sat with Marylou and Richard under the umbrellas, and I felt it again, the pleasure and the gratitude. I glanced over at my friends, looked around at the other people gathered, listened to Chef Tanya touch on the idealogical side, the spiritual side of what she does, her way of changing the world one vegan dish at a time. "Eat peace," she said, and grinned, and I relished the hope of it, the goodness of her goal. The breeze cooled the back of my neck, bathed my arms, and I scooped the last of the pretend chocolate mousse from the little biodegradable "plastic" cup made out of corn. Mmm. I licked my lips. All this and chocolate, too? How lucky can one woman get?

The Visitor (3)

This is really my fourth new thing but I wanted to separate my two food entries. I don’t want to be boring right from the beginning. No doubt I will be doing many new food things, knowing my fondness for eating; I'll want to spread them out a bit. And this new thing is outside the rules already. She came to me in my courtyard garden. She isn't an adventure, isn't an out-in-the-world experience I went seeking. The act is art, though, and I'd already allowed art. But the angel took hours and hours, over days. The angel took more effort. These are the kinds of conversations I have in my head. Still, I am convinced my concern for following the rules, for being obedient, is invading even my own project, crimping me in my own creation. So, I am posting willy nilly, out of sequence, disrupting order, working outside the parameters. "They are my own damn rules," I mutter. "I ought to be able to do what I want." I stick out my tongue, make a face, place the little green clock on the patio table. I am doing things I do before my first cup of tea, drifting between my kitchen and my courtyard garden, feeding the birds, fetching the paper, lighting a candle, giving the cats their first morning "snackers." In the midst of my morning meanderings, head still fuzzy from sleep, I have an unexpected visitor. Intoxicating, I think. And I invent a haiku. Now, I may very well have written a haiku or two in grade school, but I don't remember, and it's been decades, after all. So I decided this would be my next new thing, and the rules be damned. It felt like a new thing should feel. So there. So, here.

Jasmine sneaks over my neighbor's wall.
I drink her in. My nose dances.

Palm Greens Cafe (2)

I am the only one in the restaurant. They are about to close but I decide to begin writing anyway, will move to the curb outside to finish if need be. I ramble, fill a page with snippets. I become aware of my big loud critic. She is hovering next to the tall marble table, leaning over my notebook. "You've written a whole damn page, and you've said nothing. Nothing." She shakes her head, moves her heavy glasses back on her nose with a rough shove. She looks as though she smells dead fish, an old corpse. "This is crap. Your first try at writing about one of your new things and already it's a complete failure." She sighs, glares at me through the heavy lenses. "You are a complete failure." Ah! Why would I ever want to be so mean to myself? And why is it so striking in this act of art I feel so strongly about? I didn't do this to myself when I worked on my first new thing, when I restored my old blue angel. I didn't criticize my crummy paint job, didn't mock myself for making wild kinked paper hair, didn't sneer when I tried to glue it on her scraggy bald wooden head. Even when I painted Liquitex on the hair and it went limp, lost much of its wonderful kink, I didn't say, "Oh, great. Now you've really fucked it up." Instead, I adjusted to the less kinked hair, reveled later in the way the Liquitex stiffened it as it dried, leant it strength. I was patient about the smudges I kept making with the paint, red blotches on the brown, gold smears on the red. I just kept painting over them, layer upon layer, cleaning it up the best I could. I was happy every step of the way, admired the deep shiny red, the metallic gold, loved the process of working on art little by little, watching the life of it unfold. The process was the pleasure, the end product sheer joy.

Why am I so much harsher with myself about my writing? How can I learn to enjoy the process, embrace the messy sentences, trust in the unfolding? I pray for this, for learning to find pleasure in writing bad first drafts, knowing I get endless chances to clean up the smudges, choose the better word, be happy with the less kinked hair because it brings the character a new kind of strength, because she only comes to life in a process that isn't controlled, isn't contained, is far from perfect. I want to learn how to have fun with each piece of this puzzle. And look---I have 51 more blog entries this year to practice on, counting this one. That was my intention, to learn more about my writing, but I balk at it being hard, at not being happy with it. I know the critic isn't done with me, don't expect her not to snarl at me as I go on. But I'm going to remind myself of my angel and try to embrace the thumbprint I accidentally put on the back of my paper, honor the red smear across the first few words on the page. I am going to see if I can't tease my critic, cajole her, get her to giggle. Right now, for instance, she is telling me I have not said one damn thing about the Palm Greens Cafe except that I am the only customer there. "Great advertisement for the place," she sneers. "Way to go, Riba."

I snort. I can't help it. (I tend to snort when I laugh.) But it's okay because I'm still the only person here. When I walked in there were several tables full, mostly twos, not couples, leaning toward the center of their tables, concentrating, the room buzzing. There was no one there who wasn't engaged. That alone was impressive to me. I've watched too many people share a meal without speaking, stiff with tension or limp with nothing to say. This place fed me even before I read the menu. I felt at home right away, and I was struck by that, by how long it had been since I felt that way out in the world. I felt like I was among my kind, and I decided this place felt like the quintessential Palm Springs. This is the Palm Springs I imagined. This is my Palm Springs. It's not Sebastopol. It's not funky or elegant but something else, something in between, like me. It makes me want to cry now sitting here. I didn't know how much I needed this, a place out in the world where I could feel at home. I'd taken it for granted for years; it was everywhere. I'd all but given it up living in another country, but glimpsed it still in a handful of places even there. My isolation was obvious in Mexico; I stood out like neon. But here I don't stand out in such a stark way. Still, I haven't felt like I really fit anywhere until now.

Here I get to feel at home, and it's walking distance, along the creek path, such a gift. My gazpacho today was lovely, the grilled tofu wrap both pretty and savory, the creamy ginger miso dipping sauce divine. And when I asked the man from the kitchen for more sauce, he was dear to me, brought it to me in such a sweet way. He made me feel met. Here I am in this Palm Springs almost-vegetarian cafe that feels in deep visceral ways like my kind of place, whose workers meet me in a real way, and again I want to cry, feel blessed, grateful, shed grief I didn't know I carried. "I'll be back soon," I say. Everyone is smiling, nodding, glad. It stays with me on the walk home, the creek and the mountains my companions, my hunger sated, my heart full. My critic has fallen asleep, head nodding near my notebook where I'd nestled it in my cloth bag for the walk home. I think maybe I can hear her snoring. I grin, sigh, keep walking. "I'll be back soon," I whisper.

Restoring an Angel (1)

My first new thing came to me the first weekend I was 52. She came to me mysteriously, and she saved me, allowed me to meet my goal of beginning my new things that first weekend even when I felt like pulling inward, staying home, working in my garden rather than heading out for adventure as I'd imagined. I don't remember how she came, not the exact manner. I'd pulled in Saturday, retreated to a Kate Elliott novel, immersed myself until 3:00am in her world where the guardians were humans who had died trying to do good in the world and whose companions were winged horses. Sunday still had that solitary feel. I wanted to spend my time in the courtyard, enjoying the bright mix of fresh marigolds and the deep magenta snapdragons, the sprawling tomato plant and the softness of the April air. I can't remember how the idea came to me. My eyes may have strayed to them, or I may have knocked them with the hose as I tend to do when I'm watering. They were our own garden guardians, the keepers of the doorway, winged angel and metal horse, a reversed echo of the Kate Elliott pairings in the world I'd escaped to.

My mother gifted me with the horse, knowing they are one of my big loves, and her slender, tender grace has been a pleasure always. The angel I found long ago at a yard sale back in my Santa Rosa life when I'd look for Saturday sales I could walk to. This sale was in the MacDonald neighborhood, old established estates near my more modest Humboldt home. She was in a side yard, lying askew on a makeshift shelf. She was old and worn even then, her blue paint lacking luster, her metal wings showing spots of rust, her scrubble hair wearing off her wooden head. I fell in love with her, and she has graced our doorways ever since. Loyal, she followed us from Santa Rosa to Hopland, Todos Santos, Ajijic and now to Palm Springs, five homes in these past six years, though I believe she came to us eight years ago. Her bristle hair wore bald, her wings all rust. I'd always meant to spruce her up.

That Sunday I knew she would be my first new thing, and though I don't remember how the idea came to me, I remember my relief and my delight once I knew. I'd been saving some packaging material, some shredded papery strips all creased and folded, perfect for the new wild hair I'd imagined for her. Yes, I'd made art before, I thought. But I had never done angel restoration. I decided she qualified as a new thing, and I was glad. It was just the sort of solitary and gentle task I wanted for the day. The timing seemed perfect, too, not only having just emerged from the world of Elliott's guardians but because I had begun to acknowledge angels themselves in recent days. Janice had been urging me for years, and I'd resisted. I didn't see angels, didn't have direct knowledge of them. I never doubted, never thought they weren't there, but I resisted any need to interact with them. I asked for things, for blessing and protection, and I trusted the response the world(s) provided, didn't think I needed to know how it was happening. I asked, and I thanked. Wasn't that enough?

I think once long ago Janice told me the angels especially liked it when you asked them specifically, but I must have ignored this. Just days before I became 52 I had an "aha" when she and I were on the phone. This time she said something about them liking direct appreciation. That sunk in. I'd been accepting their help all this time without thanking them, and I knew that was wrong. I started talking to them that very day, mostly apologizing for my ungratefulness, my ungracious ways. I explained to them I hadn't understood, didn't see them, was in truth, I thought, even afraid to see them. But I wanted to thank them, would thank them for going forward, hoped they would forgive me for all the years before, accept my apologies. Even as I talked, got teary, I knew it wasn't an issue for them. "They'll come anyway," Janice had said. "They just like to be asked." I knew they weren't harboring resentment for my ingratitude all these years the way I would have, if I hadn't stopped helping all together. But I was glad to be setting things right. Restoring our angel seemed symbolic, my gratitude incarnated, my belated acknowledgement made real.

Once I recognized the angel project as my first new thing, I realized my patio "extension" I'd been planning would also qualify, and it would be the perfect complement to working on her. I spent hours that afternoon going back and forth between them, gluing on her new kinked hair, painting layer after layer of bright red over her old faded blue dress. I left her little black paint dots of eyes alone. That seemed important. While she dried I'd shift to the bricks, scraping and digging, squatting and planting them, standing to ease my back, admire my progress. I was sitting at the patio table painting a clear coat of Liquitex on her hair when the earthquake began. I stilled, the angel in my left hand and the paintbrush frozen midstroke in my right. I was waiting to see if it was going to continue, took in where my beasts were--Sofia was sprawled near my feet in the catnip and weeds, Sable only paces behind me stretched out on the couch inside. The earthquake kept going, grew stronger, so I set the angel and the paintbrush down and stood.

"Boo." My voice a command, short, not panicked. He sprang through the doorway, joined Sofia near the catnip. I sank to my knees, my forearms flush to the patio, the long rolling waves of the world moving beneath us. I was so grateful for the ease of it, my cats attentive but not alarmed, all three of us outside, safe, together, my worst fears allayed. I cried, my tears wet spots on the concrete, grateful and relieved, laughing, too, thanking the goddess, the gods, the powers that be. And, thanks to Janice and her steady urgings, grateful to the angels, too, who'd no doubt helped this be what it was and not what I'd feared. It felt all of a piece, the angel I'd been restoring when the world began to roll, my cats within arms reach, not needing to worry about trying to gather them or deciding whether or not to go outside, sinking without thought to the ground, connecting to the earth. And the world rolled on and on beneath us, all smooth edges and watery waves. It was the longest, smoothest, most rolling earthquake I remember. My adrenaline never fully spiked, my relief and gratitude taking precedence, I think, cutting through any urge to panic.

I'd had an angel in my hand when the earthquake began. And yet, I was the one being held.

Exorcising Demons

People have begun asking me about new posts, so I've decided to add another while folks await my first "official" post, my first new thing. It seems this endeavor has riled my demons. If you'd asked me three weeks ago whether or not I ever struggled with my writing, had to wrestle with my critic, I think I would have told you I had learned to slip past her, learned to "enter in" to my writing at will.

But my beginning efforts toward my new things have been startling, my critic harsh and relentless, my resistance even stronger. I have four drafts now for my first three new things, had hoped to have them posted. I am in week three, and my fears of having this goal pile up on me in undone new things or unwritten posts are growing even as I sit here typing. The doves are fluttering and the house sparrows chirping, their sounds coming in the open door with the hot April almost dusk. I remember to breath, note my cats, the one gray shape, one black, both lying alert in the courtyard. I am thirsty and sleepy and think it's unlikely I'll return to revising my drafts this evening. But I will allow for the possibility.

I have theories about why I'm having such a hard time. I am not a journalist, hadn't thought of what it might be like to try to "report" each new thing. I've told myself I don't need to report at all, can touch on the thing and then wander away from it. I have tried freewriting and then revising, decided focusing more intentionally might be better, tried that too with even less satisfaction in the results. I can write this post here, can post it unrevised, think I may resort to that for the new things, avoid being too critical. But I wanted to practice polishing short pieces. That was part of my muti-layered hopes for this blog. Do I abandon that? Do I change the blog entirely, do the new things as well but write about something else? Are my expectations too high? Is my fear of going public thwarting me? Are the planets running amok, ruining my words? ;-)

Two days ago I thought I understood the troubles I'd had with my writing earlier in the week. I reminded myself one of my goals for doing this was to learn more about my writing process. Wrestling with my demons was an answer to prayer, a chance to learn and grow. I thought about how much better this would help me understand when my students struggle. Two days ago I made the mistake of thinking I had already come out on the other side of this one. Now as the light leaves the day I know I am still in the midst of it. But I am not sitting silent, not altogether. And I'm not despairing. So please, do stay tuned.

Catching the Wind

It really did take the wind out of my sails to discover so many other people had already taken up almost this exact endeavor though not necessarily at 52, how many have already been recording it online—but I’ve moved past my initial letdown and am now embracing the idea with a whole heart. First I had to remind myself it was indeed original thought. I wasn’t copying anyone, didn’t know yet it wasn’t new. ;-)

But then, too, I returned to the act itself, to how well it fits for me, on how many levels it seems designed to feed me. I will step away from work more often, venture out, explore the world around me on a regular basis. I will come out of myself more, engage more. I’ll go public with my writing in a way I have not yet dared. I’ll hone commitment, seek adventure, expand. And so I start now. I ask for blessings and protection. I thank the powers that be for both in this private and this public endeavor. And I thank you for stopping by to read my words. Here’s to 52 at 52. May the fun begin.