tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62930291193911368342024-03-05T11:26:17.035-06:00Evolutionistas!Welcome to Evolutionistas!, the first sprout of what I hope will over time grow into a virtual domain-garden of ideas and images related to the "conscious evolution" of our species, towards a more thoughtful, compassionate, and above all, sustainable attitude towards our place in the great profusion of life on our miraculous planet Earth.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-44973450463265467662014-05-28T13:58:00.000-05:002014-05-28T13:58:30.704-05:00It's over- for now.<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><b>It's going to take awhile for me to recover from 3,000 miles of Red Bull and bad road food.</b> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That's how many miles I've put on my little old Toyota pickup (the Sabbatmobile) in the couple weeks. But, all that time on the road gave me lots of time to think strategically about -lots of things, actually. <span></span>But to the blog point: </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've
decided is to abandon my all out <b>Burn Your Lawn</b> project after all. I've </span></span></span></span>to the conclusion that this isn't the time -and Bowling Green KY isn't the
place- for me to make my stand for more ecologically sound suburban landscaping</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">. </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've not surrendered, </span></span>but my resources are limited and I've decided that this one of those times when discretion is the better part of valor. And to be honest, my heart really isn't up for the fight, </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">so I am making a tactical retreat. For now. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <b> For Sale By Owner</b></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtkSscVR9M1oV2YKZYIBVNUqQLaYr90cX1vtRuZCIjFLn8YBxjjVBS_JLwJDuxtf44uMZovos3qKQg094SzveHifCUPROW9pMVY7lyhnEjOtYseTkBBIueOBmON14fRqnX19t5-zCWqSg/s1600/frontshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtkSscVR9M1oV2YKZYIBVNUqQLaYr90cX1vtRuZCIjFLn8YBxjjVBS_JLwJDuxtf44uMZovos3qKQg094SzveHifCUPROW9pMVY7lyhnEjOtYseTkBBIueOBmON14fRqnX19t5-zCWqSg/s1600/frontshot.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span> </span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-57148202219041666122014-05-25T23:14:00.000-05:002014-05-25T23:14:36.874-05:00Well That Didn't Take Long (Take 2)<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>The learning curve.</b> A couple nights ago I posted a chapter entitled <i>Well That Didn't Take Long,</i> in which I explained that I'd received an official notification of a property code violation from the city of Bowling Green, and elaborating on my reaction to that action by the city. Then the next morning, I removed it, because I had not done my homework before deciding how to roll with that event, and when I finally did dig a bit deeper, a better way occurred to me. I am, let's face it, a novice at this blogging activist role, and will likely make more missteps as I navigate the learning curve. <b> </b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>So: Well That Didn't Take Long (Take 2)</b></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;">Got my property violation notice
from BG city administration:</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JyPluZXSpn3wNGbURL9CU0-ttKRs46pn70wDIb3g5RfGjO9UwWv9phkzAYJQpJLPZQpVZiWim8CpucaDpLLE9NE12ZmQWQAgZN_3Wzw-Tx5ZyU-LlDEF6yqc8gsHtRkXGCuM99jYnnI/s1600/IMG_2212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JyPluZXSpn3wNGbURL9CU0-ttKRs46pn70wDIb3g5RfGjO9UwWv9phkzAYJQpJLPZQpVZiWim8CpucaDpLLE9NE12ZmQWQAgZN_3Wzw-Tx5ZyU-LlDEF6yqc8gsHtRkXGCuM99jYnnI/s1600/IMG_2212.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfmBtaLnSsbI7PF6-pMFOhiNKu2OHl4qnhBH6xOt6NeOR6NFBQrCJp25b6HEfHnxlJhiyRPvAJfqNDqpmfntTelUOHdwLlseLJ-vhjuY9FTvdk2LDxBItS9tCR3ggcFCY8BQw0YqjVbgM/s1600/IMG_2212.jpg"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-no-proof: yes; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><br /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;">Apparently already in violation, </span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;">I have been notified that
-apparently already in violation with no prior notice- I have until June 1st to
“mow my noxious weeds” or the city will contract to have it done and charge me
for it, plus a fine.</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6MflUMruPhYoQ7IDMXw_J7eHzRTqUdgoUauN9O1EXNhLwD8VOO6au3UO5ClRFrVZGor_EF189D-NMtJRACWTpXtnJkTu3bm4MZ1xW_qXBCHSILQpaI3gKkWCNmJUCNcLH6AVtkxkwPg/s1600/IMG_2208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6MflUMruPhYoQ7IDMXw_J7eHzRTqUdgoUauN9O1EXNhLwD8VOO6au3UO5ClRFrVZGor_EF189D-NMtJRACWTpXtnJkTu3bm4MZ1xW_qXBCHSILQpaI3gKkWCNmJUCNcLH6AVtkxkwPg/s1600/IMG_2208.JPG" height="152" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">(Look away; it's hideous, I tell you, noxiously HIDEOUS! You'll turn to stone!)</span></i></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;">Which I pretty much figured would
happen. </span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;">I've just
barely started the project, and without any inquiries or discussions, the
city's first reaction is to deem me a "code violator" without any attempt whatsoever to inquire as to what's behind my decision to let my property go through this phase of development.</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;">So now what?</span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;"> Well, in my opinion, the city's
definitions of "weed", "obnoxious" and "gardening" are exceedingly
vague, enforced subjectively, and thereby provide legal loopholes the size of sinkholes. (Literally. Think about it does; the city ever cite folks for the "unsightly" sinkholes on their property?) But the simple truth is that without some
sort of ACLU type pro-bono legal council, I’m overwhelmingly outnumbered and under resourced, so I'm probably goin' down -eventually. But even if the eventual loss of this battle is inevitable? Fine. This is only an exploratory skirmish, after all, the point of the spear of a movement to <a href="http://www.npr.org/2013/09/27/216098121/everything-is-connected" target="_blank">rewild</a> the suburban landscape. <b>Raising awareness</b> has always been major force in my design, so while I may eventually be forced by the city to "mow my lawn", I can at least formally bring these ideas to their attention -and teach others how to do the same, if so inclined.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;"><b>The city does have an appeals process,</b> a way to "make my case" to a board of citizens appointed to hear property violation citation appeals. Seems reasonable, so let's see what happens. One case comes from me; just a random boomer hippie nutcase. But what if another comes from someone else, and another, and another... who knows? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 11.0pt;"><b>So watch this space!</b> In the coming days I'll report from the front lines of "taking it up with city hall", posting links to documents, personnel and proceedings that you will likely encounter, should you decide to try to move the needle on this idea. If you know of any reporters that would like to follow this story, or a legal professional with a desire to engage in some civil, professional environmental activism, please have them get in touch. This round ain't over yet; lets see how far I can go -or we can go, if you're ready and willing to join the mission. </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-57305740360634738092014-05-21T17:16:00.003-05:002014-05-24T00:35:46.725-05:00Burn Your Lawn!
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Times;
panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"Tms Rmn";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:77;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-alt:"Times New Roman";
mso-font-charset:77;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:auto;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p
{margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Times;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Times;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
</style><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>First let me say "Thank
you!"... </b> to the neighbors who, upon seeing what at the moment may look like
neglected property, felt genuine concern for my well-being, and bothered checked in to
see if I was OK, and to offer help. I'm quite serious about this graciousness;
it's nice to know that neighbors are still capable of such simple human
compassion. I'd like to think I'm that kind of neighbor too. That said:
I'm fine! </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But then, </span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">since I COULD mow my lawn if I wanted to...</span><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> what in
the hell is going on here?</span></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>
</b></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Well, what you're seeing is
not at all a “neglected” property.</b> There is design at work here, and I actually
tend this land pretty intensively, but the general idea is: I'm intentionally
letting this landscape revert, with a little coaxing and pruning, to a more
natural, more diverse, more dynamic ecosystem. I'm <a href="http://www.npr.org/2013/09/27/216098121/everything-is-connected" target="_blank">"rewilding"</a> the
landscape, to make it a more ecologically balanced home for greater diversity
of plants and critters; bees, butterflies, crickets, rabbits, and as it turns
out, the wild turkeys that now regularly patrol the estate! </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgMyBNPFL5Vp5NyUjwCpE-4lScZF68osxtHaw3E1A-fIpnmJZynm2cn9iEb6azlTDY0klwmvoY6nZNPpL_V24BHr0CWtvZyBqyusb4YX-CEqNx6U6sIDjXexctDzsfdF5Ak7rF2OtrbA/s1600/IMG_2151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgMyBNPFL5Vp5NyUjwCpE-4lScZF68osxtHaw3E1A-fIpnmJZynm2cn9iEb6azlTDY0klwmvoY6nZNPpL_V24BHr0CWtvZyBqyusb4YX-CEqNx6U6sIDjXexctDzsfdF5Ak7rF2OtrbA/s1600/IMG_2151.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Turf grass lawns are,</b> in the
end, unsustainable, artificial <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monoculture" target="_blank">monocultures</a> that can only survive with
enormous inputs of resources; chemicals, water, fossil fuels and labor. Lawn
mowers, weed-whackers, hedge trimmers and their ilk are all obnoxious, loud
machines that fart enormous amounts of toxic <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greenhouse_effect" target="_blank">greenhouse gasses.</a> (Yes,
electric tools are a bit less obnoxious, but the electricity that powers them
is no less wasted, and comes from coal fired, pollution spewing power
plants.) So I'm done with them, and with the "Golf Course
Aesthetic" that has somehow become the norm for suburban landscapes across
much of the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Evolution is a competition,</b> and
it’s “game on” here; any plant that cannot survive without me watering and fertilizing and protecting
it from predation is goin’ down to mother nature -as it should
be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Weed”, like “beauty” is a
subjective human construct: a "weed" is just a name people call plants that grows where people don't want them to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, there are no “weeds” here, only “competitors”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, a Dandelion isn’t a weed: it’s a
hardy, edible green, with a pretty yellow blossom that attracts and sustains
honeybees -which are in a lot of trouble now, <a href="http://grist.org/food/2012-01-13-honey-bees-problem-nearing-a-critical-point/" target="_blank">trouble that effects all of us.</a></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Think of it as a
work-in-progress private nature preserve.</b> Rather than forcefully imposing an
artificial, unsustainable, labor intensive monoculture on the land, I am
instead listening and watching closely, then selectively “sculpting” what wants
to grow here, what can grow here, more or less on it’s own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order to do that, I need to pay
close attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to learn
the names and ways of every plant and critter that decides to make a home here,
a challenge I relish -and much prefer to mowing the lawn! And I don’t
pretend any sort of pure, libertarian style neutrality here, by the way. I definitely
take sides, planting and encouraging certain wildflowers, herbs, fruit trees
and a few vegetables, pruning back aggressive human-introduced plants (like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Privet" target="_blank">Privet</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Euonymus" target="_blank">Euonymus</a>) mowing and mulching paths, and so on. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Which, by the way, is
real work!</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b> </span>My parents and
grandparents didn’t “go to the gym” to stay fit. They didn’t have to; they
worked the land with their own hands, which kept them fit and strong. So along
with the money I’m saving on expensive power equipment and fuel, I’m also
saving on gym fees!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBEE1pr5S0aGATab0Vh9ge8tf8Q0mJ6yxN1rmfQR3_OteppD05Ifi3YoPGyTKVhnKZu92k15MAArydxx8D3J71fFucunvakpClcy0BOykLRlCuVh37MnHBO6ZCZpJOR2ysDAQ_kzbQbY/s1600/IMG_2154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBEE1pr5S0aGATab0Vh9ge8tf8Q0mJ6yxN1rmfQR3_OteppD05Ifi3YoPGyTKVhnKZu92k15MAArydxx8D3J71fFucunvakpClcy0BOykLRlCuVh37MnHBO6ZCZpJOR2ysDAQ_kzbQbY/s1600/IMG_2154.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>So: Watch This Space!</b>
Unlike a turf grass lawn, my little nature preserve will evolve and change over
time, from season to season, year to year. Without me mimicking the
effect of wildfire by mowing, the grasses that now wave gently in the wind (like
<a href="http://www2.ca.uky.edu/agcomm/magazine/2004/winterspring2004/Articles/htmlfiles/GoingNative.htm" target="_blank">the prairies that once covered Kentucky</a> before humans showed up and
started suppressing wildfires) will eventually give way to taller, less fire dependent plants, and ultimately, trees: Redbud, Dogwood, Sycamore, Chestnut, Tulip Poplar and so
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I intend to enjoy watching all
that happen over time, and in the process, learning how to better live <i><u>with</u>,</i> rather than <u><i>on</i></u> the natural
ecosystems of central Kentucky.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPU-YgCVk2afQE8rI68XG3RJ-vCxs9FUOkxC_5JKofTzvFr-h7DNjdJUYn_0Gng4J66brBDr9R-p15WrW9K_OQ2cu04-1_VGJpKjbr9pplt0GfGZGbynZvStnT83Q-5hDLprSxc4raqY4/s1600/IMG_2208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPU-YgCVk2afQE8rI68XG3RJ-vCxs9FUOkxC_5JKofTzvFr-h7DNjdJUYn_0Gng4J66brBDr9R-p15WrW9K_OQ2cu04-1_VGJpKjbr9pplt0GfGZGbynZvStnT83Q-5hDLprSxc4raqY4/s1600/IMG_2208.JPG" height="244" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-32228111672178892942009-11-08T23:01:00.095-06:002009-11-09T00:25:57.714-06:00YMAA Chapter 7: Goodby Yellow Brick Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8prEDx9eINi5G_hHyo7MTO1OySEouDiEXozlJ1i7zMqW2iNPcf2rAiCfcWWjmMyXti95XlFY3CvIk3YTLurTm1cWkQmWTTYejmedd-B1qj1sduRFW9fVMBqv6OFQOJUkECT27GhtImKU/s1600-h/godholes+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1h-3k5DuDQfMf7HbjRcwAYK8RY4LGLNLFtvEVe5xkCxa51Nsoi0uAP_ST_SmFkoedSaViOACzK5md5QlvNoefq5uNbbcwCDGJYZfTNYlMfh36JOCa9hM4O72HzIJ6kMK6jmG2FvqSDg/s1600-h/log+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1h-3k5DuDQfMf7HbjRcwAYK8RY4LGLNLFtvEVe5xkCxa51Nsoi0uAP_ST_SmFkoedSaViOACzK5md5QlvNoefq5uNbbcwCDGJYZfTNYlMfh36JOCa9hM4O72HzIJ6kMK6jmG2FvqSDg/s320/log+%281%29.jpg" /></a>Saturday morning; up as usual for 6:00 AM meditation, final packing up, one last breakfast with Dr. Yang and the boys, and then it was time to fire up the SabBatmobile and drive off into the Pacific mists once again, back to "the matrix" as Dr. Yang might put it, of 21st century America. (Though I should admit that I write this from my staggeringly lovely lodgings in Oceanside OR -as evidence I present the images on this post- still on sabbatical. I'm hoping to forestall full reentry into the matrix for another couple months at least.) After three weeks I had pretty well acclimated to the rhythms of the YMAA Retreat Center, rhythms that exerted a definite sort of gravitational/inertial force I had to shake off. It is a remarkable place, they are remarkable people; I will be forever grateful for the patient attention Dr. Yang paid to my form, technique, and to my questions, and for the warmth, hospitality and camaraderie extended to me by everyone at the center, guests and all. But the truth is that at heart, I'm a restless spirit. A strong current of wanderlust roils just below the surface of even my most sociably comfortable self, providing an ever-ready energy that makes it relatively easy -even pleasurably exhilarating- for me to "break free" of... whatever. What I leave behind and what I'll find up ahead, while important stories in their own right that mustn't go unattended, are nevertheless irrelevant to this particular high; the exhilaration derives directly from the transition itself, the journey between worlds, sparking across a synapse the size of a life story.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicniORC7k23R00SKNwF9zR0qTrYqVnkIMeU24IurWNkWJWwCul06YmwiBHIHOqIuxPf8KwrpJe7Af-6qrrPcEyuXUXw6KxlGs-tBEMgU6r6L4LD3TcfKsNbgh5mTKLmhx7AruUnIUkuAo/s1600-h/bluecolouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicniORC7k23R00SKNwF9zR0qTrYqVnkIMeU24IurWNkWJWwCul06YmwiBHIHOqIuxPf8KwrpJe7Af-6qrrPcEyuXUXw6KxlGs-tBEMgU6r6L4LD3TcfKsNbgh5mTKLmhx7AruUnIUkuAo/s320/bluecolouds.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So, I don't think I could be happy living a monastic life of deep commitment to an ordered community. Let's just say I "have commitment issues". I prefer to cast myself as <i>The Wandering Monk</i>, a benevolent troubadour/ shaman who, while not belonging perfectly to any of them, moves easily between the realms of "the matrix", the natural/animal world, the arts, the monastery, and the university, by utilizing the dark and ancient art of <i>deep improvisation.</i> A peaceful itinerant tinker/teacher of voracious curiosity, with a handful of certified specialties, a vast store of little bits of knowledge from here and from there and from all over the map, all wired up together in a completely unique, random sort of network in his head, and a strong natural inclination to share what he knows. That just sounds and feels right to me. My natural habitat, my meta-calling. I think I'll think that's who I think I am for awhile. (I just knew all those acting lessons would come in handy!) What's the risk? Yes, it's an embarrassingly 21st century geeky way to think, I grant that; create from your deepest self-impressions an "avatar" of your ideal self, and then live it. But so what? He sounds harmless to me, and hey; we're dealing with the matrix, remember? I can try to be whatever I please, just so long as it doesn't hurt profits. Or prophets, for that matter. And as long as he's not also useless as well as harmless, why not? The TinkerMonk. (Monktinker? That's no good. Like I said; a work in progress.)<br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">And I do want to note that I'm quite satisfied with how my main intention -to revitalize and tune up my own qigong and taijiquan practice- has been achieved. While still (and ever) the skeptic, I do understand the concepts and techniques of harnessing qi energy on a much deeper level than when I arrived three weeks ago. The intensive, daily training with Dr. Yang himself was every bit as enlightening as I could have hoped for, and I will surely find a way to return for another stay of at least this long, or longer. But to afford that. I'll have to rejoin and work the matrix for awhile. And that's cool; I like my matrix job just fine at the moment, so going back into that world will not be a hardship. Though I will state clearly and for the record here what I've been saying, both in my head and aloud, for years; I belong in the Pacific Northwest. I've felt this way since the summer of 1975, when I first hitch-hiked from my home town in western Minnesota to the Olympic peninsula, the first of what was to become several visits to this part of the world.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tYC-rxaMZK7cQd8cI50FtBpE4Dx0laRZ9XoL-undhHZEq5PQJRVWRMLESncAsVhrYuERz8b-qorkOepzGEIRcPDhBVs4tbvETMQSEBNBucc4MIkVVhjUQRQ9zyeqW8V-95WAu5ypi1g/s1600-h/lookoutsnst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tYC-rxaMZK7cQd8cI50FtBpE4Dx0laRZ9XoL-undhHZEq5PQJRVWRMLESncAsVhrYuERz8b-qorkOepzGEIRcPDhBVs4tbvETMQSEBNBucc4MIkVVhjUQRQ9zyeqW8V-95WAu5ypi1g/s320/lookoutsnst.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This visit has crystallized my determination: I hereby pledge to actively devote myself to steering the trajectory of my life to a total relocation to the Pacific Northwest, somewhere in the coastal range, from Northern California to Vancouver BC, but most preferably within easy distance from Portland OR. Even if it means a fairly radical reordering of the basic infrastructure of my life. Into every stable system must occasionally come a disruption -a fire, a hurricane, an asteroid, a plague- to jump start and re-invigoration of the engines of evolving life, and this won't be the first time I've put a match to my "settled" life. But I've learned some things along the way, and at my age, with my family responsibilities, a controlled burn makes more sense than a wild conflagration. I'll need a plan this time. But I'm on that. <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8prEDx9eINi5G_hHyo7MTO1OySEouDiEXozlJ1i7zMqW2iNPcf2rAiCfcWWjmMyXti95XlFY3CvIk3YTLurTm1cWkQmWTTYejmedd-B1qj1sduRFW9fVMBqv6OFQOJUkECT27GhtImKU/s1600-h/godholes+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8prEDx9eINi5G_hHyo7MTO1OySEouDiEXozlJ1i7zMqW2iNPcf2rAiCfcWWjmMyXti95XlFY3CvIk3YTLurTm1cWkQmWTTYejmedd-B1qj1sduRFW9fVMBqv6OFQOJUkECT27GhtImKU/s320/godholes+%281%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></i><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I entitled my very first <a href="http://evolutionistas-scott.blogspot.com/"><i>Evolutionistas!</i></a> blog post <a href="http://evolutionistas-scott.blogspot.com/2009/09/sabbatical-search-for.html"><i>The Sabbatical Search For...?</i></a> Have I maybe found it? Better sleep on it; probably won't seem like such a good idea in the cold light of the matrix's morning sun. But gotta stay at least one step ahead of the machine. I'm not yet so enfeebled by my years spent in this contest that I can't manage at least that, for awhile longer.<br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> All images captured by Scott Stroot at Oceanside Beach,<br />
</span></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Oceanside OR, using an iPhone.</span></i><br />
</div><br />
</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-33913175866681419962009-11-07T20:30:00.007-06:002009-11-08T12:33:33.201-06:00YMAA Chapter 6: Music hath charms to sooth the savage breast.*<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">As it turns out, my visit to the <a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/">YMAA Retreat Center</a> was a two way exchange: they shared their facilities and knowledge of qigong and Taijiquan with me, and I in turn brought music into their curriculum. I made it clear that I was merely a player with no bona fides as a music teacher, but, for whatever reason, Dr. Yang evidently had faith that I would be able to give The Boys music lessons. <br />
</span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcCg7EYCs9DrJcYg-LG7Yyj5o30t9WR9Hhn7Av4b3bXosl6Hs2qGWIOA58lV45mvSwZhyphenhyphenzhfY6VwnkDPT_y19IXUpWH-ilvocCGoJPdfVENi6xDivykwQlc5cCBX3QOnFhyphenhyphenep9Ottp0A/s1600-h/medfirstlesson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcCg7EYCs9DrJcYg-LG7Yyj5o30t9WR9Hhn7Av4b3bXosl6Hs2qGWIOA58lV45mvSwZhyphenhyphenzhfY6VwnkDPT_y19IXUpWH-ilvocCGoJPdfVENi6xDivykwQlc5cCBX3QOnFhyphenhyphenep9Ottp0A/s200/medfirstlesson.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">But The Boys were not to be my only students; in younger days <br />
Dr. Yang had played guitar, and sang, and even composed a bit, and was eager to re-engage those long dormant skills, so....</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br />
That's Dr. Yang, second from left, at my first music lesson. Jon and Xavier were in attendance, but off camera making lesson copies- and shooting pictures</i>.</span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOe2Ff4EVd-RaftaO0ZHZj7jO4YiAKcFDA1RlNKBkbrR76uvpVGsxoKpCqLP14pKofLdsS0vdH9jcCn4GnFSlDq6-d-Nbym77sjPRuUgrsszVxSvOyAymVmkEo3b0wVg79MuwUKTOTiQQ/s1600-h/dryangguitar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOe2Ff4EVd-RaftaO0ZHZj7jO4YiAKcFDA1RlNKBkbrR76uvpVGsxoKpCqLP14pKofLdsS0vdH9jcCn4GnFSlDq6-d-Nbym77sjPRuUgrsszVxSvOyAymVmkEo3b0wVg79MuwUKTOTiQQ/s320/dryangguitar.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">There was one song in particular that captivated Dr.Yang, </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">and he practiced it with great focus and patience, a </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">sweet, simple little guitar melody that could be heard wafting softly from his </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">room. </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He couldn't remember the name of the song, but was patiently coaxing the complete melody from the memory of his fingers on the strings. Fantastic role modeling for The Boys, and just plain nice to hear. <br />
<br />
I had one guitar and a keyboard with me, and had picked up some basic beginner's lesson books for piano and guitar on my way down from Oceanside, and figured we'd make do sharing these few tools. So it was a pleasant surprise to find that Dr. Yang owned a nice little classical guitar we could share; the nylon strings and lower tension of classical style guitars are much easier on tender, unconditioned fingertips than my steel strings would be, and now we had three instruments to work with. But I needn't have concerned myself; the day after my first lesson, Dr. Yang gave me a one-on-one intensive in ancient Chinese martial shopping technique. We took the afternoon to drive to Fortuna/Eureka, where we hit two music stores and a pawn shop, some of them twice, and in less than two hours Dr. Yang -on my somewhat nervously delivered reviews of their quality, price and value- had purchased 5 guitars (3 classical style and 2 standard issue flat top style steel string) 5 sets of matching strings, </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">4 guitar cases, 3 tuning peg winders</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">, song books, straps, strap pegs, electronic tuners and tuning forks, and a nice, used Casio keyboard with lots of bells and whistles. So at the next lesson...</span></span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-c022Izb32fuW-VPwvYEByKvDytRxJvwYFxZw5UYLP9KcXGBNXffwKT78ez7moSalC2AMs1JRGW1RBgWo6qqO6E5Fq_PmUSg-SWuNoUA35f9wtTOSrdTqQJTBA0gwCAQ5QvkNNunDSjE/s1600-h/guitarists1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-c022Izb32fuW-VPwvYEByKvDytRxJvwYFxZw5UYLP9KcXGBNXffwKT78ez7moSalC2AMs1JRGW1RBgWo6qqO6E5Fq_PmUSg-SWuNoUA35f9wtTOSrdTqQJTBA0gwCAQ5QvkNNunDSjE/s200/guitarists1.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZElyQEZNmseU8EzurUnOy9nFuWYNXZWb01yCSpm7lW-aANMMU5xqBbZcrONFIHxEm1npTSRyWo0dOYR4hfS9kAe02t8o5_9Civ7KxeVE43UrQ38N6FbaHFBJbIzXjYIPY9UxcXKTMNU/s1600-h/guitarists2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZElyQEZNmseU8EzurUnOy9nFuWYNXZWb01yCSpm7lW-aANMMU5xqBbZcrONFIHxEm1npTSRyWo0dOYR4hfS9kAe02t8o5_9Civ7KxeVE43UrQ38N6FbaHFBJbIzXjYIPY9UxcXKTMNU/s200/guitarists2.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a><br />
</div>...everyone had their own guitar to play. By the end of the first week, the sound of scales, finger drills, and halting shots at <i>House of the Rising Sun, Paint it Black, The Boxer, Sounds of Silence, Greensleeves </i>and <i>Silent Night</i> filled most "quiet" hours. (I assigned all of the drills and some of those songs, but most were self-selected. Blows my mind a little that the music I grew up on still carries such value generations later, though I guess I shouldn't be surprised at the stamina of classic values.) The place literally rang with music, albeit of a raggedy, just learning sort. But music nonetheless, and this seemed to please Dr. Yang very much, who confided in me that he had not played his guitar in nearly 30 years, and was very glad to rekindle those musical embers, and more importantly, to see The Boys dig into it. And I gotta say, as a teacher? It was pretty gratifying.<br />
<br />
The final lesson ended with a "works in progress" concert, and true to his word, Dr. Yang gamely -and entirely voluntarily, I would note- took the stage himself to play the now fully recovered if not yet flawlessly executed old tune he'd been practicing with such diligence. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jLaVfumojLHPPxToqmZ0RREgVRM1YwwSciITsRM694W-lVBVIZY1eGPVc0xX21rwKEM1N_V6H9IWMFzr5HiBm3JSQ8ppphVhTykNFiE3gQTKLJ_nNcdn1kAwg3hQ0wT-WSYrRK_gGfA/s1600-h/dryangconcert1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jLaVfumojLHPPxToqmZ0RREgVRM1YwwSciITsRM694W-lVBVIZY1eGPVc0xX21rwKEM1N_V6H9IWMFzr5HiBm3JSQ8ppphVhTykNFiE3gQTKLJ_nNcdn1kAwg3hQ0wT-WSYrRK_gGfA/s320/dryangconcert1.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>I also managed, in those last couple days, to coax guitar chords out of two songs Dr. Yang had written many years ago, melodies that a musician friend had arranged and hand-transcribed into piano scores. So by the time I left, The Boys had been given all the tools needed to learn to read and play both melody and chords, and enough theory so they could read the rhythm of the pieces. When I return someday, perhaps they will be able to play duets, trios, or even a whole 5 piece band treatment of those two songs, in any combination of piano and guitar they choose. But my primary wish for them is that, no matter what, they just keep playing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14iMeG_3XPjIG_8nA3EE_8GRmhPTek6jywIdYEpxi99cHIbtwV3L-fAPdzfpuL0kFqbNqCpjtgeEwoejmZUxNgT2y4BiWcwXtAg5urj6Xr2EKbXH_xwRW67TxbF4OnJdb42jwINBL2og/s1600-h/guitarists.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14iMeG_3XPjIG_8nA3EE_8GRmhPTek6jywIdYEpxi99cHIbtwV3L-fAPdzfpuL0kFqbNqCpjtgeEwoejmZUxNgT2y4BiWcwXtAg5urj6Xr2EKbXH_xwRW67TxbF4OnJdb42jwINBL2og/s400/guitarists.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Javier rockin' out.</i></span><br />
<br />
</div><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-size: small;"><i>*Brownie points to whoever can tell me -without googling or wiki-ing- to whom this quote should be attributed.</i></span> <br />
<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-57015584497816530672009-11-05T13:21:00.005-06:002009-11-06T11:33:53.873-06:00YMAA Chapter 5: The Night Sweats<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWnUGZVJPfBFb1Mh7wPmswsw_g3pd3n929SMy4Yl6a7RX6iJloSuQ_DVooLgV-CjdChtg00aX9yMq_p01A6wHM0UOto_z9eEgpZhhymM88kXCg93aduSWHiqUb47708iuLX97rUPuw4w/s1600-h/frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWnUGZVJPfBFb1Mh7wPmswsw_g3pd3n929SMy4Yl6a7RX6iJloSuQ_DVooLgV-CjdChtg00aX9yMq_p01A6wHM0UOto_z9eEgpZhhymM88kXCg93aduSWHiqUb47708iuLX97rUPuw4w/s200/frame.jpg" /></a>Back in September I wrote about feeling the need for some sort of purification ritual, and thinking that a Sweat Lodge might be just the thing. <a href="http://evolutionistas-scott.blogspot.com/2009/09/vigil-chapter-2-end.html">(The Vigil, Chapter 2: The End)</a>. Well, ask and ye shall receive. When I arrived here at the <a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/">YMAA Retreat Center</a>, I found this awaiting me. This was evidently constructed a year or two ago, during one of the training-work camps held to layout and build the center. It needed only a couple repairs, and it was ready to go.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD5tEravkyu0SiUlKrio7VmwVswXhzhF3q6jDcbjOz2g19KZfwjsTv6CYaUyMnkbB1TOsHs5ptQgfuIx21iL3qKgkXgBUC9Yp_COotOdLcW_vpUfuzB3_P7FM1jYDrzoeWF6ioawFAA98/s1600-h/coveredframe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD5tEravkyu0SiUlKrio7VmwVswXhzhF3q6jDcbjOz2g19KZfwjsTv6CYaUyMnkbB1TOsHs5ptQgfuIx21iL3qKgkXgBUC9Yp_COotOdLcW_vpUfuzB3_P7FM1jYDrzoeWF6ioawFAA98/s200/coveredframe.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Our first attempt was a dry run. A smokey, lukewarm dry run; a learning experience. The rock pit had not been cleaned thoroughly enough, and though the sweat rocks had not really been sufficiently heated, they did retain just enough heat to smolder the dry leaves left in the pit. By the time the smoke cleared the rocks had cooled to the point where we were able to get a couple decent steam clouds, but no dry heat in between.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi001cXEBb8vmQttc4bhRSmxXvOgVzsMEE4HIdfuw1RWNc2rmcaJLhYJ5iLui5ika5VgMmdGSEzySH4jn5R1pJ6Tto-Dsa6IU63LAPdCr28hUBODzsgCixDPz2s7Uh8A1iMVZWucvkxfdU/s1600-h/firelodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi001cXEBb8vmQttc4bhRSmxXvOgVzsMEE4HIdfuw1RWNc2rmcaJLhYJ5iLui5ika5VgMmdGSEzySH4jn5R1pJ6Tto-Dsa6IU63LAPdCr28hUBODzsgCixDPz2s7Uh8A1iMVZWucvkxfdU/s200/firelodge.jpg" /></a>But the next time was the real deal. I spent several hours digging a decent fire pit, cleaning and lining the rock pit (with some of the sandy clay dug from the fire pit and small rocks) securing the lodge, choosing the sweat rocks, and building a good, strong layered fire that allowed me to heat a good number of rocks to glowing red hot. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyB792Ta7IJVY_M4wR8nhxvTjUcqy93q0mYI4VTgZrHmYtsVkV2ZdM5he99ngB0YRk7g4hW_XD8wLgwErhnl0gqzO8v54k0krI_P_qLrA83YvPfsUp696uBoyimCtQbeBcNpOoEdI6xQo/s1600-h/nightsky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyB792Ta7IJVY_M4wR8nhxvTjUcqy93q0mYI4VTgZrHmYtsVkV2ZdM5he99ngB0YRk7g4hW_XD8wLgwErhnl0gqzO8v54k0krI_P_qLrA83YvPfsUp696uBoyimCtQbeBcNpOoEdI6xQo/s200/nightsky.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>The night cooperated nicely, cool, mostly clear and calm, and the lodge worked like a charm. The atmosphere and energy in a hot, dark sweat lodge are extraordinary, as is expected, and normal conversation gives way to silent contemplation, and sometimes to extraordinary stories. In this case, given my motivation for conducting (pouring) this sweat in the first place, I told my version of my step-father's story. The topic then turned, somehow, to the Greeks, and I became sort of an ersatz Homer, telling the stories of Prometheus, Oedipus, and the House of Atreus to a lodge populated with bright young men who knew little or nothing of ancient Greek myths and legends. Not typical sweat lodge fare perhaps, but felt just right somehow. It worked out so well that Dr. Yang decided that he would like to try it, so a couple nights later, I repeated the whole preparation process, and we held another, successful, well attended sweat. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUV_pAn-ca_gaUni3GCJjaettHJ2tO8Q-DHZjirpay7c8KnFPdmhv3na8KCSEDXveR3QsD2twGODSo_2yVLfuaww5Ryj9eQE9liKKhYf21nc0MifYqBBNoNMS6qFH6JPcsTajcz2Peyhw/s1600-h/rockpit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUV_pAn-ca_gaUni3GCJjaettHJ2tO8Q-DHZjirpay7c8KnFPdmhv3na8KCSEDXveR3QsD2twGODSo_2yVLfuaww5Ryj9eQE9liKKhYf21nc0MifYqBBNoNMS6qFH6JPcsTajcz2Peyhw/s200/rockpit.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
But we still had some learning to do; we had used the wrong sort of rock, a potentially dangerous mistake. A pile of rocks identified as "the kind you're supposed to use" had been left from the lodge's maiden voyage years before, and The Boys had worked hard to find and supplement that pile with more of the same; some kind of sedimentary rock shot through with viens of quartz. But after only one use, all but two or three of them had become so unstable I could crumble them with my bare hands. So, after the fact, I did some of my own research, and almost immediately came across this: <i>"Stones that have quartz in them, are from river beds, or have white granite in them are never to be used, for they sometimes explode when they are heated and water is poured on them." </i>So the quartz veined stones so carefully selected and carried up from Salmon Creek were <i>exactly</i> the wrong rocks. Gotta' appreciate the precision of our error. And we were fortunate; no injuries from exploding rock chips. No exploding rocks, actually; they just cracked and crumbled. But, for future reference:<br />
<br />
<blockquote dir="ltr" style="margin-right: 0px;"><div><i>"The best rocks are those least exposed to weather. Certain quarried rocks are therefore the strongest. Glassy rocks of high quartz or iron content are not recommended. Iron is a fast conductor of heat and when water is poured on, it becomes trapped in a shell of vapor and tends to form beads. Obviously, rocks that produce poisonous gases or offensive odors should not be used.<br />
<br />
One of the best rocks is peridotite, a quarried Finnish rock.. Certain North American rocks work as well. Freshly quarried basalt, black and fine grained, from the Cascade and Sierra ranges, is excellent. So is hornblende, found in many parts of this continent. It's a textured rock which has been re-crystalized at a high temperature making it ideal for multiple reheatings. Locations of these types of rocks can be found on geological surveying maps available from any Bureau of Mines or through the Government Printing office in Washington, D.C.<br />
<br />
TESTING THE ROCKS: Exploding rocks are dangerous. Perform a simple test to guarantee their safety. Thoroughly heat a sample for two hours or more. Drop it into a pail of cold water, then look for cracks. When the rock is cool, test it further by hitting it with a hammer or against another rock. If the rock cracks or makes a soft grinding sound when rubbed against another rock, discard it and find another source. If it survives you have a safe rock. A more elaborate test can be made by your local metallurgical laboratory. It costs a few dollars.</i><br />
</div></blockquote><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. Nobody was hurt, and now I know better. I thank the rocks for that.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHghDfBZlsQ7vvxV2bhRFPt39BDq9UcXQHafW2oEP6znJmJBTs7Rw8gW3Woh0z2ePQRuSy58C1-DQglZ-zPVIoP3buYNb8oQj3ED6WIeq2YnZ2Pcfp_cp-a0LL3zlihGNt8JXRPFFYDyk/s1600-h/sunset1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHghDfBZlsQ7vvxV2bhRFPt39BDq9UcXQHafW2oEP6znJmJBTs7Rw8gW3Woh0z2ePQRuSy58C1-DQglZ-zPVIoP3buYNb8oQj3ED6WIeq2YnZ2Pcfp_cp-a0LL3zlihGNt8JXRPFFYDyk/s320/sunset1.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-46137055801016308242009-11-03T23:32:00.000-06:002009-11-03T23:32:30.253-06:00YMAA Chapter 4: Xiou Hu's* Grand Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6KLqKvDQrfx55bMkX1kTnq3Za8CoGkgxu9JlJEYfFe3uP36tWqlv6v-w0dOI85xTINNMPYYV0Xni-xhiW20kR27FFf326bABY-ij341_gU8Iq5mR5wWGMVCqFafLppsSPZEzArYvvkA/s1600-h/xioutintin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik6KLqKvDQrfx55bMkX1kTnq3Za8CoGkgxu9JlJEYfFe3uP36tWqlv6v-w0dOI85xTINNMPYYV0Xni-xhiW20kR27FFf326bABY-ij341_gU8Iq5mR5wWGMVCqFafLppsSPZEzArYvvkA/s200/xioutintin.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">* (In English, Xiou Hu would be "Little Tiger") </span></i><br />
<br />
lazy day sun-day nobody up for the little house today sun's out nobody come 'cept now new guy nice guy nice gives me treats and scratches and he plays and I can BITE I can bite and chase and he doesn't yell or hit so I bite sometime he lets me and he gives me new bouncy ball funny ball run it down bring it back run it down bring it back HA funny bouncy ball but now we walk we like walks like walks really like walks with him he let's me go new places not smelly old road so we go I'll show the way but he goes down the hill down the hill OK OK lots of trees down the hill and SQUIRREL! SQUIRREL SQUIRREL HEY!, HEY! HEY! HEY!, BITE! HEY! UP IN TREE! SQUIRREL! SQUIRREL! HEY! HEY! HEY! dumb squirrel scaredy squirrel run up and away in trees dumb squirrels Ok Ok down hill down hill steep and sometimes he slips I NEVER slip I'm strong and fast and never slip so we keep going down and down and down till we come to water different water not the same as every day walk water cool here now and slippery and WHOA! WHOA! WHAT'S THAT BEAR? BEAR! <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHBSUc_xfveEvsEOpXk31UoiyKfB2gMdOEFrDLUFgLbdsjDkwDfN_xE25wjGKkQCb15LmSTkGWaHJ9SRn6EWxoESWXAN6jaXa2U9rEi-Sf7LSB3TyJEXSefoWnKQWbS7KoonCleLfM3s/s1600-h/beartrack+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxHBSUc_xfveEvsEOpXk31UoiyKfB2gMdOEFrDLUFgLbdsjDkwDfN_xE25wjGKkQCb15LmSTkGWaHJ9SRn6EWxoESWXAN6jaXa2U9rEi-Sf7LSB3TyJEXSefoWnKQWbS7KoonCleLfM3s/s200/beartrack+%282%29.jpg" /></a>we follow bear not afraid I'll BITE bear and stupid slow bear but then he turns around and goes other way OK OK I'll lead that way very steep very slippery but I scratch and scratch and he pushes and I get out turn around BARK him out BARK BARK him out OK I barked him out now uphill uphill this way this way ok not this way but he gets wrong too sometimes I'll lead the way I can smell it's up -SQUIRREL SQUIRREL SQUIRREL HEY!, HEY! HEY! HEY!, BITE! HEY! UP IN TREE! SQUIRREL! QUIRREL! HEY! HEY! HEY! dumb squirrel scaredy squirrel run up and away in trees dumb squirrels I'll bite you better run- where did he? oh there he goes I run though run and go ahead follow me follow me- Ok not that way but he goes the wrong way too lot's of times then we come to the regular water this water everyday water then easy to go home this way this way home OK that way I'll go first I'll go this way ok too see! there's home up there<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLbkolAqX1pfnWkBdDC4FTqPcKVD0siwiV43crSCenR-_pexgJpwfx9MvFC8c5w8G5BsN32Y8ZaaB-cNR8lVJ6bDitNcDY5FH4S8v67xS5Tpy3_pxS26DYj3S9y0TaWtAomaACNXgrmQ/s1600-h/xiouwatch.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLbkolAqX1pfnWkBdDC4FTqPcKVD0siwiV43crSCenR-_pexgJpwfx9MvFC8c5w8G5BsN32Y8ZaaB-cNR8lVJ6bDitNcDY5FH4S8v67xS5Tpy3_pxS26DYj3S9y0TaWtAomaACNXgrmQ/s200/xiouwatch.jpg" /></a> up there so we come home from long walk very long walk and he gives me treats and I'm smart I sit and stay and sit and stay and get treats new guy nice guy I like new nice guy go for more walks more long bear and squirrel walks. Dumb cat home sharp cat sharp cat nice sometimes then mean and sharp. Dumb cat.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaujlSQWG1fb3wRfZj77o6gYBW9vMORfiPyKDXvxAihpsBTi9wL3kr91u35LS-C_E0lMVS34ao6jQTZSe8Nh9Sg7hoAn56jBhyJmXywIS0WCz37OlLh4hinCdDRvZ6ZPPnF1Rxc0dtgRU/s1600-h/meowgiprwl.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaujlSQWG1fb3wRfZj77o6gYBW9vMORfiPyKDXvxAihpsBTi9wL3kr91u35LS-C_E0lMVS34ao6jQTZSe8Nh9Sg7hoAn56jBhyJmXywIS0WCz37OlLh4hinCdDRvZ6ZPPnF1Rxc0dtgRU/s200/meowgiprwl.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgY_6X9ysaX_3l_ek_KlikDZWXcYE3rG9gdtDmV-4HDaTStLy1Zul9EQCWPHVED82AXbOXX6uqZroXbo3OCCYLsgkFSZEOc9QJ3WWzQChsUgRIv0nWNNeFmfIykdBOs8xzOcRtmpQ_ZQ/s1600-h/xiouhukong.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgY_6X9ysaX_3l_ek_KlikDZWXcYE3rG9gdtDmV-4HDaTStLy1Zul9EQCWPHVED82AXbOXX6uqZroXbo3OCCYLsgkFSZEOc9QJ3WWzQChsUgRIv0nWNNeFmfIykdBOs8xzOcRtmpQ_ZQ/s320/xiouhukong.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">But I'm not like dumb cat I'm a good dog that's what he says, all the time he says;"good dog" I'm a good dog I made us home safe!<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-12662851333178879792009-11-01T15:51:00.002-06:002009-11-01T16:00:37.912-06:00YMAA Chapter 3: Paging Dr. Mom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUJIDVkoo1mBtIuRSwRsaqKdh8d7cDrgACBuABtcJl5FXt_fVsVFh3NdGKsDIQsHPTgC-8aDYLvdA641LqpXOWbNMYmRYMWElYEd27grRHzYsowZeVLzWvxBaceki0XpZQsnkv1Nwumo/s1600-h/drwpush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUJIDVkoo1mBtIuRSwRsaqKdh8d7cDrgACBuABtcJl5FXt_fVsVFh3NdGKsDIQsHPTgC-8aDYLvdA641LqpXOWbNMYmRYMWElYEd27grRHzYsowZeVLzWvxBaceki0XpZQsnkv1Nwumo/s200/drwpush.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhty9RMXqc7TNEKfhdcBwtnzWiE5rDV9tRTwWyAhxzcKdDp_6FVOPcQ8RbJ1a4YUj1R85qHyY9sPrx0yxZ4TRNZrtwVNZOn28WMJ_2jnd8Y6YmUHO3pz-h3BnKEThrpiXON_bUY8bS971Q/s1600-h/drwpush+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhty9RMXqc7TNEKfhdcBwtnzWiE5rDV9tRTwWyAhxzcKdDp_6FVOPcQ8RbJ1a4YUj1R85qHyY9sPrx0yxZ4TRNZrtwVNZOn28WMJ_2jnd8Y6YmUHO3pz-h3BnKEThrpiXON_bUY8bS971Q/s200/drwpush+%281%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
As I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the features of life at the center is the coming and going of a variety of interesting guests. Some stay for a day or two, some for weeks at a time. When I arrived, Dr. Gerda Whittman was in her second week of a three week stay, her second annual visit. Dr. Whittman is a Holistic physician from a small village in Germany, who has become something of a surrogate Mom, gleefully cooking for, training with, and generally watching and fussing over the The Boys. Her ministrations include holistic assessments and acupuncture treatments, which she graciously offers to all, even though it means letting her day job follow her into her vacation (or holiday, as the Europeans call it.) So it was a sad day when Mom had to depart back back to her home and practice.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdYxRwbpsTg6B87O4wrcmx6B83_9WM4ItgGRtBJYez53PRHTd05ovbq0L3tzANljaq5fAe_XbN7bUlH50uvdI9tpYWZKpYaWW68LeHMmRb8hkoLbMwOkdQg8Nggy268ODulGesF5CvD0/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdYxRwbpsTg6B87O4wrcmx6B83_9WM4ItgGRtBJYez53PRHTd05ovbq0L3tzANljaq5fAe_XbN7bUlH50uvdI9tpYWZKpYaWW68LeHMmRb8hkoLbMwOkdQg8Nggy268ODulGesF5CvD0/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdYxRwbpsTg6B87O4wrcmx6B83_9WM4ItgGRtBJYez53PRHTd05ovbq0L3tzANljaq5fAe_XbN7bUlH50uvdI9tpYWZKpYaWW68LeHMmRb8hkoLbMwOkdQg8Nggy268ODulGesF5CvD0/s200/Sabbatical+pics+079.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tAf1qLnEa1Wn-qH_Y5R4idMhI3TCByW0UVuEaJcRAjW4ApYlqavBPFv-abqNxkxl4ro2gjLcW-QVUIVeywnKQtoxiZ9LrlEoRUYq_3QZEL31mDvWF6TpOZdZyKjncf-drf3Ai2LRVno/s1600-h/drwjav.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tAf1qLnEa1Wn-qH_Y5R4idMhI3TCByW0UVuEaJcRAjW4ApYlqavBPFv-abqNxkxl4ro2gjLcW-QVUIVeywnKQtoxiZ9LrlEoRUYq_3QZEL31mDvWF6TpOZdZyKjncf-drf3Ai2LRVno/s200/drwjav.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Bye Mom. We miss you. Hope you can come back again. And again and again and again.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-5197939978289069822009-10-29T16:24:00.004-05:002009-11-06T11:52:12.437-06:00YMAA Chapter 2: A day in the life...A Typical Weekday at the YMAA Retreat Center: <br />
<br />
Up at 5:45 AM for a quick sip of green tea, always at the ready at a moment’s notice, thanks to a handy hot water dispenser, good self-straining teapots, and lots of teas to choose from… <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYeH2ZqTW5N9Aozg31EbTvITPNz-0SUnH5p3uJJR3Nmcncb_txmaU3Xi9P1NNrYBddUZU7RhaH0x99f8JAqe_bG-fTDJ5iu9SDfsMjItowMJ3VwheoGFo1KAiU0ct-e4nUfsknyJxD8OM/s1600-h/tea.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYeH2ZqTW5N9Aozg31EbTvITPNz-0SUnH5p3uJJR3Nmcncb_txmaU3Xi9P1NNrYBddUZU7RhaH0x99f8JAqe_bG-fTDJ5iu9SDfsMjItowMJ3VwheoGFo1KAiU0ct-e4nUfsknyJxD8OM/s320/tea.jpg" /></a><br />
…and maybe a handful of nuts or a bit of apple or pear (on the advice of Master Yang; “to keep the stomach busy and quiet during meditation") from the “snack bar” that’s open 24/7…<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjUxcVWQoqHcdjIsERqtjDlr3QfSvUQ1CtY46YS7MJIHSE1w6_BvxuwnOeGOni9Ecbp96BoBEDfyC4IhFbkwDH-9U7CWkY3Pae6WBBYjZtMNpY8HZjiEDnXWHwcxD9QGE0yi49K9NQLQ/s1600-h/snacks.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjUxcVWQoqHcdjIsERqtjDlr3QfSvUQ1CtY46YS7MJIHSE1w6_BvxuwnOeGOni9Ecbp96BoBEDfyC4IhFbkwDH-9U7CWkY3Pae6WBBYjZtMNpY8HZjiEDnXWHwcxD9QGE0yi49K9NQLQ/s200/snacks.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCd5slfv_T9aUB0iWi1os0A5DKLJSq5YV74gsjCsfRRXATf8ywYnhUbW2M-k_gHER-IGcziPxXof1U8QZthNS0eVqbiVtQICQ_CTlLjfhrEc4FPnFq2axKKb2ZXww4Jibpm38CcbDprsc/s1600-h/fishsnacks.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCd5slfv_T9aUB0iWi1os0A5DKLJSq5YV74gsjCsfRRXATf8ywYnhUbW2M-k_gHER-IGcziPxXof1U8QZthNS0eVqbiVtQICQ_CTlLjfhrEc4FPnFq2axKKb2ZXww4Jibpm38CcbDprsc/s200/fishsnacks.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mostly nuts, fruits, bread, peanut & almond butters, you know, typical snack stuff. (Yes, those are tiny dried fishes.)</span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div>…then it’s off to the octagonal gazebo, built especially for this purpose, for an hour of group qigong meditation beginning precisely at 6:00 AM. (These days it’s pitch dark when we begin, and only slightly less so an hour later, when we finish up.) <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSp07s7MeDMsLFiZZap5zC-u9zwSil5Q8XaZUhKyfe0hwFsxIZO4jzMDBrLQsjJ9Ta_XnB3QnY-7YNNm-C22BSQEHW3dY0c004sxvsAF4OlmdvQ8vLr4x-D3mX2UkHmcW8hWrzHXzjwN4/s1600-h/gazebosun.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSp07s7MeDMsLFiZZap5zC-u9zwSil5Q8XaZUhKyfe0hwFsxIZO4jzMDBrLQsjJ9Ta_XnB3QnY-7YNNm-C22BSQEHW3dY0c004sxvsAF4OlmdvQ8vLr4x-D3mX2UkHmcW8hWrzHXzjwN4/s200/gazebosun.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUzufq1a5FT9zXiSpt3T69dnPNZ6K80X-Tov-fk5xt01CQ4XvJ98oYq_3wtPs74tT12kIzTEUq5JImU6nj7PFbs5j4JjBdNtB0m-FG59LDEmWD6E7RLBn4TbdmL7SfDg7IW9082IRjEg/s1600-h/gazebo.floor.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUzufq1a5FT9zXiSpt3T69dnPNZ6K80X-Tov-fk5xt01CQ4XvJ98oYq_3wtPs74tT12kIzTEUq5JImU6nj7PFbs5j4JjBdNtB0m-FG59LDEmWD6E7RLBn4TbdmL7SfDg7IW9082IRjEg/s200/gazebo.floor.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
This is what the floor of the meditation gazebo looks <br />
like, when it's not covered in with mats, cushions, <br />
and blankets. In the dark.</span><br />
</div><br />
After meditation it’s back to the main house, where the indoor training studio is located, for 45 minutes of moving qigong; most often White Crane, but other styles too, as appropriate for special conditions. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDbRUyNXfbdjOEVqQkewmrP8hpyvu4CgZO9OAsNYpHOI3NB0GEwXbY4XCCGNaaiyss2QBOH2Hf0VWcsaB5jFId8uCk3bCyy0aJ1LWPW_xbfziFhTX71h8WSXJlwkHU7LzBO7Uglzd898/s1600-h/studio.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDbRUyNXfbdjOEVqQkewmrP8hpyvu4CgZO9OAsNYpHOI3NB0GEwXbY4XCCGNaaiyss2QBOH2Hf0VWcsaB5jFId8uCk3bCyy0aJ1LWPW_xbfziFhTX71h8WSXJlwkHU7LzBO7Uglzd898/s200/studio.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuL47Fb9N9S4EHPi8BEZZjRhB4eMoDB-FYt0nKs57kULGzzBgWZ-2elm0-tXfcseNQc9_9RQP6-aj4y32PJZA4cpZ_eEqznoSKDXtKBdQ4OkGL09ZPfjC_IebDpuLHAKG75AHWixWir3g/s1600-h/music+corner.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuL47Fb9N9S4EHPi8BEZZjRhB4eMoDB-FYt0nKs57kULGzzBgWZ-2elm0-tXfcseNQc9_9RQP6-aj4y32PJZA4cpZ_eEqznoSKDXtKBdQ4OkGL09ZPfjC_IebDpuLHAKG75AHWixWir3g/s200/music+corner.jpg" /></a></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The main studio... ...and library/music corner.</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Breakfast follows; the resident students (The Boys) usually head up to their dorm for this, but occasionally Master Yang –who cooks for all the guests- will invite them to stay, and cooks up a big breakfast of eggs, sausage, sautéed tomatoes and/or potatoes, and of course, rice. Almost always rice, with every meal, a habit I might just take away from here. After breakfast dishes are done, there’s a quiet period until 9:00 AM, when two hours of Taijiquan practice begins, which includes specialized qigong exercised designed especially for taijiquan, form correction, push-hands work, and taiji ball practice.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_-NOJAPvzs-rFJwYanRf_KJ7vBz6ryskx__MgBEQqekIiexkoAQGYuDzkMgYgypmzez0PndDUfKzJxG1F9TRuomsfp6ek-BwCOp1_fgZmRqfgHgrTczamvhy4IRj_FQCQ93dBJiQtcI/s1600-h/pavpush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_-NOJAPvzs-rFJwYanRf_KJ7vBz6ryskx__MgBEQqekIiexkoAQGYuDzkMgYgypmzez0PndDUfKzJxG1F9TRuomsfp6ek-BwCOp1_fgZmRqfgHgrTczamvhy4IRj_FQCQ93dBJiQtcI/s200/pavpush.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1y5tFOlSN6YK9C0ir8nIhQ7PKIceGBZV3tA9fY_ynUrc0Zvkp2QPNgGnyBuiVkhnfPu0JdmqUd7nJU6Hvzmmse3QkxAJzd0dR-EqlPm2JmgTxfSGbcb71jqXw8cv5drwhmMtZYkJ86E/s1600-h/taiji2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1y5tFOlSN6YK9C0ir8nIhQ7PKIceGBZV3tA9fY_ynUrc0Zvkp2QPNgGnyBuiVkhnfPu0JdmqUd7nJU6Hvzmmse3QkxAJzd0dR-EqlPm2JmgTxfSGbcb71jqXw8cv5drwhmMtZYkJ86E/s200/taiji2.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMEwxU6qCS1B3fDwxKvDMl-IQ6jE0RHZG-5OLoYqVLtvB1Qsrm4f3JvrJpbN-NdRZJKx-vtFTvq-1s8bRJM1Mcj74V3pZ4DVdyxSzIMIbETyiZ-6nDBtIBty5RxtwpYmlB4lg3LSsGzk/s1600-h/ball+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMEwxU6qCS1B3fDwxKvDMl-IQ6jE0RHZG-5OLoYqVLtvB1Qsrm4f3JvrJpbN-NdRZJKx-vtFTvq-1s8bRJM1Mcj74V3pZ4DVdyxSzIMIbETyiZ-6nDBtIBty5RxtwpYmlB4lg3LSsGzk/s200/ball+%281%29.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4F-wItctE-pXc2_kGnmYs2w07hXyhBJWAGxfTBVe6Dz9qxPUWq-uSTsJvh0mDyqKicpevwAze0e3LoZ02Umzvw35ovMnh4uJ7uF12teKSp-CqJ2TEJRbKqmkyH2k6nZq-p_PXJXkdYW0/s1600-h/ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4F-wItctE-pXc2_kGnmYs2w07hXyhBJWAGxfTBVe6Dz9qxPUWq-uSTsJvh0mDyqKicpevwAze0e3LoZ02Umzvw35ovMnh4uJ7uF12teKSp-CqJ2TEJRbKqmkyH2k6nZq-p_PXJXkdYW0/s200/ball.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_-NOJAPvzs-rFJwYanRf_KJ7vBz6ryskx__MgBEQqekIiexkoAQGYuDzkMgYgypmzez0PndDUfKzJxG1F9TRuomsfp6ek-BwCOp1_fgZmRqfgHgrTczamvhy4IRj_FQCQ93dBJiQtcI/s1600-h/pavpush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8NM7aAs_4euNv_pBKX04qKhx7yp9jSbMwkrTdSh7M4cNXec4tg003O1zmX2nIu3MU30oGlOUIoxIlfSzuX1G47BllN2cMdNwp1kZgYETtsEeyMKCDkJjZquEmymx4zLaQ7H8VY3Zi4o/s1600-h/taijicat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8NM7aAs_4euNv_pBKX04qKhx7yp9jSbMwkrTdSh7M4cNXec4tg003O1zmX2nIu3MU30oGlOUIoxIlfSzuX1G47BllN2cMdNwp1kZgYETtsEeyMKCDkJjZquEmymx4zLaQ7H8VY3Zi4o/s200/taijicat.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Zach doing an unauthorized "taiji cat" exercise.</span><br />
</div>At 11:00, I take the stage; I’ve been offering hour-long music lessons six days a week since I arrived. These have been pretty guitar centric -how that came to be is a story in itself, and I’ll write more about that in upcoming chapters- but I see to it that beginner’s level theory & piano are part of every lesson too.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTaqvaI70U4yTN6IJKGzpseNE-vK-DDYR6iaGvjkZmW_6LrqmFP_2JVFM0mcGczquy75ljwawdNkvGIJWjrIwh95efMMcd3f2uJntUUiDQlPhbwZMqQc0Aq9XMdXb3C76PxpS-zV8LZ94/s1600-h/guitarists2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTaqvaI70U4yTN6IJKGzpseNE-vK-DDYR6iaGvjkZmW_6LrqmFP_2JVFM0mcGczquy75ljwawdNkvGIJWjrIwh95efMMcd3f2uJntUUiDQlPhbwZMqQc0Aq9XMdXb3C76PxpS-zV8LZ94/s200/guitarists2.jpg" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0CkToWXiXaN0ISw4o0s5pVkFCo4k5iFbkurAkpJaEfGa_3if5fssvKl7CVp4B5T8h8dLBIOVbwmUl2k7gqc0UndbFlLDekPAjmDvLbyj86WADeJCFmcYijefBpuWiUgCTaSQdj70Mb0/s1600-h/guitarists1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0CkToWXiXaN0ISw4o0s5pVkFCo4k5iFbkurAkpJaEfGa_3if5fssvKl7CVp4B5T8h8dLBIOVbwmUl2k7gqc0UndbFlLDekPAjmDvLbyj86WADeJCFmcYijefBpuWiUgCTaSQdj70Mb0/s200/guitarists1.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCE5T2XCnbJv0BEieeFdkDDxbWD6aefvsVZVYYTn1672nuCv76Tye2b88FsLLqVE7Z6zw0CC9Ds-Penl92F98uvxxvHRq9NYh9zJLG9h3Q3Z9eTIXDoyPKuUUxGDqrKYANcmOmRkR7gw/s1600-h/dryangguitar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCE5T2XCnbJv0BEieeFdkDDxbWD6aefvsVZVYYTn1672nuCv76Tye2b88FsLLqVE7Z6zw0CC9Ds-Penl92F98uvxxvHRq9NYh9zJLG9h3Q3Z9eTIXDoyPKuUUxGDqrKYANcmOmRkR7gw/s320/dryangguitar.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>After this, lunch at noon; again, Master Yang cooks for and dines with the guests while The Boys head up the hill to their residence; each of them is expected in rotation as “chef for the day”. (Though again, if guests are few and food is plentiful, we all dine together, something I especially enjoy.) The kitchen is again restored to “clean and ready” mode –everyone pitches in here- and then it’s quiet time again, for individual meditation, reading, tending to small domestic issues, whatever. At 2:30, the long afternoon conditioning and training begins. For the boys, this means donning a special weight training vest (designed to carry up to 80 one pound metal cylinders) for a hike down Yang Mountain (no one actually calls it that, I just made it up) to Salmon Creek, only to turn around a run –yes, <i>run</i>, back up. And by “up”, I mean 800 vertical feet over a little more than 1/2 mile, an average grade of …. whatever- I’m to lazy to make the calculation. But it’s pretty damned steep, if you ask me. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxRKmjiGd1NeiKbyXMqEPpQsGHjubw_o8b5oMLJCMf-YhUCvNwl7XoleNZEndEe7CeLoD4sEKjyjwejWvJLZ9X0Ry_k68Jc63uZCxNj3tU7lf5e3mBesmXQ-9Zaaant_TjpLZEkpZhaE/s1600-h/runjachym.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxRKmjiGd1NeiKbyXMqEPpQsGHjubw_o8b5oMLJCMf-YhUCvNwl7XoleNZEndEe7CeLoD4sEKjyjwejWvJLZ9X0Ry_k68Jc63uZCxNj3tU7lf5e3mBesmXQ-9Zaaant_TjpLZEkpZhaE/s200/runjachym.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQVjq-7VI0Z2AvfROZA_iqfQOSLz7mZNs7uD4NCAb9xLPyqVrG4YH5cXyY3Rc7FfnoHuBwUnRFqx2nx9WVLp4FerBaTcqZt-87NlOaNcpnOn-jSysA5VAdoNJOOZ4Zwav6YxiIr4gJ_4/s1600-h/run.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQVjq-7VI0Z2AvfROZA_iqfQOSLz7mZNs7uD4NCAb9xLPyqVrG4YH5cXyY3Rc7FfnoHuBwUnRFqx2nx9WVLp4FerBaTcqZt-87NlOaNcpnOn-jSysA5VAdoNJOOZ4Zwav6YxiIr4gJ_4/s200/run.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
And silly me: I forgot; they don’t actually immediately turn right around and start that run from hell when the reach the creek. No, first, they each gather up 300 egg-ish sized rocks, worn smooth by the creek, and whip them at top speed at small log-targets about 15 meters away. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_il4bagRCx2qQHlWJHRkPMk9TmF4fNphZKEGNY0NaGtO0ZfKqMgTaIoxwKgOJdBPUd9dZDk41prc1i25-t2tIiiA_gWa31pYFaZ2mwwgRS4uzKE-okGYQQemXBlYhxxSwq7eViO-IpGA/s1600-h/rockchuck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_il4bagRCx2qQHlWJHRkPMk9TmF4fNphZKEGNY0NaGtO0ZfKqMgTaIoxwKgOJdBPUd9dZDk41prc1i25-t2tIiiA_gWa31pYFaZ2mwwgRS4uzKE-okGYQQemXBlYhxxSwq7eViO-IpGA/s200/rockchuck.jpg" /></a>Pitching practice, essentially, except they throw half of their rocks (150) rocks with one hand, and half with the other. The goal is 200 with each hand, so they’re not quite there yet. But, since they’ve each committed to a ten year training program, they have some time to work on it. Now, as grueling as gathering and chucking 300 rocks every day may seem, Master Yang has actually softened up some to accommodate the general squishiness of 21st century America’s notion of “fitness”; they get to take their vests off for this throwing practice. But it’s back on for the run up the mountain. (Yes, I said <i>run.</i>)<i>*</i> <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh49jpEnMrBvcLNAPSFgY_ADrkixxxiR_jFF3Ewiv7F5oEbjos6u7mWl4J0zLwQz9yCcRhq77rSM3lfmyJlUbmpIa7uEdlt78t8H7mQ0pEX1McekruhJ0C3tF72BbatiI36tx_WUUODixU/s1600-h/huckbrry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh49jpEnMrBvcLNAPSFgY_ADrkixxxiR_jFF3Ewiv7F5oEbjos6u7mWl4J0zLwQz9yCcRhq77rSM3lfmyJlUbmpIa7uEdlt78t8H7mQ0pEX1McekruhJ0C3tF72BbatiI36tx_WUUODixU/s200/huckbrry.jpg" /></a>As a guest, I have the choice to participate in as much or as little of this training as I please. So I generally skip this bit, though I did prove –one more than one occasion- that I’m still a force to be reckoned with when it comes to whipping small hard objects on target (a necessary self-defense skill one develops naturally growing up and going to public school in a snowy northern climate, the natural habitat of predacious flying snowballs.) Instead, I usually join Master Yang, along with any other guests wishing to tag along, in a walk along the same route, thankfully unburdened by additional weight, and occasionally stopping to refresh ourselves with a handful of fresh huckleberries, which grow in great abundance on these second growth slopes of the coastal range. <br />
<br />
And in interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I in fact skip most of the conditioning drills that comprise these afternoon session, which include (after recovering from the weighted mountain run): jumping up onto brick walls, over railings, and over a short stick held in one’s own hands, like a short, stiff jump rope; upper body conditioning on bars, rings & ropes; various tortures with long staffs & cinder blocks, often while standing on top of two standard red building bricks stacked end on end. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlHxLYNDy_HQJvVXNrE1yxTyeP-LcY0w6vOY_o6W_q975A_dWBrRg9o2JXm7P3TS0yTSZmvaaei1aU2cRtu_BOgcETqeQ-7Uw-sWGEnZcei63OpIHdXDzAFXR5sWw70Z587fSJnaFLGg/s1600-h/staffbend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXlHxLYNDy_HQJvVXNrE1yxTyeP-LcY0w6vOY_o6W_q975A_dWBrRg9o2JXm7P3TS0yTSZmvaaei1aU2cRtu_BOgcETqeQ-7Uw-sWGEnZcei63OpIHdXDzAFXR5sWw70Z587fSJnaFLGg/s200/staffbend.jpg" vr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWggp4-OxibEdJdc2VxonVjaQ44BLp45IqZpyxbJM9WqaF4p2ObHqqZzQx-N9ln1PGpiQIClKJAIQ7dICO7jfnRmAEDYVtfQhHrjXJLwbUfBTf-OZ6I-LUMTnYShHd8snYJHAXRz7i9I/s1600-h/pavillion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWggp4-OxibEdJdc2VxonVjaQ44BLp45IqZpyxbJM9WqaF4p2ObHqqZzQx-N9ln1PGpiQIClKJAIQ7dICO7jfnRmAEDYVtfQhHrjXJLwbUfBTf-OZ6I-LUMTnYShHd8snYJHAXRz7i9I/s200/pavillion.jpg" vr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div style="border: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bM844eQOhYkShgt9WrMoemXuoy88myjkUg154Mdva4GUEoDEd3y_48kNcmxlpDcAnhpXNxxZU0EVHcLi_mn0QF0hgDZTFfRWbfHn74gz2pa7CW0aH-q3_DLpmmeAz9wXtitGjaEmtME/s1600-h/pat3brick+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bM844eQOhYkShgt9WrMoemXuoy88myjkUg154Mdva4GUEoDEd3y_48kNcmxlpDcAnhpXNxxZU0EVHcLi_mn0QF0hgDZTFfRWbfHn74gz2pa7CW0aH-q3_DLpmmeAz9wXtitGjaEmtME/s200/pat3brick+%282%29.jpg" vr="true" /></a><br />
</div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAzPJA9fXeZb66nk9pz_7ZYpUijTuIo7k14TUBV7XezwUDbQUc9hjLfESluQkKTTKO0iRybDLBSJuzAJRKm6reahHFvUAyTBr1zLotEOUcD4slNfKJyrW_VTczbr8qRrAERm3rilP8g4/s1600-h/pat3brick+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsAzPJA9fXeZb66nk9pz_7ZYpUijTuIo7k14TUBV7XezwUDbQUc9hjLfESluQkKTTKO0iRybDLBSJuzAJRKm6reahHFvUAyTBr1zLotEOUcD4slNfKJyrW_VTczbr8qRrAERm3rilP8g4/s200/pat3brick+%281%29.jpg" vr="true" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiBKf30-G9LtgY_DtxVlS8fumMIt_gcp_Kf41-GNhv6oD0VkWUy6eBs2YP0RNjbLzLxJqJ5oQ3BWVh_Nl0poUOgPVyztg6nHAUcfuTcRbi0D6OQrOArChYjZiSEYsaYvMutvjrye_Rmg/s1600/pat3brick+%283%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiBKf30-G9LtgY_DtxVlS8fumMIt_gcp_Kf41-GNhv6oD0VkWUy6eBs2YP0RNjbLzLxJqJ5oQ3BWVh_Nl0poUOgPVyztg6nHAUcfuTcRbi0D6OQrOArChYjZiSEYsaYvMutvjrye_Rmg/s200/pat3brick+%283%29.jpg" vr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
Patrick "3 Brick" Manrioquez. (That's three bricks end-to-end he's qigoning on. Radical.</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Most of this occurs in this covered outdoor training pavilion located near the dorm, and continues until 6:00 PM, when everyone gathers at the main house again for a half hour of reaction time training –basically blocking punches- and finally, a 30 minute question and answer/lecture session conducted by Master Yang. These are fascinating, featuring Master Yang holding forth on topics that range from very precise technical questions about the effect of weather on meditation breathing, or a particular hand position for a wrist lock, to first-hand stories about the effects of the Japanese occupation of Taiwan, and stern lectures about keeping order in the communal dorm. <br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2CgHtNaFRT1oipBMerjKCdpKfU72iTS6HwDk-nzSm2RBRhVQ6CXTPh5XJXuFos-zlOIF2Gcxtu7HZ5nf9mbniN09NKVN8-Aep73DJGhUB0pDCLMKsBo5B45EfUIZ2y4NdAS1KmR4xuw/s1600-h/Q&A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2CgHtNaFRT1oipBMerjKCdpKfU72iTS6HwDk-nzSm2RBRhVQ6CXTPh5XJXuFos-zlOIF2Gcxtu7HZ5nf9mbniN09NKVN8-Aep73DJGhUB0pDCLMKsBo5B45EfUIZ2y4NdAS1KmR4xuw/s320/Q&A.jpg" /></a><br />
</div></div>At 7:00 PM the training day officially ends, and dinner is prepared. Master Yang cooks, and again, sometimes invites the boys to stay for dinner with the guests, using that occasion for lessons in the proper preparation of traditional Chinese dishes. Otherwise the students fend for themselves –in their fully stocked and equipped communal dormitory kitchen. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQXzKMWZqnRKrrtRRqNI_zRCDtmzsqMSmSt9e0m-cBDzr2rKdKgw0dZfHKDmnNv-2RyW9wu9GFTGllzetOkuAgGs07-DXCMa40Kq3lpOgfTOHa1Q8fwZgbRu4WaoiW_O035aKwptv_48/s1600-h/dormkitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQXzKMWZqnRKrrtRRqNI_zRCDtmzsqMSmSt9e0m-cBDzr2rKdKgw0dZfHKDmnNv-2RyW9wu9GFTGllzetOkuAgGs07-DXCMa40Kq3lpOgfTOHa1Q8fwZgbRu4WaoiW_O035aKwptv_48/s200/dormkitchen.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>The food Master Yang prepares is fabulous; home cooked Chinese and other international dishes, at least three per meal, made with fresh vegetables from the center’s organic garden & greenhouse.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgE244luy-RNI2qv6NdceUV3jLgh84Dd-izC0Tu4J453D7AFgoQkPdZWhPjjA2ZOHrfh3q9P6fCc1B8nlPXvmMFGmiYHtHooDuXl1pUEiCsZ6j_2pY2_HWCbycj7Q4ihpvtzaq4qzn2c/s1600-h/garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgE244luy-RNI2qv6NdceUV3jLgh84Dd-izC0Tu4J453D7AFgoQkPdZWhPjjA2ZOHrfh3q9P6fCc1B8nlPXvmMFGmiYHtHooDuXl1pUEiCsZ6j_2pY2_HWCbycj7Q4ihpvtzaq4qzn2c/s200/garden.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglYQz6re_klIW2smMNqvV0EyL3xzyLi8ifK-9bJF3Hd15P93Jin_4FQ_HMOAQr35b-mfZWx4lPA6JgB1NHbqps7FCiLm63W_ZSSJEb3I0xMIZtIfvsHE3jV0MY9b_2D1yjFcgSOCk2B4Q/s1600-h/greenhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglYQz6re_klIW2smMNqvV0EyL3xzyLi8ifK-9bJF3Hd15P93Jin_4FQ_HMOAQr35b-mfZWx4lPA6JgB1NHbqps7FCiLm63W_ZSSJEb3I0xMIZtIfvsHE3jV0MY9b_2D1yjFcgSOCk2B4Q/s200/greenhouse.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>On his cardiologist’s recommendation, Master Yang takes one modest glass of red wine with dinner. By the time dishes are done and order restored to the kitchen area, it’s 8-8:30, and everyone pretty much heads off to their rooms, often right into bed. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpSlzct7O08zplZRrqY0q2n_ruAwcJg6x0SHa5xKMJJPI3aQnwRbQZ5nFSgqpLQoG6ZrEWHvwXnPC-Cl-D6JFe3iPN6b8EQkMaXXc3MZf4wEN__ymJStSIadDkRlEUbx7zV37Qa4mKRE/s1600-h/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQpSlzct7O08zplZRrqY0q2n_ruAwcJg6x0SHa5xKMJJPI3aQnwRbQZ5nFSgqpLQoG6ZrEWHvwXnPC-Cl-D6JFe3iPN6b8EQkMaXXc3MZf4wEN__ymJStSIadDkRlEUbx7zV37Qa4mKRE/s320/sunset.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Saturday's are pretty much the same as any other weekday, until the afternoon session; then, instead of conditioning, it's chores, which range from chopping firewood to cleaning the residences- whatever needs doing. Sunday is the only real day of rest in the week, and even then trips into town for provisions are common, though communal dinners at a local Chinese buffet (always Dr. Yang's treat, at restaurants he has personally vetted and approved) are a nice fringe benefit.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Lather, rinse, repeat. <br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-57306011721119661562009-10-27T15:49:00.007-05:002009-10-27T23:25:44.693-05:00YMAA Chapter 1: "We're not in Kansas anymore..."<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqorXqNTXv0D-z8FbRNElXdE98j01dLkTh_GnuB07nvdX1_WXdGvunWniiP-TACZZcNrMPh559YEzhMRgVQUegsEjgMSKabVH2R4lO4NtqpzEAC00ZJB56GNQ_bhUNmESe1YaWqpWqu0/s1600-h/ymaamainhouse.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqorXqNTXv0D-z8FbRNElXdE98j01dLkTh_GnuB07nvdX1_WXdGvunWniiP-TACZZcNrMPh559YEzhMRgVQUegsEjgMSKabVH2R4lO4NtqpzEAC00ZJB56GNQ_bhUNmESe1YaWqpWqu0/s320/ymaamainhouse.jpg" /> </a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I know, I know; I've been here more than two weeks now without posting anything. I apologize for that long gap, but it's taken me this long to catch the rhythm of life here, sort out my thoughts, and find the words.<br />
</div><br />
So what exactly is <a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/%20?">Yang’s Martial Arts Association Retreat Center</a>? A simple question, but don’t expect a simple answer. It’s a lot of things; you can check out their website for yourself by clicking the link embedded above. On one fundamental level, it is the residence of <a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/about/dr_yang">Dr. Yang, Jwing Ming,</a> and that’s probably the most appropriate place to start any description of the center. Dr. Yang (or “Master Yang”, or most commonly at the center, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sifu">“Shifu”</a>) is the founder of <a href="http://www.ymaa.com/">Yang’s Martial Arts Association (YMAA)</a>, an internationally respected Chinese Martial Arts enterprise, built over an exhaustive 40 year career of teaching, research, writing and travel. This retreat center is in many ways the culmination of Master Yang’s lifelong devotion to traditional Chinese healing and martial arts. Part boarding school, part secular monastery, part Bed & Breakfast, the YMAA Retreat Center is the new locus of Dr. Yang’s life’s work, to (as stated on the center’s website); <i>“…restore and preserve traditional Chinese martial arts and culture to their original level of high quality and standards.”</i> It’s hard to imagine anyone better suited to the task than Shifu Yang, Jwing Ming. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpBzqM-iQVE65JH4e6COn34pVsSdjXDjIa3dgZHll0417wrIkIrl7nYo1ywscjroeokuVh07rwfH2ecGDYa0ocOLGWvz72DzuLpkYbDH8MEyg-yOrggAoSs2zzvS7_tkaQdSMNCVkF3g/s1600-h/master&meowgi.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZpBzqM-iQVE65JH4e6COn34pVsSdjXDjIa3dgZHll0417wrIkIrl7nYo1ywscjroeokuVh07rwfH2ecGDYa0ocOLGWvz72DzuLpkYbDH8MEyg-yOrggAoSs2zzvS7_tkaQdSMNCVkF3g/s320/master&meowgi.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Master Yang with the center's taijicat, <i>Mr. Meowgi.</i></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Located in Humboldt County, California, on a 2000 ft. ridge in the middle of the Northern California coastal mountain range, the center’s location and position has excellent <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feng_shui">Feng Shui</a>, as Master Yang eagerly explains to anyone who asks; the waterways bounding the center on the north, east and west (Salmon and Blue Slide Creeks) and the surrounding higher peaks (Kerri Peak, Bear Butte and Gilham Butte) result in ideal conditions for a strong <a href="http://www.ymaa.com/articles/basic-concepts-qi-and-qigong">qi energy</a> flow around and through the center grounds. I’ll take his word on the qi flow; my Feng Shui skills are very badly underdeveloped, but the climate and air flow up here is certainly spectacular; the valley and ridge that comprise the center’s southern vista is a ever changing palette of fog, cloud, sky and sun. <br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUKnSTC1sbHEEAweVm87N2rJ9Vis7td7D08TkpHADAuGfd8ce_Dv6dHwqFGSe3I2sUdQw40YDNPWdP4mswoIhZNA636d2DEpwJ20c0z51xPdqmTMKlv64IXLAwCuWIAu4E6kzQLUOAdo/s1600-h/vista+%284%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUKnSTC1sbHEEAweVm87N2rJ9Vis7td7D08TkpHADAuGfd8ce_Dv6dHwqFGSe3I2sUdQw40YDNPWdP4mswoIhZNA636d2DEpwJ20c0z51xPdqmTMKlv64IXLAwCuWIAu4E6kzQLUOAdo/s200/vista+%284%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWGlPE-ae6bkXAVkIfqYYOBo32yAu8PCuhPKD7qEGOgoTIUO2aIgqogd38Xgm7c1sn4jZIfXg8NUFHzfrlLuCDh_NNce339nzpjVryAJw21OXqUFFfrTBc-76ZgZIWWAz8awSMER5Psg/s1600-h/vistakpr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWGlPE-ae6bkXAVkIfqYYOBo32yAu8PCuhPKD7qEGOgoTIUO2aIgqogd38Xgm7c1sn4jZIfXg8NUFHzfrlLuCDh_NNce339nzpjVryAJw21OXqUFFfrTBc-76ZgZIWWAz8awSMER5Psg/s200/vistakpr.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXXDc8M07ya6BZVozbLChu5HUanNh-2OpWLpFZC8J1wagX6PveH4cwSW3_3NVCZB2efTPHSgXbGLh3P2xxiZmf0lWHcIgQcg9CKUOWYbVzcYS_QtXm09xn7XK0qMMBtjDSeH-UQE117I/s1600-h/vistakpr+%283%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXXDc8M07ya6BZVozbLChu5HUanNh-2OpWLpFZC8J1wagX6PveH4cwSW3_3NVCZB2efTPHSgXbGLh3P2xxiZmf0lWHcIgQcg9CKUOWYbVzcYS_QtXm09xn7XK0qMMBtjDSeH-UQE117I/s200/vistakpr+%283%29.jpg" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLadk06FlU0iWpzG1C-dX-SfXo0uYli02b4ijQDBtAquC4hmSC1VuR-tox7ux75OQm444jjFhRVPKwy_pLCkEES96GR4SOQPRNECn-JJNwoSQE9tlkyx4ligYDRI1Zb7nN9qw4G6Le-k/s1600-h/vistakpr+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguLadk06FlU0iWpzG1C-dX-SfXo0uYli02b4ijQDBtAquC4hmSC1VuR-tox7ux75OQm444jjFhRVPKwy_pLCkEES96GR4SOQPRNECn-JJNwoSQE9tlkyx4ligYDRI1Zb7nN9qw4G6Le-k/s200/vistakpr+%281%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qekghFUE7cMChUjZn4Ss0qBg-0OCUY4uRxQiqKG8p1YeUfKgZNyp2MAkaM-qN3t5X4fdx_5Q5B2gWUlwQDc4LvciQwg9rvl1cERVBjAUSLwghwRNdVeDJqxwNnD3cRPN_d_wUQnZmK8/s1600-h/sunset1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qekghFUE7cMChUjZn4Ss0qBg-0OCUY4uRxQiqKG8p1YeUfKgZNyp2MAkaM-qN3t5X4fdx_5Q5B2gWUlwQDc4LvciQwg9rvl1cERVBjAUSLwghwRNdVeDJqxwNnD3cRPN_d_wUQnZmK8/s200/sunset1.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwVOxgcI7Ln9FTiGoTbZwwLX5oSvHnApnUdH1ixyjnMZW2IHU2fywfyZtkmq2uZCizqOQ9-ujFCK5rZqnONpFJCu9x2fBZfCXDkwWXdJE8anrBssTZYwsQ2Ei9vF7JUMfG3QX2jvj_LU/s1600-h/vistakpr+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwVOxgcI7Ln9FTiGoTbZwwLX5oSvHnApnUdH1ixyjnMZW2IHU2fywfyZtkmq2uZCizqOQ9-ujFCK5rZqnONpFJCu9x2fBZfCXDkwWXdJE8anrBssTZYwsQ2Ei9vF7JUMfG3QX2jvj_LU/s200/vistakpr+%282%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Of course, Humboldt County is also known for being the spiritual, if not actual center of marijuana cultivation in California. Word on the street is that pretty much everyone owning property in these mountains –except Master Yang- grows a little pot. Or a lot. And in fact it’s not at all unusual to come across the detritus of growing operations while hiking the trails through these hills. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m8_2b-4M_I9xoPgzLJw1gl7i-eL3AmQGKLM5nIsC-Qx3lCzVoWrRF1z0yfOS3VJo3B7pKP_pmuzdlKNXKkyOzsvDr2RwL906JhM7Y-At_oVkbDZvI82A8ibYEijMn9I2csTjUWLXucE/s1600-h/guestrooms+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MQX-yxovFCmi2-WMkDujQvsezLpZcfik38JLqNag55s2lnNLGUGhXx2n6PALAlK-jyD42WxtfQbcxcUCtHIqoUor8dPUTQg-uoB8xJjHgZyM82IK8ogpevPAmoEAtQxq4BM74a54VPc/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+065.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MQX-yxovFCmi2-WMkDujQvsezLpZcfik38JLqNag55s2lnNLGUGhXx2n6PALAlK-jyD42WxtfQbcxcUCtHIqoUor8dPUTQg-uoB8xJjHgZyM82IK8ogpevPAmoEAtQxq4BM74a54VPc/s200/Sabbatical+pics+065.jpg" /></a>I’m not very concerned about locally grown weed; in fact I appreciate anything that weakens the power and reach of the murderous gangs of narco-traffickers that plague our times. But I wish these friendly neighborhood herbologists out here would clean up after themselves a little. And concerns about potential encounters with heavily armed, paranoid stoners deep in remote wooded areas takes some of the fun out of an otherwise perfectly nice hike. Have a little respect for the world around you, dudes. And chill; I’m not a cop or a thief, I’m just out for a walk.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkH7thQ6XrtMquo0GG7phpkv5_WKYwBZiyN227ibN9GbM2Lj5K9DkKGlPDl8b0X5aDeymoLIPyOwVlHtKtVu3AH3CBHB0BCMU9MRPkVN903sVbzQ7tNjrThzz1SlzmOxUTYytM8zankmQ/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkH7thQ6XrtMquo0GG7phpkv5_WKYwBZiyN227ibN9GbM2Lj5K9DkKGlPDl8b0X5aDeymoLIPyOwVlHtKtVu3AH3CBHB0BCMU9MRPkVN903sVbzQ7tNjrThzz1SlzmOxUTYytM8zankmQ/s200/Sabbatical+pics+073.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytGLZHsUbEfWNPO_dqon0woFI8iP_QerCrXkG4KDqKcVsZGx1CaFbwWyXzeXV3fEc46IIX-NomixbIZxyGdVnCIi3zTj7sRvfEM7JXGzfH-4y5SsKhVUQZhp9umnmxIGpwgQ16mJVYA8/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytGLZHsUbEfWNPO_dqon0woFI8iP_QerCrXkG4KDqKcVsZGx1CaFbwWyXzeXV3fEc46IIX-NomixbIZxyGdVnCIi3zTj7sRvfEM7JXGzfH-4y5SsKhVUQZhp9umnmxIGpwgQ16mJVYA8/s200/Sabbatical+pics+049.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Another irony of locating this little island of traditional Chinese culture in Humboldt county derives from local history: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humboldt_County,_CA">in 1885 the entire Chinese population of Eureka, then and still the regions commercial urban center, was forcibly expelled, given less than 24 hours to ship out, or face execution by hanging.</a> Leaving their homes and most of their possessions behind, the entire Chinese community –more than 300 mostly men and a handful of women- boarded two steamships bound for San Francisco, thereby averting another massacre. I say “another” because only 25 years before, the good settlers of Humboldt County (mostly ranchers and gold-diggers) <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1860_Wiyot_Massacre">slaughtered 100 or more peaceful Wiyot</a> men, women and children on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Island_%28Humboldt_Bay%29">Duluwat</a> island, in Humboldt bay just west of Eureka. For the crime of just being Wiyot, evidently. <br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
But these ghosts of the past don’t trouble the firmly “in the moment” YMAA center. The focus here is clear; <a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/students">5 exceptional young men*</a> have taken the exceptional step of committing themselves to a 10 year residential program of immersion into the traditional martial and healing arts of China. For each of them, this commitment was sealed with a ceremony in which, upon a third ritual request from the applicant, a master teacher accepts the student as a “disciple”, thereby accepting the responsibilities of Shifu –teacher/father- for that disciple. The student in turn accepts the responsibilities that come with being a disciple. It’s a long term teaching/learning pact between an experienced master teacher and a young apprentice; not the sort of thing one routinely encounters in the American educational system. The apprenticeship of these young men (affectionately referred to as “The Boys” by Master Yang and guests alike) lies at the heart of the center’s activities; I’ll post more on the details of what that apprenticeship is like later. <br />
</div><br />
And that’s the monastic/boarding school end of the spectrum. But the center welcomes guests too, so another interesting feature of life here is the array of fascinating visitors that come to stay awhile in the spacious, spotless, well lighted guest rooms of the main house, and train –or not, as they wish- with Master Yang and The Boys.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXhoIRYkmNoiQ447jht5KEMNrPLe8RnHueuQN_0dg_qSKVmjN_wQiJxjXskoTHxyq5ZcQEUEefRqNh0N-Oxq90n8RwV_RNGRm3iTemdIte3FR1xsSltIbjMhNxvb8hI1kIi-PP4nmF-Y/s1600-h/guestrooms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTXhoIRYkmNoiQ447jht5KEMNrPLe8RnHueuQN_0dg_qSKVmjN_wQiJxjXskoTHxyq5ZcQEUEefRqNh0N-Oxq90n8RwV_RNGRm3iTemdIte3FR1xsSltIbjMhNxvb8hI1kIi-PP4nmF-Y/s200/guestrooms.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m8_2b-4M_I9xoPgzLJw1gl7i-eL3AmQGKLM5nIsC-Qx3lCzVoWrRF1z0yfOS3VJo3B7pKP_pmuzdlKNXKkyOzsvDr2RwL906JhM7Y-At_oVkbDZvI82A8ibYEijMn9I2csTjUWLXucE/s1600-h/guestrooms+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m8_2b-4M_I9xoPgzLJw1gl7i-eL3AmQGKLM5nIsC-Qx3lCzVoWrRF1z0yfOS3VJo3B7pKP_pmuzdlKNXKkyOzsvDr2RwL906JhM7Y-At_oVkbDZvI82A8ibYEijMn9I2csTjUWLXucE/s200/guestrooms+%281%29.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Holistic Doctors from Germany looking for deeper insight into the relationship of qi to health & fitness, martial arts practitioners and teachers from London and Johannesburg, people suffering from particular ailments hoping to learn specific qigong exercises to target their malady, even Theatre and Dance professors on sabbatical hoping to re-energize their own taijiquan practice with instructions and corrections from source, Master Yang himself. It’s not like a typical resort/spa hotel. More like an old world inn, where a proprietor was something more of a host in his own home. And Master Yang is a most gracious and attentive host. I’ve already mentioned his cooking, and he attends to his guests comfort and particular learning goals with the same… well, mastery.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA35hFr-nHqLBpI3Ucn6PmREIS2Q-o6RQfGoGh6AnxstpoQpjhkR2LzQG1LTqNi0nALTOrj7vT_Q7xoRKAjHbQHh-R35p8_5epRtJdWF-VRoaMmHP2mM-km8X-Qhs9LJtg5p59a7YMTRE/s1600-h/makin+mochi+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA35hFr-nHqLBpI3Ucn6PmREIS2Q-o6RQfGoGh6AnxstpoQpjhkR2LzQG1LTqNi0nALTOrj7vT_Q7xoRKAjHbQHh-R35p8_5epRtJdWF-VRoaMmHP2mM-km8X-Qhs9LJtg5p59a7YMTRE/s320/makin+mochi+%281%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Makin' Mochi; Mochi is a chewy sweet-rice flour dumpling-ish sort of confection, filled with sweet red bean paste and garnished with ground peanuts. It's a favorite treat around here.</span><br />
</div><br />
Americans, IMHO, are ambivalent about this notion of “The Master”. On the one hand, it can denote respect for the skills and experience of a “master” artist, craftsman, teacher, professional, etc. On the other, the “massa'” of America's shameful legacy of slave dealing , and the cruel factory boss are also a part of our history with masters. Indeed, America was born from the ashes of the fight to free ourselves from our British “masters”. And let’s be honest; it’s not impossible for both kinds of master to live in one man; history’s pretty clear about that. So, being a 21st century American, I approach this whole master-disciple deal with curiosity, and a mindfulness that’s shaded a bit to the cautious side. And while I stipulate that I’ve not been here long enough to know the full story, I have had many good, honest conversations with Master Yang, with guests, and The Boys, together and individually. And I have to say that to my eyes, Master Yang has fairly and squarely earned all the uncommonly deep respect he is given, from so many people, many of whom are truly exceptional themselves. His mastery of Shaolin style White Crane Kung Fu, traditional Yang style Taijiquan swordplay, healing qigong massage and many many more martial and healing techniques is unquestioned; his vitae is public, long and remarkable in this regard. But his skill as a fighter, healer and teacher are only part of what make him worthy of the titles Shifu and Master. They are merely the paths he chose to follow in search of true mastery; mastery of the self, down to the spiritual core. Dr. Yang approaches his life, his students, his scholarship, his business and his guests, all with the same respect, grace, mindful energy and skill that he’s poured into his lifetime of learning and teaching traditional Chinese martial and healing arts. If that’s not mastery, worthy of the title, then I don’t know what is.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscqNrrPWXiABIYOH-EbAMRzZR4Lq5W1nOGvwN-_mBD5hAc0Si4YocUXcBH7gzzMZZ4NraBL0gSbPSBFiEKynZG0cNbqqBWXDMSpS4zPZi-Qcg_Rdp29PZ4z_NHgO_ATbmGOL_qVPNY9w/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscqNrrPWXiABIYOH-EbAMRzZR4Lq5W1nOGvwN-_mBD5hAc0Si4YocUXcBH7gzzMZZ4NraBL0gSbPSBFiEKynZG0cNbqqBWXDMSpS4zPZi-Qcg_Rdp29PZ4z_NHgO_ATbmGOL_qVPNY9w/s320/Sabbatical+pics+095.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
Coming up; a day in the life... Stay tuned. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>* The Current Student page of the center website is not precisely up to date here; student Tom Dudkiewicz is at home recuperating from injuries resulting from an automobile collision, and another student, </i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/students/visitor">Ricardo Tonet</a>,</i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> remains in his native Portugal, striving to get US clearance to continue his studies with Master Yang. And another visiting, first year student, <a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/students/visitor">Jachym Jerie</a> (from Switzerland) is also currently in residence.<br />
</i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-71032967924430862082009-10-11T23:53:00.000-05:002009-10-11T23:53:01.750-05:00California Dreamin'No, this has nothing to do with McKenzie Phillips. It refers to these images I caught on my drive south from Grant's Pass OR, along the Pacific coast highway, to the mountaintop YMAA retreat center a bit south of Eureka CA. Coastal Redwood forests, nourished by the almost daily fog that rolls in off of the ocean. I started at 5:30 AM, and so was in just the right time and place to capture a bit of this dramatic morning light.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPaHD5alZuJ6hQPpk1JztVnt5Bur-ZlG26AJvjCYY_JdJthr4LPIqR9GKHEjtC9tcKsFgxaYwj8Or9tzP-YZGXC5D4qm7E9YHE2791rpUKmm_25vJUqfqSP5DG0P8Gsi3PmTPzYsiiPo/s1600-h/mistyrocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPaHD5alZuJ6hQPpk1JztVnt5Bur-ZlG26AJvjCYY_JdJthr4LPIqR9GKHEjtC9tcKsFgxaYwj8Or9tzP-YZGXC5D4qm7E9YHE2791rpUKmm_25vJUqfqSP5DG0P8Gsi3PmTPzYsiiPo/s320/mistyrocks.jpg" /></a><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXUSqvqo7Lmnj3Ypfpfjiu35FKb_83jBqaz3v9hMtbbwgICxRtncf1bmvaHRb5rpYFR_xMZkCPTqB7J_NeHe7MnySVjeF0Vbg9pDX0wedrVxrf9CD64w5lrhf2rmjluWjUHukr9jlrkg/s1600-h/treefog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXUSqvqo7Lmnj3Ypfpfjiu35FKb_83jBqaz3v9hMtbbwgICxRtncf1bmvaHRb5rpYFR_xMZkCPTqB7J_NeHe7MnySVjeF0Vbg9pDX0wedrVxrf9CD64w5lrhf2rmjluWjUHukr9jlrkg/s320/treefog.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Though it looks as if I'm high above a cloud bank, the Pacific is actually just beneath this fog bank; hearing clouds emit the sound of crashing surf was pretty mind blowing.<br />
</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa75hNT4h71ap30bW0sVygWyXP43vS1kTn3IDkcBwbHVEE6ZzJz3K5VoxRQ5a3_elBOP23RUuGruWzRZJgCUz8DU5Ep8CYmi50JxUVZsDqN0I2xh4F8i_QAZHkuYqhApxh62EX7TyeRk/s1600-h/treetop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa75hNT4h71ap30bW0sVygWyXP43vS1kTn3IDkcBwbHVEE6ZzJz3K5VoxRQ5a3_elBOP23RUuGruWzRZJgCUz8DU5Ep8CYmi50JxUVZsDqN0I2xh4F8i_QAZHkuYqhApxh62EX7TyeRk/s200/treetop.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQz7n4JiyNXfe_zkSXwD0uk74JBi0YmcNGhNChntdBlBfI2VWKgOSjUvU87jpiQiqgtssE5TLJIEHJgu_873f-kc5V2bj6KNfLMUPRJs_TrVMhixJ0eS1QKUVX0Yk0TUMHyGniDxTPdw/s1600-h/treemddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQz7n4JiyNXfe_zkSXwD0uk74JBi0YmcNGhNChntdBlBfI2VWKgOSjUvU87jpiQiqgtssE5TLJIEHJgu_873f-kc5V2bj6KNfLMUPRJs_TrVMhixJ0eS1QKUVX0Yk0TUMHyGniDxTPdw/s200/treemddle.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbR-0kghJrFnmtiox-sme3_pWkoefr84pibc24ygXfmV0rQSoxk1Ut5aof2Z44sDeOEEqRQhJcuqtEAyRbUsx6PmhPY59QUjkH2Vzg70BarZMbS2rz_KkhXZhx6_NLej14ZRiBEVmTwaM/s1600-h/treebttm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbR-0kghJrFnmtiox-sme3_pWkoefr84pibc24ygXfmV0rQSoxk1Ut5aof2Z44sDeOEEqRQhJcuqtEAyRbUsx6PmhPY59QUjkH2Vzg70BarZMbS2rz_KkhXZhx6_NLej14ZRiBEVmTwaM/s200/treebttm.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">The roots of these Coastal Redwoods only go about 8 feet down into the ground. So what holds them up? Those roots may spread out 3 or more acres, weaving into a tightly knit web of roots with all of the other trees in the area. In other words; working together they are able to support each other and flourish in an environment where no one of them could stand alone. Sound familiar? </span><i> (Credit where credit it due; Hunter S. Otter came up with this triptych idea, but he was very disappointed in my poor little iPhone camera's inability to adjust for light changes as the viewpoint angle rises.) </i></span><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-12411768824595053202009-10-08T01:32:00.007-05:002009-10-09T16:54:57.502-05:00Schooner's ShootersScouted all of the fishing pull-offs along the river road the day before. Read the tide charts, corrected for the upriver delay, got an early start and hit the water just before the turning of the estuarial tide, a marshy, low-tide spot along a bend that created a nice pool, but still in range of the main current. Large fish we're breaching and rolling all around me, up river and down. I showed them spoons, spinners, dry flies, wet flies, cured salmon roe bait. Nothin'. Not a nibble on the bait, nor bump at a spoon. I had three primary consolations. The first was the fact than no one else on the river was catching anything. I know this because the same three boats trolled past me repeatedly and gave me reports; nothin'. Nobody. My second consolation was that it was a beautiful day, and once I acclimated to the muck and strong cowfish smell (this is dairy country after all) it was a pretty pleasant way to spend a few quiet hours. And finally, though the fall run salmon disappointed me, I DID finally manage to score...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75SncmVLImcuPQebG1E2X-JYjNDi0OTGV-pAeQxuq97jGAhbbMqrPn6aOdPpwIjoLbBB-X7K6-uegeT3Pq7hA6OI0znNgSRhP6gXlhjjIz084l2VHkT2scpG1aynm7NYjURP7DJX32yc/s1600-h/shooter+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75SncmVLImcuPQebG1E2X-JYjNDi0OTGV-pAeQxuq97jGAhbbMqrPn6aOdPpwIjoLbBB-X7K6-uegeT3Pq7hA6OI0znNgSRhP6gXlhjjIz084l2VHkT2scpG1aynm7NYjURP7DJX32yc/s400/shooter+%281%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...a Netarts Bay <a href="http://whatscookingamerica.net/Beverage/OysterShooter.htm">Oyster Shooter!</a><span style="font-size: x-small;">*</span> at <a href="http://www.letitpour.net/schooner.page?cart=11659656587782">The Schooner</a> restaurant/lounge in Netarts. (The town shares that name with the bay). I don't believe I've mentioned these on this blog before, so allow me to introduce you. <a href="http://www.oysterguide.com/maps/willapa-bay-and-oregon/netarts-bay">Netarts Oysters</a> come from Netarts Bay, the cleanest bay of any on the American coast, so I'm told. These oysters are the size of hen's eggs, chewy and buttery all at once. I like to celebrate my arrivals and departures from Oceanside with one of these and a MacTarnahan's. But there's no guarantee; they go fast and sometimes they just run out, through the winter season Schooners features an oysterless all Tai menu (Tai Tuesdays!) and so on. So scoring a fresh oyster from Schooners has become something of a minor oracle of sorts for me, a sign from Ocean; scoring one on arrival puts me in balance with the place and helps me settle into a coastal rhythm, scoring one on departure augers an eventual return. Of course, I've never tested this without the Mac's, so maybe it's just the beer buzz. Either way, it's a ritual I think I'll stick with. Who say's I'm not a "man of faith"?<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And this was a departure shooter; tomorrow I leave my Oceanside Shangri-La and roll on down the coast, to just south of California's <a href="http://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=425">Humboldt Redwoods State Park</a>, and up to the mountaintop <a href="http://ymaa-retreatcenter.org/">YMAA Retreat Center</a> for a three week stay. I'll study and practice Taijiquan & Qigong with Master Yang Zwing Ming, and teach basic piano& guitar lessons to the resident students in return. I have a powerful ascetic streak; I guess I'll find out if I've got the discipline for an old-school martial arts training experience. And if I don't keel over from exertion, I should have plenty of time to work on <i>Pylos</i>, the epic play-with-music I'm collaborating on with playwright Jon Berry- one of my more concrete "official" sabbatical projects. More on that later. For now, it's time to pack up the SabBatmobile, and say goodbye to this phase of my Peter Pan fantasy.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLPmwUYALEvxckQRERTAyblGr0VQXgk2OPTvgefNaPpFQVrjXu1mg_tlHFc8uZDprVL0m6UCIlZarivQXpvVyxh06SQihDVFFtZ22_dNnlw7YJoYILiB8MmKrRhr4KGRcOSOPj7TEkJM/s1600-h/dairyherd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLPmwUYALEvxckQRERTAyblGr0VQXgk2OPTvgefNaPpFQVrjXu1mg_tlHFc8uZDprVL0m6UCIlZarivQXpvVyxh06SQihDVFFtZ22_dNnlw7YJoYILiB8MmKrRhr4KGRcOSOPj7TEkJM/s200/dairyherd.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">My fishing buddies; happy cows. (Which, happy or not, smell like cows just the same.) This iPhone snap doesn't even begin to capture the visually dramatic effect of this huge herd of pure black & white Holsteins scattered across a vast, fresh, vibrant green pasture, all against a backdrop of blue mountains. I have a hunch this is one of the herds behind the world famous Tillamook Cheeses.)</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*There are lot's of variations on the basic oyster shooter recipe; I like mine with a nice, cold, hoppy ale, but a good vodka works well too. And while the tradition is to slurp these down in one gulp, I find them just too big to do that comfortably, and there are a myriad of textures and "mouth feels" that come through with just at bit -not a lot- of biting. Love bites.) </span></i><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-2250865516245431092009-10-06T00:25:00.052-05:002009-10-07T12:03:05.185-05:00A Walk on the Wild Side<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYeoOhbXy7VZ4uQYjC7yp-h3ynHTDmVVk6zNnB-VFcyeVBc_IriT-DdBrQsoxyO7e6IQsRrtmikceCQ79tU1L7_3mHuJSOA4_px-5fsYOBw5YRRvloiA44BUFze9II70RYdLaAc8-WokM/s1600-h/wildsidevista.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYeoOhbXy7VZ4uQYjC7yp-h3ynHTDmVVk6zNnB-VFcyeVBc_IriT-DdBrQsoxyO7e6IQsRrtmikceCQ79tU1L7_3mHuJSOA4_px-5fsYOBw5YRRvloiA44BUFze9II70RYdLaAc8-WokM/s400/wildsidevista.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLFq44zz9AG7wGSLfyBOnNbzlcSDOnF2jKK-mfxLn_aT06cat0QdQIma-dzFsUPG8pUwVtct0dciw2_NJy-ogWy_pk7KFn9mvonpOGpH6hhU3XEQsYcN4rIGPV5YzAqMZ9Tltmxpti4w/s1600-h/wildside1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLFq44zz9AG7wGSLfyBOnNbzlcSDOnF2jKK-mfxLn_aT06cat0QdQIma-dzFsUPG8pUwVtct0dciw2_NJy-ogWy_pk7KFn9mvonpOGpH6hhU3XEQsYcN4rIGPV5YzAqMZ9Tltmxpti4w/s320/wildside1.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Tonight, just a few random shots taken on a stroll down the less domesticated part of the Oceanside beach, which to reach requires walking through a small, very spooky scary tunnel through a massive cliff; WAY cool!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaaADKlcI62kEkPnQJIJQxQ0vaj_LcxM-GC8KUaFXXdJU3sxn1krvINY32qUYDn9huKAQdOFi97wa3RWw8kaLtYKEjLYQxuZ4EdotXyQjBHGITzEiNbC0OrRBmKVtMytsZjJ9M9ZqvbVs/s1600-h/wildsidedry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaaADKlcI62kEkPnQJIJQxQ0vaj_LcxM-GC8KUaFXXdJU3sxn1krvINY32qUYDn9huKAQdOFi97wa3RWw8kaLtYKEjLYQxuZ4EdotXyQjBHGITzEiNbC0OrRBmKVtMytsZjJ9M9ZqvbVs/s320/wildsidedry.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBqPHgftNmdAwO1XwyatPGpewYlgeeZzT9Ef0QYSM-wYfh10KwpBs-avGIFVhPojzy68KLWZSCQu8TmKN7X85Yzlu3hcNRQdOGMSCU8wc729P9h7oRrm3PO3r8aDhSLZOOBt9WEEDIys/s1600-h/wildside+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBqPHgftNmdAwO1XwyatPGpewYlgeeZzT9Ef0QYSM-wYfh10KwpBs-avGIFVhPojzy68KLWZSCQu8TmKN7X85Yzlu3hcNRQdOGMSCU8wc729P9h7oRrm3PO3r8aDhSLZOOBt9WEEDIys/s400/wildside+%282%29.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyX8NkSEsR1aZMs3tGEKeJI8jPypy8VKdDWgL2I_1Y0tlGOKV3LKBQpHme5rV19Hlu0p3Y5CFK-6TeUkrG83OzOu1xHfvAEdNkvm_hrmD8g-fb87TLVyU3-9EVMpYuIUvfIxAF5eI_F6g/s1600-h/wildsidebrainrock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyX8NkSEsR1aZMs3tGEKeJI8jPypy8VKdDWgL2I_1Y0tlGOKV3LKBQpHme5rV19Hlu0p3Y5CFK-6TeUkrG83OzOu1xHfvAEdNkvm_hrmD8g-fb87TLVyU3-9EVMpYuIUvfIxAF5eI_F6g/s400/wildsidebrainrock.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXuyVAOp1Uxqa67DpZGX6xRUNHKylxI12X3ZnQPsgT9Kz0mMy8qgeEdvusW513tPpXZSboX6ZcvBDvPDYpbsyc3V07Zt5MrF35L_IlNaL8oCzNVmrGHOrPmxOq_slOK-r7MDawQv56GNo/s1600-h/wildsideslickrock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXuyVAOp1Uxqa67DpZGX6xRUNHKylxI12X3ZnQPsgT9Kz0mMy8qgeEdvusW513tPpXZSboX6ZcvBDvPDYpbsyc3V07Zt5MrF35L_IlNaL8oCzNVmrGHOrPmxOq_slOK-r7MDawQv56GNo/s320/wildsideslickrock.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoVqZQS5hIu-0aREckt00UFnd7q3sWiBZECL5qPzwnupz4CJWrr-gscnDP9kAjRGSymdvDbGHR54jCsoOKQ7gNfM4NKa9FBz0H4Ymk5E80JB8z4mjo-vOReWut31aF6IMgWTaoMfPOpw/s1600-h/wildsidepool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoVqZQS5hIu-0aREckt00UFnd7q3sWiBZECL5qPzwnupz4CJWrr-gscnDP9kAjRGSymdvDbGHR54jCsoOKQ7gNfM4NKa9FBz0H4Ymk5E80JB8z4mjo-vOReWut31aF6IMgWTaoMfPOpw/s320/wildsidepool.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghILZk6vkl7-Ifha-Mm5BdPdrbWog2ZV9ICIsKDF4npm915C_HfDOa8cgQgxBcYvdmDzBkVkc67gHOTD-1vVuWs0jNRaeOiQQflGMv2U5O7wmdhv9BCqR31yv7rbDbGSwSZj8kMIJFGeg/s1600-h/gotothelight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghILZk6vkl7-Ifha-Mm5BdPdrbWog2ZV9ICIsKDF4npm915C_HfDOa8cgQgxBcYvdmDzBkVkc67gHOTD-1vVuWs0jNRaeOiQQflGMv2U5O7wmdhv9BCqR31yv7rbDbGSwSZj8kMIJFGeg/s200/gotothelight.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
You know all the "go to the light!" death passage lore? I think I found it; it's in Oceanside, Oregon...<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAgH0tgya2gHgA3BR6aByereytKXMNWwBL9NpX1RpUlPYUcnPM284LDEgF80-ai4qac-h0yMxYIYI23FL_IbSgQcUncPD9DtNfnOe7lv_rrPLm0wDwR5DnrMsAerKkwMUZ5mAPweo2tg/s1600-h/outlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAgH0tgya2gHgA3BR6aByereytKXMNWwBL9NpX1RpUlPYUcnPM284LDEgF80-ai4qac-h0yMxYIYI23FL_IbSgQcUncPD9DtNfnOe7lv_rrPLm0wDwR5DnrMsAerKkwMUZ5mAPweo2tg/s400/outlook.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghILZk6vkl7-Ifha-Mm5BdPdrbWog2ZV9ICIsKDF4npm915C_HfDOa8cgQgxBcYvdmDzBkVkc67gHOTD-1vVuWs0jNRaeOiQQflGMv2U5O7wmdhv9BCqR31yv7rbDbGSwSZj8kMIJFGeg/s1600-h/gotothelight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghILZk6vkl7-Ifha-Mm5BdPdrbWog2ZV9ICIsKDF4npm915C_HfDOa8cgQgxBcYvdmDzBkVkc67gHOTD-1vVuWs0jNRaeOiQQflGMv2U5O7wmdhv9BCqR31yv7rbDbGSwSZj8kMIJFGeg/s1600-h/gotothelight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAgH0tgya2gHgA3BR6aByereytKXMNWwBL9NpX1RpUlPYUcnPM284LDEgF80-ai4qac-h0yMxYIYI23FL_IbSgQcUncPD9DtNfnOe7lv_rrPLm0wDwR5DnrMsAerKkwMUZ5mAPweo2tg/s1600-h/outlook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-65240436124731291922009-10-05T14:41:00.021-05:002009-10-05T23:05:53.199-05:00The small and local must survive somehowThat title is another line from America's great troubadour/poet Greg Brown, from the song Your Town Now, album Over and Under. It's bland out of context, so here are some selected verses to give it that (very slightly edited for this a-cappella, written format):<i> </i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>I used to go out quite a lot,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>chase the chase and shot the shot</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>I'm all done with that somehow</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>and it's your town now</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>it's your town now</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>These days the mighty eagle sings, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>of money and material things, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>and the almighty Dow, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>and it's your town now, your town now.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Where are the young bands gonna play?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> Where're the old beatniks gonna stay,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> and not before some corporation bow?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> and it's your town now.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>You young ones it's up to you</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> to fight the fight and I hope you do,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> Oh I see in your eyes that you know how</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> and it's your town now.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Don't let 'em take the whole damn deal,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> Don't give up on what you really feel</i></span><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Ah, the small and local must survive somehow,</i></span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> if it's gonna be your town now,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> Is it gonna be your town now?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> Is it gonna be your town now?</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Is it gonna be?</span> </i><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I chose the title to accompany this pic:<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5oyx0aa87wKxcTZVZM7jlkN5qjrPeYL4MRTcun461Vb6w4FcchHh2qkfZGXGAY_RY5bwCbHgI5g1U3zb5szIIZTNotzrTNzrlXJFxix6Gzv0O7CFVH_Kh2qE-O2dRTezuZ0XSUy6lNw/s1600-h/yinyangcouch2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5oyx0aa87wKxcTZVZM7jlkN5qjrPeYL4MRTcun461Vb6w4FcchHh2qkfZGXGAY_RY5bwCbHgI5g1U3zb5szIIZTNotzrTNzrlXJFxix6Gzv0O7CFVH_Kh2qE-O2dRTezuZ0XSUy6lNw/s320/yinyangcouch2.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This cool yin-yang sofa-thingy is a new piece of furniture my friends and hosts, Pat & Scott, purchased for their Oceanside home; I helped settle it into it's new home. (And yes, that's Hunter S. perched center stage. Being alone for a week gave him a case of the attention deficits, so he inserted himself into every shot for awhile. He's mellowed out some since then.) I post this picture here partly because I just think this is a very nice a piece of furniture that deserves to be displayed, and partly to reveal a bit more of my Shangri-La "cabin" in the sky. Every morning I struggle to fully comprehend that I'm actually awake, that this is real, and not some beautiful dream. But the main reason for posting this is more conceptual, the idea behind it being the central point. And while the implications of it's yin-yang shape are myriad, that's not our topic today. No, the idea I'm referring to has everything to do with the title of this entry; the survival of the small and local. <br />
<br />
Pat & Scott had been thinking about replacing their old sofa, a bit worse for wear, for some time. What spurred them on to finally follow through was a phone call from a neighbor, alerting them to the plight of a neighborhood furniture store. Hit hard by the incredibly incompetent Bush era ("The Dark Decade") economic non-policies, this local merchant is on the ropes, and the community was activating to show their support, by going in and buying stuff. Any little bit would help, if even only emotionally. Thinking only of maybe a cutting board or some such, Pat & Scott found themselves captivated by this piece, and made the (sort of) impulse decision to buy it to replace their old couch. <br />
<br />
The point here isn't my friends taste or impulse control. The point is how their community was paying attention to what was going on right down the street; small, local merchants are simply outgunned in any pricing competition with the big box corporate retail machine, and need the support of their communities if they are to survive. The bottom line for all of us is that if we want to do more than bemoan the disintegration of local economies, we must be willing to sacrifice on cost, look instead to quality, and consider the systemic effects of our economic decisions. So you can't afford a new couch? Fine; just don't turn around and snap one up on sale at The Wallmart next week just because "it's an incredible deal!" Wait, save, and pay a bit more at your neighborhood furniture store for a piece who's value goes beyond low sticker price for mediocre-to-shoddy quality. Shopping only for "bargains", while satisfying to our innate sense of mercantile competitiveness and short term bottom line, is in the end no bargain at all if it leads to the demise of cherished local cultures and economies. "Value" is not simply a matter of cost.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-8776125460062460782009-10-04T20:06:00.007-05:002009-10-05T15:28:16.325-05:00Return to Never Never Land<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUX7xc1VjyM16gpSVdFF5NotatHdQ8zDGJ5PpEBpItEkAOviCYoGCEfKei1K7hwF7oOtKrFL-sp-eAPUphcJWNeiX7sjYIO8gQWvLFglj7MVSkMUQGVuoqIGwlA1c2YJ1GtBhWYjQM3zQ/s1600-h/Untitled-1+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUX7xc1VjyM16gpSVdFF5NotatHdQ8zDGJ5PpEBpItEkAOviCYoGCEfKei1K7hwF7oOtKrFL-sp-eAPUphcJWNeiX7sjYIO8gQWvLFglj7MVSkMUQGVuoqIGwlA1c2YJ1GtBhWYjQM3zQ/s320/Untitled-1+copy.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br />
Ed Rodakowski, Self portrait<br />
</i></span><br />
</div>Thank you for all of the heartfelt expressions of compassion for me and my family on the passing of my step-dad Ed Rodakowski. My faith in human beings is inconstant at best, but to quote another of my favorite troubadour/poets, Bruce Cockburn; "sometimes they manage to shine". And your lights shone particularly brightly for all of us, when we needed it most. I am honored, and humbled by your grace. For me now, this brief, emotionally intense detour from my everyday everyday, down into Hades' realm, has run it's course. Not that I'm "done" with Ed. Hardly; his life -and death- are now woven more deeply than ever into the tapestry of my own life story. But the immediate challenge of his final passage (and the ceremonies that ensue) have passed. I think we all did OK, as these things go. <br />
<span id="goog_1254758430879"></span><span id="goog_1254758430880"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpZlDYBv2lNROs8ZK17Pj0jPLKfqQA5th4Oay7w_C6RGumklbQQimYLUTLYd3E7xvX7sfQtyef4812pOOXT7BMXWBhGALSINS-JTsowooimexR60y2_1UABDLOwXUPlfznkubnk8L0dw/s1600-h/sabottersnst+%282%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpZlDYBv2lNROs8ZK17Pj0jPLKfqQA5th4Oay7w_C6RGumklbQQimYLUTLYd3E7xvX7sfQtyef4812pOOXT7BMXWBhGALSINS-JTsowooimexR60y2_1UABDLOwXUPlfznkubnk8L0dw/s320/sabottersnst+%282%29.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a>And now, I'm back to my little Shangri-La in time for another pacific sunset tonight, back in Oceanside, reunited with my faithful Sancho, Hunter S. and Panza, The SabBatmobile, who loyally sat vigil for me as I sat vigil for Ed. Now, a little laundry, some work, beach sunset taiji, a glass of wine... and for tonight, that's probably 'nuff said.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-2336571446092616222009-09-28T22:35:00.000-05:002009-09-28T22:35:55.792-05:00Vigil, chapter 2: The End5:00 PM, Monday September 28, 2009<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAUoMFc2hB5a4R5ptZiPLDtVMlG2Hi4FOJX4-82dxolfSEQiJ5pBBa1itcwXqBlZe6QAPyPhgNj9A0Tu1Bixn-z9OQb0m3qhns-MRgRm7u9ToELjOxVTQgekU_mZ2Rr6W5NBi-zjnaByc/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAUoMFc2hB5a4R5ptZiPLDtVMlG2Hi4FOJX4-82dxolfSEQiJ5pBBa1itcwXqBlZe6QAPyPhgNj9A0Tu1Bixn-z9OQb0m3qhns-MRgRm7u9ToELjOxVTQgekU_mZ2Rr6W5NBi-zjnaByc/s320/Sabbatical+pics+017.jpg" /></a> Bach’s <i>Violin Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in E Major BWV 1042. 3rd movement; Allegro assai.</i> That was the music playing when Ed took his last breath, a little before noon today. I’m glad I was there, not so much for myself, because frankly, I’m sort of with the Navajo on this whole death thing; holding a dying loved one’s hand, however noble the concept, is in practice rather upsetting, to say the least. For one thing, it leaves a very sticky memory, that I have a hunch will be very hard to be quit of. I doubt I could afford a full blown Navajo Holyway sing, but at least a good, purifying sweat lodge seems in order. Gotta be one out west somewhere, where a well-behaved white-eyes would be welcome. And since out west is where Hunter S. and the Sabbatmobile await my return, I’ve got to back out sometime. <br />
<br />
On the other hand, letting a loved one –or anyone, for that matter- die alone unnecessarily seems just way bone-deep wrong, so wahdahyahgunna’do? Put on some Bach, hold a hand, and just be there, I guess. All the “how to do this” hospice pamphlets suggest that talking to the dying is important, so I talked too. I hope that at the very least, Ed didn’t find all this irritating; maybe he was sick to death of Bach, and would have preferred I just shut up, turn out the light and stop bothering him. He didn’t say one way or the other. I was able to alert mom in time for her to return and be with him at the last moment, for which she was profoundly grateful. That was very important to her, and the truth is? Ed really did seem to hang in there, by the slenderest of threads, until she arrived. I know, I know; no way to prove that this wasn’t just coincidence. But still. And then too; lore is chock-full of stories suggesting that such things do occur, and occur often. And lore is not to be lightly dismissed; lore is, after all, the well from which humans draw the stories we tell each other about the way things are, otherwise known as, “reality”. <br />
<br />
And now it’s the blizzard of phone calls, banal decisions, food-gifts, tears and stories, and all the rest of the death-ritual falderal my people do. I understand my role, know my lines. As an angry young man I rejected all this, on angry young man principle. But I’m not an angry young man anymore, and while I may not know exactly what I am now instead, I do understand this much; that it’s not about me, and that to just play the role as best I can, is probably the best I can do.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-66118918557763812952009-09-28T09:23:00.007-05:002009-10-02T01:02:44.690-05:00Vigil, chapter 1<div style="text-align: left;"><span id="goog_1254285789241"></span><span id="goog_1254285789242"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"></a>3:00 AM, Minneapolis VA<br />
</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_BqmGJ6KIpN3RLPcKI5fyrv0OX6J_-uQPuCVfmAEwEvD-H8PKxUp_jXXokLnLGnQryuH7HAxjYS0zQAl3xfVkNDL8MtRYWMOGsnIb2fcmynOrdLoHa5KH_wbOTtJq_fLcYydVbFX6ws/s1600-h/Sabbatical+pics+015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_BqmGJ6KIpN3RLPcKI5fyrv0OX6J_-uQPuCVfmAEwEvD-H8PKxUp_jXXokLnLGnQryuH7HAxjYS0zQAl3xfVkNDL8MtRYWMOGsnIb2fcmynOrdLoHa5KH_wbOTtJq_fLcYydVbFX6ws/s320/Sabbatical+pics+015.jpg" /></a> The character and tone of my reports are going to take a sharp turn, at least for awhile. <br />
<br />
I’m alone with my step-father, Ed. On deathwatch. I suppose “vigil” would be a gentler term, but I’m not feeling like pulling punches just now, and since I have no editor (this is a blog, after all) let’s say it is what it is. <br />
<br />
The plane from Portland descended into a sad, gray Twin Cities twilight, and by the time the train from the airport left me standing on the VA station platform, it was dark, windy and cold, making the short walk to the hospital seem dramatically longer than it actually was. I sent mom and her sister Rose off to check into a hotel for the night; mom needed a break, and a chance to (try to, anyway) sleep in a real bed, instead of the lounge chair she’s been dozing off and on in for the last several nights. So now it’s just me and Ed, and the night shift nurses. Emotionally surreal, but oddly, professionally, familiar; am I the dutiful son, or the R.N.? This sensory landscape is way too familiar; the lighting, the sounds, the machinery. And the breathing. The gasping, halting breath to which we’ve mis-assigned the Latin name “agonal” respiration; gasp-in-and-out- full stop, pause, then another gasp-in-out, stop, another, stop, another, stop… the brain stem’s auto pilot, hardwired for one thing and one thing only; keep breathing, keep breathing, keep breathing. It’s the morphine, Morpheus descending, coming for to carry him home. Morphine blocks the pain. Without it, sheer, protracted agony as the runaway train of cancer cells tears through the lungs, the liver, through everything. Morphine keeps that pain away, but also depresses respiration. Morpheus lulls even the autopilot; they are both very, very old gods, ancient enemies. The cancer will continue to grow, this sort, very fast. As it does, the morphine infusion rate will be increased, which will further depress respiration… It’s a finite equation, a triangulation race between pain, morphine, and breath. <br />
<br />
Not surprisingly I suppose, I slept only fitfully last night. And dreamt, vividly, almost violently, about working in hospital, as an R.N. It’s been 25 years since I set foot professionally in a hospital, and I can’t remember when I last had a nursing dream. But last night I did; it was not a sweet dream. I was just suddenly there, on unit 10-A in St. Mary’s Hospital, understaffed of course, patients coming and going on gurneys, falling out of bed, ringing call signals, nurses –some of whom I recognized, even as they appeared, aged naturally by decades- were rushing all around me with med carts, bedding, food trays, medical machinery of all sorts- and I could do nothing. I didn’t know any of the patient’s names, or which were assigned to my care. I couldn’t read; the medication and procedure schedules were just a garbled mess of meaningless numbers and letters to me. I didn’t know where any of the supplies were kept, and I couldn’t seem to actually put my hands on anything, pick anything up. I tried to ask for help, tried to warn the other nurses that I was lost and useless, but my words were weirdly silent in the din of the unit, and they all seemed totally unaware of me. But not the patients; they reached out to me, spoke to me, asked for my help. But I couldn’t help. I tried to, but somehow, I couldn’t touch them either, any more than I could pick up a towel or cup. Even to them, I was a ghost, a helpless, panicky, anguished ghost. It seems to me that more than once, I surfaced from this dream into an awareness that I was in bed, dreaming, but each time I drifted back down into the same dream, like drowning, until finally it was morning, and I awoke for good, shaken, the emotional residue of the dream draining from my consciousness more slowly than the dream itself. <br />
<br />
The nurses will come in to turn Ed in bed every couple of hours. When people sleep, even in “a good night’s sleep” they move around a lot. “Toss and turn”. This is natural and healthy; if we didn’t, the pressure on particular spots on the body –the hips, the shoulders, the heels- would restrict circulation to the point of starving those pressure points to death, resulting, eventually, in pressure ulcers. Bedsores. I’ve treated tunneling pressure ulcers deep enough to completely bury three or four golf balls. So we move while we sleep. But Ed’s not sleeping. He’s not awake, but sleep is not where he is. He won’t turn naturally on his own anymore, so nurses will turn him; from his back, to his right side, to his back... When they turn him onto his left side, the weight of his right lung –and whatever else is in there- will rest on his heart, a heart already stressed from trying to supply sufficient oxygen to the body without a sufficient supply coming from his compromised breathing. Compromised by the morphine. The morphine necessary to keep the pain away. <br />
<br />
Welcome to hospice. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I always think of Ed first as an artist; a painter, a pianist, a sculptor. Collage-ist? Drawer? Anyway, whatever the proper name, though Ed worked in a diverse variety of media, it was always just that; a medium through which he expressed his creative ideas, his intuitions, and <i>especially</i>, in Ed’s case, his passions. Like any good artist Ed very much appreciated the quality of things; pigments and gels, wood grain and stains, tone and timbre, but it is ultimately passion that animates Ed’s work, because passions are ultimately what animated him. Ed was also a scholar, an intellectual who read voraciously, deeply, and widely. As a young man Ed devoted himself for a time to the seminary, and his relationship to his faith and the church remained an animating passion to the end. Ed devoted himself to serving his country in the most direct and selfless way possible; he did three tours of duty in Viet-Nam, on the ground, as a United States Marine, serving as a surgical technician in forward based field hospitals, discharging his duty not only with honor and distinction, but with enduring compassion for those most in need the of the tender, skilled attention he bestowed with such incredible grace and strength. His duty the military thus discharged, Ed then devoted himself to teaching art in the public schools, which -trust me- sometimes makes combat duty look like a walk in the park. And ultimately, Ed devoted himself to my family. Point here is, Ed has taken on and grappled with a greater swath of what the world offers than most people I know, and through all the struggles and doubts (and they are legion, for Ed was also a restless soul, haunted by doubt and unwilling to accept mediocrity) as well as the satisfactions and rewards, the constant throughout has been that he really, genuinely cares. I’ve never known Ed to ironically slouch around an idea; if it matters, then by god, it matters. And this quality not only allows Ed to engage his art with a rare sort of guileless honesty, but also makes him, in my opinion, a great teacher. Which is in fact how I first encountered Ed; as my high school art teacher. Now in the interest of full disclosure I have to say that while Ed was <i>the</i> Art teacher in my high school, he was not actually <i>my </i>teacher, until much later. As a result of my own peculiar neuroses, I gravitated into the orbit of the Music/Theatre/Social Studies crowd, and never really got to know Ed when I was in high school. But I was aware enough to know this; that Ed's students adored him, and that those adoring students included some of the meanest, most incorrigible kids in the district. He was getting through, not only to the more or less obedient kids who were always expected to “do just fine” and did, but he was also getting through to kids who had made a public stand against giving a damn about anything, <i>especially</i> anything a teacher had to offer. But they got turned on –hard and bright- to art, because Ed was able to show them how to tap their own innate passions and talents, always there but buried under heaps of small-minded ignorance and low expectations so sadly typical of small town rural America. It surprised everyone, most especially, those lost souls. Ed changed their lives, and even through the teen-age fog of my own self-absorbtion, I could see that. And I respected that. But is was years later, after he an my mother married (my own father passed away before Ed arrived to take up his teaching post in my home town) that I finally got to really know Ed, who never treated me with anything but tenderness and genuine respect- even when I didn’t deserve it. He became an unflagging supporter of my own ventures into, as the great American poet and songwriter Greg Brown named it, “the poet game”; the restless, never-ending search for truth, beauty and meaning beneath the surface of the everyday everyday. We talked art. We talked religion, we talked philosophy and food- and his passion was contagious, in the very best way imaginable. Ed was a good man, at once strong and gentle, who did, finally, with never so much as a whisper of his far, far deeper life experience, become one of <i>my</i> most cherished teachers. And I, incorrigible as any, as ever, came to love him. I will miss him so much. I hope, somehow, he knows this. <br />
</div><br />
<br />
And now I’ll stay with him. So he won’t be alone. So mom can rest a bit. And be mindful of my own slow, deep breath.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-22138597161594502772009-09-27T11:02:00.000-05:002009-09-27T11:02:20.878-05:00Time to grow up and go home, Peter PanI've been anticipating this of course, but was not quite fully prepared for the force with which real life would burst my little Lost Boy fantasy bubble. If you've read as far as the first entry of this blog, you know that in mid-June, my friend and stepfather, Ed Rodakowski, was diagnosed with a very aggressive form of lung cancer. Well the time has come; Mom want's me there, so it's time to go. And when it rains it pours; that was only one of four -count 'em, <i>four,</i> communiques I received within the past three days that yanked back HARD on the bit of my actual life assignment, as teacher, colleague, husband, father, even grandfather. Goodbye, Peter Pan. Everyone else; my flight is scheduled to touch down at 7:15 PM, CST. I'll be there by tonight.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-24924074509626436352009-09-26T15:12:00.000-05:002009-09-26T15:12:26.221-05:00This is where there is no picture of a salmon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i></i>In spite of the fact that I angled the hell of a section of the Trask river just this side of Tillamook known as Hospital Hole, and a bit of the Tillamook river at bit further west of there, the only fish I caught were...<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmqlHSPTlQqF2rHuXyLiRXck3p2lEKhB2wItW1j6JUl73uyuQnK0i4rXFLkj6Lojn8qmR_y0MYVgkyCNv5KyqrXgkyBd5DPCsV3Me4sg3CDHPu65zBPmGOYyLnn76_I-01n-6gI3UHSE/s1600-h/prickly_sculpin2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqmqlHSPTlQqF2rHuXyLiRXck3p2lEKhB2wItW1j6JUl73uyuQnK0i4rXFLkj6Lojn8qmR_y0MYVgkyCNv5KyqrXgkyBd5DPCsV3Me4sg3CDHPu65zBPmGOYyLnn76_I-01n-6gI3UHSE/s320/prickly_sculpin2.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: left;">... Prickly Sculpin. Annoying little bait thieves. Oregon's answer to the Midwest's Bullhead. I released them, but later on I came upon some locals, fishing from a public access dock who were catching lots of these... it was a pretty ghastly, genocidal scene. Evidently, local salmon anglers have serious issues with this species. On the upside, I did personally eyewitness several large salmonids (presumably fall run Chinook, but hard to say with these glimpses) breaching in the Tillamook river. So I know they're in there.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">But even with no desirable catch, a day spent along a river on a beautiful September day has it's charms. And when this is the view from your "office"...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9-CsF-0qXtySCdt9SJMLMVeeKGac0Mi5HbET27y34DImwl758jPSh2ZO3B7mUF5Tec5GXJxBEJEodVYT-YSKarK_h_avQM-croB_dgqWl9DIuny9pLmfZVj9a2TVG7KWzEnn66eFRO0/s1600-h/Coffeehouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9-CsF-0qXtySCdt9SJMLMVeeKGac0Mi5HbET27y34DImwl758jPSh2ZO3B7mUF5Tec5GXJxBEJEodVYT-YSKarK_h_avQM-croB_dgqWl9DIuny9pLmfZVj9a2TVG7KWzEnn66eFRO0/s320/Coffeehouse.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> ... staying in to work is not a bad alternative. This is the view from Brewin' in the Wind, <i><b>the</b></i> Coffee Shop/Cafe in Oceanside where I've taken to spending my mornings working on <i>Pylos,</i> the play I'm collaborating on with playwright Jon Berry. (And for those of you with legitimate concerns for my scholarly productivity, this being my sabbatical and all; if you will direct your focus on the lower left quadrant of this picture, you will see the corner of a heavily notated page of the script. I enter these notes as evidence of productivity, exhibit A.)<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Have company this weekend, gotta go be sociable.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-75421409463836846322009-09-24T22:32:00.008-05:002009-09-24T22:59:50.238-05:00"A two bourbon twilight, fog from God's cigar...*<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0D6s2QItUIpmg74nbvP6IbydLjDvx_K2dhGCfJoAKXvF7oj0bMSLOICoaHIOCeXyEZnz5yuCdTq7Fs-A0Bvesom2kt_86EBBv27OfK1DuGOd8dtY4r8dNOwFYgH_XAMbKn7F1UvL2HQ8/s1600-h/oside+twilte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0D6s2QItUIpmg74nbvP6IbydLjDvx_K2dhGCfJoAKXvF7oj0bMSLOICoaHIOCeXyEZnz5yuCdTq7Fs-A0Bvesom2kt_86EBBv27OfK1DuGOd8dtY4r8dNOwFYgH_XAMbKn7F1UvL2HQ8/s320/oside+twilte.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Short 'n sweet: some random images from my day of reconnaissance, in preparation for my day of fishing. (Tomorrow, 1:00 PM - 7:00 PM PST to catch the incoming tide in the estuarine Trask & Tillamook rivers, for fall run Chinook).<br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fTGa4MtdL9GOH1WCmMscffKAM8or7qSmUBqcmhLmcfg1c9vzgt3-pJHsqfsXVM6MjJ1k95eX0Ok5u9YkzmkoOAeAQ0SfpDsWFetQXZoBHf87RaFh_oNVMeWvlJQy7fM1KnNMGFSa5UI/s1600-h/fshwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3fTGa4MtdL9GOH1WCmMscffKAM8or7qSmUBqcmhLmcfg1c9vzgt3-pJHsqfsXVM6MjJ1k95eX0Ok5u9YkzmkoOAeAQ0SfpDsWFetQXZoBHf87RaFh_oNVMeWvlJQy7fM1KnNMGFSa5UI/s320/fshwood.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ocean Bay Spit. (That's the name of the beach, though it could be a name for a Portland punk band. Do they still make punk bands?) I thought the fish-shape of this chunk of waterlogged wood was sorta' cool, given it's locational context. It must have weighed over fifty pounds, and was at least a mile away from the Sabbatmobile, or I might have taken it as a treasure. <br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-nZ5cuQfsM7FaJ1FNUqf_2hIWBTGd8Kzy4_kh1yWIHOrYQVo0sT_segjAavZUUcd8SJ7IpvGrzTPPahoMbkrzmlmLgLwsi90PiNSavfKJ9rb9XqTyy61DhnMqXOWrh-jrE_T0kqbOmM/s1600-h/sbbatboats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-nZ5cuQfsM7FaJ1FNUqf_2hIWBTGd8Kzy4_kh1yWIHOrYQVo0sT_segjAavZUUcd8SJ7IpvGrzTPPahoMbkrzmlmLgLwsi90PiNSavfKJ9rb9XqTyy61DhnMqXOWrh-jrE_T0kqbOmM/s320/sbbatboats.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Had lunch at <i>The Fisherman's Korner, </i>Garibaldi Point; one oyster and one razor clam. No I'm not dieting: the oyster (ordered as an oyster shooter) was a Netarts oyster the size of a hen's egg, and the clam, flattened and deep fried, was the size of a two egg omlette. Garibaldi is a blue collar, combination lumber and fishing town; this marina shares a large, industrial park-ish area with a Coast Guard station, two bar/restaurants (the <i>Korner</i> being one of those) a seafood distribution warehouse and at least three charter fishing operations, and to get to it, you have to drive through the middle of a busy lumber mill, dodging forklifts slinging loads of raw logs around. It was sorta late in the day for lunch, but too early for the <i>Korner's </i>evening crowd, so I was alone in the lounge, save for five guys arranged around one booth. These guys was real fisherman-ish, and not sports fisherman- pros, that work big boats for a living. Could have walked into that bar right out of the pages of a seafaring saga.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRig32Z7zm54ow1kXf2kmVdrnFtIijdvRHFBzS0N7VjIxuRkVO7MiJTMbxP6nGhYtoSAN5o7Zj6b_gUz8MU5kqQZHUDae2i6LFsclClb-mXiPEUj4gKwLmsr8TpYYnVtRSgIZBONPw9lg/s1600-h/jetty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRig32Z7zm54ow1kXf2kmVdrnFtIijdvRHFBzS0N7VjIxuRkVO7MiJTMbxP6nGhYtoSAN5o7Zj6b_gUz8MU5kqQZHUDae2i6LFsclClb-mXiPEUj4gKwLmsr8TpYYnVtRSgIZBONPw9lg/s320/jetty.jpg" /></a> Bar jetty, at the jaws of Tillamook bay. Way too rough and windy today; monster on-shore wind blasting sea mist into a hazy cloud that left a thin layer of salt-grime on everything in it's path. But I'm told that rock fish, cabezon, greenling and even the occasional ling cod can be had along the rocks, and the chinook run right up the mouth of the bay here. But this is a pretty intimidating fishing hole, even in fair weather; just figuring out how to get your bait to where the fish are without getting soaked or crashing on the rocks yourself is a challenge, and then if you're lucky enough to hook one, the trouble really starts. Not for the casual tourist; you have about as much chance going in as the fish does coming out. <br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Another windy, kinda spooky night alone here. Big gusts cause sounds like footfalls upstairs, and I left a window open so they swing the door up there too, which then emits classic radio suspense-drama sound effect groans....<br />
</div><br />
...........better go check it out. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>* Greg Brown, </i><i>Spring and All</i></span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-6613341334652278522009-09-23T19:41:00.002-05:002009-09-23T19:47:27.721-05:00"...risked it all upon the sea, to make a better life." *<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBETpE_YtqYSSStfgOo4yDZEARwqv_2hJnT9C_JVCZuHBXGn5B6g6D3KywjxdqMhELR-6NcP58PTykfEKA2SwjihMMfQoVTzvY7sTuSjeq5FOCoOWrk7DkZgB8kuKT_u6JReOWEgwAAA0/s1600-h/ottersnst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBETpE_YtqYSSStfgOo4yDZEARwqv_2hJnT9C_JVCZuHBXGn5B6g6D3KywjxdqMhELR-6NcP58PTykfEKA2SwjihMMfQoVTzvY7sTuSjeq5FOCoOWrk7DkZgB8kuKT_u6JReOWEgwAAA0/s320/ottersnst.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As you can see, I made it to the coast. Hunter S. again diggin' the sunset. He seems to have decided that this is his primary responsibility as my one and only crew member; diggin' stuff. Must be nice to never have to drive or pay for gas.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Spent the next day on another hike, with Al and Sandy both. Along Fall River this time; no vertical climb today, but the mature second growth Lodge Poles and clear-blue stream provided plenty of sensory reward, and conversation was easy. And we did a lot of that; all through the day, into the evening and over a fantastic dinner at <i>Joolz,</i> a "middle east meets wild west" restaurant in Bend -which, by the way, is a really cool town with lots to offer foodies and ranchers, musicians and farmers, and connoisseurs of every persuasion. It's also a boom town that got hit hard by the collapse of the housing industry, but still... very nice place, and located very nicely. Sort of like a dry side Eugene. (I bet that will piss some people off in both towns!) And we continued -yak yak yak- until one by one, we fell to exhaustion and hit the sack.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now lest you think this was simply a side effect of my having no one but a stuffed toy and myself to talk to for days on end, I will tell you that it's always like been like with us. I reckon it has more to do with our being very close at a considerable distance. Odd concept I suppose, but quite true, at least in my case; though separated by many years and miles, these lasting friendships -all seeded in "those college years" as it turns out- have held fast. And so, when the rare play date is arranged, the hours together become very precious. After all, there's a hell of a lot of catching up to do. <br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Next morning, after another of Sandy's nice homemade breakfasts (German pancake this time -with special hot peppers from New Mexico that I don't think the German's would approve of, but that I heartily did) it was "to the sabBatmobile" once more. Headed northwest out of Madras on route 26, which cuts right through the Warm Springs Confederated Tribes reservation. Which is where I met Joannie, hitchen' to Portland to see her son, wheelchair bound since a bullet put him there at age 17. It was his 50th birthday, but Joannie's car was broke down in Salem, where she had been visiting one of her three daughters. A friend was supposed to have accompanying Joannie on this Portland visit, but he "chickened out", so she said "go ahead and go home then, I'll hitch by myself." Which she was doing when I saw her, walking over loose rocks and boulders just off a very narrow shoulder of a busy two way road, turning to thumb every vehicle that whizzed by her. Which including the sabBatmobile, at first. Seeing someone's grandma trying to navigate rough ground next to a very whizzy road, not to mention hitchhiking in the first place... well, what would you do? Yes, she could have been an axe murderer, I had no way of knowing for certain. Or more likely, a drunk; you know them drunkin' injuns. Well I sure couldn't let myself behave that way, so I turned around, telling myself; how bad can it be? She probably just wants to go the road a ways, to visit someone, or maybe to the casino several miles up, maybe she works there. And always try to keep these words of Hunter S. Thompson to heart; "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." I'm nothing if not a good improviser, so I pull over and open the passenger door. "Thanks a lot" she says as she maneuvers herself uphill and into the seat . I say "where are you going to?" "Portland" she says. "Wow" I say in all honesty; "all the way to Portland." A good three hours away, and exactly where I'm going. But, whahdahyahgonnadoo? So we're off, and it's not long before I know a whole lot about Joannie's family; her son in the wheelchair, and the one fishing the Columbia, the tall daughter still back home trying to straighten out some sort of student loan thing for community college, and the other two; one in Salem who does beadwork and another holding out on returning some money Joannie loaned her; "just because I'm a little inebriated sometimes". Then she surprises me; "Now don't get offended or nuthin' but it was you white men than brought alcohol to us Indians, you know". Just what the hell do you say to that? I asked her if the rest of her family drank. She said "Can you believe it? They all quit!"<br />
<br />
After several miles of long-ish silences punctuated by Joannie telling me about her family (including her good for nothing ex) and pointing out landmarks for events in her life ("this is where my cousin used to stay; I sell burritos there sometimes") she ask me; "do you have a girlfriend or somthin'?" I explain that was married (my ringed finger was in plain sight on the steering wheel, but she was a bit distracted and forgetful) and my wife was working back home. She digs around in her cluttered purse and comes up with a handful of hand made beaded jewelery, selecting a very nice pair of black and blue beaded dangly earrings...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWSlkCVfHNqyhjKJ1Wiyz4LQowoeez3n0hYEhIOWHZhGU5_xxcU3Qvk9-Lpb0FN34XiQKEdfJadzdnA6Yt6ctiFnEuwrysU9qSZj9TyauL-NfT-h9_UJIgvcTn1uBeRBXU0snhf9XNeU/s1600-h/joanniesearings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWSlkCVfHNqyhjKJ1Wiyz4LQowoeez3n0hYEhIOWHZhGU5_xxcU3Qvk9-Lpb0FN34XiQKEdfJadzdnA6Yt6ctiFnEuwrysU9qSZj9TyauL-NfT-h9_UJIgvcTn1uBeRBXU0snhf9XNeU/s320/joanniesearings.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">... and asks; "do you think she would like these?" I allowed as how I thought she would very much like them, and she hands them to me, saying again how much she appreciated the ride. When we reach a Portland burb named Sandy (not far from Boring, Oregon- it's not bad enough growing up in a sprawlburb, but must it be actually <i>named</i> "Boring"?) I loaned her my cell to call her son. Wasn't home. So he called a niece; not home either. Then she called her son's girlfriend, and sure enough, he was there. "He's going right home now, so that he'll be there when I get there." I still had my doubts about this whole "visit my son in a wheelchair" thing, and it didn't help that when we got to the block she had directed me to she said "you can just let me out here, we just passed his building." I pulled over, she thanked me very graciously again while getting out of the truck, I said "good luck", she shut the door, and off she went, trundling back down the street, toting her coats and her purse that contained, among many other things, her jewelery projects, her food handler's certificate (for the burritos and fry bread she sells) and her all important Indian ID card. It was a one way street, and I had to turn around anyway to, so I went around the block, just to check on her. Sure enough, she was standing on the sidewalk talking to a man in a wheelchair. His back was to me so I couldn't see his face, but he had a long, jet-black pony tail. Shortly after picking her up, thinking that maybe I was going to get sucked into a family drama by helping a tipsy grandma run away from, whatever, I had asked Joannie if her son would be surprised and happy to see her. "Of course he'll be happy to see me. He's always happy to see his Mamma. It might be his 50th, but he's still my baby".<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After all that I still made it to the home of my dear friends Pat & Scott- my next generous hosts- in plenty of time to join them for another fantastic dinner, this time at a small, family run Italian restaurant that had an incredible deal on a three-course-with-wine-pairings special. Homemade pasta, delicate, creative sauces, really interesting wines; I chose the confit entree- it's not often one find really high quality duck fat on the menu. Next morning, coffee with Pat at a stellar coffeehouse (of which Portland has many) and a nice romp in the dog park with Oscar & Billie, and on to my final destination for this leg of the trip....<br />
</div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1-mlb6G_Y7YikbaJUMJqO2YnDjMZu_x4VwXjabIzUrSwb3vys4M9k4uF6oJonUZLNIiYbIi1N_PcZ6oNQAQQWWdR1J62yzk3d58dSjQx2jEQ8rVZqGaNh8q1yBRExzkjgz8wOLLRypo/s1600-h/3rocksunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij1-mlb6G_Y7YikbaJUMJqO2YnDjMZu_x4VwXjabIzUrSwb3vys4M9k4uF6oJonUZLNIiYbIi1N_PcZ6oNQAQQWWdR1J62yzk3d58dSjQx2jEQ8rVZqGaNh8q1yBRExzkjgz8wOLLRypo/s320/3rocksunset.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Oceanside OR. This is the sunset at Three Rocks Arch Marine Sanctuary, AKA, my front yard for awhile. And just because I think they each have a little something that makes them special, I'm going to post some more shots of this same scene:<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_IXztIB94oo1xoZI5yzJX9NzFVL7WQ_tgcL4juG5TTtW0INhPTan69YwwnXBpyA59mDCm_JttSbJsBggTYGMLQPgVi3yoX1KP0TiB_KNEyYYSHPvpGeZ4TTAv9uGQggKZNRxnIJxnKA/s1600-h/oceanside+snst+%281%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_IXztIB94oo1xoZI5yzJX9NzFVL7WQ_tgcL4juG5TTtW0INhPTan69YwwnXBpyA59mDCm_JttSbJsBggTYGMLQPgVi3yoX1KP0TiB_KNEyYYSHPvpGeZ4TTAv9uGQggKZNRxnIJxnKA/s320/oceanside+snst+%281%29.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhddYWd5A0lY0Y8U3NtTdg4iNfkdLmODczRyaikyfuC5arpxhrrL3D40r-B_tnT7WmfDuY60c5iAy1oTh0CkIADnLJKi9IswqFSg6TGobQBf8XQF0Zx9E1SJqgn-RSXmJkoMqhpQAQSZw4/s1600-h/oceanside+snst+%283%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhddYWd5A0lY0Y8U3NtTdg4iNfkdLmODczRyaikyfuC5arpxhrrL3D40r-B_tnT7WmfDuY60c5iAy1oTh0CkIADnLJKi9IswqFSg6TGobQBf8XQF0Zx9E1SJqgn-RSXmJkoMqhpQAQSZw4/s320/oceanside+snst+%283%29.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCHF2g2MaH3mN_30O_Ue3_B_XiNlDUiXAO1-m2wTmfUadXyIi9ncAwCNy8zLY45LaBlVKx6wV9TN0T0Ci58G1GqukzRk0phnwNZnKmwqyPa3UIwqemMb1oMkL9Br0D5x0oU8n1DuIlwU/s1600-h/oceanside+snst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCHF2g2MaH3mN_30O_Ue3_B_XiNlDUiXAO1-m2wTmfUadXyIi9ncAwCNy8zLY45LaBlVKx6wV9TN0T0Ci58G1GqukzRk0phnwNZnKmwqyPa3UIwqemMb1oMkL9Br0D5x0oU8n1DuIlwU/s320/oceanside+snst.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And this is the beach where I stood to take those shots, and where, if I can find the self-discipline to stick to it, I will be doing my Taijiquan routine every morning and evening...<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNya2msfodO0XHK_MjUfD2R7H_8qPkQzhsm7A2ThJJoS6BN0CINrX-FAgA8uLweU-iA7jifmwYZjUOmdoClpUb7SXS6IcqIBDw5XGN_EjC73d8r2RHw9qkMMIcVTOp6JueWZ3eOVHo_bg/s1600-h/oceansidebeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNya2msfodO0XHK_MjUfD2R7H_8qPkQzhsm7A2ThJJoS6BN0CINrX-FAgA8uLweU-iA7jifmwYZjUOmdoClpUb7SXS6IcqIBDw5XGN_EjC73d8r2RHw9qkMMIcVTOp6JueWZ3eOVHo_bg/s320/oceansidebeach.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">... for which you will have to now excuse me; it's almost sunset again.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">* From the Tom Waits song <i>When All The World was Green</i></span><i>.</i><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-61363420317514239952009-09-23T01:00:00.020-05:002009-09-23T01:10:52.102-05:00Rock my world.First, a paen to friends: at the risk of sounding like Capra character; I have the best friends a fella' could wish for. I can't imagine how I can ever repay them for the graciousness, generosity, hospitality and plain good company they've shared with me, on this trip, as always. I don't deserve them; all I can do is hope to someday have the opportunity to return the favor.<br />
<br />
Snapped my fly rod. My own fault; I know better than to pull at a snag that way. Truth is, I was testing it, and deservedly, we both failed. That's what I get for going cheap on the gear, then pushing it to see how much it could take. But when I bought it I wasn't sure I was going to take to this exceedingly fussy, ridiculously expensive blood sport, with the floating lines and the sinking lines and the weight balancing and the leaders and tippets and knots and gazillion different sorts of teeny little flies, not to mention that it took me two days studying the Oregon fishing regulations to figure out what kind of fish I was allowed to catch in what water with what gear, whether I could keep the big ones or the little ones, or, most often, none at all, and so on and so on. But once I found the rhythm of this whole fly fishing deal, I did find it a very pleasant way to waste a day in what's left of the wilder bits of America. If I lived near good fly fishing water I might be tempted to upgrade, but for now, it's back to Wal-Mart -unless I can find a good pawn shop deal first.<br />
<br />
So with fishing suddenly and unexpectedly over for the time being, I pointed the Sabbatmobile back east, heading back over the Cascades to the dry side again, this time through Santiam Pass; much less dramatic, but it does have the advantage of not closing for the season at the first snowfall in October. I hit cell coverage at the crest, called my friends in Bend, Sandy & Al, and asked; "what's for supper?" Ravioli, turns out. The next day was a regular work day for Al (an exceptional high-school biology teacher) so Sandy decided that a hike at Smith Rock, a few miles northeast of Terrebonne, would make a nice outing. "Fantastic landscape" she says. And she wasn't kidding...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVROd2cqn0SgKw_V6JTdAtKQv6RN5hwIysgA4ibl1-IFnNlcglq6qzEj1juKurfqmcs91HTsyukPQ4CVmcy9n8zrHu0YLeUdII8ztxsrf61GBuMnDCMix9CTO3AG8MoW2XUdDweovORvg/s1600-h/smithsrock+%286%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVROd2cqn0SgKw_V6JTdAtKQv6RN5hwIysgA4ibl1-IFnNlcglq6qzEj1juKurfqmcs91HTsyukPQ4CVmcy9n8zrHu0YLeUdII8ztxsrf61GBuMnDCMix9CTO3AG8MoW2XUdDweovORvg/s320/smithsrock+%286%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">However, she failed to mention the name of the trail leading to these views...<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-oFyxtUpEp6aZjVzfHLXfaK2z8y3fp0njr68Q28LRcVYCZEyq4zrXRPNlyetruWh6k2OOje_r_rgrjq-P2FLDpWGcW0GaO84sY97B3a9uby5Fux-Rbcr0B4YAr9DjAnQAv1gcCRlWWA/s1600-h/smithsrock+%285%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-oFyxtUpEp6aZjVzfHLXfaK2z8y3fp0njr68Q28LRcVYCZEyq4zrXRPNlyetruWh6k2OOje_r_rgrjq-P2FLDpWGcW0GaO84sY97B3a9uby5Fux-Rbcr0B4YAr9DjAnQAv1gcCRlWWA/s320/smithsrock+%285%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(The trail head -where we started- is down by that river, the Crooked River)<br />
</span></i><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnYtHyFaeMBsIofRo2_jsXBPyrHFHl1dCCT6CXdXr2x6JYVRfbB3FvBkbmDcQCwr_RoXyFX0ZiEXSIqrt8aawEagYG06nmBOaB0yBuBwNz8h90FSZx3bPBjA4e660VnZySM2jx8sw-t8/s1600-h/smithsrock+%283%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnYtHyFaeMBsIofRo2_jsXBPyrHFHl1dCCT6CXdXr2x6JYVRfbB3FvBkbmDcQCwr_RoXyFX0ZiEXSIqrt8aawEagYG06nmBOaB0yBuBwNz8h90FSZx3bPBjA4e660VnZySM2jx8sw-t8/s320/smithsrock+%283%29.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
...: <i>Misery Ridge</i>. Starting at 2,600 feet (above sea level; Bowling Green KY is 700) steep, no nonsense switchbacks proceed up another 600 feet to the top of the ridge. I was panting like a dog, my poor old heart pounding to try and compensate for the thinning air. Misery Ridge indeed. But, as you can see, the reward was rich. The funny looking knob in the right foreground of the above image is called <i>Monkey Face.</i> I'm not sure you can tell in this shot, but the reason for that name is obvious when you behold the real thing; a bit startling actually. What I know you can't see in this shot is the two climbers standing on top of the monkey's head, like lice. That's some serious technical climbing, and in fact Smith Rock is considered the birthplace of modern sport climbing. The place was crawling with climbers, and they made my panting up a walking trail seem even more pathetic. But google it and you'll find that Smith Rock is a world class climbing destination, and so usually is crawling with climbers. Rock lizards. Once I might have been one of them, but that's one of many pastimes sadly no longer in the cards for me. I'm lucky to have survived <i>Misery Ridge</i> without strokin' out. But I'd do it again.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-30686677759804477452009-09-22T18:03:00.004-05:002009-09-22T18:08:44.457-05:00Volcanic troutSo a week has gone by since my last post. A very full week. I intended to post more frequent entries, and will endeavor to not let a full week go by again. To catch up...<br />
<br />
After my night of mice and stars high in the Ochoco, I continued westward, crossing from the "dry side" of the Cascade range; airy, open stands of Lodgepole Pine in the mountains, sage and juniper scrub in the lower desert, to the "wet" side; dense, mossy slopes of spruce, fir, hemlock and cedar, cut by clear, cold streams and rivers, via the McKenzie pass...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2Ah8HgKh0OUKaLsD6qdDPy7Y3ThJXGW-B0_KQXt-ITkHD6-a8Y27vNTDUPEBv6YTNAM346JtrO3v3111jKqGMRP1E-ZEAvqsAVpBAPWzaZaMcIW6tEsJDcQmZM8KMIk4v1J5k-3nVjk/s1600-h/mcknzipass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2Ah8HgKh0OUKaLsD6qdDPy7Y3ThJXGW-B0_KQXt-ITkHD6-a8Y27vNTDUPEBv6YTNAM346JtrO3v3111jKqGMRP1E-ZEAvqsAVpBAPWzaZaMcIW6tEsJDcQmZM8KMIk4v1J5k-3nVjk/s320/mcknzipass.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhClTeM1jnjL9DpubULpTGBLSXo8N-kPMpf7B0KkmI_P72CXrTxgifnsb0-e9yzqaVPWncyWUJ99jEkZqlPoYqMFQJG5C9La_RNXDUcrLhL1N_BeYsvD_Q67bukvRWLYEiVFygEcSLd0eI/s1600-h/mckzi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhClTeM1jnjL9DpubULpTGBLSXo8N-kPMpf7B0KkmI_P72CXrTxgifnsb0-e9yzqaVPWncyWUJ99jEkZqlPoYqMFQJG5C9La_RNXDUcrLhL1N_BeYsvD_Q67bukvRWLYEiVFygEcSLd0eI/s320/mckzi.jpg" /> </a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">As you can see, even from these tiny images, this is some pretty dramatic scenery. The dark rock is</span><span style="font-size: small;"> basalt; not-all-that-ancient cooled lava.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> (That's North and Middle Sister Mountains in the background) This is what underlies most of the high desert in this the part of the world; vast basalt fields like these, covered over time with a thin layer of soil, created by plant colonization and erosion, and cut by fantastic river gorges. </span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFwnTYa3M847D0GS-yErTrDJxGI06-ZCNQ4RGV0DcEIfs4El45BhP8xgsU1CvsgEVwYoBuDkPfVbbqkprEoTVP_R2-7XREbQiQ7-SDWHynSQKu5xRBOg9UZ0DnJH8om1nVPqH7ju8rg0/s1600-h/otrchkn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFwnTYa3M847D0GS-yErTrDJxGI06-ZCNQ4RGV0DcEIfs4El45BhP8xgsU1CvsgEVwYoBuDkPfVbbqkprEoTVP_R2-7XREbQiQ7-SDWHynSQKu5xRBOg9UZ0DnJH8om1nVPqH7ju8rg0/s320/otrchkn.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hunter S. Otter, posing at the McKenzie Pass, Mount Washington in the background. Look closely, and to Hunter's left you'll see... Chicken. A Yamhill county treasurer, on the "Chicken" team, was evidently toting Chicken around, posing (him? her? Impossible to tell without some rather invasive exploration of the nether regions, and since we had just met, that just didn't seem the gentlemanly thing) at various Oregon sites of interest, in an effort to amass more images than the other Yamhill county office teams doing the same, presumably with different critters. Spotting Hunter and I working the scenery, she rather forcefully approached, telling us that "she needed my animal." Hunter was a bit put off by her forwardness and tone, but was typically gracious, agreeing to pose with this strange bird. </span> <br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Heading westward down towards the ocean, the landscape drops dramatically into the Willamette National Forrest, a very different environment from the high desert...<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AFsOKA_F-0S7SmlztP3o9LSx1yiLL1gTZ0fXvEyIgexstrw_8sOzJXjRlu49QddzaWt0gMfJGTYTuO04vbDhc6PSYsglPmDTFdKPTgjndgS7u0gNounxyufNn4F-WYV7leSZ7ssO-h4/s1600-h/IMG_0188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0AFsOKA_F-0S7SmlztP3o9LSx1yiLL1gTZ0fXvEyIgexstrw_8sOzJXjRlu49QddzaWt0gMfJGTYTuO04vbDhc6PSYsglPmDTFdKPTgjndgS7u0gNounxyufNn4F-WYV7leSZ7ssO-h4/s320/IMG_0188.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHwVD1cyFE-ugnOMgTOkoiyl2V4UTFzzqt-MV-vMkDPl7ghuXhwFjJxGtUECwOotWPu1urGcRvzytsnc_3LOLav5MMiWr0V3W5w72IwNEocJJp8rzxDquE433G2W64mpKPUUqrcWON-g/s1600-h/limbrlstcmp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHwVD1cyFE-ugnOMgTOkoiyl2V4UTFzzqt-MV-vMkDPl7ghuXhwFjJxGtUECwOotWPu1urGcRvzytsnc_3LOLav5MMiWr0V3W5w72IwNEocJJp8rzxDquE433G2W64mpKPUUqrcWON-g/s320/limbrlstcmp.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The images below are of the same spectacular tree I shared the campsite with, shot from different perspectives, once with my net and boots in the frame for size reference.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_P9DV2HsHHSM1o1GBD5XzOrbCXlib6_A_2aj2HM41eZjl8sf6ZsS96sShEPdpaVeCJKVw0peHrPVeJU9_V2Kq6M49o6NyxtWNLcw9-b2Aa2JCB8Eq4byMqS1pJysUDxj-d8w0DU81V3c/s1600-h/IMG_0191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_P9DV2HsHHSM1o1GBD5XzOrbCXlib6_A_2aj2HM41eZjl8sf6ZsS96sShEPdpaVeCJKVw0peHrPVeJU9_V2Kq6M49o6NyxtWNLcw9-b2Aa2JCB8Eq4byMqS1pJysUDxj-d8w0DU81V3c/s320/IMG_0191.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWite1zpN_nY8_Cj8RFgxKuO4R7bmVb6ymtSqLjpDFinmOpyDzFIEVhMxAmwZH58-tBQtk7y2Omey4Z0oJ5U9w_XR5q742TY0UK2tbw2Xtn3h2t8Y46Bj3o9-6JtgUSqf8ZDlWJopPbyQ/s1600-h/limberlosttree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWite1zpN_nY8_Cj8RFgxKuO4R7bmVb6ymtSqLjpDFinmOpyDzFIEVhMxAmwZH58-tBQtk7y2Omey4Z0oJ5U9w_XR5q742TY0UK2tbw2Xtn3h2t8Y46Bj3o9-6JtgUSqf8ZDlWJopPbyQ/s320/limberlosttree.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> And that, dear readers, is referred to as "old growth". I reckon this Mountain Hemlock (Tsuga mertensiana) is at least 250-300 years old, well worth listening closely too. And right behind -actually a bit under as well- you can see a bit of Lost Creek; a beautiful, clear-blue cutbank pool, perfect habitat for...<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4dL3y3e_fuO4GpbAFm5BycsOWWqPOxBXC9pkecXG5o9ju66_PBH8Yot8Mtzxc9wuJPO5ZNA6JqzypALG8yY1QJCFd1XZ1HMhGcS3yllhFtgZre5GuaxEtpbYabTzxFbnv2_jZhVunfM/s1600-h/rnbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4dL3y3e_fuO4GpbAFm5BycsOWWqPOxBXC9pkecXG5o9ju66_PBH8Yot8Mtzxc9wuJPO5ZNA6JqzypALG8yY1QJCFd1XZ1HMhGcS3yllhFtgZre5GuaxEtpbYabTzxFbnv2_jZhVunfM/s320/rnbow.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">...trout. This one is a Rainbow (Oncorhynchus mykiss). I also caught a mess of Coastal Cuthroat (Onchorhynchus clarki). This was a pret'near perfect campsite for me, and I am deeply grateful for the good fortune of having stumbled upon it. Now that I know it's there, I intend to visit again sometime.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So one goal achieved; actually catch a wild trout on fly fishing gear. (I know, I know, he doesn't look happy. I don't blame him. But he seemed fine and lively when I let him go after his photo-shoot.)<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-59370318724864020352009-09-15T15:24:00.008-05:002009-09-15T15:34:03.232-05:00Your'e Fired!9:45 AM, Tuesday 9/15, Starbucks (I’m an addict, I admit it) in Prineville OR<br />
<br />
Spent the night high up in the Ochoco National Forrest in central OR. Not an “official” campsite, but clearly a spot where humans hang out; nice flat creek bottom, brook chattering softly in the background, huge lodge pole pines looming into the dusk. No tent tonight, just a tarp under the stars. A nice hot cup of Lapsang Soushong (enhanced with some special medicinals, some of which were harvested only days before in Yellowstone) and a cup o’ noodles (I’m partial to Maruchen), comfy warm jammies (including a knit cap- it gets pretty damned chilly in the high desert at night) and I snuggled in to stare into the infinite star field, totally free of anthrogenic light pollution. And let me just say; it’s REALLY freakin’ infinite, y’all. In a mind blowing sort of way. Got me to thinking about my place in the cosmos, which got me to thinking about niches; the observation, from both a scientific and spiritual perspective, that all living things seem to have a special place, a unique assignment in the great ecosystemic web of being. A “job” of sorts. For a simple, commonplace example, rabbits; the rabbit’s job is to provide food. To be more brutally precise, to BE food, for a wide variety of predators. The populations of Canadian lynx and snowshoe hares follow the same wavelength; lot of hares = lots of lynx food = lot’s of healthy lynx litters. Too many lynx eating too many hares = not enough hares to support that many lynx, and hey-presto; not so many healthy lynx litters. So lynx and hare share a workplace; they maintain each others optimal population. Not consciously mind you. At least, I don’t think they think about this a lot. So, meditating into the star field, the question emerged; what is my –our, human’s- niche? Kind of a stumper for me. <br />
<br />
So what is our job, exactly? Yeah, yeah, to obey our genetic imperative, to make more of us. But that’s true of every living thing, a universal autopilot driver, not a unique assignment to our particular species. Just where do we “fit” into the ecoweb? Have humans, by dint of evolving our big fat neocortex somehow escaped nature’s job placement mechanisms? And if so; is that a good thing, or a not so good thing. Here’s a thought worth pondering: if humans suddenly vanished from the scene (and it sometimes feels like we’re working at ensuring that happens, with our propensity for developing –and sowing- the seeds of mass destruction) it would not really effect much lasting change in the workings of planet earth. Life would quite happily go on without us. But if ants, on the other hand (according to E.O. Wilson) were to suddenly vanish, WE (homo sapiens sapiens) would be in serious trouble, because ants attend to a variety of vital ecosystem functions without which the whole machine as we currently understand it would eventually collapse. Now as thing go, what would probably happen is other critters would eventually move in to take over the ant jobs, but the point is that we humans seem sort of dispensable. Which, when meditating into an infinite star field, is not at all that hard to imagine. <br />
<br />
Then the mice visited. The tarp I had spread was crinkly- noisy, and though I was quite motionless on a dead-calm night, it started to crinkle, unbidden. I said (calmly, but aloud); “Hey. Who is here with me? This is my tarp, you know.” No answer. When it happened again, I was ready with my light, and was able to identify my visitors; deer mice. So I took another shot at opening a conversation, explaining that I understood I was the guest in their home, thanked them for their hospitality, and assured them that I meant them no harm but that I did expect the same from them; no biting, and no sharing of parasites. This triggered a long-ish explanation (from me, not the mice) of Lymes disease and the Black Plague, which obviously required a quick primer on European history… Anyway, they (I’m pretty sure there was more than one, though I concede that I only saw one, and one very fast mouse might have accounted for what I was hearing) seemed reassured, and started to converse with me; little squeaks, as god as my witness, little, chittering squeaks. And they began to venture away from the relatively safe edges of the tarp to go galloping (I could now discern their footfall rhythms in the crinkling) across the central plains of my tarp. AND the mountain of my recumbent snuggled in self; parump parump parump, right across my (thickly blanketed) legs. Every now and then they would pause to speak to me again; they clearly wanted something. I recalled some words from the poet/essayist Gary Snyder, about, in fact, the role of humans in the world (and I paraphrase wildly here); that while the deer faster, the wolf a keener hunter, the bear stronger, all the animals nonetheless loved us, because they loved our stories and songs. But by this time, I was getting really sleepy, so I said; “Mice, I would sing for you, but I’m very tired and need to sleep now. They squeaked, and galloped across my chest. So, though very tired, I started a halting, breathy, sleepy rendition of Stan Roger’s ballad <i>The Northwest Passage</i>, my standard singing-out-loud-in-the-hallowed-cathedral-of-the-wilderness tune. As always happens, once I get going with that song it energized me, and by the time I finished I was in full throttle. Which prompted a couple of coyote packs to start a ruckus in the surrounding hills. (I couldn’t quite tell if they were applauding or complaining- I don’t speak coyote all that well yet.) Which brought me back to pondering niches, which prompted me to remind my mice about their job, warning them that to hang out here in the open with me might not be such a good idea after all. Which got me to thinking about cougars, which are as fond of the Ochoco as I. Which prompted me to explain to my mice that I had decided that I had reaped much benefit from the star field, but was now going to relocate to the sabbaticalmobile for the rest of the night. Which I did. <br />
<br />
And this is my answer to the existential question posed by the stars: our "job" is to see, to understand, appreciate, and remember, in stories and songs. To be “the sentient ones”, the ones who can see both into the future and into the past, to use that great, long vision to do what we can to keep things in balance. Poetry, in other words, is our primary responsibility to the world, maybe even the cosmos. Poetry, and stewardship. <br />
<br />
Hmmm. I guess I must be….. a SOCIALIST!!!! ARRRRHHHHGGGG!! GET HIM! BURN HIM!! (Presumably after I’m “taken down” with an expert shot from an assault rifle. sigh. If there was a god and I were he I’m afraid I would be inclined to give bears the gift of poetry, and fire the whole lot of us nasty, stupid, selfish humans. Make us ants for awhile maybe, to remind us that it’s NOT, after all, all about us.) <br />
<br />
Ok. Time to go fishing; this time for real. I can’t for the life of me imagine why fishing in the high DESERT (ie: places with little or no water) in September was so unsatisfying. But I’ll make the wet side of the cascades today for sure, find a river, maybe the Deschutes, maybe the McKenzie, maybe the Willamette-dammit, then; look out trout! <br />
<br />
Here's a bunch of random images from the drive to Ochoco…<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>These were actually taken the night before, on the road (in some cases literally) from Twin Falls ID to Ontario OR, where I spent the night at the quintessentially Americana-ish Oregon Trail hotel. The proprietors of which are, of course, East Indian. The resolution of these iPhone captured web-scaled jpegs probably obscures the signage, but the big red neon letters fronting the building spell FIREWORKS, an ironically apt title for the pic, I thought.</i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFnmDKmjxuZvh-EdKEUVe-6GaQBXYT44G9kfSOOnioQ7xgB5c6MsxeCP0cQw8-I3XWbobpMI857PkDh0hvyAMogBU69T_o74cF911tGsNpWQIS64f3G2qtKUehe6klxYeB01tVmQV0ajQ/s1600-h/coolcarsunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFnmDKmjxuZvh-EdKEUVe-6GaQBXYT44G9kfSOOnioQ7xgB5c6MsxeCP0cQw8-I3XWbobpMI857PkDh0hvyAMogBU69T_o74cF911tGsNpWQIS64f3G2qtKUehe6klxYeB01tVmQV0ajQ/s320/coolcarsunset.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIE81saJuLn4AkHoVpUSyKE4x7EvcxSjR7i7Bc-1Yz9X_6IbjpffhFDg8cfgDujxtXhd4WIzehyEYNwy2uQ2fIqT2xtDR_xtYdVuQmaAX9fW3eZSKfThl4PS7puqhwiWjk8qlZ3XgEQro/s1600-h/coolwaveycarsun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIE81saJuLn4AkHoVpUSyKE4x7EvcxSjR7i7Bc-1Yz9X_6IbjpffhFDg8cfgDujxtXhd4WIzehyEYNwy2uQ2fIqT2xtDR_xtYdVuQmaAX9fW3eZSKfThl4PS7puqhwiWjk8qlZ3XgEQro/s320/coolwaveycarsun.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-HFVQu3tDdRhqNMGfYLJp-njUf8NycYFxU_dyh3zgnjr3v3zU5hVtejA5lgVdrhzj8l4PTkfobrW5o7LTfyigDGDwfBfE-VHYaULxEv5-BZ4-q4CxRtXbtaiZviP7ZwchKK8gSsvZuM/s1600-h/fireworks2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-HFVQu3tDdRhqNMGfYLJp-njUf8NycYFxU_dyh3zgnjr3v3zU5hVtejA5lgVdrhzj8l4PTkfobrW5o7LTfyigDGDwfBfE-VHYaULxEv5-BZ4-q4CxRtXbtaiZviP7ZwchKK8gSsvZuM/s320/fireworks2.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq1LmI9Fd5tHB8oOptiY7Mud102Y8Ksz0YiFX5LQ2VzgOCCAHZE3GwloYB5yJDtI5GEOFePRx1itJNZFVsgy0gZHzFhhmlrvO8qa_goTYh5sOXntOLJPnlvYBqUSqiTn76rZZPDL_OATU/s1600-h/ottersunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq1LmI9Fd5tHB8oOptiY7Mud102Y8Ksz0YiFX5LQ2VzgOCCAHZE3GwloYB5yJDtI5GEOFePRx1itJNZFVsgy0gZHzFhhmlrvO8qa_goTYh5sOXntOLJPnlvYBqUSqiTn76rZZPDL_OATU/s320/ottersunset.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> Hunter S., annoyed at my fussing around trying to capture clever compositions, slipped off by himself to, in his words; "just enjoy the damned sunset."<br />
</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLDSmVR3Ta3t7enWqAlikRk4hSdzJeAaRJJCEyUmKztYj9Rt3TxOk7aNvOpa3tk4hQEF88k5JJELs35N2S6Df9qmcX3fIVCfpYO6BUU9Qr6tyAJkR5Li-CUndlabSLKbMBONTNKnp2e4/s1600-h/bateshotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLDSmVR3Ta3t7enWqAlikRk4hSdzJeAaRJJCEyUmKztYj9Rt3TxOk7aNvOpa3tk4hQEF88k5JJELs35N2S6Df9qmcX3fIVCfpYO6BUU9Qr6tyAJkR5Li-CUndlabSLKbMBONTNKnp2e4/s320/bateshotel.jpg" /></a><i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Again, I apologize for the shoddy resolution, but this is, yes, the Bates Hotel, on the outskirts of Vale OR. Note the freshly turned grave-site-like excavations.... I think I'll take a pass on their offer of "Pizza by the SLICE!" FWEE-FWEE-FWEE-FWEE...<br />
</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Who knew? In a little east-central OR town of John Day once thrived a bustling Chinatown? Evidently word of Oregon's 19th century's mining interest's need for cheap labor reached mainland China, prompting hundreds of Chinese men to make the perilous journey across the pacific in the hopes of earning enough to one day see their families again. This little building became the center of Chinese culture for these lost souls, offering letter writing, traditional healing, foods and other "things from home". America really is a fascinating blend of cultures- which to my mind makes the anti-immigrant bile coming from "real" Americans all that much harder for me to take.</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.oregonstateparks.org/park_8.php">Kam Wah Chung info link</a><br />
</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfZ7RTY7DTNxdtG4XDgE9oLtQkdQAWUDsAYQ9cqxeghb_z7g-ba44FqGsZRVIPq9vU2u8O4KtvYBPZ2hPONqwtgRTUPfjmxZ96XFTOiUTFrzSYyM5qfNSj6XzsBjQGZBSkVz-EsU32Rk/s1600-h/kamwahchungcenter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfZ7RTY7DTNxdtG4XDgE9oLtQkdQAWUDsAYQ9cqxeghb_z7g-ba44FqGsZRVIPq9vU2u8O4KtvYBPZ2hPONqwtgRTUPfjmxZ96XFTOiUTFrzSYyM5qfNSj6XzsBjQGZBSkVz-EsU32Rk/s320/kamwahchungcenter.jpg" /></a><i> <br />
</i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPaQORU-kCy95kmCBNWC2FkblhfvXEPB5Za_Onr5MGEwkCYXlAuVJVep_zCVVsNDN1Wid3j67Ah-Lxt1WdaOmS8iV61u0CMu5chmZ8wqlZvdNwBChI4ymY0hrH6b_T2bMomO4Cw8zTABs/s1600-h/kamwahchung3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPaQORU-kCy95kmCBNWC2FkblhfvXEPB5Za_Onr5MGEwkCYXlAuVJVep_zCVVsNDN1Wid3j67Ah-Lxt1WdaOmS8iV61u0CMu5chmZ8wqlZvdNwBChI4ymY0hrH6b_T2bMomO4Cw8zTABs/s320/kamwahchung3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIl77pcedsb9r1LqKDupkSaqaa8AZiLgdknqe7vNLaMEgjp3prsuQLgAVrVHR11MtTXuJT-PFNTqNzbzE3GqPcA21zoBNThoWb0UBZDBlHBlUax7n78-s4NT4_QtKkdH2f8q2AIu9KWs/s1600-h/chub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIl77pcedsb9r1LqKDupkSaqaa8AZiLgdknqe7vNLaMEgjp3prsuQLgAVrVHR11MtTXuJT-PFNTqNzbzE3GqPcA21zoBNThoWb0UBZDBlHBlUax7n78-s4NT4_QtKkdH2f8q2AIu9KWs/s320/chub.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>My first catch on my new fly fishing rig: the powerful and elusive Semoltilus atromaculatu. Sometimes referred to (disparagingly, IMHO) as a common "Creek Chub". I assure you, I was as surprised as he was when he came whipping out of the water at my head as I reared back for another cast. Considering the cost of gear, fuel, food, lodging etc. I reckon this fish comes in at about the price of gold per ounce. He was, to ease your mind, returned safely to his home following this photo-call.</i></span> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaurwBMTrylgi9YB0ZnndSKXXIfItszQs0Zg6xxj_nYEYVhLT_CDsEIg2-RID78aiy4Gp94Fq3n5X-wpE_6nUNkMWpi5JyxjGs_5K2Ap5IVUOVPAQvhUVs98M_sbiuK2-VNdAa6twLZw/s1600-h/shoetree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaurwBMTrylgi9YB0ZnndSKXXIfItszQs0Zg6xxj_nYEYVhLT_CDsEIg2-RID78aiy4Gp94Fq3n5X-wpE_6nUNkMWpi5JyxjGs_5K2Ap5IVUOVPAQvhUVs98M_sbiuK2-VNdAa6twLZw/s320/shoetree.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This caught my attention. Route 26 between Dayville and Mitchell, east-central OR. It's shoes; a shoe tree. The field behind the fence you can't see is scattered with evidence that not every shoe toss successfully achieves the branches. I was particularly impressed with the hip waders. I attribute it to teenagers, likely from the same school district. I wonder if they knew they were guerilla artists?</i></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WupmZ6J7LCjqzZ0G0UWL8qRnXSMXRCcWb_dVuvVv14FQnWSLDfCryR6bKWvnYNXqaK9YkQy3CBqaR_DI_luCA8AnKtreaQ8pMB-9jiAqY7lETfg_cH_bh1IJQECYfsSKR5KkhEO4UGg/s1600-h/ottershoetree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0WupmZ6J7LCjqzZ0G0UWL8qRnXSMXRCcWb_dVuvVv14FQnWSLDfCryR6bKWvnYNXqaK9YkQy3CBqaR_DI_luCA8AnKtreaQ8pMB-9jiAqY7lETfg_cH_bh1IJQECYfsSKR5KkhEO4UGg/s320/ottershoetree.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Hunter S. digging the shoe tree. He thought it was tre' cool.</i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6293029119391136834.post-83722519654487813652009-09-13T17:57:00.011-05:002009-09-14T02:30:32.350-05:00Greasy Grass creek<b>11:15 AM, Sunday 9/13/09, the Java coffeehouse, Twin Falls MT </b><br />
<br />
Made the Greasy Grass Creek battlefield early afternoon Wednesday 9/10. Greasy Grass creek is what the people native to the high plains of Wyoming & Montana called the river we now refer to as the Little Big Horn. This was a real karmic gut-punch; if you've never been, and get an opportunity, definitely go. And give yourself a full day; there is a lot of hallowed ground to cover, and a lot of information to take in. If you've any imagination at all, the life-and-death reality of what went down there on June 25th & 26th, 1876 will make your heart flutter, and your bones go chill. That must have been one huge "oh, shit" for them poor Wasi'chu, and you can feel it when you stand there and see the last landscape they ever saw...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMe28-PfAYk7Qy6PGwkjFBFw1hWUMcjANw5f24dJe8n78POXXQokkF9bWphrVLZC2WhcDo4bkEX-HTNElwLmJ5WtKnP8czWoWdAp6OG6zNfg720bq_ZaO11DwAKH15HjcAVuhBsj76fE/s1600-h/lbhcustrmassgrv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMe28-PfAYk7Qy6PGwkjFBFw1hWUMcjANw5f24dJe8n78POXXQokkF9bWphrVLZC2WhcDo4bkEX-HTNElwLmJ5WtKnP8czWoWdAp6OG6zNfg720bq_ZaO11DwAKH15HjcAVuhBsj76fE/s320/lbhcustrmassgrv.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Cheyenne-Lakota camp was in the wooded river bottom in the background.</span></i></div><br />
Most of them were immigrants, many who barely spoke English, or poor farm kids who joined the army for the pay. And these were the little guys; because of their height (5' 7" or less) they were assigned to the cavalry: over 5’7”, infantry, 5’7” or under, and it was the cavalry for you, because you were considered light enough to not overburden the horse you would be riding. <br />
<br />
The battlefield now lies inside the borders of Crow country, and most -if not all- of the memorial staff are Crow, which is a whole 'nuther story, 'cause earlier that century the Sioux had driven the Crow from their homeland in those high plains, which included this Greasy Grass creek valley. Sitting Bull, the medicine man/chief of the Hunkpapa Lakota who was seen as the spiritual leader of the resistance said of this;<i> “we did as the white man does when he want the land.”</i> So in 1876 at least, there was no love lost between the Crow and Sioux; it was Crow scouts employed by the feds that led Custer the Sioux camp on the banks of the Greasy Grass. Some of them were killed in the fighting too, and are memorialized along with the Cheyenne and Lakota warriors killed in the battle. (There were a few Arapaho braves involved as well, but it was evidently just a handful, prisoners of the Sioux, who, when they discovered that their captors were under attack, asked to be released and given their weapons back so they could fight the army too. They were, and they did.) So the "ranger talks" about the battle and the memorial, given by these Crow park rangers every hour or so, are worth the cost of admission by themselves. There is a newer "Indian Memorial" on the site now too; very moving, and definitely in the voice of the Indian people, as opposed to Euro-American historians. All of it, powerful, moving stuff, worth a pilgrimage. So say thousands of people that embark on it every year, from all over the world; China, Germany, Argentina, Nigeria. Worth a thoughtful pause, that. Why? How did the mostly manufactured myth of “Custer’s Last Stand” become a lasting world-wide phenomenon? <br />
<br />
First, a little background reality check: it’s now well known that the popular image Custer’s heroic martyrdom is 98% pure pasture fed American bullshit. Custer, whatever his merits as a soldier- and those are controversial to this day- was also a preening, self-absorbed fool who looked good in leather, beautiful blond hair flying in the wind, which made him the darling of a sensationalist press, a fact he was well aware of and skillfully leveraged to his advantage at every opportunity. But on this day, he was simply a military officer who unilaterally disregarded direct commands to wait for reinforcement, and dismissed the expert advice of his Crow scouts, thus grossly underestimating the enemy force. Employing a strategy that worked well for him when he and his troops ambushed and destroyed a small, sleeping Cheyenne winter camp along the Washita river in western Oklahoma eight years before (a “victorious battle” that garnered GREAT press for "The Boy General" as he was often referred to in the press) Custer spread his underfed, poorly supplied and force-march exhausted troops too thin. Armed with single shot carbines and only as much ammo as he could carry per trooper, cut off from the rest of the regiment that was pinned down under heavy fire four miles away, it wasn’t long before he and the 250 troopers under his direct command ran out of ammo, and were overwhelmed. As Sitting Bull –a man famous for bluntly and accurately hitting the nail on the head- said later; <i>“It is said that I murdered Custer. That is a lie. Custer was a fool, who rode to his death.” </i><br />
<br />
Of course, that’s not the story that got told. But the one that did; wow, what a story! Custer's widow, Elizabeth (“Libbie) Bacon Custer, all but broke when her husband’s bad investments inevitably collapsed (one of which was a scheme to sell cheap, shoddy horseshoes to the army) recovered and died a wealthy woman by writing pop novels about her life with the heroic General Custer. No fewer than four plays dramatizing this pop culture version of events made it all the way to Broadway. And then there was the great showman, William “Buffalo Bill” Cody, the ex soldier hired by the notoriously rapacious 19th century railroad barons to help exterminate the American Bison, who turned actor, impresario and producer, creating <i>Buffalo Bill’s Wild West,</i> a sophisticated theatrical production that became a huge international hit, touring all over the US and Europe. The show typically concluded with a melodramatic depiction of “Custer’s Last Stand", and that is how much of the world was introduced to the Battle of Greasy Grass creek. <br />
<br />
So people come to the Little Big Horn Battlefield from all over the world, to touch this myth. What they find when the get there is that there’s nothing mythic about "Custer’s Last Stand". It’s just a story. A melodrama. With Garryowen played on a pennywhistle providing the melody. But if they open their minds and pay attention, there are people and events with genuine, serious mythical street-cred to be found here. <br />
<br />
There was reason Custer faced such overwhelming odds at Greasy Grass creek. In the weeks preceding his ill considered attack, many hundreds of Lakota and Cheyenne had fled the appalling conditions and humiliations of the reservations, to join the resistance; a confederation of bands under the leadership Crazy Horse (Ogallala) and Sitting Bull (Hunkpapa), who had so far successfully resisted the forced domestication of the U.S. reservation policies. To those who had agreed to sign treaties and “come in” to the reservations, Sitting Bull said; <i>“You are fools to make yourself slaves to a bit of fat bacon. What treaty has the white man made that he has not broken? I know that the whites will get me at last, but I will have good times until then.”</i> His words, and his Sundance induced vision of soldiers dying and falling into the Lakota camp had touched the hearts of his people. By the time Custer’s regiment caught up with them, this resistance confederation had grown into the thousands, instead of the official military estimate of 800 Custer was working with. Warnings from his experienced scouts that this was the biggest camp they had ever encountered failed to persuade him to hold and wait for planned reinforcements. Big mistake.<br />
<br />
But for all of its impact on popular imagination, the Battle of Little Big Horn was the beginning of the end of serious, armed resistance to America’s “Manifest Destiny”. In the immediate aftermath of the battle, Crazy Horse & Sitting Bull made the strategic decision to disband the confederation and flee on separate paths to the north, to escape the military retribution that was sure to be mobilized now. And it was, with vengence; shocked and outraged by Custer’s defeat, and under enormous public and political pressure to end this “Indian Problem” once and for all, the feds threw the entire western command of the army at the now scattered bands. While never quite catching up, the U.S. soldiers were able to successfully destroy or capture all of the Indians winter stores of food and supplies, including most of their horses. While Sitting Bull again managed to resist being forced onto a reservation by fleeing to Canada, most of the rest of the resistance –including Crazy Horse- soon starved, sickened and died, or returned voluntarily to the reservations, and within five years Sitting Bull himself was forced to concede that his way of life –and most of his people- were gone for good.<br />
<br />
Oh, and if that "scorched earth" strategy of starving your opponent into submission by destroying everything in your path sounds sounds familiar? Within weeks after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, General William Tecumseh Sherman was put in charge of all military activities west of the Mississippi; the Sherman of "Sherman's march to the sea" fame was now the army's designated "Indian Problem" guy. In his defense, he was, after all, a soldier following the orders of his civilian superiors, just as we expect American soldiers to do. But he despised the way the Indian people -who he came to know well and respect- were repeatedly betrayed by lying, scheming, corrupt politicians, and at least once, upon learning of another egregious example, publicly opined that he "wished congress could be impeached." <br />
<br />
So, humans make myths. Big deal; nothing new there. But I wonder if we couldn’t do a better job of vetting our stories for genuine mythical value? The myth of “Custer’s Last Stand” fell apart almost immediately, well earning the derogatory application of the word "myth"; myth as a pack of lies. But how about this: The world turns, and a proud, free race suddenly faces extinction at the hands of rapacious, treacherous invaders from the east who swallow or destroy everything in their path. But two heroes arise from the people and turn to face the monster; one a mysterious loner who appears from the wild mountains of the north, a warrior possessed of seemingly magical powers to cheat death in battle, who at every turn defeats or escapes the monster, and who ultimately leads his people into the final battle to protect their way of life. The other a visionary, a shaman who sees and speaks the truth of this world AND the spirit world, a priest-poet whose ritually induced apocalyptic visions are time and time again proven true. And a glorious, victorious final battle, after which the people melt into the wilderness to disappear forever into the spirit world, where they live on in the storied memories of all peoples of the earth. <br />
<br />
Now THAT'S a myth worthy of the name.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4