I open the new National Geographic on “The Last Voices of World War II” to a page where one survivor shares his story.

Nobuo Nishizaki, a Japanese veteran says, “We were sent to DIE FOR THE EMPEROR AND IMPERIAL NATION, and everyone acted like we believed in it. But when the soldiers were dying, the young ones CALLED OUT TO THEIR MOTHERS and older ones called out their CHILDREN’S NAMES. I never heard anyone calling the emperor and nation.”

When he left home for the navy in 1942, he was 15.  His mother ordered him, “You must survive and come back.”  Her words carried him through many battles and a suicide mission at Okinawa. He did return to her.

Perhaps now as we see a virus run through us all, we can release nationalism and come to peace.

The fog came in during the night.  I go outside and water, commune with plants and trees.  Cicero wrote that “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.”  

I have both and yet I read the news and weep.

I had a medical appointment yesterday and was by the bay at low tide.  I thought that’s where we are right now, low tide.  Normally the area is bustling with people and there’s no place to park.  Yesterday was eerily empty.  I wore my mask, sanitized my hands, and my temperature was taken: normal.

That’s good and yet nothing feels normal these days.  

We’re having a heat wave and summer clothes spring forth.  We’re fragile where I live so a temperature of 84 anchors a little stress.  65 works for us up to 70 or 72.

The news these days is challenging and yet there are steps.  Twitter is offering fact-checks to two of the most blatant Trump tweet lies.

I listened to David Whyte yesterday as he spoke of John Keats and this quote:

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections, and the truth of imagination.

That plus Emily Dickinson and her words on hope guide my day.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without the words—

And never stops—at all—

The day is exquisite, birds singing and soft early morning  light.  I remember being in Alaska and Finland this time of year, when all was light, and even these longer days where I am seem to open something in me as my orchids come into bloom.

Yesterday a friend sent me a recording of herself playing Taps on the flute for Memorial Day.  The sounds ring beautifully through me.  

We gather together on Memorial Day to remember and honor, and maybe this year we recognize an economy can, and must, run on peace, not war.  We have the capability to care for everyone and this planet we share.

We begin.   

I always leave this day open to remember those who fought for what this country is meant to represent.  My husband’s father “flew the Hump”.  My father flew a B-17 and after flying more missions than was required was shot down. He parachuted out of a burning plane and was held in a Prisoner of War camp in the north of Germany. 

He never judged anyone knowing that his heritage was half-German.  We never know when or where we’ll be called.  My husband and I visited the village where he landed and was turned over to the SS. I met people who were there. They were so grateful to know he survived. Tears showed me what I represented as they explained they had no choice. I understand.

My uncle was in the infantry in WWII, and my grandfather in the trenches in WWI.

It’s a day to remember and give thanks.

I wrote in the last post about the “Sunday morning ride”, motorcycles that head out highway 1 north of San Francisco.  I’ve now learned it was formed after WWII by those who came home and bought motorcycles and chose a way to meet and release.   It’s been happening every Sunday for over 70 years.

My father died in a motorcycle accident when he was 47.  I’m reminded now of how my uncle said many POW’s died in accidents.  It’s as though they tempt fate feeling perhaps they’ve survived what many did not. Maybe it’s a matter of trust.

I’ve always felt with my father’s passing that it was more that “God” saw his beauty, compassion, and open heart, and plucked him right up. I carry him always in my heart.

It’s a day to remember, honor, and give thanks.  Namaste!

Last night I noticed a crow sitting on a branch in a tree looking south over the valley.  It felt unusual, and then, I realized there was another sitting in a different tree.  Bella had risen from sleeping and gone to the door.  All seemed to be waiting for something and then I looked at my watch.  8:00.  The howl began.  It’s become a full neighborhood venture, a gathering to honor and release.

The bird’s participation reminded me of my sons’ middle school.  It’s by the bay and as lunchtime nears, gulls gather, ready to plunge.  

This morning I rose early and went outside with my coffee to watch the day come to light.  The crickets stopped chirping as birds stepped in with their different calls.  The owl kept up a soft who-who-who as a variety of birds tweeted, and the crows cawed.  Then the squirrel added its chirp.

We’ve lived here 42 years and every Sunday morning between 7:30 and 8:00, there’s the Sunday morning ride.  Motorcycles of all types gather at the junction and head out in a pack.  The ride started 70 years ago and the Highway Patrol knows about it, and so they gather, too, and the motorcyclists and cops enjoy coffee and goodies together, and then the ritual begins.  They ride out Highway 1 to Point Reyes, many having breakfast at the Station House Cafe which appreciates their business, and some continue up to Tomales.  On Easter Sunday, the mountain is opened early so they can go to the top and watch the sunrise.  I’ve done it and can state it’s a peaceful gathering, a tradition, communion.  

Yesterday, there were more bikes than usual, perhaps 60 or 70, which meant a roar of perhaps five minutes as the bikes swirled through the curves on their way to Pt. Reyes.

I actually didn’t hear them yesterday morning but some people who I assume are new to the area were affronted by this ritual and want it stopped.

This morning listening to all the different birds gathered together in a chorus, I wondered why there’s so much intolerance.  Yesterday because of the beautiful weather, and an opening in shelter-in-place, there were more bikes than usual, and the buzzing roar of bees was a little longer than usual, and yet still not long.

This Monday morning, Memorial Day, I sat outside thinking of Thich Nhat Hanh’s wonderful poem, “Call Me By My True Names”.

Sometimes I feel solar powered.  The sun is out and I bustle happily about, immersing in the movement of energy outside in the yard and in the house.  The wild roses are blooming, pink and white, and a multitude of plants are flowering. I prune and bring some of the most delicate inside.  Blankets are drying on the deck and all feels fresh.  Nectarines rest on a clean tablecloth, crimson and gold, to match the candles waiting for a fiery light.  

These days I’m with self-care and kindness that begins with ourselves.  A good friend, a cello player in the symphony, is loving and also struggling with the book Middlemarch by George Eliot.  I point out that I analyzed it in several college-level classes so it is to receive from the book what comes to her now, and perhaps be less judgmental about traveling through the complexity of the novel. 

The book is multi-layered and was written in a different time period when those reading had time to read.  They knew the social references that were current.

Periodically my long-time book group re-reads Anna Karenina, surprised at the difference in our response and sympathies as time goes on.  When I studied Middlemarch in college, I was told it was like reading the Bible, complex and with many intertwining stories to guide and digest.  Middlemarch is a book of humility and non-judgment and the last paragraph is often quoted.

“But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” 

Tonight I’m with Frank Ostaseski’s Five Invitations.

Don’t wait.

Welcome everything; push away nothing.

Bring your whole self to the experience.

Find a place of rest in the middle of things.

Cultivate don’t know mind.

The 8:00 howl tonight was even more exuberant than usual.  Everyone’s home and it’s a three day weekend.  In the past, our little town has gathered together for a down home Memorial Day parade.   Little Leaguers and Cub Scouts march down the street.  There are dogs,  bikes, strollers,  and amusement rides and music at the local park.  All of that is cancelled of course, and perhaps that’s why celebration is rocking the hood tonight. 

The birds have now joined in the howl, so not just the turkeys but tweeting birds and crows.  People honk horns and tonight a plane flew over.  The owl is waiting for dark and quiet.  It’s a weekend to remember and honor, and perhaps more than ever, we’re grateful for life, love, family, and friends as we continue to shelter-in-place.