On Friday I was at Cornerstone gardens in Sonoma and Saturday at the Las Gallinas Reclamation ponds in San Rafael. I offer a taste through photos.
Beauty and Art Around Us
Clouds
I’m enamored with clouds as I consider the blue sky that’s always with us, and what floats and moves above, around, and through us.
In the book Where’d You go, Bernadette by Maria Semple, I read her description of the sky and clouds in Seattle.
“The sky in Seattle is so low, it felt like God had lowered a silk parachute over us. Every feeling I ever knew was up in that sky. Twinkling joyous sunlight; airy, giggling cloud wisps; blinding columns of sun. Orbs of gold, pink, flesh, utterly cheesy in their luminosity. Gigantic puffy clouds, welcoming, forgiving, repeating infinitely across the horizon as if between mirrors; and slices of rain, pounding wet misery in the distance now, but soon on us, and in another part of the sky, a black stain, rainless.”
And on she goes … may we each do the same as we observe and reflect on movement above, around, in, through, and connecting us.
Awareness
I’m outside on these warm nights enjoying the new moon increasing and the sparkling stars. I’m with Rilke.
Yes — the springtime needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
Mark Bittner and his parrot friends inspired the 2003 documentary, “The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill”. If you want to feel the beauty he understood and felt, watch him on YouTube. I suggest you begin with All Life is One Whole. He died peacefully in his sleep with two dogs at his side. He was 74.
It’s Spring!
I’m struck by the flowers blooming along the path into the library. The rise seems so effortless. I’m with these words of Bruce Lee from his book, Be Water, My Friend.
Who is there that can make muddy waters clear? But if allowed to remain still, it will become clear of itself. Who is there that can secure a state of absolute repose? But keep calm and let time go on, and the state of repose will gradually arrest.
Butterflies
When I’m outside these days, butterflies are fluttering all about me. It’s springtime, a time to connect.
Saturday, I came upon two Monarchs mating, and stopped to take pictures thinking it would be short-term, but finally exhausted from watching all the fluttering, I left. At home, I read that when monarchs mate, the male uses the claspers on the end of his abdomen to attach to the vaginal groove of the female. Once attached, the female cannot get away, and the male transfers spermatophore components to the female in a process that can take up to 16 hours.
16 hours and without Viagra. Amazing.
Our Host
As I continue to go to the natural world to counteract the news, I’m with the last stanza of William Stafford’s poem, “A Message from Space” from his book The Way It Is.
And then the green of leaves calls out, hills
where they wait or turn, clouds in their frenzied
stillness unfolding their careful words:
“Everything counts. The message is the world.”
Above the Fog
Because I’m too old to be an astronaut viewing our fragile, diverse planet from space, I left the fog to drive up to the top of Mt. Tam, and circle through landscapes.
Sunshine
I walked Tennessee Valley today along with many others who were drawn outside to celebrate the day. It was so warm I felt like a cormorant drying my wings as I walked with arms outspread. Butterflies called by the sun swarmed around me like a cocoon. Water streamed down the hills to join the ocean as one.
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Spring
I have to laugh when Trump says:“The cheating is rampant in our elections. It’s rampant. … They want to cheat. They have cheated. And their policy is so bad that the only way they can get elected is to cheat and we’re going to stop it.”
Who’s in office? Is he admitting he cheated to get there? That’s what I conclude.
To anchor myself amidst the lies, I’m reading Evelyn Underhill’s book Practical Mysticism. Written in 1914 to counteract the horror of World War I, she leads us within to nourish, and to bring forth the supple sensing that connects us with wonder and awe.
It’s raining here, inviting an invitation to ground and rise.
Morning in Sausalito
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