Posts Tagged ‘outdoors’

The promise of rain hangs over the Ojai Valley

March 31, 2013
The promise of rain hangs over the valley. The purple lupine looks so happy on this cool, hazy, cloudy Easter morning. It would be sacrilegious not to honor the goddess Eostre by skipping out in nature. Honey is already so wild with excitement I can hardly leash her. So, to celebrate, Honey, Nubio, Chico, and I head for the gate. I remove the leash and Honey stampedes out into the wild like a racehorse, with the energy of a herd of wild buffalo unpenned, running neck and neck with Nubio, and with poor little Chico scrambling to keep up.
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Chico comes back panting—he’s had enough. Quacking ducks  fly overhead,  and I realize that maybe I let the dogs get too close to the water. I call Honey back; she’s caked in mud. I leash her as we walk toward the reservoir, toward the lilting, haunting sound of birds calling, toward the symphony of living, holy water. My Pentecostal background rears its head and I consider baptizing myself, but the day  is too cold. Instead, I wade into the mossy cool water, close my eyes, and listen to the water’s song . . . The running stream tapping rocks reminds me of the Indonesian bamboo xylophone . . . I hear the music of the gamelan. The Balinese in me could take a bath here; it would be like an ancient spring rite. I hesitate, and the urge passes.
As we walk, my eyes drink in the soft greens of every hue, from light to dark. With Easter on my mind the river bottom feels like an enchanting Easter basket. The light keeps changing—now brighter, now darker—and streaks of clear blue sky appear and disappear. The sun peeks out and the promise of rain seems to evaporate, but then a few drops fall. I feel the bliss of creation.On the way back, I see bright orange sun-drenched California poppies. And then I remember how we came to Ojai in March of 1957, and how my middle sister and I picked poppies and other wildflowers and put them in little vases on the table to surprise my mom before Easter Sunday breakfast. I remember feeling alarmed when some tiny bugs ran from the flowers onto the table . . .
We walk past the scents of jasmine and orange blossoms. The jasmine grows on the fence around the orange orchard. The light has changed again . . . the sky grows dark . . . we caught the bright Easter morning just in time.

It’s raining!

Let spring set my soul free

March 29, 2013
Honey

Honey

The thing that stops us dead in our tracks is getting sick, whether it’s mild or serious. And it turns out that the twisting and turning I’ve been feeling in my gut is food poisoning. Turns out that my friend who ate the exact same thing when we went out for lunch has had the exact same symptoms and is just bumbling along, just like me.

After two days of collapsing in bed, slipping in and out of a healing coma, and reading two books—when I finally realized that it wasn’t just going away and that I’d better gather my energy and get out in nature with Honey and Chico—I found the strength to walk the creek bed and let nature have her way with me.

Whenever I’m sick, my thoughts turn to death. I realized that if this were my last spring all I would really want to do is escape into nature. I’ve done my part, I’ve given freely of my life energy, and now I want a spring break—is that too much to ask of life?

So I went walking and walking, to places I haven’t been to in a long time. I found a secret oasis where water gurgles so sweetly I just wanted to slip away into the life of a hobo or a wandering sadhu . . .

Honey and Chico had a long drink. We sat together on a rock, water flowing all around. It fascinates me how my hyper Honey can sit so still, completely in the moment. If I could tap into her consciousness I would smell every weed, every seed, every flower, every coyote and rabbit hidden in the brush. I would hear the song of the gurgling brook, the call of every bird, every frog. I would see every small movement . . . nothing would escape my keen senses. I would leave the heavy dull human consciousness in the dust. I would feel spring rising in every vein of every leaf, and flowing in my blood. I’d feel the force of spring stronger than the earthly pull of my little human identity. I would say, “Computer, get thee behind me and let spring set my soul free.”

The full moon is here again

March 26, 2013

470591_10150741641279703_266408929_oThe full moon is here again; she has not peaked yet, but rose white and silent in the still blue sky. First almost hidden in the misty evening clouds, rising higher, the sky lit up with strange streaks, the horizon all aglow in gold and red hues, stark black birds soaring overhead . . . a little dance where just for a moment the small human is aware that she is standing in between the rising moon and setting sun—a tiny, alive, aware speck in the cosmos. A little later the moon comes into her own, lit from within like a gold lantern shining brighter and brighter . . . and now the landscape is black and she’s all aglow, the reigning queen of the Valley of the Moon.

The wind is howling

March 22, 2013

The wind is howling in the river bottom, sweeping the sky crystal clear. You can see the moon shining brighter, getting fuller, the stars are all atwinkle, the air electric, the trees bending and swaying—hanging on for dear life. Tonight the wind seemed to come suddenly, out of nowhere. It started blowing like crazy while it was still light, as I was teaching. It flew through the room, energizing everything, and it just keeps getting wilder. Keep the windows wide open, let the curtains flutter . . . let the magic in!

The School of Life

January 29, 2013

470591_10150741641279703_266408929_oIf this is the School of Life, and if we’re here on Earth to learn, and if every person we meet is our teacher, then what did I learn today from the people I encountered?

The day began with a phone call from a yoga student who lost a dog to bone cancer a few days ago. She told me the story of how a few years ago she had adopted two starving Rottweilers. The dogs, renamed Bonnie and Clyde, had been abandoned in a fenced backyard when their owner moved. By the time the two trapped dogs were rescued, they were skin and bones and in terrible shape. Bonnie and Clyde were inseparable buddies. My student called to say that she would be missing class because she could tell that Bonnie, the surviving dog, was depressed and mourning, and needed her to stay nearby.

I assured my student that staying home with her despondent dog was much more important than coming to class. Life is constantly reminding us that we do yoga to live—we don’t live to do yoga. We do yoga to help us cope with whatever life brings. And we do yoga to prepare for death.

When I got to Sacred Space Studio, a longtime student and friend that I hadn’t seen for about a year was waiting by the door. She asked, half kidding and half sheepish, “Can I come back to class?” “No!” I joked, “it’s too late.”

After class I remembered that she had stopped coming to yoga shortly after happily telling me that her boyfriend was moving in with her. I remembered how excited and optimistic she had been, describing how they were moving the furniture around to make space for him. So naturally I asked, “How are things going with the live-in boyfriend?”

“It was a total disaster, ” she replied. “I work all the time, on my days off I have my art, and on Sunday afternoon I need some quiet time. He was so needy . . . We’re still friends, but he had to move out. We still go out together, but he has to work on his stuff . . . I can’t do it for him.”

I would have been happy for her if things had worked out, but as it was, hearing her say “It was a disaster” reminded me of my own disasters that I’ve inadvertently averted. I drove home counting my blessings.

I know this is getting long, but I have to tell you about one more lesson today. As I was driving up the highway, just past the intersection of Cuyama and El Roblar, I saw a beautiful sight. A young couple with a big backpack, a guitar, a folded stroller, and a baby, hitchhiking. I took it all in as I flew past them. They were smiling confidently, each with one arm stretched straight toward the road, hand clenched, thumb up. I glanced up at my rear-view mirror and saw that the three cars behind me passed them, too. So what could I do? I haven’t forgotten my hippie roots. And I didn’t have the excuse of dogs in the back seat. So I pulled over, got out, and waved them over. As they ran toward me, I threw the dirty dog blankets in the trunk.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Matilija Canyon,” they replied.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m only going as far as Fairview. Will that help you any?”

“Yes, that gets us closer . . .”

So we put the big guitar case and stroller in the trunk and squeezed the backpack, mom, dad, and baby in the back. (I had groceries and yoga props up front.)

As we drove off, I quizzed them. “Where are you from?”

“Germany.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m from Holland.”

“Oh, we’ve been to Holland.”

We exchanged names. I knew it would give them a kick if I mentioned I was a former mayor of Ojai, and sure enough, they thought that was a hoot. I could tell they were seasoned travelers . . . and they had a distinctly European vibe, like my relatives. They reminded me of myself, way back in 1968, when I was an optimistic teenager hitchhiking with my baby boy.

As we passed the Deer Lodge, I decided to take them at least part of the way into Matilija Canyon—an epic adventure. As we drove deeper into the mountains, they told me how much they love Ojai, how they felt safe here, how nice all the people are. As we entered the Canyon, the view was so breathtaking that I could feel my heart bursting and tears welling up inside. I made up my mind that I’d find ways to spend more days here, like I used to do decades ago . . .

“This is how we imagined California would be like . . . ” the couple repeated several times. “We love it here! We just love it here!”

“I’ve had a great life. . . too bad I didn’t realize it sooner!”

January 20, 2013

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Of all the elements of nature, the wind feels most mystical to me. It is the breath of the Earth, reminding me to take a deeper inhalation of fresh, clean air. Here in the river bottom on this quiet Sunday morning, the winter wind in the oasis of trees that surrounds my house feels almost like summer, soft and warm, causing all the leaves and pine needles to shimmer in the rising sun.
The week feels like it’s ending on a happy note. I try to watch my mind and monitor what comes out of my mouth, but sorry to say the whiny irrational child in me seems to rise with a vengeance when I’m tired. The cats, the dogs, and their constant demands, their throwing up and peeing in the night, my cleaning it up and then not being able to fall back asleep and never getting a break from them, just gets to me sometimes. I curse people who don’t spay and neuter their pets! Last Monday I had exactly $42 in cash and I spent it all on kitty litter, cat food, and dog food—just to tide things over for a few days. My three-month attempt to wean three old cats from kitty litter now that I’m settled into my new digs was a total fiasco. I spent more on Simple Green, Earth-friendly paper towels, laundry detergent, and water, and wasted more time and energy, than I would have had I just thrown in the towel and surrendered to the money drain of kitty litter. I want to fling Ginger across the room when she cries to come inside so she can use the cat box!
If I would just train myself to lie still in the Goddess Pose for ten minutes before calling upon those nearest and dearest to me and whining about how hard my life is, my writing-yoga life would be as close to heaven on Earth as I think it gets.
There is a gate (a real-life gate, but also a spiritual gate) that opens to the river-bottom nature preserve, only a one-minute walk from my door. The hard part is leashing my overexcited wild Aussie girl and extricating myself from the endless worldly demands. I justify my escapes by telling myself that if I were dead it wouldn’t help matters, so I need to get out into the boonies to help prolong my stay here.When I step through that gate with my pack of eager dogs, the view is so dazzling I’m instantly transported. I’m reminded now of something Beatrice Wood said frequently in her later years: “I’ve had a great life . . . too bad I didn’t realize it sooner!”

The world of time mattered not

January 14, 2013
470591_10150741641279703_266408929_oThis morning the dogs and I headed out when it was barely light, and it felt like an adventure to be out in the cold, invigorating wind. The book Nature’s Ways asks what time of day you most resonate with. For me, without a doubt it is the crack of dawn. That’s when you feel like you have your feet in both worlds—light and dark, visible and invisible. That’s when you can move as if propelled by some force outside yourself and you feel like you can walk forever. That’s when there are the least cars on the road, when the valley is silent, and you can reconnect with the amazing ancient feeling of standing upright. That’s when you can remember the eons before electricity when we rose at first light.
Yesterday while I was riding my bicycle from the river bottom to Mira Monte, the bike suddenly locked up while I was pedaling uphill. The wheels turned, the chain looked fine, but something, maybe the gear mechanism, was stuck. First I felt frustrated. I gently kicked the back tire (thinking maybe it was hitting metal), and then with a great deal of effort I squeezed the handlebars and changed the gears. I sped full blast downhill, and the brakes worked fine, but once on level ground my bike rebelled and jolted to a halt. I’d smooth out the gears, glide along for a block or so, and then—again—jolt, jolt, and stop. This became especially problematic and somewhat embarrassing in intersections, when I’d have to jump off the bike midway, causing waiting drivers to have to idle their cars for a few more seconds.
It was almost noon, the warm sun felt fabulous, and really the only problem was that now I was running late. So I called my student to let her know the situation. “No problem,” she said. And then I began to enjoy the walk. I felt carefree without the usual dogs on a leash, my bike is light, and we ran/walked together uphill at a nice relaxing, non-exhausting pace.
I want to share here that my student is facing great uncertainty.  Her health challenges are forcing her to face her own mortality. Any one of us could die today, tomorrow, or a year from now; that is a fact. After my student’s lesson, as I rode my bike downhill and walked uphill, adding an extra hour to my travel time, the world of time mattered not. I felt so enormously grateful for my health. For my energy and ability to walk and walk. The mountains of Ojai never looked more beautiful. As I walked, that Bible psalm about walking in the valley of the shadow of death came into my consciousness. How important it is to make friends with death, and to feel death walking with us. That awareness can help us step ever deeper into the mystery of life.

Stick with Honey: A Doga Writing Memoir

December 23, 2012

Four years ago, on the Friday before Christmas . . .

“Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.”
–Mark Twain

Suza_book_cover_size   The last Chapter in my dating memoir, “Fishing on Facebook: A Writing Yoga Memoir,” is entitled, “Stick with Honey.” As many of you know, Honey is the Australian Shepherd rescue dog who appears on the cover. When I told my friend Dale Hanson the truth about “Adam,” the antagonist in my memoir, she offered this simple advice, “Stick with Honey!”

Well, I have stuck with Honey, through thick and thin! Truth be told, like most other relationships, it has not always been easy. We’ve had enough adventures to fill a book. Here’s the beginning of the story:

Four years ago, on the Thursday before Christmas, I got a call from a local dog rescuer who said she heard I was looking to adopt a Queensland Heeler or Australian Shepherd. She asked if she could bring an Aussie rescue over on Friday, “Just so you can meet her.”

I thought to myself, “What a coincidence that I would get this call today.” My previous dog, Queenie, a Queensland Heeler (Australian Cattle Dog), had died exactly one year ago, on the Friday before Christmas.  003_103_8005

I tried not to take this as a sign from God!

Honey

Honey, Australian Shepherd rescue dog Photo Credit: Janeson Rayne

For a moment I hesitated. I already had plenty of other animals — four cats, two rescue pigs, and a dear mouse named Whitey. Life was so much easier without the responsibility of a dog. I knew very well that if this Aussie arrived on my doorstep it would probably be case closed.

The clever, determined rescuer softened me up by explaining how her organization goes into the animal shelter on a regular basis to save as many dogs as they can from death row. They already had as many dogs as they could handle in one trip and she almost didn’t notice this beautiful Aussie. She described how this little girl dog came up and gently licked her hand.
I imagined the other dogs desperately barking, “Save me! Save me!” while this Aussie girl wisely distinguished herself by quietly licking the rescuer’s hand.

So the next day, on the Friday night before Christmas, a truck stopped in front of my house. The back of the truck had several crates, each holding a yapping dog. The driver took out a beautiful, fluffy Aussie dog. She didn’t bark. It all happened very fast and I felt like I was adopting an unknown orphan child.

The unknown Aussie stood beside me on the street, appearing very calm. We watched the truck with barking dogs drive away. After the truck disappeared, Aussie girl looked up at me as if to assess this human being who fate had delivered her to. At that moment I think she saw right through me –she picked up that I was easy and that she had nothing to fear. She willingly followed me into the house.

What I remember from our first night together is that this Aussie, who I named Honey a few days later, not only did not chase my cats (at least not while I was looking), she licked Leo’s face. Possibly because Leo’s lips taste like cat food, but it looked like a sign of affection and scored big points in her favor.

Late that night, while we were in the kitchen, a band of raccoons that had gotten way too tame during the year that I had no dog, came looking in the cat door, to see if it was safe to come in. I noticed Honey staring intently at the door, well aware of the intruders peering in. Suddenly she let loose an explosive bark that would shatter the ear drums of the dead. That was the end of the raccoons sneaking into the kitchen and stealing cat food.

For the first few days, as is the case in most new relationships, Honey was on her sweetest, best behavior. She smiled at everyone and sat still during my yoga classes with her front paws crossed, observing my students like a flock of sheep. But gradually, as she felt more secure, the reality of her true nature emerged.

Another day I will tell more about “Sunny” Honey. She is the world’s most loyal and lovable dog, but there is good reason why friends have dubbed her, “Buffalo Girl,” “Thunder Girl,” and other nicknames that reflect her energetic, exuberant, spirit!
Happy Fourth Anniversary Honey! (Honey hopes her story inspires more humans to give a dog waiting at the shelter a forever home.)

Southern California Australian Shepherd Rescue http://www.aussierescuesocal.com/

Please spay and neuter your dogs and cats –thousands of animals are waiting on death row, hoping to be adopted before it’s too late.

HONEY HUG

Stick with Honey! Photo Credit: David E. Moody

I can’t die yet—I just spent $2,000 at the dentist.

December 7, 2012
 

Honey

Honey

    

The other day I reached inside the mailbox, which I share with seven other people. There were Christmas cards, credit card offers, a Victoria’s Secrets catalog that has no secrets, and a gourmet gift catalog with giant walnut chocolate cookies, baklava, biscuits, and cinnamon swirl buns for those no longer watching their figure.

     On this day the only item in the mail for me was another discreet reminder from Smart Cremation that my journey in this world of pleasure and pain is coming to an end.
      I can’t die yet—I just spent $2,000 at the dentist. The root canal is fixed, my chipped front tooth is whole again. But the thought of all the work I have to do to earn that money back is exhausting. Yesterday, as I assessed my life situation, I hit a wall. I fell into that depressing place where you just want to pull the covers over your head and give up. I felt tired and close to tears. So I decided that, instead of scooping the poop out of the kitty litter and making a dent in the endless hopeless housework that comes with five four-leggeds, I would run away with Honey and Chico to the basin near Pratt Trail. We would hike and I would do yoga in my favorite panoramic spot. I still had the car that I borrowed the day before to go to the dentist, so off we went.
       Chico and Honey were yapping with joy and ready to fly out the window. As I eased the car into the dirt parking area, I caught a glimpse of a Ventura County spray truck. Seeing those workers with gloves on, once again spraying toxic weed killers up and down the side of the basin and surrounding areas, killing everything that was sprouting after the rain, my heart sank. In years past I’ve questioned them . . . they have their reasons (flood control), but their reasons make no sense to me.
       The dogs were so wild to go running that I didn’t get out to question the workers. I turned around and drove away. Later I heard from a friend who lives nearby on North Signal Street that she could smell the spray from her house. The whole scene of man still poisoning the Earth, after all we know about toxins traveling up the food chain, killing wildlife. . . all this put me further over the edge. I told myself that in other countries they’re spraying people, poisoning and killing human beings—that I’m among the lucky ones; I can walk away and find refuge somewhere else in nature.
470591_10150741641279703_266408929_o        Later the dogs and I walked the creek bed in the river bottom. I’d cancelled my Thursday night class, feeling that I had nothing to give. So I had time to drift off into the sunset, to watch the light change and sink into stillness. When I came home, my sweet daughter brought me my favorite bird seed cookie with strawberry jam in the center, fresh-made at the Farmer and the Cook. “Here, Mom,” she said, “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard day.” I felt slightly ashamed that I had dumped my troubles on her earlier in the day. Laughing, I bit into the yummy cookie, and thus my hard day dissipated.

Full moon wake up call

October 30, 2012

Monday evening, October 29, 2012

The full moon is here. She woke me up at 4 a.m. and demanded that I look her in the eye. I threw on my cloak, stepped outside into the cold, and sat in the dark. All was quiet except for the soft back and forth hooting of two owls. The moon shone bright through the trees, but she felt cold and distant. My energy was not right. Too much outward activity catching up with me. I needed to withdraw from the world, rest deep in the Goddess Pose, and let go of my earthly concerns. Instead, I sat shivering on the floor, did my accounting, bumbled through my morning class, and flogged myself all the way home. Felt nauseous and negative. Had no choice but to postpone everything and take a healing nap. Then took wolves for a walk in the boonies. Sat on the ground, soaked up the sun, and waited for Mother Nature to do her magic. . . . Just now I went outside, looked up, and can feel the full moon energy smiling down. . . .