Baez and Blue Eyes

In 1964, Joan Baez published an album containing Johnny Cash’s song, “I Still Miss Someone,” with these lines:  ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8w_cA52F2lQ )

         Though I never got over those blue eyes....I see them everywhere…

Though Cash and two family members wrote this about his wife’s parents, it seems safe to surmise that Joan picked it up because of Bob Dylan.  Their relationship was breaking up about that time.

Eleven years later, in 1975, she put out “Diamonds and Rust,” including an old favorite of mine: “Winds of the Old Days.”  Again she refers to Dylan’s blue eyes in this poignant remembrance of their love.                           ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeXLnxkNXFk )

Eleven years!  She married in 1968, had a beloved son, a wonderful career, and yet when she gets a glimpse of Dylan in the news, her heart is ready to take flight.

The heart is a strong muscle!  It won’t, after all, let go…

   

Mary Oliver on Whitman

Thus Whitman's poems stood before me like a model 

of delivery when I began to write poems myself: 

I mean the oceanic power and rumble that travels through 

a Whitman poem-the incantatory syntax, the boundless

affirmation. In those years, truth was elusive--as was my

own faith that I could recognize and contain it. Whitman

kept me from the swamps of a worse uncertainty, and I

lived many hours within the lit circle of his certainty, and

his bravado. Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew

the doors themselves from their jambs! And there was the

passion which he invested in the poems. The metaphysical

curiosity! The oracular tenderness with which he viewed

the world--its roughness, its differences, the stars, the

spider- nothing was outside the range of his interest. I

reveled in the specificity of his words. And his faith-that

kept my spirit buoyant surely, though his faith was with-

out a name that I ever heard of. Do you guess I have some

intricate purpose? Well I have ... for the April rain has,

and the mica on the side of a rock has.

But first and foremost, I learned from Whitman that

the poem is a temple--or a green field--a place to enter,

and in which to feel. Only in a secondary way is it an

intellectual thing—an artifact, a moment of seemly and

robust wordiness--wonderful as that part of it is. I

learned that the poem was made not just to exist, but

to speak--to be company. It was everything that was

needed, when everything was needed. I remember the

delicate, rumpled way into the woods, and the weight of

the books in my pack. I remember the rambling, and the

loafing--the wonderful days when, with Whitman, 

I tucked my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had

a good time.

Upstream and Hot Sand

In her epigraph to Upstream: Selected Essays, Mary Oliver shares this quote from Shelley’s “On Love”:

…in solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass and the waters and the sky.  In the motion of the very leaves of spring in the blue air there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart.

In her first essay, Oliver describes how, as a youngster, she wandered in solitude upstream in the woods, away from family, immersing herself in the sights and sounds and smells…and silence of the blossoms.  She writes, “In the beginning, I was so young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed.  I had to go out into the world to see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was…”

This got me wondering which of my young experiences contributed to setting patterns in me.  Immediately the colorful little shells on the beach came to mind, along with remembering my skin feeling gritty with sand.

On sunny summer days at the beach, I nuzzled my body into that hot sand, nose to the ground, searching for tiny shells striped with pastel colors, every one different.  When I’d collected all within reach and absorbed the sand’s heat, I inched forward on my stomach.  Each new position brought a deeply satisfying sting of fresh heat and renewed the hunt.

Later I picked through my precious collection, loving the colors and designs.  My mom gave me a square straw purse with a flat top where I could glue the shells.  I carefully chose and arranged my favorites, and carried that purse proudly.  I didn’t know till today that they were coquina shells, tiny clams.  

                                                           (from the web)

Oliver says, “Attention is the beginning of devotion.”  My attention to color and design wove through the years.  In summer camp, we made lanyards — I recall combining the unlikely pair of orange and maroon, being thrilled by the result.  And every spring my grammar school yard was carpeted with purple jacaranda petals:  Stunning visions of bright purple on the black asphalt background will never leave me.  I also used to sit intently at my desk pressing crayons hard to strengthen their vibrance as I created plaid patterns.

In Annals of the Former World, John McPhee says something like: varied topography, surface appearances, are temporary expressions of the same underlying processes.  Foundational themes appear and reappear as they weave through the eons.  Color and pattern are themes in my expressions through the years…and have left outcrops like these along the way. They have all corresponded with my heart.

                                                    Up Alamo Canyon

                                                                       (macro photo)

                                                                               Wildflower Riot

                                                (acrylic on canvas)

                                        

                                                                                               Rainforest Riot

                                                                                           (acrylic on canvas)

Squamish Murals

     

The murals from the recent Squamish Mural Walk were fresh and bright, adding to the festive atmosphere. 

https://www.downtownsquamish.com/squamish-mural-walk

Squamish, Climbing Capital of Canada

Squamish, BC, was the double apogee of our trip to the Northwest -- the furthest point north and the prettiest surprise.  We went because we'd seen it in a documentary, The Alpinist.  Supposedly it's the most popular climbing spot in Canada.  I hoped to get a feel for the lifestyle of the climbing community.  It didn't disappoint.

This granite massif is Stawamus Chief, or simply The Chief.  It's where the advanced climbers play.

We strolled the trails of Smoke Bluffs watching beginners-to-advanced folks practicing.  In this photo I count nine people.  These kids, many of whom live in their vehicles, walk around with an attractive air of relaxation, camaraderie and fun.  A lovely woman asked us what we were doing as we stood in the parking lot looking around.  An enjoyable conversation ensued about her/their life style and sense of community.  I whined with envy about being too old to start.  Later, when I was insisting she really had to go to Utah, she said, with a sly smile, "I just haven't lived long enough yet to have had the time to do all that."  A sweet touche.  

 

                                                                 Best seats in the house!

          

Squamish is at the north end of Howe Sound, an inlet that eventually winds out to the Pacific.  That's Mt. Garibaldi in the distance.  The famous ski area, Whistler, is just up the road.

In the evenings, the climbing community gathers in the Howe Sound Brewery (and Inn, where we stayed) to share stories of the day's accomplishments...a very lively scene.

And then there was this, a dental office on the main street:

Apparently it’s not all fun…sometimes they kiss the rock hard!

Everywhere we hiked was beautiful.  But don't go!  It's already on the verge of being taken over by people like me.  A 600 square foot condo in the old, nice part of town is over $600,000!  We were told people finding Whistler too expensive were moving south.  Indeed!

                      

Shannon Falls

Brandywine Falls

The Jemez: Heart of my World

This was going to be my good-bye tour, then the angels brought me a buyer who will be away a semester each year, so I get to rent.  The roller-coaster of emotions getting to this point has been rough, but now I'm able to slow down, look around and reconnect with the magic here.

What I saw today...

Underwater scene?

Seaweed and anemones?

The old oak's lichen!

Staying Home has meant wandering around our field day after day.  I'd photographed all the wildflowers I could find.  Then, one afternoon, I happened into the world of lichen.  My timing was lucky because they're drying out fast.  My iPhone 8 doesn't have great focus, but it's not bad!

The small orange splotches drew my eye and camera.  The enlarged image surprised me -- I didn't know what I was seeing...moss?  fungus?  lichen?  But don't lichen just grow on rocks?  Lichen it is, and there's lots to learn, but I'm satisfied just knowing about the basic shapes in front of me:  fruticose, the leafless, shrublike ones; foliose, the ones with leafy structure, including the little orange platelets that look like anemones; and crustose, the flat ones often seen on rocks.  They're not bad for the trees.  They're actually algae and fungus living in mutual symbiosis, not parasitically.  Bottom line:  They're beautiful!

When I focused on the trunk instead of the branches, I found all these fibrous, hairy filaments curling their way through the bark's passageways.  I haven't figured out what these are yet.