Climbing to the Sky

I can only imagine what it must be like to summit a mountain. Sitting here at Paradise Inn, all I have to do is look out the window and see the majestic peak of Mt. Rainier. It is a truly stunning landscape that succeeded in meeting all my expectations. The blue skies that even now have huge thunderclouds building to the east; the alpine wildflowers that carpeted long stretches of our climb, snow to scramble over, creeks to jump – all of it coming together into a perfect hiking day of discovery.

I've never been up here before. Here I am, a resident of Washington State for almost twenty years – and I've never been to Mt. Rainier. I can't believe it is ever too late to discover something glorious.

Standing at Panorama Point on top of the Skyline Loop is a viewpoint of what is glorious in this world. The 5.2 mile loop climbs from around 5400 ft. to a little over 7000 ft above sea level with views of glaciers, Mt. Adams and Mt. St. Helens. (although that was a bit hazy). There are places where the trail is covered by snow pack for yards and meadows of verdant green sprinkled with lupine, alpine daisies and bear grass. Cascading waterfalls and fat hoary marmots lounging on snow. It's kind of funny, however ,watching people get excited about black tail deer sightings and I certainly did not feed the chipmunks no matter how demanding they were.

The only thing that was slightly disconcerting was the amount of people on the trail. I've never hiked with so many human beings before. I also have to say that the lower trails being paved in asphalt felt like cheating. The inn, however, is very nice; the food is good (had trout for dinner) and the staff of the park friendly and helpful.

I took my camera out after dinner and enjoyed the golden light. Walking up along the trails above the visitor center, I found my thoughts turning inward and I asked myself – what do I want to do with this one precious life? The answer came immediately – hike more trails and spend more time in places like this.

Now what am I supposed to do with that?

Gaia is Bountiful

Sometimes I think my vocation is farming. Is it simply the generations upon generations of farmers from which I descend that infuses me with this love of the land and it's bounty? I take for granted my farmer self – this joy of creating an edible landscape. It is a mere hobby, an interest that I dabble in. Sure it is. That's why I spend the daylight hours when I am home out in my garden – plotting, planting, tending and harvesting. That explains the sense of pure contentment when I sit down to eat a salad with my own produce picked about an hour earlier.
Occasionally I have visions of converting the back acre into rows of corn or pumpkins or an orchard of apple trees for cider. And those are dreams that I smile with, acknowledging that part of me that sees the land as a useable pallet for the creation of sustenance. For now, I feel a deep sense of gratitude for the bounty that is spilling out of my beds at the moment. The pounds and pounds of cherries that we've picked over the last two weeks; the tomatoes ripening on the vine and the herbs beginning to flower. Soon I will have beans to eat and dry; cucumbers and zucchini; and of course tomatoes. Carrots and beets are waiting to be picked and canned. The pumpkins are flowering and the blueberry bush is full. And then there are freshly tilled rows waiting for the next planting – the winter squashes and more lettuce.

Acknowledging where my heart is and allowing myself to follow its call is deeply satisfying. I know that with Autumn my thoughts will circle back to other work, other passions. Until then, I can't help but want to step out into my garden and watch the world grow around me.

It's a bountiful summer.

A Moment in the Wind

I took my husband for a walk through the yard at twilight. The heat of the day had subsided to a soft 68 degrees and the clouds were touched with pink highlights by the sun that had disappeared beyond the horizon about a half hour earlier. Nine o'clock and it was still light enough to meander through the garden and show him the five foot delphinium stocks beginning to blossom and the abundance of cherries ripening on the trees. The evening was still, heading towards sleep with only the lone Swainson's thrush's call left to echo through the trees. We stepped around to the front of the house, holding hands and talking softly about the coming weekend. As we stood there in the deepening night, a new sound entered our awareness. It was loud enough to make us pause and turn west towards the street that leads to our house. At first I thought it might be a car or truck coming down the road. The alder trees have grown so thick that we can't see along the small road that leads to our house anymore. We waited for a moment but there were no telltale lights or sounds of shifting gears. This was a sound that was steady and growing. Standing there in the stillness it took us a long moment to realize that what we were hearing was actually a sound of nature. Across the field from our house the trees began to bend and sway in a wind that had yet to touch us. The sound was reminiscent of cascading water, a constant roar that we were watching and yet not feeling.

There was such a sense of awe and surprise as we waited for the wind to reach out to us. It was a moment out of time – a pause of delightful expectation. We laughed with appreciation and held each other close.

What might have been forever and was probably less than a minute passed and I felt the first breath of wind against my face. Within seconds we were surrounded by sound and movement, squinting against the dust and debris that swirled around us. The wind came up fast and fierce; it seemed to come from every direction. We savored the warmth of its touch for only a few moments before turning back to the house. I checked my weather station and saw that the winds were gusting around fifteen mph. I can still hear the wind moving through the trees – the wind chimes clanking wildly along the back porch. However, what I am holding on to is that moment of shared wonder that I had with my husband. I will remember that for a long time.

P.S – If you have not heard the Swainson's thrushes call in the still of the evening – then you have missed out on one of nature's most perfect moments.

Let it Snow…

Finally it's really snowing. Yesterday had our schools closed on the rumor that it was going to snow buckets of white stuff by noon. Buckets, by the way, according to Washingtonians is anything more than an inch. I'm really not that blasé about the whole thing because I love snow – as long as my power doesn't go out. But still, people around here hit the panic button really fast. Then again, people in Washington – when it does snow – do really stupid things. I digress…

Here, with all my children tucked into their beds, I am happy to enjoy a cup of coffee and watch the snow fall. I can watch the news – and then turn it off to enjoy the stillness of the morning. My oldest daughter will be up soon, she's still on east coast time and we'll have some time to chat before anyone else in the house even stirs. I'm enjoying the phenomenon of having adult children – so little changes and yet everything is different. And I'm well aware that anytime we are actually all together is pretty special. Snow means none of us are going too far from the nest today. Another gift that is given to us – if we take the time to appreciate it. It's easy to hunker down into my routine – to lose myself in a project or task – but it is just as easy to get up out of the chair and go spend time with these people that I love.

Okay – I gotta go J

Fog

For over a week now I have been anticipating the explosion of heat supposedly awaiting the northwest this weekend. I have been yearning for the warmth – the balm of sun and temperate breezes. And what I have is a deep fog that seems to be camping over my house.

It feels heavier than it is, I suppose, but I can feel what I want the day to be. I want to enjoy a sunny day from sunrise to sunset. This is the time of year that my California roots take hold. I start to crave warm sandy beaches and clear, eighty degree days.

I stayed outside last night until after the sun had dipped behind the trees. It was close to nine o'clock and I had planted my tomato seedlings with the three quarter moon high over head. Summer Solstice is just over a month away and I realized that as we head towards the longest day of the year – the days themselves are so much longer right now. I felt lighter and happier under the clear evening sky then I have in a few days. In some ways, I have felt the fog surrounding me for the past couple of weeks. My personal vision has been directed inward because the external world feels so blurred. Whatever forces have conspired in my life to pull me into introspection are simply messengers. I have needed to sit and listen to the silence of the morning.

The swallows are back

...and that means that it is spring. Each year, the swallows return to our house, chirping and swirling through the air - dive bombing the lawn mower and driving my cats crazy. They turn up sometime each March and it tells me that spring is just around the corner. We have numerous swallow houses nailed up to the house and barn which the wee birdies use for their nests. There is one right outside my bedroom window and it is not unusual to be awakened with the sunrise and the demanding voices of babies waiting to be fed.

So, besides the swallows - I did something today that I'm not quite sure how it will resolve itself. I signed up for one of the meeting rooms at my local library to host a free parenting discussion group. I don't know if the library will grant my room request - but it felt kind of odd doing this. Why odd? Well, because I have no idea what this two hour window of time might look like. It is a bit risky putting myself out into the community as a facilitator (from a personal growth standpoint) and I want to do this. Somewhere inside of me, I'm hearing this lovely voice saying - 'why not?' And when I stay in my curiosity, when I look at a possibility as a chance to try something on without being attached to the outcome - I feel energized.

The date is April 20th - a Sunday afternoon (2pm-3:30) to have a discussion on issues that face parents of young adolescents. I want to focus on the parents - their experiences, their 'stuckness' and their successes. How do they balance and make sense of their children's growing autonomy? How do they handle the fear and anxiety that governs so much of raising children today? Are they helicopter parents or are they okay sitting back and helping their children find their own motivations? How does their own history show up in their parenting? Do they want a better life for their children then what they had? Do they nurture not only their children but themselves as well? A friend of mine and I coined this as "Conscious parenting" - being wide awake and human while managing the role of parent in American society.

So that's what I've been thinking, reading and writing about. I want to get a pulse on my community and see what's up and where I might be able to lead future workshops that would most interest this community. I keep coming back to the reality that while I enjoyed seeing kids in therapy - when the parents came in and began to process their own awareness, perceptions and needs - the family really started building health. I know that isn't always true or possible - but I do know that for me it was really easy to ignore my Self and take on the role of parent as prescribed by my community's values and norms. And some of those norms are really scary.

The best part about this is that I have my experience and I can't wait to inquire into other people's experiences and see what is happening out there. It is a cliche - but true: I feel the excitement in holding the 'both/and'.

Snow...again???

My dad called me this morning a bit out of sorts that he has over three inches of snow on the ground. I gently reminded him that it is January and these things happen in the winter. I'm not sure you can ever quite take the Californian out of those of us who transplanted ourselves here and it is especially difficult for my dad sometimes to accept that it can snow more than once a winter.
I live farther east then my dad by about a mile and I've got a little more snow then he does. It is certainly a beautiful day and there isn't anything -yet- that Sam our puppy doesn't enjoying playing in more than snow. He literally spins in circles, snow flying until he collapses in the middle of his playground. It is so lovely seeing a creature give in so clearly to it's nature: pure puppy.
I will surrender to my own nature on a day like today which really brings me more in touch with my nest. The kitchen calls - those leeks and potatoes ready to be made into soup. Maybe I'll pull the crockpot out and make the chili verde today instead of later in the week. Maybe - just maybe - I'll see if my new yeast will actually make the bread rise instead of becoming a little brick. (That was yesterday - but today is a new day, right?)

And I will definitely take Sam out again to play in the snow.

Sunshine

What happened today?
Summer came for the day, giving me the taste of warmth in the air - so balmy against my skin. Oh god, it was so precious. Sitting in the sun, having lunch with a dear friend and a new friend. Later, wandering through my garden, coffee cup in hand, soaking in more rays.

The swallows were doing their usual aerial dance; the golden finches and house finches were fussing at the bird feeders. We've got some grosbeaks that are back and a pair of quail looking for a place to nest. The rose bushes are bursting with buds, ready to explode into color and fragrance. Old world damask and my monster Cecil Breuner climber. My apple, pear and cherry trees are full of the first signs of fruition. It's funny, really, that I haven't even realized spring was here until it is more than half over. Solstice is a month away - the longest day of the year - and yet, all around me are the signs of life that I love.

I've lost touch with my earthy roots and it felt so good today to touch them.