Missives

Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live. ~ Charles Bukowski

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Our Mutual Mother

What should I write for Earth Day, this celebration of our mutual mother, our blessed mother, oceans and mountains, plants and trees, and all the animal life. When I close my eyes, I see a path leading back in time to the dawn of life on our planet. All the generations of mother, father, and child for millions of years, and here I am typing away on this crazy box of light so you can get a peek into my mind. I can sense all those generations, the pain of birth over and over, the feeding and caring. When I sit back and get in touch with what I’m trying to say, the thought that permeates my whole being is there’s no separation. 

We all eat a diet of plants and animals our whole life, and we can’t go more than a moment without sucking a breath of air. I can feel my feet on the floor, this floor of wood, a tree not so long ago, and the shirt on my back, cotton fiber, oh yeah, and the cup of tea I’m sipping. It’s beyond comprehension that we would dedicate only one day in April to honor our Mother Earth, and it’s not even a federal holiday. When it comes to celebrations, it doesn’t even rank up there with Halloween. So maybe today, let’s all go for a walk and look at the clouds and feel the sun on our collective faces, and if you get the urge, maybe even whisper a heartfelt thanks.   

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Subtle Organic Notes

It was wonderful to receive a letter back in the age of snail mail. I lived in a one-room apartment on the edge of the Hollywood Hills. In the evening after work, I’d unlock my mailbox and sort through the bills and adverts. On a good day, I’d get a letter from my mother, typed on her manual typewriter, the one with the small d and o filled in shadow, the same one I goofed around with as a child. The cool thing about paper letters is their high savoring ability. I’d wait for the perfect moment, make a cup of tea, get comfortable in my favorite spot next to the window, and slice the envelope open with a paring knife. 

She’d bring me up to date on the family and include an occasional photo or newspaper clipping. As the price of long-distance phone calls dropped, the letters slowed and eventually stopped. Because someone thought enough about me to take the time to write, I couldn’t bring myself to throw the letters away. Back then, we didn’t know how well a letter would age or what it would be like years later to pull it from the same envelope licked closed by the sender. Or how aging a paper letter brings forth subtle organic notes, allowing it to be savored like a fine wine. 

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Interrelation

They noticed me first. I wasn’t even aware of them until I felt something staring at me and peered into the woods. Three young deer with enormous ears and big black eyes stood frozen like statues looking straight at me. I didn’t want to spook them, so I diverted my attention and looked away, holding the attitude that they were my neighbors and I was there to look after them. If I put myself on their side, they seem to relax and accept me more easily. While my eyes were focused elsewhere, I readied my camera. 

The three posed like models, and I snapped away, then noticed a fourth behind a tree and a fifth, six in all. Deer are aware of everything, so how do I want to present myself? The connection I feel with them has nothing to do with thought. It happens in the body, a feeling. The senses inform; feel with the mind is how I think of it. Calm, relaxed, and present is the approach to take with deer. Often they’ll let me hang out and shoot photos or just be in their presence. They’ll even go back to eating as if it’s just another day in the forest. 

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Disjunctive Polarity

We’ve had about twenty storms this season, and they’ve all been different. Today, I’m staring out a window as grey clouds pass by at an unnatural speed. Gusts of wind blow limbs and leaves sideways, and wind chimes ring an alarm, a constant roar and rush like a head full of thoughts. Trees yaw and bend but hold fast. Our local ravens fly into the breeze, dive, and chase with what looks like pure joy. And another is making a chattering sound like a heavy rattle, a distinctive sign of spring. 

This storm, as most have been, is coming from the south and bringing warm, damp air, a tropical feeling we don’t often get here on the central coast. There’s something about the ocean during a storm that pulls on me like a magnet. Dark clouds and a choppy surface give it a deep-grey moody feel, cold and voracious, and magnificent in its display. Yesterday, a clear sky with a wind-rippled surface seemed to reflect a fathomless-blue feeling in the ocean, mysterious and enigmatic. Now the rain is falling again. There’s something gratifying about the wildness of these storms, the wailing, ripping, and shaking, like an eternal thirst finally being quenched. 

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[robertfeist-blog]

Everything’s Coming Up Roses

On New Year’s Day 1971, the Englewood, Colorado high school marching band performed in the Tournament of Roses Parade. I think it’s no exaggeration to say I was third chair sousaphone (marching tuba). The band, 180 of us, boarded several Continental Trailways buses bound for Los Angeles. We drove all night and arrived at the UCLA dorms the next afternoon, our new home away from home. We only had a handful of chaperones for 180 teenagers, and as you can imagine, the hijinks were legendary. It all came to a head when they found a stowaway on one of the buses, a high school girl who just wanted to see sunny California. Our band director, Dr. J.L. Gerardi, had had more than enough. And we all knew it. 

One evening, several upper classmates dreamed up a plan. With a lot of sneaking around and whispers, we grabbed our instruments, and by the cover of darkness, amassed on the lawn under Dr. Gerardi’s second-floor window. Our drum major, Randy Bachman, called us to attention with a blast of his whistle, and we broke into “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” In moments Dr. Gerardi appeared at the window. We heard he had tears in his eyes. We performed in the Disneyland parade and appeared on national television during the five-mile-long Rose Parade. But my best memory of the trip was that secretive, impromptu performance of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” 

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Such is Life

It rained all day yesterday, glorious, coveted, wet dripping rain. The air felt fresh and alive as I stepped out for my morning walk. My usually cheerful neighbor had a look of resolve on her face as she loaded their car, “We’re going out of town for the weekend, the memorial for a friend. Such is life. Death is a part of life,” she said. As I continued, her words hung in my head. Autumn leaves, backlit by the sun, filled the trees with color, and drops of wet dangled from their branches, sparkling like Christmas lights. Yes, I thought, all we really have is this moment. 

My walk led me through the hills. Frost glittered like snow on rooftops, and hummingbirds worked the new orange blossoms. A deliveryman unloading a dishwasher said good morning as if he meant it. Vapor drifted through the sun in curls like smoke. “Such is life,” and the morning walk took on a psychedelic feel; plants and trees were bright with vivacity, and everything seemed too real. As I arrived home, I felt transported, as if something miraculous had happened.

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Morrie’s Alchemy

Several years ago, after dessert on Thanksgiving evening, while everyone sat around the table, pushed back in their chairs with stomachs protruding, our host, Lisa Watson, passed around paper and pens and asked us to write down what we were grateful for. I immediately cringed inside. Those things usually seem corny to me, and my spelling is atrocious. But I came up with a few things and jotted them down, thankful that we didn’t have to hand in the assignment. Instead, the guests took turns reading their lists. The sincerity of the readings and the careful attention paid to one another were striking. 

Several guests expressed gratitude for the lovely dinner and having a place to go on Thanksgiving. The woman to my right mentioned stable health, which hinted at an ongoing struggle and filled the room with deeper meaning. Next to her sat Morrie, wearing his forty-year-old tweed sports jacket, “I’m ninety years old, and I don’t worry about small things anymore. I’m grateful for my wife and the life we had.” He paused for a long moment. “She died ten years ago, and I’m still here to talk about our life together.” I woke up the following morning thinking about Morrie’s story. He wasn’t bitter, though he clearly missed his wife. He was grateful for the love and life they shared. What a beautiful piece of alchemy, turning loss into appreciation.

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#memoir #mindfullness #robertfeist #ravenswork #stillness #RisingPark #LancasterOhio #naturecore #photography #Flash #Thanksgiving 

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Nepenthe

I arrived at the scenic overlook just before noon. A low-hanging cloud left the view a bright emptiness, a deep pillow of infinite white, a scene of nothing. I imagined the expansive view I’d seen numerous times, but for some reason, the emptiness felt more satisfying. Nothing to view let my mind relax, nothing to appreciate, nothing to hold on to, and nothing to remember, a level of peace beyond escape from the daily grind, just the fresh smell of ocean with a hint of coffee and bacon, the sound of steaming milk, and the slight movement of cool air drifting around my head.

“It might be one of those days,” the tourist said as she stepped up to the view, “and you’re not going to change it.” Accepting nothing is something. No one stayed long, and no one cared to sit at the coveted tables next to the view. So I sat close and ate an egg sandwich and enjoyed the nullity. I was going to write in my journal, but there wasn’t much to say. I took twenty-three photos of the view trying to get the perfect shot. And it was nice, no crowd, light jazz playing in the background, a soft mist falling, and a hint of sun working its way through to expose the view and put an end to nothing. 

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