Violeeeeeeeeee!

My cheap violin leaned in its black case against the hutch in my living room, chastising my neglect, like neighborhood dogs coming out to bark a while at my passing. The mental rocks I threw at their voices defended my position--I play horribly, like the neophyte I am at age 65 with all of 6 violin lessons under my belt, and I abhor inflicting auditory pain on my condo co-dwellers. I am a singer and can recognize fine notes.

So I carried my violin outside and walked in late evening to the valley below my condo along the path to the creek to whom I am grateful for singing me cheery ditties on my mandatory health walks, forgetting for the moment that it might be possible to torture a creek as well.

Later I thought better of that and sat to play on the grassy knoll by the freeway away from the creek so the traffic noise would drown out the strident A's and G's, the not quite on the note notes, the grating squawks and crashes against the ear drum.

Later I played at my brother's country house because he has a big field with no other houses in sight and he promised he and my sister-in-law wouldn't listen.

Later I played with no caution at my friends' farm and stayed too long in their pasture of gold and pink and purple blossom-topped grasses, lost in each slide of note to note, senses awakening moment by moment under puffy clouds in a vast sky the deep blue color of a shirt I stole from my daughter 20 years ago.

Later I played boldly on my own hillside so that my violin, now coming to live, tail wagging, as a being in my world, would have a view.

I think it may have been on that hillside that I played one fine note.

Most of this is not true. Most of it is a combination of fact and fiction I stumbled upon whilst thinking of my violin and letting my creative juices simmer a while. To embellish what’s real with what could be—now that is super dreaming! I slide from taupe to gold and red on theoretical strings of imagination that may be connected to….who knows what?! Yehudi Menuhin or a violin on a dump heap.

Old gods

James Mitchener described the Hawaiian culture over 11 centuries. My dog-eared copy of Hawaii, read and reread when I was 16, is long gone. The paperback binding was broken apart and the cover was elsewhere, by the time it left me. I looked for it years later, not remembering I had finally let it go. Occasionally now some snippet of Mitchener's story comes to me - like one main Chinese character, Char Nyuk Tsin, whom I can rediscover on the Internet! In 1959 the idea of the world of information at my fingertips on my laptop, including the very passage from the book that I needed, would have sounded like science fiction. We only had TV and radio.

But on the net I find Wu Chow's Auntie to help me craft this essay. One of Mitchener's main characters in a long saga, her devotion to the lepers of Molokai despite the dangers of contracting the illness herself amazed me. It revealed "her loyalty and compassion to her fellow humans. This experience begins a habit that will last until her death the night she achieves American citizenship at age 106; every night she examines her body for signs of leprosy, and when no such signs are found, she can continue on her hard working way." (Hansen's disease is now curable, but only since the mid 20th century.)

I was interested in Hawaii at age 16 for two reasons: my friend Gail's grandmother lived in Hawaii and she talked about the place with affection. In a time when trips to Hawaii were taken maybe once in a lifetime, Hawaii became more real to me. Then I met a boy from Hawaii and my study of things Hawaiian became a passion. I married the boy and had two children by him, one born in Hawaii, both children blessed with the grace of the royal Hawaiian characters in Mitchener's book. I'm not kidding. In 2004 I toured the Hawaiian island of Molokai as part of my trip to my son's Kauai wedding.

Now I am 65. A few years back I found Moloka'i by Alan Brennert. The story of the lepers came alive again - of Father Damien, who spent sixteen years ministering to patients before he himself died in 1889 of leprosy. At 16 I had no concept of the many things that happen in one long life. Char Nyuk Tsin showed me that. Then Brennert drew out my sorrow for the ignorance that causes such suffering.

A new Mitchener memory popped up recently and is the reason I started to write this essay. Where all that other stuff came from, I don't know. I recalled that when the Christian missionaries convinced the people that their old Hawaiian religion was barbaric, there were a few stragglers who still worshiped their old gods in secret--because the old gods were more comforting! (Never mind that the "new" god also had some strange ideas about punishment.) I love this secretive bent of some of the old Hawaiian people, given my current hesitant affection for the teachings of Eckhart Tolle and The Power Of Now. My old "god" I turned to when I was upset and got immediate comfort. Now Tolle says I don't ever have to be upset! And he is right, given my so far limited but impossible to deny spiritual growth from his teachings. But leaving the familiar? I'm working on it.

Oh, what a comfort it was, to turn to what never failed me in my usually self imposed but nevertheless miserable case: my own brand of "god". Now I find myself on the edge of what appears to be an evolutionary movement. I'm trotting along with the others, wondering if we are either lemmings or brave warriors, sure only that we are leaving the old gods behind, only occasionally slipping back into that secret comfort. Well, time takes time. And persistence. 'And bravery because it's getting a little, um, unusual out there. I've heard Chuck Yeager quoted twice with the same quote in the last week: He was the first person to break the sound barrier. When he landed from the flight the media ran to him and asked what he had to say. His first comment was “just before you break through the sound barrier, the cockpit shakes the most.” On Tolle and the world in general right now? I can hear a kind of escalating vibrating hum, can you?

Humming away, I push the past into the present and try to figure out what the heck this essay is about: well, if I live to 106, I now have 41 more years to perfect my spiritual growth, checking myself nightly to see if I'm still aliiiive. I need every minute, let me tell you. Rather, every current moment. And with so much personal history- well it's not a saga, but 65 years is a lot for me to keep organized-- I am living what would have amazed me at 16. If I make it-- and my age is the age you really begin to wonder, I bet I will gasp- agog at the constantly accelerating evolution of life. But in this moment--gotta --wanta!! ---live in the now. Get out the meditative eraser and wipe away the random thoughts to let the more creative ones show up. Now I know what I think, just for now. What's next?

Geez. What was all that?

Sweet Melodies

From my iPod, my daughter’s voice blends in perfectly with the harmonies created by her friends Michael, Erin and Rick. I listen again and again, enraptured, loving that they are improvising yet know exactly when to add their voices and when to pause and be silent, when to sing the words, when to hum, when to tag on a repeated end line. This music “Deep in My Heart, Oh Great Spirit” brings me such sweet gentle fascination…could it be the genetic recognition of my cellular structure as a Mother?

Whatever the call, the notes and words come to me as sweet sadness for our struggles in this life. The phrasing combines melancholy with hope, with regret, like a kind of high spiritual blues that cries to show how hard life is…..and yet….oh, and yet….! Like parallel pendulums, the voices fly though time and space, brushing each other at each apex with perfect timing. The low male voices mourn and rejoice; the women fling their high notes into a peal of hope born of anxiety and weightless energy. Giving voice to the perils and intensity of living, the singers draw me in again and again. Hmmm hmmm……..

You Like Roller Coasters?

I drive a 2000 Acura Integra that gets 37 miles to the gallon on the highway! Electric sun roof, low to the ground, it's a sportier model than I've ever owned. Acura ad: "Makes any driver feel like a hero." Yes! I am the most heroic 64 year old female computer department admin grandmother in the West!

This car is pretty much a departure from my previous choices. I have the Acura because I have a son who brilliantly thought of me when his Dad's wife was ready to sell hers. I would never have picked out such a sporty model. I was going for a used Subaru Forester or a Toyota Camry. At 64, economy and reliability were at the top of my list. How many more cars does one buy in the last half of life, anyway? I wanted a car to last! I was ready to choose reliability over coolness.

But here I am driving around in this little gem, getting great gas mileage at a time when it's needed not just by me but by the country, enjoying plenty of accessible storage, parking in tiny spots, enjoying the electric sun roof and leather seats.

It took a little getting used to the new body style, for I sold a 2001 Nissan Frontier pickup for it. Spying the truck on the car lot, it was an immediate done deal because it was the same model my brother had picked out for himself. It was pre-researched and tested. That's all I needed. I got occasional envious looks from teenage boys that would have revved my jets much higher 30 years ago. Now it just kind of tickled me. There was lots of back seat room for bringing my son and his wife from the airport. I could take naps in the back seat and enjoyed the smoky windows for privacy as I snoozed for 15 minutes. (Naps are big with me.)

My daughter and I used the truck for hauling bark and boards and furniture and garden supplies to our suburban house. I liked sitting up high, looking tough. (ha ha) But here at the condo, I have other needs. Like looking cool driving to the nature trail. Best part is I traded price-wise straight across. No more car payments. At least for now. Yes!

Before I had the Nissan, I really had fun with a 1984 Volkswagen Westphalia. That vehicle came to me on a moonbeam! How I loved the Westphalia! My family has always enjoyed VW buses. I went back and forth over the mountain to visit my sister, camping in her back 40 by a stream. I camped with my daughter and granddaughter and hauled stuff around. I took naps in it too--an auto-immune disorder laid me low for a while. The stove worked, the tent worked, the sink worked, the back heater worked, the upper bunk was cozy and fun to set up.

I bought it from a gravestone carver from Denmark who was staying at the YMCA downtown. Very handsome. Just a little extra effort needed in keeping the engine in top shape. Actually I could have bought a new car for what I spent on the cost plus repairs, but I never could have found anything like my Westfalia!

When ready to sell my wonderful Westfalia, the buyer turned up in the form of my nephew who seemed to love it as much as I had. He's still tooling around in it in the summer; 'ol "Punkin" is enjoying the music of the bands that my nephew plays in around the state, like with Panda Conspiracy at the Summer Meltdown every year in Darrington. Lots of stories still to come for the 'ol camper. She even sat right next to the stage in the summer concert he staged on the other side of the mountain! Title: star dressing room.

Before the Westfalia was a 1986 Ford Tempo, a twin to my daughter's car. We went off one day to the south end of the city and bought identical Fords, one white, one red, from the Hertz rental outlet. $7500. Seems like a lot. How could we afford that!? Well, we did.

The Fords took us to work and around town for a while. Not the most beautiful cars in the lot, but pretty reliable. It was a lark having matching cars. I kept the Ford for a few months after I bought the Westfalia. I liked having two cars. The internal prestige waned and I sold it. My daughter went next to the auto love of her life, her Mitsubishi Montero.

Before the Ford, I bought a 1979 Honda Civic 3D hatchback. It was a Lemone. I took it to a mechanic who had a home shop and he took me for what I was--no experience to know what end was what. All I know is I spent a lot of money on the silly thing and still dislike the whole memory.

But for now I'll stick with the thrill of the first real independent auto purchase in my new life. I made the deal on my own and that was really exhilarating! The car had a little style compared to its predecessor and so felt like success. It took me to work and parties and to get haircuts. Ha ha.

The Civic's predecessor was a 1970 Dodge Dart Swinger slant 6. A sweet little car that my friends and family raved over for its quality and dependability. I got it at 35, a particularly self generated hard time for me, when my Mother rescued me by selling me her old car. She had stored it in a friend's barn after my Dad's death, and wanted only $50/month until the $500 price was paid off. I am still grateful for her generosity 30 years later. Maybe she was relieved to get it off her hands, but still.

I don't think that in 1970 "Swinger" meant anything except someone using park play equipment. Dad was a rowdy guy in his day (the 30's) but more conservative as he got older. Pretty sure that "Swinger" got its bad rep later.

The Dart always felt like a rescue mission to me, a gratuity from the Universe, and I didn't like the idea of selling it but my advisers said I ought to upgrade and get rid of the aging Queen. Which I did. For the Civic! Oops.

After musing over all this car buying and selling, I do feel kind of like a hero. It's such a pain in the patooka to buy and sell cars. They cost so much and so much is at stake, if you don't have extra money to play the game and lose. But here I am where I am and enjoying a few years of Acura happiness, courtesy of my son. One thing I observe: the cars I relied on other people for, turned out the best!

I am settled into the Acura's zippy factor now. My niece, however, apparently was not, for when she rode with me last week, heading down the hill from the condo, she actually squealed and said "This is fun! Boy!" I looked over and she had an ear to ear grin on her face. I loved her reaction, enjoying the feeling again myself. Down on the flats I sensed I was talking to air, looked over and there again was that eyes wide, ear to ear grin. "Fun, huh?" I said. "Do you like roller coasters?" she said. "No!" I said. "Me neither," she said. Yet there was that marvelous grin, just shy of a roller coaster squeal. I grinned with her.

Maybe I like the roller coaster syndrome. Looking back at life's constantly changing and challenging courses, I can say it's a good life, requiring constant heroic responses--a squeal, then action. One goes on and on, buying the next vehicle to get to the future---this time an Acura courtesy of my son, a hero to me.

Windy Flats

Yesterday I found myself at 8am, crouching to yank weeds from the fertile brown earth at Windy Flats in the Skagit Valley in north central Washington State. I have the gardening gene, from my Mother’s side, for which, because of some fool notion, I only became grateful as I turned 45. Mom died last year at 85, and I smile now to think that I, at 64 ¾, love forcing out the weeds as she did, roots intact, with a satisfying thonk. Ahh! Next one!

I was at Windy Flats enjoying a friend’s recently purchased gentleman’s farm…..or hobby farm one might call it. The tired farmers in training were still sleeping after a long day in the sun the day before. I didn’t want to wake them, hence the trip out to their new corn field.

A few weeks earlier, my friends had planted 3500 seeds of corn specially selected to germinate and produce ears quickly, in 10 rows 200 feet long. They had had the ground plowed by a neighbor, but with no tractor of their own yet to speed the planting work, the dropping of each seed into its row and covering it with the rich loam was truly a labor of love. Now 8 inches high, the corn stalks needed the rows between them freed of a dozen kinds of weeds, or native plants, as my friend calls them. I weeded energetically in the cool morning air. Looking back I was astonished to see how little progress I had made. It was as though the rows lengthened in front of me and shortened behind me. Standing at the end of the patch, I recalled the lesson in foreshortening from my drawing classes. Far end narrow, near end 5 times as “wide”. And in the middle? Still confused! Fascinating!

There is often a marvelous wind at Windy Flats, hence the name. It is surrounded by 5000 foot high mountains, snow capped, stunning. Looking at the valley from a nearby mountain on a summer day, one neighbor described stillness over all, except for the waving branches of trees in the flats. The earth in which the trees and plants live is incredibly fertile, lying next to the river as it does which has been known to flood, bringing along with the worries of too much water the rich, loamy silt that produces banner crops with no extra fertilizer.

But worry was far from my mind as I enjoyed connecting again with Mother Earth. It has been one year since I moved to a condo from a house with a garden that I loved. I miss the guaranteed pleasure that comes from making a landscape beautiful, trying new plants, watching leaves sprout, plants flowering on queue. It is a remarkable pleasure I’ve only enjoyed in the second half of my life. In addition to rekindling the pleasure of gardening, the setting for the corn field astonished me in the way it brought back memories of my childhood visits from Seattle to my grandfather’s hop farm in Eastern Washington.

As in the 50’s in Yakima, I loved the sighing of the wind in the giant trees, like the wind across the corn field that could make me grab at my hat. As in those long ago days, I took the time to watch flocks of barn swallows swerving and diving, changing their minds of a piece, landing on the fence and then rising over and over against the blue sky. (The birds at my condo are rugged individualists, like me I guess.) I loved the still, dank smell of the empty barn, sturdy at its base but full of future projects for making it a working barn again. Two stories tall and twice the size of my condo unit, it’s dusky interior holds odd bits of lumber, a ladder, a loft that needs shoring up and dust motes floating in thin shafts of light.

Perched on the barn’s cement foundation, I looked beyond the corn field to watch the wind play the field grasses, like a visible manifestation of musical notes of harmony. The grasses sported six or more hues of tan and brown and rose and blue and amber, as restful to the mind and eye as sweet music is to the ear. At the far corner of the pasture, I saw the flashing of red from a 15 foot tall heritage rose bush straining to escape the background shrubs, covered with old fashioned deep pink and pinker roses.

These pleasures of the awareness of the natural world were all as they happened to me when I was at my grandfather’s farm. My friend of the corn field too, had a similar vision created when she, as a girl, visited her aunt and uncle’s dairy farm in Kansas. Oh we are lucky to have such memories! The pull of the land and the quiet is so strong, but it is more than that. It is unhurried talks on the front porch, the slow way of moving, but accomplishing so very much, the willingness, no the desire, and sometimes the courage or patience, to stop whatever you’re doing to talk to a passing neighbor. It’s the strong pull of the cool dim parlor and kitchen, when it’s so very hot in the field, and the sense to come inside for a rest in mid day.

It’s the steadiness of working with Nature instead of ignoring it or denying its existence. It’s using your body and mind to create beauty and order, and wanting to learn what farmers have learned for centuries. It’s a desire to acquire the practical confidence of our grandfather and uncle mastering the tools of farming, to learn to care for what feeds us and gives us health, to complete the circle of the land feeding the body feeding the land.

My friend’s vision does not stop with the corn field. She can imagine more crops and animals gracing the ten acres that she and her husband have already come to love. At 60, she is no fool, but very much the realist, and knows that challenges, sometimes great, will become part of their time at Windy Flats. But she can see them abandoning their city home and moving permanently to the country. She sees plants and trees making the place a real Paradise. She can see different buildings, driveways and connections to the local community. I love drifting with her visions, sparking my mind and heart. Here she is in her corn field. ---->

It is 8am now, and I am back in the city at my computer, writing these words, because I don’t want to forget this gift of finding peace in a corn field. I have more to say, but for now I am stopping at being grateful for time created by gracious friends who are following their dream and have asked me to come and enjoy it too.