Mindfulness: KEY to Serenity and Joy!

Travel. Garden. Eat.

As the sun broke across the horizon, I pushed the canoe onto the lake and enjoyed pure solitude.  Not even the sound of birds calling to each other through the trees with the hope that others might be awake to return their call.  The water was like glass.  With each paddle dip, a beautiful pattern of ripples gracefully pushed away until calm returned again.  Wispy tendrils of mist twisting and turning from the lake’s surface, chased by the expanding rays of sunlight.  Free Spirit ~ A true moment of mindfulness, gliding past the silent shores, appreciating the simple beauty of nature and life.

This week’s photo challenge theme brought this photo to mind, from that peaceful paddle a few summers ago.

Ciao! ~ Kat B.

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An Interlude on the Train, Bookmarked in Time

Several years ago, I took the train to a meeting that I was attending in the San Francisco Bay Area.

“A train trip is going to be the subject of your blog post?”  Well, this is California, not the East Coast or Europe.  For us, train trips are lodged in our memories, not day-in, day-out features of our daily landscapes.  Before that, I had probably only ridden a train twice, both times as a kid, when my parents arranged for special experiences.  One if not both of the trains I rode in then were steam engines.

The trip was a lovely experience, what with the wide, comfortable seats, the view of places not otherwise seen, and dinner in a formal dining car.  It’s not actually the train ride that my story is about, however.

My meeting the next day would be intense, requiring constant attention to facts presented and the emotions and hints of motivation that would flit across the other participants’ faces.  I intended to prepare by purging my mind that evening, and took a book along to read.  I wish I could remember the title of the book.  All I know is that it was romantic – something of a departure for me – and that fact was probably reflected in its title.

For the first hour of my ride, I chatted with the man across the aisle from me.  He told me that he played with the Montovani Orchestra, and would be leaving soon for a concert tour of Europe.  I had no idea that the Orchestra still existed.

Montovani music was a mainstay of my childhood.  Once my sister and I began to read, my parents decided not to have a television.  Consequently we were huge readers.  Often we would array ourselves around the living room in the evening, reading four different books, with the Montovani Orchestra providing grand yet intimate atmosphere.  (Though clearly music of another era, Montovani music is undeniably romantic.)

But I digress . . . back to the man on the train.  One of my favorite things in life is talking with men.

(And again . . . .  I was talking with a couple of my husband’s employees the other day.  One is just a few weeks into this, her first job after graduating from college.  She was laughing, saying that she was pretty sure all of her patients really liked having her as their physical therapist.  “Maybe not,” she said, “but it makes my life so much nicer thinking that they do.”  I told her that I totally understood.  “I’m pretty certain that all the men I talk with want to marry me!”)

Our traveling conversation was enjoyable.  I don’t recall the substance, only that I didn’t read any of the book that I had on my lap.  After an hour, though, I excused myself to go to the dining car; it would be a short trip and I was determined to have that experience before arriving at my destination.  I left my book open on the seat, to ensure that I would not be bumped from my seat while I was away.

When I did return, my conversation-mate had debarked.  I was sorry that I hadn’t known he would be leaving, so that I could have wished him a good time in Europe.  I picked up my book, to occupy the last few minutes of my own trip, and discovered that the man had left a note for me, as a bookmark.  “I will be on tour for about two months, but I would like to see you when I return.  My phone number is . . . .”

Ooooh!  I had been with my own lover for 15 years, and was very happy as his wife, but still, what a memory.  I would keep the note, and probably find some way to the let the man know that.  I felt flattered as I picked it up later that evening, marking my spot in the book before I turned off the light in the hotel I was staying in.

Fast-forward to unpacking after I returned home from my trip.  No book, no note.  What a disappointment!  I could easily find another copy of the book to finish, but I wanted to keep the note, pressed between the pages of a book that would be with me for life, just as a reminder of an unusual and companionable train ride.

As I thought further, however, I decided that this story might have an even more romantic ending.  What if the hotel maid found the book and took it home, discovered the note, and called the author herself?

What Would Your “Passion Tag” Say?

I’ll start out by saying that I am virtually certain that I did not come up with this idea on my own.  I wish that I could give the worthy person credit for it, because it is certainly a thought-provoker.

What are the two things that most people know about you within the first two minutes of meeting you?  First, your name.  Second, what you do to support yourself.

I’ve heard that the French consider it gauche to ask what your job is soon after meeting you.  It may not be that, but it’s not necessarily the best measure of whether you will find the person interesting to be with.

So the idea is:  what if, instead of name tags, we wore “passion” tags?  Instead of asking “What do you do?” we would be asking “What are you passionate about?”  How cool would it be to attend parties where your conversations are immediately launched into the deepest realms of your heart?

Here is what my passion tag would say, circa today:

CURIOSITY

absurdity

Meandering…

color & texture

Kindness

(A little note about kindness.  Several years ago, I found a little essay that we were asked to write in grade school.  I was so embarrassed that I had said that I would want others to think of me as being kind.  “I would so much rather be interesting!”  It’s still true.  I want to amuse, to share things that have tickled my mind, to leave behind little thoughts to ponder together.  You ask me, kindness is a way to bring joy to one’s self, not something to talk about.)

What would your passion tag say?

What’s Yours Is Not Mine, But I’ll Enjoy It Anyway!

My sweetie and I stayed a night at the Benbow Inn, near the northern coast of California, a few weeks ago.  We were on our way back home from a funeral, so didn’t have time to bask in the whole experience that is the Inn, but I wanted to share the magic of the last hour before I dozed off.

We’ve stayed at the Inn before, and I don’t remember our last room being quite so small, but this time our room was, in the “wee” sense: darling, to be cherished.  The bathroom was so tiny, and finished with such expertise, that we imagined ourselves on a yacht.

Our room was at the back of the Inn, overlooking the stone patio onto which the restaurant sprawls.  Mark took his camera out, exploring, and I sat in an armchair, reading by the light of the lamp on the table beside me.  The book was meditative:  The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, by Elisabeth Tova Bailey, which I highly recommend.

Paradoxically, as I immersed myself in the book, I became more aware of the sounds drifting through the window.  I heard the gentle movement of the creek beyond the patio.  The cuisine, wine, and companionship below must have been hypnotic, as the diners lingered late into the evening.  The tinkle of crystal and silver accented their murmurs and laughs.

When I watch period pieces that feature both the “upstairs” and “downstairs” aspects of life in a grand home – Downton Abbey, Gosford Park, Remains of the Day – I wonder about the servants’ satisfaction with their lives.  Certainly they wouldn’t have been as unhappy as many of us imagine, since their expectations weren’t the same as ours, but the contrast between their personal rooms and the ones they tend always strikes me.  I hope that they were able to exult in the beauty that surrounded them, like I did that quiet evening at Benbow Inn.

(In case you’re wondering, this is not a complaint about our room.  It was lovely, as was the experience of the diners below that I enjoyed vicariously.)

Little Things That Make Me Laugh

Years ago, when I was in law school, a classmate and I took a couple of hours to visit an antiques show at a nearby convention center.  After wandering together for an hour or so, my friend commented that I really seemed to like miniatures. I was indignant.  Not me; miniatures are for prissy people!  (Also the color pink, which I studiously avoided for years, same reason.)

So I’m coming clean.  I do, indeed, like miniature items.  Sometimes the appeal is the fact that something can actually made in such small size.  Sometimes it’s the momentary reverie of the cozy life associated with the item.  (Think of a tiny elevated nook with a mattress, enclosed by curtains, ready for hours of uninterrupted reading.)  Sometimes the little thing simply makes me laugh.  After all, that’s nearly always a sufficient reason.

Today I visited the Third Annual “Little Car Show” in Pacific Grove, associated with Monterey Car Week.  It was tough to get good pictures, what with the number of viewers and other photographers, but here are a couple, of two different red cars.  (Red, now there’s a good color!)

1964 Peel Trident

And before I leave, a couple pictures of something that made me laugh, without being small:

The One Where Books Take Over the Stage

Today I visited the blog of Andreas Moser, a former attorney from Germany.  He says:

“I gave up my law firm not because I wasn’t interested in law any longer, but because I am equally interested in many other fields as well, among them politics, history, economics, philosophy and literature. And as my time on this planet is limited, I thought it would be a shame to stick to one field for all of my life.”

Not a bad philosophy.

This was the post that entranced me, however:  a single picture, the stage at the Tomorrowland Festival in Belgium.

Tomorrowland Festival, in Belgium

(Check out the little people at the bottom of the picture.)  If you know of any events in the States that feature such a beautiful ode to literature, let me know, and I’ll be out the door in a flash!

Writing, A Sunny Wall, or a Game of Solitaire?

I have begun reading Page After Page: Discover the Confidence & Passion You Need to Start Writing & Keep Writing, by Heather Sellers.

The first 30 pages are devoted to the gentlest of discussions about whether you really – truly – want to write.  After all, writing takes time, and it will require a lot of discomfort.

The first chapter includes a droll anecdote about a class she taught to a group of women, who weren’t too keen on her exercises:

“A few minutes later, I noticed in the back row a very quiet woman, reading through my handouts.  She wasn’t writing, either.  She looked up, a kind of scared rabbit look in her soft brown eyes.  She said softly, ‘This class is going to be really time-consuming.  I don’t think it’s realistic at all!  We have lives!’

‘Really!’ said the two friends.

‘This is just not what I expected,’ a yellow sweat suit-wearing woman chimed in.  ‘Not at all what I thought it’d be like.’”

It was easy to read this and think “Mmm, clueless!  I know I  have to spend time at this.”

Chapter Three, however, bore in more deeply.

“You might not like me for saying this, but you do have twenty-four hours to spend.  Same as everyone else.  You can stop time by falling enormously in love with your own writing self.

. . . .

I treat my writing life like a fabulous, enchanting lover, because that is what it is to me.  Something that is terribly time consuming, delicious, and time-stopping.  I have missed important meetings for love, and I will continue to put my writing life in the same position.  My writing life is the lover at the center, not the neglected cranky demanding millstone, my ball and chain.”

This forced me to think about how I spend my 24 hours each day, and how highly I prioritize the various elements of my life.  I started making a mental list of the things that I do each day.

Do I want to finally finish (not “stop”) painting my house, enough to devote hours to that task before writing?  Yes, I do.  I crave the beauty that I know will surround me when I’ve spread sunny, peaceful colors on each wall in my home, and I’m truly tired of the constant mess that surrounds me while the contents of various rooms are spread throughout others.

Do I value playing solitaire more than I do writing?  I’ve been acting like I do, for thirty or more minutes each night, but no, that’s an activity I can substantially limit in order to bring writing towards the center of my life.

Think about making a list of the major and minor elements of your daily life.  Write each one on a separate slip and place the slips in a vertical line in front of you.  Move them around until you see that the top slip is more important than the next slip, that second slip is more important than the third, and so on.  Is this what your life looks like?

A little contemplation, a little joy.  How nice to see the ways to pull beloved activities towards the center of my life!

Creating the Tropics From Castoffs

My parents are stunned that I have discovered gardening. “Outside” was a world I rarely visited as a kid. My little sister begged me to come outside and play with her. I read instead. (Yes, I do feel badly now!)

Ten years ago, my sweetie and I bought our home, which is on a road that winds through a small canyon, heading away from town. A small creek that follows the road. Historically, the area was the grazing area for the cows that supplied a local cheese-maker. The soil was a compost of sand and years of cows’ contributions.

When the contractor sought City approval to build, the City required him to build up the lot to avoid flooding, and maintain the original look of the local vegetation, oak and pine trees and underbrush. The contractor brought in tons of rocky fill dirt and achieved the look of trees and underbrush with one species, which is basically the crab grass of the tree world. Their roots spread below-ground, and new trees pop up everywhere. They were basically bushes that grew to 12 feet.

It was impossible to see our home from the street. My husband’s first step was to implement the suburban equivalent of the machete, hacking through the bushes and digging up the roots so that we could walk the sidewalk unimpeded and, finally, clear the property.

For the first several years, my law practice was very busy, and my landscape efforts were limited to asking the gardeners to take out plants that I knew I didn’t want. Unfortunately, while I had the money, I didn’t have a vision for the property or the time to develop one. (Money or time, take your pick.)

Now I have the opposite: time but little money. I practice construction law, representing public entities like school districts. There is practically no construction going on, and virtually governmental funding. I don’t have gardeners any more, but I do have time to page through magazines and learn about plants.

I live in a very moderate weather zone along the California coast, and have well water. Well water is huge in this area. People who have to buy all of their water are often limited to succulents and “native” (i.e., scraggly) plants. I love succulents – more about that another day – but want to combine them with an overall tropical theme.

I never understood the people who retire and garden all the time. I’ll never be one of them, but I certainly understand the desire now. We garden before work as much of the year as we can, and on weekends.

I would love to be at a point where my gardening time is spent keeping our landscape in pristine condition. Instead, I will be implementing my vision for several years to come. But there is still joy to be found. I’m healthy, I exult in every clear day, I have imagination, and I’ve a new-found joy in gardening.

I have located tons of free soil and concrete to level my lot. I’m building a retaining wall for one end of the creek-side frontage, with broken flatwork. I’ll plant succulents and other rock-garden plants in the crevices, and all that will be seen of the concrete is the texture peeking through.

Soon I will have about a quarter-football field of flagstone delivered for virtually free. We’ll dig into the back hill, expanding our little back yard and freeing soil to be moved to the front, and fashion another retaining wall with the flagstone.

I think social historians will look back on this time, and note that the surge in Americans’ creativity can be tied to our current economy. (Note that we “the economy,” not “the Depression”? We’re just too determined, too optimistic, to say that this could get take us down.) Before, we were learning to be creative, but it was usually with pre-manufactured elements. Now we look all around us, and see the beauty in what is, what it can be.

I Have Discovered Annie Dillard!

OK, well, maybe not “discovered,” as that makes me sound like Columbus, or perhaps Copernicus or Curie.  “Stumbled upon,” more like.

I was reading a book called Inventing the Truth:  The Art and Craft of Memoir, which is a compilation of talks given by various memoir-writers, today.  It seems that the memoir Annie Dillard was talking about – An American Childhood, which was followed by The Writing Life – focuses on Dillard’s childhood fascinations.  How lovely to have that opportunity.

Her enthusiasm drew me in:

A child wakes up over and over again, and notices that she’s living.  She dreams along, loving the exuberant life of the senses . . . .  The world is full of fascinating information.

. . . .

Almost all of my passionate interests, and my many changes of mind, came through books.  Books prompted the many vows I made to myself.  Nonfiction lured me away from the world – as I dreamed about working for Scotland Yard, doing fieldwork in freshwater streams, rock collecting in the salt desert, painting in Paris.

. . . .

I had the notion back that everything was interesting if you just learned enough about it.

The book may be too intellectual for some – it may be too intellectual for me – but the joy that Dillard finds in the ordinary calls out to me, and I will definitely seek it out.

A Song on the Night Air

I miss old-time radio stations.

I miss the DJ’s who talked between songs, and not just to promote the diet product or house siding that he supposedly uses himself.  They talked about the music itself, the musicians’ inspirations, how they felt when they first heard the songs.

Greg Kihn, who’s at KFOX in San Jose in the mornings, is one of the gems in the field.  I’m no fan of smoking, but his gravelly, certainly cigarettes-influenced voice let you know immediately that you’re going to hear great stories, of music and misadventure.

I remember listening to San Francisco’s KNBR during the 70’s summers while sewing my clothes for high school.  It was much more pop than rock, but it had true characters for DJ’s.  I was a little too young to remember real details, but one of my favorites was C.J. Bronson in the afternoon.  There weren’t too many cool women – women period – doing radio back then, but she was one of them.

My sister and I were young, living off of miniscule allowances, and my parents weren’t taken with rock.  We were thrilled to be able to buy long-play cassette tapes and record the entire Dick Clark Countdowns on New Years’ Eves.  (For a really sweet list of “10 Reasons We Love Dick Clark,” click here.)

I particularly loved listening to AM radio late at night.  You could catch shows from further away then, sometimes only in snippets.  I never listen to talk radio now, but “back then” the guys talking at night were more contemplative, and regional rather than national.  Listening, I could live a few hours in some small town in Nevada, or a little bigger market along our northern border.  (Wisconsin, Minnesota . . . what do we call that area?  Is it the Northwest?)

College memories:  listening at two o’clock in the morning, after I’d closed up at the pizza place and sneaked back into my parents’ house as everyone else slept  . . . while sewing late at night, alone in my apartment . . . while I drove the length of California during breaks from school.  Sometimes I imagine that being a trucker could be like that.  Hours alone in the dark, plenty of time to think and “be” with people you’d otherwise never meet.  (I guess I could have called this post “The Sweet Sounds of Solitude.”)

Since classic rock isn’t a big staple on radio where I live, I listen mainly to XM and Sirius, but they are rather soulless substitutes.  (Do you have a great classic rock station where you live?  Where, and what are its call letters?)  I’m going to start listening to more internet radio, and adding to my iPlaylists.

Check out the book Highway 61 Resurfaced, by Bill FitzHugh – moody, set in the steamy South a few decades ago.  In the interludes between action, the author informs without being the slighted bit instructional, recounting how blues songs created by Southern black singers became early classic rock hits, usually via British artists.

If you enjoy a bit less violence and love California settings, check out my friend Joyce Krieg’s Shauna J. Bogart series, set in Sacramento.