|
Coming Full Circle
Inside the yurt, all is round. When I lay in the sleeping loft, I
gaze up at the curving sweep of the roof, and out the circular dome window
to the stars. Many times a shooting star's trajectory passes through that
velvet circle, and I drift to sleep with a circular wish in my dreams.
Life inside a circle feels like coming home, home to the way things
used to be. A yurt, like a teepee, or an igloo, or Massai thatched hut
mimics the expanse of the 360-degree horizon as a native American stood in
the middle of the windswept plains, the dome of the night sky while
paddling the Pacific in a dugout.
Water World
In the height of summer, when the meadow is parched brown and the
fear of fire lurks, it's difficult to imagine that the meadow will ever
sprout again into lush green. Now, in mid-January, elemental water holds
sway, and it's hard to imagine the heat of summer will ever come. Water
alternately pours/falls/drizzles from above, soaking the path underfoot,
overflowing the pool and pond. When the ground reaches saturation, a
peculiar thing happens; the hillside looks riddled with broken water pipes
as mini geysers spurt forth from the vast network of flooded gopher tunnels.
The patter of light rain on the canvas yurt top gentles me to sleep;
later, it startles me awake as the wind lashes it with soggy sheets. It's
like trying to sleep inside a giant drum. I stick earplugs in, burying my
head under a pillow, and hope for the best. On either side of the yurt,
two streams gurgle and splash down the slope to Salmon Creek in the gorge
far below, eventually emptying out to the sea. Many times through out the
day, I interrupt my work, step out the French doors onto my deck, and
simply listen to the gentle sounds of water obeying the dictates of
gravity; it never fails to bring smile to my face. Who hasn't dreamt of
living within hearing of flowing water. Come May, the waters will diminish
to a silent trickle. Only the croaking frogs will recall the rainy season.
Silent Giants
". . . They are not like any trees we know, they are ambassadors from
another time."
-- John Steinbeck
Leaning against the trunk of one tree I'm particularly fond of, I
gaze at its towering neighbors. Suffused in verdant light, all is hushed,
a muffled calm permeates the soul. Way up high tree tops rustle in a sudden
breeze, and a moment later a pine cone plummets to the earth nearby.
Examining it, I marvel that such a tiny thing could spawn this titan
against my back.
Frankly, it's a mystery to me how others are able to restrain their
emotions. I also cannot fathom how anyone has the heart .. the audacity to
even contemplate reducing these natural wonders into decking planks for a
hot tub. Sitting here, I can easily imagine chaining myself to this tree or
blocking a tractor's path. Unlike a person or an animal, these docile
giants have no means to fight back or flee. We are their last and only
defense.
Above the yurt, beyond the house, stands a 30-acre grove of high
elevation redwoods in the western part of the county. I just returned from
a meditation walk there, and I tried to avert my gaze from the orange tags
on selected trees. The owners have marked the gentle giants that they deem
will help pay for their kids college education, their third automobile,
their trip to Tahiti. For years, dedicated and weary -- environmentalists
have thwarted the chain saws, but the fatigue, court litigation, and
prospective tax write-off maybe buyers have run their course.
It ís almost impossible to imagine the horror, should that day ever
come. I fantasize that all the neighbors on the road will unite, rise up
and lay down before the tractors, chain their souls to the trees. We might
be inspired like, Julie Butterfly, the angel who spent two years living in
a redwood tree. Once I saw her speak at a local gathering. Humble, lovely,
dedicated, and full of compassion, she has all the makings of a latter day
saint. We need new heroes.
"The redwoods once seen, leave a mark or create a vision that
stay with you always. . . from them comes silence and awe. The
most irreverent of men, in the presence of redwoods, goes under a
spell of wonder and respect." -- John Steinbeck
Twilight
It ís in twilight that the owls begin to prowl. It thrills my
heart, stops me in my tracks, when I hear the first hooo-hooo-hooo of the
night. I scan the redwood silhouettes for the flutter of the owl, but it ís
an impossible task. If I'm patient, and wait and watch long enough,
eventually it will take flight. Once it flew 15 or 20 feet overhead.
Another time, it alighted on the fence beyond the sunflowers. I crept up
close, really close, before it saw me and took flight.
Into the Dark
Darkness is primal, perhaps the maiden terror of our species who
dreaded venturing beyond the warmth cast by the cook fire, the glow of the
torch, or the reassuring flicker of candles in the parlor. The boogey man
of every child's nightmares reigns supreme in that limnal place where
shadows dance, then are swallowed into sheer black. I'm reminded of this
every time I cross the meadow from the square of the house to the circle of
the yurt, and occasionally ponder what if a mountain lion or a bobcat
should happen to cross my path. I take solace in that a mountain lion has
been sited on our ridge for many years. On moonless or foggy nights, it ís
like venturing into a pool of ink, but I've traversed the path a thousand
times and by now could do it in the dark, literally and figuratively. My
feet tell me when I've strayed off the path into the taller grass. I can
move by feel.
Starry Starry Night
On clear, heavenly starlit nights where the Milky Way streams
overhead and actually reflects in the sea, I pause mid-field and marvel at
the wonder of these stellar pin pricks. I slowly turn the full 360 turn to
take it all in, and am filled with gratitude that I live somewhere where I
can wonder at the night sky. Those mysterious lights, a glimmer into our
dreams, have always been with us. They are the source of much of our
mythology, the beginnings of our imaginings beyond the limits of this world.
Bill Strubbe's travel articles have appeared in numerous publications
including the New York Times, The San Francisco Examiner, Mother Jones and
The Advocate. You can contact him through
Inspired Planet.
Letter from Hawaii:
Swimming with wild dophins
I just returned from 8 days on the Big
Island of Hawaii where I swam with the wild dolphins.
Much like sex, the more you get the more you want.
The first couple days I diligently got up early
in the morning -- 6:00 AM. -- to go down to the water
and find them, but they were always where I was not.
That third morning I still didn't see them and I sat
on the shore and cried. The dolphin people here(and
there are a number of very serious dolphin folks)say
that your experience with the dolphins reflects what ís
going on in your life. As usual, I in my enthusiam and
eagerness, was trying too hard, and not just letting
things happen.
After my cry, I then headed back home to have
a nap where my friends were just heading down to the
water. An hour later they came back and told me the
dolphins were at Two Step Beach. I raced down and
there they were, about 20 dolphins swimming and
jumping out of the water and spinning in the air. I
jumped in and swam out to where they were and got to
experience them for 20 minutes or so. Not only do they
spin, but they also do full somersaults. You can't
help but laugh when you see it.
The next day at Keakelua Bay there were about 50
or 60 swimming. While most of the adults are snoozing
after a night feeding at sea, the juvenile ones like
to play around and jump and interact with the people
out there waiting for them.
It is a beautiful, serene sight to be floating
above a pod of a dozen dolphins cruising below you in
the deep blue. You can hear their clicks and
chattering. Several times they surfaced within 5 or 10
feet of where I was. A I heard several people laughing
because several dolphins were playing
the "leaf game"- one catches a big leaf on a flipper
and the others try to snatch it away. If you're really
lucky, they'll eventually include you in the game and
deposit it a few feet in front of you. The moment you
try to grab it, one will race out and snag it away.
They always win.
Another time I saw a tiny baby dolphin come to
the surface just several feet in front of a woman,
turn on it's side, and splash her face with its tail,
then race away.
The highlight of my encounters came on the third
day when a pod of 6 passed below me, among then a
small baby not more than three feet long. Out of it's
air hole came a large bubble that turned into a
perfect ring (like a person blowing a smoke ring). As
it slowly rose to the surface the diameter got bigger like a halo
and then it broke up into bubbles. I tried to swim through it, as
it's supposedly great
luck to do so. Later, I heard from several people,
that though they've seen an air ring in videos,
they've never seen it themselves, so I felt like a
received a great gift.
These first encounters were so fraught with
exictment and expectations that I'm afraid I was not
attuned to the more subtle energies of the dolphins;
their needs, their sonar and healing abilities, the
instant telepathic communications that everyone says
is possible. After being with dolphins enough,
you calm down and experience them on a deeper
level.
Love and Peace,
Bill
Bill Strubbe's travel articles have appeared in numerous publications
including the New York Times, The San Francisco Examiner, Mother Jones and
The Advocate. You can contact him through
Inspired Planet.
|
