27 February 2007

In Shintaido, one of the basic forms is called Wakame--Japanese for seaweed. We practice being rooted to the floor of the sea, waving forward and back as currents shift, fish enter and exit, sharks come punching through. Seaweed bends and recovers, crumples and recovers, twists and recovers. Responds to intrusion without getting carried away. Seaweed doesn’t harden, resist or punch back. Doesn’t get taken out or uprooted. Flexes with the changing current, and recovers.

26 February 2007

The beloved cable cars are pulled up and down some of the steeper streets of San Francisco—adventuresome transportation. The mechanical workings creak and groan—the driver rings his bell like a madman. The cars grunt up hills, and careen down—when not stopped behind an unconsciously parked delivery truck. The driver rings his bell again.

The open sides of the car exposed a friend and me to the rain and cold wind today. (A worker from a restaurant, a box above his head for protection from the elements, took one look at my sopping pants and laughed out loud.) The ride back, we stood on the sideboard, clinging to the rail. The people in the cars and trucks around us were safely boxed and belted and warmed. We felt no envy.

The friendship has elements of endurance and unpredictability, charm and weathered paint, history and fanatical love, not unlike the little cable cars.

25 February 2007

the feet in white tabi go
like this, like this, like this
passionate visual song
against the wood floor

watch the finesse
the missteps the recoveries
the grace and sweat
of human form

every day
rich
any day
beautiful
this day
worth attention
pay attention!

the sweet ache of bruised knees
a blistered foot
you’re not dead yet
your body happy
to feel surprise
of physical art

the multi-moon mosaic
of eucalyptus leaves
green yellow red crescents
pressed into dark earth

the smell of hot cornbread
in a small car in the rain

a grown girl dresses a little girl
in a yukata
rust-colored
with white rabbits

24 February 2007

we stumble
indecisive in the mist
but stay.
a red-tailed hawk
upright in mid-air
blesses the start
and finish.
the sun finds a hole
in the sky’s gray mask
a brief benevolence.
the weather shifts
from gloom to light
to wind and wet again.
we struggle to see.
we want to move forward.
doors appear in the dark
that were not there in light.

(I need new words
to write about this day.)

23 February 2007

There are many kinds of love, and my story here of stranger comes to town has slowly evolved into one of love. Teacher love and fellow student love and housemate love and coffee shop owner love--across ages and genders and situations. Meanwhile, I hear from distant family and teachers, coworkers, friends and poets.

How rich is life? No two of us snowflakes the same. Our fortune comes when we take time to be with people attentively. To take pleasure in each distinct design. Our fortune comes when we see at this moment how wealthy we are.

22 February 2007

just below Beacon Street



and so you stand
on the night side of a hill
and gaze upon
the lighted city below
breathe in cool mist
bearing conifer and sweet anise

you tug your coat
closer to your chest

from the darkness
you see lacework of lights

surrounded by city
you know you are wild

and a nervous little mutt jingles in
sniffs the brush that skirts the quiet dirt path
and trots away

in the absence of dog
you know aloneness

so now you see
this moment
this spot
this dark
this wildness
this fragrant air
this perfect contentment
is all for you

(now offered
to you)

21 February 2007

Supplies in the cabinet are running low. Still, I decided to make caponata--something I haven’t made in maybe 15 years--without olive oil or garlic or pasta or recipe. I have to say, even so, it’s very good.

1 medium large eggplant, peeled and cut into one-inch cubes
half an onion, chopped
3 ribs celery, chopped
about a quarter cup canola oil (olive, if you have it!)
1 can (10 oz) Rotel tomatoes and chiles (only tomatoes I had! Adds spark.)
2 1/2 roma tomatoes (I suppose 2 would be fine--or perhaps 3:)
about 15 medium pitted green olives, sliced into thirds
1 tablepoon or more raisins
half teaspoon dried oregano (fresh herbs would be nice!)
1/2 tsp salt (be conservative since the olives are salty)
light dusting of Chachere’s seasoning

Heat oil over medium flame in a heavy pot. Add onion, celery and eggplant. Stir frequently until softened--maybe 10-12 minutes. Stir in canned tomatoes, roma tomatoes. Bring to boil. Let simmer about half an hour or less. Stir in olives and raisins. Let simmer another 15 minutes.

Serve over fresh hot brown rice. (Or pasta, if you must. Can also be an appetizer with toasted Italian bread.)

Obviously, this is a dish you can play around with, depending on what you have on hand. I remember the official recipe for caponata being more complicated to prepare--but this came out pretty much like I remember.

20 February 2007

In grad school, I took a year-long seminar on sleep and dreams. We were taught an underlying structure for doing dream work: that every dream may be approached on three levels.

The first is the dream as reflection of the individual. Every person, animal, thing, emotion in the dream corresponds to some aspect of the dreamer. So, if an angry shark is attacking a sleepy little girl in a small backyard pool, we can think about what’s the shark within the dreamer, what’s the little girl part of the dreamer, how is the dreamer a small backyard pool. What’s angry in the dreamer, what’s sleepy.

The second level is the dream as representative of the self in relation to people and situations in the dreamer’s life (past, present, future). So, perhaps the shark has nose hair very like the dreamer’s dad, and the little girl is wearing a shirt like the dreamer’s partner and the pool is just like the one on a TV show the dreamer always watches. In the dream, the water is very cold. The individual might ask who is angry in my life, who is sleepy, who or what is cold. So, lots of connections may arise.

The third level is the dream as representative of the universal, looking for archetypal images, connections to the collective unconscious. This concept assumes we are connected to all things across time. We are connected to God, or spirit, or light, or soul. That universal relationship inhabits our dreams. (Every small backyard drama has universal themes!)

This three-level framework for exploring dreams is not very different from the structure beneath many spiritual practices. We strive to 1) love/know ourselves, 2) love/know others and our world, 3) love/know God.

19 February 2007

American White Pelicans in flight are hard to forget. They travel long distances in great spiraling wheels. Slow and hypnotic, the black and white of their bodies catch light like an Escher print in motion. The geometry of nature.

The first time I saw them, they were circling slow and high, big birds, over a soccer game. One of the parents knew what they were. I was dubious. Pelicans? Over central Texas—who heard of such a thing?

But I saw them now and again over the years. It was the kind of deal where a neighbor would call: ‘Linda! The pelicans are here!’ And as a wheel of them churned and crested over the hill and down above us, we breathed ‘Oh!’

Once I saw wave after wave of them flying northwest over the highway outside of Austin. It was mid-morning the day before Easter. They hadn’t caught their migrating altitude yet, and so were stringing out, and pulling back into circles, finding working formations. Undulating patterns in slow motion. I pulled the car off the road and watched—hundreds and hundreds of magnificent birds lifting off.

Some remain on the Texas coast and in California year round, others migrate, some from as deep south as Mexico far north into Alberta and Saskatchewan. I’ve only seen them up close a few times. While the Brown Pelican is amazing in how it dives from the air for fish in the sea, the American Whites to me are fascinating in flight, aerodynamically at their most efficient moving forward in gyrating groups.

A flock wended their way in slow revolutions high above Lake Temescal yesterday, black-white, black-white in the morning sunlight. Oh!

17 February 2007

The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there
is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.

Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks
…The core question is, of course, is it all in my head?

She exhibited her martial arts skills during kangeiko (Winter Practice). When she was done, after the powerful sounds of her voice, the precision of her movements, the upper half of the gym seemed filled with light like powdery snow. I saw this effect with another exhibition as well. And the next day driving home, and the day after, my eyes perceived all sunlight in this way. An intriguing dazed sensation, that powdery white light.

Thus the question: Is this something created by my own over-stimulated brain—mild hallucinations/visual distortions—or is it a phenomenon outside of me, somehow generated by the woman, light in the room with physical properties?

Or is it about a trigger—like the singer hits the right note, the glass breaks. External trigger, internal, physiological response: light effects.

Is what’s called spiritual light a form of physical light?

Some spiritual types tend to say it just is, let it go, or that God has His mysteries, or they say nothing at all.

Some scientist types tend to say well, no. It just isn’t. Let it go.

Some medical types say: There are drugs to treat this! We’ll fix you right up!

I’m a spiritual-scientific-medical type:) What am I to do?

The content of these experiences is not disturbing. But it’s not an easy topic of conversation. There’s loss of credibility to consider.

I believe in exploration. With open mind and preferably not alone. The first step of the scientific process is observation/documentation…

15 February 2007

howling
restless
hungry
fevered

-energy and fight
fold into stillness
eyes focus
on horizon-

dumb animal
doesn’t know
she’s giving birth
knows just what to do

14 February 2007

I usually walk up Miguel to Chenery, take a right for Taimyo, take a left for bo or yoga. Today for the first time, I went straight--up the steep hill toward the mysterious trees I’d wondered about.

Turns out Miguel angles right and changes to Beacon. It was surprisingly quiet. Beyond the trees and ivy which sheltered a secluded residence and housing under construction, the street opened out again. I came upon a dirt path--not very common in the city. I took it up a grassy hill, lush green with the recent rains. There was an outcrop of igneous rock, and two very tall eucalyptus at a small overlook from which I could see the bay, and far down 30th toward Bernal Peak. I could see St. Paul’s two steeples on Church Street below. A chilly breeze was blowing. Facing east--the only sign of the setting sun was its reflection off a gold glass skyscraper downtown.

Again, so quiet. No people. No cars moving nearby though I could easily see a couple hundred salt-box houses before me.

A man with his shaggy retriever emerged down below. The man was wearing a shirt the color of mine--ruby. I was in plain view, far above him. It was as though we were the only two humans in this vast city landscape. Because he was far away, I waved, woman to man. He looked, and timidly waved back, which pleased me. Then I retreated and found a nook in one of the eucalyptus where I could see the white line of light, cars upon the distant bridge. I couldn’t believe that with so short a walk I’d discovered such a wild and quiet place. A shrub with leaves that smelled of licorice. A homemade rope and wood plank swing. The wind blew my hair across my face, and I knew myself as alive.

I was up there for some time when I sensed movement. Just before my hideaway, there came the man with the ruby sweater, smiling secretly to himself as the trail took him within touching distance. I watched him pretend not to notice me.

I watched him walk down the hill with his long legs, calling his dog back to him. I could see his little bald spot. He had difficulty descending the slope; he was wearing slip-on sandals with white socks. I don’t think he’d intended to climb a hill when he’d come out of his house.

As I walked back on Miquel, I stopped on the bridge that crosses above San Jose, noisy with rush hour traffic. A stray Mylar heart floated up and up, the foil side catching light from the west. I watched until it was just a dot in the dusky sky.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

13 February 2007

“I’m ready to pull a rabbit out of a hat
But I’ve got no rabbit
I’ve got no hat”

I wrote that some days back. My 4 months here are up according to the calendar and pocketbook. I’ve felt lost. I was supposed to have things figured out by now. Every time someone asked my plans, I gave a different answer. Not a problem unless you’re a landlady, or—well. I was getting to be annoying. And it’s been embarrassing. (Yes. I have plenty of ego left, for better or worse.)

I’ve stuck to following my gut, though, even while I was trying to come up with higher brain backup plans just in case, or just to sound normal. Following the gut has meant I haven’t known where home is or will be, but that’s part of the game. That’s part of what’s brought me back to life.

So. I keep on doing what I love doing: the shintaido, the writing, the walking, the shintaido, the writing, the walking. The stunning people encounters along the way. What both stimulates my appetite for life and feeds it. Follow it a little deeper here, a little differently there. Keep family and friends on hold. I mumble whatever comes to mind at the moment.

I know what I’m doing but I don’t always know I know what I’m doing.

Things are much better than they were a year ago. Meanwhile, today I see rabbits—a direction! Hat’s long gone—

12 February 2007

she was born
with a shock of hair
teal blue
iridescent like a bird’s feather

the doctor said
this must be hidden
this must be kept secret

11 February 2007

rain clouds darken the hill ahead-
cars driving toward
the forested blackness

a curve of wet-polished highway
catches sunlight
source unseen—
white fire
pools and spreads—
a volatile lake of light
trembling within
the bottom of the black bowl
and bulge of quake-carved earth

one radiant moment
within a mundane minute
of the hour drive home:
dark and light fuse

10 February 2007

The Glass and the Bowl

The father pours the milk from his glass
into the cup of the child
and as the child drinks
the whiteness, opening
her throat to the good taste
eagerly, the father is filled.
He closes the refrigerator
on its light, he walks out
under the bowl of frozen darkness
and nothing seems withheld from him.
Overhead, the burst ropes of stars,
the buckets of craters,
the chaos of heaven, absence
of refuge in the design.
Yet down here, his daughter
in her quilts, under patterns
of diamonds and novas,
full of rich milk,
sleeping.

by Louise Erdrich

09 February 2007

One afternoon, I carried the playpen to the yard, and hoisted the toddler into it. From there, he could watch his almost 4-year-old brother and me gather limestone and build a fire ring. He could see far across the valley to the hills south and west. The air was brisk, but not cold, and fragrant with juniper.

Big brother worked hard, hunting down and carrying a lot of rocks. We made an initial circle of the larger stones, flat and pocked by weathering. Gradually, we added more rocks of varied shapes, neither of us experienced, but able to grasp the concept that we didn’t want them to tumble down at the first go.

Little brother protested his restricted territory, but soon gave up and watched, entertained by the antics of mom and brother as we passed by, feigning that the stones were heavier than they were, or doing dances, or running up and patting him on the head. He couldn’t wander unattended because it was a hard slope with small rocks and fire ants and other hazards for one so small.

It wasn’t a sunny afternoon, but one of those late-winter days where the sun behind high clouds illuminates sky into mother-of-pearl.

The fire ring has been used many, many times, for equinoxes and solstices and odd occasions. It still stands at the little house in Big Country.

08 February 2007

Imagine the time the particle you are
returns where it came from!

The family darling comes home. Wine,
without being contained in cups,
is handed around.

A red glint appears in a granite outcrop,
and suddenly the whole cliff turns to ruby…

from: A Bowl
Rumi
Translated by Coleman Barks

07 February 2007

Eiko Dai at Glen Park

run run
no sight of sun
clouds smooth silver
in a polished sky
swallow air
run run
start to slow
no no
run some more
wind high in the trees
whispering light
dark hawk
in and out
and iiiiinnnnnnn
slower slower
treetops sway
feet nearly still
a guitar string snapping-
this inner breaking-
eyes moist with surprise
green leaves against brown
sharp focus aground
bright bright
breathless sight

06 February 2007

It was all about oranges and Louisiana the other day. However, I edited out some darker stanzas that didn’t work with the stuff about azaleas, horses and bounty.

We humans have a hard time integrating shadow. I suspect, though, the more we can see light and shadow both, the less trouble with disconnectedness, with unawareness, we might have.

Dissociation, compartmentalizing. The stuff that makes presidents and this mature good woman blindered and at times forgetful, blundering, cruel, immobile, less than honest. So—in respect for that thought—here are the missing shadow stanzas to the pretty stanzas:

we had a bomb shelter
under ground.
it filled with water
if not pumped continuously-
the water table high-
the house only 30 miles from the gulf.
We used it for bad weather.
Even on dry days
the shelter’s enameled
cinder block walls
beaded cold sweat
and smelled of mouldering.
The pump whined
on and on.

Hurricane Hilda came.
The electricity died.
We got to choose:
drown in the night
in a bomb shelter
slowly filling with water
or blow away with the shrieking house.
we picked the latter
good choice.
the house stayed put
though pines were broken
things inside were broken too.

Prostrate on
the steel girder bunk
waiting out many a harmless storm
that swept through
in the middle of the night
I thought about life
in that dank
8 by 8 by 8 cube
if there were a bomb:
no privacy with the little folding toilet
years-old cans of hash
stale bottled water
four of us in a room
nothing alive outside
dark day dark night lit by
battery-powered light

05 February 2007

This morning I woke up and drew a table with 4 legs. I labeled each leg:

awareness of breath
awareness of light (via any of the senses)
physical opening/alignment
awareness of nature/each other

Of course, the table, each leg would have its own shadow, and I don’t know what to call the tabletop, what the legs are supporting…

Then I got dressed, drove my landlady friend to work and went to Safeway and bought olives, wine, a baguette, fruit juice, potatoes, chocolate. Toilet paper. Vegetarian chili. Valentines and conversation hearts to send my sons. Now I’m going to sweep and mop the kitchen floor…

Transitions in life, when they aren’t scary, can be rather humorous.

04 February 2007

‘Fortune presents gifts not according to the book…’
Dead Can Dance

The intro to the fifth track of the Dead Can Dance CD has a single note held throughout, like the drone you hear beneath the melody line of a bagpipe. In this specific intro, there is no bagpipe, just a drone, and a keyboard melody.

Many songs are sung.
Our lives play out
against the background hum,
melodies-
tiny tributaries-
that branch
from the river
for a space of time
and flow back in
to the core,
to the energy
of the all

Hear that hum, and hear source.

03 February 2007

pink balloons
tied with white ribbon
to a schoolyard fence
flutter in the sun

02 February 2007

It's one of my last oranges
grown some couple thousand miles away
on land where I lived
from seven to eighteen.
My parents still live there.

the orange mottled with smudges
earth I guess
the stuff I was originally made of
i am indeed a native of earth

the orange smells
of poignancy
of Louisiana sun
and rich loam
sultry fragrant air
a weeping willow
and fig tree long dead
things grow easily

the orange’s thin skin
opens beneath my thumbnail
its torn inner fruit
running with juices
pale and delicate

we had goats
and haggard horses
with no duties but to wander the pasture
and eat where they would.
how can an orange
contain their companionable voices?
even now there’s a horse trough
whose algae supports
a half dozen goldfish

Wild pecans grow
of certain shape, flavor, texture
shells thick or thin
depending on the tree
and the vagaries of the season.
There was wild cherry
when I was a girl
and if you look down in the grass
close to the earth
you may find violets
or wild strawberries.
The blackberries and spider lilies are long gone
but azaleas bloom
like water from a fountain
pink on pink on pink

Oranges it seems grow
as effortlessly as the sun rises each day.
the dark glossy tree
just stuck in the ground and left alone
is now mature and bountiful.
who knew
the land could
offer something unexpected
something beautiful
late after our
self-absorbed arrival.
who knew its fruit
could travel so far.

01 February 2007

I’m studying and practising 'eiko dai'--an all-out running toward horizon, toward your future, past your limitations. In effect, you point in one direction, let go of all the crap that holds you back, and break through to who you are, toward where you are going.

This journey...Texas, California, Shintaido...is one great Eiko Dai in progress...running running in one direction...

it nearly comes to a halt

i stumble, reel

seeing only my errors, my hurt

I find though here I am still running toward horizon

even in my room