Monday, May 16, 2005

They had to bag the access road this morning to keep it from washing out again. By the time I got back with my camera the crew had finished bagging and was gone. But here are a few shots of The Way In, which is also The Way Out. The Crossing The Culvert The Water The Bags 3:07:18 PM    comment []

"The heart of healing is found in focused action and intention wrapped in the arms of surrender. Focused action and intention wrapped gently in the arms of surrender. Not only for patients and their loved ones, but also those of us who've devoted our lives to the service of healing. "To remember, even in our work of service, at the end of the day, we are really not in control.  "All we can do is bring our love, our presence, our consciousness, our intent to be present with what is happening, to smile with love if we can, to take action whenever we can, and to try always, to have our actions, and our intention, and our efforts, wrapped in the arms of surrender and gratitude." From "The Heart of Healing" spoken by Jeremy Geffen 10:21:47 AM    comment []

I have experienced so many end-to-end weeks of rain only as a child in the middle of an endless Los Angeles winter, when the only way for a skinny little third-grader to cross a street coming home from school was to climb over the parked cars that straddled deep rushing curbside rivers to the relative shallowness of the middle of the street. This morning's downpour comes down every bit as steadily and hard as it did all night, and yesterday morning and the night before. I don't know how the llamas can stand it. Where we used to live they had an old stable to shelter in, here only a few junipers at the top of a slope. Their wool is never dry. I expect to see mosses sprouting in it. And on and on about rain and damp until you're sure you'll scream. Yesterday I baked four respectable whole-wheat loaves and put together a decent pizza. I moved furniture around to make a work surface in the tiny kitchen, and if when the rain stops I'll drag in the old wooden table that's spent the winter out in the weather. Dry it off. Glue/screw its age-amputated leg in place and set it up as a place to eat, with a bright cloth. I keep the bad stink-loving dogs inside, and when I do let them out now I watch them and call them in right away. This must be until the weather clears and I can set up a barrier fence to keep them from rolling in the dead. Some health issues have made themselves felt as a result of the strain around the flooded-pasture activity a week or so ago, and I'll make an appointment to talk things over with the local M.D. They're more like warning signs than anything, but they color the prospect of the great move east to come. Soon I must go out into the wet to mail a stack of books, and drop off my time sheet in Alturas, and buy milk and fruit for Brian. Both conveyances are running poorly, suddenly, and I'll drive the little pickup today, take the van in later this week for diagnosis. Battery-related ills. How the outer will mirror the inner. But this is a good day to attack the far upstairs--the loft and head-bashing attic room I've given over to the (former) Field Cats. Much sweeping and straightening to be done. I stash my cache of "antique" books there, and toys. I can start the Great Sort and winnow out the worthless and undesirable. A rainy afternoon in the attic, with stuffed animals and book dust. 9:48:44 AM    comment []

As you go mired in this spring's filthy flood think about that other spring when the world was dry and clean, when mason bees inseminated apricot blossoms and good-natured snakes warmed athwart the lane. Nettles debuted in their vivid fringes. Lawn-poppies wobbled infant heads. It was magical--an eye-blink, a twinkle in time given to get you through these wet dead years that drag on after. Something to hold in mind. Something to strive for. 9:43:51 AM    comment []