Breathe in the Buddha, weathered and worn but still flashing that beatific smile, he knows something that we don’t know. His once gilded body is now covered in bare patches, bleached bone white by years in the sun. Nothing lasts forever so one day our Buddha will be all white, his golden body just a memory.

Breathe in this redwood tree, a mere infant by redwood tree standards. From its humble beginning as a tiny seedling that sprouted from a patch of mulch in our backyard to its current height of nearly fifteen feet, this tree is a testament to persistence, it clearly wanted to grow here. Breathe in  the hundreds of pale green fingers of springtime growth that cover the tips of it’s branches. I feel the joy that our little redwood tree feels as it’s crown reaches skyward to catch the first rays of morning and the last pieces of the sunset. This tree’s trunk is straight and strong, it’s upper branches already a master of the wind dance.

Breathe in the sounds of this fountain, the centerpiece of Carol’s inspired new Zen garden that she recently created in the midst of a small triangular shaped bit of wasted space behind a shed in the far corner of our yard. Where there were once just weeds and rocks, old scraps of wood and the rusting bones of Sam and Denali’s first two-wheeled bicycles, has now risen a peaceful space ideally suited for quiet meditation. The fountain is solar powered and requires the sun’s rays to give its waters their voice. I close my eyes and breathe. This fountain’s song is a creek tumbling over polished stones as it makes its way through the forest, it’s the sound of the receding surf flowing back over thousands of shimmering sea stones, a symphony of aural psychedelia.

Breathe in the songbirds of spring that call our yard home. The brilliant yellow hooded oriole, the mockingbird, the tiny titmice and finches, towhees and robins, the zip, zip, buzz of the hummingbirds, the chattering call of the woodpeckers. Our fountains and feeders, trees and bushes offer our avian companions everything they need. If I were a bird I’d definitely live here! Our cat Ella is bemused by it all. She’s no threat to the birds and seems content to just sprawl on the deck in the sun and watch them go about their business. Living here for over two decades, we’ve become very acquainted with the ebb and flow of our birds throughout the year and their seasonal dances as they come and go.

Breathe in the chimes, they’re just pretty ornaments until the wind gives them voice and the music begins. Like clockwork the wind picks up every day in late afternoon and the songs of our chimes fill the air. From the high tinkling sounds of the smallest to the deep and sonorous tones of the largest, they sing together in harmony, celebrating the ebb and flow of the wind, the clean fresh air, the blue sky and foggy mornings, the blessing of this glorious green spring and the gift of another day.

Breathe in the cloud dance, a slow motion serenade across an impossibly blue sky on this serene late afternoon in May. The crows and ravens are black V’s as they and the clouds glide together with the wind. I spy a heart-shaped silver balloon sailing way up there with them. The last rays of sun illuminate a bright red heart at its center. Love on the wing. The tops of towering eucalyptus trees shimmer and sway as they join the clouds and the birds. I’m in shadow now but up there the sun is still shining, the tops of these majestic trees have the honor of bidding this day a final goodbye. Namaste.

The summer of 1969 was the summer of Woodstock. While the festival was unfolding at Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in upstate New York I was at the Jersey Shore on our family’s annual week long vacation. I was fascinated by it all.  Hundreds of thousands of young people converging in one place, grooving to the best bands of the time. It was an event for the ages. During the week of August 15-18 Woodstock dominated the news and was a welcome respite from the grim nightly body counts of the Vietnam War. I really wanted to be at Woodstock and pleaded with my mom to let me go. There was only one problem: in August of 1969 I was 12 years old. While I couldn’t physically be at the festival, I was there in spirit and that was the summer that I became a hippie.

To my conservative parents and others of their generation, the word ”hippie” had very negative connotations. Where they saw a ragtag confederation of dirty, drug taking, draft card burning bums, I saw beautiful and free young people with flowers in their hair who dared to dream of a better way to live. To a young boy on the cusp of coming of age, the allure of the hippies and everything they represented was powerful. 

Luckily at the shore that summer I had an ally in my cousin Patty. We were hippies together, much to the chagrin of our parents. In order to gain their approval, we assured our folks that we were “clean hippies”. We promised to take baths and brush our hair, however we did walk barefoot everywhere and wore colorful strands of “love beads” around our necks. Meanwhile I was engaged in a near constant battle with my mom over the length of my hair. Long hair in the summer of 1969 was a political statement and an outward show of solidarity with the hippies and mom was having none of it! However, I persisted and somehow managed a bit of a McCartney-esq coif with bangs sweeping across my eyebrows. My cousin wore her hair in the classic style of that era for girls: long, parted down the middle and falling past her shoulders.

Ten years later I ended up living in Northern California just a few miles south of San Francisco, the flashpoint from where the hippies and the counterculture as a whole sprung from. I’ve tried to live more of an alternative lifestyle and to hold the essence of the hippie ethic in my heart. Well, I can proudly say that I’m most definitely still a hippie. I never made it to Woodstock but I did manage to write and record this song, it’s called I Wanna Be A Hippie At Woodstock. You can give it a listen at the bottom of this story.

Our hyperdrive, instant gratification, attention span of a flea culture has recently become more so: there is now a clock in a baseball game. Up until the start of the current season, there were no time limits in baseball, the only major sport without a clock. Since its inception in the mid 1800’s a baseball game unfolded at a leisurely pace. The pitcher took as much time as he needed to throw a pitch, the batter stepped out of the batter’s box whenever he felt like it. A game could last two hours or four hours or… as Hall of Fame catcher Yogi Berra once famously stated; “It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.” Outside of minor tweeks to the rules, baseball has remained basically unchanged. However, our culture has done nothing but change. We’re living in the age of smartphones and Google and “Hey Siri”, everyday life unfolds at a dizzying pace. The popularity of the NBA and NFL have grown dramatically as these sports have become faster paced with more action and scoring, reflecting the times we live in. In contrast baseball, where a game could theoretically go on indefinitely, has become increasingly out of step with the times. Attendance and television viewing were both down. Baseball wasn’t attracting the younger crowd. “Gotta speed up the game, keep pace with the times,” they said. Hence the pitch clock.

In order to speed up the game a pitcher now has :15 to throw a pitch, :20 if there’s a man on base. If he fails to do so, an automatic ball is called. A batter is allowed one time out per at bat. If he exceeds that or is not ready when the pitcher throws the ball, an automatic strike is called. The pitcher is allowed to throw over to a base three times while a runner is on. If he fails to pick the runner off on the third attempt, a balk is called and the runner advances one base. So far the effects of the pitch clock have been dramatic. The length of an average game has been cut by over 20 minutes. The overall pace has increased, the game moves along. I’ve been to a couple of games so far this season and watched many on tv. Gone are the endless throws over to first base, the constant dance of pitcher and batter as they take turns stepping in and out of the batter’s box and pitching rubber. I was quite skeptical at first but I must admit I’m enjoying the way the games now move along. However, a big change like this comes with a cost. Something has been lost here.

In everyday life we are always concerned about time. Am I late? Early? Gotta get there, can’t waste time. We’ve become a society of clock watchers. A baseball game was one place where time had no importance, one place where I didn’t have to watch the seconds tick away. While at a game I had all the time in the world because there was no time! Thankfully, there’s as yet no clock on the time of the game as a whole but with the pitch clock, games are now shorter, their length more predictable, it almost feels like the games are timed. My main issue here is, like it not, I now have to be aware of the time at a baseball game. Yes, things move along quicker, but a game now feels rushed. Prior to the pitch clock, nothing felt hurried about a baseball game, it unfolded at its own leisurely pace. While at a game, I’d just relax, it would be over “when it was over.” Now there’s a time restraint in a game that has never had one. But we’ve gotta get the game in, spend less time at the ballpark, get out of there quicker so we can do….what?