By Louie Ferrera

des-tin-y

1. the seemingly inevitable or necessary succession of events.

It’s entirely possible that one of the most significant days of your life has come and gone without you noticing. It most likely appeared uneventful at the time but somewhere down the road perhaps you’ll be able to pinpoint that day as the beginning of a chain reaction. Like an echo in time, the events of that particular day have reverberated throughout your entire life. There have been a few such days in my own life.

September 5, 1985

I was attending a Grateful Dead concert at Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado. I had recently purchased my first 35mm camera and was enrolled in a photography class at the local junior college. I had gotten into the habit of carrying my camera everywhere. In the tradition of famous street photographers like Cartier Bresson, I would snap away at random hoping to capture that elusive “decisive moment”. At Red Rocks that day, I did indeed capture a decisive moment, although at the time I didn’t realize how decisive that moment was until nearly a year later.

Red Rocks that afternoon was a swirl of color and light, tie dyes and flowing hair, smiles and marijuana smoke, patchouli and promise. While surveying the pre-show crowd, a lovely young woman with shoulder length brown hair and an electric smile caught my eye. I snapped off two quick frames and moved on, not giving this fleeting moment another thought until two months later when I ran into Ms Electric Smile again, this time at a Grateful Dead concert in Oakland, CA. Her name was Michelle and she had just relocated to the Bay Area from Denver.  I introduced myself and told Michele that I had these photos and would like to send them along to her. Over the next six months we kept running into each other at Dead shows. We became friends, then lovers. Michelle and I had a sweet eight year relationship that eventually transitioned into a deep and loving friendship that continues to this day.

Michelle also introduced me to some of her friends, an eclectic group of fellow travelers, our common thread being the love of the Grateful Dead. From those initial meetings bloomed many heartfelt friendships that are still going strong. John officiated at  mine and Carol’s wedding and I was best man at Mitch’s wedding. These two guys are like brothers to me. All this as the result of two random photographs.

February 22, 1992

I’m in the hallway at the Oakland Coliseum deep within the vortex of hundreds of other dancers as we swirl and sway, hip hop and sashay to our favorite band, the Grateful Dead. At one point during the show, I noticed this woman dancing with reckless abandon into our orbit. She looked a bit like Joni Mitchell, circa 1969, complete with  flowing blonde hair and bangs. I was immediately drawn to her wild energy, crazy laugh and beaming smile. That was the beginning of my friendship with Dannielle. Over the next decade Dann and I shared more fun, crazy, intense times than I can begin to recount. All of which lead me to:

April 21, 2001

It was a Saturday afternoon. I was at Dannielle’s apartment helping her paint. I had no way of knowing that I was about to meet the love of my life and future mother of our two children.

The previous summer I had just gotten out of a four year relationship and that was just about the time when Dannielle started talking up this friend of hers named Carol whom she had met several years ago waiting in line for Grateful Dead tickets. “Carol’s a hippie, dancer, Deadhead, traveler, you’d love her.” I was definitely intrigued. It took a few months but Dann finally managed to arrange a meeting between me and Carol.

Needless to say, my mind wasn’t really on painting that afternoon at Dannielle’s. Carol was coming over and the three of us would later head to a local bar for drinks and a bluegrass band. Dann lived in a studio apartment above a house in Santa Rosa. The access to her apartment is via a winding metal staircase. Two things will live in my memory forever from that initial meeting with Carol. The first was the clomp, clomp, clomp that her shoes made as she ascended those metal stairs. The second was the way Carol burst through the door and into my life. She wore a scarf around her head that intwined through her long, flowing red hair. Her colorful, patchwork skirt swished around her ankles as she entered. Carol’s sparkling blue eyes and broad, toothy smile lit up the room. It was at that instant when the rest if my life began. 

These events have had a profound effect on me, changed my life for the better and made me a believer in destiny.

By Louie Ferrera

Electric orbs of fruit dangle from our tangerine tree like earrings on the Buddha. Tangerines are holy fruit, each one is a sunrise or a sunset; the promise of a new day or gratitude for the day that has just passed. Is there a more delightful fruit than a tangerine?

The “tree” in our backyard is really no more than a bush about four feet high. This year it’s packed with so much fruit, I had to prop up its branches with poles to prevent breakage. Other than that, the tree requires such little care; a bit of weeding, some compost and a round or two of organic fertilizer is all it takes for this tree to thrive year in and year out. The appearance in summer of pure white blossoms with their intoxicatingly sweet fragrance is a harbinger of the sweetness to come.

Tangerines ripen in early winter, we have perhaps a month or so to harvest and eat the fruit before it rots. We rarely waste any. The ephemeral nature  of the fruit makes it all the more special. Tangerines are available most of the year in supermarkets but I rarely buy them. Their taste is a mere shadow of the succulent gems that our tree produces. The time that I get to eat homegrown tangerines is short, so I savor each and every one. Sooner than later I’ll pick the last one and the tree will once again be barren. I take full advantage of the miracle of sun, soil and water that produces our tangerines.

Unlike an orange, which takes time and effort to peel, the peel of a tangerine surrenders itself quite easily. Attached to the fruit by thin white tendrils, the peel of a tangerine can be removed in one piece, in mere seconds. If a tangerine is small enough it can be consumed in one or two bites. Ahh, but if you do that, you’re missing half the fun. It takes many months for a tangerine to go from blossom to ripe fruit, so why rush it? It’s best to experience a slow savor. Each segment is a crescent moon, eat those crescents one at a time and experience the taste of sweet summer sunshine, a lazy day at the beach, a feeling of total fulfillment. The snap of the fruit when you bite into it, the sweet/tart taste of the juice as it fills your mouth is one of the great simple pleasures of life.

Appreciate what you have, give thanks for the beauty that surrounds you; be it a Monet palette sunset, the warm comfort of the ones you love or the simple beauty and taste of a tangerine.

By Louie Ferrera

Heading out through the forest today, the journey is the trip. It’s a slow and deliberate stroll, I’m breathing, listening and seeing with eyes wide open. The air is redolent of winter, rains have given voice to the creek that flows below me as I walk upstream.  The silent stones of the creek bed have come alive, together with the flowing water a gentle symphony occurs. Plip, plop, gurggle…it’s a delightful and life affirming song, an ephemeral duet and I’m soaking in every sweet note knowing that by summer the stones will fall silent until they reawaken next winter.

Everything is green and flowing, I feel so alive and part of something greater than myself. Maidenhair Fern is the predominant plant along this trail. It’s tiny leaves sit at the end of nearly invisible stalks and appear to float in mid-air above the forest floor.  Bay trees are everywhere. I pick one of their sword shaped leaves, break it in half and a sweet, pungent aroma is released that makes my head swim. I hold the leaf under my nostrils, breathe deeply and memories of past hikes flood my mind. The sense of smell is a powerful time machine.

Mushrooms, another life form awakened by the rains, poke their heads through the forest duff. A solitary example stands about three inches tall atop a dull white stem the thickness of a chopstick. The cap is the size of a half dollar, flat and cream colored with a hint of pale yellow at its center. Other fungi peeks out from beside a trailside tree stump, this cluster of four pure white structures is a ghostly grass. Mushrooms are a mystery that I hope to never fully understand. Not all things on Earth are meant to be known.

On todays  journey I pause at Bullfrog Pond. There’s a Zen like tranquility here that’s grounding and always fills me with wonder. This place seems to exist out of time, it just is. The rains have filled the pond to the brim, water runs down the spillway at one end. The surface of the pond is khaki colored and glassy, broken only by a slight breeze which creates ripples and the illusion of flow.

Many of the same creatures that I usually encounter here are present today.  Bird life abounds. A black phoebe perches atop a skeletal willow flicking its tail and waiting for the prefect moment to swoop down and catch its next meal in mid-air. The resident pair of wood ducks are here too. The striking harlequin pattern on the head of the male makes this bird easy to identify. I’ve yet to  see the black, dinner plate sized red eared slider turtle, but I’m sure if I sit here long enough it may cruise by to say hello. (Later, on my walk around the pond, I spy it perched on a log, warming itself in the last rays of afternoon sunlight.) The chatter of acorn woodpeckers occasionally breaks the silence. A few juncos and sparrows flit in and out of the trees that surround the pond. I can see the gossamer of cobwebs  in the tops of trees. They shimmer in the breeze and glow when they catch the rays of the sun. The sun reflects off  the surface of the pond with mirror like intensity.

I love coming here at different times of the year to observe the changes that occur. It’s never the same twice. One thing that never changes though is the peaceful vibe and gentle energy that permeates this special place. Bullfrog Pond is the perfect spot for quiet thought and deep meditation.

By Louie Ferrera

It’s December 26, Christmas is finally over. All of the major holidays begin and end on their designated day. Thanksgiving, New Years, Halloween…etc they’re all one and done. Sure, there is a lead up to each of these days, but the actual celebrations last just the one day. On Thanksgiving, families gather, you have a feast, you drink, you watch football, you go to bed stuffed from overeating. The next day it’s all over. A turkey carcass in the fridge and empty wine bottles on the counter are the only evidence that a holiday had occurred. Kids trick or treat on October 31. The calendar is flipped and suddenly it’s November. All that remains are a few smashed pumpkins and those ridiculous inflatable ghosts and ghouls on people’s front lawns. By November 2, most of those are gone too. Nothing happens on July 3 or July 5. January 2 is just the second day of the year. Hanukah lasts eight days…but it’s supposed to. When the last candle has burned down, the menorah and dreidel are packed away until next December.

But Christmas, oh Christmas has a season. Many retail outlets, especially the “big box” stores, begin putting out Christmas merchandise and decorations in September. We were subjected to Walmart Christmas ads during the World Series at the end of October. The more than two month barrage of advertising and marketing is absolutely relentless and nearly impossible to avoid. It’s a slow creep until Christmas iconography looms over everything. Like Big Brother, Santa’s image is everywhere. After all, he saw you when you were sleeping and he knew when you were awake long before Google and Facebook did. And Christmas music? Now that’s a real mixed bag. Is there anything more joyful than Sleigh Ride by The Ronnettes? Anything more insipid than Last Christmas by Wham? Christmas itself is a mixed bag where joy and melancholy walk hand in hand. No song expresses this sentiment better than Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.

Most of this madness has less to do with the actual joys of Christmas and everything to do with the bottom line. One can hardly blame the ever vanishing mom and pop stores for wanting to cash in on Christmas. But the massive corporations? Don’t they make enough money the other 364 days of the year? It’s corporate greed, plain and simple.

The entire holiday season just goes on too damn long. I see cars driving around with fir trees tied to their roofs on Thanksgiving Day. When I walk around my neighborhood in mid January at night many houses are still ablaze with Christmas decorations. And don’t get me started on those outlandish, over the top front lawn displays, each house trying to one up the other. Whatever happened to a simple wreath and a string of lights? The excess makes me want to go into exile for two months. I once saw a lit Christmas tree in someone’s front window on February 2. I wonder what the groundhog would think if he emerged from his burrow and saw that?

Ok, if you’ve read this far I know what some of you are thinking, enough with the ranting. Names like Scrooge and Grinch have crossed your lips. I know I’m not alone though. More than a few of you must share my sentiments. Christmas can be a really sweet time of year but I want to celebrate it in my own time and on my own terms, not when Target or Disney tell me that I should. No wonder people often feel depressed this time of year.

Of course, there’s another side to all of this. Christmas as a kid is simply magical. Many of my fondest childhood memories are centered around the holidays. But as I grew up and Santa morphed into my mom and dad, Christmas lost most of its luster. I continued to celebrate Christmas but it’s not the same as an adult. All of that changed once I became a parent. When our kids were old enough to understand, I began to see Christmas through their eyes. The birth of our two children coincided with my switch from a fourth grade to a first grade teacher. Besides my own kids, I now had twenty others with that Christmas glow on their faces. I once had a student of mine ask, “Are Santa’s reindeer real?” I think you know how I answered that one. Not only were his reindeer real, but so was Santa and his elves and his workshop at the North Pole. Seeing the joy and wonder that my kids were experiencing reminded me that Christmas was about more than spending money and gift giving. Of course we give gifts to the kids and ourselves but our most treasured holiday traditions have nothing to do with shopping and spending money.

Every year we’d join our community for the tree lighting in the town square. Santa would ride in on the back of a fire truck. Our kids were usually first in line to greet him. We’d skate around the enormous Christmas tree at center ice inside Snoopy’s Home Ice. Together with our kids we’d glide across the ice, the arena bathed in the red, green, silver and gold lights of Christmas. It was cold and wintry and absolutely enchanting. We’d always take a family photo in front of the tree. One year we made ornaments from used wine corks. The stack of our favorite Christmas books would be read and reread. Of course on Christmas Eve we’d leave a plate of cookies and a glass of milk by the fireplace for Santa. The reindeer would get a carrot.

But alas, our kids are about to turn twenty. Like in Polar Express, they can no longer hear that sleigh bell ring. Carol and I are now Santa. Christmas has come full circle. The wheel continues to turn.

Meanwhile, in a few days our tree will come down. I’ll drag it into our backyard, remove the branches and store the trunk inside our shed. Next Christmas Eve, I’ll saw that trunk into small sections. With The Polar Express on the tv, each of us will feed our section into the fireplace. The logs will crackle in the fire, casting a glow on our smiling faces. It’s for this kind of sweet family tradition that Christmas is worth celebrating.

By Louie Ferrera

I stood beneath our oak tree and looked up through its nearly bare branches, the sky was milk white and formless. There was just enough breeze to dislodge a few leaves, one or two or five at a time. Some floated straight down, landing on the lawn or me. Others flew sideways or bumped against branches on their earthward journey. Each leaf moved through the air with the helter skelter flight pattern of a butterfly. I couldn’t tear myself away and became mesmerized by this sky ballet. Like snowflakes no two leaves are alike, each one is unique and beautiful in its own right, their colors and sizes of infinite variations. I was filled with grace and fully immersed in the fleeting beauty of this moment. Every leaf on this tree will eventually make the same journey. All of its branches will soon be bare and await the green buds of spring. The wheel continues to turn.

A miniature miracle like this occurs every day, anywhere you choose to look. The only requirement is to open your eyes and open your heart to the wonder that surrounds us all.

By Louie Ferrera

I walk out onto our back deck this morning just before dawn. Brilliant Venus is visible high in the indigo sky. As Earth spins towards the sun a thin band of orange and pink begins to appear in the east. Monet brush strokes paint the sky in pastel hues. It’s quiet, but quiet is a relative term. The drip and splash of our deck fountains breaks the silence. Much like the roar of the ocean, the wind through the trees or the gurgling of a mountain stream over stones, the sounds of the fountains enhance the silence. In the background however, I can hear the distant roar of the 101 freeway. It’s several miles away as the crow flies but in the stillness of this pre-dawn hour sound carries far. Living here in town, I know all too well that real quiet is hard to come by.

Luckily, I don’t have to travel very far in order to find true silence, as in the total absence of any sounds at all, as in pin drop silent. Carol and I just bought a camper van and decided to take it out on a test run. Normally we would never consider camping this late in fall but with our new home on wheels, a warm, dry space with electricity and a comfy bed is just steps away. Rain? Freezing temperatures? We don’t care!

We decided to head for Sugarloaf Ridge. Sugarloaf is an expansive state park in the mountains above the Sonoma Valley. It’s just 45 minutes from our front door but a world away. The campground is nestled in a narrow valley with gentle Sonoma Creek flowing along its edge. The park is so close to thousands of people yet when I’m here it feels like wilderness. Except for a few park buildings, there are few signs of civilization. And the quiet today, even during late afternoon, is nearly absolute.

There are many hikes to choose from here. Our hike took us a thousand feet above the valley floor. We walked through forest, up switchbacks and along a ridge top where the only sounds were our footsteps and the wind in my ears. Even the herd of deer that we surprised ran away with seemingly not a sound. We returned to camp at sunset and that’s when the real quiet began. Down here there was no wind, the creek made no sound, as the full force of winter rains had yet to give it voice. Being in the midst of such profound silence was like being embraced by a living, breathing entity. It took a little getting used to. Even during the quietest moments at home there’s always some kind of human made background noise. People  always seem intent on creating a din. 

Up here at Sugarloaf it’s absolutely still. This type of quiet is ideal for thinking, breathing and just being. Throughout the course of everyday life we are literally assaulted with sound. It takes determination and real effort to find true quiet but once I do, it helps me to realize the extent of the cacophony in our world and gives me a deeper appreciation for quiet when I’m in it. Spending time among the silence here at Sugarloaf Ridge allows me to access the silence within myself. For this brief time, I’m able to slough off the chitter chatter of the world, breathe and be fully present. I can literally feel the calm flow into me. My body and mind both get a much needed rest, in essence I’m “fueling up” on silence. I keep it in reserve and tap into it when the world gets to be too  much.

By Louie Ferrera

It’s a rain dance out there today, a veritable, seasonal soiree. Drip, drop, splish, splash, pitter, patter, an onomatopoetic smorgasbord of sounds. Cars whizz by on the freeway, their tires hiss like bacon on a hot griddle. Ducks are delighted. Frogs flip and flop happily across the wonderfully wet grass. The pavement has been transformed into a mosaic of puddles and rivulets where staccato raindrops create fleeting points of diamond light. Oak leaves take flight, sailing through the air like hundreds of amber and brown butterflies. Some of them end up plastered to the street like puzzle pieces waiting to be put together. The trees with leaves still left on them are heavy with moisture, their branches bow in supplication as if to give thanks for this nourishing rain. 

With my boots on I slip and slide across the lawn like an olympic figure skater. The judges all give me 10’s. And the mud! The sweet smell of freshly made mud is like nothing else on Earth. It’s the smell of life. No water, no life. No mud either. A few worms are wriggling on the sidewalk, having been temporarily washed from their flooded dens. Exposed, some will be meals for the hungry robins. Such is the life of an earthworm in a rain storm.

Gratitude and joy overflow from me as I watch this movie unfold. I feel like Gene Kelly right now. All I need is a lamp post and an umbrella and I can do a little “singing in the rain” of my own. What am I waiting for?

By Louie Ferrera

Last Monday was an absolutely stellar fall day so I decided to take a hike at Annadel State Park in Santa Rosa. Annadel is one of the crown jewels of Sonoma County parks. It has diverse ecosystems, many hiking and biking trails, a large lake, creeks and abundant bird life. I’d been out there for a couple of hours when the trail I was on began to snake through a heavily forested section. The trees were predominantly madrone and bay laurel, except for one lone oak. Not all oaks around here are deciduous but this one, a black oak, is. It’s long pointed leaves were in various stages of fall colors,  but it wasn’t the leaves that stopped me in my tracks. 

About four feet off the ground, the main trunk of this tree branched out into a perfect “V”.  I noticed that the underside of the left fork and the left side of the main trunk were covered in a thick carpet of emerald green moss. The moss was stunningly backlit by the few shafts of late afternoon sun that managed to find their way through the dense canopy. The angle and position of the sun at that moment created the perfect conditions for what essentially was an Impressionist painting come to life. It was almost as if Edward Hopper or Van Gogh himself preceded me down the trail. The early Impressionists were just that, masters of painting light. So it was with Ansel Adams. He once famously said that he didn’t really photograph things, he photographed light. The star of Ansel’s masterpiece Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico isn’t so much the ripe full moon that looms over this tiny town, but rather the light that the moon gives off. But back to the tree.

The Impressionist glow given off by this backlit, moss covered tree had me mesmerized. The effect of this phenomenon was absolutely hypnotic. Time seemed to be standing still. I had near tunnel vision and found myself in a meditative state of bliss while taking in this scene. The colors of the leaves, the glowing moss, the absolute stillness of the forest that surrounded me all combined to create a truly profound and very Zen moment. My hearing isn’t what it used to be but I could actually hear the sound that a single oak leaf made as it landed in the dry leaves that carpet the understory. It was that quiet and I was that tuned in.  A rarely seen red breasted sapsucker and a pair of ruby crowned kinglets flitted about the trees. They were my only companions. I’m not sure how long I stood there but after a while the sun dipped just a bit lower and the glow quickly faded. I took that as my cue to continue on down the trail.

If a tree glows in the forest and no one is there to see it, does it still glow?

Namaste.

By Louie Ferrera

It’s coming on four years since I began publishing this blog, so I figured it was time for a facelift, a new coat of paint as it were. Musings of a Late Bloomer was always a bit wordy so I shortened the title to simply Musings. There’s a new tag line too. Reflections on love, nature and music gives the reader a better idea of what to expect from these essays. The cover photo’s different too; it’s a shot of a glorious rainbow from the beach at Hanalei Bay on Kauai.

I so appreciate those of you who have taken the time over the years to read my stories. Your comments are always heartfelt. Knowing that my writing has touched you in some way means so much to me. If you’re not already a subscriber, you can do so by clicking the “subscribe” button at the top of this page. No, you won’t be put on other mailing lists or receive annoying spam, you’ll just get an email whenever I post a new essay. My blog isn’t monetized so I get nothing but the satisfaction of knowing that you’ve read and have been moved by what I’ve written. As always feel free to pass this link on to anyone who you think would enjoy what I write.

My essays are “personal” but I think that many of the subjects I choose to write about often have universal appeal. My story could also be yours. Love, music and nature…what else is there? Thanks for reading.

Louie

November 2023

By Louie Ferrera

It’s all about the light. Honey golden and lemon yellow, soft and dreamy it cuts through the reds, yellows and oranges of the autumn leaves, illuminating them like electricity.  When the sun is out on a fall day such as this, the foliage glows as if lit from within. Recent rains have washed everything clean. The air is so clear it practically sparkles. Each breath I take is an invigorating tonic. The mornings are cold, my exhalations ephemeral clouds that are gone in the blink of an eye. The rain and cool weather also means the end of fire season. What a relief to be out from under that cloud. There’s mud in my backyard again!

There seems to be no end to the Instagram perfect apples that have ripened on our tree. Pale green with perfect brush strokes of red, the Pink Lady is a picturesque variety perfectly suited for pies, drying, juice or just plain eating. To crunch into one of these beauties is to taste autumn in all its glory. Last winter’s heavy rains have caused all of our trees to literally burst with fruit. We’ll be picking apples on Christmas Day. The citrus has slowly begun its transformation from green to orange and yellow. Our lemon, orange, tangerine and grapefruit trees are so laden with fruit that I spent an hour the other day fashioning poles out of scrap wood in order to prop up their sagging branches. Each day the citrus takes on a little more color. Good things are always worth waiting for.

The birds are changing shifts. There go the orioles and tanagers. Here come the hermit thrush and white crowned sparrows. My bird guide says that the northern flicker is a year round resident but I disagree. I only hear this bird’s distinctive, high pitched whistle in fall and winter. Once the trees in our yard drop their leaves, some of the more secretive birds will have no place to hide. Perhaps the ruby crowned kinglet will flash its corona at me. The yellow rumped and Townsend’s warblers may pause long enough for me to say, “Welcome back.” Our resident hummingbirds should stick around, as long as we keep their feeders filled.

Fall colors are everywhere. We don’t have nearly the abundance of deciduous trees as they do back east but we do have the vineyards. I live in Sonoma County, CA (also known as “Wine Country”). Right now the dazzling display of colors that the grapevines are putting on would rival any New England hardwood forest.

Everything seems to be quieting down, the Earth and its creatures taking a pause. The days are getting shorter, temperatures cooler, and rain, sweet rain bathes us in its life giving waters. I’m also taking the time to slow down and acknowledge the deep gratitude that I have for the abundance that surrounds us all.