I've always loved to write. I'll often bring a journal to record my thoughts and observations when I'm out in nature. I've done some international travel and have always kept a journal on my trips. As a musician, I've been writing songs for over 25 years. I recently completed a creative writing class at the local junior college. This class got me reenergized about writing. I decided that I wanted to share my writing with a wider audience, not just friends and family. So here it is, my maiden voyage into the world of blogging. If you like what you read, leave me a comment, I'd love to hear from you.
While listening recently to the Crosby, Stills and Nash version of David Crosby’s “Guinnevere” I had a bit of a vision. Here’s what I saw.
She is all green cat eyes, her liquid gold hair doing the wind dance, waving wild and free like ribbons in the salty sea breeze, the wind and the waves and the hair and the eyes converge in a single burst of pinpoint brilliance, blinding and beautiful. Sweet Guinnevere raises her arms to the sky in celebration as she welcomes the gulls who are wheeling and diving and dancing above in the blue and the sea, as it has always been, as it always will be crashes and retreats and Guinnevere moves in sync with the timeless rhythms of the unknowable Pacific.
In my mind’s eye I can picture Guinnevere alone in her garden, the gentle rain that had been falling all night has ended leaving everything; the plants, the trees, the air, clean to sparkling. Having just awoken Guinnevere has come outside to welcome and to give thanks for this most glorious of mornings. She wears a simple white cotton nightgown, sleeveless and long, flowing nearly to her ankles, the cool wetness of the grass soothes her feet as Guinnevere swishes along and her eyes match the color of the grass which matches the color of her brilliantly painted toenails. She pauses beneath an orange tree and plucks a perfectly dimpled sphere of fruit, cold and wet to the touch after the evening rain. She breaks the skin of the orange with her fingernails (painted green of course), removing the peel in one long, lazy spiral. Guinnevere slowly savors each slice tasting of rain and sweet summer sunshine. Of course the peacocks are there too, glittering jewels that strut and preen in pairs, silent sentries to the blessing that is this day.
Guinnevere has a secret and only I am in on it. When she’s certain that no one is watching she disappears into the forest, making her way through a tangle of trees and underbrush util she arrives at her special place, an ancient abandoned stone cottage. The walls inside are cracked and weathered and covered with exquisitely detailed drawings of birds, each one is enclosed inside a pentagram shaped cage and only Guinnevere has the power to free them which she does and the wrens and thrushes, jays and hummingbirds burst forth from the confines of their five-sided prisons back into the glittering green of the forest. The birds are finally free and so too is Guinnevere.
GuinnevereGuinnevere’s forest, where her secret place lies.
Blue is many things, it’s a color, a feeling, a state of mind. There is much under the umbrella that we call blue.
It is said that eyes are the window to the soul and for me, no eyes provide a clearer view than blue eyes. I’ve often become mesmerized when I look into my son’s eyes, they are a deep and vibrant shade of blue that defies description. His eyes came from his mother, who’s eyes came from her father. Carol’s lovely blue eyes are the first thing I noticed about her when we were first introduced. The gentle, laughing eyes of my friend Peter were a key element of an acid trip that we took together at a Grateful Dead show back in the 90’s. My mom’s all time favorite singer is Frank Sinatra, famously known as Old Blue Eyes.
How about the sky! The word blue was surely invented in order to describe its’ color. I love watching a cloudless sunset at the beach. Once the sun dips below the horizon is when the real show begins. Every shade of blue that ever was or will ever be exists in one of those sunsets; from the palest of baby blues to the deepest of indigos. Speaking of that pale blue, my dear friend Marise has those color eyes and I think of her every time I see a sunset like that. I know there’s a scientific explanation as to why the sky is blue, but I like to think of it as pure magic.
Now that’s some blue sky, and at my favorite place too!
The planet Neptune is blue, have you seen the photos? It’s a perfect lapis lazuli marble against the infinite blackness of space, by far the most glittering jewel among all of the planets in our solar system. Viewed from space Earth is aptly know as the Blue Planet because of the color of our oceans. At the beach though, the deep blue sea isn’t always so. On a cloudy day the sun dips in and out of hiding, painting the sea in shifting hues from olive green to cerulian blue. The turquoise waters of Hawaii never fail to fill my heart with wonder.
Technically, blueberries are a shade of purple, but who makes up these silly rules anyway? Blueberries look pretty blue to me. Every spring and summer, the railing on our backyard deck is covered in a riotous tangle of morning glory vines There are many different colored blossoms, my favorites of course are the blue ones, they are a deep hue that vibrates whenever the sun hits their faces. Our resident flock of hummingbirds love these flowers too and spend lots of time probing them for their sweet nectar.
On my trip to Egypt in the summer of 1995 while wandering through a vast outdoor market in Cairo one afternoon I stumbled upon a long table covered with multi-colored, pyramid-like piles of spices. Among these mini pyramids was a striking voilet-blue pile of the dye indigo. How did the Indigo Girls get their name? Perhaps they too were enchanted by indigo at an Egyptian market?
One of my most treasured books is Beneath The Blue Umbrella by renowned children’s author Jack Prelutsky. This book was given to me by my wife Carol. She wrote a sweet inscription to me inside the front cover. These poems are whimsical and sweet and were a favorite of the first and second graders that I once taught.
Of course blue is also sad. You know, feeling blue, got the blues, in a blue mood. Not sure where that comes from. What would music be like today without the blues? Blues music is the seed kernel that begat rock and roll. No blues, no Elvis, no Chuck Berry, no Beatles, no Stones. The likes of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf are the roots from which all rock and roll sprouted. Blue by Joni Mitchell is widely recognized as her finest album and a record that has inspired a generation of singer-songwriters. A photo of Joni is barely visible among the blue, almost black of the albums’ cover. On Blue, Joni took the deep sadness and uncertainty of her life at the time and turned it into a timeless masterpiece. One of the most joyous songs in the Allman Brothers’ catalogue is Blue Sky. Written by guitarist Dickie Betts, this love song was inspired by his girlfriend at the time Sandy Blue Sky. “You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day. Lord you know it makes me high when you turn your love my way.” Anyone who’s ever been in love has most surely felt like this, it’s the moment of loves’ inception when you look past the eyes and into the heart.
A “blue dichotomy” exists all over the music world. You’ve got your “blue happy” songs (Irving Berlin’s Blue Skies), and your “blue sad” songs (Elvis’ Blue Christmas). All of the blue songs, happy and sad, are too numerous to recount here! There’ve been blue bands too. Sixties one hit wonders Swingin’ Blue Jeans and psychedelic garage rockers Blues Magoos. Blue Cheers’ definitive version of Summertime Blues is a “grunge before there was grunge” feedback drenched classic.
If you’ve raised a child over the past twenty years you must be well acquainted with Blues Clues. Hosted by the affable Steve (and later Joe) this beloved kids tv show for the five and under crowd featured the eponymous “Blue”, a large animated dog who helped Steve/Joe solve mysteries by leaving clues. We and our kids never missed an episode.
Remember those double-barreled popsicles, the ones with the two wooden sticks? I wonder if they still make them. As a kid I loved these, my favorites being the blue ones, “blue skies’ I called them.
The tastiest tortillas I’ve ever eaten were made from blue corn. One day while Carol and I were traveling in Guatemala we watched a Mayan woman at an outdoor market in a tiny mountain village make these from scratch. We later ate these tortillas with slices of fresh cheese. I’ll never forget the flavor.
Blue has always been my favorite color. I’m generally a “blue happy” person. Blue is soothing and peaceful. Blue is a crisp autumn day in October. Blue is a windswept expanse of deserted beach. Sometimes I can just get lost in blue.
I love autumn. The cool, clear nights, the cold, foggy mornings, the cloudless blue skies and Goldilocks temperatures during the day, the sunsets with those endless gradations of blue followed by a final blaze of orange-to-pink-to red. The low angle of the sun at this time of year creates a soft and magical quality of light, especially at sunset, when the trees light up in alpenglow worthy of the granite walls of Yosemite.
I love when I hear for the first time the call of a Northern Flicker. This strikingly beautiful bird of the woodpecker family is a harbinger of autumn when it appears in our area around mid-September.
I love seeing the leaves change color. We don’t have nearly the explosion of reds, yellows and oranges as the east coast does but what we do have are the vineyards. Right about now hillsides all around Sonoma County are gradually being transformed into postcard perfect oceans of gold.
On our property is a towering oak tree and many fruit trees, all except the citrus shed their leaves. I love bundling up on a cloudy morning and going outside to rake the fallen leaves that cover our lawn. The rustling sound and smell of decaying leaves as I swoosh them into piles transports me back to a time in my childhood when leaf pile diving was an annual rite of passage.
Liquidambar leaves .
I love watching the transition that our vegetable garden goes through in autumn. The tomato, cucumber and green bean plants are gamely trying to put out a few more pieces of ripe fruit, but for the most part they’ve given all that they can. The strawberries have gone dormant, their sweet fruit just a memory. The carrots have all been harvested, the lettuce gone to seed. All our hard work of tilling the soil, putting in seeds and starts and nurturing them since spring has payed off in an impressive bounty of fresh vegetables. My gratitude is deep for all that these plants have given us.
The blazing heat of summer is thankfully behinds us. My heart is now filled with the hope of rain. I anticipate the rat-a-tat sound of raindrops falling on the roof of our deck and the glistening green of leaves washed clean of their summer coat of dust. I long for the smell of wet earth and the sight of greening hillsides as grasses are finally awakened. I dream of running creeks and filling reservoirs.
I love Halloween; the smell of freshly carved pumpkins and the crunch of roasted pumpkin seeds, the glow of jack-o-lanterns around our cul-du-sac and the delightful squeal of trick or treaters.
I love the World Series; the annual drama know as the Fall Classic. I love baseball, a sport that begins with the promise of spring and ends with the harvest moon of October.
I love Thanksgiving; the warm kitchen, the aromas of roast turkey and stuffing, the Pinot Noir and a home filled with the love of family and friends. I love frost in the mornings and clear, starry nights.
In our garden four perfectly round lemon cucumbers sit among a tangle of vines, the largest is the size of a baseball, two of them look like ghostly billiard balls and the third is just downright tiny. The two largest ones have begun to take on streaks of pale yellow as they ripen, These are strange fruit. I never knew that cucumbers could be pale and orb-like until Carol and I began to garden. All cucumbers are supposed to be green and tubular, right?
Lemon cucumbers are not widely available so if you want them you’ve got to grow your own. I’ve only ever seen them at farmer’s markets and even there they are pricey and hard to find. It’s best to peel lemon cucumbers before eating them, as the skin is tough and not very tasty however, a recent visitor of ours stood out in the garden and munched one down like an apple, peel and all. This variety of cucumber does not keep well so once you’ve picked one, you better eat it!
Among the mature fruit on our cucumber plant are several bright yellow, five petal blossoms and a few baby cukes the size of my thumb and smaller. This morning is blanketed in a peaceful layer of fog, the light is flat and diffused, the greens and yellows of this sprawling plant are deep and saturated, its tendrils wrapped wildly around a tepee of thin, six foot poles that were pruned last winter from our plum tree. The cucumbers dangle from the vines like Christmas ornaments, a yellow blossom is the star on top. From the tips of the uppermost leaves hangs a solitary drop of water, tiny crystal balls for the hummingbirds to gaze into. The design of these leaves is exquisite. The largest of them are the size of my palm and fingers stretched apart. Each leaf has three points, a long central point with one on either side, all three bend gracefully forward which allows the dew drops to gather at their tips. Each of these leaves sits at the end of a slender, pale green stalk.
Yep, these are cucumbers!
Over the past three months, this plant has provided us with many pounds of sweet, crunchy fruit, but as autumn slowly gathers steam, the vines are beginning to die back, the leaves yellowing and splotchy with brown spots. We sowed and nurtured this plant since spring and in turn it has given us all that it can give. My gratitude is deep.
Some cliches are just plain silly: A watched pot never boils, The bigger they are, the harder they fall. The list goes on. However, sometimes a cliche is spot on, like this one: A picture speaks a thousand words.
Since the invention of photography in the mid 1800’s, photographs have been instrumental in helping tell the human story. The stark black and white images of Dorothea Lang showed the human toll of the Dust Bowl in the 1930’s. The visceral image of that small Vietnamese girl, her body naked and burned, her face contorted in pain as she flees a napalm attack by US planes helped to turn public opinion against the Vietnam War in 1968. Apollo astronaut Jim Lovell’s dramatic photo of Earthrise from the Moon showed us just how fragile and precious our blue planet is. I could go on and on, my point being that one glimpse of a photograph can instantly evoke intense emotions and have a profound effect on the viewer.
There’s a 3×5 photo of our son that sits on a dresser in our bedroom. I look at this photo every day and it never fails make my heart burst with love. I remember where we were when the photo was taken, who we were with, how old our son was, the time of year…everything. One look at this photo and I’m right back there behind the camera. During the wildfires of 2017, this was one of the objects that I chose to take while we were evacuating our home. Do you haver a photo like this? An image that not only evokes deep feelings but also takes you on a journey down memory lane? A nostalgia trip like this is often fun but it can also release a torrent of feelings that you may not have been ready to experience.
My dear friend Kimmy passed away a month and a half ago and I’m still grieving over her sudden and senseless death. Last weekend Carol and I got together with a small group of friends, our mutual love for Kim being the common thread that runs through us all. They had just returned from Sacramento (where Kim lived) with a large box of…photographs.
It was a Sunday morning. The friend’s house where we gathered sits in the middle of a redwood forest at the end of a winding and barely paved road. The first rain of the season was falling, the trees and plants were shining and grateful, having finally been cleansed of months of accumulated dust and grime. The rain made quiet music on the roof as we took a collective trip down the memory lane of our lives with Kimmy.
An early photo of me and Kimmy
Many of these photos were from a period of roughly 15 years when Kimmy and I were closest and spent the most time together. The coffee table that we sat around was covered with a hundred or so photos, nearly half of them I was either in or remembered having taken: Me and Kim hugging, me and Kim laughing, me and Kim skinny dipping in a lake after High Sierra Music Festival, me and Kim slamming shots of tequila, me and Kim flashing those deep smiles you get when you’re spending time with someone you love. These weren’t just photographs, these are what’s left of the beautiful and joyous times that Kimmy and I shared. There will be no more. While looking at these photos, all of those moments came vividly alive again in my mind’s eye. It was like Kimmy was coming alive right then and there. I ‘d nearly forgotten how very close she and I had been. This was a deeply emotional experience for me and for my friends too. We hugged and laughed and cried. The rain fell, the trees shined. We each took a few photos but decided to keep most of them together so we could look at them again the next time we gathered. I was overwhelmed with sadness but filled with gratitude too. My friends had saved these priceless mementos which most surely would have otherwise ended up in the trash. Through the magic of these photographs is one way that Kimmy will always live on for me.
Have you seen Concert For George? It’s a film of the all star tribute concert that was put on in London to honor George Harrison after his passing. The most poignant moment in the film for me is when Ringo Starr steps to the front of the stage to sing “Photograph”, a song co-written by Ringo and George. Here comes Ringo, close cropped hair, dark glasses, grinning from ear to ear and flashing his trademark peace signs. The band kicks the song off, Ringo grabs the mic and begins to sing:
Every time I see your face it reminds me of the places we used to go. Now all I’ve got is a photograph and I realize you’re not coming back any more.
The narrow two-lane road that leads us in is a snake; a slithering S winding its way over the Santa Cruz Mountains. Civilization slowly melts away as we make our way through a tunnel of redwood, bay laurel and madrone trees, over dry creek beds, a cascade of small boulders and cobblestones, the last memory of water. A familiar sign materializes out of the green: Camp Loma… we’ve arrived. Soquel Creek, bisects the land and is still flowing, its waters clean, peaceful and clear to the bottom. The buildings, green and weathered blend into the forest. The grounds where we gather were once perhaps the home of an indigenous tribe who in ancient times worshiped the forest spirits. I imagine them dancing around a roaring bonfire, sparks flying up through the towering redwoods to become one with the infinite and unknowable stars.
The comfort and familiarity of this unique and magical place is welcoming and warm, it glows with all of the love and music that has happened here, that still swirls through the meadow and paths and hillsides, up the creek bed and into the treetops where owls call, bidding the night goodbye, where the chirps, twits and peeps of mysterious songbirds make a joyful sound as they welcome the dawn of a new day, where the slanting shafts of the rising sun paint the understory in brilliant brush strokes of pure light.
This is us!
I love our little corner of heaven. When only a handful of our merry band of fellow travelers are here it’s as quiet as a dream. With each new arrival the camp slowly fills, not just with people and tents and instruments but with love. Simply stated it is enchanted out here and fairly pulsates with the echos of countless blissful moments that we’ve shared over the past two decades. Each song, all of the smiles, every savory aroma, every child’s playful squeal, every ringing guitar note adds itself to the collective beauty. It all still resonates here and I gratefully breathe everything in. Camp Loma is a refuge from the madness that is life in America in 2022.
Night falls without a sound at the end of our first day here, dawn arrives with a whisper. We have just four short days together, each one of us in the moment and fully aware of the preciousness, beauty and the absolute rarity of what it is that we collectively brew up. We hug, we feast, we dance, we make love and deep music together, passing each other with smiles knowing full well that we’re all in on a little secret, an inside joke, a cosmic giggle. No need to wonder why or ask how it is that we are so blessed to be together here at our little camp beneath the glittering green. We just open up and freely accept it all with grace and deep gratitude. The less we know, the more we learn.
Where do you go when you die? At one time or another every human has asked this question. The fear of death is the fear of the unknown, what happens to you after you die is the deepest and most perplexing unknown of them all. Philosophers, shaman, mystics, artists, poets and priests across every culture in every corner of the Earth have all attempted to answer these questions: When you die, do you just cease to be? What happens to the sum of all your thoughts, memories and experiences? What happens to your soul? Is there even such thing as a soul? Is there an afterlife? How about reincarnation? After my death will I return to the land of the living as a sentient being like an elephant or a hummingbird? Is karma real? If I’ve lived a good and virtuous life will I return as a sunflower or a double rainbow? If I’ve been an evil creep will my encore be as a sewer rat or a cockroach?
Growing up Catholic I was taught that the church had it all figured out. You either went up (Heaven), down (Hell) or somewhere in-between (Purgatory). Heaven was the most beautiful place that you could ever imagine, you spent eternity beyond the clouds and among angels. Of course in Hell, the Devil himself is your eternal host, there you suffered and burned in the most sulfurous of flames. From what I can gather, Purgatory is some sort of way station where your “up/down” fate is decided.
I think that I may have seen the afterlife. Honest. Many years ago I had a dream, the details of which mostly elude me. Here’s all I’ve got: I was with another person or two, we were standing in an open space around some kind of signpost or pole, a wizened old man was there too. That’s it. In my mind’s eye, I can still somewhat make out this scene, but it’s gradually being consumed by the fogs of time. What I do still remember though is the feeling of the dream. I knew that I had died and this was what came next.
Some believe that everyone has their “time”, a predetermined moment when your death will occur, no matter what you do. I’ve had two experiences in my life that have lead me to believe that perhaps this theory is plausible.
About 25 years ago I was hiking in the rugged backcountry of Big Basin State Park in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I was peering through my binoculars at a bird while standing on a narrow trail that ran along a steep ridge. I heard a rattling/hissing sound, looked down and to my left to see a large rattlesnake less than three feet from me. It was coiled up in “strike” mode. I slowly took a couple of steps back and watched the snake slither away. I was six miles from the parking lot, this was the pre-cell phone era, there was no one around to help me. Had I been bitten, who know what would have happened to me? Maybe it wasn’t my time?
About ten years ago, I watched with horror as our then 8 year old son dashed across a narrow two-lane street in rural Sonoma County. He and his mom and sister had gone into a bakery and Sam was coming across to show me what he’d bought. To my right I noticed a car speeding towards Sam. I shouted at him to stop but he just kept on coming. Had he stepped off the curb a second or two earlier he would have taken the full force of that speeding car. This horrific moment still burns in my memory. How was he not struck and killed? My only explanation is that it wasn’t his time.
So, maybe you just die with no plan, no predetermination. Maybe you go peacefully or violently; after a long illness or suddenly from a heart attack or stroke. Perhaps you go out in a blaze of glory in a plane or car crash. Your death could be horrific in a mass shooting or gentle while surrounded by those who love you.
Someone very close to me has recently died, it has brought me face to face with death and forced me to confront my own mortality. A month ago my friend Kim died suddenly. She was a few weeks short of her 55th birthday and as full of life as a person could be. Now she’s gone. Her death makes no sense. We are still waiting to find out the cause of death. What was her death like? Where is Kim now? Has she been reincarnated? Will I recognize her in the knowing smile of a passing stranger or in the lilting call of a wood thrush? Is she in Heaven? Hell? Who knows? I certainly don’t.
Carol and I dropped our daughter Denali off at college last week. It was a momentous occasion and a watershed day in our lives. I don’t think Denali was able to fully grasp the enormity of this moment but Carol and I were hyper-aware of its importance. It was a bittersweet day for sure. I was so happy for our daughter and bursting with pride over everything she’s accomplished in order to get to where she is today. But I also felt sadness and a sense of loss. Denali would most likely never again live in our home full time.
Since Denali graduated high school in June, I’ve been doing lots of reflecting back, each memory a snapshot of a moment in her life. Long before I began publishing my essays in this blog, I dabbled a bit with writing stories for children, one of which recounts one of those snapshots: a special morning that Denali and I used to share when she was just a toddler. The other day I went back and reread that story, took its essence and completely rewrote it. Here it is.
Rocking Chair
Dawn is trying really hard to break, its pale light barely illuminates our bedroom. My wife Carol is asleep beside me, our cat Bugsy a black and white ball of fur in the crook of her legs. I’m drifting somewhere between the dream I was lost in and the new day that’s just beginning. That’s when I become aware of a presence at my side of the bed. “Daddy, I want to go in the rocking chair” you whisper. I peel the covers off, swing my feet over the side of the bed, gather you into my arms and down the hall we shuffle towards the living room. My feet make a soft swish, swish sound against the carpet, your head rests on my shoulder, your tiny arms are wrapped around the back of my neck.
Denali and me in the “rocking chair” days.
I plop down onto the rocking chair with you in my lap. This rocking chair doesn’t really rock like the classic chair with curved runners affixed to the bottom, rather it moves forward and backwards on hinges. For extra warmth I cover us with your favorite quilt, handmade especially for me by the grandparent of a former first grade student of mine. This is a county fair, blue ribbon quality piece of art decorated with motifs of musical notes and instruments.
Light slowly begins to fill the room. With sunrise on the way, the promise of a new day is before us. Color needs light however so right now everything appears in varying shades of pre-dawn grey, adding a dream-like quality to the scene. The soft hum of the furnace and the squeak, squawk as we move back and forth in the rocking chair are the only sounds. Some mornings we share a bowl of crunchy breakfast cereal while I read you a story but today is simply a “snuggle up together and listen to the quiet” kind of morning. You’ve got your favorite pajamas on, the ones with feet and pictures of kittens on them. Your body is soft and warm next to mine, your long auburn hair smells of the baby shampoo from last nights bath. After a few minutes I hear your breathing change and notice that you’ve fallen back to sleep.
I cherish these morning with you and savor each moment knowing full well that in the blink of an eye you’ll be grown up and about to strike out into the world on your own. But right now the world has shrunken and everything is exactly as it should be while we’re together here in the rocking chair.
I had to run to Safeway the other day to pick up a few items. If I’m in a hurry I sometimes use one of the automatic checkout kiosks, yea they’re dehumanizing and one of the many manifestations of our increasingly impersonal society, but when I want to get out of the store in a hurry, I just grin and bear it. Yesterday was not one of those days so I chose a checkout lane with an actual person behind the register.
The sudden passing of my dear friend Kim last week is still fresh in my mind and weighing heavily on my heart. I went through this checkout lane hoping for a bit of real human interaction, I wanted the chance to put some light and kindness out into the world like Kim always did. Kim had a way of making a complete stranger or someone she had just met feel like a long lost friend. Her manner was so gentle and accepting, Kim would hold them in that intense gaze of hers and and there would be no doubt that she was totally present. So with Kimmy in mind, I got into the queue in Lane #4.
Ringing up the sales was a pleasant and personable middle aged woman named Linda. Her short grey hair framed a round face, smiling blue eyes looked out from behind a pair of wire rimmed glasses. Linda had struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me. He had placed two large boxes of Popsicles onto the conveyor which prompted Linda to tell him that she also liked Popsicles but what she really loved were those 100% fruit juice Outshine Bars. She was going off on how she couldn’t get enough of her favorite flavor, tangerine/pomegranate. Linda’s manner so reminded me of that knack Kimmy had for bringing a stranger so easily into a conversation. I immediately joined in, sharing my love for Outshine Bar as well. While Linda bagged the guy’s groceries, she and I continued chatting. I told her that one of my passions were those coconut fruit bars that are often found in Mexican markets. I had a few Mounds and Almond Joy bars among my items so she proceeded to sing a line from that old tv commercial; “Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. Almond Joys have nuts, Mounds don’t”. I just cracked up!
As I was putting my groceries into the canvas bag that I’d brought, I told Linda how much I enjoyed our brief conversation and how nice it was to have had a real human interaction instead of a cold encounter with Siri. She smiled, wished me a god day and went on to the next customer in line. As I walked away I heard Linda immediately strike up the banter with the next person in line.
The world desperately needs more light, more love, more opportunities for meaningful human contact, more Lindas. With the pandemic finally receding in our collective rearview mirrors, there’s really no longer any excuse for not getting to know people, for not lending a smile and a kind word to a stranger, for not bringing someone out of their lonely bubble of isolation and into the light. This was a Kimmy moment for me. With her spirit in mind I tried to do my part to bring the light, to bring the love. Get out there yourself and spread the love.
The fragility of life came into pinpoint focus for me last week when I learned of the passing of my dear friend Kim Kenney. How could such a shining beacon of light and love be extinguished so quickly? I last saw her two months ago at a three day music festival up in Mendocino. For Kim and I it was business as usual-we hugged, we laughed, we swilled tequila, we danced wildly to our favorite bands, we simply reveled in each others company. Before getting into my car to head home after the festival Kim and I shared one more deep and heartfelt hug, already looking forward to our next hangout at Camp Loma over Labor Day weekend. How could I possibly have known that this would be the last hug that we’d ever share?
Life is beautiful and heartbreaking, blissful and sad, filled with incredible highs and fathomless lows. This thing that we call life hangs by an oh so slender thread, a tether that can be severed all too suddenly. If ever I needed another reminder of just how precious and fragile life is, Kim’s passing has been the ultimate wake up call.
Listen: Love your friends, love your family, forget about petty differences, don’t hang on to stuff, get to know your neighbors, be kind, be caring, find a way every day to put some goodness out into the world, take chances, don’t postpone joy, hug your kids, tell those closest to you just how much you love them, and tell them often. Above all, live life like there’s no tomorrow because there will come a time when tomorrow will not come…for all of us.
Experiencing the passing of my dear Kimmy is devastating and has forced me to look unflinchingly at my own mortality. Death is harsh and final. Throughout the entirety of human history the question “Where do I go when I die?” has been asked by everyone who’s ever lived. Now Kim knows.
So, maybe she’s at a String Cheese Incident show. It’s midnight on New Years Eve and the balloons are always dropping. Or perhaps she’s at the Greek Theater dancing to the Grateful Dead. The band is deep into one of their 2nd set jams and Kim is riding Jerry’s crystalline guitar notes out among the cosmos. Or maybe she’s just at Camp Loma and we’re all there too, basking in the collective love that we create whenever we’re together. Wherever you are my dear friend I hope that it’s a place filled with as much joy, love and light that you put out into the world while you were still among us. Rest in peace Kimmy. I love you.
