The first thing that strikes me as soon as I settle into my seat in Section 315 at Oracle Park is just how far I can see. The Easy Bay hills and its’ million dollar homes are clearly visible, miles away across San Francisco Bay. When conditions are just right the windows of these houses are ablaze with the rays of the setting sun. The massive dinosaur like cranes at the Oakland waterfront loom in the foreground. Just beyond the outfield walls, watercraft of all types, from kayaks to container ships, ply the cobalt blue waters of the bay. Like brushstrokes on canvas, white caps appear when the wind kicks up.
A massive scoreboard towers over centerfield. The words “Oracle Park” are framed by an arc of nine pennants that dance and dive in the wind. Each pennant represents one of the Giants’ World Series championships. Light towers stand like castle parapets on either side. The players, already larger than life, appear almost God like when their images are projected onto the video screen. To the left of the scoreboard is a giant sculpture of a 1920’s vintage baseball mitt and next to that a green Coca Cola bottle inside of which is a slide. During a game kids can begin at the mouth of the bottle and slide all the way to the bottom.The bleachers and outfield stands are a constantly shifting multicolored mass of humanity which stands, sits and sways to the polyrhythms of the game.
The view.
And the grass! How do I begin to describe the impossibly green grass of a major league baseball field? To this day, the memory that sticks with me from my first visit to Yankee Stadium as a child is just how green the grass was. Up until that day I had only watched baseball games on an 18” black and white tv set. I had no idea grass could be that green. Looking out onto the field today I see the green of an Irish hillside after a quenching rain.
The infield dirt is the rich brown of a freshly plowed Iowa cornfield, the bases perfectly, brilliantly white squares marking the three corners of the infield. The pentagon of home plate is where it all begins. During a game, the umpire keeps the plate clean with the occasional swipe of his pocket whiskbroom. The foul lines radiate out from here, arrow straight and terminating at the base of bright yellow foul poles which rise nearly to the top of the upper deck.
And the sounds! The crack of the bat, the snap of ball on leather are grace notes in the music of a baseball game. The crowd noise ebbs and flows like waves on the beach, rising from a whisper to a scream and back again as the game unfolds below. The explosion of ecstasy as a game winning homerun sails into the stands, the collective groan when a Giant strikes out at a pivotal moment in the game. My favorite sound? The timeless voice of Tony Bennett. The stadium’s PA system plays Tony’s signature tune I Left My Heart In San Francisco after every Giants victory. Tony croons, seagulls wheel above the field, swirling winds lift random food wrappers into the sky, and I file out with the rest of the crowd into the cool San Francisco night.
“Who knows where the time goes?” I awoke at dawn today with that bittersweet Judy Collins song swimming through my head. I pad down the hallway towards the kitchen to make my coffee, pausing at our daughter’s room to let her meowing foster kitten out. I get the coffee brewing and the kitty fed then settle down to breathe in a new day. I take in the view from the kitchen window, it’s all but consumed by a riot of bean, cucumber and tomato plants; all of them heavy with the fruit of our springtime labor. A flock of tiny bushtits peck away at the suet feeder. Our cat Ella patrols the garden on her morning rounds. It’s not too different from any other morning so far this summer except for one thing. Today is the first day of senior year for our two children.
Neither of the twins had any trouble rousting themselves this morning. Normally, getting either one of our 17 year olds out of bed is like waking a bear from hibernation. They emerge from their respective dens and reluctantly pose for the requisite first day of school photo. This is a tradition that Carol and I have carried on since the kids began preschool. Both have that “C’mon mom and dad” look on their faces as we snap away.
I marvel at how much they’ve grown and how cool they both look in their back to school garb. Sam has sprouted up this summer and stands at 5’ 8”, two inches taller than Carol. The standard skateboarders watchman’s cap is pressed down on his head, long brown hair spills out the sides and touches his shoulders. Sam’s electric blue eyes sparkle like the mountain sky. The front of his pink hoodie sports a retro drawing of an 80’s style boom box. Long, baggy thrift store jeans and skate shoes complete the outfit.
Denali’s body hasn’t changed a whole lot this summer. She’s still whippet thin with long legs that helped her become a standout this year in the triple jump. Her Pippi Longstocking red braids sit behind her back and fall past her waist. She has never had a hair cut. I have yet to find the right words to describe her hazel eyes. She’s wearing a green, long sleeve shirt with a picture of Bob Marley and the words “56 Hope Road” on the breast pocket. She’s opted for a pink little kid backpack to haul her things in.
Our high school seniors, a few years ago.
And just like that, they are out the door. No need to drive them to school, they each have their own car and can drive themselves. For a few minutes Carol and I just sit there in silence, letting the gravity of this moment sink in. As our kids grow, people keep telling us to enjoy each moment, each milestone because “It happens fast.” I’m not sure if that’s necessarily true. Yes, it is hard to believe that this is our kids’ last year of school before heading off to college. Yes there are times when it seems like only yesterday when we were dropping them off at the door of their first preschool. However, I don’t really feel like it “happened fast” because Carol and I have been so present with our children throughout every step of their development so far. Relishing every precious day of Sam and Denali’s first 17 years has made time feel not like it has passed in the blink of an eye but rather like a lazy river flowing. Realizing the beauty of each moment with them has in essence helped to actually slow time down.
As I watch them drive away, scenes from our kids’ lives swirl through my mind. From diapers and sleepless nights to their first steps, first time on a bicycle, first solo trip in a car. Fevers and frantic trips to the ER. Soccer games in the park to soccer under the lights on the varsity field. Trick or treating, Easter egg hunts, photos on Santa’s lap. Swim lessons at the pool to surfing on Maui.
On this August morning my heart is full to bursting. I swell with pride over the many wonderful things our kids have accomplished thus far in their short lives. The moment is bittersweet though and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling some sadness and a sense of loss. However, I remind myself that this is not an ending for the twins but rather just another stop for them on the wheel of life.
The secret ‘o life is enjoying the passage of time
I’m not going to write about Covid-19 or the delta variant or imbecile anti-vaxers. I will not write about California wildfires or European floods or the myriad other natural disasters fueled by climate change. There’s no way I plan to write about the world situation in general, which Kurt Vonnegut once presciently said is, “Desperate as usual.” Instead I think I’ll write about the trilogy of fountains on our back deck that bubble and gurggle all day and all night.
I close my eyes and these fountains become a creek making sweet music as it tumbles over rocks through a primeval forest. With California in the grips of a prolonged drought, our fountains have become a refuge and a reliable sourse of water for the many birds that make our backyard home.
The hummingbirds hover tentatively before dipping their long beaks in for a drink. They occasionally feel brave enough to fully immerse themselves and splash about like happy children. The chickadees are a different story. These brave little songbirds dive right in with no hesitation. One of our fountains is a succession of metal seashells which empty into one another. The chickadees always choose the topmost shell. I’ve stood as close as three feet away while they drink and bathe. They seem oblivioius to my presence and continue splashing away. Finches, jays, tanagers and towhees all perform their daily ablutions in our fountains.
One fountain is a white porcelin bowl decorated with a delicate light blue floral pattern and sits just above a clawfoot tub. One recent morning I found tiny muddy footprints running along the bottom of the tub and up onto the rim right below the fountain. These were raccoon tracks. Evidently our resident birds are not the only creatures who enjoy these refreshing waters.
Another fountain is a deep rectangular basin fed by a weathered and algae covered bamboo spigot; it is lined with smooth, colorful sea stones that Carol and I collected along the coast. We once tried to populate this fountain with tiny snails hoping to keep it clear of algae. Alas, the snails didn’t last very long, victims of some mysterious nocturnal predator.
There’s a sliding glass door in our bedroom that opens onto the deck which we keep open with a screen at night in the summer. The fountains blend together in perfect three-part harmony, lulling me and Carol to sleep. The sound of moving water; crashing waves, mighty rivers, gentle creeks or simple rain has such curative properties. Storms along the coast invoke awe and a deep respect for the power of nature. A comfortable place beside a forest creek is the ideal setting for quiet meditation. A walk in the rain is a dream come true.
Twenty six years ago I was floating down the Nile River on the trip of a lifetime to Egypt. Our captain and I stood together one morning at the bow of his felucca. Snowy egrets perched atop tall trees along the river bank, the rising sun making their feathers glow. Fishermen in small canoes cast their nets among the rushes which swayed gently in the breeze. Small children waved and splashed joyously in the shallows. The cobalt blue waters just flowed and flowed. I recall commenting to Captain Salah how beautiful I found this scene to be. He turned to me and simply stated, “The Nile is life.” And so are our fountains, a microcosm of the beauty and life giving properties of flowing water.
Carol and I went to the movies this afternoon. Upon walking into the lobby we were immediately greeted by the twin aromas of melting butter and popping popcorn. We took our seats among the twenty or so other people inside the dimly lit theater. The only sounds were the soft hum of whispered conversation and the rustling of hands reaching into popcorn boxes. The lights were turned all the way down and the big screen lit up with previews, followed by the feature film. We settled into a wonderful documentary about a music festival in Harlem in the summer of 1969. People sharing the theater with us clapped, laughed or commented at various times throughout the film. As soon as the film ended people began to file out but I always stay until the screen goes white and the house lights are turned back up. The film was joyous and life affirming. Smiles and nods of acknowledgement were shared as we and our fellow movie goers exited the theater.
This was the first movie theater that I’d been to in nearly a year and a half. I’m hearing a lot of this nowadays: “This is the first (fill in the blanks) that I’ve…”. My favorite part about going to a movie in a theater is the shared experience in the dark with a roomful of strangers. The aroma of popcorn, the big screen and surround sound all make a “Netflix and chill” evening pale in comparison. I savored every moment of my movie experience today and I know that the people inside the theater with us felt exactly the same way. There was a palatable sigh of relief and grattitude among all of us inside the Summerfield Cinemas on this sunny Saturday afternoon. Joy no longer needs to be postponed. Fifteen months of pent up frustration is gradually being released. The dreaded face masks are going, going and nearly gone. The twin vibes of fear and dread are being replaced by hope and positivity. Seeing peoples’ smiles again fills my heart to bursting. The vaccine is setting us all free.
Carol and I were on a roll. After a brief stop at home to refuel we headed out “for the first time in…” to hear live music. Our destination was a funky one-off restaurant and music venue on the banks of the Russian River. The Rio Nido Roadhouse has a small bar and covered pation but the majority of seating and the stage are outdoors. Pairs of Adirondak chairs with a small table between them and several aged wooden picnic tables are arrainged on an expansive lawn ringed by towering redwood trees. A cement dance floor and small stage sit at one end. A sign above the stage spells out the venues’ name in faded, delaminating plywood letters. Long strings of white lights criss cross the lawn above us, lending a magical quality to the scene. We settled into our seats with food and cold microbrews waiting for the show to begin and watching the evening sky turn from deep blue to indigo to black.
Tonights’ band is The Sun Kings, a top notch Beatles tribute band. What better music to celebrate the emergence from our long covid winter than that of the Beatles. There were perhaps 150 people at the show. No masks, no social distancing, just happy smiling humans rejoicing in the freedom and beauty of this very special evening. The band kicked off the show with Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and we immediately hit the dance floor. The crowd was predominantly aging Baby Boomers for whom the Beatles music is part of our DNA. However I was surprised and delighted to see an energetic group of roughly a dozen men and women in their early 20’s join us at the front of the stage. They danced harder and sang louder than anyone, belting out the words to each and every song. For three hours and nearly 50 songs, Carol and I twirled, smiled and sang ourselves hoarse.
The final song of the night was fittingly Hey Jude. Boomers and twentysomethings alike linked arms on the dance floor in a collective embrace as we filled our lungs and sang the songs’ coda…together.
My parents’ house has a front door but no one ever uses it. Everyone comes and goes through the back door.
The dank, musty smells of age and neglect greet you as you enter the house because five steps down to the right is the basement. Its smooth cement walls are slightly damp and cool to the touch. The aged brown wood of the floor joists are visible above. There is no ceiling. There are several shelves filled with old things: random holiday decorations, worn cardboard boxes, cans of paint, a few rusty tools. Three small windows on either side of the basement let in some light, but still this place is dark and gloomy.
The basement was where as kids we’d hold marathon ping pong tournaments and play hours of the table top Bobby Hull hockey game. After particularly wet rainstorms, the bare cement floor often floods. A large drain in the rear corner has to be unscrewed with a pipe wrench in order to let the water out. Vintage movie posters once hung on the walls, remnants of my mom’s career as a theater manager. The Halloween party we had down here during my sophomore year in college was one for the ages. The next day my older brother Ray and I, shaky with hangovers, had to clean up the spilled beer, stale chips, cans, bottles and smashed cake that covered the floor. We celebrated two of our friend’s birthdays that night. They blew out the candles but got no cake.
My old baseball mitts and bats were once stored here. I wonder what became of them? My mom wasn’t much for saving things. An old refrigerator stands against a wall, it is filled with bottled water and long-neck Budweisers. My dad only drinks Bud but buys the good stuff (Heineken or Molson) whenever I visit, a sweet and thoughtful gesture.
Nine steps separated by a small landing lead to the inside of the house. These steps are steep and narrow, dangerous to navigate even for able bodied people. They’re downright hazardous for my 92 year old parents. A bar is bolted to the wall in the stairwell which my parents cling to when they use the steps. One slip and they’d be gone.
The steps lead to a small kitchen. A tiny pantry and narrow breakfast nook sit along the left hand side. Two south facing windows let in lots of light, but the slightly opaque white curtains are often closed so the light is dim and diffused. Mom would spend hours over the stove in here concocting her homemade pasta sauce (“gravy” in New Jersey lingo). The twin aromas of tomatoes and garlic filled the house. Macaroni with gravy is still my favorite comfort food. When the radio wasn’t playing Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennet or Dean Martin, mom would sing or hum their music while she cooked. When our daughter was little, she would often hum these sweet little melodies while she drew or played in her room. A little piece of my mom in our little girl.
My mom had such a lovely voice and could really carry a tune. Growing up, she shared a small apartment with her five sisters and my grandparents. There was a piano in the apartment and mom learned to play a bit. However, when they moved to a different place, they had to leave the piano behind. Whenever mom tells me this story, her voice is heavy with regret. Given the opportunity, I believe my mom could have been a singer or musician. I sing, play guitar and have written and recorded two cds of original music. I owe much of my musical abilities to my mom. As a boy I was constantly exposed to music, my young mind taking it all in. My mom instilled the love of music in me and that is the greatest gift she has ever given to me.
My parents’ house
Beyond the kitchen is a larger room that doubles as a dining/living room. It has the same south facing windows and diffused lighting. Mom and dad sit here in the evenings and watch tv. They never miss Jeopardy. The front door opens onto a narrow enclosed porch. Screens are pulled down in summer. This space offers a bit of a respite from the stuffy confines of the house. The porch has always been my dad’s refuge. When we were kids, dad smoked cigars. Mom hated these and called them “turds”. He would sit out here to escape from mom and puff away.
Dad had a small transistor radio which was always tuned to some ballgame or another. Besides being an avid reader my dad has no hobbies, except for sports. He lives and breathes sports, his sports knowledge is deep. Dad played on his high school basketball team. I remember feeling so proud of him whenever mom would show us the yearbook photos of him in his uniform. Sports is the way my dad and I connect. Ray and I would spend hours listening to or watching sports with him: The Miracle Mets in 1969, the 69/70 Knicks, Ali/Frazier at Madison Square Garden in 1971 and of course the New York Yankees. Dad took me to my first major league baseball game on Father’s Day in 1965. The grass on the field was a shade of green that I never knew existed. It was Bat Day. Ray and I received real wooden bats. This is my greatest sports memory. In 2009, my wife and I took our kids to their first major league baseball game in San Francisco. It was Father’s Day.
A door in the living room leads to a short, narrow hallway which connects to a small room. This was the tv room when we were kids and later became my younger brother’s room when he came along. In January of 1964 The Beatles took America by storm. Their appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show was viewed by millions, two of whom were Ray and I. We sat on the floor in this tiny room that night and sang along as the Fab Four made history. Mom and dad sat on the couch behind us wondering what all the fuss was about.
A stairway out of this room leads up to two small rooms. One was my sister’s, the other Ray and I shared. What these rooms really are is an attic divided with a wall. With no insulation or heat, the rooms are stifling; unbearably hot in the summer and freezing in winter. Blankets, portable heaters and fans made the rooms barely livable. During big winter snowstorms, Ray and I would lean over the clock radio that sat between our beds, listening with rapt attention to the list of school closings, hoping with all of our might to hear our school’s name. This is where I sat with my first acoustic guitar, playing along to Neil Young’s Harvest until I knew all of the songs by heart. My college girlfriend and I once made love on this bed.
Each of these two rooms has a small closet. In the back of my sister’s closet is a door which opens to a crawl space underneath the roof of the house. We call it the “cubbyhole”. This is a dark and foreboding place that terrified us as kids. There are no walls or ceiling, just exposed beams and wall studs covered in dust and cobwebs. There is no light switch so a flashlight is needed for illumination which adds an extra layer of creepiness. My siblings and I would imaging all manner of unnamed horrors living within this space. It was the stuff of our childhood nightmares.
My parents’ house was built in 1936. The inside seems to grow smaller each time I visit. It is claustrophobic and stuffy. There is one bathroom. My sister, my two brothers and I grew up here. Six of us crammed into this tiny space. The cramped quarters and and lack of privacy helped fuel the chaos and conflict of our childhood. Our parents fought often. Their arguments were explosive, filled with angry putdowns and bitterness. Once as a boy I remember watching my mom cry as she stared out the kitchen window after a particularly nasty fight with dad. Seeing my mom filled with such sadness was heartbreaking.
My parents’ house is at once familiar and foreign to me. It’s difficult to imaging ever living here, yet one step inside and I’m eight years old again. My siblings and I are grown and have long ago moved away but my parents remain, caretakers of our childhood memories.
When we were shopping for our first home nearly twenty years ago, one of the things that attracted us to our neighborhood was the easy access to a network of trails that criss cross Santa Rosa and Paulin Creeks. This trail system is truly an oasis and a hidden gem in our part of town. The banks are lined primarily with oaks, willows and redwoods. Beginning in mid-summer, a seemingly endless supply of plump, juicy blackberries are there for the taking. The water is clean and supports a surprising diversity of wildlife. River otters call this place home (one morning last year I observed a family of five cavorting in an eddy just across from where I was standing!) Great Blue Herons, Snowy and Great Egrets, Black Crowned Night Herons and Belted Kingfishers are among the resident aquatic predators. I regularly observe the same egret standing in the water just below a spot where the creek narrows to around two feet, waiting to spear a meal. Crawfish, small steelhead and western pond turtles abound. On any given day, the air is filled with the songs of chickadees, towhees, juncos and warblers. If you’re even halfway observant, it’s hard to walk these trails and not encounter at least one of the aforementioned creatures. However, there’s one little mystery of the natural world that you just may stroll right on by, but I never miss it.
When my family and I first started exploring these trails we began to notice a steady stream of honeybees coming and going from a particular oak tree. This oak is a gnarled old grandmother. Her weathered and moss covered trunk is nearly five feet in circumference and bends at an odd angle towards the creek. Her thin arms give way to spindly fingers which reach upwards to join the canopy. There’s an opening in the tree about a foot up from the base, it’s an almost perfectly shaped oval, like the one you see in Winnie The Pooh’s tree. I half expect Winnie himself to come rambling by to collect some “huny.” There’s activity at this opening twelve months of the year. Even in the dead of winter on a cold, rainy day, I can still spot one or two bees. Right now the action is fast and furious with hundreds of bees zipping in and out of the opening like so many mini jet fighters. Step close enough and you’ll hear a steady, high pitched hum. Judging by the number of bees, the size of this hive inside grandmother oak must be enormous. How long the hive has been here is anyone’s guess. What I wouldn’t give to reach up in there and grab a handful of sweet, golden honey!
Grandmother OakLotsa bees!
I wonder how many people walk or bike right past this tree every day without noticing what’s going on in and around it? This feels like my little secret but sometimes I think it would be fun to sit beside the tree and point out to the unaware the miracle that’s occurring right before their eyes
Mother Nature does not reveal her secrets easily. It takes patience, hours of quiet observation and a little luck to find what’s hidden, often in plain sight. I’ve discovered some wonderful and unexpected things by sitting, watching and listening with a peaceful mind and an open heart.
A couple of years ago while sitting on our backyard deck one early spring morning, I noticed a hummingbird fly from an open perch on our plum tree into the thick foliage of our apple tree. Day after day I observed this same bird zipping back and forth between the two trees. Curiosity finally got the best of me so I went to have a look inside the apple tree. What I discovered was a tiny nest made from lichen, moss, lint and other bits of fluff. Inside the nest were two perfectly white eggs, each the size of a pinto bean. This nest would easily fit within a circle that I make with my thumb and forefinger. So perfectly camouflaged was this nest that it would have been virtually impossible to find it had I not first observed the hummingbird’s activity around it.
I feel blessed just to be aware of these hidden secrets of nature. Being in the right place at the right time has allowed me to glimpse through the window into a mysterious and mostly hidden world. Of course there are more bee trees and hummingbird nests out there than I’ll ever have the time to discover. But nevertheless, I plan to keep on looking.
Every so often, a line will come to me in a dream and be on my mind when I awaken. I keep a pen and paper by my side of the bed so I can write these lines down before they melt away along with the dream. Sometimes one of these little gifts from my subconscious becomes the starting point of a song or poem, which is the case here.
Twenty years ago the ringing sound of heels on a metal staircase marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life, only I didn’t know it at the time.
The most pivotal moments in our lives quite often announce themselves with great fanfare. Weddings, the birth of a child, the passing of a loved one are key events after which our lives, for better or worse, are changed forever. However, sometimes these moments sneak up on us with a whisper instead of a shout. When they occur they may feel like just another moment in a day filled with moments, it’s after the fact when we realize their significance. I guess you could call it delayed gratification. I had one such moment on April 21, 2001. It was a beautiful spring evening and that was the day I met Carol, the love of my life and the mother of our two children.
Two decades have gone by and I still have vivid memories of that day when Carol came into my life. She and I were introduced by a mutual friend named Dannielle. Dan and I had a warm and easy friendship. We laughed a lot and enjoyed spending time together. A couple of months prior to meeting Carol, Dan began talking up this “dancer, teacher, world traveler, Deadhead (Grateful Dead fan)” friend of hers. So I’m hearing all of this and all the while checking off boxes. I was definitely intrigued and told Dan that I wanted to meet this mystery woman. I was single at the time, in a good space in my life, and ready for something new.
After some back and forth, Dannielle managed to arrange a day for Carol and I to meet. I was living in Santa Cruz at the time. Dan and Carol both lived about three hours north in Sonoma County. I made the trip north on that fateful Saturday to Dan’s apartment where my meeting with Carol was to take place. I was helping Dan do some painting in her place that afternoon. Butterflies of excitement fluttered through my stomach as we sloshed various colors of paint onto the walls. I was trying not to have expectations and just let events unfold as they may.
Dan’s studio was behind and above a family’s home and was accessed via a winding metal staircase similar to the type used to ascend to the top of a lighthouse. The appointed time of our rendezvous had arrived when I heard the clomp and ring of heeled shoes on metal. The door swung open and in flowed Carol. This is the memory that is so crystalized in my mind, the way Carol literally flowed into my life.
Her river of hair, red as a robin’s breast, spilled out of a colorful head scarf, cascading down past the middle of her back. The swish swish of these long tresses was perfectly synched to her graceful movements as Carol sashayed into the room. Her thin and lithe body was draped in a light brown, long sleeve peasant style blouse. A vividly printed skirt flowed past her ankles. Carol’s electric blue eyes were turned up to their full brightness that evening. Her big toothy smile was warm and welcoming, the freckles on her face a nice punctuation mark.
Our actual date was fairly uneventful. The three of us went to a bar, had a couple of beers and listened to a bluegrass band. Carol and I got together again the next day for a hike in the redwoods. The seeds of our relationship had been sown. How could I have possibly known at the time how that day would alter the course of my life? It was a moment in a day filled with moments that was the beginning of a beautiful life shared.
At the spring equinox last year the world was in turmoil. A mysterious and deadly virus that began “over there” had made it to our shores. Schools, movie theaters, restaurants, health clubs, basically all “non-essential” businesses were immediately closed. Baseball, the quintessential harbinger of springtime renewal was put on hold indefinitely. The NBA abruptly paused its season. Panic buying wiped out supermarket shelves. What do you mean I can’t hug my friends? No live music? No summer festivals? Locked down in our homes, Zoom was a sorry substitute for real human interaction. A malevolent regime ruled in Washington, confident of another four years to wreck havoc on us all. To say things were looking bleak was a vast understatement. How on Earth would we survive? Well, survive we did.
On this glorious spring day one year later, the darkness of the past year seems like a fever dream. God’s paintbrush has splashed the neighborhoods and hillsides with every type of spring flower imaginable; their yellows, oranges, purples, whites and blues pulsate against a backdrop of green grass and blue skies. A crazed president has been replaced by a kind and humane president. Many thousands of people are being vaccinated every day. Daily covid cases and hospitalizations are on a steady decline. Businesses are opening up, masks are slowly being lowered and a collective sigh of relief can be heard everywhere. Fear and dread are giving way to hope and positivity. On April 1st, the Major League Baseball season will begin on schedule. Actual fans, not cardboard cut-outs, will be in the stands.
I contemplate all of this with intense gratitude as I sit today at one of my favorite places in nature. I’ve come here numerous times over the past year seeking solace and a respite from a world gone mad. All around me are signs of renewal and rebirth.
When I arrive, a squirrel scolds me from the trees above. I don’t think he was expecting a visitor. Chattering jays carry on a noisy conversation. The subtle “chip, chip” of some mysterious forest bird fills in the blanks. A silent breeze ever so slightly moves the new green shoots of the surrounding willows. The breeze needs the trees to announce its presence and create the dance of spring.
The river current is languid and lazy, broken only by small ripples, swirls and dimples. The river is a canvas for the towering trees on the opposite bank, their naked skeletal branches are reflected in its surface. Diving ducks explore the edges of the canvas, vanishing suddenly as if pulled down from below only to reappear again a few yards away. Feathers and twigs are in no hurry on their way to the sea, they always arrive right on schedule.
The breeze picks up, giving voice to the trees around me which creak like the bones of an old woman. I can feel the ancient spirit of the Pomo whispering in the wind. With a flash of black a cormorant jets past, its long, black neck pointing like an arrow downstream.
Two crows are conversing now, it’s an age old discussion filled with mystery and wonder. A tiny butterfly, bone white and brilliant against a landscape of browns and greens, lets the wind take it where it may.
Taylor Mountain is a 1,000 acre gem in the crown of the numerous open space preserves that dot Sonoma County. I was enjoying a day free from obligations today and hiked to the mountain’s 1,380 foot summit. Once at the top I was higher than the hawks and turkey vultures that circled below me, the nearly 360 degree vista was breathtaking. It’s easy to feel inspired at a place like this and I think that’s what prompted this snippet of conversation that I happened upon on my way down.
A woman was hiking with her three small children the oldest, a girl around five years old, turned to her mom at the moment I was walking past and asked, “Mama, what do you think heaven looks like?” The hillside we were standing on is dotted with majestic oak trees and the grasses Ireland green from recent rains, the clouds wispy brushstrokes across a robin’s egg blue sky. We could see across the valley below many miles to the north and south and to the western foothills and beyond. To the little girl perhaps this was what heaven looked like, she just needed confirmation from mom.
The view from heaven
As a long time elementary school teacher and father of twins, being asked questions like the one posed by the little girl were once a routine part of my day. Kids unfiltered view of the world is so refreshing to be around, they see it as it is and just let it fly. Their wonder and inquisitiveness is a breath of fresh air in our “been there, done that” world.
When you think about it, what a strange concept heaven is. You die and your spirit (essence, prana, mojo…whatever) goes “up.” I know it’s up because when virtually every major league ballplayer is rounding third base after hitting a home run, they point both of their index fingers skyward and gaze gratefully towards the heavens. The moon, stars and galaxies are known collectively as “the heavens.” They are, after all, “up there.” Humans through time immemorial have looked to the stars for inspiration and knowledge. No wonder we think of heaven as up.
So anyway when you finally make it “up there”, you’re met by white clad angels who float by atop whipped cream clouds to greet you. There may be harps involved. Someone by the name of Peter may review your life in his “naughty or nice” book. Everyone and everything is exactly as it should be. There are no words to describe the beauty. You stay here for all of eternity. My concept of heaven is a bit different.
You don’t need to wait for the end of your life to get to heaven, there are little pieces of heaven everywhere. My son’s eyes are bluer than the mountain sky, my daughter’s eyes a shade of hazel previously unknown to humankind. If that ain’t heaven, I don’t know what is. A day spent with the ones you love in a place that you love? Heavenly. The waves and the wind, the sand and the shorebirds. Some call it the beach but I call it heaven.
Heaven is up, it’s down, it’s all around, it’s within you, without you. Heaven is right in front of us, we simply need to open our eyes to see it.
