Walking, wrinkles and a little lavender bliss

Hiking in Grandview State Park, Grandview, WV

     There's something I love about a walk in the woods, particularly in autumn with the leaves thick beneath my feet and the air chilly and sharp around me.  Shining through the high branches, the sunlight is softer, more forgiving of imperfections. My steps are slow but steady and I can feel the rush and stress of everyday falling away.  I notice fungus on a tree, quick rustles up high, rich green ferns tucked behind gray rocks. It is quiet here, but alive with small things - ants, brown chipmunks, butterflies - and more rarely with larger ones - a deer startled from the rhododendron and  a hawk launched from a cliff.   The earth is rich and pungent and somehow smells more like home than any other place I know. I am present and centered without even trying.  This walking becomes my meditation, my best prayer of the day.

AF

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     "Botox could really help that 11 between your eyebrows." So said a lady at the salon to me the other day. I'm sure she's right, and I didn't need her to tell me that those two little lines are getting deeper with each passing year. It's no mystery why it's happening either. My brow gets a lot of work in a day, moving to varying degrees to show that I am confused, angry, sad, compassionate, worried. Now in my mid 30s, I'm also developing "parentheses" around my mouth from smiling, and "laugh lines" at the corners of my eyes. A few injections could take care of all that, I suppose, and help me look years younger. But here's the thing -- I don't want to lose any of that. Those lines on my face are evidence of a life lived and deeply felt. My emotions have always been an easy read, since I have no "poker face." With Botox or plastic surgery, I could get one. In my 20s, I used to fantasize about liposuction, rhinoplasty, cheek implants, but not anymore. Now I just want to be healthy, to take care of what I have and make the most of it, with no needles or scalpels involved. This is my face, and one of the gifts of getting older is that I've finally grown to love every line, freckle, mole, and blemish because they are mine. If I ever have daughters, I hope I can help them get to that place of self-acceptance much earlier. It's taken me 35 years to realize that I don't want to look like anyone but me.

SS

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Lavender Bliss

     Not to miss an opportunity, a coworker and I tagged on a few days to a work conference in San Francisco to see the sights of Mill and Sonoma valleys.  We particularly enjoyed touring Benzinger winery, which takes an environmental ‘biodynamic’ approach to its farming. Part of that involves elaborate gardens or insectaries or bug cities as they are called, chocked full of plants pleasing to healthful insects and birds. We meandered through the pathways, ducking at the darting hummingbirds, their whir of wings creating a throaty purring. 

     We watched the sun set on the rolling farmlands as we drove back, reliving our repeat visit to the restaurant ‘the girl and the fig,’ where we feasted on three types of goat cheese, one drizzled in lavender honey, a taste sensation I can only describe as decadently delightful. We sucked down lavender creme brulees that were too good to split. As we headed back to the city and neared the Golden Gate Bridge, the traffic slowed to a crawl. We noticed how people here rarely honk their horns. They are polite drivers, respectful of pedestrians. What is it about a region that creates such a culture? 

     All I can figure is all the Innovative taste sensations keep everyone sated. Though stuck in traffic, I can't even work up a good ill temper. It's as if the rich textures of the land and sun-baked hills of the valley run in my veins like wine.  What are a few backed up cars when you've had the likes of lavender honey?

DB

Beach Retreat

“Here's the problem,” I said to God while we sat crocheting. “I can't stand single crochet anymore.” God said nothing, so I continued. “Single crochet is . . . boring. It's the most basic, dull stitch there is. Anybody can do that one.”

“Anybody?” God asked. “I've had more than a few people tell me it's difficult to do well.”

“I just mean, it's nothing spectacular,” I continued. “When you get into the double and triple crochet, that's when things get interesting.”

“Single is how everyone begins,” God reminded me.

“But they don't stay there,” I protested.

“Some do. There are beautiful, intricate patterns that can only be created from single crochet. You've seen a few.”

I sighed. “This isn't really about crochet.”

“Yes, beloved, I know.”

“Of course you know,” I huffed. “You know everything.”

I could tell God was trying not to laugh. It annoyed me in the way you can only get annoyed with someone you really love.

“I don't want to be single crochet,” I said quietly. “At least not forever. This is not what I hoped for, not what I had planned. How long do I have to be alone?”

God stayed maddeningly silent, but kept working the yarn, counting every stitch.

SS

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There’s nothing quite like early morning light. 

I’m always amazed at the magic that happens on an early morning walk. I managed to wake to take a sunrise walk while at Camp St. Christopher where I went for a women’s retreat at Providence Baptist Church. Having to shed my shoes and wade through chilly high-tide surf, I made it to the beach-front side of the island. There I watched the sun start the day, but got the eerie sense that someone was watching me.  I turned to scan the houses behind me, but saw no one.   Catching movement in the dunes,  I realized six deer were standing still, same posture, ears cocked,  perfectly alert as if frozen by the light - all of us in silent reverence for the start of the day.

So some time this week or this holiday season - rise early - and receive the blessings.

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.

Hello, you who made the morning

and spread it over the fields

and into the faces of the tulips

and the nodding morning glories,

and into the windows of, even, the

miserable and the crotchety –

best preacher that ever was,

dear star, that just happens

to be where you are in the universe

to keep us from ever-darkness,

to ease us with warm touching,

to hold us in the great hands of light –

good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day

in happiness, in kindness.

~ Mary Oliver ~ 

(Why I Wake Early, 2004)

DB

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Walking takes longer...than any other known form of locomotion except crawling.  Thus it stretches time and prolongs life.  Life is already too short to waste on speed.   ~ Edward Abbey, "Walking"

It took me a while to get used to sand.  I grew up an Appalachian mountain girl.   Life in the South Carolina lowcountry,  only six miles from the ocean, has been an experience in flat land, tidal clocks and sand... everywhere.   On my feet, in my hair, on my children, in my car, in the house.    I started digging a garden in my back yard and what did I find but oyster shells and ...sand.   (And some weird clay dirt... but we won’t go into that.)  

What I have found is that sand slows you down.  I’m normally a fast walker.  At the store, on my walks, up the stairs, across the parking lot... I walk fast.  But not in sand.   I can run (sort of) on the hard packed sand left by the surf -  but not in soft sand.  There’s really no way to move fast there.  And that’s a good thing.  Sand slows me down.  Walking out to the beach,  I have to step carefully and with purpose.  Different muscles in my hips and legs push me forward.    I watch out for sand spurs and fire ants, paying attention. 

I see the yellow flowers and the worn rope that edge the path.  I stop and take a picture.  I’m not moving forward in a rush to my destination.  I'm  breathing and present and listening.  Here in the sand. 

AF