The past is never an indicator of the future (1)
Drove 2 1/2 hours through the Santa Cruz hills via CA 17 - to Monterey to my annual ritual, looking forward to the training swim for the Pacific Grove triathlon.
I say this because each year I emerged from the drink chilled as a banana daiquiri, a salty one.
I'll say this about PG, it's one of the better organized events, no quibbling, no lost numbers, or complaints, and the med people are most knowledgeable -something you want at a triathlon.
The infamous kelp forest is not as thick as I remember, but then again, it's August and the thing will grow faster than west coast fuscia.
Living north, I gave myself two hours hoohhahahaha to get down to the placid precincts, in rush hour, so missed the training swim. As I arrived, someone ordered pizza for the trainers and the swimmers. Since I'm not known to turn down (free) pies I grabbed a slice, and around 7 pm, jumped into the drink, solo.
My training leader from last year told me it was 'perfectly safe.' There's an amazing variety of vegetation under suface in the great Monterey basin.
Finishing my second loop, I headed for shore, and at that hour, with the sun setting (I might have remembered to take a picture), the light fading, suddenly, the sourness of dealing with surlyafternoon drivers vanished, I was in the Element. The evening was lovely as usual, but there was grandeur to it as well.
But that it was getting dark, I would have stayed longer; the water was not cold.
I felt some kind of repression free up, in the open water. It changes me, cleansed might be the better word, when I go in, to when I come out. Certain biological and spiritual needs are met, the water changes, it heals.
So what about is this divinity of the western light, you ask? As a kid who grew up on the east coast, as I did, dreaming about California in the pages of
The Rolling Stone - my guidepost to the all things Cal - I noticed the light as a tropism, holding sway over the lifestyle, the optimism of the place.
I was not wrong, as I was about most things at the time. Living here does that. It's in those memorable images from John Steinbeck, the paintings of Wayne Thiebaud; the 'quick brilliant flash' of Ferlinghetti's poetry, the light, divine evanscence...the ocean.
Else will people line the coast roads at sunset to witness the airbrush sunsets, summer fully in its wane in the east, while the Northern California coastline is getting warmed up - our Indian summer.
These sunsets are the reason they invented picture phones.
Emerging blissful, I drove over to Taqueria at Turtle Bay in Monterey, ordered, fresh tacos - the cranberry salsa, tasty - tortillas, doubled-wrapped and soft - no self respecing west coast taq would serve the crunchy kind.
One beer for the road and - solo - taking my time driving CA-1, the coast road, shouting the lyrics to Lou Reed's - Rock and Roll Animal, the water silver under the stars, the only company a rising half moon over my left shoulder.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Sacred Incarnation of a smile
Last weekend, I attended a concert that included my daughter with the San Francisco Girls Chorus.
The venue was a church in Oakland. The performers were divided into two groups by age. This church was adorned by several stained-glass depictions along each opposite wall and beyond the altar.
As we waited for the youngest group to take their place on stage, I was captivated by a girl who flashed an enormous smile as she passed us down the aisle. I turned to one of the adults next to me, and I could tell she was completely engaged as well. Of all human interactions, the smile is the most giving and receiving. New to the world, it was a smile that radiated openness and, in a sense, I felt inspired.
Try and duplicate it: grin at yourself in the mirror with all your teeth showing. But this smile wasn't show, only pure joy.
There on stage, the girl took her place front and center, totally engaged with the conductor. She was so enthralled, to love singing in such a way and so actualized that I was mesmerized. Those megawatt smiles, the girl and the girls around her on stage, lifted the entire room for the duration of the performance, transmuting an audience restraint into grateful and unhindered acknowledgement.
I've seen hundreds and hundreds of professionals and amateurs in concert for about
40 years. I can't ever remember being witness to such spiritual joy without any hint of self-consciousness, or underlying intention, discipline intertwined with love. The stained glass gathered up the fragments of light that seemed to drift over the audience, the happy little disciplinarian's noble smile focused like a laser, hers and the rest of the trained voices taking the performance to a different level.
The girl and her cohort finishede, and I applauded with the rest of the parents, some with tears in our eyes. Exiting the stage, she exchanged greetings with her mom, turned on her great wattage as her mom beamed back her own smile.
Now it came my daughter's turn. Indeed, the girls sang, interpreting complexities and were well prepared by their conductor and their theory instructor. But there just wasn't the same energy present. As their attentive and talented conductor led them through their paces, around ten years of age, these girls seemed already restrained, a prim and proper attitude that is admired, but not unbound.
Kahil Gibran wrote that poetry is "a sacred incarnation of a smile, is a spirit who dwells in the soul, whose wine is affection. Poetry that comes not in this form is the false messiah."
When I've approached writing out of a sense of duty or complacency, or bound with negative emotions, I lack awareness, as though conditioned in that way. Though, as I open my heart, I experience a mutual bonding, a foundation in splendor, and approach holiness in the endeavor. Thoughts flow, words materialize. I hold out my hat and and catch them as they fall out of the sky. Approaching the page as something else is to exchange competence for transcendence.
Finding that place where beauty and harmony, loving-kindness, nobility and ambition intersect takes a good deal of time and effort. When I stay within the discipline of journaling, even when there is nothing worthwhile to say, there is the stream of consciousness. I feel cleansed, emotionally or spiritually, then I can sit and really write. I do so with respect, even awe, loving-kindness and acceptance of the process. "You don't have to believe in yourself or your work.
It is not your business to determine: how good it is; nor how valuable it is." In keeping with Martha Graham's advice to Agnes DeMille, I try and be open and aware of the urge that motivates me to write, and write.
Love is the common thread in all creative endeavors. When I create, my Creator delights in my creation. This is a rare articulation, but I feel at times when I am able to transcribe the unspeakable. I remember that childlike feeling of opening a gift, a present that allows the writer to reach above and beyond.
The venue was a church in Oakland. The performers were divided into two groups by age. This church was adorned by several stained-glass depictions along each opposite wall and beyond the altar.
As we waited for the youngest group to take their place on stage, I was captivated by a girl who flashed an enormous smile as she passed us down the aisle. I turned to one of the adults next to me, and I could tell she was completely engaged as well. Of all human interactions, the smile is the most giving and receiving. New to the world, it was a smile that radiated openness and, in a sense, I felt inspired.
Try and duplicate it: grin at yourself in the mirror with all your teeth showing. But this smile wasn't show, only pure joy.
There on stage, the girl took her place front and center, totally engaged with the conductor. She was so enthralled, to love singing in such a way and so actualized that I was mesmerized. Those megawatt smiles, the girl and the girls around her on stage, lifted the entire room for the duration of the performance, transmuting an audience restraint into grateful and unhindered acknowledgement.
I've seen hundreds and hundreds of professionals and amateurs in concert for about
40 years. I can't ever remember being witness to such spiritual joy without any hint of self-consciousness, or underlying intention, discipline intertwined with love. The stained glass gathered up the fragments of light that seemed to drift over the audience, the happy little disciplinarian's noble smile focused like a laser, hers and the rest of the trained voices taking the performance to a different level.
The girl and her cohort finishede, and I applauded with the rest of the parents, some with tears in our eyes. Exiting the stage, she exchanged greetings with her mom, turned on her great wattage as her mom beamed back her own smile.
Now it came my daughter's turn. Indeed, the girls sang, interpreting complexities and were well prepared by their conductor and their theory instructor. But there just wasn't the same energy present. As their attentive and talented conductor led them through their paces, around ten years of age, these girls seemed already restrained, a prim and proper attitude that is admired, but not unbound.
Kahil Gibran wrote that poetry is "a sacred incarnation of a smile, is a spirit who dwells in the soul, whose wine is affection. Poetry that comes not in this form is the false messiah."
When I've approached writing out of a sense of duty or complacency, or bound with negative emotions, I lack awareness, as though conditioned in that way. Though, as I open my heart, I experience a mutual bonding, a foundation in splendor, and approach holiness in the endeavor. Thoughts flow, words materialize. I hold out my hat and and catch them as they fall out of the sky. Approaching the page as something else is to exchange competence for transcendence.
Finding that place where beauty and harmony, loving-kindness, nobility and ambition intersect takes a good deal of time and effort. When I stay within the discipline of journaling, even when there is nothing worthwhile to say, there is the stream of consciousness. I feel cleansed, emotionally or spiritually, then I can sit and really write. I do so with respect, even awe, loving-kindness and acceptance of the process. "You don't have to believe in yourself or your work.
It is not your business to determine: how good it is; nor how valuable it is." In keeping with Martha Graham's advice to Agnes DeMille, I try and be open and aware of the urge that motivates me to write, and write.
Love is the common thread in all creative endeavors. When I create, my Creator delights in my creation. This is a rare articulation, but I feel at times when I am able to transcribe the unspeakable. I remember that childlike feeling of opening a gift, a present that allows the writer to reach above and beyond.
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