Cirque du Malaise

I spent this fine summer weekend in Pt. Reyes and Bodega Bay.
Here are some things I noticed.

Antiquated fridge.

Backlit nostalgia.

Rusty.

The pier behind Nick's Cove at sunset.

And at breakfast.

Wind.Gretel.

Mt. Wittenberg, Pt. Ryes
[ verdant fields of opulent torture ]

Tennessee Valley might be my favorite place in the world.  I love it in all its incarnations: bucolic sunny splendor, refuge for delicate wildlife (and introverts), happliy trafficked weekend days, moonlit nights with owls hooting. But perhaps my favorite Tennessee Valley mood is lonely, stormy spring evening. Last night I walked to the beach alone, listening to an ominous Radiolab podcast about a necrophiliac serial killer (perhaps not the best choice for a solo hike at dusk), but I didn't feel lonely. I don't get lonely when I'm alone. In fact, strangely, the only time feel lonely is when I'm surrounded by people. Perhaps all introverts are this way.

I spent a lot of time by myself growing up. When I think about the things I used to do for fun when I was 8, they haven’t really changed all that much: reading, making up stories, hanging out at the library, adventuring around in the woods by myself.

Because I live in a very ¡fun! Place (the Bay Area), and I have a lot of ¡fun! friends who go to Burning Man and costume parties and other ¡fun!  stuff, I am constantly getting invited to social goings-on. I almost always say no. Often. When I say “no thanks” to a party, I’ll generally get the cajoling, “come on, it'll be fun” beg from the friend in question. It’s almost as if they think, if they could just get me to go to a party/festival/block party/rock concert just this once, I would realize that I really do in fact like huge group gatherings; I’ve been wrong this whole time; I am a whole different person than I think I am.

Occasionally I acquiesce and go to a party. 97% of the time, I regret it. Parties are not my thing. I usually end up huddled in a corner with the person I came with, desperately avoiding eye contact and taking frequent trips to the bathroom, where I can get brief moments of respite in a stall by myself.

That's not to say that I'm not social. I go for hikes with my friends; I go to yoga (not really) with my friends; I go to movies with my friends; I make dinner with my friends. Sometimes I do those things with my friends, and sometimes I do them by myself. I like both.

I’m glad I’m not a person who needs constant company to keep me grounded. I’m glad I need lots and lots of alone time. In my prior life as a Romantic With Hope, I always dated outgoing, sociable guys who liked parties and Halloween and Bay to Breakers and all those things that make me highly anxious. More and more, now that I am committed to remaining single and solitary, I am a shut-in. I’m not planning to try to be different any time soon. The nice thing about being 40 and single? I can be exactly who I want to be.

My mom (Judith) and my brother (Elia) were just out here visiting me in California. We did a lot of things. So many things that I'm kind of exhausted and can't string a sentence together. Luckily, there are pictures for times like these:

Elia and I went to the mall. Yup, the mall. That's how we do.

I tried on this sweet hat. It will be mine.

We went to Cirque du Soleil and fell in love with 22-year-old trapeze artists wearing yellow tights and then we stood around at intermission and texted each other from 3 feet away. That's always fun.

We rented a phat house out at Stinson Beach, lit a fire, and read books.

We conquered this "hike" aka flat stroll along Limantaur Beach in Pt Reyes.

We hung out on Stinson Beach late at night and thought about skinny dipping. But didn't.

We hiked the Dipsea from Stinson to DTMV. Yes we did. Cuz we're badass hikers.

And then we ended it all with this epic sunset. God love the Pacific.

I just got back from a writing retreat at Esalen that I attended with Vanessa Fiola. She and I spent 3 days in close proximity to 118 other writers and aspiring writers, most of whom were organic sheep farmers and medical marijuana advocates. The median age was about 67, which made me feel young, for once.  The very first thing we had to do was stand up in front of everyone with a mic and read our 30-word bio. Panic! Then, we went to three workshops of our choice, with three excellent writers from Sun Magazine (who hosted the workshop).

Here’s a haiku I wrote during one of the workshops. It was based on a fill-in-the-blank icebreaker prompt:

Today my name is dead fly on the windowsill.

I know nothing at all. There never was a time this was not so.

I know; I won’t quit my day job yet.

If you’ve never been to Esalen, you should go sometime. It’s a magical place. I don’t mean that in the “fairies alight” way — although a lot of the people who frequent the place definitely, definitely do mean it that way. I mean that I have never been there without strolling through a flower garden at sunset while the sweet smell of sea air wafted up the craggy moors and Monarch butterflies flitted by in the dazzling Indian summer light.

Behold:

Esalen is known for its natural sulfur hot springs, and they are pretty spectacular. They’re tucked into a discreet bathhouse nestled into the side of a cliff, so that while soaking in the various tubs you can stare out over the Pacific and occasionally (this has actually happened to me) see a whale. And I’m not talking about the naked dude conspicuously sharing the hot tub. Note: before visiting Esalen, it’s a good idea to perfect your unfocused middle distance stare.

Honestly, if I could live on retreat I would. I love everything about it. (Everything except the other people, of course.) I prefer silent retreats, naturally, but I appreciate that you can bask in anonymity at virtually any retreat if you’ve mastered the art of being cold and aloof, like I have.

Also, a remnant of my bohemian childhood in the wilderness of Western Massachusetts is that I feel most at home in weird hippie enclaves like Esalen. I like to be in places that have dedicated “Art Barns” and serve stewed prunes for breakfast. When I round a corner and come upon a couple of dreadlocked 20-somethings spread out in an intense batiking project, my heart swells. (Which might lead you to believe that I’m into Burning Man. But nope.)

I’m so happy to have finally made the shift from yoga retreats to writing retreats. This is where I belonged all along.

For now, anyway.

Behind my cottage there is a lovely little patch of sunshine that has been begging to be turned into a garden. For the last few weeks, the Scotch Broom has really been bossing it around, so I decided that today would be the day I put down my computer and tell that invasive non-native species who's in charge around here.

I have never gardened anything but a few cacti and a small, modest collection of potted herbs, but I was going to learn. First, I needed supplies.  So I went to the hardware store with my shopping list, which looked like this:

The dude at the hardware store gave me his most compassionate look of contempt, asked a few general questions, and then diplomatically suggested that perhaps what I needed was actually a pair of gardening gloves to weed the thing with my hands. I bought gloves, and also a pretty red shovel. And then I got to work.

Here is what my garden-to-be-looked like BEFORE:

And after 90 minutes of my harrassing hand-weed-pulling technique and a few small temper tantrums, here's what it looks like now:

Yes, I know. It's like a scene from The Road. It's absolutely embarrassing. I might have to admit that I don't have a green thumb.

I think I should stick to computers.

I know my East Coast friends are riolling their eyes at this pathetic displayof "snow," but trust me, it was exciting around here.

The Blair Witch Snowman. Seriously, I found this snowman looking all shady and evil in the middle of a big empty meadow with no one else around.

If this tree were gay he would be a bear. Get it? Cuz of the fur coat? I’m hilarious. .

Last week I wrote an article for Elephant Journal about the question of how spirituality and technology overlap and enhance each other. I’ve been thinking a lot about ways that these two things are NOT mutually exclusive.

Today, I went up on Mt Tamalpais to check out the fluke snowfall we had gotten over the weekend. I had an epic time hiking around in the snow by myself.

I love my mountain. If my mountain was a folk singer with a ponytail playing love ballads on an acoustic guitar, I’d be the most devoted fan in all the coffee shops in Portland. If my mountain was a spider monkey, I’d smuggle it back from The Orient and walk it around on a leash. If my mountain was a girl, I’d be a lesbian.

And today my mountain looked so damned cute with snow on it! I had the best day, by myself, trudging around in the slush, dodging melting snow falling from trees, breaking frozen mud puddles with my pottery boots, asking random strangers for a glance at their maps, taking pictures. I had a whole afternoon of solitude and didn’t for one second feel alone.

I’m sure no one will argue that getting out on a mountain by yourself just after a snowstorm is one of the most spiritual everyday experiences a person can have. To me, spirituality and creativity often go hand-in-hand.

Whenever I hike by myself I always have a lot of creative ideas, and before I had an iPhone, my brain would fill up with them to the point that I couldn’t relax and hike anymore because I’d be too anxious about getting to a piece of paper to write them down. Now, I can whip out my iPhone, turn on Voice Memo, download the idea bubble, get it out of my brain, and create space for something else.

Oh also, here’s a link to a Patty Griffin song called “Up On the Mountain.” This song was inspired by a Martin Luther King speech (as you’ll hear on the recording) and it’s just lovely. Once I was up at the top of the Marin Headlands — having just huffed all the way to the height of the cliff over Tennessee Valley and along a snaking, precarious trail — when my iPod shuffle burst into a round of this song. It was pretty much a spiritual moment for me. Thanks to my iPod.

My mother used to say: "There are no boring things; only boring people." (Usually in response to my complaint about being bored because we didn't have a T.V.) I've taken this concept to heart my entire life since and am pretty awesome at keeping myself busy — at least mentally. I can entertain myself in a dark windowless box with only my imagination for company. This is one of the reasons that meditation is both easy and incredibly hard for me.

I’ve always thought that this quality would come in handy if I ever ended up in prison or stuck on a desert island. However, I recently discovered that I am a fraud when it comes to being impenetrably unbore-able. There is, it turns out, one situation that induces acute boredom for me: FISHING.

My dad is out visiting, and since we have literally nothing in common, I have been scrambling to find things we might enjoy doing together. Luckily, my good friend Maynard shares one hobby with my dad that I coerced him into letting us piggyback along for. So to be fair, this was absolutely my idea and Maynard really did his best to be accommodating, despite the fact that I spent probably the entire time complaining about:

1. Being cold
2. Being hungry
3. Having to pee
4. Being bored

And, out of the 10+ hours* that Maynard and Curt were fishing off the pier in Tiburon, I only actually tried to be a good sport for about ten minutes, total. The rest of the time, I sat shivering in my East Coast down puffy jacket in the nearest coffee shop, drinking hot Earl Grey tea with milk and playing Words With Friends on my iPhone.

I’ve never been a recreational activities sort of girl and I should know by now to try not to act cool about maybe potentially being one after all. But a nice leisurely day of casting lines on the Bay in December… that sounded kind of poetic in my pre-mind.

Sadly, it turns out that my imagination’s ability to babysit itself can be overridden quickly by biting cold Bay Area December weather and the merciless damp rocks that I was sitting on. (I have to admit that my dad’s really awful Polack jokes didn’t help.)

I am duly humbled and must redact my original statement about how I don’t get bored, or at least modify it: I don’t get bored… as long as I’m in my comfort zone.

On the positive side, it’s nice to realize that, in the absence of a parental visit to remind me how utterly uncool I really am, I’ve found a nice sort of harmony in my life so that the boredom rarely manifests. I’m a little worried about that desert island scenario, though.

* Just so I don’t get in trouble for hyperbole I must confess that “we” were fishing for about two hours, not ten. But, it felt like ten.

When I was growing up, my single mom was fond of the riveting car game “let’s see who can be quiet the longest.” My brother and I were very competitive about this game, but because I was older and therefore had more patience, I usually won. That early training—along with a childhood spent playing invisible at my dad’s weekend 70s parties and burying myself in books most of the time—gave me an advantage when I recently attended my first weeklong silent retreat at Spirit Rock.

Unfortunately, it turns out that a mindfulness meditation retreat is not a quiet contest. Nor is it a place for competition—even with oneself. On some level, I already knew these things going in. I’ve dabbled with vipassana long enough (and spent enough years in the yoga world) to have had most of the competitiveness conditioned out of me. Truth is, I was never very competitive to begin with (except at spelling bees and Scrabble).

Read on at Elephant Journal...

My adorable little murderer, licking her chops

It’s no secret that I am obsessed with my cats, Budapest and Luka. Sometimes, though, it can be a little trying dealing with those little murderous effers.

Budapest’s main pastime and dharma in this life is to kill things. I don’t begrudge her this and realize that nature is cruel and that it’s a cat’s God-given instinct to hunt. I am secretly proud of her every time she brings home a tiny warm dead body to show off. Budapest had a mysterious and unquestionably challenging childhood and I find it touching that she has managed to not just thrive but that she has taken to cold-blooded murder so cunningly. It warms my heart that she has found her path.

However, I am also an aspiring Buddhist with my own path and so have an obligation to protect life whenever possible (or at least, convenient). So, when the baby bird she brought home today looked to still have its wits about it, I felt compelled to pry it out of Buda’s jaw.

That was only the beginning. Once freed from the clutches of certain death, the baby bird dropped to the kitchen floor, panicked, and ran under the stove. So then I had a quandary, because I certainly wasn't prepared to leave the baby bird to die a slow, lonely, terrified death under my stove. I am partial to "freeze" in fight/flight/freeze situations, but after I got that over with and looked around, I realized that no one else was going to deal with the situation, so once again, I was on my own.

I quickly inserted fresh batteries into my headlamp so I could see under the stove (I had a premonition when I finally bought them at Home Depot the other day), found a long stick in the back yard, and went about gingerly compelling little tiny fragile bird out from under the stove with the stick. Mission eventually accomplished, but of course as soon as it hit daylight it panicked again and ran behind my fireplace, with both cats in full pursuit.

Jesus Christ. I won't bore you with the rest of the sloppy rescue scenario details, but I did eventually manage to get the bird in a box, after a few more cat-jaw-prying incidents. I took a look. It was in shock, breathing rapidly, eyes wide open, but didn't seem to have a broken neck and no tooth-mark stab wounds. It wasn't moving, but it appeared lucid. So, now what?

After a series of panicky space-outs and pointless phone calls to local vets, I eventually ended up on the line with the after-hours dude on call at the Humane Society. He offered to swing by and pick it up. So, I took my box full of freaked out baby bird onto the front steps to wait for him (it's kinda tricky finding my house and I didn't want to waste a moment). I ended up sitting, and waiting, and sitting... for quite a while. The whole time, I stared intently at the baby bird. Monitored it's breathing with my eyes. Made sure it was still coherent. Watched its eyeballs track my movement. I felt confident that it was gonna be okay.

Turns out it was more than okay. The moment the Humane Society truck pulled up and I turned my attention off the baby bird for one split second, it suddenly jumped up and out of the box and sprinted off into the bushes. Leaving me with an empty box and a lot of explaining to do.

At first Humane Society Dude eyed me skeptically as if I just made the whole story up for a little attention on a gloomy Monday night in Mill Valley. He informed me that he had a wounded fawn to save up the road. "For God's sake!" I said, "Go to the fawn! Why did you come here first?"

Just then, we heard an unbirdly loud chirp from the bushes to my right. H.S.D. said, "Does that sound like your bird?" Now, keep in mind that I had known this bird for an extremely traumatic and brief half hour and that I had heard it chirp only once in a blind panic as it raced around my kitchen trying to escape. Also keep in mind that my cottage is surrounded by birds that chirp nonstop at all hours of daylight and at every possible pitch. So, for me to discern if that particular chirp was "my bird's chirp" was kind of a tall order.

Sure enough though, it was. Because a moment later, we glimpsed said bird screaming through the underbrush. So, H.S.D. decided to believe me that there was, in fact, a bird to begin with. Which was nice. But, unfortunately, it wasn't nice enough to actually help us find the bird and help it. At this point, of course, I was starting to wonder if my maniacal fixation on "helping" it was actually any help at all.

So, H.S.D. took off to deal with the injured fawn, and I retreated back into my cottage to chastise my cats for being such bloodthirsty sociopaths. They gave me blank stares.

I have no idea what the moral of this story is, except that obviously I should just put the Humane Society on speed dial, at this point.