Primary Wonder, Age Three

Tags

Deborah J. Brasket, Denise Levertov, granddaughter, grandparenting, life, National Poetry Month, poetry, Primary Wonder, wonder

Primary Wonder, Age Three

Walking with our granddaughter
Whispering and waving
Our wings
Sniffing for bats.

What do you smell grandma?
Trees
What do you smell grandpa?
Clouds

by Deborah J. Brasket

Inspired from a backyard outing with our granddaughter after re-reading this poem by Denise Levertov.

Primary Wonder

Days pass when I forget the mystery.
Problems insoluble and problems offering
their own ignored solutions
jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber
along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing
their colored clothes; cap and bells.

And then
once more the quiet mystery
is present to me, the throng’s clamor
recedes: the mystery
that there is anything, anything at all,
let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything,
rather than void: and that, O Lord,
Creator, Hallowed One, You still,
hour by hour sustain it.

by Denise Levertov

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Walking in a Green-Winter Wonderland

Tags

California, Central Coast California, green hills, Nature, oak trees, photography, Winter

Here on the central coast of California, we look forward to a green, rather than white, Christmas. While we love our golden hills of summer, we crave green in the winter. During last year’s drought our summer hills turned dun. Even the golden grasses dried up and blew away, and this lasted through winter. But this year our green came early and I’ve been revelling in it.

Here are some recent photos of the green-wonderland behind our home.

My husband and our dog Mitzy.

Amazing oaks!

 

A fallen giant.

 

Shadows and moss.

Sunlight breaking through.

The Three Sisters.

Home again.

A Frosty, Sunlit Morning Walk

Tags

backyard, frosty mornings, Nature, oak groves, oak trees, photography, spanish moss

Yesterday when I woke the frost was so heavy on the grassy meadow behind our house it looked like a light pattering of snow had fallen in the night.

By the time I went out the sun had risen beyond the hills and streamed down through the trees.

I’d forgotten gloves and my fingers were freezing but I kept walking, snapping up photographs of things I found and wanted to share, like the frost-laced fronds and mushroom below . . .

Or the old upturned tree stump, lined with moss and dusted in frost . . .

. . . and the mossy tree branches . . .

and lichen-spotted tree limbs.

I loved the light filtering through the trees . . .

. . .  and the Spanish moss dripping from the branches . . .

Mostly I loved how each oak tree is so unique and elegantly shaped.

Finally, on the walk back, I loved seeing my home nestled among the hills and oak groves, and the man I loved waiting for my return.

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A Deer’s Scream – Beauty and Brutality at Home and in the Hills of Vietnam

Tags

beauty and brutality, death, Deer, deer scream, memoir, Nature, Vietnam, wildlife

The most horrifying sound I’ve ever heard came one night soon after we moved here.  A scream of pure terror that seemed to last forever.

It was too dark to see.  All we could hear was the sound of thundering hooves and a long endless scream passing from one end of the meadow behind our home to the other, then crashing down a ravine. There the sound suddenly stopped, as if a knife had sliced its throat.

Something running for its life had ended abruptly.

We had never heard of a deer screaming, but could not imagine what else it could have been to run so fast and so loud, so I searched online.

There various hunters confirmed that deer do indeed scream—not always, not often, but when they do, the sound is so terrifyingly awful it has haunted them ever since.  One property owner who had always welcomed hunters would not allow them on his land after hearing that scream.

So much of what I write here is about nature’s beauty, how it inspires, uplifts, and nourishes us.  But there’s another inescapable side to nature, darker and more brutal–nature “red of tooth and claw,” as Tennyson wrote.

I’ve seen that kind too in my own backyard–in the screaming deer running for its life, the mountain lion crouched in the tall grass devouring something unidentifiable, the rattlesnake that rose hissing and bared its fangs when I was weeding, the two coyotes taking turns digging at the gopher hole then swallowing it whole in two gulps.

Then there was the rattlesnake we slaughtered when it made its home in our backyard where our little dog plays.  The whole thing was a bloody nightmare, my husband going after it with a long pruning spear.  The snake lunging and hissing and retreating. Finally catching it up, cutting it in two, the headless body writhing, whipping its tail.

There’s also the traps we set to keep the rats out of our garage, the gophers out of our garden.  We kill to preserve life–the life of our dog, our flowers, our lawn–to protect our home. I can’t ever imagine killing a deer or rabbit or quail for food.  Yet our freezer is full of meat others bred and killed.

When we were sailing we joyously lived off the bounty of the sea, hunting, capturing, killing, and eating tuna and swordfish, scallops and lobsters.

How many silent screams went unheard in those halcyon days filled with great beauty and joy and thanksgiving.

As a boy my husband spent his days happily roaming through the hills of old Orcutt with his dog Scratch and his shotgun hunting rabbits and quail.

He hunted in the hills of Vietnam as a young marine too.

Never had he known such beauty as he did then tramping through those wild tropical jungles and lush valleys, he once told me.

He built shelters of sandbags high on a hill overlooking a distant valley quilted in rice paddies with the dark steep mountains laced in waterfalls rising behind them.

He trudged through streams with his 30-lb backpack and machine gun strapped to his back, spellbound by the tropical flowers draping the banks, the brilliant birds darting overhead.

It was surreal—such beauty and brutality all rolled into one. Like the fields behind our home where beautiful creatures die every day to feed other beautiful creatures.

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

Perhaps just to bear witness to the beauty and brutality rolled into one all around us everywhere.  We can’t separate it out.  We have to swallow it whole.  There’s no other way.

For a long time after my husband returned from Vietnam he carried in his wallet a faded photo, a heap of dead bodies. When he showed his uncle, he shied away from him, horrified that he would take and keep such a thing.

But he had to he told me.  He couldn’t turn away.

He had to bear witness to the brutality of war.  Taking that photo was his refusal to turn away.  To swallow it whole.

[NOTE:  Part Two of this post can be found here:  A Deer’s Scream, My Mother’s Eyes, and a Ripe Strawberry.]

Touching the Wild

Tags

Nature, poetry, wild

“The word wild is like a gray fox trotting off through the forest, ducking behind bushes, going in and out of sight,” writes poet Gary Snyder in his book Practice of the Wild.

He seems to be saying that what we call “wild” can only be glimpsed, not grasped.

But can it be touched?  Can it touch us?

I wrote a poem about touching the wild long ago as a young mother looking out a window overlooking a barren backyard and high wooden fence.  Beyond the fence in an open field stood three tall dark pine trees , towering against a pale gray sky, leaning slightly, like masts of a sailing ship, tacking windward.

I must have felt isolated, in a new home, a new neighborhood, where I knew no one, an infant asleep in the next room, a long, lonely, cold-dreary day before me.

Staring out at those pines, “leaning like lords” as I put it in my poem, I longed for something I glimpsed there but could not quite grasp, something that could free me from whatever it was that seemed to be holding me back. From what, I’m no more sure now than I was then.

Watching those pines– not merely seeing, looking, but watching them intently, intensely, feeling the strength, the vitality, the wildness—I felt not only freer, but fuller—nourished, perhaps. Something I “touched” out there struck a chord that vibrated within, as I wrote in this simple poem:

Watching Winter Pines

A fence stands

‘tween me and wintry pines

That lean like lords against the paler skies.

The pines and fields

A wilder, greener grow,

Taller, farther than my fence could ever let me go.

I stand apart

And let the freer pines

Cast a carefree image upon these careful eyes.

Behind a fence

I touch a freer chord,

When touching wintry pines that lean like lords.

What’s amazing to me in hindsight is that those pines weren’t really “wild.”  They weren’t indigenous to the area at all.  The field beyond the fence wasn’t a nature preserve, or even a green space between housing developments.  It was just undeveloped land set aside beneath the flight path of a nearby airport.  Nor was there anything especially beautiful, or free, or wild about the trees.  Yet some sense of the “wild” I glimpsed within those pines called out to and re-animated something “wild” within me.

Nature is everywhere. We can’t escape it. And so too perhaps is the “wildness” within things, what the artist Auguste Rodin identified as an animating spirit:

“Art is contemplation. It is the pleasure of the mind which searches into nature and which there divines the spirit of which Nature herself is animated.”  And which animates us.

Perhaps poet e.e.cummings put it best:

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),

It’s always our self we find in the sea.”

Or a tree.

A bird.

A fox flitting in and out of view. . . .

Riffing on Roses

Tags

aesthetics, beauty, flowers, photography, roses

Lately I’ve been playing with roses, photographing them at different stages in bloom, at different times of day, against varied backgrounds, just to see what I could capture.

I love this first one, the delicate color, the fat soft petals, open, exposed,  framing the center. The way the gentle light catches the edges of the petals and swirl in toward the center where the deeper shadows lie. 

The eye moves from the edges spiraling ever inward, round and round toward the tight bud.   This is where the eye rests, at that center, probing the inner depths, where the spiralling continues past where we can see. 

The spiral is a symbol of infinity, an inward eternal flowing.  Water spirals, wind spirals, dancers spiral, galaxies spiral. Thought spirals round and round, ever inward, toward a place past knowing.

This next one stops my heart, I don’t know why. 

The color is so tender, the center so closed, the outer petals so utterly open, leaving the center defenceless.  There’s a feeling of vulnerability, a careless disclosing, an utterly unstudied becoming.

Here it is again from a different angle.  See the way the light flows upward through the petals?  It breaks my heart. 

And the one below . . . I have no words.Now we go outside to where I pluck the roses from the only bush that has survived the deer and gophers.  It’s a tall, gangly bush that grows outside our bathroom window where we see it every morning, watching the roses burst and bloom from one stage to another. 

I cut only the ones that grow below and above where we can see and bring them into our home–orphans, offerings, honored guests, gracious gifts.

This first one is stunning.  The contrast between the deep rose and deeper blue.  I’m thinking flags flying, sails billowing, kites dancing across the sky. 

Hotdogs? Baseball? Blasting trumpets?  There’s something heroic, cheering, utterly wholesome and deeply comforting about this photo. 

That shade of blue in contrast with bright colors heralds all our summers, all our bright hopes, all our pride and enduring optimism.  Endless summer.  It lives like a flame in our hearts, in the faces of laughing children, in the roar of jets, in  fireworks bursting against a twilit sky. 

This deep blue sky is the background for all our hopes and dreams and unites us wherever we live in the world.  The whole rounded globe is cupped in this blue.

The next is especially sweet and hopeful.  The way the light shines through it conveys a sense of innocence, purity.  There’s a freshness here.  You can almost smell the sweetness.

The following seems more serene, mature, even though it is the same rose against the same sky, but the light is different,  There’s an intensity here, a romantic allure.  I’m thinking candlelit dinner, silk stockings, love letters strewn on a bed.

The one below is pure happiness.   I can only smile and smile.

What more can I say?

The following photos evoke something else.  The rose and the clouds seem to drift across the sky, lightly as feathers. 

 We sense movement here, of passing time, fleeting moments.  

There’s a dreamlike quality with the soft focus, the soft petals, soft as the clouds they float upon.

I’m thinking of a rowboat rocking gently on a pond, fingers trailing in the cool water, eyes gazing at the sky above, clouds gentle as a breeze gazing downward, stroking soft skin.No we go indoors again. 

These roses are shot against a gold wall. I like the way the pink  and gold play against each other. The contrasting colors startle each other, but they do not clash.  The boldness of the gold deepens the warmth of the rose, releasing its sweet aroma. Can you smell it? 

There’s a tropical feel here.  It reminds me of a conch shell I have sitting near my bath, the deep rose at the center of its hollow, the broad lip curling outward turning shades of gold, the whole sculpture a study of pink and gold, of curls and whorls and crowns.  The smooth inner lips reflecting the light, the rough and rugged shell absorbing it.

This following was shot out of focus against rippling water. I filtered it to see what would happen. 

It’s hardly a rose anymore, hardly water, it’s all melted together, water and rose. 

There’s a surreal quality, what a rose might look like painted by Van Gogh, underwater, floating among the seaweed.  A still face just below a rippling surface, holding you with its gaze.  Trying to tell you. You strain to hear.  What is it?  What do you hear?

The next is also filtered, shot against the travertine tile. Romanesque, don’t you think? An old world quality.  Ivory and old lace.There’s a coolness and stillness here, yet the light still brightens. 

I’m reminded of ancient statues, the way the light wraps around them, tempering the cool marble with its warmth.  The skin of the rounded limbs, the muscled thighs, the bent elbows, broad shoulders, soft and silky to the eye’s touch, the embracing gaze.

Can you feel the cool, soft petals?

The following is one of my favorites.

She’s just past full bloom, just a shade before fading, still buoyant, full faced, gracious in her giving, nothing hidden, nothing withheld.

The sepia tones capture that inner light, the golden glowing, the gracefulness and graciousness. We know where this ends. But the end is not here, not here at all, not in her, not in this elegant awakening, this gathering awareness, this full-throated opening to all there is.

Here are my lovely ladies, gathered in a crystal vase, growing old together. See how the petals sag ever-so-slightly?

You want to cup them and hold them up, you want to feather your face against them, you want to say, it’s okay my sweets, I love you still, I love you ever more, I love you just this way.

Never has your beauty been more achingly tender than in its fading, its falling away, it ethereal effervescence.

Your beauty is past knowing, it’s all past knowing.

Waterholes in the Wild and the Backyard

Tags

backyard, Namibia, Nature, waterholes, wildlife

Waterholes, whether in the wild or the backyard, are natural gathering places for wildlife and people who like to watch them.

My brother organizes and leads small private tours into the wilds of Africa and Australia. Gathering at waterholes is one of their favorite past-times and the best way to view a large variety of the region’s wildlife. Namibia on the west coast of Africa is a popular destination where the barrenness of the desert landscape stands in stark contrast to the abundance of wildlife. At a single waterhole he will see herds of lions, elephants, rhinos, zebras, giraffes, and several varieties of antelopes drinking and bathing, all in proper pecking order.

Watching the variety of wildlife gather at our own backyard waterhole has become a favorite pastime for our family. We’ve seen squirrels, raccoons, rats, and rabbits, as well as a large variety of birds from hawks to hummingbirds sipping from the waterfall that flows between the spa and pool. Not to mention all the bees and grasshoppers and other tiny six-footed creatures that skim the surface of our pool for a drink.

Before we moved here the wild turkey had made our backyard pool its home. They flew in over the iron fence and waded in the water which at that time had been mostly drained. Even after we moved in they tried to establish the pool area as their domain, perching on the fence and swooping down over our heads, until the dog eventually convinced them to move on. Sometimes they still stare longingly at the water behind our fence. As do the deer whose trail passes nearby, lifting their long necks to peer over, noses in the air enjoying the sweet scent of water.

Two coyotes who hunt in the meadow behind our home like to sit in the tall grass on the hillside gazing down into our backyard, waiting for the squirrels and rabbits to sneak in for a drink, then chasing them down as they depart.

Just as in the wild our backyard waterhole has a pecking order. Among our feathered friends, the red-headed woodpeckers have claimed first rights to the waterfall. They will tolerate the blue jays who pay no attention to them anyway, and they largely ignore the hummingbirds, but the doves and finches and bush tits and any other birds who try to drink without their approval get chased away, returning only when the woodpeckers are otherwise occupied.

Once I rescued a small bird that had fallen into the pool, perhaps having been swept down the waterfall when trying to drink. I scooped it out with the pool skimmer and set it on the grass to dry off. A squirrel was pulled from our water trap where it had managed to pull itself to partial safety. Several rats were scooped from the pool post-mortem. And we have rescued hundreds of bees and grasshoppers with our skimmer, or hand-carried them to safety while we were swimming.

My favorite waterhole show was watching a pair of hawks that had flown in for a drink. But they weren’t quite sure how to do it. They walked back and forth along the edge of the pool gazing into the water and occasionally lowering a toe. But the stretch was too far. They’d strut back and forth and puff themselves up and squat and peck at each other, trying to figure it out, to no avail. Once in a while they approached the waterfall leading up toward the spa where the water was closer for drinking. But this appeared too tricky or too risky for them. Apparently the cascading water and uneven rocks presented a problem. As soon as they’d taken a few timid steps up, they backed away. After a long while they summoned enough courage to climb all the way to the top, and at last they were able to drink as well as bath in the shallow waters coursing down the rocks.

The tiny bush tits and timid doves never experienced any difficulty in drinking and bathing in the falls—only the mighty hawks.

Sometimes I’m tempted to leave our pool gate open, so the wild turkey and deer, coyotes and mountain lions, rabbits and squirrels, could all gather around our pool in proper pecking order, just as they do in the wild.

Wouldn’t that make an awesome photo!

[NOTE – My brother, Jeff Jones, is taking reservations for trips in 2013 and 2014.  He will have a website up soon, but until then, let me know if you’d like more information.]

Night Howls

Tags

human consciousness, Nature, Pago Pago, poetry, sailing, Tree of Life, universe, wild

Silver Moonlight, by Steven Richardson

Last month around this time when the moon was full, our nights were filled with howling. Almost every night we could hear the mournful cries of coyotes in the fields behind our house, along with ecstatic barking, yipping, chortling–as if they were celebrating a kill, or worshipping the moon, or engaged in some wild orgy.  Or perhaps they were merely giving voice to the irresistible life force pumping through their blood and brains and hearts, a force of nature too wild and fierce to hold back.  

The sound, terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, echoed long in my mind afterwards, like ripples of water moving away to the edge of consciousness and reverberating back again. Like something heard long ago deep in my bones, from an evolutionary or primal past.

They say we humans carry in our genes the imprint of life-forms going back to when the first cells emerged on earth.  Deep in our blood, our bones, our very atoms, lays some faint memory of our ancient beginnings. Phylogenists call it our “vast evolutionary tree.”

If we go back even further, traces of that time when the morning stars first sang together may still be felt when we look out on the night sky. We are the stuff of stars, after all, so say astrophysicists. 

Carl Jung envisioned our Collective Unconscious as a reservoir lying deep within our psyches containing our evolutionary memories.  While they lay below consciousness, they break through in dreams and myths and fairy tales, in primitive urges, the call of the wild, in our more-than-human yearnings.

Beautiful Rage by Steve Richardson

Sometimes we feel this wildness rising within when witnessing powerful displays of nature: thunderstorms booming across the land, waterfalls careening over cliffs, huge waves crashing against rocks, hurricanes lashing at trees, lightening forking across a dark sky,  earthquakes heaving beneath our feet.   It frightens and excites—creating both the desire to escape and to embrace that primordial power.  One wild howl elicits another—the urge to howl back, to voice our own wild yearnings—to sing or dance, or paint or play, or grab words from the air and fling them onto paper.I heard that howl and answered back one night on anchor watch in Pago Pago.  A hurricane was blowing a few miles off Samoa and we were set to ride it out if it blew into the bay. 

I stood at the bow of La Gitana, hanging onto the staysail as the deck lurched beneath my feet like a wild stallion while the surging waves rose and fell and the chain from the anchor rooted deep in the mud below grew slack or tight.

Storm Clouds and Moonlight by Steve Richardson

Overhead a torrent of clouds crashed against a full moon, sometimes swallowing it whole, then washing away streaming moonlight. All around me the night raged while the anchor held tight, and I held tight, the terror and exhilaration pumping through my blood and brain.  The wild urge to let go and be carried away by the night was fierce. Later I tried to capture what it felt like.   Here’s what I wrote:

Night Howl

(Anchor watch in Pago Pago, Samoa)

Alone beneath a wild and ragged night I watch,

                            moonlight and clouds wind-tangled across the sky.

Suddenly I am loosened, lifted, flung far–

fingers raking stars, mouth howling moon, mind mooning time

my heart-beat

riddles the universe.

Alone beneath a wild and ragged night I stand, astonished,

gaping into the maw of some vast mirror.

It’s close to capturing what I felt, but the last two lines trouble me. “Gaping” and “maw” keeps the visceral effect I’m looking for, capturing the sense of trance-like awe and terror.  But mirror moves it away into something more philosophical or intellectual. 

I’m tempted to stop with the line “my heartbeat riddles the universe.” That captures the physicality of my wildly beating heart breaking out of my body to become the heart-beat of the universe.  And it also hints at the mystery of human heartbeat itself being a riddle, the riddle of the universe, that the evolution of the universe over eons led to the creation of a human being, whose heart—its essential being—is the ability to reflect back upon the universe, to take it all in. 

Human consciousness is the mirror through which the universe sees and knows itself, and through which we see and know ourselves—the fullness of being, our primal past and present standing face to face.

That’s a lot to howl about.

[Many thanks to Steve Richardson for permission to use photos of his oil paintings to illustrate this post.  You can find more of his work at his website.]