Then, Now, Forever
Two days after Lefty died, I went bravely on my first hike without him. A small road sign for the Pacific Crest Trail passed by the car window, and we pulled off to follow the path. We walked through blackened forests while big dark clouds rolled in and out, now drenching us, now not, and the mixture of rain and sun, of death and life everywhere, well it felt exactly right. All I could do was nod along. Yes, that happened. Yes, more stuff will happen.
When the vet came over last Friday, Lefty wagged up to her like he would any other visitor. Three days earlier, I'd stabbed the shovel into the hard dirt of late summer while he rested on the lawn watching me, looking straight into my eyes, and I swore he knew that I was digging the hole for him. He wasn't afraid. On the threshold of the kitchen floor, where he always would lay to feel the cool tile and also to keep a close watch on me, he now slouched there sick and struggling to breathe. His head was in my lap, the wild river of my undignified tears raining all over it. I told him he was the best boy. There was the last big breath, and then the final quiet.
It's hard. But I'm so glad I was there. Being in the presence of death is powerful--it's the ultimate mystery. My intuition was high, and I felt the energy exchange. First it was in there, then it was out here. We wrapped that soft fluffy body in a soft, fluffy blanket and carried it out into the yard, knowing all the while that it was no longer him.
Anyway, my guy is gone.
He's with Benny now. With Jake. With Poa. With Otis. With Orchid. With all our old buddies, then, now and forever.
Favorites 9.7.16
The forest a long time after a fire. It's my new favorite color palette. Instead of a verdant shading canopy, there's just the bleached bones of trees, the sky, and plenty of sunlight to make the wildflowers go all crazy.
A wagging dog tail. Simple, contagious joy. Don't take it for granted, as we aren't guaranteed shit.
Not 4X4ing in a VW Jetta. When faced with a rugged bumpy expanse that's more rock than road, it's quite lovely to drive up it with a proper 4X4 vehicle. Maybe a truck? Something with ample clearance and suspension. Anything but a VW Jetta with a predisposition for tire problems.
The place where fall and summer meet. A liminal time, full of potential energy. One coolish morning, one shaft of sunlight, one gust of wind can completely change the day's seasonal identity. Is it summer? No wait it's fall. Now summer again.
To The Last Drop
Like snowflakes and people, there is no summer like any other one, ever.
This year, it was blistering hot at the beginning and the end; cool and mellow in the middle. I cannot complain. I didn't eat as many tacos as summer's past, but I did have plenty of pizza. Balance in all things. I sweat a lot and skated a lot. I tent camped. I boat camped. I swam in both rivers and lakes. I watched a punk rock show in a city park. I ate grilled summer squash, as well as strawberry shortcake. I ate orange watermelon! Whether riding my bike around town or reading from my book about hawks, I tried to always be outside at sundown—as those liminal minutes of dusk are the loveliest, most fragrant treasure of the warm season.
Anyway, hi, September, see ya Thursday!
Lake Life
Just looking at these pictures makes me feel good. They're from my trip to Lake Powell in Southern Utah last week. It was a red-dust playground of motorboats cutting the glassy water. We drove through 3 states to get there—way out to the very middle of the desert, but the long hours on the straight, hot roads were worth it. As said elsewhere, I love the southwest. The desert is elegant, beautiful and harsh. It was a magical trip.
1. 3 a.m. scenic pee. My child-sized bladder did me good service by waking me every night at the calmest, darkest hour, when the Milky Way burned bright overhead and the lake was so black, so still that it looked like just another star-spangled sky.
2. Lunch beer. As a bonafide lightweight, I don't normally do lunch beers, but on vacation, on the boat, in the heat, on the lake, a very cold beer is the only thing you can possibly drink with your sandwich.
3. Houseboats. RVs on the water! What a concept. They seem kinda tricky to maneuver though, so don't ask me to drive yours.
4. Kids in the water. A couple of 12 year olds, my nephew and his friend, spent every second in the lake. Splashing, swimming, sliding, dunking, diving, flipping, flopping, etc, etc. It made me very happy.
5. A dusk swim. Every night I slipped in the water right at purple dusk in order to wash off the day's sweat and sand so as not have to sleep in my own filth. During this hushed time, I could float on my back in the silver water and stare up at the clouds turned pink in the fading light.
A Summer Slice
Last week was a very good week.
The temperature was summerish, in the high 80s, and the vibrations were good, from an astrological standpoint. No cosmic storms or real ones.
On an unassuming Wednesday evening, our pal Patrick arrived from New York, causing us to convene at the Bracewell mini ramp to celebrate such things as skateboarding and old friends. It was lovely. It was hot. Everyone sweated through their tee shirts. Then we all went to the Alleyway for food and cold drinks. To have a day so full of friends and fun so early in the week? One can only hope for this kind of thing.
On Friday afternoon, after everyone had gotten up early and worked hard, a river trip came together with very little effort at all. The water was tropical green and that just-right temperature—cool but not cold. You could swim for real, not just dive in and shiver calamitously back out. And did you know that we saw a bald eagle while we were there? A hush fell on the beach as it soared over the sun bathers—a benediction on the water and on summer and, I guess, on us.
Anyway, I am no reckless optimist, but good portent was everywhere last week. To be friends, to be together, to be happy ... what a neat thing.
