Landscape as Villain?

by Laura Crum

“It is not possible to be quite sane here. The region has a mood that both excites and perverts its people.”

“Was it the wild rock coast and the reckless wind in the beaten trees and the gaunt booming crashes of breakers under the rocks that taught her this dark freedom?”

“Much of Robinson Jeffers’ poetry is a study of what the strange landscape around Carmel and Big Sur can do to people. It is a ‘haunted country,’ according to Jeffers.”

These quotes are from the book, “Robinson Jeffers, Poet of California,” which I have just finished reading. I was inspired to read this book because Jeffers is much quoted in the Tom Killion book I read previously (California’s Wild Edge), and Killion recommends this biography of Jeffer’s life. I found it fascinating.

As with many books I’ve deeply enjoyed, I tend to engage in mental arguments with the author. And in this book my arguments centered on two things—sense of place, and the nature of God. Today I am going to write about “place” (as the easier subject), and save God for another day.

As the quotes above tell, Jeffers was aware of the disturbing energy that swirls around the coast from Carmel through Big Sur. It is palpable to me—I’ve been there often and I never fail to feel it. I could no more live on the “south coast” than I could live on the moon. It would break my heart with its fierce, uncompromising, almost hostile nature. Beautiful, yes—but not friendly.

Jeffers chose to live there, and the inhuman ghosts of Big Sur/Carmel underlie his writing, as well as his life. It was a choice that perhaps suited him, but it would not suit me.

It’s all about place. Different places speak with very different voices and tell very dissimilar energetic stories. Not all places will embrace you and protect you, no matter how much you love them and how long you make them your home. Some places, like Big Sur and the high Sierra, will never be comforting to a human heart. They can thrill you and challenge you, yes. They are beautiful and desirable, yes. They are inspiring to visit. But they are not steady, kind, lifetime companions. Big Sur is oddly haunted and the Sierra heights are aloof. Too wild, too harsh, too steep, too rocky, too windblown—you name it—they are overwhelming to human consciousness. Certain sad human endings, I think, come from a failure to understand how places in/on the earth speak to our hearts. Make your home in a place that will never condescend to be your friend, and watch what happens.

But there are some valleys, some meadows, some protected hollows in the coastal hills (as here in the most inland arc of the Monterey Bay) that will comfort you. They will take care of you, in so much as landscape can love the animal creatures that walk around on her. Vast and intangible energy, but none the less love. These places are friendly and fond. It is there in the soft color of the light, the gentle, relaxed feeling of the land, the freedom of the native plants. It is there in the winter sunlight of a certain southern exposure where I live on this California coast, and it is there in the way of the wild things, plant and animal, that have been here before men walked on this ground. There are places that will nurture you. If you love them long enough, you come to trust them. And your trust is not misplaced. They will protect you.

Love is possible. Love between person and place. But not all places are fitted to love people. A person needs to pay attention to the nuances of the light. Is it warm or cold? Does it soothe you with a calm strength, or challenge you with its restless energy?

Those who choose the wilder, storm-tossed places-- as Robinson Jeffers chose an exposed headland near Carmel, above Big Sur-- are not choosing wrongly. But they are choosing a certain loneliness that will not go away. Such places/choices can make great art; they possibly make an inspiring human, if that being is strong enough. But these places will never hold you in their lap, as a mother holds a child. And there are places that will do this. I live in one.

 Judging by the stories in the book I just finished reading, a great many people who lived near Jeffers ended up caught in the wild meshes of a truly untamable land, and came to sad and untimely ends—driven there, as far as I can tell, partly by the inhumanly beautiful and awful (in the old sense of the word) landscape. Jeffers seems to understand this, and to some degree relish the drama of it all. I can’t say that I feel the same.

To those who can read a sense of place and see clearly, the choice is there. The choice is yours.

Now

                                             by Laura Crum

         So once again, apologies for the lack of posts. My life has been interesting and magical, but it is beyond my current abilities to put many words down about it. So today I can give you a few snippets and quotes and that’s about it.

 Lately I have been sitting by my pond in the evening, drinking rye whiskey and soda, and reading “The Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac. How did I miss this book in my youth? I read “On the Road,” but not this one. And this one is magical.

I found the book because a friend gave me a book called “Tamalpais Walking”—a collaboration between the woodblock print artist, Tom Killion, and the poet, Gary Snyder. I posted about this book last time (I Know, No Posts). The book had a lot of back story about Gary Snyder and Jack Kerouac and explained that Gary Snyder is the “hero” in “The Dharma Bums”—a character named Japhy Ryder. So I decided I needed to read The Dharma Bums. And it arrived a few days later—thank you, Amazon.

For the last few evenings I have been sitting by my pond and reading this book. And laughing out loud. And being amazed. So many things seem to be coming together.

The book reminds me of sitting by Burgson Lake in the Sierras when I was 22 years old, miles from any other person, reading “Roughing It” by Mark Twain, and laughing out loud as I drank cheap jug wine and watched the sun go down.

The passages about the Sierras take me back to the summers I lived in those mountains—one year alone by Burgson Lake, one year working at Kennedy Meadows pack station. And all the many horseback pack trips over the mountain passes that came later. When Japhy and Ray go into the Sierras out of Bridgeport, Bridgeport comes back to me as vividly as if I were there yesterday.

And there are so many lines in the book that are things that Andy used to say to me. I know he read this book—but I didn’t realize that the lines came from the book. As Ray tells Japhy what he thinks of other people: “Equally empty, equally to be loved, equally the coming Buddha.” Andy used to say that to me all the time.  It all feels so connected.

Anyway, hey, if you haven’t read “The Dharma Bums,” read it. It’s a whole lot of fun.

And, just because I like them, here are some quotes that my dear friend, Shannon Schierling, posted on facebook. Thank you, Shannon.

“I have come to accept the feeling of not knowing where I am going. And I have trained myself to love it. Because it is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to unravel and alas begin our flight. And as we fly, we still may not know where we are going to. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you’re going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you.” – C. Joybell

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.” ~ Louise Erdich, The Painted Drum

I Know, No Posts

                                                by Laura Crum

            Once again, my apologies to those who liked to read my blog posts. My life has just been so busy lately. Many new projects, much change-- very engaging, but no time to write.

            But magic is real. I’ve written about this so many times—I don’t really have any new words for you. Watching the almost full moon rise behind the big eucalyptus tree on a gloriously warm September evening, my heart is full. It amazes me that after all I have been through I can feel this way as I look at the moon. Or perhaps it is because of all I have been through?

In any case I sit by my pond and drink whiskey and soda in the evening, watching dragonflies and the light change in the sky, and feel content. And I'm grateful for that.

            On a warm, moonless night I sat by the pond and watched Orion rise above the eastern ridge and stride across the dark three AM sky. Twice I saw shooting stars. And yes, I wished.

            A friend gave me a lovely book—“Tamalpais Walking”—a collaboration between the woodblock print artist Tom Killion (I have several of his prints here on my walls) and the poet Gary Snyder. I highly recommend this book. And I’m going to close this brief blog post with some quotes from the book that touched me. Most of them are by Gary Snyder.

            “Not even once,” someone said, “can you step in the same river.” Landscape with nuance.

            Every night the drama will have new turns and meanings. One who learns this will never be bored.

            Nature, not in the abstract, but (like anybody) a kind of being actually there to respond to being seen in the moment. Gratitude to the particular is never in vain. Relationship to place is real, not as an idea but as a way.

            “All paths lead nowhere, so choose a path with heart.” Don Juan

            “A way that can be followed is not the ultimate way.”

            We don’t play music to get to the end of it. Or make love to go to sleep (I hope). Or meditate and study to become enlightened. Realization or somesuch might come along, but suppose it doesn’t? So what? Basho said, “The journey is home.”

            May we all find the Bay Mountain that gives us a crystal moment of being and a breath of the sky, and only asks us to hold the whole world dear.

Apologies, Magic and Life

                                                by Laura Crum

            I’m sorry for the recent lack of posts. My life has been very busy lately and I haven’t had the time for writing. This is actually a good thing, and I’m grateful to be engaged with some new projects. But such a busy period doesn’t lend itself to creating blog posts.

            I don’t have a decent post in me at the moment, so I thought I’d share a few photos to illustrate the magic that I still find in my life.

            Sitting by the pond is always magical. Summer is the season of water lilies and dragonflies.

            My boy is growing up (shown running away from the camera—does not like having his picture taken).

            Seeing spotted fawns in our garden and watching them grow up is magical, too.

            And the begonias are in bloom again out at the Jefferson Ranch. I have been coming here in the summer/fall for many years. Not to mention I have been gazing at the amazing spectacle of the begonia fields since I was a little girl. Once upon a time they grew at our family ranch, and for well over twenty years now they have been grown here. I was grateful to be out here last weekend and see it all again. No matter how many times I’ve seen it before, it’s always magical. 

My husband Andy grew the eucalyptus trees that form the windbreaks from seed he collected out at the old family ranch. When these trees were trimmed, we burned the wood to heat our home. It always seemed like a very satisfying life cycle.

And finally, my son and I went to see the stage version of Mary Poppins a couple of weeks ago. Our family always loved that movie and watched it so many times we knew most of the lines by heart. The live version opened with my favorite quote from the whole deal. Bert the chimney sweep stands alone on the stage in a mysterious shadowy light. He says:

            “Wind’s in the east, mist coming in,

              Like something is brewing, about to begin.

              Can’t put my finger on what lies in store,

              But I feel that what’s happening has all happened before.”

Magic...and Death, Dragonflies and chickens

                                   

                                    by Laura Crum

            Yes, more stories about magic. It seems that the more I open my eyes to it, the more I see. Magic everywhere. Is it all in my mind? Perhaps. As Albus Dumbledore said, “But why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

So the other day I was floating in our little pond. I have written about the pond before and some of you may remember. Andy and I built it together—we chose every stone, we supervised every moment of the construction. And we filled it with water together and played in it together and planted the water plants together. We battled the algae together. Since Andy died the pond has been a huge comfort to me. Along with my son, our animals, the garden, and a few very good friends, the pond has been one of the biggest comforts in my life.

            I sit by the pond and watch the light change in the reflections and ripples, I pour a cocktail for myself and for Andy in the evening and sit by the water and toast him and us—just as we used to do together. I talk to him and I feel that he talks to me.

On warm days I take a dip and I float in the pond for hours at a time—watching the clouds in the sky, watching the water lilies open their blossoms—pink and creamy yellow and white—and watching the dragonflies. Floating on the water always soothes me—no matter how sad I am in that moment. And watching the dragonflies comforts me.

Our little pond attracts all kinds of life. Frogs and lizards and birds and bats…and dragonflies. I have written before of the amazing dragonfly life cycle, and we have observed this first hand. From the creatures mating, and laying eggs on the water, to the underwater nymphs, which look like beetles, to seeing these same nymphs crawl out of the water and transform into dragonflies—within about an hour. It really is amazing to watch the once-underwater-being fly away into the sky on wings of coppery translucency—now a creature of the air. It has always seemed to me to be a clear paradigm for our earthly lives. And the other day I got another lesson from the dragonfly.

            To understand this, you may need to understand that dragonflies have always been a particular symbol here. Andy liked them—he drew them on his bike jacket, we have images of them everywhere on the property. We were all delighted when dragonflies came to our new pond last summer. One dragonfly—a bright red one—was the most common here. Andy looked it up and said he thought it was called a “flame skimmer.” (Dragonflies seem to have the most wonderful names—flame skimmer, pond hawk, blue darter…etc)

            The male flame skimmer is a brilliant scarlet red; the female, as is so sadly common in nature, is a duller orange-y brown. The males swoop above the pond and perch on nearby branches overlooking the water—defending their territory and mating with the females. They are lovely vivid creatures, easy to spot as they skim through the air. But…

            When the dragonfly perches on a branch of the apple tree, as he often does, he is very hard to spot. His slender three inch long body just looks like a reddish twig. If, however, you, like me, have spent hours by this particular pond, you know exactly where to look for him, and your eyes are accustomed to sorting him out. And thus I can glance at the apple tree twenty feet away and see a red dragonfly perched on the branch overlooking the water.

            I didn’t realize how much familiarity aids me when it comes to doing this, until the other day when a friend was here. I said something idly about the dragonfly, and she said, “What dragonfly?”

            It did not matter how hard I tried to point him out, she could not see him. In the end she laughed and said, “I don’t believe you. There’s no dragonfly there.”

            So I got up and walked over to the branch. The dragonfly flew away at my approach, and then, of course, she could see him.

            “Oh,” she said. “He WAS there all along.”

            And in that moment I kind of got it.

            If you teach yourself to see magic—by looking for it and spending time in magical places just being observant—you will learn to see it. And you will find that others can’t see it. They haven’t taught themselves how. That doesn’t mean the magic isn’t real. Just like the perching dragonfly, it’s real all right. But not something you can see unless you learn how.

            The thing is—anyone can learn how. Spotting a perching dragonfly is available to all. You just have to spend the time, you have to pay attention, you can’t be ceaselessly distracting yourself with phones and computers and TVs and social events…etc. You have to be willing to sit quietly by the water watching dragonflies. For a good long while. And you will learn to spot them when they are sitting still. In time it comes to you quickly and easily to spot them; it is as natural as breathing.

            You will be able to see what others insist is not there. This, I think, is what magic is really like.

            And then again, maybe magic is like my chicks.

            You see, if you know about chickens you know that there are things that they do and don’t do. Sort of like horses or dogs or cats. But once in awhile they’ll do something that you would say that they definitely DON’T do (again like horses or dogs or cats—in fact like the cat who defended the little boy from an attacking dog—in that video that I think everyone I know has seen). Is this magic?

            People who know about chickens know that when a hen goes broody on a clutch of eggs, it takes about three weeks for the eggs to hatch. Depending on how good of a “sitter” the hen is, you will get a more (or less) complete hatching of the eggs (if they are all fertile). The eggs normally hatch in a two day window, even if they were (as they usually are) laid over a two week or more period. The chicks actually talk to each other and the hen (by peeping in the egg) as they are getting ready to hatch. And then, over 48 hours or so, all that can manage to hatch do so. Not all chicks make it out. Some are too weak to hatch, some aren’t made right. But after about two days the hen will normally take what brood she has away from the nest and seek food and water for the chicks, knowing that the remaining eggs won’t hatch. That’s what chickens do. Except when they don’t.

            So what happens when they don’t? Maybe magic?

            I had a hen who was sitting on a clutch of eggs that had been layed rather piecemeal—by several hens. The sitting hen eventually hatched one chick. It was bright and lively, but days passed and there were no other chicks. My friend Wally—who knows a lot about chickens—told me to throw the rest of the eggs out—they wouldn’t hatch. But the hen continued to sit on the eggs. She mothered the one chick she had, but she also kept sitting. I put food and water near the nest and left her alone.

            A week after the first chick, a second chick hatched. And still the hen continued to sit on the eggs. Wally and several other chicken owning friends were sure I should throw the rest of the eggs out and let the hen get on with raising her two chicks. But I kept food and water by the nest and left her alone.

            A week later a third chick hatched—and still the hen sat. And sure enough, a week later a fourth chick hatched. After that the hen abandoned the two remaining eggs—so I threw them out. And this hen now has a healthy little family of four chicks—all of whom were born a week apart—so that the oldest one is a month older than his youngest sibling.

            To those who know nothing about chickens, this might not seem much like magic or a miracle. But Andy and I kept banties out here the whole seventeen years we were together, and no hen has ever done anything like this. It is something I would have adamantly assured you would NOT happen. But it did.

            And so perhaps many other things that people will assure you “cannot” happen can also possibly happen. When the time is right. Maybe magic is like this? You just pay attention to the signs and keep an open mind and suddenly something miraculous happens.

            Finally, maybe magic is sometimes very simple and ordinary. Like watching a water lily open or close. The water lilies are very lovely—and they open and close their pointed buds in a short period of time. One evening I was sitting by the pond with a young friend. We were drinking whisky and soda and talking about life in the agricultural world, but we were also sitting quietly watching the water—watching the water lilies, watching the dragonflies. And after a particular quiet moment this young man turned to me with a big smile on his face.

            He pointed at the most spectacular of the water lilies, a biggish peach pink blossom with a crown-like shape, and I saw that it was closed. “I watched it close,” he said. “Watched it go from open to closed. I’ve never seen that before.”

            I could tell that he felt that he’d seen something magical—and I agree with him. But the thing is—such magic is readily available. Ordinary magic. Found simply by sitting still and paying attention. Doing nothing. Going nowhere. Watching the evening light on the pond.

Maybe magic is like that?

           

           

           

            

The Story of the Statue --and the Bizarre Truck (Walking in Darkness)

                        by Laura Crum

            So sometimes I walk in darkness. I am endlessly sad and I miss the form of my happy life that used to be. My husband has been dead for six months and in many ways it is harder now. The friends who gathered round and made great efforts to support me initially have less time for this (I know this is inevitable—I’m not complaining or bitter—just saying what is happening), and are busy with their own lives. My good friends try very hard to be there for me. But I feel so deeply the loss of my companion and partner. It is hard to face each new day without his physical presence here in our home.

 I have done my best to put our finances and the garden/property/household in order, and have gotten this done. There is a lull—in which I am so very weary of being sad. I had a very happy life for the last seventeen years with Andy. I accept the sadness—I try to open my heart to it. But I am unused to this form of life. It feels like walking in the dark.

            I try to trust. Trust in love, trust that Andy is with me, trust that I am being led down the path where I am meant to go. Trust that this is true, even when I can’t see or feel it. It is sort of like riding a horse in the pitch black.

            I remember doing this with Gunner. Riding him up a hill under some big trees on a moonless night. I could not see a thing. I held up my hand—six inches from my face—and I could not see it at all. It was the strangest feeling. I could not see Gunner’s neck or head in front of me. But I could feel him underneath me, carrying me through the utter dark. I had to trust that he could see, that we would not run into a tree, or plunge off a bank. And sure enough, eventually we came out from under the trees and I saw the lights of the barn up ahead (for those who are interested, I worked that experience into my novel, ROPED).

            So now it is the same. I try to trust that Andy is with me, carrying me along, even though I can’t feel or see his arms around me. I have to trust in signs and messages. I have to trust in what is here now. It’s not an easy task. At least not for me. I’m not good at trust.

           

            And yes, this is another weird story of the insights that come to me about life and death and magic. I’ve noticed that some friends seem to shy away from the notion that Andy is still with me and that magical stuff happens to show me this is true. There is a pronounced silence when I bring such things up, and I can hear the inward rolling of the eyes. The friend tries to change the subject and assures me things will get better in time. This does nothing but make me aware that the person and I are not on the same page. You don’t have to believe any of the things I believe—I don’t care in the least—so if you don’t care for this stuff, please click on the “x.”

            The thing about magic, which I always understood, is that it is always present. We just aren’t aware of it. My son said that he wanted magic like flying broomsticks in the Harry Potter books, and the funny thing is, I think I’ve experienced things just as magical. (The totem animal dream I had at Burgson Lake comes to mind.)

            But magic doesn’t look like what you expect it to look like. That’s where my life and Harry Potter’s life are different. His life is obviously magical. (He exists in a magical novel, of course.) My life looks like anybody else’s life. Just normal, my son would say. But I don’t think normal exists at all. Magic happens—and its up to you to choose. Will you see this or not? Will you choose to see the magic happening or will you dismiss it as coincidence…etc.

            The story of the statue is a good example.

            The little statue by our pond—I call her the madonna—has been there many years. Andy and I picked her out of a catalog not long after we got together. She is a copy of a Frank Lloyd Wright statue and her actual name is “Garden Sprite.” Andy and I liked her and we put her by the pond and there she has been for almost twenty years—but not without changes.

            One year the deer knocked her over and she broke in half. I put her head in a flower bed for awhile—her bottom half lay toppled and concealed by a huge bush. Things were like that for a few years. But the bush died and was cut down and we found the statue and set her back up again, gluing her head back on. And there she stood.

            Her head is downcast and she looks serene, but pensive.

            So the other day I was walking up the driveway feeling very sad—and worn down with feeling sad. Just so tired… What am I supposed to do, I asked Andy. I had reached the little goldfish pond and I glanced over at the statue. Something was different.

            I stared, wondering if I was imagining things. Because the statue was looking right at me, her head tilted slightly back; her expression—in this pose—appeared calm and confident, rather than tranquilly sad. It was a very slight change—no one who didn’t live with her would ever have noticed. But it jumped out at me.

            I stared and stared. And it dawned on me that she had been shifted slightly—probably due to a deer bumping into her—and the broken top half was tipped back a little. I could see the crack. But how odd, I thought. She hadn’t been knocked over (which had happened several times) or had her head knocked off. She had merely been posed differently. Serene and regal—looking out at the world, rather than down.

            In this moment I felt my question was being answered. Andy wants me to be OK, to be serene and confident, to enjoy my life here in my garden. He wants me to make the same shift as the statue has made. From downcast and sad to calm and looking outward. She even seemed to be smiling—perhaps a trick of the angle and the light. But the message came through to me.

            Is this magic?

I think it all depends on how you choose to see it. For instance, like the truck…

The other day I pulled onto Highway 1 to take my kid to his nine o’clock class—and the stop-and-go traffic was in full commute mode. I happened to end up behind a truck—a very odd truck. I had been crying all morning and was just trying to drive through my tears, but this truck was bizarre enough to cause me to stare. My son stared, too. “Look at that,” he said.

The truck was some sort of tank truck—perhaps used to pump out septics or porta potties. It was not new—it was nothing regal or glamorous. But the back of it was painted with a very intricate and elaborate design. There were no words and no obvious connection between the design on the back and the purpose of the truck. The more we stared at it, the more puzzling it was.

The background was golden yellow and there was a round mandala shape with various symbols. They were nothing that I understood—I had no idea what system of thinking they might belong to. In the center was a painting of a god-like looking male figure with a golden headdress carrying a female figure who appeared to be asleep or passed out. The male figure looked powerful, his head was up and looking out, he was bathed in light and wore some sort of ceremonial clothes. The female figure wore a long white dress and lay in his arms, her eyes closed, her body limp. But she did not look dead.

The more I stared at this—we were behind the truck in stop-and-go traffic for at least twenty minutes—the more I wondered what it was meant to represent. Nothing really made any sense to me. And then (it was a cold gray day), the sun came briefly out of the clouds and lit the male figure’s face with radiant white light. A thought came to me, and stuck with me.

I had been battling so much sadness that morning, feeling so alone. I could not feel Andy’s presence, though I tried to trust it was there. I was so sad. Maybe this odd painting was here to show me something. The woman doesn’t know she is being carried. She is asleep or unconscious, moving through darkness, not knowing the male figure is there. But he IS there—he is in fact carrying her towards the light, though she is clearly unaware of him or of being carried. Maybe it is like that for me?

As I feel I’m moving through darkness in a confused way, I am really being carried by my loved husband, who is taking me towards the light. I may not be able to perceive him directly as I live in my human body with its limitations, but he is there, carrying me in his arms. For a moment it all seemed so clear.

I stared at the bizarre truck. Was this what magic was like? Getting stuck behind odd trucks on the highway?

In the end, magic is about what you choose to believe. My son complained that he thought our life was “normal,” like other people—not magical. I said that many of the people that he regarded as “normal” adamantly believe that a certain man died and that his body came back to life three days later. How “normal” is that? Surely that’s as magical as anything I can come up with?

So I persist in seeing the magic—or magik—and I put my trust out there in love. Even though I am walking in the dark.

           

            

The Ear Ring...and Other Stuff About Life and Death

                                    by Laura Crum

            Sometimes my life seems filled with magic. Sometimes, however, it seems endlessly sad. I am not sure that these two aspects will ever be reconciled. A paradox. And if there is one thing I know, it’s that truth resides in paradox. Every truth I ever came face to face with was/is essentially a contradiction.

            A good god allows innocents to suffer in this world. Free choice exists, but outside of time everything is happening now—in an eternal present-- so your choice is already made. Our spirits may transcend death and go on to a better existence, but we all struggle to avoid this ending of our earthly lives and consider it a tragedy when we lose a loved other to death. (No matter what we profess to believe about God and heaven and the afterlife…etc.) So yeah, it doesn’t surprise me that magic and sorrow seem to go hand in hand.

            I still struggle with this. Our human minds don’t deal with paradox very well. We want a logical solution—a truth we can understand. I’m afraid that I think that it doesn’t work that way. But whatever insights I have don’t help me very much at times. When I am faced with what seems like pointless suffering, I more or less despair.

            As in the fact that last week my little dog, Star, had some sort of aberrant reaction that caused her to go into shock. I came home to find her like this—I have no idea what happened. She was safely in the dog run with her companion, Cleo, she had no marks of injury, no signs of stings or signs that she had fought with the other dog. She was just dazed and staggering and out of it, with pale gums. I thought she was dying. My heart just about broke.

            I rushed her to the vet, and after an eight hour ordeal of treating her for shock and doing diagnostic blood work, she seemed OK. But there was no consensus on what caused the problem and if it would happen again. I am grateful for her apparent recovery and taking the best care of her that I can, but my heart is still very heavy. On top of everything else I have to bear, it seems like a gratuitous insult. Why?

            There is no answer to this. “Why” is something others are asking with far greater cause. I think of Nepal and I am aware that this “why” is universal. Why must we suffer because of these unexpected, unexplained events? Why? What possible good does our suffering do? I do not know, I do not know.

            A quote from Rumi:

            I said: What about my heart?

            God said: Tell me what you hold inside it.

            I said: Pain and sorrow.

            God said: …Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

            This sounds very pretty written down, but I am here to tell you that it is a hard truth to live. Pain and sorrow…

            But hand in hand with this sadness is the magic. Yes, magic—or magik, as Andy might say. All the signs I have been given that he is still with me past death. I will tell one story here—one of many that I have experienced.

            I have a pair of ear rings that belonged to my grandmother. Ever since she died and left them to me they are the only ear rings I have worn. They are small, plain gold hoops, they look like a pair of wedding rings.

            Shortly after Andy died I lost one of these ear rings. I searched and searched for it but could not find it. Eventually I gave up. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and said to Andy (I talk to Andy all the time). “Its OK. It doesn’t matter. I will wear one ear ring for the rest of my life as a sign that I’m half of a pair.”

            And in that instant I looked down and there, on the floor, under the counter, was the ear ring. This seemed pretty magical to me. I felt that Andy was returning it to me and telling me that we are still together, that I am whole, part of a pair. We are still a couple. That what appears to be lost is not lost.

            OK—a couple of weeks ago I went to the acupuncturist. She manipulated my ears as part of the treatment, and I remember thinking that I ought to check and make sure my ear rings are there before I leave. But I didn’t.

            I ran a couple of errands afterward, went home and got my son, got in a different vehicle and took my boy to the golf course. We went in the snack shack and the pro shop. And finally, getting ready to go home, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw I was missing an ear ring.

            I called the acupuncturist’s office—they couldn’t find it. I searched both my vehicles, looked all through my clothes, looked everywhere at home—under the bed, on all the floors. No ear ring. I had to think it had fallen off in one of several parking lots…etc. I felt sure it was lost for good this time.

            Once again I stood in the bathroom, where Andy had returned it to me before. I said, “If you want to give it back again that’s great. But if not it’s OK—I’ll wear just one.”

            The second after I said that, I heard a “tink.” I KNEW what that tink was. It was the ear ring hitting the tile floor of the bathroom. And I have to admit a sort of thrill went through me.

            I said, “I heard that.”

            I got down on my hands and knees and looked (again) around the floor. And there was the ear ring, under the counter, where it had not been a minute ago.

            Now the obvious explanation is that it was caught on my clothing and fell off in that particular moment. But still…I had searched my clothes several times, not to mention I had walked all over many different places for a couple of hours, gotten in and out of vehicles, and had just been on my hands and knees searching under the bed and on the floors. And it falls off while I’m standing perfectly still? In the second after I said those words?

            Once again I felt I was being told that I was still part of a pair. That what appeared to be lost was not lost. And that Andy could both hear and respond to me.

            So yeah. That’s what I choose to believe. Doesn’t matter to me if it’s all in my mind. We all choose our beliefs. I think I’ve got better evidence for mine than many do for much more conventional beliefs.

            And thus I live my life in sadness and also in a magical world. Truth in paradox.

Magic...and the Pond

                                                by Laura Crum

            This post is for those of you who expressed an interest in my pond/natural swimming pool project that I wrote about last summer. Some people were curious about how the pond would work out over time and how I would cope with algae…etc. So today I am going to give an update on the pond/pool. (Once again, not a horse or writing related post—sorry.)

            When we built the pond, it was pristine and clear, but devoid of life. Over time we planted water plants and various creatures came. I added mosquito fish to eat the mosquito wigglers, a frog showed up, as did water striders, and eventually dragonflies came and laid their eggs, and we got to watch them turn from underwater nymphs into flying dragons—an amazing process. 

            The pond was lovely in different lights—morning and evening. Water lilies bloomed. We floated in the pond and sat by it and jumped and waded in it and enjoyed it very much. 

            Algae did grow. First the pond became pea soup green. That cleared up in a month or so and filament algae began to grow. We coped with the filament algae by scrubbing it off the rocks and weeding it out. We had heard that it took a couple of years for these ponds to get into balance so we tried to be patient.

            Then my husband got sick and through the fall I had little attention to spare for the pond. The filament algae coated the sides like a heavy growth of moss, though the water stayed clear. Andy and I would talk about the pond, and he encouraged me to get it cleaned out and start over and use some products to control the algae—experiment a little. He told me what he used on the drainage ponds at his greenhouses at work—and he pointed out that he had no algae there, but frogs came. And we had read that frogs were the barometer of whether water was healthy.

            After Andy died I determined to follow his advice. I had the pond pumped out and the algae power washed away. Then I refilled it and began to experiment with different algae products. Eventually I settled on the one Andy had used at work—at the lowest possible dose. The fish seemed fine. The water plants seemed fine. And lo and behold, in February, frogs showed up.

            The frogs croaked and sang every evening, and by the end of the month we had tadpoles—lots of tadpoles. And this made me happy because surely the pond was healthy if frogs could produce their young. Birds bathed in the fountain, animals drank from the pond, and I found dragonfly nymphs crawling among the water plants. The water lilies came back from their winter dormancy and put up new leaves. There is some algae but not too much algae. It looks like my grand experiment is working.

            I took a few photos last month, and I will post them here for those who are interested. The pond has been a great comfort to me in this sad time. I sit by it a lot and listen to the gentle trickle sound of the little fountain that Andy designed, I put my feet in the water and float in it on warm days. And I look at every stone with the knowledge that Andy and I picked them out together and set them in their places. The pond is our joint creation—and I am so grateful for that.

            In the evening I make a cocktail—and I make one for Andy. I clink our glasses, just as we used to do, and say, “Here’s to us.” And then I sit by the pool and watch the reflections and ripples and listen to the frogs and the sound of the water. The birds come within a few feet of me and take their baths. Last night a frog appeared near my feet. I talk to Andy as I watch the light change in the evening sky. And there is a part of me that knows that he is there with me—though he doesn’t finish his drink. But that’s no problem, as I do it for him. He doesn’t mind.

            Anyway, for those who aren’t interested in my rambling about spirits and the after life…etc, the pond is undeniably real, and (at least to me) undeniably lovely. The magic that is present in a body of water, even a small body of water, is, I think, the most accessible, ordinary magic that there is in this world. Ordinary magic, yes. But none the less-- magic.

The photos in this post were taken in February of this year.

                         Morning

            Looking down into the deep water.

                             Evening

            The pond has been truly magical for me. It is a project and requires attention and time, just like a horse or a garden or a child or a dog. But it is infinitely worth that effort. There are those who choose a chlorinated pool and a concrete patio surrounded by plastic grass—and I am sure the work involved is much less. However, I have a feeling that the rewards are proportional. Just a guess.

The Gate

                                                            by Laura Crum

            Ever since my husband died I have been trying to come to terms to what we can be now. Yes, you read that right. I’m sure that some of you, like me, believe that death is not the end of the human soul/spirit. Some of you perhaps believe a person’s soul goes to heaven (or the other place), some of you believe in reincarnation, and I know lots of us who believe we can talk to the spirits of our loved ones who have “crossed”, including our animals, and also think that we will see them again.

            I have never felt that I “knew” any particular thing about life after death, only that I strongly felt that death wasn’t the end for a spirit. And now that my husband has died, I have begun to get a lot of messages that he is still with me. This doesn’t really surprise me, in one way. I asked him to stay with me and our son, if it was possible. And I know that he would do this if he could. Andy was and is the most honorable being I ever knew, and I trust in his love for us. So yes, I believe he is with me.

            On the other hand it is perfectly possible that these messages are all in my mind. I am accepting of this. I don’t really care. If our future life is just a figment of my imagination, so be it. I choose to trust and let that trust guide me.

            But anyway, I have dreams where I am given messages and I have experiences in day to day life where I am guided, and it does seem pretty amazing at times, the signs I get. But something funny happened the other day that I’m sure you livestock people would appreciate, so I thought I’d tell the story here.

            First of all, I’m not trying to convince anybody of anything. It is, as I said, fine with me if this is all in my mind. So no worries if this story just seems like delusional thinking to you.

            Anyway, a week or so ago my friend/boarder, Wally, came pulling his horse trailer up my driveway, with one tire fiercely hissing as it leaked air (and scaring all the horses). When he unloaded his own horse, Wally said that he had hit my gate post. The tire was obviously the worse for wear and a piece of the trailer’s fender had been torn off, but I wasn’t hugely worried about the gate post, which is a big, solid, metal post, set in concrete. However, after Wally left I got a phone call from him.

            “I broke the gatepost,” he said. “I looked at it on the way out and it’s busted. You’ll need to have it reset and rebuild that part of the fence.”

            I wasn’t very happy about this, as you can imagine. I’m pretty fragile right now, and any little bit of adversity seems like the end of the world. I hung up the phone and cursed and swore. Then I made myself a whisky and soda and went down to look at the gate (OK, it was my second whisky and soda of the evening—but they are 90% soda—honest.)

            It was dusk when I got down there and the gatepost was clearly crooked. I put a hand on it and I swear it moved—the whole piece of fence next to it moved. I shook it several times, cursing and muttering to myself. I walked back up the driveway, crying.

            “This is all too much,” I said. “I need help. I can’t cope with this.”

            So I drank another whisky and soda and went to bed, pretty pissed off with Wally for being so damn careless. He didn’t even say he was sorry.

            The next morning I got up and called a friend just to complain. He told me to go down and have a look in the daylight and let him know how much work needed to be done. So I walked back down to the gate.

            The gatepost was still crooked and the fence leaned at a slight angle, just as it had the night before. But when I put my hand on it, it was perfectly solid. It wouldn’t move at all. The gate post was bent, yes, but still firmly rooted in concrete. The gate was closed just the way it ought to be—a two inch gap at the top the only difference. The fence was absolutely solid.

            I stared at the post. I KNEW it had been loose. Wally had told me that he’d broken it. We’re both livestock people—we’ve dealt with fences our whole lives. We weren’t likely to make a mistake like that about a gatepost and think it was broken when it wasn’t. How could it be solid now? And I know you all are going to think I’m losing it, but the thought came to me that I did get help.

            Now I have no idea what happened. The likeliest thing is that in the dusk, with two whisky and sodas under my belt, I thought the post was broken when it was only bent. But it still strikes me that I thought I had a big problem and it turned out to be non-existent. The gate was fine. A little crooked but perfectly functional. It may not have been a miracle in a material sense, but it was a miracle for me. I got the help I needed. And I thanked Andy.

            Since then I have had a lot of help that seemed magical beyond my understanding. I would hesitate to describe some of these experiences to others, because, like my story about the gate, they don’t make much rational sense. At the same time, I’m not making any of this stuff up. And I do believe my husband is helping me.

            So today I’m putting my little gatepost story up just in case there are others out there who have had experiences like this and can relate. It is absolutely fine to think I’m living in an imaginary land of wishful thinking. If this is all in my mind, so be it. I’m putting my trust out there anyway. And I can’t see that my thinking is any odder than the beliefs of many well-accepted religious faiths, now that I come to think about it.

            Anybody else have a magical story?

Moments on a Horse

                                                by Laura Crum

            We’ve all had them. (Or at least most of us who read this blog, anyway.) Those moments when magic is palpable—and a horse is part of the picture. My novels were inspired, to some degree, by my desire to portray the magic I found in horses.

Lately I’ve become more and more interested in photographic images, and (sadly for a writer) less interested in wordy descriptions. I am not a good photographer in any technical sense, but I like the feeling that I can sometimes capture in photos. I enjoy looking at my favorite photos—the ones that bring a special moment back to me. Anyway, I take a lot of photos. My husband was looking through them the other day, and he said, “All these photos are of HORSES.” Uhmm, yeah, guilty. (They’re not all of horses, but lots of them are.)

Yep, photo after photo of horses in my files—many of them taken from my horse’s back. Perhaps I could find an image that truly captured the essence of riding? So I went through my photos again, looking for my favorite shots--pictures that illustrated the feeling of delight that I have in riding a horse. Pretty soon I had a whole list of these photos. It was impossible for me to narrow it down to one or two. And this gave me an idea for a post.

So here are some photos of horseback riding. They are almost all of trail riding, in one form or another. After selecting them, I realized that the beauty of the country we ride through is an integral part of the magic of riding—for me. I will comment on what I like in each photo. Will you guys vote on which ones speak to you? There is no prize. Just the fun of discussing the magic of being on a horse, and what images convey this magic to the observer.

A lot of these are ear photos, and all of these photos were taken by me from Sunny’s back. There are several of my son on his horse, Henry, also (mostly) taken by me from Sunny’s back (which is why a few are a little bit blurry). The ones that show me and Sunny were almost all taken by my husband. All of the photos were taken in the last four years with a little point-and-shoot that fits in my pocket (or my husband’s pocket) when we ride or hike. I haven’t included any of my older photos (taken with a fancier camera—that won’t fit in a pocket), or any that were taken by my friends who are “real” photographers. This is strictly an amateur’s snapshot collection of trail horse photos. But it makes me smile, and brings back those happy moments. Let me know what you think.

I love the above photo. To me, it says it all. About riding, about the beauty of the place where I live. Ears forward, looking out at the edge of the continent, above an empty beach by the lovely Monterey Bay.

I used this photo for my Xmas card one year. Taken by my husband as he hiked with us in November on our local trails. I am on the palomino (Sunny) and my son is on the sorrel (Henry). The ridge in the background is the one I see from my porch.

Something in the drama here speaks to me, maybe the light or the body language—we were looking at sea lions surfing, and that comes back to me every time I see this photo.

This is my favorite photo of the view from the Lookout (about a mile from my front gate, via our local trails). Looking north toward Pleasure Point and Santa Cruz. Taken on a bright January day.

Riding down the local trail we call “the pretty trail” (going home from the Lookout). Taken by my husband on midsummer’s day. Really captures the lush beauty of these woods in summertime and the peaceful quality of riding two steady horses.

 This is blurry (shot from Sunny’s back) but I still love it. For me it captures my son and Henry and this lovely ride through the redwoods.

              A boy and his horse—loping along in the spring sunshine. Pure joy.

              About to go wading. When I look at this I can almost smell the ocean.

Riding down to the sea through the sand dunes. The red vest makes a good focal point.

Riding to Parker Lake in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I love the reflections. This photo takes me right back to being in the mountains.

Crossing Aptos Creek—I love the reflections here, too, and the drops hitting the water.

This shot was taken by our friend, Bill, as we rode away from his place in the Glass Mountains. “Tiny horsemen in a big landscape,” says it all.

This is my husband’s favorite “ear photo.” He thinks it is one of the few truly interesting riding photos I’ve taken.

                                    This shot seems almost iconic to me.

                                       This has an epic Biblical quality.

This one just speaks to me of so many happy rides with my son on Sunny and Henry.

       A boy and his horse alone on a big empty beach. No footprints but our own.

                         Ok—this is not a great photo. But it makes me smile.

I’ve got LOTS more I could post, but I guess this is enough for now. Interesting how so many of them feature water. Anyway, if you have a favorite, tell me.