Once Upon a Jacket

 

Do you Know Where Patagonia is?

I didn’t when I bought a Patagonia jacket about 25 years ago; I only knew it was from a an exceptional company who were into recycled materials like plastic jugs.

I still have the jacket, and I know where Patagonia is.

It’s a huge part of the Southernmost region of South America, filled with a portion of the Andes Mountains, glaciers, rainforests, lakes, fjords, and deserts.  

The jacket has traveled, not to Patagonia, (I wish) but from Oregon to Hawaii, to California, and back to Oregon. I wore it when I hiked the trails on Hendricks Hill in Eugene, Oregon, with Jewell, my soul-dog, and in the evenings when it got cold in Hawaii.  I wore it while horseback riding in Marcola, Oregon. And I was wearing it when I painted the fifth-wheel trailer we had lived in for two years while our log house was being built. One day that jacket received a smear of what looked like vanilla ice cream on the back. So did our Rottweiler Gabe’s tail.

Neither ever washed off.

Both he and I were on the floor of the fifth wheel. I was painting: a dangerous combination: one dog, one person, one gallon of paint, but hey, only a dog’s tail and a jacket got the brunt of it.

We were living in the fifth wheel while our log home was being constructed some 200 feet away. Living in the forest as we were those 10 years were the greatest, both the two years in the fifth wheel where I oversaw construction daily, and the years that followed living in the log home. I even cooked a Thanksgiving meal while living in that fifth wheel trailer. I learned that if you load an outside grill with briquets, wait for the fire to get blazing hot, put a foil-wrapped stuffed turkey on the rack, close the lid, and go inside to your abode for a night of slumber to rest before preparing for the dinner the next day, you will awaken to a perfectly cooked turkey.

Imagine a video on hyper speed. Logs jumping one on top of one another, a crane named Sweet Marie, gently setting a roof atop those stacked log walls. Sweet Marie, sent to us by our magnificent log home designer, lifting the three skylights into place.

If you ever build a log home, hire a mountain climber; they know how to use ropes and pulleys. That climber, our superb finish carpenter, managed, by himself, to place a 12- foot header log over an open space where a bank of windows would set beneath.  He put those in too.

The horses came after the house was completed, and the freshly painted interior of the fifth wheel went to an elderly couple, for fun times at the ocean about 80 miles away. And when young fillies and one elderly mare were released from their paddock to careen around the log structure we called home, the young ones would gallop up the drive, and one would do a Lipizzaner’s leap, kicking out her heels in mid-air, while flying off the retaining wall.

All this came to me because I read about the company Patagonia this morning. (Anything that takes me back to the forest.)

You know, in turbulent times we need a reprieve from the chaos. And remembering good times allows our poor little nervous systems to calm themselves. People who are into “vibes” say that our remembering puts us back in the same “vibe” where we were when the event occurred. It reminds us that life goes in cycles, and while it appears that the earth and its people are sad, this is one way we can find hope.

All this over a jacket that now has a broken zipper.

Suddenly that jacket has become an icon for me.

And Patagonia, the company, is one reason I have hope for the future.

Here is Yvon Chouinard’s letter from the Patagonia website. Written on September 14, 2022:

“If we have any hope of a thriving planet—much less a business—it is going to take all of us doing what we can with the resources we have.

“I never wanted to be a businessman. I started as a craftsman, making climbing gear for my friends and myself, then got into apparel. As we began to witness the extent of global warming and ecological destruction, and our own contribution to it, Patagonia committed to using our company to change the way business was done. If we could do the right thing while making enough to pay the bills, we could influence customers and other businesses, and maybe change the system along the way.

We started with our products, using materials that caused less harm to the environment. We gave away 1% of sales each year. We became a certified B Corp and a California benefit corporation, writing our values into our corporate charter so they would be preserved. More recently, in 201 we changed the company’s purpose to: We’re in business to save our home planet.

While we’re doing our best to address the environmental crisis, it’s not enough. We needed to find a way to put more money into fighting the crisis while keeping the company’s values intact.

One option was to sell Patagonia and donate all the money. But we couldn’t be sure a new owner would maintain our values or keep our team of people around the world employed.

Another path was to take the company public. What a disaster that would have been. Even public companies with good intentions are under too much pressure to create short-term gain at the expense of long-term vitality and responsibility.

“Truth be told, there were no good options available. So, we created our own.

Instead of “going public,” you could say we’re “going purpose.”

 

“Earth is now our only shareholder.”

 

                                                   https://www.patagonia.com/home/

Read Yvon’s letter   Wow, would some geologist tell me how those mountains were made?     A Chilean Gaucho--a skilled horseman, said to be noble, brave and generous--and unruly.

A Short Story

 

“Like frog we are asked to know when it is time to refresh, purify, and refill the coffers of the soul.”—Medicine cards, Jamie Sims & David Carson.

 

Hey, everybody, I'm glad to have you here. You are the best to hang in with me through thick and thin, messes and cleanups, mistakes, typos, and all. I try to be good, but miss sometimes.

Okay, this has been my last few days: I took my short story, novella I had called it, off Kindle. I don't know if anyone was reading it anyway. I have no way of knowing, although data might be in the bowels of Amazon for all I know.

Now that's a disgusting thought.

Anyway, I like the story, but it needed work, so I revamped it, went over it word by word, inch by inch, paragraph by paragraph, until I gave myself a headache, and decided to give the story away for free. (Hold a bird in an open hand, or frog in this case.)

You might have read something about this story in an earlier blog, but I’m back at it, and as a writer, you know a piece of writing is never perfect. (Once a writing teacher said, “All art is flawed, which gave me hope.)

While reading about the toy frog a child has in this story, I was motivated to buy a plush CoQui frog toy off eBay this week. I had bought one when we lived in Hawaii--can't find the same one. It was cute, and when you squeezed its belly, it said its own name, “Co-Key.”

One day, one of our dogs, then a puppy, got the frog, and “Goodbye, frog.”

(I will post a picture of my frog when it arrives.)

Another idea in this book I got from Hawaii was that someone had offered a green frog toy, prettier than the brown Coquis, with the instructions to carry that frog with you on your adventures, write your adventures in its accompanying book, and give it to another traveler who will add their stories. It’s a fun idea, but those things fall flat and grind to a halt, and you never hear of them again.

Here, if you wanted, you could pretend that you are carrying a frog and a journal, and write down something funny, inspirational, or profound. We would love to read one or more of your gems.  Keep going for the link.

 

“Frog sings the songs that bring the rain and make the road dirt more bearable.”

—Medicine Cards, Jamie Sims & David Carson.

(My inspiration for using the Frog’s Song in a couple of titles.

I will post a picture of my frog when it arrives.

You may have heard me talk about the CoQui frogs of Hawaii before (an accidental import from Puerto Rico)—they are only about the size of your thumbnail, eat bugs and insects, and say their own name “CoQui,” which is to call a mate.  In mass, they can be loud, causing some to call them noise pollution, but that was not my experience. I thought they were sweet, and from a distance, innocent me who didn’t know they existed, thought they were birds.

All this is leading up to my presentation. Ta Da! In my effort to be transformational, I am presenting this short story, 5,850 words.

 

When you are in Hawaii, and you find a sign alongside the Highway saying “Voted the best café by my mother,” with an arrow pointing to a road through the cane grass. Take it.

You will bump along a lava-encrusted road with grass slapping the sides of your vehicle until it opens to a sandy beach beside a café. Above the entrance of the café, on its thatched roof, is a sign that reads, The Frog’s Song Café’. Go in, have the best sandwich you have ever tasted, and accept their invitation to a campfire at the beach, where you will find…

Well, I’m not going to tell you; read the book.

 

Click for Page and to read the book

The Gatekeepers

 

Notice, I left the gate open.

I was rewriting old novels, editing. I don’t know if they’re real novels or practice ones, so far, they haven’t caught an agent's attention. Some say it’s harder to get an agent than it is to write the book in the first place, or even to get a publisher. But folks, if you are a writer, remember most of the books that make it have been rejected numerous times, even Harry Potter. Can you imagine those agents who rejected Harry Potter crying in their soup nightly because they missed it? Fifteen percent of a zillion bucks is what? Probably a billion.

About 20 years ago, when we lived in California, I took a workshop from a Screenplay agent in LA. At the time, my daughter and I were toying with a script. That agent, with her young daughter standing beside her the entire talk, said that agents invite a bunch of creative writing students to go through the slush pile. (Their stack of unsolicited manuscripts). First, they set them all in a room, throw in a pizza and packet of rejection slips, and lock the door.

That’s it.

I suspect it’s about the same with books. Maybe it has changed since publishers have more competition now that many authors are self-publishing their books and Indie publishers have best-sellers. I have the problem of thinking that few people want to spend the money on books with price tags publishers demand, but readers of Harry Potter must have forked out that money when the Harry Potter books were first released. And hey, who doesn’t want to believe in magic?

The success of JK Rowling and Harry Potter are not to be tampered with.

I don’t know why I began this blog as I did. I guess I am following my own advice to my grandson. Just begin writing, I told him, and see where it takes you.

He came up with a brilliant idea but doesn’t know how to implement it. He had compared what he calls “Culture,” meaning the youth of today, which includes artists, furies, Trans, and computer game creators, with religion. He says both wanted to give the people hope, and while religion says you can have it, you can find God, peace, salvation, all of those, he says Culture wants the same, but they believe it’s impossible.

That was so sad, a defeatist attitude, to want to express yourself only to believe you will never be successful at it.

That is the legacy we have given our young people.

He says he wants to give people HOPE.

That’s what I want too.

When I was editing those novels, and at home discussing theme, plot, the deciding moment, and the old saying that without conflict you have no story, I thought, I need to write a new book maybe it will hit the refresh button on my brain.

What if I, instead of following the convention that you must put your protagonist through hell, write a book where things work out? Yeah, yeah, I know, one must struggle first before events work out. But isn’t hope what we want? Don’t we want to believe that good is waiting for us—that life will get better?  And what about attitude and the belief that much is accomplished with a glad heart? Did we lose sight of those?

Is that boring? Think of the book Chicken Soup for the Soul. It stayed on the Best Seller List for 4 years.  What about Robert Fulghum's book, Everything I Know I Learned in Kindergarten which stayed on the New York Times Best Seller list for two years. And I loved the recent book Theo of Golden, basically uplifting—not that people didn’t have troubles, or were sad, but it was enchanting. You think people don’t want good news?

Every time I open my computer, it spits something depressing at me.  I’m tired of the Government's rabble. I’m tired bitching, snipping, and arguing. I want something that shows the goodness in people.

Are You Guys’ Writers?

 Are you guys’ writers?

I know you are readers, for you are here. Thank you. I appreciate you immensely.

I am encouraging reading and writing. Don’t let either go away. Ray Bradbury said, “You don’t have to burn books, you just have to get people not to read them.”

Don’t do that. Keep on reading. Keep on writing. Both are good for that beautiful brain of yours.

“In times of crisis,” I read this morning in the Epoch Times: “it’s easy for your mind to feel bombarded—notifications, headlines, endless scrolling. It feels like information overload, but science shows it’s worse: shallow, fragmented content actually changes your brain, training it for distraction.”

I know that extended, focused reading is good for the brain. A study published in Neuroscience News shows that consistent cognitive engagement such as reading can even delay cognitive decline by years.

“What you feed your brain defines how it performs. Shallow content trains distraction. Deep, quality reading trains focus and insight.”

We need to delve into something of substance once in a while, immerse ourselves. Perhaps I should write longer blogs. But people have little time, so they want to get through information quickly. I suggest you use your precious leisure time to read a book. Savor it. Devour it.  And after that, write out your feelings, frustrations, blessings. Your life has meaning; it deserves your attention.

I was so excited yesterday after completing Suzanne Redfearn's novel Where Butterflies Wander, especially after she explained in the author’s comments following the book how she came to write it and how it morphed along the way. It fell in step with a discussion I had with my grandson the night before on what a theme is, a plot, should you write the ending first, those sorts of things. As she was writing her novel, she found an article in a magazine about a man in a cabin, squatting on someone’s land, and used that idea in her book. It gave her story backbone she said. And it gave her an ending. I wanted to tell somebody, but it was met with crickets, and I realized, once again, that discovery gives its gift to the one who finds it. Plus, you must jump on an idea while it’s hot; otherwise, it flies away with the wild ducks.

 It seemed pertinent that the two books I completed in the morning, that is not normal for me, were by the same author, Suzanne Redfearn. In April I mentioned Walking the Camino, and now I am talking about Where the Butterflies Wander.

When my girls were starting school, and I was reading about alternative education, I came upon the book, Education and Ecstasy. The author asked if we had ever, in our 12,16 or 18 years of schooling, had a teacher who believed learning was ecstasy. That’s the way learning ought to be, but mine wasn’t during those early years.  (That book is on Amazon; by George B Leonard, I just looked it up. Yep, printed in the 60s. That sounds right.)

That book just popped into my mind. That’s the way the brain works, and the way I wrote my memoir, like a mountain stream that splashes against rocks, beavers dam it up, the water breaks free, logs fall into it, but I trust the river knows where it is going and will take us there with it. (To the Source.)

It may sound ludicrous to say I’m writing a memoir, I'm not illustrious. I’ve never been to Mars. I’m not a celebrity, had a near-death experience, or chewed off my arm stuck on a mountain. However, I trust Natalie Goldberg when she said everybody ought to write a memoir, and it doesn’t have to be your life story. It can be any moment. It can be for those moments that take your breath away.

I wanted to visit my little girl self again, the one who could jump rope and run, and fearlessly jump onto a horse’s bare back. I wanted to visit my father again, who left for the Second World War, but I didn’t see him again until 38 years later.

I wished my ancestors had been more expressive. That way I would know how my grandmother responded when her 16-year-old daughter informed her that she was pregnant.

They had their thoughts and the right to privacy, but then those thoughts and feelings died with them.

I’m up to 70,000 words.

  

I agree that these are tough times, so was the war. However, then we didn’t have a society built on fear. We didn’t have a would-be dictator. We believed that our President was pulling with us. We still believed in democracy.

Now, there are many Americans who ought to be ashamed of themselves.

 

A moment of Reprieve:

Let us be as gentle and loving as this Momma Goat protecting her baby at the Lane county Fair in Eugene, Oregon. 

 

 

"The Miracle of Deliverance."

I would volunteer to drive a car full of ballots from Oregon to Washington, D.C., and dump them in the Oval Office if that were possible, and I bet there is someone in every zip code of the United States who would do the same.  

Fill that office with the words of the citizens that we do not want a dictator to run our country. Period.

Think of it:  trucks, armored vehicles, and private cars making a run to Washington. There would be so many, highway patrol, Homeland Security, whoever has jurisdiction, wouldn’t know who carried ballots and who didn’t. Maybe Amazon Prime could do it.

This fantasy came to me the other night when I went to bed fearing we would not have a fair and honest mid-term election. I saw that the President is taking whatever steps he can to ensure that as many voters who would vote against him are stymied. Of course, there are other means at their disposal.

I thought of all the escaped slaves who saved other slaves. They didn’t wait for permission.

We No-King-Marchers have our little marches, and what happens? The more the light shines, the more the harbingers of evil have their hissy fits and clamp down on whatever freedoms they can get their hands on.

We, the people, take to the streets, some 9 million strong, to protest the happenings coming out of Washington, D.C. But he’s still there.

We try to obey the laws, to be courteous, to speak our piece, only to see it trampled. We are playing by two separate sets of rules.

Remember the WWII Dunkirk, France rescue? Oh, you don’t remember? Neither do I, but I read about it, in a novel, can you believe, how the Germans cut off and surrounded 338,000 soldiers, forcing the British, French, Dutch, and Allies into a narrow corridor of sea in Dunkirk. There they were, stuck, either to perish or to be captured.

The harbor was too shallow for the big ships to navigate it. Winston Churchill thought they could evacuate maybe 20,000 of the men.

The British civilians rallied.

People who owned pleasure crafts, dinghies, fishing boats, lifeboats, and yachts navigated the harbor back and forth to pick up soldiers who were standing in cold shoulder-high water waiting to be rescued. Those civilian pilots drove from May 27, 1940, to June 4, 1940, through the harbor of Dunkirk stopping only for petrol, until all 338,000 men were delivered to the big ships.

 

 

 

All 338,000 men were rescued in what was called “The Miracle of Deliverance.” or "The Little Boats." 

It was not a military victory, but it was a human one."

  

 

  

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.”—Margaret Mead

A Fabulous Peck on the Cheek, Next Week a Kick in the Pants

Sunday, July 12, 2026

 This was when the house was arriving-

I got such a kick out of an event that happened this week, well, two of them. I’m of the sort who, when I see or taste something stupendous, I have to run out and tell someone. You know, when we taste something really superb, we offer a bite to our spouse or friend, and say, “Oh, this is so good, here, try this.” The same works, though, if we taste something awful, “Augh, this is terrible, here taste this.”

Okay, first off, this is about moving our tiny house:

One reason I thought this driver was so superb was that I used to drive a pickup truck pulling a horse trailer, and whenever I needed to back it up, I broke out in a sweat. So, when the moving fellow said he would back his truck into our gravel driveway that runs alongside our regular drive and back to where the tiny house is parked under an RV- high roof, I said, “No way you can back into there.”

He said he could do it, and he did. He had changed his mind about using the Mule—a remote-controlled small tractor, and decided to use the truck instead.

Amazing. With a truck a half a block long, the cab reaching into the branches of our Magnolia tree alongside the driveway, carrying the Mule in a space behind the cab, and pulling a trailer longer than our house, he made it back to within inches of the tiny house.

The creative-thinking driver, with his magic trailer and remote-control device, lowered the back of the trailer to the ground, much like the bucket on a Bobcat, except it was 12 feet wide. He scooched the trailer loading ramp under the 4 x 4’s that supported the house, lifted, scooted, lifted, scooted until suddenly wheels appeared from beneath the trailer like landing gear descending from beneath an airplane, and settled in under the house.  With his remote control, the operator moved the entire house sideways to within an inch of the fence on one side and an inch to a tree limb on the other. He even cut a limb with his chainsaw and kept adjusting the house to line it up perfectly with the narrow driveway.  

A tight fit--top roof be gone.

When the house was completely off the ground and onto that trailer, he got in the truck and drove it out.

We still have the tiny house.

It’s parked in our graveled driveway.

We can show it for sale there and have it moved again when we get a a buyer. That tiny house is no longer trapped under that RV high overhead. We had to remove its roof to make space to lift the house, because dragging it out was dangerous.  

Want to buy a tiny house?

 

Don’t put your mother-in-law in it, unless she is very agile, for the bed, a full, brand new mattress is on rollers and slides easily under the raised kitchen floor. That arrangement is enormously better than the cramped loft, the only thing that was in the bare-boards house when we bought it. (Daughter Dear thought a tiny house would be a contribution to inexpensive housing. And it was her art project.)

She got rid of that loft right away—too claustrophobic. Now the building is insulated, beautifully plastered, and has a large tiled shower and a complete bathroom.

One of the contractors told us we could rent it for about $800 a month. Rent it out on Airbnb it,or live in it. Daughter Dear doesn’t have time to work on it anymore, and rather than have a carpenter come in and finish it, she figured that the owners could have a discount to purchase it if they complete it. That way they can put their own stamp on it.)

All the component parts are included except for a kitchen counter, and some elbow grease —you choose the counter. Being a tile aficionado, my daughter tiled the entire wall, in light brick above the kitchen cabinets. The bamboo flooring is provided, half in the bathroom is complete. There is slate tile for the kitchen. The sink, refrigerator, stove, faucets, lights, room heater, hot water heater, and a new mattress are provided.  The wiring was professionally installed. Water can be provided from a faucet. Toilet and drains need to be plumbed beneath the house. With an extension cord, a garden hose, and a composting toilet, it could be self- sufficient, provided you could dispose of gray water. You know, like in that back 40.

Door tile detail. 

 And now, the second magnificent find this week: It’s a love story as told to me a long time ago by a member of my family.

 

One thing about being a writer is that you find pages you wrote years ago and forgot about them, so when you find them, it’s a surprise. I found this old story, tucked away in the garage. It was the inside pages to a Newsletter I wrote ages ago.

My family member who is no longer with us, said it was about her sister.

When the sister was 28 years old and had just left a romantic relationship, she decided she knew there was one thing she wanted. That was a child.

So, when an old boyfriend rolled into town, she took advantage of the situation, struck up another rendezvous, became pregnant, and was prepared to be a single mother.

The baby was born at 28 weeks of gestation, had problems for a time, but survived, grew, and was healthy.

Sister rented an apartment (Where? I don’t know, this sounds like New York). The apartment was on the third floor, a walk-up. The owners, a Jewish couple, lived on the first floor, the second was rented, and the sister had the third.

The owners agreed to care for the baby while sister worked, and they decided they had another task. That was finding a husband for sister.

When the second-floor tenant left, leaving the apartment available, the owners held out on renting it until they had the perfect tenant. That left the apartment vacant for quite some time. The sister thought it just didn’t rent.

But then it did. To a nice single man.

One day, after her sister picked up her baby from the owners on the first floor, she walked from the second to the third. The man saw her upstairs, fumbling with her keys as she tried to get into her apartment while holding the baby. She had just had her wisdom tooth extracted and was swollen up like a cantaloupe. On top of that, she had Bell’s Palsy, which causes one side of the face to droop. (Some people recover from this, some don’t.)

The man came up behind her and said, “You look awful. Let me hold the baby for you so you can get some rest.”

They fell in love and got married.

The Jewish couple paid for the wedding.

 

 

The Day the Earth Exploded into Color

 

 

Joe's Orchid

      "Unclose your mind. You are not a prisoner. You are a bird in flight, searching the skies for dreams."
—Haruki Murakami

"Earth, 114 million years ago, one morning just after sunrise: The first flower ever to appear on the planet opens up to receive the rays of the sun."—Eckhart Tolle

Plants had already populated the earth. Ferns reproduce without flowers by producing "spores" on the underside of their leaves. Conifers, aka "evergreens," produce offspring from cones, and the Banyan tree "walks" by way of a limb touching the ground and sprouting, thus making a new tree. That tree does the same, and so on.

Plants that flower, however, were late bloomers.

The first flower probably did not last for long. And probably flowers were a rare and isolated phenomenon for a long time.

One day, however, a critical threshold was reached, and suddenly the world exploded into color.

Think of this, my dear friends; we could be like the flowers reaching that threshold. The monkeys did it through their 100-Monkey Phenomenon. One day, a single little lady monkey washed her sweet potato in a stream. It wasn't long until all the monkeys on the island were washing their sweet potatoes, and they had not seen her do it.

There could be, for human beings, a sudden, explosive awakening where we pull our noses out of the mud and look to the glories that could be ours. We could see that we are glorious, powerful beings connected to a divine presence. I want to be alive to see it, experience it, and be a part of it.

A handwritten sign about two feet long and eight inches high, with the letters' Alohilani spelled out, was on the right side of Hawaiian highway in route to our house. It was our marker to turn left onto the road. Many times, we would have missed our exit had it not been for that sign. The road to our house was virtually invisible from the highway, disappearing into cane grass as tall as the car.

But, we wondered, what if the heck is Alohilani? 

We had purchased ten beautiful acres at the end of the road—the end meaning as far as you could drive. The road once transported pineapples from Pahoa to Hilo. During our time there, it was impassable beyond our property.

Along our two miles of lumpy, bumpy lava-based road leading to our house, there was a gate and a park-like setting sitting behind it, barely visible from the road. what we saw the the largest water-tank we had seen to date. We must have lived there for two months before we found out what it was. It was Alohilani, an orchid farm.

As we were preparing to leave the Island about a year later, I called Alohilani. Joe, the owner, invited us to visit his beautiful spread.

The portion we saw after driving through his gate and away from the road was acres of green around his house, manicured into a park-like setting, populated by three dogs, three horses, a multitude of sheep, and pigs who played with the dogs and slept clean and sleek under the palms.

"Isn't this what a farm is about," asked Joe, "having animals?"

My kind of guy.

Joe told us that when he first moved onto this property, the land was raw, untamed, and wild. He bulldozed, planted, and built the highest tree house I have ever seen. It must have been 100 feet in the air, and not in a tree but on poles. He built a packing building and erected rows of shade-cloth-covered structures, and filled them with orchids.

Growing orchids is labor-intensive, we found out.

 

 

 
The day my daughter, grandson, and I arrived, Joe was breaking bottles.

The bottles were about a foot long, square on the long sides, and about 2 inches wide.

Holding a bottle over a trash can, Joe gently tapped the end of each bottle with a hammer, broke the glass, and then poured the tiny orchid plants into a bucket of water. Two young women then placed a single sprout into a one-inch peat-pot.

The bottles were filled with a gel substrate that nourished little green sprouts. Joe said the suppliers did not randomly throw in the seeds; they carefully placed each plant in rows on the gel using long tweezers. In two years, those tiny plants would become exquisite flowering orchids.

Joe, now a widower, told us that the climate on the Island was perfect for orchids. The plants grown there are much hardier and healthier than those raised in greenhouses or imported from the Orient.

We told him we were leaving the Island and moving back to the mainland. Here we were, neighbors, and we had only just met when we were about to leave. I looked over at the pigs sleeping contentedly under the palm trees. They were of the wild variety, black, sleek, exquisitely clean sleeping pigs, contentedly grunting pigs on clean grass, in the shade of palms, paying us no mind. They were free to come and go at will, and those sleeping under the palms, Joe told us, had been born on the farm. The wild pigs had found a haven, even if—we discovered later—once in a while one became Joe's food.

As I was preparing to leave, Joe said, "You eat pork, don't you?" He opened a refrigerator packed to the brim with packages of meat, took out an entire pork shoulder, and thrust it into my arms. A parting gift. How wonderful to have met him.

I was investigating the possibility of importing orchids when we got back to the mainland. At the time, Joe was willing to provide me with the opportunity to import orchids. However, when we returned to the mainland, I found orchids in shops and grocery stores less expensive than I could provide. Joe found a way, for he was constantly exporting them. As he said, his plants had been grown on native soil and were thus healthier--perhaps specific companies, florists, and others appreciated that.

As I said, we were preparing to leave the Island. First, we had decided that while we made great tourists, we made lousy Polynesians. Island living was not for us. Second, my husband had developed a heart condition, and the doctor asked me, "You know about the Big Island, don't you?"

"In what regard?" I asked.

"If your husband needs further treatment, he will have to go to Honolulu."

Holy moley, I thought, I'm not commuting to Honolulu.

We couldn't get off that Island fast enough.

Incidentally, we saw a gold orchid. Really! It was as gold as gold, and a living plant. This orchid was not at Joe's but at another tourist display farm. (Perhaps that was the reason for Joe's tiny sign, only to show delivery trucks where to turn--and us--not for tourists' directions.) The golden orchid had a price tag of $25,000.

However, the golden orchid was not for sale. I wondered at the time whether this was like the old ploy of listing a thousand-dollar bottle of wine on a menu so the others seemed like a bargain.

Joe was the real deal.

Alohilani in Hawaiian means "Full of compassion."

 

 

Alohilani, Carved out of the jungle when I say we lived in the jungle, we were about one-quarter mile from Joe's place, and this shows the jungle.

Read about living for one year off the grid in the jungle of Hawaiii where the Coqui frogs (that sound like birds) sang us to sleep at night. in The Frog's Song by Joyce Davis

The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius

 

I pressure-washed the porch a couple of days ago--this doesn't have anything to do with Aquarius--but wait, I'm getting to it. I was taking advantage of a hot day to live in the spray of cold water. The weather turned cold the next day.  Many things want to be obstinate these days—including a spider web covered with dirt that the dogs had stirred up.

I hit that spider web with a force of water that had stripped paint. I must have hit that web fifty times, while it held tight, spun, and laughed at me.

I finally got it down with the broom. That shows the strength of a spider’s glue and web. Its web is stronger than steel.

But while I was standing there spraying that web, with it dancing and laughing, I thought of my school teacher who told us that little bitty river you can see from the rim of the Grand Canyon, some 4,800 feet below (almost a mile), that slowly over the millennia, dug the canyon.  

Right. It must have been a bigger river than it is now. And I don’t have a millennium to force that spider web down with this sprayer.

When I heard Archaeologist Graham Hancock explain his theory that the melting of the ice age caused the great lakes to overflow and water to rush down the Colorado River channel, carving the canyon, I thought that made sense. However, the water didn’t jump from the other states to get there. Wikipedia says there was also seismic activity, as the plateau had shifted.

Water was certainly shaping Earth's topography. It dug the Grand Canyon through soft sandstone and forged its way in Oregon through basalt to form the Columbia River gorge. Geologists now believe that when the ice age melted, so much water broke free and rushed toward the ocean, that it left the Columbia River Gorge behind. There was once a land bridge across the river, the Bridge of the Gods, that had been there so long a forest was growing on its top. Probably a landslide had slid into the river. The river’s current eventually carved a channel through that earthen plug, forming a bridge. That allowed people living on either side of the river to cross. The bridge's collapse broke that free exchange. Perhaps it made canoes a valuable commodity.

 

This is a Segway, the way conversations go, bouncing here and there. After I told my daughter I was pressure washing the porch, she told me that the Age of Aquarius was here—it’s all about water, isn’t it?

“Well, that explains what is happening.” I texted her after I had thought about how the dawning of the age of Aquarius had finally arrived. 

I had been wondering ever since we sang that song about the dawning of an age, about when the sunlight would come bursting through.  I believed it would be the age of enlightenment. If it is here now, then we are in the turbulence of it, like the sea gently rolling out, while a rogue wave comes galloping in, and we are caught in the clash.

Each astrological age lasts an average of 2,160 years, taking 25,800 years to complete its cycle through the 12 Zodiac houses. The birth of Jesus heralded in the Age of Pisces, with its symbol of the fish, and with that came the rise of world religions and a focus on  a messiah, salvation and martyrdom.

With Aquarius, it will be less about what happens after we die and more about improving life on Earth.

A Gnostic philosopher said the Age of Aquarius began on February 4, 1962. Generally, however, most astrologers believe that there is no set date when, “Boom,” it’s here. It will come prancing in on its own sweet time.

Over the years, I thought that the Age of Aquarius would be an age of spiritual connection, a honing of one’s intuition, and an understanding of how we are all connected. It will be a time when we realize that we are responsible for the future of the planet and for each other.

You can see how that would enrage the people who want power, control, and wealth.

Now I find that the Age of Aquarius is ruled by Uranus—the planet of rebellion. While Aquarius is here to challenge, to disrupt, and to inspire, it is also met with a destructive spirit, which is represented by a malignant mentality and an angry, evil mind.

I feel that is happening now. And since Uranus is about rebellion, revolution, and all things unconventional, it is no surprise that the Age of Aquarius is all about shaking up the status quo.

With a shake-up comes a desire to move backward to a time that might not be good, but it is familiar. There is a need to hold on, to resist change, to lie and cheat with the determination of winning at all costs, and like lemmings rushing into the sea, many of us will frantically paddle upstream until we are exhausted.

And remember, power will hold on with deadly force, and a failing politician needs a war.

 

Here comes the good part:

For gentle hearts who embrace the future with hope and confidence: manifestations will happen more quickly. They will learn to trust their heart and hone their intuition. They will learn that they, like Dorothy of the Wizard of Oz, had the power all along, they just didn’t know they did, and that they can answer the question Aquarius asks of them: “Who are you, when no one tells you who to be?”

They will find that leaders are redundant and that their fellow inhabitants are really good people, ones they want to work with to preserve the earth and improve all of our lives.

Wikipedia tells us that technology will leap forward, social progress will advance, and there will be a growing focus on community and the greater good.

“Forget about rigid hierarchies and old-school institutions. Aquarius is here to decentralize power and to encourage collaboration and equality. “

“Expect to see a rise in grassroots movements, innovative solutions to global problems, and a push for more humanitarian approaches to everything from politics to business. Aquarius energy is all about breaking free from tradition, embracing the new, and thinking outside the box. This is the age where science fiction could start to look like reality, as advancements in technology and society come together to create a future that’s both exciting and unpredictable.”

 

And I thought I was going to move into the forest and live off the land.

Think again.

We can do it. It’s scary but doable.

We are tempered like the urns we have been using to carry water. They have been put through the fire a half dozen times, as have we who are carrying them.

 

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The Columbia River Gorge: this is a tributary following through a little canyon before flowing into the  Columbia River. My friend and I hiked, through the water of this canyon one hot day, fully dressed. The water came almost to our waist, and my leather sandals, became stiff images of their former self.  It was wonderful. I still remember my friend's perfectly manicured pink fingernails clutching the mossy rocks and we guided ourselves along the rim of this canyon. She was game for just about anytime she could be in water. She's swimming in heaven now, but that day was a mighty close second to it.

 

Have you noticed that some speakers and writers write better than they speak, and some speak better than they write?

One writer I positively adore reading, but not listening to.

Another, a teacher, I love hearing, but fall asleep while trying to read her books.

I suppose it's a rare soul who can achieve both writing and speaking to the reader’s/ listener’s satisfaction. Yet, we expect them to. I know one agent who will not take on a manuscript unless the author is a speaker. Well, that’s a bummer.

There is a phenomenon where a blogger, especially a blogger or a columnist, someone who writes regularly, wears out. “Jumps the shark.” That expression came from the TV show “Happy Days,” when Fonzie, while water skiing, jumped over a shark. That phrase "Jumping the shark," became known as explaining that something has reached it's end, actually it means something has gone a little too far. 

That show should have ended slightly before that episode. Yet, no baseball batter hits a home run every time at bat. It could be that they stay in a rut, or the reader has moved on. Either person can change their interests, become bored, or fall into a cliché.

We either grow together or apart.

So, what is your interest today?

I read a commenter who said she was 70 years old and had weathered many storms, and was tired of people telling her she needed to change. Change this, change that. Another writer said she had it up the kazoo with spiritual truisms, although she was spiritual.  

Maybe stop reading it and live it.

It’s time to declare our greatness and get on with it.

Be selective with what you read. It is so easy to get into something depressing, doom-and-gloom. Hey, give us a break here with you trying to over shock the other writers.

I try to add value, not just listen to my head rattle. Some say you are writing to get attention. So?!! We are all little kids at heart, Mommy, look at me.”

But we grow up and say, “What do I want to share?”  “There is something stuck in me itching for a way out.” This comes after the basic needs are met, like breathing, eating, drinking, shelter, and some modicum of financial security.

We aren’t meant to go through life harvesting fruit only to have it turn to glop in our pocket. In the movie Yentl, “Where is it Written,” Barbra Streisand sang the song, Where is it Written? “Why have the taste if not to drink the wine?”

There comes a time in one’s life when there is a genuine desire to express, to be creative, to contribute, and to have a dialogue with one’s fellow inhabitants. And it doesn’t have to be in words. Have you ever viewed a painting that so inspired you that you wanted to run out and do something creative? That happened to me once with a lounge singer in Las Vegas. I don’t know who he was, or the name of the song, but somehow his song, or his voice, or his rendition of it got to me that evening, and I wanted to go out and write something.

Nature can do that.

Go out and take a forest bath— with awe, not water. (Water works too.) 

Have you ever felt the brush of a horse’s mane, soft and fresh smelling against your cheek, and felt his lips gently nibble-kiss you? Have you ever buried your face in your dog’s fur and felt that gentle curve of his neck as he acknowledges your embrace? 

These are the moments that take our breath away.

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