Twice Upon Two Times

ONCE UPON A TIME, in 1935, Yang Chang-bo was born in Korea.  In his mid-twenties, he lost his eyesight.  At the recommendation of Someone, he learned the shamanic techniques from a couple of shamans here in Jeju City.  Soonafter, his vision returned.  Yang Chang-bo is in his mid-seventies, has been a Shaman for 50 years, works as a caretaker of Shamanistic ritual, and makes lovely, whimsical paper art as part of his practice.  I was able to attend his opening at a nearby gallery this weekend.  Oh yeah... he wears pink pants. 

The above image is not my photo, it was hanging at the gallery.  

ONCE UPON A TIME, in the 1980's, Kim Young Gap came from Korea's mainland to live in Jeju.  He intended on staying not more than a few years, for the purpose of capturing the spirit of the island through photographs.  He became so enthralled by this place, completely immersing himself in this goal.  He became one with his surroundings... the island of Jeju... her Winds, her Seasons, her Spirit. With the help of friends and locals, Kim was able to spend years in the mountains, following what he realized was his purpose here. In 2000, Lou Gherig's disease crept in.  Unable to continue his work out in the mountains, Kim spent the last few years of his life transforming an old, abandoned school into his gallery.  He died in 2005.  

  

The photos I was fortunate to have seen there this past Sunday were some of the most awesome photos I have ever seen.  The images hit me in the deepest part of my gut, flooding me with an overwhelming urge to shed the kind of tears that only such an immense beauty can produce. Unbelievable depth, magical movement.  There were sparks of life in those images that I cannot begin to descibe.  Moving.  I've always wished there were ways to express the emotions, the elation that occurs while gazing up at the sky.  Kim Young Gap did it. If you're still waiting to experience God, go stare at one of Kim's photos.  

 

on aMuseuMents

Jeju Museum of Art...  

A nice variety of interesting art housed in a sweet building.  I was really impressed and haven't had that much fun at a museum since Dia: Beacon.  Free admission.  

Unbeknownst to us, the tourist magnet of Loveland is situated just beyond the museum perimeter's fence, in the adjacent lot.  We had to check that out, as well.  Worth the price of around $7 just for the laugh factor and seeing the amusement of others gawking at the larger than life depictions of naked people & genitals.  

Had I known about Loveland being next door, I would have done the visits in reverse order.  Then, the impressions left by the beautiful installations of Jeju Museum of Art wouldn't have been tainted.  Gotta go back. 

poo-free

ON A RECENT bus ride, I overheard some chick talking about how it takes, on average, about six weeks for a person’s hair to re-balance itself to its natural state of health when one stops using shampoo.  The woman went on to comment that she could never stop using shampoo because of the ‘sweaty smell’ that would be so prevalent.  Being an every-other-day hair washer and someone who’s always up for trying new things… I haven’t washed my hair in 16 days.  I might not ever use shampoo again.  

I went online to see what people had to say about this, and found several dozen blogs.  When we use shampoo, it washes away our hair’s natural oil, sebum, and that causes an over-production of the sebum, which gives us the need to wash it again.  That’s the cycle.  But, according to many, the hair and scalp can take care of themselves.   As I read up on the subject, memories were jogged of the junior high P.E. teacher, who was also my beloved tennis coach, rumored to have used Ivory soap as her hair cleanser.  Why this would be the subject of student gossip is beyond me.  I discovered that a lot of people do ‘water only’, but several choose to massage a baking soda paste into the scalp once or twice a week.  People with long hair prefer to use natural conditioners.  The most popular conditioner seems to be apple cider vinegar; others use honey.  The majority of write-ups warn of the gross, greasy hair that one must live through for one or two weeks before moving on through the 4-6 week process that apparently leads to the healthiest hair and scalp we could imagine.  

For me, day five was pretty thick on the grease.  I was wondering if I’d break down and wash it.  I held out.   I guess I’m lucky for having short hair and only a day or two of nastiness (as opposed to the average week or two of grease ball hair).  My hair seems wavier than it’s been in a while… almost like… ‘beach hair’ without the sand.  Last Thursday, I rode the bike for a few hours, wearing a piece of t-shirt as a headscarf, or do-rag, whatever you wanna call it.  I decided to try the baking soda paste that day in the shower.  My hair looked and felt awesome.  According to a trustworthy friend, my hair does not stink.  For the people who always enjoyed the smell-good aspect of shampooing, many use essential oils, vanilla, and cinnamon to please the nose.  I’m even tempted to let my hair grow, without a trim, until at least February.  This is partly because I’d like to see what it’s like, and also because nobody compares to Wendell.  Happy hair, and I dare you to try it. 

on Statistics

This year, World Aids Day was December 1, 2009.  According to the World Health Organization, 33 million people are infected with HIV.  With the success of some prevention programs, new HIV infections have been reduced by 17% over the past 8 years.

Statistics tend to be thought provoking.  According to www.worldometers.info :  

This year, there were twice as many bicycles produced than cars.

There are over a billion undernourished people in the world right now.

There are more than 340,000 obese people in the world right now.

There are over a billion people with no access to safe drinking water. 

Over 15,000 people died of hunger today.

World statistics surprise.  Facts are gross and haunting.  They're just numbers until you get out there with open eyes and hearts.  A dear friend of mine is working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Cambodia.  He's written about and shared with me stories of the darkness that  the people he lives with have seen in the recent decades.  War.  Poverty.  Murder.  Disease.  Children are sold into brothels so as to support other members of the families.   

The atrocities in which people live go on and on and on.  We know this.  Mentioning them is not to depress.  It's to remind us to be mindful... mindful of the many conveniences.  We are the 'haves'.  This, too, we know.  Back to my present life's moment.  

Woke around 7:30 to begin my morning with a walk up the nearby 'baby' mountain (or, ginourmous hill, if you will) Sarabong.  The air here is almost as lovely as Monterey's, but not quite as perfect.  Gorgeous views of the city and sea.  Descended the hill on the far side, which is a switchback walkway laid with reddish octagonal bricks, lined with trees and large, tropical flowers.  I only saw three other people, yet on a clear day I would have likely seen no less than a dozen.  Continued on to explore the next hill, which seemed almost as steep, perhaps not as high.  I'd never been up this one before. The path down its far side was even steeper.  At the path's early descent the view of the sea was so amazing, I had to pause.  It's the thing, it's the outside that can simultaneously take me away and bring me back.  The wonder of that nature, seeing the sea's horizon in the distance, with no land in sight.  Heavy, grey, distant clouds lowering to a hazy whitish line over the deep, far, blue-grey ocean.  Ships here and there, and the water hitting the black rocks of the coast.   Continuing on, the path leveled out and branched out through an area wooded with pines.  Trees and fallen leaves, being wet, appeared even more vibrant.  After about 15 minutes down, I emerged to a road near a parking lot behind a huge, blue-metal-roofed building.  No idea where I was, but the direction back was obvious, so I followed the roads around 'til I reached a recognized, main road.  


This is my life here, I can take this walk any morning, and I'm grateful.  Living in a gorgeous location, doing easy, enjoyable work.  No wants, no complaints.  Decent, likable, friendly, great company.  No car needed.  Just feet, a bike, and convenient, cheap public transportation.  


The heavy clouds constantly change the sky, the sun occasionally peeks out.  One of those days that welcomes the dark, moving cover.  It's the dark, moving cover that can keep me mindful of the darkness.  The darkness that looms in the lives of so many individuals, families, communities, and nations throughout the world.  We can't save the world, but in the midst of our comfortable lives, we can remember it's there.  And when we stop to wonder what we can do to lend a hand, to help... we must know that it starts from within, with the realization that we are one.  We are all the same.  As we go, may we continue on in life with the intentions... to think good thoughts, speak good words, and do good things.  


... and appreciate the many facets of 'beauty'... 

Props to Jeju Air

The flight from ICN to CJU is a quick 50 minutes.   I awaken from my cozy, window-seat nap to the sound of cheery flight attendants.   Extra smiley, it seems they’re engaging the passengers with some sort of entertainment.  One attendant is donning a Mickey Mouse eared headband.  Another is holding a basket of what appears to be chocolates.  I don’t understand a lick of what they’re carrying on about, but it’s as though they’re saying something to the effect of:  “Ah, ladies and gentlemen, we are commemorating the n^th anniversary of the introductions of Mickey to Korea, so let us celebrate!!  If you pay attention and are swift with your clever responses, we will reward you with these cellophane-wrapped, boxed, gift-wrapped delicious waxy chocolates!!”   They seem to be explaining the rules of “rock-paper-scissors” or, as they say in Korea, “rock-scissor-paper”.  As if anyone on the plane would not have known the rules of this game since they were toddlers.  Here, it seems to be the common way to solve any sort of conflict:  who goes first, who gets the better seat, who gets to (you name it).  So they conduct the most expansive game of rock-scissor-paper that I’ve ever seen.  All of the passengers participate.  Game after game, there are great rounds of applause, and people are eliminated.  Finally, an individual seated toward the rear of the aircraft is deemed winner.  I didn’t see what prizes were handed out, but the game is over. 

I resume my rest against the bulkhead.  Moments later, I realize those silly crewmembers are up to something again.  One passenger is fishing through her belongings and pulls out a camera.  She hands it to the flight attendant who then takes a picture of the woman and the two other individuals sitting in her row.  The woman who fetched the camera is wearing a pilot’s cap; her two row-mates are wearing wigs of multi-colored clown hair.  The attendants are going from row to row, as if it were as standard as the complimentary beverage service, handing out props and offering to take photos.   I’ve seen a lot, but this was so randomly bizarre, I was laughing hysterically.  If only all people had as much fun as those who work in the service industries.  High-five to Jeju Air!  

For Fukuoka's sake...

A “visa run” is no amazing race, nor is it a beer run.  We had two days in Fukuoka, Japan to obtain our proper work visas (E-2 type) from the Korean consulate.  Any native English speaker likely wants to pronounce the first syllable of Fukuoka as that favorite, versatile, descript obscenity.  The closest I can describe its proper pronunciation is:  foo- COKE- ah.  So anyway, off we went to Fuck-ooh-uck-ah to get the magic sticker in the passport that allows one to work in Korea for one year. With all the visas I’ve acquired, the reasoning behind the processes to obtain them is still unclear.  My two beloved co-worker friends & I were required to take the trip, fully paid by our employer (lucky us). 

Day one:  go to the Korean consulate.  Give them the application, passport, a photo, and money (around $50 U.S.).  Check.  Done by early afternoon.  Next personal mission:  get to the nearest disc golf course before the sun goes down.  Donae had it in her to join me on what turned out to be an adventure.  This required us to figure out the ways of the ‘regular’ subway system, and then transfer to the ‘JR train’.  Check.  We got there with an hour of daylight to spare, yet the park was closed.  I’m talking ghost town.  We took advantage of the pleasant evening and strolled the coastal grounds of some luxurious resort-y hotel that, in this off-season, seemed abandoned.  We rounded up Stacey at the hotel and headed out for dinner.  Starving, we chose half a dozen menu items to share.  Easy-Bake Oven (as coined by Donae) was the best way to describe the dishes they brought out.  What they called “pizza” was a six-inch tortilla baked with a spoonful of cheeses and a few drops of pesto.  The Spanish omelet was served on a little soap dish, as were the edamame.  Because we are not size zero Japanese, we were still hungry.  Luckily, there was a convenient store conveniently located near our hotel so we could spend $20 on a few snacks. 

Day two:  find a place to have lunch and watch game six, before heading back to the consulate to pick up the passports.  With help from the hotel staff, we learned that all of the nearby pubs and sports bars would not open until dark.  But what do you know; they played the game on the lobby’s flat screen.  So we sat for the first few innings, long enough for everyone to get excited about Matsui’s outstanding performance that put NY in the lead.  For lunch, we dined at Hard Rock Café.  Not bad.  Back to the Korean consulate, our visas were done.  My passport is now full, not an empty page.  I’ve had a blast getting all of those stickers & stamps. At a nearby park, we rested before searching for a cup of coffee. 

To the Starbucks, we did succumb: a reliable brew in foreign lands.  Back to the airport for an overnight in Incheon where I’d meet up with a creative, adventurous friend I hadn’t seen in over three years.  After a satisfying dinner, we found a random rooftop for beer drinking, moon gazing, and nice conversation.  Ending the perfect evening, we made it to the subway just in time to catch the last train that would take us to our Guest House near the airport.  Another night away, then back to enjoy the last weekend before the teaching would begin.  

Day three:  Early morning brought us news of the shooting that had just occurred at Fort Hood.  Fukuoka.  Fukuoka.  For Fukuoka’s sake, don’t ever forget how lucky you are.  And when the day seems bad, when the demons crawl in, when you start to feel a little sorry for yourself… don’t ever forget… Life is Good.    

Where my seabag is...

Across the Fields...

Across the sky, the clouds move,

Across the fields, the wind,

Across the fields the lost child

Of my mother wanders.

Across the street, leaves blow,

Across the trees, birds cry - 

Across the mountains, far away, 

My home must be.

~ Herman Hesse (1902) translated by James Wright 

"Home is where your seabag is."... a Navy-issued mantra of sorts, I've always liked it.  I look at the sky and see the half-moon, a black & white cookie.  I think home is where the black & white cookies are.  Then, I remember where my seabag is.  It's here with me.  Right where we should be.  

on the rocks

“I have a thing for rocks and stones, I really appreciate them”.

“You’re in the right place”.

The people in my life are like rocks. Some of them are dumb. Some serve for stability, some are rolling stones. I could stack them in piles according to rules of agreement. Some of them, I’d like to lick or throw in the water, others I’d like to carry in my pocket. Some rocks look good, and some keep things back, down, or up. There is a rock in my bathroom that serves as a holder for a bar of Dial soap. That’s not necessarily one I’d like to lick. Some are fun to play with.


Yesterday, I walked a pleasant afternoon with a sweet friend. All over the neighborhood, I was barefoot. Crossing busy streets, getting dirty feet. Most sidewalks around here have built-in bike paths that are rubbery & soft.

Grounded, connected, natural, and free. At a park we delighted in the foot-massaging path, consisting of rocks of various colors that gradually decrease or increase in size, depending on which way you’re walking.

Diagrams posted near the path show how different areas of the feet are supposedly connected and affected by various areas of the body. Brilliant.

Today, while riding the bus, I noticed large rocks beyond the sidewalk. Among the rocks, green plants grow. They’re succulent-like. I love seeing plants growing near rocks. These, in particular, reminded me of Monterey. Later this day, I walked through the neighborhood, hand-in-hand with that same sweet friend, a lovely being that I’m grateful to be acquainting myself with. While walking, I noticed several rocks, way beyond the sidewalk, up a hill. They were arranged upright, upon long ends, in what appeared to be a garden. The garden was divided by stonewalls and contained more rocks, stacked into beautiful piles. I’m sure there’s a name for those piles, but to me a pile of stones is just something that someone focused on for a while. This photo is not of a pile of rocks from the garden, but it’s a close representation:  [in yet another moment of 'cleaning things out' i removed several photos from my flick'r site... being mindless of the fact that the images would, then, also be removed from this blog... oops]...

Breathing the mixture of air today was a fresh, renewing experience. Something about it kept my awareness in the moments as they occurred. The breezes were delightful. It’s been yet another fine day of perfect life. More than three weeks will pass before I begin this job. I have been getting paid for a month now; it’s been the best accidental paid vacation ever.

Making instrumentals instrumental

I’m becoming addicted to NPR’s music webpage again. In the States, I had the variety of friends, work, and local venues for the music fix. In Korea, what we hear out on the street seems to be a mix of the same 8 pop songs. In stores, storefronts, and in taxis, we can almost sing along to the Korean syllables. Yesterday, I gratefully listened to a yet-to-be-released album by the Flaming Lips, [Embryonic]. Yes, an entire album, available for our listening pleasure on NPR’s music page: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113403123

All afternoon, I was thinking about music and, of course, appreciating the fact that I have plenty of time to do so.

Out for a walk, I was listening to Sufjan Stevens’ “Greetings From Michigan- The Great Lake State” (2003, but a recent, satisfying acquisition for me). Traversing the park, I came upon a solo accordion player. He was a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows. Seated on a bench before a line of trees, with something appearing to be sheet music spread out to his right, and a bag & random belongings to his left. Headphones off, I sat on a nearby bench to rest and listen. It wasn’t a grandiose melodic execution, by any means, but the guy’s heart was in it. The song just kept going and going and going and going and going and going. As I soaked in the continuing, sometimes dissonant, folding & unfolding of the accordion, my mind and thoughts wandered. I just let them go, freely. Abstract colors and shapes, flowing and changing with the passing breeze of song. At its conclusion, I gently walked away. The moment prompted thoughts about the imagery that music suggests. Vocals in music tend to steer us in certain directions. Greetings From Michigan… brought many visions: a grandmother smoking in a hospital room, an individual in prayer, the daily routine of working class America, and yes, a Great Lake. Music without vocals is still quite suggestive but, for me, the power of its suggestion is obviously much broader. The music to which I refer is known as “instrumental”. (Though, in a university Humanities course, I was taught that the voice is the oldest “instrument”, which leads me to question the term). The imagery prompted by instrumental pieces draws on greater influence of environmental factors such as: time of day, inside/outside, cloud cover or absence thereof, temperature, urban/natural setting, absence or presence of other people, season, lighting, listener’s mood, et cetera.

So what about it? For me, it’s an experiment. Three days of instrumental music only. No divine chants or mantras to accompany my yoga practice, no Damian Marley or Shawn Q for my jogging. No Sufjan Stevens in the park. A new, big world of endless possibilities. The first thing I did this morning was dance… to Vijay Iyer’s jazzy new album "Historicity": http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113472412&ps=bb4

As I write this, I learn where Night on Disco Mountain (David Shire, Saturday Night Fever soundtrack) came from... it’s a Classical Party: A Summer Night to Remember:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=111595310

Thank you, NPR.

Two more days

[I accidentally removed several photos from these blogs... oops].  


This past Friday: Stacey, Donae & I visited Yakcheon-sa, the largest Buddhist temple in Asia. Quite ornate, amazing colors. Noticed great acoustics as the monks chanted and periodically made rhythmic tappings with a stick. At one point, from the third story windows, we could see a man outside heaving a large wooden log into a bell. The paintings on the wall were... different. There was one depiction of a meditating man being decapitated. From his neck, spewed a tall reaching fountain of water, upon which his head floated. Stacey and I are quite curious about this, and would like to look into its possible meaning. I mostly enjoyed sitting in a tiny temple situated on a shady hill nearby. The gentle fragrance of incense brought calmness to our beings, and we three sat in silence before the altar for a few moments. Here's the main temple:

After the temple visit, we took a taxi to the nearby Jungmun Beach, where the waves were high & lovely, the sunshine intense, the water clear & blue, and swimming temperature ideal. The sounds of air-raid-like sirens alarmed swimmers, followed by an announcement suggesting that swimmers get out of the water- as the waves were too strong. How annoying. What ever happened to quiet signs which read "Dangerous Currents, SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK"?

This past Saturday: David invited us to join him to Mosulpo, where he teaches students twice a week. The drive down was hilly & scenic... and included Mysterious Road, the optical illusion of a gravity road. We had the car in neutral and it appeared to be rolling uphill! Kind of like the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, CA. I've googled the phenomena, which occurs in various parts all over the world. Apparently these areas are all optical illusions, rather than areas of "strange gravitational/ magnetic pulls". Worth checking out. We continued on, picked up 5 of David's students, and proceeded to the Glass Castle museum/theme park of glassworks & mirrors... brilliant! It's mostly a sculpture park of amazing glass pieces/installments. In the center, there's a cafe where we stopped for ice cream. The entire back wall is domed glass, and water runs down the outside making it seem like a rainy day. But the sun was out... giving it a gorgeous sun-shower effect. This is one outdoor piece, made of several glass panes, lined up:

After dropping the students off, we went to the Chocolate Museum... but it was closed. We drove on, stopping at a very interesting store/house to buy some drinks. The entire front wall was made of recycled drink cans. Very neat.

The drive home was lovely, as David so thoughtfully drove the coastal road, heading up the West coast at sunset. Amazing views... sun setting over the water... very huge windmills on the edges of the land. Beautiful places... great company... thank you. life is good.

Home on the Range

... Home on the Range was one of my choices for karaoke the other night. Don't ask me why. Sometimes, with certain people, a night of karaoke seems to evolve into "I can pick a cheesier, funnier, more dramatic song than you..." There were a few moments when my laughter prevented me from being able to sing.

09.17.09

Jogging will get me hot & sweaty… ideal conditions for showering if the only option is a cold one. It reminds me of being at DLI (Navy, language school) on P.T. (early morning exercise) days: if one didn’t manage to catch the first wave of showering, one’s shower would surely be cold. But here, there won't be the slightest possibility of getting a warm shower, until they get the water heater hooked up. My last hot shower was in NY, September 4th. Trying to stay positive… at least the days are still sunny & warm. We’ve gotten plenty of beach time- I think I’ve swum in the ocean half a dozen times since my arrival. It’s a 25-minute, less than a dollar, bus ride to the very beautiful Hamdeok Beach.

All these beach opportunities… how? I have yet to start teaching. The private school I’ll be working in (and also live in) isn’t even completed yet. They’re still doing construction. Very poor, very poor planning. School’s tentative start time will be the first week of October. Apparently, we’ll be paid from September 15th- which is when it should have opened (the recruiter who hired us was 150% certain of this LOL). Normally, teachers are put to work immediately upon arrival. When I arrived in Bucheon two years ago for a job… it was about 1 a.m. and I was required to attend a meeting that morning around 8 or 9, obviously feeling a bit useless and extremely disoriented. This time around, we have weeks of free time before actually teaching. So here I am, with the company of two fun females- Stacey from Nova Scotia, Canada and Donae from Washington State. We’ve had the luxury of relaxation on this gorgeous island.

There are a couple of Koreans who have been showing us the ways of our area. "David", our school’s director (principal) has taken us to restaurants, the beach, markets, his friend’s horse farm, a live music club, and of course, a ‘norae bong’ for karaoke (singing several tunes to include John Denver & Richard Marx). "Jennifer", an assistant who’ll be living a few doors down on our hallway, has taken us to cafes & shopping, given us useful information and has been a great, fun new friend.

I predict it’ll be a great year ahead, though slightly bumpy for the school until they get everything into proper order. I won’t be working the sweet 5-12 p.m.-older- students-evening-shift as promised, but rather doing the 9-5 M-Th, 9-2 F. Not the hours I’d hoped for, but I’m excited to be teaching the little ones again (K-6th). I’m grateful to have this job, these new buddies, and a very reasonable, likable director. Life is good.

Yoga of India in Korea

As we were about to enter a restaurant the other night, we spotted a yoga studio, Yoga of India. My new friend / co-worker, Donae, & I went up to check it out. Inside, we discovered a beautifully arranged space, dimly lit, comfortable, and adorned with Indian wall hangings. Sitting on a floor mat at a low table was the petite Korean yoga instructor, whose Indian name is Soma. She had studied yoga in India, spending time in Kerala and Pune. She welcomed us to join her classes at a very reasonable rate of 40,000 won ($) per month, for two classes each week. It’s about a ten-minute walk from our abode.

The next morning, we attended our first class. Behind the sheer, purple curtain, 18 or 19 mats were neatly arranged in the clean, quiet studio. We were a few minutes early, and the instructor welcomed us to choose our places for meditation. Though the sing-songy verbal cues were all in Korean, Donae and I had little difficulty following Soma’s sequence of asanas (postures). Her sun-salutations are almost precisely the same ten-step salutations that I do, and I could tell from the repetition when she was instructing us to inhale or exhale. Soma occasionally used the English or Sanskrit word for a posture, which was very helpful. There were about 6 or 8 other students that we were able to follow. For the next month, we’ll get two evenings a week of yoga: the perfect complement to another 40-day cycle of absolute sobriety and daily chanting of the mahamrityunjaya mantra. As the language of love is universal, so is the practice of yoga. Alhamdulillah!

Keep moving

Keep moving

Finally, after being so sick
a husband has died.
At the appointed time
a baby was born.

You keep moving, coming and going
You keep moving.

Lock,
unlock,
lock,
unlock,
lock,
unlock

You keep moving with events
of your big, little life

And that’s it. That’s what it’s about.
You are alive. You are.
A bag full of blood, sweat, and tears.
You are
keeping it fun
With love, all around you.
With love, it’s all around you.
Love, if you let the world love you:

A mirrored rejoice.

What's going on

What’s going on

I am not yet awake, just dazy eyes
gazing out into reality, my world
which ends up being enough happiness
to make the day worthwhile.

That man who used to sell me coffee
has the warmest blood
flowing beneath his tattooed skin,
behind his smile, through his beating heart.
His brown hair is growing.
I thought of him as I thanked him for the coffee,
(and I think about him now.)

Later, as I wiped away the juicy remnants
of that fuzzy, ripe summer peach
I remembered the nature and conditions
and thought and work and tender care
behind its being: all that brought it to my hand.

In the nighttime I see the moon that everyone sees
if they look. I still wonder about those bricks
that make up the wall that supports the building
upon whose wooden floor I used to sleep.
I wonder about the men who made the bricks,
who laid the bricks, who drew the plan of that place, still standing:
and I love them.
I touched those bricks being rained on, being looked at by others.
I think about the other sets of eyes, the others who will look at,
who have seen those bricks.

The others, like all others, are not me.
The others, like all others, they are me. We are same.
Helping make the world go ‘round
with some, or a lot, of goodness within.

Vermont: 24 hours to love!

Before leaving Bennington VT, I find Willow Park to check out the nine-hole disc golf course.  Nice park, humble course.  Hanging signs on wooden posts act as tees.  On each sign, the original pictures are ‘X’ed out with a marker, and someone has drawn updated diagrams with arrows depicting the paths from tees to baskets, along with proper distances and pars.  Hole #2 reads:  “Basket missing, hit tee sign on hole #3”.  The grass is long and dewy.  Perfect for extremely muddy sandals & feet.  I couldn’t find the tee or basket for hole #5, but the rest of the course was fine.  Nice way to continue the morning.  Vermont has twelve courses.  I think I like Vermont.

I leave Bennington for a northern drive to the center of the state.  Stop at a gas station for fuel & coffee.  There’s a huge counter with at least twelve self-serve carafes of different varieties of coffee, along with a choice of milk or half & half.  It’s a tiny little gas station.  Yummy, Green Mountain Coffee.  I really like Vermont. 

I drive the scenic two-lane route 7 lined with farms and trees.  The road slows down for quaint towns along the way that bear cute houses, stores, restaurants, and inns.  No billboards, no tall neon signs.  No ugly stretches of strip malls and traffic lights. Groups of shops are housed in cute barn-like or house-like complexes that blend in with the quaint towns.  Driving through this state, even through the towns, proves to be a pleasure.  I love Vermont. 

I’m cruising at around 65 mph in a 55 mph zone.  I see a cop driving towards me, opposite direction & immediately slow down.  Lights come on, I think he’s got me.  Keeps going.  Two or three more times that day, I notice cops who don’t notice my speeding.  Vermont is awesome!  After a couple hours of driving, I reach the trailhead.  

It’s a 2.6-mile hike to the summit of Mount Abraham. The trail is amazing:  ridiculously tall trees in a thick, shaded forest.  Moss and fern and mushrooms and rocks and greenery like you wouldn’t believe.  No bothersome insects.  The air was fresh, cool, & easy to breathe.  Rocks, mud, & roots to maneuver around.  Big, rocky steps.  Huge boulders.  I’m grateful for being able to put my long body to good use.  Dude, this is a hike.  The last half-mile was almost grueling.  Grueling, yet an extremely enjoyable climb up the steep, rocky path.   The views near and at the top were outstanding.  Green mountains everywhere.  On my way down, two guys with packs were heading up.  I called them my “heroes”.  The hike down was just as beautiful, and I love noticing things overlooked on the way up.  I love how hiking is such a perfect exercise.  I love how different muscles are working at different rates depending on whether you’re going uphill or downhill.  If I lived in Vermont, I would tear up those trails, I’d learn to do it with a pack, and I’d have the sweetest legs ever.  I am in love with the State of Vermont. 

After the three hours of hiking, it’s time to head back South.  Such a brief visit in a wonderful place, I’d be staying in Albany, NY for the night.  …but not before a couple amazing hours of driving.  The mountains, the quiet towns, the fresh air, the nature. 

I hit the South Street Café in Bennington one more time for a cup of coffee.  Sipping outside, there’s a little red-haired girl showing me how well she can jump down the stairs, jump across the sidewalk, and jump straight up, telling me how excited she is that her family is moving back to Bennington.  I end up chatting with some guy about how awesome Vermont is.  If only I had a higher tolerance for cold.  He suggested wool blankets.  Time to hit the road again.  I stop at a store for some pure maple candy.  Soon after, I cross the border and enter New York State.  It’s just as beautiful up in these parts, heading toward Albany. 

I’m about to see Deborah, my sweetest friend since junior high.  I’m happily about to visit her, but my gut reaction as I arrive to Albany is strange.  Nearing the city, my eyes see a very tall building, and it brings tears.  As the approach continues, it’s a full-fledged cry.  I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a city.  It wasn’t because I thought it was beautiful.  I was crying because Vermont was over for now.  What a shumnious twenty-four hours.