Fresh and Mindful...

     Dozens of local (and some not quite as local) growers gather near Old Town Auburn each Saturday morning, their tables piled high with freshly picked fruits and vegetables. The Farmers Market offerings vary with the seasons, each season ushered in with its own unique colors and aromas. Gone now are the mandarins that dominated the Market just a couple months ago, replaced by summer's near-blinding bounty.

     This weekend, there are plums arranged in a palette of seven distinct colors. Did you realize there were seven plum colors? There are a shade of green somewhere between lime and ripe honeydew, two shades of red-violet, deep purple, nearly black, and golden... and a magical hue that I am struggling here to describe... I can see it clearly in my eye's memory... but my eye and my verbal cortex are struggling to communicate... so I/we are going to resort to metaphor, a story, and see if that works...

     There is a plum tree orchard that is home to a pair of very creative and very artistic fairies. It is their job to fly about painting the plums as they ripen, adjusting their palette each day as the plums swell and grow sweeter. There are an odd number of trees in the orchard, so the tree in the center has always been a point of contention for them. Armed with their teeny-tiny paint brushes, the two fairies approach the tree, each hoping to get there first and claim the tree as her own. This year, they arrived at exactly the same moment, so decided to share the task of painting the plums. One used golden yellow, the color of butter; the other, a deep violet with only the barest hint of red. As a result, each and every plum, painted with the finest, most delicate of brush strokes, is a wondrous swirl of gold and purple.

     Of course, the plums are but one of scores of different fruits and vegetables on display at the Farmers Market. Mounds of peaches, plums, melons, strawberries, and blackberries call to passersby with their silent aromas. Nearby, tomatoes of every shape and size, glow brilliantly as though lit from within, deep reds, from fire engine to burgundy, tangerine orange, golden rod, lemon yellow, and others that sport patterns of stripes and spots. Farther down are five kinds of cucumbers, some tiny, some long and slender, others grown into great curls, and of course, adorable lemon cucs. Across the way are summer squash and zuchinni in baby sizes: solid colors, stripes, spots, and half-and-half designs. There are cilantro, basil, parsley, and more herbs I don't know. Oh, and potatoes in three colors and shapes; onions, red, white, and green; and garlic.

   Whenever Saturday finds us both in town, Janiene and I meet for coffee and then head for the Farmers Market together. For a small sum, our cloth bags are filled to the brim. This weekly ritual is a wonderful jaunt, a festive stroll in the morning sun. It's like going to the fair (with out the rollercoaster and the screaming).

     All week, my colorful and flavorful Saturday purchases find their way into my menu and my mouth. A salad made with lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and cilantro I bought at the "fair." For lunch, a giant artichoke. Tomorrow, I may steam potatoes with garlic and onions, and enjoy another salad. Almost as fresh as if I had raised them in my own garden, but lots less work and lots more fun!

This food is a gift of the Universe.

The earth, the sky, numerous living beings,

and much hard work contributed to its creation.

May I eat with mindfulness and gratitude,

so as to be worthy to receive it.

May I keep my compassion alive by eating in such a way

as to reduce the suffering of living beings

and preserve our planet. 

                                                (Adapted from Deer Park Monastery "songbook")

     There are Farmers Markets all around, almost everyday finds the traveling farmers in one of the little towns around here. The locations of the Auburn area Markets can be found here. Grass Valley area markets here.

Wishful Thawing...

     The "February Thaw" is to Winter as an "Indian Summer" is to Summer. That is to say, it is a tantalizing reminder of warm weather in the midst of a chilly season. An Indian Summer is that one week of summery weather in the middle of Autumn, the last wisp of short-sleeves-and-flip-flops temperatures before the hard cold months set in. The February Thaw brings a week or two of downright balmy weather right in the midst of Winter.
      From behind gray clouds the sun emerges. Just as the sky brightens, so does my mood. Colors, yesterday muted and shrouded in gray, are now illuminated, seemingly lit from within. Still damp surfaces sparkle, as nature's hues intensify magically, and I reach for my sunglasses. The air warms, mist rises and disappears. Everywhere I look beauty calls out in a silent whisper, pulling my attention first one way then another, "Look at me! Look at me!"
      The first day, I'm always surprised and over-dressed; I end up taking off layers of sweaters and jackets and wishing I hadn't worn boots with thermal socks. The second day finds me wearing bright Spring colors and lightweight fabrics under the heavy coat I still need in the early morning. For three or four or even five glorious days, I find myself taking every opportunity to venture outside to bask in the sun. I close my eyes and savor the feel of warm rays on my skin, letting it soak deep into my deprived soul. And I smile... yes, giddily, I smile and practically worship the sun itself.
     Unfortunately, having whet my appetite for Spring, the February Thaw departs as suddenly as it arrived, like water slipping through my fingers. Suddenly, there's frost on the windshield in the morning again, and the temperature never leaves the 40s. Worst of all, I'm now under-dressed and cold, bitter cold all day long. It's guaranteed, there's always one more big, cold snow storm before Spring really settles in for the duration.

     The February Thaw casts its light and brings my attention to another annual February phenomenon. Moss, green, lush, and awakened from its place in the near-invisible background, seems to be everywhere. It lies dormant during the hot, dry months, I can barely see it and forget to notice it. Cameleon-like, moss blends completely into the background, adopting the drab colors of the surfaces on which it grows. Come the rainy season, it starts to grow and spread, but it isn't until this brief warming trend in February that mosses suddenly seems to jump out at me from all angles.
     Anything immobile turns green with a thick moss blanket. The trunks of stately oak trees wear fuzzy moss sweaters that cover their south sides as well as their north sides, and their broad branches, too. Moss crawls up rock walls and wooden fences and carpets stone and brick walkways. These miniature, furry plants even squeeze themselves between concrete sidewalk slabs. Sentinel boulders standing alone in fields and steep rocky cliffsides along my route to school turn from brown and gray to the vivid emerald green.
     This moss invasion precedes even the arrival of the first red-breasted robin and the emergence of the area's gazillion yellow daffodils, the traditional icons of Spring's arrival. Having grown up in sunny Southern California, with its seasons only vaguely differentiated from one another, I was quite taken aback by the magnitude of the seasonal shifts that occur here in NorCal, when I moved here twenty years ago. The way Winter is soooooo different from Fall and Spring, I noticed right away, of course. But, it took me a number of years to appreciate the more subtle differences between Early Winter, Mid-Winter, and Late Winter, and the little signs that mark the path of the Earth around the Sun.

     The arrival of the Mossy Season that comes on the heels of the February Thaw is one I find most dear. When I stop, not to smell the roses, but to gently run my hands over the feathery texture of a mat of moss clinging stubbornly to the side of a tree or the top of a wall, time seems to slow down. I find both energy and calm in the celebration of that timeless moment.

Here comes the Sun...

Here comes the Sun...

It's been a long, cold, lonely Winter...

It seems like years since it's been here...

The smiles returning to the faces...

It seems like years since it's been here...

Here comes the Sun...

Here comes the Sun...

~ George Harrison

(Thanks to Chris for pointing me to the official name for this February phenomenon and to Nicky for reminding me of George Harrison's lyrics. Gotta love those connections!)

Over the River and Through the Woods...

     The phrase "daily work commute" conjures images of gridlocked city streets and 7-lane freeways moving at a snail's pace. However, my own daily drive to work is quite the opposite. As the crow flies, my home and the school where I teach here in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada are only about 8 miles apart, but the winding country roads that connect the two cover closer to 11 miles and take me about 25 minutes to traverse.
     As I head east, the road winds through the rolling foothills, the grassy hillsides dotted with majestic old oaks and the occasional gray granite boulder. Long gravel driveways lead to rambling old ranch houses sitting on 10 and 20 acre "spreads" that are home to both domestic and wild animals. Strolling families of deer and swarms of wild turkeys outnumber the grazing horses and cows and ranging chickens.
     The next leg of the drive takes me over the Bear River on a one lane wooden bridge. The road winds down into the steep-walled granite river canyon and then climbs back up the other side, leaving Nevada County and entering Placer County, in the heart of the old 49er Gold Country. When two cars approach the river bridge at the same time, one must wait, as the bridge will only accommodate a single car. Years ago, tires on the bridge made a lovely "clackety-clackety" sound as I drove across, but road crews have since paved over the wooden slats and now the tires simply hummmm. I love to pause in the center of the bridge and look up and down the canyon at the water tumbling robustly over rocks and through pools before bending out of sight.
     The elevation on the eastern side of the river is considerably higher than on the west, and the narrow road climbs steeply up the rocky wall of the canyon, winding tightly as it climbs. Not far past the river, the road once again narrows to one lane and twists and switches back on itself before crossing an irrigation canal that carries water from the high country swiftly down to reservoirs at lower elevations.
     On the eastern side of the river, the rolling grasses and stately oaks are displaced by tight clumps of conifers and views of snow-topped mountain peaks further east. Heading north, the road is joined on the right by train tracks, the western end of the Transcontinental Railroad, which eventually heads up and over the Sierras. To the left, unseen in its winding canyon, the Bear River flows parallel to the road as well. Twists and turns carry the road steadily higher and higher to the edge of serious snow country, before ending at my school.
     What I enjoy most about my daily commute is the ever-changing nature of the landscape through which I drive. The seasons paint their unique versions of natural beauty on the land as the road climbs from one distinct foothill landscape to another.
     Right now, in the depths of winter, it is the passing storms that provide for the dynamic and changing forms that beauty takes. Some weeks, the road is but a black strip slicing through a snow-covered white expanse, overhung by trees draped in shawls of white. Last week, with its series of wet storms passing one after another, the scenery consisted of gray-on-gray textures and patterns. The road was tunnel-like as it burrowed through the dripping trees to the sounds of the car splashing along puddle-dotted asphalt. This morning, the sun rose above the distant Sierra peaks and its rays sliced across a sky devoid of clouds for the first time in days. The wet ground glistened and steamed as the dampness began to evaporate, rising in tendrils and wrapping itself around tree branches, before disappearing overhead.
     I look forward to the coming of Spring, when the roadside will be decorated with wildflowers blooming under trees budding green, and the hillsides will turn an even lusher version of emerald, so intense one can practically see the photosynthesis happening. The Bear River will run wild with snowmelt. Each day's show of colors will be a bit different from the one before, making the drive something to anticipate with eagerness.
     Summer and Autumn bring their own dynamic versions of natural beauty... but I'll save that for later... no point in moving too far out of the present... not when the present has so much to attend to, so much beauty to savor... right now...

In The Beginning...

     There's an ancient apple tree outside my window. Gnarled and scarred, she sits, an elegant sentinel in my yard. Now, in the depths of winter, she is stripped of her leafy cover, so stands nearly naked, all her age-spots and wrinkles on full display. It doesn't seem to bother her. She doesn't even seem to be bothered by the fact that scores of bruised and battered apples still dangle from her upper branches. Days ago, snow lay balanced in narrow piles on even her smallest twigs. Today, her gray silhouette stands only slightly darker than the gray sky; rain pelts her outstretched branches and slides down her trunk, soaking into the already saturated earth. In this season, my apple tree shows her antiquity. She is a hag.
     "Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it." (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe).
      When, eventually, spring arrives, I will know it by the millions of bright green leafbuds that appear on those ancient branches. Even before the weather has completely turned, even before the harbinger robins arrive, life will spring forth from what look like dead sticks. Within weeks, leaves and white flowers, growing and blooming in complete abandon, will engulf the wooden skeleton, turning her into a soft and plump picture of virginal youth.
     Summer will follow with the swelling of hundreds of green apples, that in turn beckon a menagerie of deer, birds, insects, and shy nocturnal creatures, gleaners all. Autumn will turn the lady brilliant yellow, the color of lemons and daisies, before she is once again denuded by the elements.
     "Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know." (John Keats). In the course of one year of seasons, the lady is born, grows in beauty, swells with creativity, and dies. Each spring she is reborn; each winter she dies. 

     Grant your blessings that my mind may be one with the dharma.
     Grant your blessings that dharma may progress along the path.
     Grant your blessings that the path may clarify confusion.
     Grant your blessings that confusion may dawn as wisdom.

     Grant your blessings that I may be like the ancient apple tree:
     She absorbs the energies of earth, air, fire, water, and space.
     She uses them to nurture and nourish herself, to grow and develop.
     Then, she transforms the infinite energies in her own unique way,
     Providing food, shelter, stability, oxygen, and beauty to others.
     She does all that gracefully and peacefully, without worry or anxiety.