Spiralling Through Space...

     Smooth, rounded river rocks, ranging in size from golf balls to softballs, are carefully lined up along the ground. The outlines of a large mandala emerge from the golden earth... a walking labyrinth. One enters on the south side and follows the stone-lined path round and round, sometimes back-tracking along an arch, as the path bends back on itself before circling round to the other side.

     Stopping momentarily at the entrance, I silently thank those who created and continue to maintain this gift to the community. I breathe slowly and deeply, three times, then step onto the path before me. Placing one foot in front of the other, I feel each step as it connects me to the strength and stability of the earth. I consciously follow the sense of solidity and support moving up my leg, from the pad of my foot, through my leg bones and joints to my hips and spine. Then I step again, and again, and again.
     Walking slowly, mindfully, I am greeted by the wide and spacious center in about ten minutes. A pause, in this circle within the circle, to savor the silent energy of the whole space, precedes my return walk. Half of the larger circle is shaded graciously by huge overhanging branches of the surrounding trees. The coolness of the air, a breeze perhaps, moves over my skin. My body whispers its gratitude and my steps slow subtly to savor the cool air I am moving through. The other half of the mandala's path sits under the brilliant summer sun. My skin warms under its influence, and I am grateful to my hat. As I follow the path's turning pattern, I move in and out of the sun, in and out of the shade, passing from one tactile sense of gratitude to another.
     A labyrinth is designed to be a walking prayer, a physical meditation. My steps are accompanied by my personal walking mantra, its eight-step chant perfected on the John Muir Trail a few years ago, "Love, life, truth, beauty, abundance, and peace." I find repeating those words over and over adds an additional calming and inspiring energy to that already provided by the path of the labyrinth. It's like a Maitri or Metta chant, a prayer for all beings to be happy, healthy, and at peace.

     Tucked away in the Sierra foothills, hidden in Alta Sierra, this simple, sweet walking labyrinth is a part of Alta Sierra Biblical Gardens, located just off Highway 49, between Auburn and Grass Valley, on Auburn Street. The lush gardens lie along a small, rushing creek on the west side of the highway. Painstakingly and lovingly created three decades ago, the gardens are on private property and beautifully maintained by the family who live there. If you take the path to the left, after leaving the parking area, it winds along and over the creek, looping back to the starting place. The cool, shady path is lined with statues of figures and signs with verses from the Bible, that many visitors find deeply inspiring.
     If you turn right on the path from the parking area, it takes you away from the creek and delivers you, instead, to the walking labyrinth... my favorite of the Garden's offerings. The labyrinth's design is a very traditional one, based on the medieval labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral in France. It was created here in 1998.
     At the parking area are several shaded picnic tables, a delightful place to enjoy a book and a snack. The Gardens are open most days until dusk or 7pm (which ever is earlier). The family that owns and maintains this hidden little paradise request only three things of visitors: behave with quiet respect, remove any trash, and leave a small donation for upkeep.
     I would encourage you to visit this treasure that sits hidden "in our own backyard." Use the link above to find a map and directions. The photo above is from the Biblical Gardens website. If you don't live "in the neighborhood," you can use this link to locate a labyrinth in your area.

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.

My Regular Spot...

     Don't you just love to walk into a local eating establishment... knowing you'll be recognized and greeted as an old friend... and your favorite food or drink will be ready for you quick as a wink?

     Tucked away in Historic Old Town Auburn, in one of those quaint brick buildings from a bygone era, when sidewalks were boardwalks and fancy facades were all the rage, sits Mary Belle's Restaurant. Between two antique shops, across from the vintage red firehouse, and catty-corner from the post office, with its original filigreed mailboxes, in a building that previously housed, among other concerns, a hardware store, a drug store, and a Chinese restaurant, Mary Belle's is always a-bustle at breakfast-time.
     The narrow streets of Old Town were built for vehicles of that former era, so today's cars squeeze between their curbs. This exercise in navigation is well worth the effort. Recent years have brought a face lift to this small town's beauty, not a plastic "progress at all costs" kind of redo, but a thoughtful restoration project that has succeeded in bringing out her allure.
     The shingle atop the building enthusiastically invites passersby into Mary Belle's. Opening the door and stepping across the threshold transports you sweetly back in time. The Formica counter, with its swivel seats, is right out of the early 1960's. Waitresses call out a welcome, encourage you to take a seat, and quickly fill your mug with coffee. A family-owned business for nearly 50 years, Mary Belle's is the oldest restaurant in Auburn.
     The daily specials, like the regular fare, are all homemade from the freshest ingredients, much of it local produce. My favorites are the blueberry pancakes, made with a gazillion fresh berries, and the vegetarian eggs Benedict, with spinach substituted for the traditional ham and a "to die for" homemade Hollandaise sauce. For lunch, they make the best tuna melt sandwich in the world, bar none.

     The irony is that I only discovered this landmark restaurant in my hometown a few years ago. It wasn't that I had just never gotten around to trying out Mary Belle's menu; it was that I didn't even know it existed! How many times I must have driven or walked right past it, I can't even imagine. But, thankfully, one day not long ago, I did venture in and partake of their delightful fare. Now, it's my regular spot, and I have never, ever been disappointed.

     A couple times a month, of a weekend morning, I arrange to meet either Sandra or Bill, my two breakfast buddies, at Mary Belle's. We always sit at "our" table, though, interestingly enough, that spot differs depending who I'm with! Bill and I always sit in the bay window at a round table, while Sandra and I always choose the square table by the back wall.

     What was that line in the old TV series "Cheers"? ... a place "where everyone knows your name"... I'm not sure the waitresses at Mary Belle's know my name... but they know my face... exactly what I'm going to order... and where I'm going to sit!

     Take my word for it, and stop by the next time you're in town; the restaurant is located at 1590 Lincoln Way in Old Town Auburn. Or don't take my word alone; check out photos and reviews on Yelp.

Buddha Energy...

     I took myself on a delightful little "field trip" the other day to the AS IF Gallery (Artists Studio in the Foothills) in Grass Valley, a place I hate to admit I hadn't even known existed before this. On exhibit is an eclectic collection of works gathered together around a wonderfully creative idea.
     Twenty-one local artists were each given a blank white canvas on which to express their creativity and display their individual artistic style in preparation for the current showing. The unique canvases came in three sizes: quite large (about 4-foot), medium, and rather small (about 18-inches). It was the unique nature of the canvases that attracted my attention and drew me to the gallery. Each canvas is in the shape of a three-dimensional mask, a peacefully meditating Buddha face. The small airy gallery is spiritually transformed by the Twenty-One Buddhas show.

     One golden Buddha looks ancient, like he had been found in a newly discovered archeological dig. Another is painted like a deep-blue midnight sky filled with stars, giving the sense that the Buddha is peacefully dreaming. A garden Buddha is overgrown with masses of bold flowers in full bloom, another wears gleaming golden leaf prints. The branches and roots of a traditional Tree of Life spread across one tranquil face, while another has been transformed into a vibrant African ceremonial mask.
     The colors and textures, the styles and media, used by the individual artists vary widely, creating a myriad of moods. Many are calm and mindful, others wildly awake. Buddhas are painted, collaged, bejeweled, and appliqued. Masks in soft-textured pastel temperas hang in contrast with those made intense with shiny lacquers. All are beautiful and all appear to manifest an authentic human spirit.

     But it was Mosaic Buddha that touched me most deeply. Covered entirely in carefully arranged bits of blue and white tiles and beads and tiny silver mirrors, this face expresses so much depth. Distinct patterns appear to flow and move like water across the serene face, both accentuating the human shape of the face and hiding it. Mirrors reflected my own face back to me thousands of times. As I moved, the light and the pattern moved, too, changing the face of Buddha and bringing him mysteriously alive. His moving spirit directly connected to my own reflected movements.

     Adjoining the inspiring gallery are several artists' studios that display both completed pieces and works in progress. There are even classes available; it's a very "happenin' place!" The photo of the Buddhas above came to me via an email from the gallery's blog, and I share it with you in the hopes that it will fill you with enthusiasm to take yourself on a little field trip!

Om mani padme hum.

Wild and Scenic...

     Spring's warmer sunlight and longer days send snowmelt to swell the local Gold Country rivers coursing down their narrow, rocky canyons. Filled with silt that tints its swiftly moving water the color of a chai latte, the South Yuba River winds quickly into and out of view while following its snaking route from high in the Sierra Nevada towards the Valley's flat lands to the west. Later in the summer months, water warm enough to invite swimmers will slip lazily from clear pool to clear pool, skirting boulders strewn along its shallow path. However, now, in the early spring, it tumbles and dances and leaps in a beautiful ballet that belies the powerful force that keeps all prudent humans from entering its sweeping flow. Water cascades in white froth over barely visible boulders and is sucked into secret deep holes. Not even the most experienced white water enthusiasts venture into the frigid unforgiving waters in this season, in this stage of spring flood. Local river lovers admire the South Yuba from a higher perch this time of year.
     Winding along the northern edge of the South Yuba River canyon is a well-marked hiking trail high above the rocky waterline. Sometimes shaded by native trees, other times cutting through grassy spaces on the hillside, the trail provides a panoramic view of the river and its towering canyon walls. Sweltering hot and baked brown, this hike is not an inviting adventure in the summer. But in springtime, the hillsides are newly green and swept by a cool breeze that follows the water, creating an invitation not easily refused. The sky overhead is crystal blue and sports a few fleeting white clouds. Music made by the rushing, bouncing water rises up to fill the air. Birds flit and twitter among tree branches, adding their songs to the mix.
     The trailsides are dotted with an array of wildflowers in combinations that shift and change dramatically from week to week. Early rising docents have kindly labeled the flowers that greet hikers today: red-stemmed filaree, blue dicks, zig-zag larkspur, groundsel, and more. Yarrow and lupine, green and spreading, patiently await their turns to bloom.
     On predominate display, today, is California's own tufted poppy, bright and arrogant in its singular orange fluorescence. In places, the south-facing, green-carpeted hillside that descends precariously from the trail, is populated by colonies of poppies swaying and cavorting in the breeze. The numerous other wildflowers in sweet pinks, whites, and yellows, though quite lovely to wander amongst, simply pale in comparison. When spring's low slung sun sends its rays to backlight the poppies, they become riotous flames. One cannot help but love and admire the audacity of these California flowers that just scream, "Wake up! It's Spring!"


"In spite the durability of rock walled canyons and the surging power of cataracting water, the wild river is a fragile thing -- the most fragile portion of the wilderness country."  -Biologist John Craighead 

     The undammed and free-flowing South Yuba River is a part of "National Wild and Scenic River System," thanks to the heroic preservation efforts of local citizens banded together as SYRCL (South Yuba River Citizens League). The river trail leads east, upriver, from the state park's parking lot to the edge of the park. At the west end of the trail, the South Yuba River passes beneath a unique covered bridge at the aptly named Bridgeport. Once a small thriving community, it is now Bridgeport State Park. The bridge, built in 1862, is a 229-feet long single span covered bridge that is believed to be the longest of its type in existence anywhere. Originally a toll bridge, it served gold miners and settlers alike in California's early days.

Silver in the Sky...

"The aim of life is to live,

and to live means to be aware,

joyously,

drunkenly,

serenely,

divinely

aware."

~ Henry Miller

     Lying on my back on a granite slab high in the Sierra, a narrow rocky peninsula reaching into the inky blue waters of Loch Leven, I gaze lazily upward to the clear blue late-August sky, clearing my mind and taking in the glory of the brisk and breezy day. The air is pristine, infused with the crisp scent of pine. Breathing, I feel the clear, cool oxygen molecules enter my lungs, my bronchial tubes, hitch a ride on red blood cells, and deliver a burst of energy to each and every cell in my body, down to the tips of my toes. I am intensely aware... aware of the hard sharpness of the earth beneath me... aware of the vast blue space extending above me... aware of the soft cool breeze sweeping away the warmth of the sun's rays... aware of...

     Suddenly, the sky around the sun is filled with iridescent and sparkling fairy dust -- no, not dust -- floating strands of fine thread. Millions and millions, perhaps billions and billions, of silvery silk strands twinkle in the afternoon sun. I hold my hand aloft, blocking out the blinding light like a palm-shaped eclipse, to better see the morphing, shimmering shapes. An illusion of the eye, I'm sure, they appear to fly only in concentric circles around the sun, creating a huge, shining, spiraling vortex of silky wisps. I am mesmerized by this totally unexpected and miraculous phenomenon.

     Watching the floating vortex dancing weightless above me, images of the planet Pern, from fantasy novels by Anne McCaffrey, come to mind. Pern is a distant human-colonized planet that is home to real, live dragons. Every several decades, in a pattern as regular as clockwork, Pern passes near her sister planet, which is populated exclusively by fungi. When the planets pass close to one another, long shimmering strands of fungi spores float and drift across the short distance of space and passively land on Pern's surface. Shifting to aggression, the fungi voraciously devour all they contact. Dragonriders, astride their flying dragon steads, are the planet's only defense. Though her description is eerily similar, certainly, the fantastic phenomenon I am witnessing is not the advance guard of a fungi space invasion of Earth.

     A much more benign image, also from fantasy literature, arises next in my mind. The closing scene in E. B. White's classic story, Charlotte's Web, has Charlotte's progeny taking to the air. Millions of baby spiders, riding on air currents, each with its own delicate spiderweb parachute, are whisked airborne safely to new homes.

     It is much more likely that the singularly mysterious phenomenon I am observing is a mass migration of miniscule spiders on iridescent web filaments, rather than an army of invading fungi space aliens, but in either case, it is magically beautiful. I wonder, were similar real-life observations by storytellers McCaffrey and White the inspiration for their delicious novels? If so, one author described the actual natural process that he witnessed, while the other, like me, chose to remain under the magic spell created by her own sense of wonder.

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!)

Performing Live and On Stage...

     Is there anything that inspires the soul to fly more than live music?

     Is there anything else that speaks to every cell of the body the way music does?

     The other evening, I had the great pleasure of listening to the music of Ivan Najera and friends, all local artists, at The Center For The Arts in Grass Valley. Billed merely as acoustic guitar music, it was, oh, so much more than that. It was exotic. It was mystical. It was transporting and transforming. It was... beautiful.
     Najera's music combined rhythm and tempo from a variety of sources. There were flamingo, tango, and Cuban bits and pieces stirred and simmered with blues and jazz. His sweet guitar purred and sang, sighed and shimmied as he guided an ever-changing troupe of accompanying musician friends through a collection of his diverse compositions.
     Not a foot in the audience was still; bodies swayed and bounced to the intoxicating flow of melodic sounds. My friend, Bill, my host for the evening, and I sat in the second row of the small auditorium, with a perfect view of the stage. As compelling as it was to watch Najera's fingers fly sagely over guitar strings and Cuban drums respond to commanding hands, I found myself with my eyes closed for long stretches of time. With my vision intentionally cut off, my sense of hearing rose to the fore, and I was able to discern the subtle details of the music with greater clarity. I could feel the vibrations as they traveled through the air and the floor and into and through my own cells. The waves of sound moved through me like through water, and seemed to connect me, with web-like strings, directly to the musicians and their instruments. The effect was uplifting and transporting.
     Each of the musicians was masterful and contributed both solo performances and backup playing. There were saxophone, flute, two kinds of bass guitars, electric guitar, an electronic keyboard and a grand piano, and a wild array of drums and percussion instruments. All of the performers had periods of wild abandon when they sailed off into stretches of improvisation. Eyes closed, heads thrown back, hands and fingers flying over keys and strings, they seemed to be having no end of fun.
     I found myself lit up with happiness, as the fun they were experiencing seemed to fly out across the room, like the music itself, and land on my face in the form of smiling delight. The musicians on stage radiated their "flow" state to those of us in the audience. This sense of "flow" is often connected, in psychology, with "the pursuit of happiness" and a sense of "having fun" and often occurs when one is fully immersed in creative processes. 

 According to [Mihaly] Csíkszentmihályi, FLOW is completely focused motivation. It is a single-minded immersion and represents perhaps the ultimate in harnessing the emotions in the service of performing and learning. In flow the emotions are not just contained and channeled, but positive, energized, and aligned with the task at hand... The hallmark of flow is a feeling of spontaneous joy, even rapture, while performing a task (Wikipedia, "Flow (Psychology)").

      Being in the audience at a live musical performance of this level, with this quantity of creative energy, leaves me feeling like I was actually a participant in the event, not merely listening passively, not merely listening at the toe-tapping receptive level, but actually contributing actively to the sense of FLOW in the room. Every ounce, every wave, every packet of energy produced on stage was welcomed by this audience member, whose own energy packets and waves were thrown enthusiastically and spontaneously back toward to stage. The invisible, yet discernable waves of iridescent energy, danced and swirled, intertwined and airborne in the space above all of us, performers and audience alike. The space around and above us invited the rising creative energy with open arms, pulled it like a magnet pulls iron shavings, encouraging further spontaneous creation to multiply upon itself into the spaces within space.
     After the applause, after the encore and more applause, my friend and I left, nearly speechless in our appreciation of what we had experienced. It took time for the musical flow experience to be translated into words, and then they only came out as, "Wow! I mean... It was so... so... Wow!"

Find out more about Ivan Najera at his website ivannajera.com
For more information about performances at The Center for the Arts go to http://www.thecenterforthearts.org/

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.