Finding solace & haiku

Oh, the aloe is on fire! Isn't this one a show-stopper? Just around the corner from our house in Venice is a gorgeous, Craftsman-style house, surrounded by aloes. The home belonged to the late Jerry Leiber, who wrote the lyrics for classic hits like "Hound Dog," Jailhouse Rock," "Kansas City," "Smokey Joe's Cafe" and tons more.

When he was still living, I was delighted to see him at the grand piano when I strolled past one day.

Walking, photographing and musing are some of my favorite things to do as you no doubt have noticed on this blog.

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You've probably also noticed how often I post beach photos. I can't help myself. Walking along shorelines is one of the places I find solace. I love the murmur of small tides, the rush of booming high surf, watching kids race in or surfers tear up a wave.

And then there are the things I find. This time it's just the way the late afternoon light was shining through a piece of kelp.

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sliver of stained glass

caught by the descending sun--

window to the sea

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Finally, I may be absent a lot in coming weeks. My mother broke her hip and isn't responding quickly to rehab. I not only need to keep an eye on her, but I may need to find long-term care, which is daunting. Meanwhile, I have a week vacation coming, luckily near where she is, so I will be trying to work on my manuscript, as well.

As soon as things settle down, I'll post less sporadically and come visiting you, as well. In the meantime, I wish you all well in writing, publishing or wherever you are at the moment. Peace.

Hey there Solstice, you sure look good to me

Winter solstice,

a sunrise walk,


such symmetry,

balance in

time

and space

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an offer of

hope

above

beneath

soaring

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My wish is joy to you,

peace to all,

beauty wherever

we may walk

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Happy holidays however you celebrate, wherever you are!

Walking on the sky

I went for a walk in a cloudburst of hail and rain and found--a portal.
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What land is this where the sky is torn and lies beneath my feet?
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I have walked this path a hundred times and never seen this place.
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Between dimensions.
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A pause.

Seeing things

Masks intrigue me. They can be beautiful, terrifying, mysterious and powerful.

I found this nature-made little mask on the rocky shores of Dana Point. Does it not look like a predatory bird?

I know it's a little airy-fairy of me to believe in signs and portents, but when I discover something unusual like this I imagine the hand of Fate, the presence of guardians or, at the very least, good luck in the finding.

People, of course, have long made masks of animals and birds into which are woven stories of creation and moral beliefs. The creatures are given qualities that have become symbols, so that even in our own writing, we may use an owl to signify wisdom, intuition, mystery or protection. A hawk is sometimes seen as a messenger, a bringer of visions and of intense energy.

Any time I hear the raspy scream of a hawk overhead, I look up, feeling a surge of energy. I've watched them swirl and glide and swoop but also seen single hawks hang without moving, as if suspended in space. Watching, I experience.

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This is another view of the sea-borne mask.

Perhaps, it would fit a leprechaun or a tallish fairy. Perhaps. I'll wear it in my dreams and soar high and far.

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On a boulder, I saw a fading pink rose held down by a small rock. There's a story behind that; we are free to make up our own.

A snowy egret fished the dark tide pools.

I let my tennies get wet to get this shot. I wanted to be part of the surging sea as the sun disappeared. To take a bit of magic home with me.

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A soft day

In Ireland, a soft day brings a muted mistiness to the landscape, a pattering but not buckets of rain pelting down, mind you.

It's a time to go out, walk the hills, climb the cliffs. I happen to be in Southern California, but today was a soft day, and I took to my favorite little mountain.

At first, I needed only my hat, then my hoodie and finally my umbrella. The drops sounded like small pebbles falling, gently. Later, it would turn splattering and splashing, but not then.

Here you see my favorite boulder and my favorite umbrella bought in Toronto during a rainy trip. It makes me smile, no matter what the weather.

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Filmmaker Alan Parker ("Evita," "Angela's Ashes") said, "Rain is very difficult in film, particularly in Ireland, because it's quite fine, so fine that the Irish don't even acknowledge that it exists."

In my new mode of trying to observe something new in my environment every day, I was delighted to find raindrops clinging to this chain railing.

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And how about this tiny hobbit hole in the cliff? Two plants no bigger than peas have taken up residence on the doorstep.

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One of Alice Hoffman's characters, Elinor in The Probable Future, has a name for all variations of rain. Fish rain. Rose rain. Daffodil rain. Swamp rain. And the fearsome stone rain.

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A haiku I wrote some time ago fits this day.

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a gust of wind,

the rain-beaded branch

bare again

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The Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) said, "I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped in the forests."

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I'll leave you with this rock moss that looks like a strange hand and a couple of witty songwriter/singer quotes.

"Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet."--Roger Miller (1936-1992)

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"Don't threaten me with love, baby. Let's just go walking in the rain."--Billie Holiday (1915-1959)

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Just chillin' and a great panel discussion Monday

In the grab bag of life, I got some wonder and some pretty awful the last few days. Someone did a hit-and-run on my parked car doing $1,000 in damage.

But I got a rental and spent one afternoon at the gorgeous cliffs of Dana Point. More photos below.

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And I went to a fabulous party last night hosted by my crit partner, Rilla and her husband Satish. Besides great food and conversation, they had everyone bring a photo and story of travel adventure. It's amazing how wildly different the stories turned out to be--a fictional dig to China, a proposal in Paris, a gasping crawl up Mt. Kilimanjaro.

As for me, I flubbed the telling of finding a stone circle on a foggy moor in Devon. I've told it lots of times, but I think I babbled incoherently this time. Ah well, I'll blame my distraction on my poor injured Miata.

Anyway, the evening itself was picture perfect.

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The sky tonight is pink-and-blue stripes. I think Dr. Seuss dreamed it up. I feel like I should hold someone's hand and skip.

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WriteOnCon alert!
Tomorrow, Monday, Jan. 24 at 5 p.m. Eastern there will be a live panel discussion with Pippin Properties, Inc. agents. Holly McGhee, was formerly an executive editor at HarperCollins and Joan Slattery was an editor at Alfred A. Knopf.

If you've never been to a WriteOnCon chat, it's easy-peasy. Just sign in and type a question. The moderators pass on the questions.

I, sadly, will miss this one, because Monday afternoon I'm at my very own live critique group, which is actually cause for happiness. We rock, just sayin.'

The good news is anyone can visit the WriteOnCon site later and read the transcript. I know I will.

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More Dana Point, because it's awesome. The trail around the tide pool hugs this cliff, but it's been mangled by flooding and landslides since heavy rain in December.

Those massive boulders tumbled down from above. And, there are houses hanging on the edge of those cliffs!

The trek over all the rocky shore is actually invigorating. There's always some wobble and give when you step and the crunching of stone on stone.

The tide pools were really fun to explore this time. And I saw dolphins enjoying the waves with two surfers. Everybody was chill.

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A nice fan of mussels.

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And stunning anemones, sea grass, hermit crabs and more.

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Between storms

between storms I walk,

jumping new streams, inhaling

sweet sharpness of cedar

We have been drenched by rain in sunny Southern California, resulting in flooding, accidents and downed trees, but also in the delight of blustery wind, pink cheeks, pattering hail and sparkling freshness. I walked, I clicked photos, I wrote.

Most especially, I've written almost 3,000 words in the last couple of days after two dry weeks. Yay, me. Hope you're refreshed, too.

Where haiku waits

ghosts of morning drift--

tenuous vapors of air

trapped in lake water

gnarled roots reach greedy

fingers deep beneath

the mirrored surface

I went walking--just a short break, a few blocks, perhaps, I told myself. I needed to stretch my legs after long hours at the computer. My feet kept going, knowing what my body needed. I ended up at a lake where haiku waited. I brought some images back to you with my uber-cellphone.

Here's what I have to report to Accountability Watchers. After proclaiming on this very site that my goal is to write 1,000 words a day on my novel-in-progress, Sea Daughters, I reached that goal two out of three days of this new year. I'm quite pleased because I am at a difficult turning point in the story and would probably keep trying to put it off had I not publicly set a goal. So currently 53,299 words of the first draft are written. Oh, and the day I didn't write was No-Kiss Blogfest, an absolute blast. A big shout out to all who participated and especially to Frankie Diane Mallis for hosting.

How were your first three days of 2010?

Freshened

I walked up a little hill yesterday, rain pattering on my favorite umbrella with suns and moons all bright yellow on dark blue. I bought it in a downpour years ago in Toronto.

On this walk I saw lots of pretty foliage freshened by the gift from the sky.

Besides sharing the photos, I'm giving you a little haiku.

after the rain,

muffled crunch of soggy leaves,

air spiced and still

Today's post is short. I know we are all up to our chins in holiday doings. I found a perfect fir tree that fit in the front seat of my Miata, and now it is filling my living room with the memory of forests. I will post its picture soon.

A huge thank you to Liza Carens Salerno at Middle Passages for this One Lovely Blog Award. It is always an honor to be selected by another blogger.

Liza absolved her honorees from following the award rules, so I am taking her up on that. But since the challenge was to share new blog links, I'm going to do that some time in the near future. It's always nice to get recs from friends.

Hope everyone had a super weekend, productive but not stressed, happy and not hysterical. If you need to vent, though, feel free. My comments are always open and I love to chat.

The sound of adjustment

I'm going to a favorite beach this morning to walk before I undertake some stressful family duties. Sea air and the whoosh and boom of waves seem to both energize and soothe me.

What I really want is that external barrage on my senses--to still the yapping of my mind, to quell anxiety, to give me strength for the trials--and for a sad weight I'm carrying in my heart for another friend's family.

I have no idea what the beach will be like, although I did check my tide guide, which says I'll get there between the high and low tides today. If the tide is high at this beach, I walk on a trail east of railroad tracks. If the tide is low, I can go barefoot along the shore. Although it might be cold on the toes today.

The other thing that happens at this beach is periodic deposit of rocks and pebbles, all worn smooth by the grinding of surf but still too much for bare feet.

What I love about the rocky days is the sound. Have you heard it? The clattering of stones as they shift with the rush in and trickle out of each hissing, sighing wave?

What sounds do you hear? How would you write it?

Clack. Rattle. Clink.

Chatter. Can rocks chatter? I think so.

I'm listening for them to tell me how to adjust to the tides of life.

One step leads to another

Walking leads me to places in my mind. There are two kinds of walking. One with a friend--chatty and all about catching up on gossip, listening to rants, sharing joys and sorrows. I'm talking about the other kind of walking where I'm alone, just me and my mind gone strolling. Sometimes I write whole scenes of my novels while walking.

Today, this California buckwheat caught my eye, rust-colored in its final stage of life but gorgeous against a granite boulder. I stopped to take its picture and began thinking about how death can be beautiful.

Leaves turn red and yellow when trees block off their sap supply to prepare for winter freeze. The leaves have to die to protect the trees. But it is most glorious, is it not?

In such a case, death is a sigh, a rustle on the wind, a sweet release. What would life mean if there was no death? It will take me many walks to ponder that.

As I got close to home, a man sat alone on his porch in the twilight playing a saxophone. I lingered a moment, letting the richness of the notes lead me like a Pied Piper to the streets of New Orleans. I can walk a long way in my mind and never get tired. Do you?