Retreat

                This morning when I rise, my left foot is aching a little bit.  I consider not hiking the butte today, briefly.  But the hills outside my little place are wispy with fog, and the wind is bending the trees.  I’ll have the whole place to myself today.  And the climbing is so good, it’s hard to think of not going.

                I make a quick breakfast, load the laundry and my day pack into the trunk of the car, and head for town.  And before I know it, the laundry is done, and my pack is where it belongs, on my shoulders.  I start up the steep power line trail, stepping carefully through the muddy ruts.  There are blown down trees across the path here, freshly fallen since last Sunday, at least a dozen of them.  Their huge root systems are turned sideways, their jagged, broken limbs driven into the ground.  Their root systems are turned sideways, revealing fresh earth and stones.  I step around them and top the hill, walking out into the Fox Hollow parking lot.

                Now my foot is hurting more seriously, and I stand at the trailhead, looking up at the broad, bare summit of the butte.  An injury now would mean losing the whole season.  I turn and head down, reminded of other summits long ago that were not taken.  And in the retreat, I re-discover an old gift.

                I’m descending by the easy trail, and walking slow, to favor my aching foot.  There are Trilliums blooming here, tiny white blossoms nested in triplets of dark green leaves.  The flowers, heavy with rain,  appear to look down at the ground as if they were shy.  To my right, a long steep hillside soars above me, completely covered in bracken fern.  The sun breaks for a moment, shining directly on the hillside, and suddenly all the rain drops on the delicate fronds are turned into shimmering diamonds.   Above, there are oak trees with still more ferns growing on their high, stout limbs.  This world smells strongly of damp earth.  If a hobbit came wandering around the trail up ahead, I would not be a bit surprised.

                There’s a tall, old fir above me that has broken off in last week’s sudden wind, about twenty feet above the ground.  It did not reach the ground, but landed against a neighbor, leaning there, as if beseeching him for help.  This one will surely go down in the next spring squall.  And it reminds me of the old advice: always look up before you pitch your tent.

                Today I’m reminded of the real gift of the hills.  The burn is fantastic, the views exhilarating.  But the real gift of the hills is the celebration of each moment just as it is.

5 Rites

This little collection of yoga-like exercises is so easy to do, and gives a huge payoff.  They come from Tibet, and they can be done in a few minutes, with no equipment.  There's a little book out, but you can also find all the info you need on-line; just google "the 5 rites."

Most sources suggest working your way up to 21 repetitions of each of the 5 rites.  Here's my advice:  do three or four reps of each, until the habit is firmly in your life.  That way, it doesn't seem like a huge thing.  You'll still get the benefit, and you can add reps gradually as you go.

These rites can be seen as just good exercise, but they are designed to massage and stimulate each of the endocrine glands in turn, and the associated chakras, or engery centers of the body.  If ya believe in that sorta thing.  If you don't, try them anyway.  If you feel better, it's working.

Breakfast and Play

This morning was one of those "oh-oh there's nothing in the house for breakfast" mornings for me.  I love those times, because they usually turn into an adventure. 

A few minutes' scavenging in the kitchen left me with a medium-sized yam, assorted spices, some dark green kale and a bit of onion.  Ohhh-kay.  I steamed the yam, then put some olive oil in my cast iron skillet and browned the onions.  Then I added the kale and the yam, and stir-fried the whole assembly with a little salt and some cayenne.

And it turned out to be a lovely, savory breakfast.  You could combine this with some tofu or eggs, I suppose, but it was also great as is.   I wouldn't do this with a potato, because the carbs in a spud are so simple, you'd be likely to crash a couple hours later.  But yams have a high Glycemic Index, so it'll likely be a good "stick with you" kind of meal.

I recommend avoiding the protein trap anyway.  We don't need anywhere near as much protein as we are led to believe.  Also, most foods contain protein, or at least amino acids.  Aminos persist in the body for up to 72 hours, so if you eat a variety of foods within that time, your body will assemble what it needs from what you give it.  You don't have to combine foods to create a complete protein.

In fact, if you eat animal protein, your body has to disassemble it and re-conconfigure it to suit your human needs anyway.  When the body does this, toxic by-products result, like urea and ammonia.  And when protein is over-consumed, your body leaches calcium from it's bones to facilitate the digestion process.  So if you're concerned about bone density...

The yams had a good carb load, lots of fiber, carotenes, and the GI is high.  And the greens gave me a nice calcium boost for the beginning of the day.  You'll notice that mostly when I give recipies, I don't offer measurements, temperatures or times.  You'll figure that out for yourself, and your body will help you.

Ask yourself what you're craving right now.  What kind of tastes, what specific foods, sound good?  Think about combining things you haven't before, and keep it simple.  If you combine more than three items, you're risking indigestion, and the cooking gets complicated.  Making food should involve a sense of play, and listening to your body.

enjoy!

DMV

It’s time to get my driver’s license renewed.  After examining my assembled papers and consulting his supervisor three times, the fairly friendly man behind the counter at DMV crashes his stamp down onto my processing form, and I am instructed to “wait until they call you by name.”  Then they’ll take my picture.

            Meanwhile, the waiting area of the DMV contains an open-ended and engaging sampling of humanity.

            There is a young couple at the desk now, she with head covered by a colorful scarf, he speaking Arabic or Persian, interpreting for her.  They’re about thirty.  She is soft spoken, looks down a lot, and never meets the eye of the DMV worker.  He is confident, but very, very polite.

            There’s another young couple sitting next to me, filling out a form.  They’re speaking Chinese.  And on the bench behind me are three young men speaking Spanish, which stands out to me because I can understand it.

            Across the way, there’s a short, teenage girl in sweatshirt, jeans and ugg boots.  Her blond hair is tied back with a neon pink scrunchie, and she sits next to her father, a completely bald man of about forty.  The girl gets called to the desk, walks bravely to the counter by herself, though I can see her anxiety.  Funny how young people are less skilled at hiding that.

            Coming back from the counter, she walks towards her dad, a huge grin on her face.  She pulls a bright purple phone from the pocket of jeans and begins texting, fast, the way only the young can do it.  Then she’s back to dad, sits next to him, and they’re looking at her new license.  And in an instant, she transforms from a young, confident woman to little girl badly in need of comfort.  Phone back in her pocket, she moves to her dad’s side and leans into him.

            She can’t see, but he smiles, and the smile conveys a tide of years.     

            There’s an older man up at the counter now, arguing with the worker about fees.  And the guy at the information desk looks more bored than any human being I’ve ever seen. 

            “Robert?” says the graying man at the photo counter.  That’s me, to people who just read my ID.  Do you still weigh 180 pounds, he wants to know.  Umm, yes.  He smiles and says okay.  Eyes still green, hair still black, and is that still your mother’s maiden name?

            Yes, most of it, and yes, I answer.  And he takes a passable photo of me.  On the temporary license, I notice it says “record created” 1973.  It doesn’t say “the world was a completely different place then.”  But it should.

            I turn to leave, and there’s a brand new collection of faces and languages in the waiting area.

            “Number 26,” says the attendant.

Naming

                On the South East side of Spencer’s Butte, maybe 500 feet from the summit, there is a giant.  I see her every time I walk the Butte, and it has become a ritual to just lay my hand on her solid, abiding foundation as I go by, usually with my breath rushing in and out.  She is Psuedo Tsuga Metasisi, a Douglas Fir.  By my best estimate, she is eight feet through at the ground, and she is easily 150 feet tall.  She could be three hundred years old.  She stands at the top of wide ravine, with views to the east and south.  Her limbs start about fifty feet up.  They are thick and gnarled, and they all lean downwards, as if to express the weight of time she has spent standing here.

                She needs a name.  And I can’t think of one.  It should reflect an ancient wisdom, but also a timeless youth, and exuberance for living that time cannot erase, and a calm and reassuring spirit in the face of any and all emotional weather.  Because this is what she’s given me, these past several months.

                Please join me in finding a name for my latest spiritual advisor.  Tell me what you think her name should be and why.  Post it here, or on face book,  I’ll find it either way.  And if I choose your name, I will take you to her, and introduce you.