Fifth Summer In Eugene

About a woman I know who probably has the purest heart in the world...

Fifth Summer in Eugene

Jesus runs the car wash
Buddha juggles fire
Dad's in Wyoming
Loving me

Boy stands me up and I wanna cry
Child makes pancakes and I smile through tears
Ride on home on a tangerine bike
In a flowy skirt by the river

Armchair on the roof
Tribe is hugging me
Beers on the patio
In the shade with kind old man

Jesus is a bouncer
Buddha hits on me
Grass smells like sleep
In the fading summer sun, I am twelve

On Your Left

This morning on the river path, the cottonwood blossoms are making a summer snowstorm.  They ride the breeze down from the heights of the trees, cross the path in front of me, and mostly fall in the river.  There's cloud cover today and the air is just cool enough to make it comfortable walking.  Bikes spin by on my left, punctuated by calls of "on your left," cheerfully given as the rider passes by.

Every time I go for a walk, the magic happens; the cares that sit on my mind fade to the background, and the experience of walking takes over.  The scenery floats by at just the right pace to be enjoyed.  Cares fade, and joy deepens.

Soon I am past the river path and into the city streets, and the scenery is less natural.  Still, the rythm of walking is with me.  I am in the city, but as a pedestrian, I'm connected to the people around me. Smiles and hellos are common; I collect them, to be savored later, as my day goes by, each connection with another person precious, no matter how casual.

At the office, I greet my team and work begins.  But the day has a certain luster because it began with a walk on the river path.

Connection Magic

Last night at the pub I sat alone, drinking a beer and reflecting on the day.  And then, there was a woman, about my age.  I was looking up, so I saw she was looking for a seat, and I asked her to sit down.  When we started talking, she was a little teary.  She talked about her recent move from California, how she was staying with her daughter, and trying to figure out what to do next.

I know the feeling.  She said she was having a "weepy day" riding around on her bike, feeling lonesome and maybe a little afraid.  And we connected there, in the place where humans say "see, this is my pain.  What is yours?"

Then she said she wanted to do some work, giving care to people.  And I told her that part of my job was hiring care givers.  Her face lit up, and her whole body relaxed.  And we connected in another human space; the expansive and welcoming space that opens up when we know, once again, that we belong here.

Today she came into the office and filled out an application.

River Walk

Monday, May 12, 2014

Today is positively summery here in Eugene, Oregon.  My walk to work this morning takes me down the river path, and it is its old self now; a long, winding tunnel of green, composed of tall swaying cottonwood trees.  The canopy is far overhead, a hundred feet or more.  Tiny cotton balls drift through the air in front of me, on currents of warm lazy air.  And the river rushes over rapids only a few yards to my left.

Later in the summer, the river will run lower, creating quiet pools to swim in.  But for now, it still has its full winter size and it sill strains against the banks that contain it.  It is blue and green, reflecting the colors above it.  From where I stand, I can see it winding up stream a mile or so.  Rapids create wave crests, white and sparkling, and the Osprey are fishing in the clear morning air.

Next, I am in the office, greeting co-workers and sitting down to my desk.  But the river and the bright, reflected sunlight are still in my head and heart.

Summit Day

October 8, 2011

           To the East of Klamath Falls a long, high wall of a mountain soars above the city.  I’m going to take a break today from all the analyzing, reporting and politicking.  In just five minutes of driving, I’m standing at the base of Hogback Mountain.  The trail is a thin brown line straggling straight up a buttress to the main ridge.  There are no trees here, or very few, so the whole stretch is visible.

            In only a few hundred yards, the car is a tiny, shiny dot in the parking lot.  My breath burns and my world contracts.  The trail is so steep, I have to carefully place each step to avoid slipping.  It’s like climbing stairs with risers that are sloping downwards, and are coated with slippery sand.  The effort of concentration pays, though.  Soon, I’m in a state so focused that I can feel the expanse of Pure Mind.

            It doesn’t matter how you get there, whether from following the breath, or washing the dishes, or following every step with perfect concentration.  The destination is the same: Bare Attention.  This mind-state carries me up, through a country turned on its side, until I’m only a few feet from the ridge-top.  But as I approach, I can tell it’s not the top.  The wind is wrong, and the slope is increasing again.  I step over the lip, and I’m greeted by another near-vertical stretch of trail, threading its way up to further height, the true ridge-top.

This is a false summit.

            More steps of expansive awareness follow, un-countable steps, each the same as the last, each unique in its infinitely careful placement.  And finally, the wind freshens, and the slope decreases.  And then, I’m standing on a wind-swept ridge, a knife-edge balancing itself at the top of this massive hill.  I’m not sure why, but every time I’ve ever approached summit, it seems quieter.  Maybe it’s a sense of reverence, or maybe the unencumbered wind drowns out all other sound.  It adds to the sense that you are in a far place.

            Now I begin to work my way up the ridge, still climbing but much less steeply. The world expands with every footstep, now on both sides of the mountain.  To the west, Klamath Falls is spread before me like a map.  The enormous lake lies silently to the north, darkened by its own private fog bank.  To the east, a sere landscape extends in rolling hills and spreading, cultivated bottomland.  Creeks and lakes decorate the arid view.

            I round some rock outcroppings, jutting high and sharp above me.   These formations are called sentinels, as if they guarded the summit from discovery by people of my ilk.  And then, almost suddenly, the wind freshens again, silence drapes me even more heavily, and I see the hill flatten out in all directions.

            I am standing on top of Hogback Mountain.  From the valley floor, at three thousand feet, I’ve climbed to six thousand, two hundred feet, gaining three thousand two hundred feet in two and a half miles.

            On the summit, I am alone.  The distance of the town far below me emphasizes the solitude here; I can look down and collectively see thousands of people, but I cannot see one individual person.  Here there is huckleberry and sage, bare earth, and horned lizards that scramble from their sunny hotspots to hide from me.

            And there is the wind, ever present, gentle but insistent.  It whispers to me: of the mystery contained here, here for the taking.  To the north, I can see the rim of Crater Lake, and, just barely, Mount Thielsen, a mountain I climbed many, many years ago.  Out there is also Mt. McGloughlin, and the long, high ridge of the Sky Lakes.  I can see in my mind’s eye, a thousand places up there, places where I slept and swam and despaired and exulted.  I can see, in my mind’s eye, the me of twenty-one years ago, standing on windy ridge top out there, and looking across the gulf of open country, to the distant town of Klamath Falls and beyond.

            The second half of the climb awaits, the most dangerous half.  I turn and begin my descent, on trembling knees and aching feet.  By the time I arrive at the rock cairns that mark my route down the buttress, every step is causing me pain, and concentrating on my foot placement is very, very difficult.  At last I feel the familiar relief of stepping onto flat ground.  My mind eases, and my attention relents.  My old, busy world of thought-stream pushes back in, startling me in its suddenness.

            But it’s changed, too.  For hours afterward, the world looks different.  Just as it would from a good long sitting meditation session.  Every sense is sharpened, every joy more joyful.  Back up the hill, the summit smiles down at me, a real place now.

            Next morning, I look out the window of my hotel room, and I see the top.  I can see the summit in my mind’s eye.  I can see the me of yesterday, up there, looking down at the town.