You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Dwelling at the edge of a large Indian reservation, I found it impossible to ignore a vibration in the earth itself of their spirit.
Had I remained there a few more years, I no doubt would have collected turquoise-and-silver jewelry, the work of many Native masters.
Sometimes I still see their inspiration in the stars, though. Especially on a clear night. A very clear night, at that.
~*~
To see how it’s inspired my collection of poems, click here.
The land was often golden in the bright sunlight. Not green, but a permanent range of yellowish brown only flecked with green in a few weeks of spring passing.
Once I adjusted to its palette and air, I hoped we’d live there forever.
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It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
I’m tempted to say there are two sides to the mountain – a wet one and a dry one. Or even the side you see and the one you don’t. Or what’s ahead of you and what’s behind.
But none of that’s quite accurate.
You could, for one thing, be standing on the summit.
Or you could realize it’s one continuing side, like a Mobius strip, to explore. Even in your mind.
~*~
For a set of related poems, click here.
Not every desert is a Sahara or a place of giant cacti. The interior Pacific Northwest is a prime example. Its dry grasses rattle like swords in the unobstructed wind.
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It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
The mythologies of Greece are easily countered by those of India, China, Tibet, and Japan in the Native tales of the Olympic Peninsula and the coastal tribes of the Pacific Northwest.
Sit down by the fire, then, and listen. Some of the voices are millennia old.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
At this time of year I once got a terrible sunburn on the bottom of my nose and the bottom of my chin, where my zinc oxide sunscreen rubbed off while climbing the snowfields of Mount Rainier. This shot was from another July outing.
The Olympic Peninsula of Washington State is a world of its own. About the size of Delaware, it has few settlements apart from its Native American tribes. Its remote coastline is gorgeous. Its forests are thick and varied and receive some of the heaviest annual rainfall in North America. Its central mountains include hot springs and glaciers. There’s a U.S. Navy base on the eastern edge along with an artist colony and ferry connections to Seattle.
Listen closely and the underlying mythologies shape a new understanding.
Here is a place where East meets West in its own nature.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
The conditions that created the desert where we lived created what was sometimes called a “rain shadow.” It was ironic, actually, considering that we got far more sunlight by living on that side of the Cascade Mountains than if we’d been in, what, the rain glow?
Sometimes, though, it seemed to dry up all of our emotions, too.
A journey into the murky places of endless fog, mist, and rain, in contrast, could do wonders in the soul.
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
Sometimes, this was the only way out of town. And then there was the tunnel to consider.
My fondness for asparagus arises in the years I lived in an orchard in the Yakima Valley, where, thanks to an earlier agricultural disaster, asparagus seeds had gotten into the irrigation water and spread everywhere. The green sprouts were often touted as “Local ’Grass.” As a consequence, we had about a month when we could take our knives and, being careful to avoid areas of pesticide use, return with a basket of stalks for lunch or dinner. I learned to glut out in season, realizing it would be another year before we’d indulge again.
Now that we have our own asparagus bed and repeat the ritual, albeit on a smaller scale, we’ve also come to regard the damage asparagus beetles inflict as well as the miracle appearance of lady bugs to the rescue. That, in itself, has convinced us of the value of organic farming.
As for Shiva, he’s the horny Hindu god of creation and destruction, and he wields a wicked blade.
Jnana's Red Barn 