The Second Law

The things that lie still,

An opened thermos, filled with water and funk, left on a shelf above the kitchen sink,

A boy’s sized 7-8, red puffy jacket hanging in the back of Finny’s closet, stained black on the front by campfire soot and roasted marshmallows,

My brown-feathered fascinator tucked safely away from cats, on the second glass tier on my tabletop curio,

Lost and found abalone shells, kakui nuts, starfish and sandstone slabs in a utility closet, packed hastily from a science classroom into a brown paper bag at the end of a wild, all-consuming school year,

Coalescing over days, weeks and years, 

a three millimeter wall of particulates, 

from a weedwacker blade, 

spun upwards from our neighbor’s essential trimmings, 

the organic combines with the inorganic, 

layers of dust we track home wearily from our workplaces,

The not so little anymore boy, 

twenty years now old, 

tucked tightly into the crux of a blue-upholstered department store sectional, 

legs-outstretched, long handsome toes poking through holes in a white, roped, cottony blanket, absorbing shrieks and gasps from a caffeinated world cup commentator, 

All this stillness is in stark contrast; 

To the neverending warbles of the washing machine, 

resonating from another corner in the house, 

jeans and jumpsuits undulating in a centrifuge with suds and silky water, their swirlings, swishings and throngs of buttons and zippers against the walls of a metal cylinder, 

counter the stillness of the inanimate objects, 

shaking them awake and spoiling their negative entropy. 

This jostling, along with the spewing of backpacking equipment from a Rubbermaid container, 

myriad microstates assumed by drink glasses and coffee mugs, 

blue berries escaping green compost bags onto the kitchen floor,

the cats being captured from across the street bushes and discovered on long walks past the Berkeley Animal shelter diving for flies and rolling about on pouches of catnip on the carpet,

the discarded exercise equipment and rolling office chairs; 

reclaimed bedroom territories by a college student,

In this house,

while the forgotten and looked past will stand to test it;

chaos always ensues,

and the second law prevails.

Poore Lake Adventures

 Poore Lake Adventure

Setting off

5 AM espresso, followed by 6:30 AM espresso. Up thinking about fish!  Finn is double-amped to get on the open road. Adventure awaits for us three; Finn, his new love and Mom in-tow. He is aggravated with my need to make sure we have bug spray, pot handlers, and my journal. I am up, it’s 6:30 in the morning, I was up late filling water bottles, putting new batteries in headlamps, checking tent poles. So many things to remember for a backpacking trip! 

But we are all set, and we're off!

Clouds rest

Crisp white lines delineate a perfect sky blue. So much brightness and light!

Gaseous convection currents undulating north and upwards.

I lay on a bed of granite and serpentine pebbles with hands clasped behind my head, the billowing cotton fabric protecting my eyes from a glaring sun.Two-tailed swallowtails sail past my eyes’ periphery and across the middle fork of the Stanislaus river.

From the Sonora pass, a giant zephyr puffs and suffuses water vapor across the canyon sky; transforming the mountainous white blanket into bearded dragons, dancing goats, and wispy stars. 

Once a grand ball of cotton, now, all but streaks and flecks. 

Gas particles no longer sense each other’s electrical pull. 

Warm light returns, 

early evening is late afternoon once more. 

Checking in

Open road, smell of burning pine trees, river a flowing, the Eagles playing in my mind…

Ah there, she is.

The absolute cutest, she was. 

How she did it, I don’t know, but she achieved supreme cuteness before even being old enough for most grannies to be considered “old” yet. 73 is not that old these days.

A fellow camper walking her blue-eyed prairie dog with her long-legged boss husband brought me back to her for a moment. The woman, relishing in a story about how her dog “Jessie Jane” responded to a horse today, “she had such big eyes, and wanted to follow it”! Like Mom’s adoration for old, bitey, scary Bella. The woman’s pink hat and shorts would be something my Mom would have found pretty in her grammie days. Mom’s style changed dramatically over the years, from tight white Levi’s and shirts that barely covered her midriff (that I would pick her bedroom lock to “borrow”), to flowery stretch pants in all the colors of the rainbow and MAGA hats and shirts that said things like “Love it or Leave it”. I miss her quiet small self. In her armchair, listening as well as she could to my debates with Tom and Kristy about there being no evidence for climate change, Hilary Clinton’s apparent fat ankles, and Barack Obama’s true country of origin. Sometimes she would share a cute observation or demand that NASCAR racing be changed to HBO. It’s hard to capture her exact essence but she was always there with her glass of Chardonnay, just content as can be that I was spending time with her. She was terrified by my passion for taking off into the wilderness with my backpack or setting out on a road trip by myself. Now I am the one to worry myself to pieces by Finn and Zennen doing the same to me.

Stepping out

After climbing over the Sonora Pass and screeching brakes down the 29% incline for a few miles,

we pulled our car into the Leavitt Meadows trailhead parking area. We stepped out of the car and inhaled the savory

sagebrush forest. The flood of herb tickles my hippocampus and I am propelled from my bucket seat; ready to

exchange flip flops and cell phone for running shoes and a bear canister. In mid June, the sagebrush is young and

velvety like the mule’s ear encompassing the lake. You can pick off a stem from the plant and smash the leaves

between your thumb and forefinger into an almost juicy pulp. Then, as you hike on a narrow trail, you can roll

the concoction in front of your nose and suck in the marvelous aroma.

If trees could tell

A Ponderosa pine could tell a tale or two,

All those who have passed this lakeside over the years; the fishermen chasing Brook trout, the pack animals scratching their noses on my trunk, and a science teacher on break using gravity and my broken limbs to filter water. The winds howl through Leavitt Canyon and try to shake me apart all day and every day. But I’m still standing. 

There’s the teenagers who come, sneak behind my boughs to make one another giggle and steal a kiss or two, before their nervous parents come back from their wanderings.

To my fortune, there is a perfect oval granite slab with a flat surface just below my canopy that is an absolute perfect spot for visitors to mingle and for me to eavesdrop. Visitors come and sit on the slab and converse about their desires, preoccupations, and share their stories. Curiously, most of them come, sit down, peer out at the lake and grow silent. My aspen compadre then shakes to break up the uncomfortable silence.,

The last speck

It can be very discombobulating to be at the bottom of a canyon in a glacier carved out bowl, looking across a lake not knowing which way is which. In particular, because you used an App to get there since the trails were not very maintained, and signage was scarce. Thank goodness for the last speck of light that shines a horizontal line along the Eastern mountain walls encompassing Poore lake. Because of this, I will know which way to set off in two mornings to find the West Wilder River. 

The horizontal line climbs the jagged rock face reflecting onto Poore lake in orange ripples that dance you into a state of somnolence. As light ascends the mountainside, it spotlights the snow hiding in the crevasses making you daydream of days you would ponder whether you could get skis up there.

Minutes pass, there is only a splinter of light shining on the spine of the tallest edge of nameless mountain. All is still on the lake’s surface and in the surrounding sagebrush as if both the animate and inanimate know this moment to be holy. The mountain then grows dark. Orange light concentrates in a swarm of dust clouds far off in the Nevada desert sky. Finn breaks holiness by whipping his rod over his shoulder, casting a line far outwards into depths of the blackened pool. The aspens quiver in response to his reverberating action. Far off somewhere, water moves desperately down the mountain just about to miss something. Most likely flowing through a crevasse that looks miniscule from my eyes view. When the winds die down, the rushing resonates a calm surrender to the night. A common merganser bats their wings silly against the dark galloping water taking their last flight across Poore lake. Finn casts another line. Below him, crawdads congregate around a brook trout’s fishbones left from our wilderness feast.

Poore Lake’s changing countenance

The lake is different at every minute of the day. In the morning, at 7:46 AM the lake mirrors the mountain’s

magnificence onto the water. There you can detect all of the tiny yellow pollen, sticks, feathers, leaves and other,

floaters on the glassy surface. Fish show themselves occasionally darting out of the water. A brown marbled

common merganser with a spikey decorative crown deftly lands nearby to lap up some water then instantly jet off

across the lake. The otters, crayfish, bears and mountain lions are more inconspicuous but Finn did have a chance

meeting with a river otter at Kennedy Meadows when he was fishing on the river. The lake is so still now. Far out

a few ducks splash here and there but the only movement I detect sitting here is the sway of the pollen. A river or

creek still not explored can be heard in the distance. 

 

Marshland Serpents

Two stunning garter snakes with lengthwise yellow lines down their backs hunt together in the long, crunchy

marshland grass around Poore lake. Their yellow lines are perfect camouflage in the long green and yellow rushes

at the water’s edge. Their heads, transfixed by the hunt, poke just above their tips, eyes intent on a pool of minnows

just one strike away. An unexpected human predator seizes a distracted serpent by his tail, it thrashes and twists

forming every letter in the alphabet. Then, desperately twists backwards aiming its demonic head at the arm of the

intruder. The mountain garter snake is aggressive and persistent, its saliva has a toxic concoction to paralyze its

prey. Dubious over the outcome from a bite by this serpent, the human flings the unbridled beast into the marshy

rushes and sedges. Wherein, the snake deftly undulates side to side, pushing between grasses and soggy mule ears.

The yellow lines down the snake's back quickly become lost in the rows of rushes along the lake’s shore.

To our delight, we spot the yellow stripe once more as she plunges into a nearby pool, dipping momentarily under

the surface to push her body ahead. Then, with head up, tasting the sagebrush aroma with a forked tongue, she

slithers in exactly the same lateral undulating fashion against the rushes and mud, however instead, against water.

She finds a safe shore away from the harassment of the human invaders and quickly assumes her gargoyle pose,

lurching over a pool of unsuspecting minnows. Without a moment to lose, she strikes down into the school biting

down on the first bony fish it could muster, the siblings dart off radially from the crash site. We stand there in

absolute awe of this magnificent beast. Unfortunately, we look away again and lose the snake’s loci once more.

So we take to crunching through more marshy grass, and head back to our campsite on the northshore.

Swallowtail Sanctuary

Three swallowtails flutter on a dried up mud beach on the lakeside. One is bright yellow mostly, with a black

outline,two sharp points on its head. Another is muted yellow with a heavier black outline, it also has more black lines

across its wings. They are both impressive in size, about  length of my palm. They creep closely together, fluttering

all the time. Through the Walker River canyon, a scathing gust disrupts their midday courting. The muted one

clings onto a dirt mound with its perfunctory fluttering but the bright one pushes off and sails downward to a patch

of dry mud where it teeters in the wind. Then, it rides on another gust back towards its partner. The third ,

swallowtailhas already sailed far away. These two remain here, clinging closely to the dirt, next to one another. Now, very

still,

they do not flutter, they silently quiver in unison. Then, in synchrony, they open their wings wide, and together

again, they close them. As I look around I see other fluttering things have congregated to this lake cove; there are

much smaller butterflies about the size of a daisy flower, they are black with orange spots, from my Laws Field

Guide to the Sierra Nevada, I think these might be Fritillary species which apparently are difficult to identify

but if I was to make a far-fetched guess I might say Hydaspe Fritillary or Great Basin Fritillary. There are tiny

baby blue butterflies with a sliver of black and white lines on their wings. My guess is that these might be the

Boisduval’s Blue or the Echo Azure.  There are also furry bumble bees, tiny black flies, and damselflies (possibly

the vivid dancer subspecies). What is it on this part of the shoreline that is attracting so many winged flutterers?

Is it the soggy decaying mule's ears? The green lichen adhered to the rocks along the water, or the mountain iris,

the Western Blue flags, that I saw the third swallowtail take a few slurps from before it sailed away? Whatever it

is, they have found these Easterly shores to be their resting grounds and communal garden. I have enjoyed all

of their flutterings, but I must be off to recongregate with my humans on the Western shore.

Why, hello there!

The sun has yet to reveal its splendor over these mountains. It’s 7 AM. I’m chilling by myself between bushes of

sage plants on loose rock slabs overlooking Poore Lake. A long skinny ghost hastily departs the south side of the

lake where water tumbles into a creek. Straight across, a thin stroke of warming yellow emanates from a curvature

in the mountain’s spine. The entire animal kingdom is fast asleep, not a peep from teenagers nor a churning of the

resident ptarmigan’s syrinx. Then, as if a security guard had just flicked on his torch, light flashes from the peak’s

edge, spooking the whole of the forest’s inhabitants awake. At exactly the same moment, a majestic creature with

a whitehead, black body and impressive wingspan soars along the entire length of the black lake. Just me,

a bald eagle, and a lake. There’s no morning Joe that can wake you more than that.

 

Distilling the Goop

Characters are initially so hard to wrap your head around!

Unfamiliar names, you don't know how to pronounce, refuse to make the hippocampus transition.

As the pages turn, new names go into the blender and churn out a homogenous pink goop, 

hints of flavour and spice might jump out at you but there is no texture to delineate one individual from another.

The beginning of the school year is like this for teachers;

a new book,

is exciting-

because you KNOW it will take you on an adventure,

far from your usual reach, 

challenges and insights,

beauty and exhaustion,

But, that beginning part, not being able to discern the goop of faces,

is unsettling.

Who are they? What will they churn out over the course of the year? How will they respond to myriad stresses? What kind of community? Will they/can they form?

The novel pushes forward.

Characters plunge-

Forth, each page, mustering for their futures, for their development; 

isolating or mingling, 

You begin to see,

And, understand them-

each with their own stories, the characters in the book become real and memorable,

they begin to fit under your teacher umbrella, 

which you grasp your entire life forward,

as an old cat friend sitting next to your lawn chair, 

you finally look down and see her,

she has been looking up at you for a very long time, 

you pat your knee and she knowingly jumps up,

plops down and swirls into a tight ball of warmth,

you smooth her fur,

seeing and understanding, 

her in this moment of stillness,

finally, 

a memory is made.

Roll around days

 

To roll on one’s back, showing the

long fluffy strands of fur, in the rays of sunlight

pouring through the sliding door’s glass, 

on top of a filthy

pouch of catnip spilling

out of the sides,

a morning of tapping on a damselfly,

tracking her movements with a furry paw,

touching her nose against its wings, breathing in 

her scent with an open mouth. 

On the first day of June, fresh energy, 

awakening from the constant clutter,

savoring this moment, 

without-

an orange kitten above her ready to pounce,

she savors the sun, the bowl of refreshed kibble,

the open sliding door, the fresh air,

All to herself.

Viajes

 

It’s good to visit Italy while you can still eat frommagio, sip cappuccinos in the morning, and lick gelatos in the afternoon,

It’s good to go when you can still drag a suitcase up stairwells stretching to the heavens,

It’s good to go to Italy even if you only know how to say buon giorno, smiling won’t get you much ricciacelli but you will be served nonetheless,

It’s good to go to Italy when you can still operate a smartphone, navigating bus, train and metro terminals without too many missed stops,

It’s good to go to Italy with a patient partner who lets you stop at a moment’s notice and take plenty of pictures of underwear hanging from the windowsills,

It’s good to go to Italy in a beaten pair of running shoes, you will stick out like a sore thumb amidst all of the high heel boots but you will tip toe up and down the travertine corridors with lightness in your step. It’s good to go to Italy while you can still eat pizza and mozzarella focaccia sandwiches and drink a Negroni or two, well into the night. 

Heavenly Creatures

 

Orange and creamsicle stripes,

In between sour grass.

Poking and prodding at the loose crumbly dirt,

Sticking paws down tunnels, at the voles and mice

Sharing their pathways.

The humans on their tightly scheduled days-

Plans, plans and more plans,

Places to be, people to meet, chores to be done.

Not these two,

The winds blow up the leaves,

And they still notice.

Their scurrings and stirrings are in tune with their mother,

as she stretches and yawns.

The humans that crack open their cans have nearly lost her touch, her reach.

The felines sit still and listen carefully to her whispering.

They bask in the warm light radiating from her cousin in the sky, chasing and biting at the crisp leaves falling from her heavens. 

Late in the day, they congregate on a soft blanket,

Storing up more energy to stir up more mischief late into the night.

On this Day

 Maybe someone should propose regime change in the United States?

One of our first targets:

A girls school.

America, with all your might.

Taking down those irreverent little kindergartners. 

Now, we all in America will carry this stain to our graves. 

America, the big bully, with your B2 bombers and nuclear subs, desperate to keep all other countries impoverished, compliant and under your thumb. So, you can keep up your pursuit of land grabs and iphone upgrades.

Did the U.S. ever once think that one solution to its anxiety over other countries growing more powerful than it could have been by strengthening our relationships abroad? Sharing resources, welcoming refugees, feeding the hungry, building infrastructure, sharing expertise and creating solutions together for sustaining life on Earth for generations to come? Miracles can really happen through kindness and love. Through traveling and seeing other cultures, learning that people are just people and we all just need warmth and food and love.

U.S. with all your power and might, can’t you just do something that is right?

Winter Solstice

Slow down,

so a cat can jump in your lap.

So you can remember it’s November. 

Look up and see the tiny birds leap from branch to branch, two squirrels chasing one another, spiraling a redwood trunk, leaving their scratchy tracks up and down the tree. 

Sit down,

so you can touch the soles of your feet. They have long deep cracks and are slightly painful but you don’t really notice this on your feet all day. You remember to give them a little massage and you put on some furry socks. This feels so nice and delightful.

Slurp up, 

the scrambled eggs, maple bacon, halved, sectioned and sugared grapefruit your sweet man has carried to you on a plate, outside in the chilled air. The maple sugar smell clings onto lazy air particles giving me a sample of his lovely creation. I take a break from sweeping up the leaves and go inside to our table where he placed next to my plate a charcoal clay teacup from a set given to us for our wedding, steam rising from it. I take a sip and the bergamot oil shoots me back to Roosevelt street, standing in the frigid brown-shingle Berkeley kitchen, him pouring hot water from his grandmother’s kettle painted with orange flowers. The flowery scent filling up the space in his bedroom. There he unwraps an aluminum foil she mailed to him with a cake layered with wafers, chocolates, creams, and jams. We tried so hard to take modest slices but each hour of studying physics and chemistry led us back to the kitchen to uncover another aluminum section of the pischinger and another cup of Earl Grey.

Sip,

another cup of coffee. Watch the cats stroll up and down the block. Less consumed with all of the things that have to be and rather indulging in a few choices that are mine to make. Sitting with that. Letting those moments be what they are. Not trying to stuff anything more into this sliver of time. 

Sink, 

into this folding chair. Let the fog bite my nose and fingers. Listen to the day laborers blowing, sawing, shoveling the morning into day. Letting my coffee go cold as I tap into my phone on the front porch.