Under the radar

Sorry to be so scarce lately … but … I’M GONNA FINISH THIS HOUSE IF IT HAIRLIPS THE QUEEN!

Seriously, I’ve got less than 2 weeks and a month’s worth of work to do – reinforcements on the way – thank the goddess.

I’ll be back soon … promise!

On a lighter note I got to spend part of Saturday with my creator, Varla Vixen, and Aimee and her family – all in Seattle on the same day – WOO HOO! The Buffledog became fast friends with Aimee’s Emily – the red, curly hair? – the snaggletooth? – probably just Em being Em *grin* !!!!! Meeting Aimee was long overdue and well worth the wait. Her family being there was a bonus. Since Varla and I missed connections over Christmas we had a lot of catching up to do!

Back to the grindstone now though.

Ya’ll play nice!

Ponder this - part deux!

So … yesterday we left Alberta in the middle of her story. Warning - if you have SAS, well … ‘tis long!

Alberta con’t:

It’s like the woman who feels the cage of her bones, those ribs they’re a prison for her. She’s clawing, clawing at those bone bars, making herself sick. Inside, where you can’t see it, but outside, too.

So she goes to see the Lady of the White Deer – looks like you, Jolene, the way you were last year. Big woman. Big as a tree. Got dark, dark eyes you could get lost in. but she is smiling, always smiling. Smiling as she listens, smiling when she speaks. Like a mother smiles, seen it all, heard it all, but still patient, still kind, still understanding.

“That’s just living,” she tells the caged woman. “Those aren’t bars, they’re the bones that hold you together. You keep clawing at them, you’ll make yourself so sick you’re going to die for sure.”

“I can’t breathe in here,” the caged woman says.

“You’re not paying attention,” the Lady of the White Deer says. “All you’re doing is breathing. Stop breathing and you’ll be clawing at those same bones, trying to get back in.”

“You don’t understand,” the caged woman tells her and she walks away.

So she goes to see the Old Man of the Mountains – looks like you, Bear. Same face, same hair. A big old bear, sitting up there on the top of the mountain, looking out at everything below. Doesn’t smile much, but understands how everybody’s got a secret dark place sits way deep down there inside, hidden but wanting to get out. Understands how you can be happy but not happy at the same time. Understands that sometimes you feel you got to go all the way out to get back in, but if you do, you can’t. There’s no way back in.

So not smiling so much, but maybe understanding a little more, he lets the woman talk and he listens.

“We all got a place inside us, feels like a prison,” he tells her. “It’s darker in some people than others, that all. Thing is, you got to balance what’s there with what’s around you or you’ll find yourself on a road that’s got no end. Got no beginning and goes nowhere. It’s always the same thing, never grows, never changes, only gets darker and darker, like that candle blowing in the wind. Looks real nice till the wind blows it out – you hear what I’m saying?”

“I can’t breathe in here,” the woman tells him.

That old Man of the Mountain he shakes his head. “Your breathing,” he says, “you’re just not paying attention to it. You’re looking inside, looking inside, forgetting what’s outside. You’re making friends with the darkness inside you and that’s not good. You better stop your scratching and clawing or you’re going to let it out.”

“You don’t understand either,” the caged woman says and she walks away.

So finally she goes to see the Old Man of the Desert – looks like you, Crazy Crow. Got the same sharp features, the same laughing eyes. Like to collect things. Keeps a pocket full of shiny mementos that used to belong to other people, things they threw away. Holds on to them until they want them back and then makes a trade. He’d give them away, but he knows what everybody thinks: All you get for nothing is nothing. Got to put a price on a thing to give it any worth.

He doesn’t smile at all when he sees her coming. He puts his hand in his pocket and plays with something as she talks. Doesn’t say anything when she is done, just sits there, looking at her.

“Aren’t you going to help me,” she asks.

“You don’t want any help,” the Old Man of the Desert says. “You just want me to agree with you. You just want me to say, aw, that’s bad, really bad. You’ve got it bad. Everybody else in the world is doing fine, except for you, because you got it so hard and bad.”

The caged woman looks at him. She’s got tears starting in her eyes.

“Why are you being so mean to me?” she asks.

“you’re breathing just fine,” he says right back at her. “The thing is, you’re not thinking so good. Got clouds in your head. Makes it hard to see straight. Makes it hard to hear what you don’t want to hear anyway. Makes it hard to accept that the rest of the world’s not out of step on the wheel, only you are. Work on that and you’ll start feeling a little better. Remember who you are instead of always crying after what you think you want to be.”

“You don’t understand either,” she says.

But before she can walk away, the Old Man of the Desert takes that thing out of his pocket, that thing he’s been playing with and she sees it’s her dancing. He’s got it all rolled up in a ball of beads and cowrie shells and feathers and mud, wrapped around with a rope of braided sweetgrass. Her dancing. Been a long time since she’s seen that dancing. She thought it was lost in the long-ago. Thought it disappeared with her breathing.

“Where’d you get that dancing?” she asks.

“Found it in the trash. You’d be amazed what people will throw out – every kind of piece of themselves.”

She puts her hand out to take it, but the Old Man of the Desert shakes his head and holds it out of her reach.

“That’s mine.” she says. “I lost that in the long-ago.”

“You never lost it.” The Old Man of the Desert tells her. “You threw it away.”

“You got to trade for it,” he says.

The caged woman lowers her head. “I got nothing to trade for it.”

“Give me your prison.” The Old Man of the Desert says.

She looks up at him. “Now you’re making fun of me.” She says. “I give you my prison, I’m going to die. Dancing’s not much used to the dead.”

“Depends,” he says. “Dancing can honor the dead. Lets them breathe in the faraway. Puts a fire in their cold chests. Warms their bone prisons for a time.”

“What are you saying?” the caged woman asks. “I give you my life and you’ll dance for me?”

The Old Man of the Desert smiles and that smile scares her because it’s not kind or understanding. It’s sharp and cuts deep. It cuts like a knife, slips in through the skin, slips past the ribs of her bone prison.

“What you got caging you is the ideas of a prison,” he says. “That’s what I want from you.”

“You want some kind of…story?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not in a bartering mood – not about this kind of thing.”

“I don’t know how to give you my prison,” she says. “I don’t know if I can.”

“All you got to do is say yes,” he tells her.

She looks at the dancing in his hand and it’s all she wants now. There’s little sparks coming off it, the smell of the smudge-sticks and licorice and gasoline. There’s a warmth burning in it that she knows will drive the cold away. That cold. She’s been holding that cold for so long she doesn’t hardly remember what it feel like to be warm anymore.

She’s looking, she’s reaching. She says yes and the Old Man of the Desert gives her back her dancing. And it’s warm and familiar, lying there in her hand, but she doesn’t feel any different. She doesn’t know what to do with it. Now she’s got it. She wants to ask him what to do, but he’s not paying attention to her anymore.

What’s he doing? He’s picking up dirt and he’s spitting on it, spitting and spitting and working the dirt until it’s like clay. And he makes a box out of it and in one side of the box he puts a door. And he digs a hole in the dirt and he puts the box in it. And he covers it up again. And then he looks at her. “One day you’re going to find yourself in that box again,” he says, “but this time you’ll remember and you won’t get locked up again.”

She doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, doesn’t care. She’s got other things on her mind. She holds up her dancing, holds it in the air between them.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” she says. “I don’t know how to make it work.”

The Old Man of the Desert stands up. He gives her a hand up. He takes the dancing from her and throws it on the ground, throws it hard, throws it so hard it breaks. He starts shuffling his feet, keeping time with a clicking sound in the back of his throat. The dust rises up from the ground and she breaths it and then she remembers what it was like and who she was and why she danced.

It was to honor the bone prison that holds her breathing for this turn of the wheel. It was to honor the gift of the world underfoot. It was to celebrate what’s always changing: the stories. The dance of our lives. The wheel of the world and the sky spinning above it and our place in it.

The bones of her prison weren’t there to keep her from getting out. They were there to keep her together.

…from Heartfires by Charles deLint

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND!

Ponder this!

UPDATE: part 2 should be posted around noon Friday! Yes, that's PST! :)

I’ve been rolling this story around in my head for a couple of days, trying to find a way to paraphrase it, to re-tell it, but it is best quoted. It is an excerpt from a book, Heartfires, by one of my favorite authors, a Canadian, Charles deLint.

Four spirits, who have assumed worldly skins, have stumbled upon a room. This room is an “old place” and they are intent on learning its mysteries. The room is stone; walls, floor and ceiling and there is a door that fits very closely with iron hinges and bolts. There are very distinct marks on both sides of the door, as though something was trying to get in or get out. The room is empty and it is clean – there is nothing left in the room. The four spirits want nothing more than to learn the truth of the room and they know that by telling a story that they will hear and know the truth – the story will be the truth and they will know it. They will each take a turn telling the room’s story and of the four, one will be known to be the room’s truth. “A thing is just a thing until you have the story that goes with it.”

The spirits are Crazy Crow the old crow, Alberta the dancer, Jolene the deer and Bear. Alberta’s story is the true story.

Alberta says:
Inside and out, same thing. The wheel doesn’t change, only the way we see it. Door opens either way. Both sides in, both sides out. Trouble is, we’re always on the wrong side, always want the thing we haven’t got, makes no difference who we are. Restless spirits want life, living people look for something better to come. Nobody here. Nobody content with what they got. And the reason for that’s to keep the wheel turning. That simple. Wheel stops turning, there’s nothing left.

Heartfires by Charles deLint

There is more to the story, but since we are all affected with short attention spans, I’ll save the other parts for tomorrow! ;)

Happy Ponderation!

While we are on the subject ...

I'm just fascinated by the crystals formed by the freezing fog! It reminds me of the Cholla cactus in the Sonoran Desert.

Since I was reminded by several of you that it is his blog after all and photos of His Buffleness have been in short supply, I hereby comply! Mea culpa ...

In his element

I'll tell you what on my mind ...

Suet ... mmmmmmm

HAPPY TUESDAY - STAY WARM!

Frozen fog ... I'll freeze you my pretty and your little dog too!

... well, we've had everything else ... so, let's have FOG!!!
Frozen fog no less ... bwahahahahaha!

poor little Japanese maple :(

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

THIS IS SEATTLE DAMMIT!

NEED I SAY MORE???

Top of the world

I had spoken of the visit to Hurricane Ridge before visiting Cape Flattery. These are a couple of photos from that part of the journey. The view of the tops of the Olympic Mountains was expansive and inspiring. It is such a different view of the mountains from what we normally see driving the lower roads that encircle the Olympic Peninsula. There is a point traveling up the winding road that you get your first glimpse and promise of what is to come ahead at the summit. It was remarkable to see the vastness of mountains that we only see in silhouette from the mainland, a view that gives the erroneous impression that the mountains form a single ridge. That impression could not be further from the truth, as they comprise the entire center 2/3rds of the peninsula. We spent a fair amount of time trying to figure out which peak was which without first consulting the topo-map and seeing how close we came. We managed a stellar 1 out of 10 - LOL! The perspective from this vantage point has little relation to what we normally see. It was a wonderful prelude to Cape Flattery.


We had decided to take the less traveled road as we headed west along the northern shore. That route often opened onto vistas of the Straight of Juan de Fuca that separates the peninsula from Vancouver Island, BC, Canada. The road leads to the Makah Indian Reservation on Neah Bay, with Cape Flattery just beyond. The beach was a perfect find without the steep paths leading to it – perfect for a bit of sun and a picnic.




The day had been filled with awesome views and walks. We were primed but not fully prepared for the stunning views at Cape Flattery and the sunset afterward.

The end of the earth

There is something both empowering and humbling about standing on the seeming end of the earth – a spiritual event that invokes respect and evokes reverence.

The day started out as one of those “road trip days” with nothing planned and we were bored with the house. So we spread the map out on the table and looked for somewhere we hadn’t been before! We decided on Hurricane Ridge on the north end of the Olympic Peninsula and it was a drop dead gorgeous day, so we decided to leave the rest of the day open to follow our noses.

Hurricane Ridge was spectacular and we spent the morning on the loop trail, not venturing any farther since we were not prepared for a longer hike. Pulling out of the park gate we made the decision to turn left and head out to Cape Flattery, as it had been on the “to go” list for a while. We’d visited points south of there and hiked a few of the beach trails, but the Cape was yet to be tried.

Cape Flattery is the most northwestern point of the contiguous states and it felt like it while standing on the lookout. The photo above says what I cannot, as it is a place that simply has to be visited to get the full impact. Looking out at the lighthouse on Tatoosh Island we could only imagine the power of the wicked winter sea. The cliffs are sculpted by the crashing waves and convincing evidence of the Pacific’s power was everywhere – though today Poseidon was in a slumber. Having been to Rialto Beach south of there the previous winter, we were very much aware of the scale of the winter waves that pound the northwest coast (an exciting adventure worthy of another post). Standing in the late afternoon sun we both closed our eyes and just drank in the scents and sounds of this beautiful and deadly place. I thought of the mariners who brave the Pacific in its winter fury, who in earlier days were dependent on the lighthouse to guide them away from the treacherous rock. There were certainly those who met their demise on those craggy shores and the skeletons of their craft can be seen down the coast.

The sun felt warm on my face as the cries of the gulls interrupted the wind song in the trees. We heard the eagle long before we spotted it and just as we had decided to go the bald eagle dropped below our vantage point in a majestic glide and we could view it from above – this was a first. We were reluctant to leave but the setting sun was motivation enough to spur us on; onward to home.

We drove in that deferential silence that is reserved for times when something very special had happened. Driving on in reverential awe it may have been thirty miles before we dared to speak.

Our Hummingbird!

This is our little Anna's Hummingbird that I mentioned a couple of posts back. Apparently they are year round residents along the Pacific Coast and west of the Cascades here in the Northwest. This was such a rare moment and the first time I'd seen him sitting still within camera range - he's usually hanging out in the ornamental honeysuckle. The light sucked and I was shooting through glass and storm windows so the shutter speeds were really slow for his quick movements. I found it fascinating how his throat and crown would change from the black/purple to the stunning reds.

click to enlarge

HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A SPLENDID WEEKEND!

Dipping chalk

The familiar scents, scents of chalk dust, sweat, damp leather and stale perfume hit me in the parking lot and the adrenaline began to pump. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed coming here 2, maybe 3 times a week. It didn’t take long to adjust to the melee as I wound my way through the crowd toward a wooden bench. I remembered how crowded it always was in the winter; too cold and wet to venture outside unless one is severely masochistic. Looking around the gym I scanned the crowd for familiar faces, spotted a few and began to paw through my backpack for my shoes and chalk bag knowing I would catch up to them in a little while.

Choosing the red slippers, I began to knead them back into some recognizable form of their former supple selves. Breaking down the leather I began to feel the familiar texture that I’d put away many months ago and I knew how they were going to feel on my feet – which toes would start to go numb after an hour and where the heel would ride. I wondered how my feet would rebel and whether or not the old calluses would be sufficient to prevent blisters. The heels worried me the most as I tend to use a lot of heel hooks.

Satisfied the slippers were supple enough to prevent irreparable harm I set them aside and tried to remember the stretch sequences I needed to do. Again, it was coming back fast and there was a fortuitous clear space in front of the bench. I had done none of these stretches since the surgery and approached the process cautiously. All three sites complained a bit, but not so much that I felt there was danger. Sitting with my legs apart and out in front, it took several attempts to grab each foot and rest my forehead on my kneecap. I knew I was good to go after that and pushed through the rest of the stretches.

A little talcum powder and a lot of tugging on the straps, my feet reluctantly sucked it in and slid into their torturous chambers. The lacing was a bit of trial and error, but I found the combination of tight and loose that works for these shoes. I felt hobbled when I first started walking; however, everything began to mold into place as I walked over to the sink to wash off the talc. Shaking the water off my hands and wiping them on my t-shirt since there were no towels in the dispenser I walked a bit easier to retrieve the chalk bag.

Dipping each hand in the chalk I was deciding whether to traverse the walls clockwise or counter-clockwise – clockwise won for lack of active climbers. I stepped on the first hold and began my dance a few feet up the wall, all around the perimeter of the room. Toes touching holds no wider than the width of a nickel or dime and ankles protesting loudly, I began my journey. I wondered at first whether I would make it all the way without touching down on the floor, but soon I found my groove – an unstructured ballet of subtlety, finding purchase where there should be none. I knew then that I’d come all the way through to the other side of the year, the other side of the surgery. I thought about a friend I had chatted with earlier, filling the screen with complaints of how long it was taking to bounce back and how her encouraging words had led me back - back to life, back to doing something even if it was wrong. I hooked a heel on the hold above the door, dipping chalk and searched for purchase in an awkward arabesque.