Aw, Shucks! Amazing Moments in Progress!

Just a chronicle of the handful of amazing moments I've been having here in Cape San Blas:

(more adventures of this journey forthcoming!)

I was shucking oysters with Bubba at the Indian Pass Raw Bar in Gulf County, between Port St. Joe and Apalachicola, and I found two pearls!

On the dock of Salinas bayou at St. Joe Bay, a dragonfly befriended me!

Shared the sunrise with this beautiful bird.

I take long bike rides every day then jump in the ocean.

Went horseback riding with Li'l Bit on a rainy day, and the sun burst out at sunset!

One of my favorite things is visiting old cemeteries. This is a confederate/yellow fever cemetery in Apalachicola, with gravestones dating back to the mid 1800s.

Admired workhorse shrimping boats and paused to wonder about the life of a shrimper.

Went to an Estaurine and saw tons of species. Then on the way out to the car, we encountered four black bears!

I've learned to make the perfect margarita. I put the whole pitcher in the cooler and take it to the beach with us!

And my first shrimp boil was a huge success: fresh gulf shrimp, fresh yellowfin tuna, hushpuppies, zucchini and summer sqaush, and red potatoes, served with ice cold beer!

The Sun Also Rises: Of Gratitude and Greed

A few days ago I wrote about sunsets and the role they've played in my well being.

It occurred to me that I've seen only a handful of sunrises in my life.  Once in the Arabian Desert. Once on Myrtle Beach. Once in Zion National Park in southern Utah. Once on Tybee Island. Once at Joshua Tree. Once at Zabriske Point in Death Valley. And today I saw a sunrise on the Gulf of Mexico.

To be clear, by "sunrise" I mean the witness of the sun come over the horizon, not obfuscated by buildings or trees, although it admirable to be outside anywhere at sunrise.

I got to thinking about the difference between the sun coming up and the sun going down, the voices of  The Beatles and Elton John echoing in my mind. 

I think about the long amber rays of a summer sunset, as it casts shadows and turns grass gold, and makes children dance giddily in circles, anticipating the rise of the fireflies. Fortunate adults will also dance this beautiful dance. I think about driving somewhere at sunset, usually to a social engagement, and the excitement that those golden rays exude. I think about outdoor festivals and concerts and how the mood changes drastically when the sun takes leave. I think about the contemplative sunsets on the beaches I described a few days ago, the mellow hush commanding my sense and sensibilities, making me grateful for every breath I've ever taken, ever blade of grass I've ever touched, every cheek I've ever kissed.

But sunrise has always brought about a different sort of excitement and emotion for me. 

Where sunsets are rich and golden, sunrises are fresh and pink. Sunsets are old men full of wisdom, and sunrises are young men full of ideas.

It doesn't matter what I'm doing--running through the streets of my neighborhood, getting an early start at work, camping--the feeling is hopeful but completely different from sundown. At sundown I'm reflective on the day that has past. But at sunrise, there is nothing but vast sky. I feel hopeful of what I'm going to take from the day. Life is just a promise without a history to temper my optimism. The sunset rights my wrongs. The sunrise knows no wrongs.

Perhaps this contrast has to do with population. Sunsets are densely populated. Sunrises are sparsely populated. Near a coast, sunsets are rituals, and people will come out in droves to splendor in her beauty. Nary a soul will get up before the sun merely to greet her. But if you do, you are rewarded with personal face time with the sun. You are her only child. You're a bit spoiled and a lot idealistic.

I've always been a morning person. As a child, I'd get up early to feed our livestock animals, and take note of the stillness of the day, the dew on the grass, the smell of the air, the color of the sky, and I'd bask in a special time when my siblings and parents were still sleeping. Precious solitude.

As a young adult, I was in the Air Force. During our eight month tech training school in Denver, we would often pool our money and get a hotel room on a Friday night, just to get off base and away from the drill instructors, and of course to party, which wasn't allowed in our dorms. I loved the excitement of changing into our civvies, catching the bus downtown to Sixth Street,  and checking into a high rise that overlooked the lights of the Mile High City. But I'd always rise early and walk the quiet streets alone before anyone else arose. I'd meet them later at a noisy Village Inn for pancakes and rehashing of the night's stupid events. They'd ask where I'd been that morning, but back then I lacked the eloquence to simply say: Precious Solitude.

As an adult, I'm often the first one at work by design. I love being the one whose motion triggers the lights. The one who makes the coffee--extra strong. Most days I have moments of feeling overwhelmed at work, but when I'm the only one there, I feel calm and confident. First on the scene.

The few times I've actually watched an unobstructed sun rise, I've usually been alone, and I get the same feeling of calm confidence. My day is a canvas, not one mark made yet, my paintbrush poised to make that first indelible mark. It's all mine. I decide the stroke. The colors. The scene.

To be blunt, at sunset I feel grateful that I made it through another day. But at sunrise, I feel power and greed. This day is mine. This life is mine. I can make it whatever I want to make it.  This is my time.

And because it so sparsely populated, sunrise is actually more rare than a sunset, more precious. And it's all mine.

I just realized that I prefer sun rises to sunsets.

Call me greedy.

Surely the sun can forgive me this deadly sin. 

Precious Solitude.


Sunrise over the Gulf of Mexico from Cape San Blas, Florida.

Do Let the Sun Go Down on Me

I figured out recently why I sometimes feel off and unbalanced: I can't see the sun rise or set where I live. It is blocked by houses and buildings.

I grew up on a farm, and my back yard was forty acres of farmland and ten acres of first growth forest. I loved to watch the sunset from my bedroom window, especially in winter. The warm and vibrant colors of the sky made a startling contrast to the cold and barren terrain. This was my favorite time to ride my horse, Suzy: in the winter, during early pink sundowns, crunching in pink sparkling snow. It was a lonely yet edifying time. 

Our farm was just a couple of miles from the golden shores of Lake Michigan, and watching the sunset has always been a ritual for me. Whenever I'm visiting, I make it a point not to schedule any activities during sundown. If people invite me out, I'll even tell them: "I can't come til after the sunset." In the summer, the sun goes down around 9; in the winter around 6. Sunsets in the winter are far more dramatic than sunsets in the summer, although it's so cold that you can't really linger. In the summer, I take my favorite beach chair, my camera, a bottle of wine, and a real glass, and I linger as long as possible. I don't often take people with me because they get bored, and I hate to hasten something so beautiful. It's also a somewhat religious experience (as religious as an agnostic person can get), and I don't like to dilute the experience with idle conversation. Now if  a person doesn't mind just staring at the sun and watching and noting the change of hue in the water for hours and not saying a word, then he or she might be the perfect companion for my favorite activity.

When I was going through the worst of my depression five or so years ago, it was the sunset that got me through. I would park my car in the sandy lot, walk a few hundred steps, climb over the dune, and the second I'd see the blue waters and the horizon, I would instantly feel a calm come over me, just like a wave. I audibly let out a gasp whenever I see it, a figurative and metaphoric exhale that is at once relaxing and invigorating. Whenever I see this special place, I am overcome with the notion that no matter what else is happening in my life, everything will be okay.

When I realized that not partaking of this spectacular experience on a more regular basis was causing me some inexplicable agitation, I immediately wondered if I should give up my comfortable house in the suburbs to buy an old farm house so that I could have this ritual on a nightly basis. Thankfully I quickly dismissed this idea. For one thing, unless I purchased about 40 acres, I could never be certain that a developer wouldn't come along and build a new a housing addition, thereby obstructing my coveted view. I also remember firsthand the hassles of living on a farm, and knew I didn't want to take on that much responsibility again. My friend has a horse farm south of my city, and sometimes we ride horses in the afternoon, then sit on her deck at dusk, wine in hand, and enjoy the long golden rays. She seems to understand the importance of this ritual and doesn't say much. 

My parents recently sold their farm. Before the new owners took possession, I did a tour of the house. They haven't actually lived in it for seven years, and  I hadn't walked its floors in as many years. The last seven years have felt like a lifetime, and I've never experienced more changes in my life than I did in those seven years. I purposely went back to the farm at dusk so that I could watch the sunset one last time from the bedroom of my childhood. I realized how easy it was to etch this sunset in my permanent memory so that I could revisit it any time I wanted.

The beauty of the sunset is so powerful and absorbing, and it demands of me that I think of nothing but its beauty to reflect on the mysteries of the earth and life. Watching the sun set also puts me in the frame of mind to inventory my day and to discern whether or not I spent it wisely. It is a visual reminder that the day is over, and a last chance to make good on it. I've never watched a sunset and felt sad afterward. I've always felt hopeful, and above all that life is simple if I just focus on the simple things...and take the time to watch and feel.

Here are some pics I took of my favorite beach over Thanksgiving. Grand Mere. Stevensville, Michigan.

Slumber Party

I spent Thanksgiving with my family.

My mom and dad always work together to get the meal ready, and I love to observe them and their silent language and their methods of working around each other to complete a task, even when they fuss at each other. My mom will get bossy, and my dad will tease her or imitate her, and she'll break out into a laugh. I always admire her for laughing at herself. Sometimes when he mocks her voice, she'll grab the carving knife and brandish it at him, and he'll tell her she couldn't stab the broad side of a barn.

One year it was just my mom and dad and me, and we had steak on the grill and red wine, and I always have fond memories of that year. I had been having a hard time with holidays for the previous few years that followed my divorce, and that year it seemed I had finally turned a corner and was able to enjoy the holiday again without it bringing up bad memories. It was also the first year that we didn't spend it with extended family, and also I was the only sibling who could make the trip that year. 

Last year, I took my nieces and nephews out the day after Thanksgiving to see the latest Muppet Movie. I had seen the first Muppet Movie with my brother and cousins on Thanksgiving. It's fun taking them places without their parents, and it reminds of when my Aunt Jeanette (who had no children) would take us for a day and how exciting it was. As the movie started, I wondered how it would hold up after thirty years, and with a new generation. Turned out they loved it. After the movie, I couldn't bear to take them home yet, and we wound up going to visit my grandma, walking on the pier, playing on the beach, eating at our favorite pizza place, and playing on the bluff. It wound up being one of my favorite days of my life.

I had planned on making it a tradition, but this year I had to cut the trip short to return home. I came up with a great idea to make this year special. I asked my brother if I could spend the night at his house (as opposed to my parents' house) the night before and have a slumber party with the kids. When I pulled into the driveway, they came out running out the door to greet me, and it made me wonder if they were sitting in the window, watching cars go by in anticipation like I did when I was little.

We made pizzas, and then my brother wanted to make a "Thankful Chain." He cut out ten strips of paper for each of us, and we wrote on them the things we're most thankful for in life, then formed them into a chain. It was a great way to see into their minds and hearts. I mean to take a pic of the chain for my Photo 365 project but forgot.

Since I was the one who requested the sleep over, I had decided that I should at least provide the activity. I thought about bringing a movie but decided against it. Instead I stopped stopped by the library  and picked out a stack of storybooks for bedtime and also some "Draw 50 -- " books.

Once I got there, things were a bit chaotic, and I wondered if my old fashioned quiet activities would fall flat with the Wii and DVD generation. They did not. Even the teenage boy joined in on the drawing part. I always loved drawing but was never good at it. I like the silence and concentration, and it seemed to have a calming effect on them too. They had so much fun, that they wouldn't go to bed when they were told, and kept saying, "One more picture!"

I foolishly started to doubt my storybook idea, but decided to ask anyway, and they were really excited. I picked out six books, and we took turns reading them in their respective bedrooms. I felt myself get self- conscious when I started doing voices and adding melodrama, but they laughed, so I made my telling bigger and bigger. The were great listeners, and liked all the stories. I was a little perplexed when the story that was written the most poorly was their favorite, so I asked them what they liked about it. It's an old book from the 70s about two English boys who are walking on the shore and find a girl floating in the sea. I was sure it must seem dated and silly to them, but they simply liked that premise better than of the others, despite its clunky writing and rudimentary artwork. This told me something a little bit about children's imaginations--they like timeless tales and simple stories of lost little girls and nice boys who help them, despite the melange of sophisticated and often sarcastic children's movies and books that are offered today.

It's easy to think that kids aren't really kids anymore, but after this slumber party, I had to reconsider this position. Maybe kids do yearn for a more simplistic lifestyle. Who knew that they would be delighted to draw, play checkers, and read stories all night?

I wonder if they'll remember this day when they grow up. It doesn't matter. It turns out that the time I spend with them benefits me far more than it does them.  And, I got another day to add to my "favorite days" list. 

 

The Journey of a Thousand Miles...

...Begins with a Single Step

I read these words inside my sister's senior yearbook when I was in fifth grade. I guess it was my first "quote," the first time I saw words as both artistic and practical and as timeless tools that could help me if I understood their implications. 

Procrastination, an infirmity that had already planted its seed in my endeavors, was something I knew I would have to battle if I were ever to see my dreams come true, and these words were a bit of an indictment and warning to me--until I actually used them. Once applied, these words helped me break down my fears, which I believe all procrastination is rooted in, and helped me approach tasks just a little more methodically and easily, the success of which would eventually give me the courage to keep on the trek when things actually became difficult.

But the bigger word here is Journey, and a long, possibly arduous journey at that, which could reap many rewards.  It might have been these words that solidified the only dream I ever had, which put my entire being into a single word, an essence: Journey.  

I dreamed of places I’d go, and things I’d be. I wanted to go to Yugoslavia, Okinawa, and Austria, and inside the torch of the Statue of Liberty. As for career, I never dreamed of being a nurse or teacher or lawyer. I wanted to own a record store, and have a resident cat and golden retriever, and a parrot who could sing all the rock standards. I would wear jeans and a bandana everyday and know all my customers by name, and get musicians to perform in my store. I wanted to live somewhere warm so I could ride my skateboard to work. This was 1979, so I’m proud to say I was ahead of my time in terms of being green, even if my other dreams were dashed by war and technology. I briefly wanted to be a physical therapist, a psychiatrist, and a cruise director, the latter of which was dashed when it looked as if evening gowns would be part of my daily wardrobe, if I were to believe what I saw on The Love Boat. I wanted to live in an old apartment over a store on an old city block and have plants on the window sills and beads in the arched doorways.

I just started buying records again to replace the collection I foolishly surrendered to Half Price Books in the mid-nineties when I was moving for the eighth time is six years. I live in a big house in the suburbs and never had a cool apartment (although I do have some really cool beaded curtains I bought in Turkey). I have a good job in a big corporation that neither stresses nor inspires me. I have found a bit of success as a writer, but when I say “bit” I mean “really really wee bit.” I always said that if my day job didn’t exhaust me for my passions then I was doing fine, in fact, great. All these years of adulthood I’ve considered myself lucky that I can support myself and lead a full productive life that starts after 5 pm. I had love and marriage and lost them both, and nowadays I tell myself I am lucky that I never had mommy dreams as a child. I have traveled the world, lived on foreign soil, slept in palaces in Europe, bamboo huts in Thailand, canvas tents in Africa and Saudi Arabia, and shanties in Honduras. I have seen America and much of its splendor, but not nearly enough. 

When I was in ninth grade, there was a popular song that had a beautiful sentiment but had such a sappy sound that I was embarrassed to actually like it. The chorus was "I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me."

I'm 44, and I'm kind of in the adolescence of my adulthood. I find myself confused, rebellious, melancholy, and often dissatisfied with my own nest that I built myself and am questioning rules I've created for myself. A couple of brave peers of mine are packing up and starting over, carte blanche, sight unseen, full of dreams and fear and above all commitment. They've sold off their possessions, uprooted themselves, and opened themselves up to be a canvas for the universe to make its indelible mark. Or, wait, is the universe their canvas, waiting for their indelible mark?

Indelible. See, at our age, the stakes are higher, because most of us enjoyed the fruits of our labor, paid our dues, and have found comfort in the life we've chosen. Anything we do now will definitely have a lifelong impact, and we have more to lose than we did say, at 23. Or is that just one of the rules we've instigated: anything we've earned, we must not ever lose.  

But what are my "things?" I've had the luxury my entire life of not being materialistic. I admire the beautifully appointed and decorated homes of some of my successful friends, and while I could afford many of the same luxuries, I have no interest in investing the time it would take to decorate. I also have a suspicion that doing so would not ultimately bring me any joy. Sometimes in my home, after a stressful day or an extended period of time away, what I do feel is a sense of satisfaction, as I sink into my purple couch, my feet propped up on orange ottomans, my cat in my lap, my dog at my feet, and think that life could not better.

I realize now what this picture represents. It represents "cozy." And "cozy" means "safe." And "safe" means "secure." And when I feel secure I feel success.

Sometimes this success in security brings me tremendous joy and satisfaction, but I’ve noticed a pattern. I only feel this way, or rather only allow myself to feel that way, after completing an excruciating creative project, and after a few days of rest and bliss, I am back to restless. 

I think back on the ways I used to fill my time to convince myself I was living the good life, and I don’t miss those days, and count my blessings that I moved on. What these experiences offered was a fun diversion. What they didn’t offer was a meaningful essence. The creative projects I have endeavored have brought me an essence that most people only dream about. I can say this because I used to one of those people who was driven to depression and fear because I was not creating.

But lately, I feel change afoot, and I cannot name it. Am I to move and set down new roots? Am I to grow wings and rest in the sand only briefly? Am I to search for a new career? Am I to change the direction of my creative passion?

The changes were brought on by changes in personal relationships. I have assessed the damage, noted my contribution, and have resolved to do better next time. The loneliness and loss I feel, however, has not been such an easy guest to evict. I realize the power is mine to bid loneliness goodbye, to stop asking why, and to accept others’ decisions. But I’m not doing so well at that, and I am left wondering if that dissatisfaction is driving the winds of change that I am either feeling or am imagining. 

The truth is, I don’t know if moving away and starting over is a viable option for me. A few members of my immediate family and four of my nieces and nephews live within half a day's driving distance. I am not sure I could break my only connection to the only family who has remained in my life. I'm enjoying watching my nieces and nephews grow up, and I'm enjoying getting to know my brother as an adult, and learning to connect with him even though we have polar opposite political beliefs, has been a fulfilling endeavor. I also find comfort in being able to go home anytime I want. In happy times, I explore the beautiful beaches, ravines, and dunes and feel blessed. In sad times, I explore the same beautiful places and remember that life is worth the hassle. The beauty of this place is virtually unsurpassed of anything I've seen the world over, so I do feel very connected to this land and want to be able to reach it anytime I want, to be able to just drop everything at a moment's notice. I've even considered buying some property there so that I'll always have a place to go, even after my parents are gone. It's strange. Most people where I live now are from here, but I've never heard of them feeling connected to the land. I actually feel connected to the soil on which my feet learned to walk, and I sense this is a rare feeling, so I want to keep it close.

While some people can drop everything to pursue their dreams, my creative endeavors have never come close to paying all my bills. They have afforded me some lovely trips, but they cannot be looked upon as income by any means. Jobs are scarce, and I have a good one that most days causes me no stress that I can’t turn off at 5 pm. I also have a solid committed and deeply fulfilling romantic relationship here, and I cannot count on that person being able or necessarily wanting to follow me. I also have artistic connections here that I don’t have in other cities. And finally and probably most important: I am afraid. Of the unknown. Of finding connections. Of making true friends. Would I move to a big exciting city only to sit alone every night? Would I find my way into parties? Most likely. But would I make connections, the meaningful connections I so desire? I don’t know. I thought I had made many friendships here when I moved here, but very few of them have been true. This hurts me more than I care to admit, and therein lies the problem. Did I choose poorly? Did I expect too much? Can I learn to expect less of other people and more of myself?

But a long time ago, I learned this little trick about gaining confidence. It’s called “taking the first step.” Navigating the winds of change I think I’m feeling will certainly be a journey. My goal is to stand firm in those winds, to not blow away and tumble into more diversions of temporary amusement. I know this much. I want more. I want more from myself and I want deeper connections with people, and both of things start with me.

So with the winds swirling around me, I am digging in, and I am going on a journey with my feet firmly in place. I am going to journey where I am, on familiar soil to find new terrains and vistas, and mostly to journey to my truest self, this journey of a thousand miles. My footsteps will be marked in honesty. Even when honesty is hard to look in the eye and makes me look bad. The only way I know how to stay on this course is to document it.

This is my journey. My Journey in Place.
 
One other thing, I plan to document my journey with the Photo 365--a photograph every day--project.

Sunshine on my shoulder in my rear view mirror. Bike riding my neighborhood on a balmy November day, perhaps my last ride of the year.