How long does a second last? As long as it takes for a hummingbird to beat its wings 70 times, as long as it takes for you to blink your eyes. The difference between winner and runner up in the Olympics is one second, it could also be the difference between life and death.
Were angels watching over my son when that huge redwood tree narrowly missed crushing him to death inside his car? Do angels even exist? And if so are they always benevolent beings who look out for our well being and keep us safe from harm?
Sam’s car was a 1994 Mazda Miata, a tiny bug of a sports car with a convertible fabric roof. The redwood tree was at least 50 feet tall. A couple of weeks ago Sam was driving home from work down a narrow side street a few miles from our house, it was the night of that nasty “atmospheric river” winter storm. It had been pouring all day and high winds were whipping tall trees around like blades of grass. The redwood came down without warning, striking the front bumper of his car just below the headlights, stopping it dead in its tracks. We figured it was a matter of one second. Had Sam arrived at that exact moment in time one second later, that tree would have come down on a very different part of the car. One second. The blink of and eye, 70 beats of a hummingbird’s wings.
When Carol and I got home with Sam that night, we were all in shock. I think he realized how close he came to being seriously injured or killed, but in the moment was more upset about his car being totaled. When you’re 19 years old you’re bulletproof and can’t imagine your own demise.
On my way to bed I could hear wind and lashing rain outside as the storm was still going strong. I went by Sam’s room to say goodnight. When he came to the door and I pulled him close, hugging him as if to take in his entire being. I breathed in his scent, feeling the muscles in his back and the outline of his collarbone against mine. I hugged my son like I’ve never hugged him before, the gratitude I felt at that moment was overwhelming. I didn’t know who or what to thank. “I love you more than anything in the world” I whispered.
Sleep did not come easily for me that night but when it did I knew that Sam was safe and sound…and alive. When I awoke the next morning, I walked into his room and did something that I hadn’t done since he was a baby: I stood beside his bed and watched him as he slept.
On a typical day at Tower Records there was sex, there were drugs and there was most definitely rock and roll. Rock stars and movie stars were regular customers, members of the San Francisco Giants and 49ers could be spied browsing the racks. Famous bands would make in store appearances to promote their latest records. There was coke, weed and everything in between. You never knew which couple you’d stumble upon grunting and groaning in one of the many hidden nooks in the backroom. I was 22, on my own for the first time, living the California dream and working at the best job I ever had.
Being from New Jersey, I had never heard of Tower Records. When I arrived on the West coast in 1979 Tower had yet to expand nationwide and only had stores in California. My college friend Kenny and I washed up in the Bay Area fresh from a two week cross country odyssey, decided to stick around and needed to find jobs. Someone told us to head over to Tower so we did. We walked into the store one at a time and walked out with jobs. I actually had a resume and handed it to the gruff, bear like manager. I think it was all he could do to keep from laughing in my face and throwing me out of the store. He must have been in a good mood that day because I got hired. I still remember my “interview”:
Me: “I’m looking for a job.”
Manager: “Ever work in a record store?”
Me: “No, but I know a lot about music.”
Manager: “It’s minimum wage, lots of nights.”
Me: “I don’t care, I need a job.”
Manager: “Come in on Monday.”
On our first day of work we received our “training” from flamboyant Assistant Manager Randall. This guys wasn’t much older than Kenny and me, maybe in his late 20’s. and unabashedly, openly gay. In New Jersey most gays were deep in the closet so to meet someone so open and unapologetic was a revelation. While showing us around the store, Randall treated us with thinly veiled contempt, telling us that if we wanted to do drugs, to do so “across the street.” Thankfully, the days of drug tests and zero tolerance were still a few years away. If random drug tests were even conducted at Tower back then, virtually every employee would fail, including the managers, especially the managers!
There was a lot of drug use at Tower. Most of us were between the ages of 17 and 25 and into experimentation. Pretty much any substance you wanted was available. This was the cocaine era, so there was always lots of that going around. Since I was making minimum wage and barely getting by, I rarely bought it, hoping instead to occasionally get my nose packed for free. One guy almost aways had an ounce or two of mushrooms in his locker. Up until my Tower days I had only smoked low grade Mexican marijuana, since that was the only type available on the East coast. I soon became acquainted with a fellow employee named Travis, an ultra-mellow dude who grew his own weed. He never sold it, just got his friends high. I quickly discovered the many virtues of California marijuana. “Trav weed” became the stuff of legend at our store.
Tower in Mountain View, CA…where it all began for me.
Tower was the greatest record store in history. They were a deep catalogue store, meaning they carried every title that an artist had in print. If it was an official release, Tower had it. They were open 9am-midnight, 365 days a year so if you were a music junkie you could alway get your fix. Kenny and I had no idea what we were getting into and had no idea how totally cool Tower was. When you told someone you worked at Tower Records you were treated kind of like a rock star. At work we’d sometimes even cop rock star attitudes, treating the customers with smug indifference while at the same time availing them of our musical expertise. One day a customer complained to Randall about the music he was playing. His response? “If you don’t like it, go to Sears!” During your eight hour shift you’d be responsible for a two hour stint running the front register. You could play whatever music you liked at basically any volume you liked. You ran the show and set the tone for the store during that time. On nights when customers were lingering too close to closing time we’d play some late period atonal John Coltrane or Hendrix at ear splitting volume in order to flush them towards the exit. It almost always worked. Tower was THE place to go, everyone knew it. If you wanted to shop there, you played by our rules.
One of the best aspects of Tower was the people who worked there. Yes we definitely could cop an attitude now and then but we were also extremely knowledge about music. On any given day there was always someone on hand who could help a customer find a record or answer a musical question. We worked there because of our passion for music, not for the $3.10 per hour. Of course there were other perks; the promotional copies of records and free concert tickets helped to supplement the minimum wage. Tower employees were better than Spotify or Pandora will ever be, we were human beings who lived and breathed music, not a algorithm.
Tower Records existed in an analogue world, albums and tapes that’s what we sold. If you wanted to hear new music or were curious about a band you had seen live or heard on the radio, you’d most likely find their music at Tower. You had to get off of your ass, drive to the store and interact with an actual person. A human connection would be made, especially if you and that employee had a mutual affinity for that artist. Music wasn’t available at the touch of a screen, it took some effort on your part, you had to earn it. One night Kenny and I rushed to the store right before they closed because we absolutely had to hear Stop Your Sobbing by The Kinks. Of course Tower had it. When a much anticipated new album by a popular artist dropped at Tower, people would be waiting outside before we opened. They’d gleefully snatch up their copy, holding it in their hands like a treasure.
Simply stated, Tower Records was about the power of music and the joy that it brings to people. I’m grateful to have played a small part in that. My time at Tower was a watershed event and served as a springboard to the rest of my life. It was without a doubt the best job I ever had.
Since the dawn of cinema, music and the movies have been integral to one another. Even before the advent of sound, films would be accompanied by live musicians in the theater. Back then a movie theater was a palace, the viewing of a film a shared experience in the dark.
Directors choose specific songs and musical styles for their films in order to best get their point across. They understand, as do we, that music can convey a wide range of emotions. Images are powerful and so is music. When the two are effectively combined the experience is unforgettable and becomes indelibly etched into the mind of the viewer. The music and the image accompanying it become one and the same.
When I had the idea for this essay, I began to think about the music/film combinations that have the greatest effect on me. There have been so many. For my money though, the following two films are particularly spot on in their use of music. The fit is so perfect that one could not exist without the other.
Harold and Maude (1971)
Director: Hal Ashby
Music: Cat Stevens
Harold and Maude tells the story of the unlikely May/December romance between morose teenager Harold (Bud Cort) and the ever optimistic septuagenerian Maude (Ruth Gordon). In Harold’s world, the glass is always half empty. He sees no point in living and throughout the film stages a series of mock suicides in order to get the attention of his cold, self possessed mother (Vivian Pickles). After a chance meeting with Maude (at a funeral)! Harold’s life is changed forever. In Maude’s world the glass is overflowing and she helps Harold to see and appreciate the often overlooked beauty that surrounds us all and tries to impress upon him the importance of living each day to its fullest. In all the film’s important scenes the music of Cat Stevens is there to effectively drive these points home, his songs are seamlessly integrated throughout. The message in the film’s key songs (Don’t Be Shy, If You Want To Sing Out, Trouble) is to be yourself and let your emotions out, whatever they may be; feel your feelings, live! Stevens’ gentle, plaintive vocals and honest lyrics seem to speak directly through Maude to Harold. This is a sweet, life affirming film and a textbook example of the use of music in film.
The Graduate (1967)
Director: Mike Nichols
Music: Simon and Garfunkel
Over the opening credits of The Graduate, we see a close-up of Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) on the moving floor at the airport. The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel is playing and sets the tone for one of the seminal films of the 1960s. Benjamin’s isolation and bewildered expression coupled with the music, perfectly captures that post-college feeling of “what do I do next?” Benjamin is a microcosm for the angst that young people were experiencing during that turbulent decade. His affair with the much older Mrs. Robinson (Anne Bancroft) further adds to his confusion.
What really gives this film much of its power are the songs of Paul Simon. Scarborough Fair is heard throughout the film, adding emotional weight to several key scenes. April Come She Will is used in that wonderful scene where Benjamin goes from jumping out of the pool at his house to jumping onto Mrs. Robinson in their hotel room bed. Of course Mrs. Robinson’s eponymous song is prominently featured. And who could ever forget that final scene? Benjamin has just kidnapped Elaine (Katharine Ross) from her wedding. They run from the church, hop on a city bus and drive away into an unknown future to the strains, once again, of The Sound Of Silence. These songs are perfectly crafted, beautifully performed and impossible to listen to anytime without thinking of The Graduate.
Honorable mention:
For sheer, unbridled joy, it’s hard to top the Twist and Shout scene from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Ferris (Matthew Broderick) finds himself atop a float in a parade through downtown Chicago. With microphone in hand he lip-syncs and gyrates his way through that timeless classic by The Beatles. He’s joined by everyone from a baby in a stroller to a window washer on a scaffold until the entire street becomes one hip swaying, booty shaking sea of humanity.
No film has ever captured the nuances of a romantic relationship better than Woody Allen’s Annie Hall. Diane Keaton’s bittersweet rendition of Seems Like Old Times over the closing narration by Alvy (Woody Allen) is the perfect grace note to one of Allen’s most beloved films.
In the opening scene of Martin Scorsese’s magnum opus gangster film Goodfellas, Henry (Ray Liotta), Jimmy (Robert De Niro), and Tommy (Joe Pesci) are on their way to bury the guy in the trunk of their car whom they think they’ve successfully “wacked”. Noises from the trunk cause them to pull over and find that the guy is still alive. With a butcher knife and pistol, Tommy and Jimmy finish the job. As the last shot rings out, Henry exclaims in a voiceover, “As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a gangster.” Cue, Rags To Riches by Tony Bennett and you’ve got the ideal song to kick start this genre defining film.
In The Big Chill, a group of old college friends have reunited for the funeral of their friend Alex. At the conclusion of the service Karen (Jo Beth Williams) is invited up to play one of Alex’s favorite songs. She seats herself at the organ and proceeds to play You Can’t Always Get What You Want. The camera slowly pans to the faces of Alex’s friends, each one breaks into a knowing smile as they recognize the song. As the pallbearers are loading the casket into the hearse, the solo organ segues seamlessly into The Rolling Stones recording of the song. Talk about a big chill, I get goosebumps just thinking about this moment.
George Lucas’ 1973 film American Graffiti is a love letter to the early days of rock and roll. The songs are vibrant and hopeful, they perfectly capture the innocence of post-Elvis, pre-Beatles America before the events of November 22, 1963 changed us forever. Virtually every song in this film is a classic of the genre, however there’s one song that tugs at my heart strings every time.
The film follows the exploits of a group of California teenagers over the course of one long summer night. Curt (Richard Dreyfuss) spends the bulk of that night waffling back and forth about leaving for college the next day while at the same time searching for an elusive blonde in a white T-bird, as if finding her will somehow help him decide what to do with his life. He eventually decides on school. In the final scene we find Curt gazing out the window of an airplane at that white T-bird cruising down below. The camera pans to a blue sky as the Beach Boys’ All Summer Long plays over the closing credits. It’s a beautifully poetic end to an unforgettable film.
What are your faves? Leave a comment, I’d love to hear.
1. the seemingly inevitable or necessary succession of events.
It’s entirely possible that one of the most significant days of your life has come and gone without you noticing. It most likely appeared uneventful at the time but somewhere down the road perhaps you’ll be able to pinpoint that day as the beginning of a chain reaction. Like an echo in time, the events of that particular day have reverberated throughout your entire life. There have been a few such days in my own life.
September 5, 1985
I was attending a Grateful Dead concert at Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado. I had recently purchased my first 35mm camera and was enrolled in a photography class at the local junior college. I had gotten into the habit of carrying my camera everywhere. In the tradition of famous street photographers like Cartier Bresson, I would snap away at random hoping to capture that elusive “decisive moment”. At Red Rocks that day, I did indeed capture a decisive moment, although at the time I didn’t realize how decisive that moment was until nearly a year later.
Red Rocks that afternoon was a swirl of color and light, tie dyes and flowing hair, smiles and marijuana smoke, patchouli and promise. While surveying the pre-show crowd, a lovely young woman with shoulder length brown hair and an electric smile caught my eye. I snapped off two quick frames and moved on, not giving this fleeting moment another thought until two months later when I ran into Ms Electric Smile again, this time at a Grateful Dead concert in Oakland, CA. Her name was Michelle and she had just relocated to the Bay Area from Denver. I introduced myself and told Michele that I had these photos and would like to send them along to her. Over the next six months we kept running into each other at Dead shows. We became friends, then lovers. Michelle and I had a sweet eight year relationship that eventually transitioned into a deep and loving friendship that continues to this day.
Michelle also introduced me to some of her friends, an eclectic group of fellow travelers, our common thread being the love of the Grateful Dead. From those initial meetings bloomed many heartfelt friendships that are still going strong. John officiated at mine and Carol’s wedding and I was best man at Mitch’s wedding. These two guys are like brothers to me. All this as the result of two random photographs.
February 22, 1992
I’m in the hallway at the Oakland Coliseum deep within the vortex of hundreds of other dancers as we swirl and sway, hip hop and sashay to our favorite band, the Grateful Dead. At one point during the show, I noticed this woman dancing with reckless abandon into our orbit. She looked a bit like Joni Mitchell, circa 1969, complete with flowing blonde hair and bangs. I was immediately drawn to her wild energy, crazy laugh and beaming smile. That was the beginning of my friendship with Dannielle. Over the next decade Dann and I shared more fun, crazy, intense times than I can begin to recount. All of which lead me to:
April 21, 2001
It was a Saturday afternoon. I was at Dannielle’s apartment helping her paint. I had no way of knowing that I was about to meet the love of my life and future mother of our two children.
The previous summer I had just gotten out of a four year relationship and that was just about the time when Dannielle started talking up this friend of hers named Carol whom she had met several years ago waiting in line for Grateful Dead tickets. “Carol’s a hippie, dancer, Deadhead, traveler, you’d love her.” I was definitely intrigued. It took a few months but Dann finally managed to arrange a meeting between me and Carol.
Needless to say, my mind wasn’t really on painting that afternoon at Dannielle’s. Carol was coming over and the three of us would later head to a local bar for drinks and a bluegrass band. Dann lived in a studio apartment above a house in Santa Rosa. The access to her apartment is via a winding metal staircase. Two things will live in my memory forever from that initial meeting with Carol. The first was the clomp, clomp, clomp that her shoes made as she ascended those metal stairs. The second was the way Carol burst through the door and into my life. She wore a scarf around her head that intwined through her long, flowing red hair. Her colorful, patchwork skirt swished around her ankles as she entered. Carol’s sparkling blue eyes and broad, toothy smile lit up the room. It was at that instant when the rest if my life began.
These events have had a profound effect on me, changed my life for the better and made me a believer in destiny.
Electric orbs of fruit dangle from our tangerine tree like earrings on the Buddha. Tangerines are holy fruit, each one is a sunrise or a sunset; the promise of a new day or gratitude for the day that has just passed. Is there a more delightful fruit than a tangerine?
The “tree” in our backyard is really no more than a bush about four feet high. This year it’s packed with so much fruit, I had to prop up its branches with poles to prevent breakage. Other than that, the tree requires such little care; a bit of weeding, some compost and a round or two of organic fertilizer is all it takes for this tree to thrive year in and year out. The appearance in summer of pure white blossoms with their intoxicatingly sweet fragrance is a harbinger of the sweetness to come.
Tangerines ripen in early winter, we have perhaps a month or so to harvest and eat the fruit before it rots. We rarely waste any. The ephemeral nature of the fruit makes it all the more special. Tangerines are available most of the year in supermarkets but I rarely buy them. Their taste is a mere shadow of the succulent gems that our tree produces. The time that I get to eat homegrown tangerines is short, so I savor each and every one. Sooner than later I’ll pick the last one and the tree will once again be barren. I take full advantage of the miracle of sun, soil and water that produces our tangerines.
Unlike an orange, which takes time and effort to peel, the peel of a tangerine surrenders itself quite easily. Attached to the fruit by thin white tendrils, the peel of a tangerine can be removed in one piece, in mere seconds. If a tangerine is small enough it can be consumed in one or two bites. Ahh, but if you do that, you’re missing half the fun. It takes many months for a tangerine to go from blossom to ripe fruit, so why rush it? It’s best to experience a slow savor. Each segment is a crescent moon, eat those crescents one at a time and experience the taste of sweet summer sunshine, a lazy day at the beach, a feeling of total fulfillment. The snap of the fruit when you bite into it, the sweet/tart taste of the juice as it fills your mouth is one of the great simple pleasures of life.
Appreciate what you have, give thanks for the beauty that surrounds you; be it a Monet palette sunset, the warm comfort of the ones you love or the simple beauty and taste of a tangerine.
Heading out through the forest today, the journey is the trip. It’s a slow and deliberate stroll, I’m breathing, listening and seeing with eyes wide open. The air is redolent of winter, rains have given voice to the creek that flows below me as I walk upstream. The silent stones of the creek bed have come alive, together with the flowing water a gentle symphony occurs. Plip, plop, gurggle…it’s a delightful and life affirming song, an ephemeral duet and I’m soaking in every sweet note knowing that by summer the stones will fall silent until they reawaken next winter.
Everything is green and flowing, I feel so alive and part of something greater than myself. Maidenhair Fern is the predominant plant along this trail. It’s tiny leaves sit at the end of nearly invisible stalks and appear to float in mid-air above the forest floor. Bay trees are everywhere. I pick one of their sword shaped leaves, break it in half and a sweet, pungent aroma is released that makes my head swim. I hold the leaf under my nostrils, breathe deeply and memories of past hikes flood my mind. The sense of smell is a powerful time machine.
Mushrooms, another life form awakened by the rains, poke their heads through the forest duff. A solitary example stands about three inches tall atop a dull white stem the thickness of a chopstick. The cap is the size of a half dollar, flat and cream colored with a hint of pale yellow at its center. Other fungi peeks out from beside a trailside tree stump, this cluster of four pure white structures is a ghostly grass. Mushrooms are a mystery that I hope to never fully understand. Not all things on Earth are meant to be known.
Maidenhair FernMystery mushroom
On todays journey I pause at Bullfrog Pond. There’s a Zen like tranquility here that’s grounding and always fills me with wonder. This place seems to exist out of time, it just is. The rains have filled the pond to the brim, water runs down the spillway at one end. The surface of the pond is khaki colored and glassy, broken only by a slight breeze which creates ripples and the illusion of flow.
Many of the same creatures that I usually encounter here are present today. Bird life abounds. A black phoebe perches atop a skeletal willow flicking its tail and waiting for the prefect moment to swoop down and catch its next meal in mid-air. The resident pair of wood ducks are here too. The striking harlequin pattern on the head of the male makes this bird easy to identify. I’ve yet to see the black, dinner plate sized red eared slider turtle, but I’m sure if I sit here long enough it may cruise by to say hello. (Later, on my walk around the pond, I spy it perched on a log, warming itself in the last rays of afternoon sunlight.) The chatter of acorn woodpeckers occasionally breaks the silence. A few juncos and sparrows flit in and out of the trees that surround the pond. I can see the gossamer of cobwebs in the tops of trees. They shimmer in the breeze and glow when they catch the rays of the sun. The sun reflects off the surface of the pond with mirror like intensity.
I love coming here at different times of the year to observe the changes that occur. It’s never the same twice. One thing that never changes though is the peaceful vibe and gentle energy that permeates this special place. Bullfrog Pond is the perfect spot for quiet thought and deep meditation.
It’s December 26, Christmas is finally over. All of the major holidays begin and end on their designated day. Thanksgiving, New Years, Halloween…etc they’re all one and done. Sure, there is a lead up to each of these days, but the actual celebrations last just the one day. On Thanksgiving, families gather, you have a feast, you drink, you watch football, you go to bed stuffed from overeating. The next day it’s all over. A turkey carcass in the fridge and empty wine bottles on the counter are the only evidence that a holiday had occurred. Kids trick or treat on October 31. The calendar is flipped and suddenly it’s November. All that remains are a few smashed pumpkins and those ridiculous inflatable ghosts and ghouls on people’s front lawns. By November 2, most of those are gone too. Nothing happens on July 3 or July 5. January 2 is just the second day of the year. Hanukah lasts eight days…but it’s supposed to. When the last candle has burned down, the menorah and dreidel are packed away until next December.
But Christmas, oh Christmas has a season. Many retail outlets, especially the “big box” stores, begin putting out Christmas merchandise and decorations in September. We were subjected to Walmart Christmas ads during the World Series at the end of October. The more than two month barrage of advertising and marketing is absolutely relentless and nearly impossible to avoid. It’s a slow creep until Christmas iconography looms over everything. Like Big Brother, Santa’s image is everywhere. After all, he saw you when you were sleeping and he knew when you were awake long before Google and Facebook did. And Christmas music? Now that’s a real mixed bag. Is there anything more joyful than Sleigh Ride by The Ronnettes? Anything more insipid than Last Christmas by Wham? Christmas itself is a mixed bag where joy and melancholy walk hand in hand. No song expresses this sentiment better than Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.
Most of this madness has less to do with the actual joys of Christmas and everything to do with the bottom line. One can hardly blame the ever vanishing mom and pop stores for wanting to cash in on Christmas. But the massive corporations? Don’t they make enough money the other 364 days of the year? It’s corporate greed, plain and simple.
The entire holiday season just goes on too damn long. I see cars driving around with fir trees tied to their roofs on Thanksgiving Day. When I walk around my neighborhood in mid January at night many houses are still ablaze with Christmas decorations. And don’t get me started on those outlandish, over the top front lawn displays, each house trying to one up the other. Whatever happened to a simple wreath and a string of lights? The excess makes me want to go into exile for two months. I once saw a lit Christmas tree in someone’s front window on February 2. I wonder what the groundhog would think if he emerged from his burrow and saw that?
Ok, if you’ve read this far I know what some of you are thinking, enough with the ranting. Names like Scrooge and Grinch have crossed your lips. I know I’m not alone though. More than a few of you must share my sentiments. Christmas can be a really sweet time of year but I want to celebrate it in my own time and on my own terms, not when Target or Disney tell me that I should. No wonder people often feel depressed this time of year.
Of course, there’s another side to all of this. Christmas as a kid is simply magical. Many of my fondest childhood memories are centered around the holidays. But as I grew up and Santa morphed into my mom and dad, Christmas lost most of its luster. I continued to celebrate Christmas but it’s not the same as an adult. All of that changed once I became a parent. When our kids were old enough to understand, I began to see Christmas through their eyes. The birth of our two children coincided with my switch from a fourth grade to a first grade teacher. Besides my own kids, I now had twenty others with that Christmas glow on their faces. I once had a student of mine ask, “Are Santa’s reindeer real?” I think you know how I answered that one. Not only were his reindeer real, but so was Santa and his elves and his workshop at the North Pole. Seeing the joy and wonder that my kids were experiencing reminded me that Christmas was about more than spending money and gift giving. Of course we give gifts to the kids and ourselves but our most treasured holiday traditions have nothing to do with shopping and spending money.
We made the local paper on year at the Sebastopol tree lighting.
Every year we’d join our community for the tree lighting in the town square. Santa would ride in on the back of a fire truck. Our kids were usually first in line to greet him. We’d skate around the enormous Christmas tree at center ice inside Snoopy’s Home Ice. Together with our kids we’d glide across the ice, the arena bathed in the red, green, silver and gold lights of Christmas. It was cold and wintry and absolutely enchanting. We’d always take a family photo in front of the tree. One year we made ornaments from used wine corks. The stack of our favorite Christmas books would be read and reread. Of course on Christmas Eve we’d leave a plate of cookies and a glass of milk by the fireplace for Santa. The reindeer would get a carrot.
But alas, our kids are about to turn twenty. Like in Polar Express, they can no longer hear that sleigh bell ring. Carol and I are now Santa. Christmas has come full circle. The wheel continues to turn.
Meanwhile, in a few days our tree will come down. I’ll drag it into our backyard, remove the branches and store the trunk inside our shed. Next Christmas Eve, I’ll saw that trunk into small sections. With The Polar Express on the tv, each of us will feed our section into the fireplace. The logs will crackle in the fire, casting a glow on our smiling faces. It’s for this kind of sweet family tradition that Christmas is worth celebrating.
I stood beneath our oak tree and looked up through its nearly bare branches, the sky was milk white and formless. There was just enough breeze to dislodge a few leaves, one or two or five at a time. Some floated straight down, landing on the lawn or me. Others flew sideways or bumped against branches on their earthward journey. Each leaf moved through the air with the helter skelter flight pattern of a butterfly. I couldn’t tear myself away and became mesmerized by this sky ballet. Like snowflakes no two leaves are alike, each one is unique and beautiful in its own right, their colors and sizes of infinite variations. I was filled with grace and fully immersed in the fleeting beauty of this moment. Every leaf on this tree will eventually make the same journey. All of its branches will soon be bare and await the green buds of spring. The wheel continues to turn.
A miniature miracle like this occurs every day, anywhere you choose to look. The only requirement is to open your eyes and open your heart to the wonder that surrounds us all.
I walk out onto our back deck this morning just before dawn. Brilliant Venus is visible high in the indigo sky. As Earth spins towards the sun a thin band of orange and pink begins to appear in the east. Monet brush strokes paint the sky in pastel hues. It’s quiet, but quiet is a relative term. The drip and splash of our deck fountains breaks the silence. Much like the roar of the ocean, the wind through the trees or the gurgling of a mountain stream over stones, the sounds of the fountains enhance the silence. In the background however, I can hear the distant roar of the 101 freeway. It’s several miles away as the crow flies but in the stillness of this pre-dawn hour sound carries far. Living here in town, I know all too well that real quiet is hard to come by.
Luckily, I don’t have to travel very far in order to find true silence, as in the total absence of any sounds at all, as in pin drop silent. Carol and I just bought a camper van and decided to take it out on a test run. Normally we would never consider camping this late in fall but with our new home on wheels, a warm, dry space with electricity and a comfy bed is just steps away. Rain? Freezing temperatures? We don’t care!
We decided to head for Sugarloaf Ridge. Sugarloaf is an expansive state park in the mountains above the Sonoma Valley. It’s just 45 minutes from our front door but a world away. The campground is nestled in a narrow valley with gentle Sonoma Creek flowing along its edge. The park is so close to thousands of people yet when I’m here it feels like wilderness. Except for a few park buildings, there are few signs of civilization. And the quiet today, even during late afternoon, is nearly absolute.
There are many hikes to choose from here. Our hike took us a thousand feet above the valley floor. We walked through forest, up switchbacks and along a ridge top where the only sounds were our footsteps and the wind in my ears. Even the herd of deer that we surprised ran away with seemingly not a sound. We returned to camp at sunset and that’s when the real quiet began. Down here there was no wind, the creek made no sound, as the full force of winter rains had yet to give it voice. Being in the midst of such profound silence was like being embraced by a living, breathing entity. It took a little getting used to. Even during the quietest moments at home there’s always some kind of human made background noise. People always seem intent on creating a din.
Up here at Sugarloaf it’s absolutely still. This type of quiet is ideal for thinking, breathing and just being. Throughout the course of everyday life we are literally assaulted with sound. It takes determination and real effort to find true quiet but once I do, it helps me to realize the extent of the cacophony in our world and gives me a deeper appreciation for quiet when I’m in it. Spending time among the silence here at Sugarloaf Ridge allows me to access the silence within myself. For this brief time, I’m able to slough off the chitter chatter of the world, breathe and be fully present. I can literally feel the calm flow into me. My body and mind both get a much needed rest, in essence I’m “fueling up” on silence. I keep it in reserve and tap into it when the world gets to be too much.
It’s a rain dance out there today, a veritable, seasonal soiree. Drip, drop, splish, splash, pitter, patter, an onomatopoetic smorgasbord of sounds. Cars whizz by on the freeway, their tires hiss like bacon on a hot griddle. Ducks are delighted. Frogs flip and flop happily across the wonderfully wet grass. The pavement has been transformed into a mosaic of puddles and rivulets where staccato raindrops create fleeting points of diamond light. Oak leaves take flight, sailing through the air like hundreds of amber and brown butterflies. Some of them end up plastered to the street like puzzle pieces waiting to be put together. The trees with leaves still left on them are heavy with moisture, their branches bow in supplication as if to give thanks for this nourishing rain.
With my boots on I slip and slide across the lawn like an olympic figure skater. The judges all give me 10’s. And the mud! The sweet smell of freshly made mud is like nothing else on Earth. It’s the smell of life. No water, no life. No mud either. A few worms are wriggling on the sidewalk, having been temporarily washed from their flooded dens. Exposed, some will be meals for the hungry robins. Such is the life of an earthworm in a rain storm.
Gratitude and joy overflow from me as I watch this movie unfold. I feel like Gene Kelly right now. All I need is a lamp post and an umbrella and I can do a little “singing in the rain” of my own. What am I waiting for?
