Reflections

A day without wind and rain is rare in the changeable atmosphere that is November on the Oregon coast. Yet, it seems as though the sun never fails to shine just when we’re scheduled to depart. 

This year, we arrived in the midst of a cycle of fierce storms that continually blew through from the south. Half way out to the horizon, a thick line sliced through the water, brown, muddy and churning with sand towards the shore, gunmetal grey out behind. Large squalls extinguished the usual sense of unending openness as they pounded rain sideways into the ground. The waves, accustomed to being in command, were pushed low by the strong winds as they toppled over each other, troubled and hunted. 

Just as abruptly as it began, each squall would suddenly dissipate into a circle of blue sky above, a tease, a question, an invitation to rush out and feel the strength of the wind and the waves for ourselves, to search for treasures tossed roughly from the sea, to be near the power of the forces of the earth. We only miscalculated once, and received a strong pelting by hail.

Today, finally expecting sun, we leapt from our beds into our boots and out to the chill as the soft light began to rise over the dark coastal mountains. The riffles of the waves glowed with a yellow hue. The glassy sand reflected the pale blue of the brightening sky above. As I searched for smooth, rounded stones, I continuously calculated how close I could get to the water and still outrun the sneaky winter waves that give rapid chase up towards the dunes.  

Then with rocks in my pocket as a reminder, I turned away with a twinge of regret, a desire for more of these stolen moments that replenish my spirit with equal parts serenity and exhilaration.

Falling

Perhaps on a day when the air is crisp and still
I'll float down in slow gentle circles
to rest on the path where others will walk.

Or maybe I'll flame out in crimson brilliance
ripped through the air by a sudden gust of wind
fading into fragility inside the dark pages of a book.

It's possible I'll hold on cracked brown and dry
all through the cold night forced to the ground
only by the undeniable exuberance of spring.

Lives

You can listen to this while you read.

This week, I've been fascinated by the idea of the life of Eliott Carter, a modernist composer who died on Monday at the age of 103. He was brilliant. He won Pulitzer Prizes. He won the National Medal of Honor. He taught at many prestigious universities. Most intriguing to me, is the fact that he never stopped writing. He published more than 50 works after the age of 90, and completed his most recent composition just two months ago.

His clearly intense passion for the act of creating music must have been a perfect match for his talent and skill, providing a singular, intrinsic motivation that never ceased. Yet lives like Carter's seem to be an anomaly in a world where most of us end up in spaces that don't measure up to our dreams. And so often, it seems that our only dream then, becomes one of a retirement of leisure where thinking, work, and the disappointment from unmet aspirations can be handily erased from our daily lives.

Maybe it's because the idea of a sunny and relaxing retirement doesn't resonate with me yet, that I wonder whether it was by fortune or circumstance that his life turned out as it did, or whether something deeper was at play. What would happen if we could all find, follow and nurture that one thing that inspired us until the day we die? It's an idealistic scenario that's obviously not readily available to the entire mass of humanity, but nonetheless, it begs the question of whether the world would be a better place, or whether it would simply become a cacophony of impracticality.

Carter's music is not easily understood. It's filled with demanding rhythms and tonalities. Much of it is boundary-breaking, created in a modern world where it was difficult to find still intact limits. Yet, it's not necessarily genius, that kind of inexplicable brilliance that seems to come from some otherworldly place. Rather it's studied, practiced, thoughtful, and perceptive. It's the result of hard work, discipline and rigorous thinking. It's often called intellectual, by critics and aficionados, yet at the same time, it's undeniable that it comes fully and freely from his soul.

He once said this. "As a young man, I harbored the populist idea of writing for the public.  I learned that the public didn't care. So I decided to write for myself.  Since then, people have gotten interested." There were years when his music was not accepted, he couldn't get published, and it was performed in lobbies and tiny venues where passers by could easily slink away with dissatisfaction. He must have experienced a crisis of meaning and purpose across those years. Yet something allowed him to retain the courage to continue to put his uncompromised ideas out into the world.

Maybe that's the difference. He arrived at a place where it didn't entirely matter what other people thought. And the reality is, 99.9% of the world hasn't heard of him, and wouldn't find that his work adds value to their lives. Yet ultimately, he didn't allow himself to be stopped by that idea. Rather, he resolutely maintained his true purpose and honored his identity. Whether his driving force ultimately was confidence, or humility, or desire, or something entirely different, his work added meaningful moments to the lives of the people who were ready to receive it. And he truly was never finished.

Signs

I'm not a big believer in signs -- in things that magically appear to guide us down the proper path. I think enchanting things exist everywhere, and we only notice them when we're ready to see them, when something has changed in our head or our heart. Maybe that change frightens us, so it's easier to find a symbol and call it a sign so we don't have to bear responsibility for the choices we make.  Maybe it's easier to believe in the sign than to truly believe in ourselves.

Last Sunday was gray.  Daylight savings time had come and gone, and I'd worked every day for the last six weeks.  Resigned to the situation, I quietly rose before the rest of the household to use my "fall back" hour to write an article as the light began to creep through the blinds. Outside the kitchen window, the squirrels were already chasing each other between the hemlock and the ash, and a hummingbird winged through the thinning branches in search of breakfast.

As the day wore on, filled mostly with mundane Sunday chores, I discovered that despite the clouds, the afternoon air felt practically like summer. This caused all work to cease abruptly, and I headed out to the back deck with my books, pens and chair. The deck needed sweeping, but I just sat and let my mind wander as the tiny migrating finches knocked the berries off the trees, leaving them strewn around along with curled yellow apple leaves and colorful dogwood splashes.

All of a sudden that little morning hummingbird flew right up to my face and just stopped still with it's wings whirring. It hovered there as though it had something important to say, then zipped away over the trees. And I realized at once that inside my crazy deadline-driven world of late, the rhythm of my days had been altered, so that the things I usually do in order to stumble across chance moments of surprise and delight like this, had been completely erased. And I simply hadn't noticed.

So on Wednesday, I arrived home early after a long lunch with a friend. Instead of firing up my computer, and getting back to my deadlines, I slid on my tennis shoes and headed to the wildlife refuge, where I'm always sure to find that rhythm of enchantment that sustains me. Once there, I kicked the giant maple leaves all the way down the path through the woods, despite the stern admonishment from my walking partner that my noise would chase the wildlife away.

Inside the woods, my favorite secret owl, missing all summer long, sat napping, camouflaged on his dark cedar branch. And on the ground, I found two fragile yet beautifully spotted little puff balls under the young oak trees that took me back to summers on my grandparents' farm, where giant orbs, larger than our hands would fall, and we'd delight in viciously stomping them open right there in the rocky field. The heron flew over. The sky turned pink. My hands were cold. It was wonderful.

Visions

Bound for Alaska on a Sunday evening, we rose up into the domain of sky high sunsets. Stunning in their intensity, thrilling in the way they linger as you barrel through the atmosphere, making believable for a brief moment the idea that a day could possibly last forever.  Alas, we never can seem to fly quite fast enough to overtake the darkness.

I sat next to a friendly Alaska Airlines pilot returning home from vacation in Oregon. He gave me his window seat, the one I so often give up to my children and favorite colleagues. We chatted. We looked at his special pilot maps on his Ipad. We talked about how fuel is stored in the wings, and how they have a "cookbook" of recipes to fix any mishap that might occur on the plane.

Yet, the real story was the ancient tale of the dying sun materializing outside the window. On this night, it streaked the sky with a brilliance of pure mythical quality, a vibrant contrast of color, blood orange rising up to meet a pale yellow that melted into the cool blue of the ceiling above. Mystical in the way it existed only in an ephemeral space, devoid of all texture, form and substance.

It felt like a sign, a symbol, an epic drama demanding unconditional attention. As the colors deepened, the scene took on an aura of violence, a primal scream, a bloody awakening, the afterglow of a savage underworld rebellion beneath the fathomless depths of the sea. It was as though a knife was pierced into the surface of the darkness, making real the foundations of the legends of old.

But stories, like daylight, cannot continue forever. And so the deep blue slowly continued to close down, leaving only red fading to brown, forcing the characters in this fantasy to gradually succumb to the draw of the powerful, black line of the ocean, where one lone fishing boat appeared in the vastness as though a star from below.

Then just before the end, the slightest hint of green glazed an ethereal swath across the horizon, as though a gentle dust of peace had been spread over the fire that came before, a resigned acceptance of the death of the day, for those who refuse to go lightly. And finally it faded out in one last, smoky gasp. And all color was removed from the world.

And then, came the stars.