Outdoors

“There’s Rain in My Head”

Posted on March 9, 2013 by Kami
It’s another delightfully gray, wet day in the desert. To celebrate I thought I’d share this lovely poem by Shel Silverstein. He’s always been one of my favorite writers for his unmatched, quirky perspective on everyday things.
I also found these unusual photos of rain that seem to match the poem quite nicely. I hope you find joy in unexpected places today!
Rain days

Rain days (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Rain

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can’t do a handstand–
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said–
I’m just not the same since there’s rain in my head.

—Shel Silverstein (1930 – 1999)

Rain camera

Rain camera (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Here’s a bit more of Shel Silverstein if you’re in the mood for something delightful, delicious and zany.

Categories: Outdoors, Poetry | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Unmatchable Pleasure of Puddle Jumping

Posted on March 8, 2013 by Kami

The rarity of rain in the desert brings out the oddness in some of us dry skinned, somewhat parched critters. Today’s downpour, complete with a bit of surprising lightning, reminds me of some delicious memories.

We don’t live in a rural area, but we have rural patches of neighborhoods in the landscape of our town that haven’t been incorporated into the city. This leaves wonderful one and two acre lots with farm animals, irrigation, bumpy roads without curbs, traditional  on post mailboxes out front of the houses, and best of all, a sense of the history of this former farming community turned big city suburb.

2000 Jeep Cherokee

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I used to drive my youngest daughter to fifth and sixth grade, usually taking a short stretch of county road. On rainy days the water would flow haphazardly on the edges of the road in huge muddy puddles. At the time we were driving a well-loved older model Jeep Cherokee with four-wheel drive.

Did you know if you’re going just the right speed and hit a puddle at a certain spot you’ll get a wide arching wall of water that can shoot out a good twenty feet? My daughter and I discovered that one drizzly morning.

Rainy school mornings took on a whole different feel for us. The anticipation of knowing we’d get to splash and spray our way to the school motivated us so we were usually ready to go earlier than usual. We called these mornings puddle jumping days.

Fortunately no one was ever walking the muddy shoulder of the road on rainy days. Approaching a glistening pool of brown water filled us with excitement. The sensation of tires hitting the edge of the puddle was answered with a marvelous shower and spray of water propelling outward and upward in an artistic chocolate sweep. Sometimes, depending on the depth of the puddle and the angle the tires hit the water, we’d end up covering the jeep in a  deluge of mucky water. Fortunately I usually had the wipers already going due to the rain pouring down.

Child enjoys a puddle in Vancouver, B.C., Canada.

Does this look fun, or what? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We aimed for puddle after puddle all the way down the road. I’m sure any onlookers thought we were high school troublemakers raising havoc. The goats and sheep looked on in bemused silence. We left behind emptied puddles and chaos.

Ah, we laughed our way to school those days.

I still can’t resist a puddle on the side of the road, whether I’m walking or driving. I want to make a splash, soak everything in sight then look behind me at the mayhem.

Today is gonna be a great one!

Categories: Joy, Memory Lane, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Construction Phase Complete. Wildflowers Run Amok!

Posted on March 6, 2013 by Kami

It’s happened.  My wildflowers bloomed!

It makes me smile to look out and see sunshine growing right outside my front door.

Right now it’s happy African Daisies.  Bursts of yellow and orange wash across the front yard.  A few more weeks will bring the soft velvety orange of California Poppies.

wildflowers springJust today I noticed the first shoots on my red yucca plants. These become beautiful sprays of stems filled with succulent reddish-orange flowers. Once these bloom Hummingbirds hang out near them like kids near candy shops.

There’s a very small patch of low growing purple Lantana smack in the middle of this nonconforming riot of color. It’s supposed to spread out into a four or five foot swath every spring and summer, but this one’s been anemic and barely manages its bits of purple.  Maybe I need to have a daily chat with it, encourage it along, and tell it a couple of jokes.

Just to kick it up a notch

I’ve also got some pots near the front door filled with fun pops of bright annuals. And there’s a fifteen-year-old Pothos plant which was once an indoor dweller, but now lives in the shade outdoors. It could use a trim and a fresh topping of soil, but otherwise it adds a nice cool green to the mix.

On the other hand

The back yard is a work in progress. I’m grateful that a brick wall surrounds it almost six feet high.  I’ve planted my vegetable gardens but those seeds are being stubborn about sprouting. And I’ve got a decorative raised bed that’s got its own little story which I won’t go into, but I could do a whole post on. It’s a tale of woe and aggravation. You’d be bored, trust me.

Nonetheless

Spring has sprung here in the desert. It’s a short-lived season of joy and jubilation before the blast of summer punches us full on.

I’m going to enjoy it while I can, every single day.

Related articles you might want to look into:

Categories: Gardening, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

A View from Younger Eyes

Posted on February 23, 2013 by Kami

I once fancied myself a poet of sorts. I let go of that idea for a long time. Then, I recently came across a book of collected poems by my younger self. Each poem was typed, then cut out and carefully pasted into a blank book.  The gold lettering, hand-pressed to the outside cover and spine, still looks pretty good. It’s the most professional look I could manage given the technology of the time.

Now I could key in an address, get out my credit card and order up a professionally printed, bound, self-authored, illustrated book. Maybe someday.

There’s an honest quality to the typewritten page. The corrected type speaks volumes. The indentations that punctuation make into the paper  give the poem a tangible finality.

The temptation to edit and polish the poem before sharing it was strong. But, I like the unjaded, unedited perspective of youth. To quell the editor in me I simply photographed the poem from the page in my book to share right here.

- Kami M Tilby

– Kami M Tilby

I’m not sure I have it in me anymore to write poetry. It’s a stark, open-bellied, sense of exposure  to write a poem. There isn’t any excess verbiage to hide behind, no explanatory prefacing. It’s like a literary photograph. The writer must say, “This is my perspective, this is what I saw, nothing more, nothing less. Take it or leave it.”

Categories: Outdoors, Poetry, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Peeling Off the Layer of Years

Posted on February 19, 2013 by Kami

It’s Gratituesday! Today I am grateful for the bicycle I have. It was a gift  a year or two ago from a friend who was clearing out her possessions for an anticipated move overseas.  I’m sure she had no idea how much her gift would bless my life.

That bicycle has been one of my essential forms of transportation. Four drivers and sometimes only two cars has necessitated some juggling. Having the freedom to hop on my bike for a run to the library or the post office or to visit a friend has freed up my schedule and saved me hours and gas money and frustration.

The build of this particular bike lets me sit in such a way that my back doesn’t tire out and get sore, which I thought was simply one of the sacrifices bike riding required until I met this bike. Now I can ride for miles and still feel relatively young and agile in spite of the often harsh realities of my aging body.

Roger on Richland Avenue with Schwinn Bicycle

My first bicycle looked much like this one. It was a hand-me-down from my aunt. (Photo credit: roger4336)

There’s nothing else I know of that brings back the joys of childhood as readily as a bike ride. Such a sense of independence grabs hold of you when you throw your leg over the seat and set the wheels of a bike in motion. Feeling the wind blowing past peels off layers of years mentally and emotionally.

There’s the added bonus of being able to take off in the early light, helmet on, breezing through an exhilarating morning past some of my favorite sights and sounds. Getting my heart pumping and my lungs filled with fresh oxygen by pushing those pedals starts the day off with a burst of energy and joy. What a wonderful way for a day to begin.

I celebrate the bicycle every time I ride. In fact, I’m celebrating life as I ride, feeling youthful, free, energized, grateful. What joy!

Surely someone has created a worldwide holiday in honor of the humble, practical, fun-loving bicycle.

Categories: Exercise, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Sacred Spaces

Posted on February 7, 2013 by Kami

The Pediatric Intensive Care Unit of a hospital is not a place you want to spend time in.  I found myself there once to support a friend and her family.

When a child’s life hangs in the balance, people from all walks of life, of all faiths or no faith, search for peace, understanding, hope, answers, or a higher power to intervene. Whatever help they can find, however they can find it, they reach for it.

Over the course of several days I found myself in a beautifully designed, peaceful space we called the “chapel.”  Stepping through the doors into the oval-shaped room, with its opaque stained glass trees and gently rounding edges, felt to me like passing into another world.  Sounds muffled, voiced muted, lights diffused, peace hovered.

Lest you think it was simply my own personal reaction to the room let me offer the following incident.

Leaf lamina. The leaf architecture probably ar...

Another friend and her husband came to visit and had brought their own young children as I told them I’d be happy to keep them entertained while the two sets of parents visited. We explored the child-friendly waiting areas with giant chess pieces, the floor that lit up when they stepped on the tiles, some really awesome larger than life toys, and gigantic Lego bricks.  When the play area finally got boring I suggested we go upstairs to see what I told them was a beautiful tree room.

I had said nothing of the reason for the room, had not mentioned it was a chapel.  I simply thought they would enjoy the colors in the stained glass and the unique shape of the room.  When they walked into this room of glass and wood, of reflection and prayer, they immediately quieted their voices. They explored as children do, with fingers touching the different textures and colors of glass and gliding along smooth surfaces.  A small wire and bronze tree sculpture garnered their attention with its tiny leaves and gracefully arching branches.

And then to my surprise, the seven-year-old boy said “hey guys, we can meditate here.”  There was no fussing, or complaining, they all simply sat in a circle in the middle of the room, some in the lotus position, some with crossed legs, hands held just so resting on each knee.  This tiny group of children, who five minutes ago were bouncing wildly through a play area, settled into a brief quiet meditation.

I felt suddenly out-of-place and far too noisy simply sitting on a chair watching these amazing children respond the to climate and spirit of a room.

I believe the prayers, and tears, hopes and pleading that happen in that room remain long after the visitors leave.  Those private tears and supplications for miracles and healing become a part of the walls, the glass, the wood, the very air.  The room becomes infused with hopes and wishes. The very echoes of heartstrings stretched taut to breaking create a sacred space, a haven, a respite, a connection to something more.

Is this something beyond medicine? Or is it the ultimate medicine?

Or is it something else altogether?

Alaska forest - trees

What makes a space sacred?

Sacrifice. Need.

Intention. Tragedy.

Belief. Dedication.

Blessings. Desire.

Reverence.

Consecration.

Promises. Nature.

I know I certainly need more time spent in the sanctuaries of my life. The peace that comes as I take a solitary morning walk amid some of earth’s grand greenery is well compensated. Time spent contemplating life, or merely emptying my mind, brings a calmness that permeates my day. Other places I consider sacred can imbue meaning and  hope in my life as I spend time and allow the atmosphere there to settle in and around me.

Life moves fast and can be fiercely painful at times. Going somewhere silent and sacred can lend balance and offer a balm like nothing else can.

Do you have a sacred space somewhere in your life? If not, do you need one?

Stained Glass

Categories: Mental Health, Outdoors, Wondering | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Acrophobia Anyone?

Posted on February 4, 2013 by Kami

High places terrify me. Having an overly active imagination I envisioned myself plummeting down a cliff face in an out of control car countless numbers of times. I’m not sure this is normal. Probably isn’t.

As a child we often took the mountain pass from our side of the valley over the mountains to camp, canoe, fish, ride motorbikes and go sledding. Every trip up from our side of the mountain we had to take the lane on the outside edge of the mountain.  I swear I held my breath for the entire ride up and all the way down until there were scrub oak thick enough to catch our car should it suddenly veer to the right off the side of the mountain.

The ride back home wasn’t as breathless since we were on the inside lane hugging the mountain.  It felt safer, although still plenty scary.

The other option to get to the fun side of the mountain was a narrow winding river road with both sides of the canyon closing in on top of us and cars racing toward us as if in a time trial.  After surviving that gauntlet we’d then have to drive along the tiny razor edge of the dam and the winding roads along side the reservoir.

Either road left me exhausted before we ever got to the “having fun” part of the day.

DEAD HORSE STATE PARK AND THE GORGE OF THE COL...

Dead Horse Point and the Colorado River – NARA – 545787 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In my teenage years we went as a family to visit the Grand Canyon, Arches, Bryce Canyon and Canyonlands.  You’d think the Grand Canyon with its precipitous drop-offs would have given me palpitations.  The truth is I was so captivated with the beauty and magnificence of the place I forgot my fears, for the most part.

Fear came later. Total, paralyzing, utter terror.

We took a shortcut off one dirt road to another dirt road while towing the camping trailer in Canyonlands.

Can I just warn you now, in case you ever think you’re smarter than a map, that there is NO SUCH THING AS A SHORTCUT in Southern Utah or Northern Arizona.  What looks like a little quarter-mile jog off the side of the road is, in actuality, a cliff face, or an impassable road, or a road cut into the side of a mountain shored up by a few railroad ties.

Which is what we found ourselves on.

By time we realized there was no pass that cut through the mountain, but instead only switchbacks up the side of the cliff for an eternity, it was impossible to turn around, especially with a trailer in tow.  Our only option was forward, or rather, upward.

Each hairpin turn required a two steps forward, one step back movement, repeated endlessly. Dad would ease the truck and trailer through the hairpin as far as he could go, then back up while cranking the steering wheel, then forward a few inches, then back up a bit, then forward a few inches, until he negotiated the turn.  Fifty yards of straight dirt road or so later, he would repeat the process.

A couple of times Mom had to get out and direct Dad, letting him know how close the trailer wheels were to the edge.  Meanwhile, us kids were in the back of the pickup under a camper shell, huddled in blankets, chewing our nails, trying not to watch and praying our little hearts out.

I was sure we were all going to die out there in the middle of nowhere.  I had already replayed the scene in my mind countless times before we were even halfway up the cliff.  If and when park rangers ever found us, we’d be an unrecognizable heap of burnt metal and glass and broken bodies flung all over the red sandstone cliff.  There wouldn’t even be a funeral.

After two eternities and a stint in Hades, we reached the blessedly flat top of the cliff.  If Dad would have let me, I’d have gotten out and kissed the ground.

Our destination was Dead Horse Point, which is itself a dizzying narrow-necked mesa.  After what we’d been through to get there, it was easy to gaze out over the edge of nothing to the tiny river below.

I can look back now and say, “What an adventure!” I’m glad I lived to tell the tale. But, no thank you to any more high rise exploits in my future.

Categories: Family, Memory Lane, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Singing and Dancing in the Rain

Posted on January 26, 2013 by Kami

rainy dayIt’s Raining!  Hooray!  It’s rained so much that the park across the street, which is really a water retention basin in disguise, is filling up and almost ready for a few canoes or inflatable boats. 

Here in the desert, nothing brings out the smiles faster the sound of rain.  There’s no smell here more delicious than rain scented desert air. Nothing brings out the child in people around here faster than the steady drip and splatter of raindrops. It’s a joyful, snow day kind of excitement. We all become puddle jumpers, splashing with abandon, leaving the umbrella’s closed and getting drenched.  

The three girls under umbrellas who let me take their photo fifteen minutes ago, are now at the park running along the edges of the newly minted “pond,” no umbrellas in sight.  

Is there any movie scene more charming than Gene Kelly dancing in the rain?

“I’m singin’ in the rain

“Just singin’ in the rain

What a glorious feelin’

I’m happy again.

I’m laughing at clouds.

So dark up above

The sun’s in my heart

And I’m ready for love.”

Something about cloud cover and water falling from the sky puts sunshine smack dab in the middle of my heart, just like those lyrics say. 

I suppose if it rained often here, it’d be less delightful.

When we lived in the Seattle area the clouds were a constant companion, rain was as common as blackberries growing on the side of the road, and humidity was the norm.  Summertime occasionally let the sun peak through, and it didn’t get much warmer than the 70’s.  80’s was a heatwave there. 

Having spent 15 years in this desert now I’ve learned to cherish the few rainy days we have. We open the windows and doors and let the freshness waft through the house.  Here, rain is like a gem and we cherish the intermittent, the atypical, and the rare.

Let the stromy clouds chase.

Everyone from the place

Come on with the rain

I’ve a smile on my face

I walk down the lane

With a happy refrain

just singin’

singin’ in the rain… dancin’ in the rain…I’m happy again…

I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the rain…”

I suppose learning to sing or dance in stormy weather requires that we suspend reality or access the inner child in ourselves. Dancing in the rain means we’ve set aside worries and negativity, at least momentarily, in order to just enjoy that short moment. We’re not concerned about what anyone thinks about us.

It’s not always easy to do that, that’s for sure.  Sometimes the emotional or psychological climate we’re in just sucks the life right out of us. Singing and dancing are the last things we feel like doing.

It’s possible that’s exactly what we need to do.  

Whatever the weather is bringing you today, I hope you can find joy in it, see the beauty in it’s variety, cherish the changeableness in it. Maybe you don’t feel like dancing about it.  I hope you can find that sunshine hiding out in your heart and dance anyway.

 

 

 

 

Categories: Joy, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Weeds and Wildflowers

Posted on January 22, 2013 by Kami

It’s Gratituesday! Today I’m thankful for the tiny green shoots of wildflowers I have popping out all over my front yard.  There’s a promise in those sprouting weed-like growths. I know even though they look like weeds, and grow like weeds, they aren’t weeds. They’re going to produce masses of yellow and orange African Daisies and bunches of satiny orange California Poppies in another four to six weeks.

To appease the HOA I set out a couple of signs that say, “Wildflowers Under Construction.” I don’t really want to pay a fine for my “weeds” or get out some mean weed killing chemical.  I want to see the yard burst into golden waves of color.

wildflowers under constructionI find the symbolism of these flowers particularly appropriate for the challenges I face in my life, large or small.  What appears as something terrible, something troublesome, with time, often, not always, but often, in the long run becomes something positive and memorable.  I’m not about to proclaim gratitude for trials, oh no, not me. But I am willing to concede that I learn from going through hard times.

There’s a beautiful song, written by Stephen Foster, which I found particularly moving a few years back when the tides of trouble breached all levees and inundated my life.  It became an anthem for me of sorts, or a prayer, which I still hum often and think out loud and verbalize while on my knees.

“Let us pause in life’s pleasures to count its many tears,

While we all sup sorrow with the poor;

There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears;

Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,

Hard times, hard times, come again no more.

Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;

Oh hard times, come again no more.”

For me, as for many, if not all, hard times are not a one time event.  Hard things press in on us and weigh us down with a weight that is unfathomable. Finding a small thing like the shoots of wildflowers pushing through the weight of rocky soil can bring hope and send a song through the air that lifts the weight ever so slightly.

Looking For Signs

I look for signs of hope all around me. Not just in springtime harbingers, but in everyday life.  A newborn’s mewling cry. A teen’s energetic laughter. An older couple holding hands. Help being offered when a need presents itself. Kindness extended, smiles proffered, handshakes offered. Birds chirping. A toddler’s rowdy chaos. Blue skies.

The lyrics of this haunting song continue:

“While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,

There are frail forms fainting at the door;

Their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say

Oh hard times come again no more.

Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,

Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore

Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave

Oh hard times come again no more.”

I want to put a “Wildflowers Under Construction” sign on the doors of certain houses that I know.  I wish them vision to see the shoots of green that are pushing tentatively up through the rocky ground they’re walking on.  I want them to hear the song of hope, however quietly it may lilt in the air. I pray they feel a gentle tug of hope encircle and lift when all seems lost.

I watch for hope, for signs of life and laughter and good things to come.  Being small, they aren’t always easy to see. You have to look closely. They’re everywhere, can you see them?

Mark O’Connor, James Taylor, Yo-Yo Ma, Edgar Meyer – performing “Hard Times Come Again No More”

Categories: Gratitude, Gratituesday, Outdoors | Tags: , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

That Way, This Way, My Way, Some Way

Posted on January 21, 2013 by Kami
English: camino de santiago

camino de santiago (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Here’s more than a movie recommendation for you; “The Way” starring Emilio Estevez and Martin Sheen.

I hadn’t heard of this movie until I stumbled on it last week.  Apparently it never got the usual blingy press and advertising.  That’s probably for the best.  Created with care, reverence, and respect, its clarity and thoughtful, natural pacing create a feel for what it must be to experience such a thing. Not a single part of it felt gratuitous or forced. It’s not a movie for the masses.

Here’s a summary quote about it from Netflix:

“When his son dies while hiking the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage in the Pyrenees, a grieving father decides to complete the 500-mile trek to Spain.”

The Camino de Santiago is basically “the pilgrimage route to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain, where tradition has it that the remains of the  apostle Saint James are buried. “

Fascinated by this depiction of a modern-day pilgrimage, I let myself absorb the beauty of this film.  The scenery was pretty,  the trail looked user-friendly, the characters real. The story line was poignant and sincere. Something about this movie clicked in me and got me thinking.

So what is a pilgrimage and why do people do it? Dictionary.com defines it as

 “any long journey, especially one undertaken as a quest or to pay homage”

Certainly a pilgrimage isn’t something every person needs or wants.  But then, I wondered if life itself isn’t its own kind of pilgrimage for some, for many.

Hiker

(Photo credit: VagabondTravels)

I know some who are on a long journey as a single parent, others who are traveling a difficult path through the daily trial of depression. Still others know their long road is shorter than they’d like and will end early at death’s shore.  Providing long-term care for an ill family member must count as a journey worthy of honor or blessing.

I wonder if joining the military isn’t a kind of pilgrimage, certainly it’s self-sacrificing, serves a higher purpose and surely leads to deep introspection.

Service of a religious or charitable nature can take on the qualities of pilgrimage.

I’ve also wondered, since watching this movie, about my life.  Do I need a pilgrimage? Have I been through any kind of refiner’s fire? Sometimes I think the answer is yes, to both questions.

Then the question becomes; do I want to take on a pilgrimage by choice instead of by default?

There is an ocean and a continent or two between myself and any beginning point on that trail across Spain.  I would need a very substantial reason to walk such a path, to invest that much time and that many resources into such a quest.  I’m not catholic, so a traditional religious reason doesn’t exist for taking this on. I’m sure, at this point in my life, I haven’t got the reason, the time or the resources, or the physical ability to take on something as big as the Camino de Santiago.

Grand Canyon, from South Rim near Visitor Center

Grand Canyon, from South Rim near Visitor Center (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I set a goal some years back to hike the Grand Canyon. It seemed a reasonable quest, with a realistic time to prepare, to plan, to follow through.  The goal date came and went long ago and I had done nothing to move myself toward it.  Did I not really want to do it?  Was it worthy of my time and attention?  Or did life simply have other paths for me to take?

I feel compelled to find a reason, a justification perhaps, to take on such a quest as the Camino de Santiago. And yet, I find excuses at the ready, and know it’s something that will never happen for me.  To think otherwise is to be a dreamer of the silliest sort.

Maybe all I need to do is treat my life more like the pilgrimage that it is. What’s my quest?  What am I hoping to pay homage to? Where am I going? What am I hoping to achieve on this journey I’m on.  What are the milestones and how will I honor them? All good questions I ought to know the answers to.

Have you been on a pilgrimage? Any experience with something like this? Any desire to do such a thing?

Related articles you might also like to read:
Categories: Outdoors, Wondering | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

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