Do You Believe in Signs?

I don't. Or at least, I say I don't. But I always watch for them all the same. I think it's human nature. We WANT to believe that we are part of something bigger, something that is secretly communicating with us.

Anyway, I just finished reading The Secret Life of Bees, and in addition to the thoughts I had about the novel, I was intrigued by the idea of keeping bees, something I've actually thought about before. Toward the end of the book, the main character gets stung, and her mentor/surrogate mother tells her that you can't be a bee keeper unless you get stung; it's sort of an initiation.

Goodness knows I've been stung plenty of times as a child, but it's been years since it happened. I used to swell up terribly, and my mother said I was allergic, though my life was never in danger. I lived in fear of bees. But not any longer. Perhaps not being stung in decades lessens the reality of the sting. For whatever reason, I find them fascinating now, and as an amateur gardener, they are sort of necessary friends, like earth worms. Without bees, I'd have no tomatoes, no squash. I think it would be fun to have my own hive someday, my own miniature city of tiny gardeners.

I was stung today. As I was riding on the bike bath, a bee struck my thumb, and I was stung. I've been hit before, in the chest, on the sunglasses... I even had a bee shoot right into one of the vent holes on the top of my bike helmet. But I haven't been stung until today. And I didn't swell up at all. It hurt like hell at the time, but by the time I got home, I could hardly feel it. And now, I can barely tell where it happened.

Do you think it's a sign?

In the Moment

The mornings have turned crisp and cool again, so I composed a post in my head during my bike ride this morning about my desire for autumn. But now that I sit down to type it out, the words drop away like overripe fruit. They can provide me no succor, no sustenance. The sight and smell of them merely increases my hunger with promise that cannot be fulfilled through longing.

Instead, let me feast upon thoughts of the summer that is still here in all it's ripe plenitude. Certainly there have been and will continue to be trials, like predatory insects snacking on the harvest that is mine, but these things pale in comparison to the bounty that remains.

Better health than I've enjoyed in years, the company of a wonderful spouse, the escapades of two rambling puppies, and the time to appreciate it all.

Will Herd Sheep for Food

Camping with a large, moving shag carpet can sometimes be a little messy. I present for your consideration, Exhibit A.


Notice how she finds the one patch of dirt in our campsite that is not covered by a tarp, specifically placed there for her use.

How would you like that to lick your face in the morning?
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Landscape of my Dreams

For the first time in nearly a month, I can see the hills on the horizon. They are not sharp or distinct; a slight haze still blurs them. But they are there, firm and solid rather than the phantom presence, sensed but not seen, that they have been. They form a nice boundary or backdrop to the fields and farms I bike through, a focal point, something to look at or from. This is my favorite landscape.

I enjoy the energy and verve of the city. Whether at night, with its blur of lights, or during the day, with its sidewalk shuffles and industrial bustle, a city possesses a sense of activity and movement. Though I admit that the sheer volume of this can be overwhelming sometimes.

But rolling farmland bounded by mountains or hills is the best. The farmland carries with it the idea of nature, harnessed and organized, yes, but not controlled. It cannot be controlled. Ask any farmer, and he will tell you that technology and hard work help him improve the odds in his favor, but ultimately, he is at the mercy of natural forces. Farms also open the landscape to the eye, give one a view to the horizon and options for travel. In contrast, forests close out the world, which is nice sometimes, but occasionally I've had difficulty seeing the forest for the trees. Once cleared for planting or livestock, the vast stretches of land give one a sense of distance, perspective, and opportunity. Farms are stable, present; they are of and about the earth. They remain still, but they also invite one to meander; they offer options. Whether you go across country or along a road depends on your mode of transportation and your momentary inclination. And farms change with the seasons, with the crop, in an ever moving cycle. Consequently, farms are permanence made fluid.

But mile after mile of flat farmland can lack direction. How does one choose one path versus another when there is little or no variation, no distinctness. Add high hills on the horizon, and you get a natural waypoint. You can choose to move toward them or away... or maybe you want to travel parallel to them, as if they were companions going along for the journey but not pressing themselves upon you. It doesn't matter what route you choose to take, hills offer you a purpose, a reason to move. And they give you something with which to monitor your progress.

Yes, options and freedom of movement in the present with a goal or an objective, however remote, in the future. This is more than a favorite landscape; it is how I like my life.

I guess that's why I don't like suburbs. Like office cubicles, they divide up the land, the view, into tiny parcels. This is mine; that is yours. They hem in, close off with fences and landscaping. They wind and confuse with roads that go nowhere but to other roads, other houses, each like the last. And they lock one into cars, away from interaction with anything other than middle class staleness. Suburbs are the only dead things I know of that grow, except perhaps for toenails. :)

Of Mice and Men

"H-Reek, hreek, huh-REEK!" he chants as I ride beneath the towering telephone pole he is perched upon. His mate sits silent on the cross bar beside him. She shifts her position slightly, turning her head to keep her cold, yellow eyes fixed upon me. A shiver runs through my body, carrying with it a sense of metamorphosis...

- - - - - - -

A shadow, a flutter of feathers, and I am in her grip, snatched from within inches of the shielding safety of field-side grasses. I wriggle and squirm, but I cannot get free of the powerful, skeletal claws, their scaly skin clutching me tightly, almost cutting off my breath in a horrible parody of a loving embrace. I can feel her razor-sharp talons pressing in on me, pricking beneath my fur, painfully foreshadowing what is to come. She smells of guano and blood.

Then for a moment, the sensation of soaring through the air penetrates my terror. I am flying. I can fly! My tail dangles behind, catching the currents that ripple through my soft fur. Wind beats against my eyes, making them water. But oh, how wonderful. How...

Then it is over before I can even process the feeling. With a back beat of her enormous wings, my captor cups the air and alights gently on a tree branch, crushing me mercilessly against the bark. I cannot breathe. I can feel my tiny bones popping and collapsing. It will be over soon. She lowers her piercing beak to my neck, and for just an instant, her hard, golden eyes peer into my beady black ones. "So pretty," I think, practically mesmerized. There is an agonizing cold, a sharp snap, effortless on her part, and then....

- - - - - - -

Darling Wife and I watched "Kite Runner" last night.
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Temporal Vortex

A truck hauling hay breezes past me, smacking me in the face with all the power of memory. The scent of the warm straw instantly transporting me to my grandparent's barn...

I am a child again, eight, maybe nine years old. My sister, brother, and two cousins scamper around on the dirt floor some ten or twelve feet below me, playing tag or chasing kittens. But I can't see them; my back is turned, and I feel the semi-soft seed heads scratch my hands and knees, the blades and stalks poking and jabbing as I climb up the side of the stacks of tightly bound rectangular bales, something we were strictly forbidden to do. It is mid-summer and blazing hot in the barn, and our playtime activities have stirred dust and grass particles, which whirl around in tiny shafts of light from small holes in the tin roof.

When I reach the top of the stack, I turn and grab the rope dangling from the rafters about twenty feet in the air. A surge of fear and excitement shoots through me. I look down at my fellow thrill seekers waiting below, some encouraging, some taunting, and I almost turn back. I can't do this. What if the rope breaks? What if my hand slips? What if the rafter snaps?

The hay bale I'm standing on shifts beneath my feet, side to side, following the trajectory of my wavering indecision. Then suddenly, I'm free, swinging through the air with mingled terror and reckless glee. The rope creaks and pops as I reach the top of the upward arch and my forward momentum stops and changes direction, returning me to the safety of the haystack. I let go and tumble into the cushioning bricks of dried grass, dizzy with childhood delight as much as anything else.

Then just as abruptly, I am back on the bike path again, a middle-aged man enjoying a morning ride. Who said it was impossible to be in two places at once?

Sail, ho!

On the horizon I see a speck of white, its shape indiscernible through the squiggly lines of heat and haze of smoke. I am back on the bike path, surrounded by nothing but rolling pastures and the occasional olive tree. Like the sails of a distant ship at sea, there is nothing of note to see but me and that far-away white speck. So I watch it. Not out of any personal interest really. I am in The Zone again despite the triple-digit heat and choking atmosphere. I am stubborn. I will not be pushed out! And in The Zone, not much matters except breathing in, breathing out, pushing the pedal with the right foot, pushing the pedal with the left... breathe in... breathe out. And even these are only a vague pattern in the pack of the mind, a rhythm that lulls me through the miles as my consciousness drifts I know not where. The white speck is merely something to look at on an otherwise blank surface, a mild curiosity, nothing more.

As I watch, the speck grows larger, shaping itself into the shirt of another biker, its legs barely visible now as each moves up and down in turn. But I still cannot make out any detail, spy any colors on the nearing vessel. Is she friend or foe? Merchant or brigand? Will she hail me or fire on me? I do not know, but I refuse to alter my pace. I have a good wind and a fair course; I will not reduce sail now.

Slowly I gain on her, closing the distance between us until I can see that "she" is a man of medium age, perhaps three or four years older than myself. The white shirt is made of an opaque mesh, the kind that breathes well, allowing the dry California air to wick away sweat, cooling the wearer marginally but thankfully. He also wears spandex pants and rides a thin-wheeled racing bike, all signs of a serious cyclist. However, I notice that his pants are of a red and black tiger pattern, the sort you might find at Walmart rather than a bike shop, and his waist is thick and slightly protuberant. These details show him to be a novice cyclist, much like myself.

I think, carrying on with the nautical theme, "Ah, she is bluff of bow and drawing deeply amidships, not as heavy as a man-o-war, which one hardly ever sights in these waters, or as light and fleet as a schooner or clipper." These last two being the "serious cyclists" I often spy on the bike path. "She is a friend and fellow countryman," I think. I will draw alongside and hail her.

But suddenly the guy's head turns, and he sees me closing on him, moving out to pull up next to him, and he lays on speed. I think, "What is he doing? For more than three miles, I have gained on him steadily without quickening my pace at all; he was clearly in no hurry. But as soon as he thinks I am going to go around him, it becomes a race. Jerk!" He pedals harder and faster, unfolding more and more canvas, as it were. And I begin speeding up as well, letting him see what I can do. The desire to pass him, born out of competition, grows strong within me. I will blow him out of the water.

Then I think, "Perhaps he isn't a jerk. Perhaps he merely thinks I am a pirate." I reduce speed, return to my former pace. Soon, he is no more than a speck again, and in a short time, I am back in port, safe and quiet. We will both survive to sail again tomorrow. Perhaps we will meet again... or perhaps not. Only Poseidon knows for sure.

What a piece of work is man

Have you ever noticed that when you're home, all you want to do is get away, and when you're away, all you want to do is go home?