Before Sleep

I lift my head from the pillow
and glimpse the almost-full moon
and its reflection on the ocean--
a broad, golden path to the horizon.
A red traffic light
at Cress Street and Pacific Coast Highway
turns green.
The streetlights and illuminated houses
blur together into a twinkling haze.
I close my eyes and sleep.

Dreams

Today's meditation in "Listening to Your Life", by St. Fred, is about dreams. He writes:

No matter how prosaic, practical, and ploddingly unimaginative we may be, we have dreams like everybody else. All of us do. In them even the most down-to-earth and pedestrian of us leave earth behind and go flying, not walking, through the air like pelicans. Even the most respectable go strolling along crowded pavements naked as truth. Even the confirmed disbelievers in an afterlife hold converse with the dead just as the most dyed-in-the-wool debunkers of the supernatural have adventures to make Madame Blavatsky's hair stand on end.

I confess that I will have to Google Madam Blavatsky, as I don't know who she is. But I'm struck by Buechner's words about the capacity we have--even people who consider themselves incapable of creativity--to dream. He goes on to say that the fact that we have regular access to this other world suggests that our lives are more mysterious and less limited by space and time than we might think.

In my dreams I can
fly, run in slow motion and
converse with the dead.
Extra dimensions unfurl;
time and space expand.
Hopes and fears rush in.


MR UK

I'm really scraping the bottom of the barrel for poetic inspiration here, but this bloke's vanity license plate, cocked at a jaunty angle, cracked me up for some reason. I couldn't see the driver, but I imagine him to be an Anglophile who wears tweed, smokes a pipe, and refers to himself in the third person. Of course I pointed it out to my son, who sensibly asked, "Who's Mister Uck?" I managed to snap a quick, blurry picture (sorry, but I was driving!), so you can see him for yourself.

Oh look, there he is!
It's Mister UK, Willem--
quick, take a picture!

Oh San Onofre
























One of my favorite books on my desk is a little paperback collection of vintage surfing graphics. Every so often I get it out and flip through images of old surf-themed record covers, movie and travel posters, and my favorites: Leroy Grannis photographs from the 1960s. I love this picture of Old Man's and Dogpatch taken in 1963. The thing I love about San O is that, if you squint so as to blur the lines of the late-model cars, it looks much the same as it did 50 years ago. I used to surf there all the time with my girlfriends, but haven't gone in quite some time. I miss it, but the multiple shark sightings are holding me back. I'm torn... I might just have to start going again and take my chances with "Fluffy."


Oh, San Onofre:

lazy waves, vintage boards and

vintage people too.

Forgiveness, Not Permission


















Him, casually:
"Hi Mom, we're still at the lake,
and are you ok with me
cliff jumping?"

Me, not panicked,
exactly, but nervous:
"Well, where exactly are you,
and how high is the cliff?"
Can you tell how deep the water is?
Did Mrs. DeGroote say it was ok?"

Him, dismissively,
with junior-high-boy sang-froid:
"Mom, Mom, Mom--
I already jumped.
I'm fine. It was only, like, forty feet.
Babies were doing it."

Me:
"Ok then! Excellent!
Carry on. I'll see you a little later today."

Him:
"Bye, Mom. Love you!"

Girl Power

















Yesterday I watched my adorable nieces, Ava and Leah, and we spent part of the morning at Bluebird Park. I had asked Joel to leave the double stroller so I could push them down to the park and back. We had a great time--I gave the girls "underdog" pushes on the swings and spun them around on the various spinning play structures until we were all dizzy. We visited the famous Bluebird Park turtle. The only difficulty arose when I put them back in the stroller to go back up to my house. Have I mentioned that I live on a really steep hill?!

two little girls
plus
one double stroller
plus
Oriole Drive
equals
a lung-torched, sweat-drenched
but happy
auntie


Empty House

Willem is gone for the weekend with a friend's family, Schuyler is at camp and David is away on a business trip. I'm so rarely home all alone that it feels strange. It's so quiet that I can hear myself breathe, and it's hard to fall asleep!


I hear coyotes
in the distance,
deer rustling in the back yard,
and the occasional creak or sigh
that escapes the walls of the house
as it settles.

This place is quiet--too quiet.