Blue on Blue

February 21st, 2017

I could not find his kite in the great expanse of blue sky above the blue of Lake Michigan. I knew it had to be there, because the man was winding fishing line with his hands and staring into the distance. Finally, I saw it far away, blue on blue. I only noticed it because of the kite’s erratic motion. It turned and dipped and slowly sank as the man wound his string. Eventually, it rested gently on the Chicago’s sandy beach.

Sabia greeted the man and complimented him on his kite. He looked at us and smiled. He asked us, “How old do you think I am?”

 

I thought to be polite, and I said, “You’re in your forties.”

 

The man laughed and said, “I’m seventy-one!” He wasn’t a local. He sounded like he was from out East.

 

He continued, “I’m this healthy because I eat right. That stuff from McDonald’s, I never touch it. I went to my doctor, and he said, ‘You should live until you’re 110!’, and I told him, ‘I’ll take the hundred and you can keep the ten!’ “. He laughed at his own joke, and said, “Those doctors, they are glad to sell you pills. You don’t eat right and you’ll have a cabinet full of pills.”

 

The man became more enthused, seeing as he had an audience. He went on, “When I was a kid, we used to have kite wars on the roofs of the projects in the Bronx. I would crush pieces of glass and then coat the string with glue. I would put the glass dust into a box with a hole, and then pull the string through the hole, so the string would get covered with sharp glass. We would put razor blades on the tails of our kites and try to cut the other guys’ strings. The little kids would wait in the streets below us for a string to get cut, and then they would grab the kite when it fell.”

 

He pulled out his wallet and flashed a picture at us. It was a photo of a young woman in a graduation gown. “That’s one of my daughters. Both of them went to college. This one works at the Fresno Zoo. She is getting a job in San Diego soon. She studied in Australia. She knows three languages. The other girl is a cop in Texas. She’s going to be a chief of police!”

 

“I raised those girls right. Kids today got no imagination because everybody gives them everything. You know what I mean? I didn’t give everything to my daughters. I made them earn their way. They wanted to drive. I showed them wear the starter was and the alternator was under the hood. I told them to learn how to change a tire themselves. Who needs a guy? I told them, ‘You have trouble with your guy? You just tell him that the house is yours and the baby is yours and that he better pay the alimony’. They don’t need to depend on no guy.”

 

Sabia asked, “How long have you been in Chicago?”

 

“I came here in 1973. I was a Vietnam vet. I got a job in a print shop. Worked there for years. Now I got my health, my pension, my social security, and my Medicare. I set myself up right. People these days don’t know how to do that.”

 

He paused. Then he laughed and went back to flying his kite.

 

We walked back toward Argyle Street. The man seemed very satisfied with his life, and quite certain that his success was his own doing. What I wondered is why he would tell his life story to total strangers? Unless he was a very lonely man. I think he was. I don’t mind that we listened to his stories. He needed us to do that. Maybe we needed it too.

 

Tunes

Early June 2017

“Turn up the fucking music” he screamed. “My heart feels like an alligator!”

“Volume! Clarity! Bass! We must have bass!”

from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson

Music is important, especially on an absurdly long and open-ended road trip. Every journey needs a soundtrack. It is necessary to set the proper mood. It also necessary to have something playing that will keep the driver from dozing off, making an involuntary lane change, and crossing the rumble strip.

Karin and I were initially shocked to find out that our new Toyota Corolla had no CD player. Once again we had been blindsided by new technology. We had plenty of music. Unfortunately, it was all stored in a Fred Flintstone format. What would we listen to while driving through the hinterlands? Would we be forced to tune in to some redneck radio station that only played goat-roping music? Things looked bleak for the upcoming trip.

Stefan came to our rescue. He and Karin bought an iPod, and then Stefan showed us how to download our CDs on to this magical device. Hours later, we had 1553 songs on the iPod. Just enough to make through four weeks of white line fever.

We started the trip by programming the music selection on “shuffle”, which meant that the sound system would randomly pick a song from the extensive and diverse pool of tunes that we had downloaded. This proved to be too eclectic.  It is too hard for a person to go from listening to the ethereal voices of Anonymous 4 singing in Latin to hearing the lead singer of AC/DC scream, “Have a drink on me!”  It’s just too disorienting. Eventually, a problem developed with the interface between the iPod and the car stereo, and we were forced to listen to one album at a time. That was probably for the best.

Sometimes the music selection matched well with the terrain. We listened to the polkas of Frankie Yankovic as we drove through Ohio south of Cleveland. We heard Johnny Cash as we burned through Memphis. The Indigo Girls sang their lesbian folk songs through the arid wastes of west Texas on I-10. K.D. Lang belted out torch and twang in eastern Oregon. The baritone voice of Krishna Das chanted in Sanskrit while we crossed the endless plains of South Dakota. The deep-fried southern voice of Nanci Griffith crooned “Gulf Coast Highway” as we drove through a small town near Austin. The Reverend Willingham cried out to us near Nashville: “Can I have an Amen!?” Amen, Brother.

Sometimes the music choices were a little iffy, but they somehow seemed to fit. There is nothing like listening to Shirley Manson of Garbage roar “I’m Only Happy when it Rains” while driving along I-40 in Arkansas. It also felt good to hear James Brown wailing “Like a Sex Machine!” as we cruised through El Paso. The dark and intelligent lyrics of Timbuk3 kept me going while navigating the golden hills of California. The Yiddish dreams of the Klezmatics sounded fine while rolling over the blue hills of Kentucky. We enjoyed the divine weirdness of Dead Can Dance in New Mexico. I only regret that we did not record the B-52’s for the ride through Idaho (underground like a wild potato). Oh yeah…

Occasionally, Karin and I felt obliged to sing along with the music. We knew the German lyrics to “Muss I Denn” and “Zogen einst fuenf wilde Schwaene” from Zupfgeigenhansel. We remembered a few Beatles songs. It was almost impossible not to sing along with the chants of Krishna Das. It was also nearly impossible not to accelerate. Oddly enough, the liner notes on the Krishna Das CD cover attempt to absolve the musicians from causing a driver to use excessive speed on the highway. Listening to The Clash play “Brand New Cadillac” is likewise hazardous.

My best musical memory from the trip is of roaring through Wyoming and yelling out song lyrics, while Seal and Jeff Beck played their full-throttle version of Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone”.

“So, how does it feel?”

 

Chrysler 300

April 25th, 2016

Hans called last night. He was in the mood to talk.

 

Hans said, “Dad, you know about Killeen, Texas?”

 

“Yeah, it’s a pit.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“I had buddies at Fort Hood back in ’80. Killeen was nasty.”

 

Hans said, “Well, it hasn’t got any better since then. Do you know about the ‘Chrysler 300’ ?”

 

“No, what is it?”

 

Hans said, “Well, it’s this gang, and most of them are in jail now.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Attempted manslaughter. The initiation for the club is that a new guy has to try to run a biker off the road.”

 

“That sucks.”

 

Hans sighed, “Yeah, well, I actually got run off the road by one of these guys. He didn’t know I was carrying. I got off the bike, started shooting, and I emptied the clip into the back of his car. I blew out his rear window and put some holes in his trunk. I didn’t hit him. He drove away. He never reported it. I checked the news for the next couple days. I didn’t report it either, because the Army would have taken away my motorcycle privileges.”

 

“I guess it was good for both of you that you didn’t hit him.”

 

“Yeah, it would have been self-defense, but it would have been an ugly trial.”

 

“You would have needed a good lawyer.”

 

Hans laughed, “Yeah, a really good lawyer.”

 

I miss my little boy.

 

 

Uptown Bodhisattva

February 21st, 2017

The neighborhood in the vicinity of Argyle Street in Chicago is primarily Asian, mostly Vietnamese. Lots of places that sell nail supplies (nothing to do with carpentry), and a variety of restaurants with the word “pho” in the name. Scattered throughout the area are small oases where the dharma is taught. I had time to wander and explore, so I found a few of them.

Walking south on Broadway through the Uptown district, I came upon the Buddhist Temple of Chicago. It’s a small building, tucked into a tiny corner lot. I went to the front door and rang. A woman answered and asked what I wanted.

 

I said, “I’d like to see your temple.”

 

“We can’t show you that now. We are going to start a Tai Chi class. We will be done in an hour.”

 

“Well, can I join the class? I have done Tai Chi before, but I’m out of practice.”

 

“Yeah, sure, come in. Most of the people are beginners.”

 

A group watched me as I entered the building. They had been drinking tea, and now they were getting in line to start the Tai Chi class. Some were Asian, some were Anglos. The instructor was a short, stocky guy with a white goatee. He led everyone through the beginning moves. That felt comfortable, since I had done them in the past. The instructor had different names for the movements than I remembered, but the motions were the same. Later he took the class through the entire exercise. I couldn’t remember the whole form, so I mostly floundered along. Some of it was familiar, but not nearly enough.

 

Once the class was over, a petite Asian woman offered to show me their temple area. She explained that it had six sides for “symbolic reasons”, although she didn’t explain what those reasons were. It was a small temple, but two of the walls could be moved to provide more room. There was a simple shrine and many folding chairs. My guide showed me an alcove where they kept the ashes of deceased temple worshippers. The lady kept telling me to come and visit again.

 

Later that day, I went to the Truc Lam Buddhist Temple. It’s big white house on the corner of Wilson and Ashland, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. American and Vietnamese flags wave in front of the house. There is a statue of Kwan Yin in the yard. There are lotus blossoms displayed on most of the window shutters. A few of the shutters have the compass and the square carved into them, so I am guessing that at one time this temple had something to do with the Masons.

 

I went to the meditation practice at the temple in the evening. Inside I met a young woman named Jen. We were the first ones there. She took me to the sanctuary upstairs. It was a big hall with large statues of the Buddha and soft, grey carpets on the wood floor. Lots of gold paint everywhere. Jen got out some small round cushions, prayer books, and little reading stands. She clued me in that they were a Tibetan practice, who just happened to use the Vietnamese temple for their meetings. We sat and waited for the others to arrive. During that time, Jen and I talked about what the Tibetan practice does and compared it with Zen. We also talked about the Catholic practice of centering prayer, and how that compared with the Buddhist forms of meditation.

 

Eventually, there were seven of us. There was another young woman named Jennifer, a guy named Matt (the group leader), Tristan, Cari, and Willie. Tristan, Cari, and Willie were black. I found that interesting because I had never met any black Buddhists before. Maybe I just don’t get around much. Tristan was a young man with rimless glasses, a goatee, and shoulder-length dreadlocks. Willie sat on a chair. He was an older man, and he looked a bit rough.

 

Matt gave me a quick intro to the Tibetan thing. It’s almost all chanting; some in Tibetan, and some in English. There is this effort to visualize a holy image of some sort during the chanting. The focus is on imagining compassion. There is a short period of silent meditation near the end of the practice, but nothing like how it is with Zen. It seemed to me that Willie was the best at chanting. He had a deep voice, baked hard from cigarettes, and he sounded like the Tibetan monks that I have heard on recordings.

 

After the ritual, we talked about the practice. Tristan complained that he kept daydreaming during the meditation. I told him that is pretty normal. I talked about Zen for a while, and Tristan gave a look that said, “Who are you, and why are you still talking?” I took the hint.

 

The whole session took over two hours. I was surprised by how late it was. As we got ready to go, I told Tristan,

 

“Hey, I really like your hair.”

 

He laughed, and shook my hand. Then he said, “Hey man, I was going to say something about your beard, but you know…”

 

“Yeah, it’s okay. It just grows like this.”

 

He nodded. “I hear you.”

 

Willie went into a bathroom with a monstrous, black, plastic bag. Then it kind of clicked in my head that Willie was probably homeless. So, he was kind of street bodhisattva. That was kind of cool somehow.

 

 

A couple days later, I stumbled on the Wat Phrasriratanamahdhatu, which is the Thai Temple. It’s in an old house on Magnolia Street, south of Lawrence. It took me a while to figure out where to go. I found a guy who told me,

 

“Go to the back door. Open it, and ring the bell on the left side.”

 

That I did. Then I waited. And waited. Finally, a Thai monk came from upstairs. He had on maroon colored clothes, with a saffron cloth draped over one shoulder. He eyed me for a moment. Then he asked,

 

“You want something?”

 

“Yeah, I want to see your temple.”

 

“What do you want in temple?”

 

“I want to pray there.”

 

“Ahhhhhh, you want to pray in temple. Come.”

 

He took me into the living room. There was a small shrine, and some cushions on the floor. Overall, the place looked like a Buddhist garage sale. There statues and pictures and things scattered everywhere. I wondered if this was just a temporary worship space.

 

We sat in silence for a while. I prayed for my family.

 

The monk looked at me and asked, “You know Buddhism?”

 

“Zen.”

 

Ahhhhh, Zen. We are Hinayana…Thervada. You know?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Ahhhh, my master, he is in Michigan. He speak English much better. He can explain much better. I am only seven month here.”

 

He paused and said, “It is so: when you walk, you do it in present time; when you sit, you do it in present time; when you lie down, you do it all in present time. Only present time. You understand?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He rubbed the dark stubble on his head, and looked at me doubtfully. “Hmmmmm, you understand. Okay. My master, he is in Michigan. He explain it better. I learn the dharma when I nineteen year old. Now I am fifty-five.”

 

“I’m fifty-eight.”

 

“Ahhhh, fifty-eight. Yes.”

 

We ran out things to say.

 

“Well, I guess I will go now.”

 

“Yes. You go. You come back? Maybe when my master is here, and not in Michigan?”

 

“No, but thank you.”

 

“You want water?’

 

“No, but thank you.”

 

The monk said, “Yes”, and put the palms of his hands together in front himself. (Gassho). I did the same.

 

I left.

 

 

 

Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo

Late January, 2016
The temple on Bainbridge Island traces its origins back to Nichidatsu Fujii (Guruji), a Japanese Buddhist monk who lived from 1885 to 1985. Guruji based his practice on reciting the mantra “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo”. According to Guruji, this chant is the distillation of the entire Lotus Sutra. The Lotus Sutra contains about 96,000 verses, so it’s kind of impressive that it all got condensed into seven syllables. I remember asking Senji once about what the chant actually meant. We were on the peace walk when I asked him.

 

Senji kind of smiled and said, “It mean: ‘We are beautiful. We are Buddha. We are love’. It say that.”

 

I’ll go with that translation.

 

The chant is basic to everything at the temple. It is the core of all that happens there.

 

The morning service starts with one of the monks lighting the candles and the incense. Gilberto would strike the large singing bowl three times. Then one of them goes over to a huge drum, big as a 55-gallon drum, that sits sideways on a wooden frame. Senji or Gilberto beats the drum and chants “Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo” over and over again. Senji has a deep baritone and chants beautifully. Gilberto has a slightly deeper voice, and his chant is a bit harsher. In the morning, Cindy and Lani come to chant along, and they also drum. Karin and I came too. Karin chanted with them all. Stefan would also show up. He had no problem praying with the Buddhists. The chanting went on for at least an hour.

 

When the chanting stopped, Senji would strike the kai, a small piece of metal suspended from a wooden frame. Gilberto rang the singing bowl, and struck the makusho, a hollow, wooden bowl. Then we would recite part of the Lotus Sutra in Chinese. After that, we read something from Guruji, and finally we recited the morning prayer in Chinese.

 

The evening prayer was similar. It all centered on Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo.

 

The chant is powerful in a odd way. It is like praying the rosary or reciting the Jesus prayer. After a while, it sinks into a person’s psyche and becomes part of that person, or maybe the person becomes the chant. All I know is that I hear the chant in my dreams now. That’s how deep it goes.

 

Guruji believed that he could create world peace by drumming and chanting. He might have been right.

 

Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo.

 

Temple

Late January, 2016
Once we made the initial ferry crossing to Bainbridge Island, Senji’s fellow monk, Gilberto, picked us up at the landing. Gilberto is a “CuBu”, a Cuban Buddhist, a rare breed. He is heavy set man, in his 70’s, with a wide, friendly face. He wears round bifocals that make his face even rounder than it normally would be. Gilberto grew up in a large family in the Bronx. He did the “Easy Rider” bike trip across America in the 60’s. He had a brother who fought in Vietnam, while Gilberto protested the war when he lived in Berkeley. Gilberto later raised a family, and committed himself to the life of a monk thirteen years ago.

 

Gilberto drove us a short way to the Nipponzan Myohoji Buddhist Temple. It was pouring rain when we got there. The temple complex is a small group of buildings connected by elevated walkways. The whole area is surrounded by woods. There is the temple itself, the tiny house where Senji and Gilberto live, the guesthouse where we stayed, and a building with bathrooms and a shower. The temple complex is located in a low-lying area, so the heavy rains had flooded most of the land near the buildings (the houses were on stilts). The Zen garden was under water. Most everything was under water. It was kind of a mess.

 

The temple itself is beautiful (there are photos of it online). There is an altar covered with a scarlet cloth. The covering has gold wheels embroidered into it. There is a picture of the founder of the sect, Guruji, on the altar, along with statues of the Buddha and Kwan Yin. Senji and Gilberto often place offerings of fruit, water and tea in front of the statues and the pictures of friends who have passed away. They put mangoes in front of the Buddha. When the mangoes are ripe, they will take them back to their house. Apparently, the Buddha will be satisfied at that point. The temple is full of paintings and calligraphy. There are pictures of Gandhi and Harriet Tubman above the doors. The temple reeks of incense and prayer. I love the place.

 

We spent six days at the temple. Karin, Stefan, and I did some sightseeing during that time, but mostly we stayed there. We became accustomed to the daily ritual of Senji and Gilberto. They prayed and chanted every morning at 6:00 AM, and every evening at 5:30 AM. After prayer, we had a meal together. Senji usually cooked for us. He made us soba noodles and a Japanese curry. Gilberto often asked me to say the blessing before we ate. After we prayed as Catholics, then we would recite the Buddhist chant.

 

We talked quite a bit. Gilberto liked to discuss politics. He talked about the nuclear submarine base in nearby Bremerton. Gilberto explained that if Kitsap County, where the Bremerton Naval Base is located, were an independent country, it would be the third largest nuclear power on earth. In a place where life is abundant, death is always close by.

 

Senji and Gilberto are a team. They are often on the road. Senji goes all over the country to participate in peace walks, and Gilberto helps an indigenous community in Mexico. While they are at home, they are like two middle-aged bachelors who have lived together for a long time. They have a tiny house, with a microscopic kitchen. There are pictures on the walls from Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, and John Coltrane. The boys like to listen to classical music and free jazz. The house has a sort of masculine clutter that no woman would tolerate for a minute. There is literally no horizontal surface in the house that is not covered with books or papers or dishes. However, it is a home. I have seldom felt more welcomed or more at ease than in the house of the two monks.

 

The temple is an oasis of peace is an angry world. I couldn’t stay there, but I am grateful for the opportunity to visit.

 

Weed

January 28th, 2016

On Wednesday, January 27th, the Seattle Times sported a headline which read: “Why Cooking with Pot is a Bad Idea”. I had to read the whole article. It was fascinating. The author explained how cooking with marijuana didn’t work out well. For one thing, it is almost impossible to keep consistent dosages in the food (there was a recipe for an Italian noodle dish included in the article). Also, there is the problem that a person who eats a weed-laced dinner will still get the munchies about an hour after the meal ends. The writer concluded that it might be best to just burn a blunt prior to or immediately after the meal. Amazing.

 

 

Stefan wanted to go to a pot dispensary. Oddly enough, there is one on Bainbridge Island. We drove there in Senji’s car, a 1988 Ford Tempo that had no dash lights, a perpetually lit “check engine” light, and malfunctioning fuel gauge. We drove around the island (it’s not that big) until we found “Paper and Leaf”, the home of Stefan’s dreams.

 

 

I’m not sure what I expected prior to entering the pot shop. I guess I was anticipating a typical head shop, full of bongs, hookahs, pipes, and posters of Bob Marley. I kind of thought we would be talking to some stoner behind the counter who would tell us, “Yeah Dude, this shit will take you places that you’ve never been. Like totally.”

 

 

I couldn’t have been more wrong. The store was clean and neat and very organized. The staff was friendly, courteous, extremely knowledgeable, and sober. Well, okay, the girl at the check out, who had trouble reading Stefan’s ID, seemed a little buzzed, but besides her, everybody was clean as could be. It reminded me of being in a upscale liquor store, where people really know about beer and wine. All the marijuana was labeled and the THC content shown. The staff could answer questions that Stefan hadn’t even thought to ask. They has loose leaf weed, pre-rolled blunts, and God only knows what else. The counter was full of slick brochures and pamphlets from the growers. I kept some of them.

 

 

We went to one other dispensary. That was in Seattle. There are actually two types of dispensaries: one type for recreational drugs, and one type for medical marijuana. Apparently, there are two types of dispensaries because of tax issues. Medical marijuana is taxed less than the recreational kind. So, if I went to the medical dispensary for my back problems, I would pay less than at the rec store. By the way, the medical marijuana dispensaries are identified with a green cross. Yeah, for real. The place we actually visited was on Aurora Avenue, and it was called “Ocean Greens”. It was similar to “Herb and Leaf”. It was clean, organized, and well-staffed. Stefan bought a weed chocolate bar. He offered me some. I like chocolate, but not that much.

 

 

In Washington State weed is a business. It’s just like Amazon or XPO or Kwik Trip. It’s serious and it’s for real.

 

Green

Late January, 2016

The land around the Salish Sea is warm. It almost never freezes there. Snow is visible in the higher elevations of the Cascades and the Olympic mountains, but the lower regions are temperate during the whole year. Forests cover huge areas. Vast stands of fir and cedar tower above everything else. Even in winter, when the deciduous trees have shed their leaves, the whole place is intensely and impossibly green.

 

 

 

One morning, Karin, Stefan, and I walked through the Grand Forest on Bainbridge Island. It is a area of old growth forest on the island. It has trails, and we hiked one of them for over an hour. Stefan was impressed by the size and height of the trees. He asked me how tall they were: one hundred feet? two hundred feet?. I couldn’t tell. All I knew is that at their base they were as big around as our dining room table. The morning was damp and overcast, and the woods were dark and deep green. Grey lichen and bright green moss clung to everything that didn’t move. Occasionally, the sky cleared enough that a shot of sunlight sliced through the gloom, and we saw the forest in all its glory. The light illuminated the reds in bare wood of the fallen cedar trees, a sharp contrast to the overpowering green. Dead trees had mushrooms and ferns growing from them. The forest was taking back its own. A close look at the bushes told me that spring had already come. There were leaf buds on most of the smaller plants. It was going to be even greener.

 

The land, like the water, teams with life. Even in the city, there was a feeling of growth, a feeling of nature just barely held in check. Make no mistake: at the shores of the Salish Sea, men make their mark, but it is Nature that rules.

 

Northern Water

Late January, 2016

Rain streaked the window of our sleeper car, as the Empire Builder slowly wound its way through the Cascades. The tracks followed alongside a wide, fast-flowing river that was full of rocks, and had water that was milky with silt. Low hanging clouds obscured the mountaintops. The train ride reminded me of when Karin and I went through the Alps many years ago. We came out of the mountains near Everett, and then the Amtrak hugged the cliff along the coast, heading south toward Seattle. Looking out the right window, we could see Puget Sound, at least for a little way. Our vision ended a few hundred meters beyond the shoreline, where the rain and mist hid everything beyond. The train stopped a few miles north of Seattle because of a rock slide that blocked the tracks. Heavy rains had caused the slide, and it was several minutes before the train could move again.

 

Senji met us at King Street Station. Stefan, Karin, and I got off the train. He looked just like the Japanese Buddhist monk that he is; he had a shaved head, and was wearing grey pants and jacket, with a saffron-colored sash going from his shoulder to his hip. He had a shoulder bag with him and his umbrella. We gathered our belongings and he got us a taxi. We drove a few blocks to the entrance of the dock for boarding the ferry to Bainbridge Island, Senji’s home. From where we were, the island wasn’t visible. We knew it was across the water, but we couldn’t see it. Then Senji took us to Ivar’s, a local seafood place, to eat fish and chips while we waited on the ferry.

 

We rode the ferry across the sound to Bainbridge Island. Riding the ferry was one of the first things that we did when we arrived in Seattle. Riding the ferry was also one of the last things we did while we were there. The ferries are shown on many of the postcards and photos of the Seattle area, and for good reason. The waterways both divide and connect the various towns and cities of the region. It is impossible for anyone to go far without taking a ferry or crossing a bridge. A person is never more than a few miles from the sea.

 

Our last ferry ride was across the sound from Kingston to Edmonds. On our last night in Seattle, Mira had taken us to free film showing at a small theater in Kingston. The film was called “The Unknown Sea”, and it was about some young researchers who were sailing through the inland waters. Joe Gaydos, the chief scientist from the Seadoc Society, gave a short talk after the movie. He explained that Puget Sound wasn’t really Puget Sound any more. The whole inland water world that extends from Vancouver in the north to Olympia in the south had been renamed the Salish Sea. It is one enormous ecosystem, full of fish and crabs and clams and sea lions and orcas. None of these creatures recognize the U.S./Canada border. The inland sea is also home to eight million humans. I stood at the bow of ferry as it took us home to the Seattle side of the sound. It was night. I could see thousands of lights on the far shore, and lights reflected in the water.

Water surrounded us. It embraced us. The Salish Sea was ever present in our minds, and the minds of those around us. The light rail system is called “ORCA” for god sake. The graffiti on the building walls often shows pictures of whales or octopi. People told us about going clamming or crabbing when the tides were right. Mira took us on her favorite walk in Seattle, to Carkeek Park. It’s a park that extends down the hills to the shore of the sound, where the brown sand is covered with driftwood, shells, and bits of red seaweed. Even on the one sunny day, when the sky cleared and we could finally see Mount Rainier in the distance, we saw it all from the end of the pier in Indianola, with the waters of the sea lapping at the posts below us.

Grand Canyon

May 29th, 2017

“He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.” – Albert Einstein

Thirty-seven years ago, I hiked the Bright Angel Trail. I was with a friend from the U.S. Army Military Intelligence School. We had driven north to the Grand Canyon early one morning from Fort Huachuca. Paul and I were both twenty-two years old, and relatively fit. Once we arrived at the South Rim of the canyon, we decided to walk down to the Colorado River. We had a backpack full of doughnuts and Michelob, and we both carried canteens of water.

Paul and I walked down the river and back in one day. That was a fourteen mile round trip, and a mile difference in elevation between the rim and the river.  At one point, a concerned park ranger stopped us to tell us that we were damn fools. Of course, he was right. The hike was absolutely brutal, and totally worth it. It was nearly sunset when we crawled back to the parking lot, and then slept in my ’77 Chevy Impala (it had bench seats). My entire body ached, but my mind was full of the fantastic images.

I thought about the hike when Karin and I drove from Flagstaff to the Grand Canyon.  I knew that we were not going to hike the canyon. That wasn’t even a possibility. However, we needed to see it. Karin had never been to the Grand Canyon, and it would have been a sin to miss it. We had left Flagstaff very early to make the drive. Since it was tourist season, I expected the park to be crowded.

I was not disappointed. At the gate there was already a long line of cars. Thirty bucks got us into the park. We found one of the last parking places in a lot large enough to accommodate all the spectators at the Super Bowl. This was at 9:00 AM. I don’t know where people parked their cars after that.

It was already getting hot when we walked to the Welcome Center. Karin and I got a map. There is a “village” at the South Rim. I don’t know if it was there back in 1980. I can’t remember. The whole area is built up. The Welcome Center has a bike rental shop and a café of sorts. There are numerous shuttle buses. It’s much bigger operation than it was years ago, but then I had planned on that.

Karin and I walked among the milling crowd. Like Yellowstone, this park was loaded with foreign tourists.  I don’t begrudge them being there. If I was traveling to the U.S., I would want to see the Grand Canyon too. As we walked along, I could hear a variety of languages. Some I recognized. Some I didn’t.

We arrived at the rim. The canyon is impossible to adequately describe, so I won’t try. We looked down and we could see just a glimpse of the Colorado River, a mile below us. I felt dizzy when I looked straight down into the gorge. This was disturbing to me because I never used to feel like that. Hell, I had been a helicopter pilot. Why was I feeling light-headed now?

Karin wanted to take photos as we walked along. She stopped every few feet to snap another picture. Most everyone was doing the same thing. I felt wobbly when I got too close to the side. I was okay if I could lean against a rail, but there was a sensation of almost falling. I had to stay back a couple meters. Other people were clambering onto rocks at the very edges of the cliffs to take selfies. That was hard to watch.

I let Karin go on ahead of me. I sat down on a large stone. I just wanted to look at the canyon. Just look. I saw no point in taking pictures. Photos simply cannot do justice to the scene. They can’t convey the massive proportions of the Grand Canyon. They can’t show the grandeur of it all; the way the sunlight shines on certain strata of rock, making them almost glow with color. Pictures are just a tease.

What is awe really? It’s a hard emotion to describe, but I recognize it when I feel it. I felt it while I sat on that rock and stared into the distance. It’s like my mind couldn’t take it all in. I knew intellectually that this seemingly bottomless chasm existed, but somehow I could not quite believe it. I mean it was right there in front of me. However, part of me rebelled at the thought. It just couldn’t be real. Nothing could be that big. At that moment my mind froze. Analysis stopped. Words failed.

It just is.

Awe.

I went searching for Karin. She was happily conversing with a German family from near Stuttgart. Not only were they speaking in German, but they speaking Karin’s home dialect. We stood around and talked with Stefan and Sinna, while they kept track of their little children, Tim and Francesca. I don’t understand exactly how it works, but Stefan and Sinna managed to score six weeks of paid vacation. They seized on the opportunity and came to the States. They rented a camper in L.A. Then they started their endless road trip. They had plans to go Vegas, San Francisco, and God only knows where else. Cool.

I think it was after that when Karin asked me about going to Las Vegas.

“Are we near Las Vegas?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“That Goddess Temple is near Las Vegas, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

”Well, it sounds like a nice place. We could maybe see it?”

“Mmmmmmmm…not this trip.”

“Why not? Oh, wait. You don’t want to get in trouble with the police again, right?”

“That has something to do with it.”

Sigh. “Oh well…”

Yes, we were making a very large loop around the entire state of Nevada. I don’t like to push my luck. I needed the bad energy to dissipate.

Karin and I stopped at the café for food. They just had pre-made sandwiches and that sort of thing. The Park Service runs the show, and there was no place else to eat. While in the checkout line, a young woman with pink hair at the register noticed my “Coexist” t-shirt. She gave me a thumbs up.

We found some shade, and started to eat a light meal. Then somebody said to us,

“Don’t you live on O’Brien Road?”

I was expecting to hear the music from “The Twilight Zone”. We looked over to our left and saw a family that lived down the block from us. Damn, that was weird. Strange karma. We talked for a while, and then Karin and I went back to the rim.

As we walked, we passed a man sitting at a table covered with books. He was tall and thin, well-tanned. Grey hair going to white. He wore beads around his neck and he was completely dressed in peach-colored clothes. He had a white chalk mark on the middle of his forehead. He got up to greet us.

Flashback. This reminded me way too much of when I would get accosted by the Hare Krishnas at LaGuardia Airport back in the ‘70s. The guy had that same blissed-out look in his eyes. Perhaps if we just ignored him…

No such luck. He started to engage me in conversation. Generally, when I don’t wish to speak to someone, I give off obviously negative energy. Most people detect this radioactivity and steer clear. Not this guy. He was on a mission.

“Have you ever read the Bhagavad Gita?”

“Yes, I have.” (This is true.)

The man smiled serenely. “What did you think of it?”

“It was okay.”

“Only okay? I have studied the Gita for many years. It has answers to so many of the questions in life.” He nodded sagely.

“Uh, yeah.”

He reached over to his table, and picked up a book. “Would like to take a copy?” he said, still smiling gently.

“No thanks. I have one at home.” (This is true.)

“That’s wonderful. There are so many translations. This one is my favorite.”

“I bet.”

“What is your name?”, he asked, holding out his hand.

“It’s Frank“, and I shook his hand. It was kind of limp.

He inclined his head slightly, and he said softly, “I am Swami.”

Of course you are. Who else could you possibly be?

Karin and I bid farewell to our new friend, and we hurried away. What I don’t understand is why the U.S. Park Service allowed this guy to evangelize on the path leading to the rim of the Grand Canyon. Nobody else had a table. Why only this Gita guy? Where were the Bible-thumpers? Where were the Jehovah Witnesses? It didn’t seem fair. I could not wrap my head around it at all.

The park was filling rapidly. It was time for us to go. We had miles still ahead of us. That was a pity. Honestly, the Grand Canyon deserves more than a few hours. It deserves days, maybe weeks. It should be savored. It demands awe.