Stumble

At the start of my happy visit with relatives this month, I stumbled and fell down. As in many California homes, the floor level changed a few inches at a doorway. The floor tiling at one level was a rich, dark earth color, and the wood floor in the next room blended well. I just didn't see that there was a difference in depth. I fell through a dizzy world of deep browns and reds and then I was on the floor of a beautiful room. My family was aghast, but I recovered in a few minutes.

Just two years ago, I might have stumbled, but I would not have fallen. I would have caught myself, shifted weight, possibly twisted my ankle. Lately, my left leg gives way at times. The muscles are sore. I try not to limp, but my gait has changed. I walk more stiffly, more gingerly, less fluidly. Maybe gentle balancing exercises will help.

It turned out that other members of my family fall down. One exquisite woman has been tripping over her own feet most of her life, and usually has the bruises to prove it. An older relative melts to the floor now, and just finds herself there. It gives us something unexpected in common.

Wouldn't you know, the next day I had forgotten all about it, and fell at the same spot, twisting onto my knees and clutching a chair. I'm grateful I sustained only a big bruise.

I want to be the tree that bends and springs back, not the one that's stiff and gets blown down by a big wind.

The Idea of Alaska

My Dad always said he was going to retire to Alaska. It symbolized freedom, outdoors, nature, renewal. My townbred stepmother wasn't enthusiastic.

By the time Dad retired, he needed heat. He enjoyed soaking up Florida sun, albeit in a cap and long-sleeved shirt and slacks. Dad grew up in Redding, Connecticut when it was rural, with some summer homes of literary people from New York. He worked in a brickyard in New Hampshire as a teenager, and shipped out very young with the US Navy.

Jon King's linking of integrity with the ideal of Alaska interests me. It links up with the idea that we aren't here forever, that our time is short, in some ways, that what we acquire or nest in serves temporary needs, that one day we will be free indeed, free from things, free from our bodies, free from Earth.

Autumn in New York

"Autumn in New York, It's good to live it again."

Thanksgiving in New York meant going home, spending lots of time with my son and my future daughter-in-law, enjoying my new in-laws, breathing cool, damp air, walking beside the East River, riding buses past familiar cityscapes. I had a massage at the Om Yoga Center, near the Strand book store. That gave me the opportunity to retrace the steps of a pilgrimage that was part of my childhood. My mother would pay the electric bill at the Con Edison building on 14th Street. We would go around the corner to Horn & Hardat's for chicken pot pie. Then we would walk along Irving Place to 17th Street, stand in front of the Washington Irving High School and look across the street at the two small buildings that were boarding houses in the 1930's. There my mother met my father. Like the other residents, they were attending the Night School after work, with the intent to gain their high school diplomas. Instead, they married. Later things went wrong, but once there was a love story among hopeful people. That matters to me.

Beowulf

The movie of Beowulf is worth seeing.

Wildfire

Nature, in the form of wind and wildfire, certainly has our attention here in Southern California. I read now about "wild land - urban interface." Millions of Americans have built homes in the piney woods and picturesque hills of sage and brush. Wildfires form part of our local ecology. Unfortunately, there are now so many homes and other buildings that a natural process becomes a human disaster. Evacuating 500,000 people is a precaution. I think about 4,000 homes are considered threatened, some of them are already gone. It does look like the aftermath of a war.

I'm not immediately affected, except by the poor air quality. I live in the coastal part of the city, on the first wide ridge or plateau up from the Pacific. Fires are burning inland, past the first line of hills that run north and south. Roads have been closed and reopened. We're all being advised to stay home if we can, conserve electricity, yet turn on air conditioners part of the time to filter what we're breathing. A lot of schools and businesses are closed. Many schools are evacuation centers. The local NBC TV station ran breaking fire news and video at least 48 hours in a row. Evacuees were sitting in Qualcomm Stadium with their water bottles watching those big screens, trying to see if their homes were spared. A lot of them must still be doing that. Everybody who isn't immediately affected has a family member or friend who is. The scam artists and identity thieves are busy, but so are the everyday heroes and helpers.

I'm OK. The dry Santa Ana weather always causes bleeding sinuses and respiratory problems. The ash makes breathing more difficult. I've been out for a few hours at a time for groceries or post office. Small urban businesses, especially eating places, are open. Everywhere people are filling in for employees who can't get through closed roads, or are living on the floor of a stadium entry with their families, or are totally distracted by the danger to, or loss, of their homes. Some people's quality of life will be rock bottom for the foreseeable future. So many repetitions of, "We're alive. We're together. That's all that matters."

Sunshine

In autumn, the midday sun on my sore shoulders is a blessing.

PostSecret

Blogspot recommends PostSecret which is a strange and interesting project. People send a secret, anonymously, with a postcard or index card that has artwork. You just have to see it.