This time last year I wanted to gather my own tribe around my dining room table. I craved their ways of thinking, experiences, wisdom, crafts and talents. But the problem with “my tribe” is we are not very tribal and gathering these folks at one time is akin to herding feral cats — which is why I love this weakly defined tribe.So, instead, I hiked the desert, wandered through the forests, listened to the rivers and ocean, bought mounds of books to read and ponder, and took to what I’ve always done at challenged life moments — threw words on paper in hopes of sorting it all out.
Managing charitable donations and business can get tricky. One can’t stay in business if one is much too generous. Business owners learn that there such things as phony causes that are enough to harden even the softest hearts.
It can be lonely on these less traveled roads. Guideposts are few and far between. The silence, however, is magic. It puts a lid on the cauldron of word soup chatter (social media). With each blind curve, truth reveals itself like nakedness in the mirror. And it is not always pretty.
Spotting scope zeroed in on a nesting female peregrine falcon, director chairs set up for conversation near the base of Morro Rock, it takes less than 15 minutes before a person asks, “Are you Bob?” or says, “Bob, I brought my family to see the falcons.”
“Welcome back,” Bob Isenberg greets, as he readies to share his personal excitement about the recently hatched chicks on a Morro Rock State Preserve ledge. There, a 5-year-old female peregrine falcon (falco peregrinus) that arrived on the Rock three years ago with an ID tag stamped “23R” that tracks her beginnings at the Moss Landing Power Plant, has taken on a life-partner and set up a new eyrie (a bird of prey’s nest), one never used before, as noted on Isenberg’s website pacificcoastperegrinewatch.org.
23R’s arrival joined the only other nesting peregrine on the Rock — an older female that hasn’t produced viable eggs for the last three years, according to Isenberg.
Eye wide open and caring, are the first two steps to feed compassion where we live. With an understanding that I, as one person, cannot possibly bring well-being to all of those who hunger — those who hunger for love, shelter or peace — I do understand that each action and smile that I make within a day creates a difference.
The first California coast cleanup began in the mid-1970s, when an Arcata recycler operated beach cleanups in search of recyclables. Oregon, however, was the first state to organize a state-wide volunteer beach cleanup in 1984, called the “Plague of Plastics.”
Enough of this world and all of its crooks and liars crushing the light out from the morning headlines! A high octane call to take to the road fuels my inner nomad. Drape me in beads and hats. Pack my bags (minimally). Climb aboard Gilda, the 1997 VW EuroVan with 136,000 miles already journeyed
it’s glow in
Alas, I’m not goddess of the world. I wander through my own idiocy, bloviate when the opportunity arises, and I would do well to observe a flower from bud to full blossom — all of which brings me to tea time. How is that?
I do not like it when a cloud lingers around my aura. My thinking fogs-up. My feet shuffle instead of step up. And my language slips into what one of my mentors would call “slow vibrating words.” That’s not a good thing because the faster and more clearer that our aura vibrates, the better we can see truth and make positive choices.