Dreaming of Iona

To be drawn to observe and write about nature is not a withdrawal from the world, but a coming to know the divinity in all matter. ~ Clare Cooper Marcus

Recently I finished reading an extraordinary book: Iona Dreaming: The Healing Power of Place. I found it while searching Google for spiritual travel guides for Scotland. The author, Claire Cooper Marcus, writes about the six months she spent on a tiny island in Scotland named Iona. This island at the edge of the world helped her heal during two bouts with cancer and taught her invaluable lessons about place, relationship, and love.

As I read the book I was stunned over and over again by parallels between my life and hers. Her first introduction to Scotland (as will be mine in a few short months) was Findhorn. She believes in the power of place and spent her career teaching and writing about it. Dreams play an important role in her life and during her time on Iona she called her dreamworker weekly to discuss her dreams. Synchronicity plays a role: the book relates many incidents of waking and dream life mirroring one another, of chance encounters, of nature reflecting her emotions. She is interested in Celtic spirituality, she talks to fairies, she struggles with ego-ambition. I found in her a kindred soul.

How could I not, when she writes things like this: Dreams are "the compost of the psyche, a rich medium promoting our future growth."

And: "What the world needs now is not just environmental activists, but also quiet observers and poets of the environment whose words and images speak to people in ways that will arouse deep emotions about nature and, in turn, perhaps trigger their own moral outrage about what we are doing to our planet-home."

She speaks my language. And she's encouraged me, through her healing retreat to Iona, to find a place of my own to which I can retreat and deeply connect with myself. It's a yearning I've felt for quite a while now. I've found a few days here and there when I can slow down, but I need an extended time to go out to some natural landscape in order to go within. This is my quest, to find the time and the place to do this. Cooper Marcus has lit the fire that will light my way on this journey. I do not know where this place might be, but I have hints: Scotland, Iceland, Big Sur, the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, the Baltic Sea. I also do not know when I will be able to do the deep work of retreating, but I can feel that it is not far off. My soul and the land are calling.

The Mountains' Good Tidings

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off you like falling leaves. ~ John Muir

Being Held

Nature never gives up on us. ~ Mark Coleman

Last weekend I got out to enjoy the 70+ degree weather that graced Northern California. I reflected on how a year ago I was cooped up inside recovering from a second surgery to remove a cyst from my ovary. I felt immensely grateful to have gone a year without needing a third surgery and I gave thanks to my body for its hard work healing itself. I relished the ability to climb steep green hills and feel the warm wind on my face.

I reached a high point and looked out at the vista. Two falcons soared on thermals. Mt. Diablo peeked out behind the hills straight ahead of me and the undulating valley rolled out before me. I felt incredibly alive.

Skipping down the trail I started to feel the urge to be with a tree. Not any tree would do...I kept walking until I felt drawn to an oak standing right at the side of the trail. I put my arms around its trunk which was slightly further around than my arms would reach. I stood there, hugging that oak for a long time, feeling its deeply grounded and steady energy between my arms. I started to cry, letting the oak and the earth take my pain. Relief washed over me as I allowed my emotions to flow. After a few moments I kissed the tree's rough bark, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and continued down the path.

Although at times during the last year it's felt like I've been given up on, I knew in that moment that Mark Coleman's words are true: nature never gives up on us. She is always there and she is not going anywhere. She is the most stable thing in my life even with her changing moods and despite the way we've altered her. That tree might not always be standing, and an earthquake could open up the land that holds its roots, changing how the land looks, but Nature will always be there. I take immense comfort in that.

The Fog

Last Monday I visited Limantour Beach in Point Reyes National Seashore, a beach that's become a refuge for me. When I left my house that morning, I drove through fog so thick I couldn't even see Mount Diablo. Clouds hugged the hills along the freeway, and the grayness threatened to wipe out everything.

Upon reaching the west side of the Caldecott Tunnel, I once again saw the sun. For some reason the fog hadn't reached Oakland or Berkeley or even San Francisco. It hung above the north bay, the Berkeley hills, and parts of Marin County. Once on the Richmond Bridge, I was inside dense fog again, the bridge disappearing in the distance. It looked as though I might drive right up into the clouds.

At the beach, the fog touched the sand. I could only see a few yards and people seemed to emerge from another dimension as they walked toward me. The sun hid. The place felt ethereal, dreamlike. I found a place on the bluffs to sit and listen to the sound of the waves and immerse myself in that liminal space.

I thought about how I'd gone in and out of the fog several times that weekend. My home in Concord remained socked in for most of the weekend but Berkeley, Oakland, San Jose, and other parts of the Bay had been sunny. Each day I'd left my foggy home and traveled into sunny clarity.

Grief has moved through my life in this way lately. Sometimes I feel a rush of warmth, a break in the clouds when things seem bright and clear and real. Other times I feel lost in a fog, unclear of my direction, unsure if the road really goes straight ahead or disappears into nothingness. Just when I feel I've escaped the fog altogether, it creeps back in in the night, clinging to the edges of my psyche the way it hugs the hillsides.

As I sat on the bluff at Limantour, the clouds started to break up. I could see clear sky and then the sun burst through, warming my face. I realized that although the fog always returns, there will be moments of clarity, of warmth. There will be times when I can see the path ahead and take some more steps. And maybe the fog is there to make sure I don't try to move too fast. It slows me down and asks me to pause, to become quiet, to reflect. Just as I did on that bluff at the edge of the world.

Top Landscape Photo

I'm excited to share that this photo was named one of the top 10 landscape photographs of 2010 by Tripbase! You can see the full post and the other lovely photographs here. 

It's exciting to be recognized by a travel site...I'd like to do a lot more traveling and photographing this year and this inspires me.

Dream Tribe: Nature Dreaming

In my latest Dream Tribe post, I discuss synchronistic dreams I've had about events connected to nature. We're all connected and we're all dreaming about (and as) Nature. We might not notice it in our everyday lives, but I believe if we start to pay attention to our dreams and to Nature in waking, we will start to notice patterns of nature dreaming.


Check out the post to find out more.

National Park Free Days

 

The U.S. National Parks are invaluable treasures. One of my main heroes, John Muir, was instrumental in the creation of the first national park, Yosemite, where I took the above picture of El Capitan. Some of the parks you recognize right away: Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, while others are less well-known. The national park system includes national heritage sites, national seashores, and national monuments, like my personal favorite Muir Woods.

It's pretty likely there's one near you unless you live in Delaware, which is the only state without a national park. So that means it's time to get out and visit one! Entry fees vary, but there are some days during the year that are free. This upcoming weekend happens to be one of those times: from Jan. 15-17, in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, the national parks are free. Click here to see the other dates for the year. 

2010 Adventures

Yosemite Falls and a Misty Valley

It's that time of year, when we all look back at where we've been, what we've done, what we've seen. As I uploaded pictures of my recent trip to Yosemite for snowshoeing and snow-eating and snow-gazing, I realized I've seen some pretty amazing nature this year. And I am grateful I have the means to find my way to them.

Here are the adventures I've been on in 2010:

Heather Farms Park, Walnut Creek

 Canadian Goose Reflecting at Heather Farms Park

Heather Farms Park in April...it's only a few minutes from my house, but the birds there tickle my heart.

Clayton Valley

My Favorite Oak Tree Ever

Clayton Valley in May, where my favorite oak tree lives.

Muir Woods

 Mossy Fairy House

Muir Woods in May. I was lucky enough to visit this magical place twice this year. 

Larkey Park

 Tree That Lives at Larkey Park

Larkey Park many times...it was one of my spots for the TerraPlaces project. These pictures were taken in August. 

Lime Ridge Open Space

  White-Tailed Kite Flying at Dusk

Lime Ridge Open Space in September. I was there to witness the full moon on the equinox.

Dinosaur Hill

View of Pleasant Hill From Dinosaur Hill

Dinosaur Hill in October, another spot I visited for the TerraPlaces project.

 Muir Woods

 Turkey Tail Mushrooms

Muir Woods, October. I could spend days and days and days here. Seriously.

Montara and Pacifica

Rivulets in the Sand, Pacifica

Montara and Pacifica, November. I was lucky enough to attend the Earth Medicine Alliance retreat and see the gorgeous shoreline at Montara, and then visit Pacifica on the way home. I'd been away from the ocean for an entire year and it was magical to see Her again.

Limantour Beach

Waves at Limantour Beach

Limantour Beach, November. Returned to the place where the ocean gave me the idea for my master's final project. I felt immense gratitude seeing this beach again.

Yosemite

Foggy Forest, Crane Flats, Yosemite

Yosemite, December. How I love Yosemite. And this is the first time I've snowshoed there. Glorious.

So there you have it, friends. I hope to go on many more adventures next year (and at least one I know about already...my trip to Scotland in April and May!).  

Walking My Path

Back in November I attended the Earth Medicine Alliance's first conference. The Bay Area nonprofit is just about a year old and this was one of its first public offerings. From the moment I found its web site a few months earlier, I knew this would be a group to align myself with. But it wasn't clear until I soaked up the positive energy of that conference just how closely this group would match my values.

After feeling completely alive and juiced at the conference, I decided to attend the annual members retreat later that month. We gathered at the edge of the continent where the Pacific meets the land. On our first night, as we participated in ritual visioning, a powerful storm blew and boomed outside, punctuating our intentions. The people gathered there spoke from their hearts, sharing their hope that we can bring back an Earth-honoring culture.

I left the retreat feeling full and knowing I'd find a way to help the organization grow and thrive. And last week I was accepted as a member of the board of directors. It gives me great joy to know that working with this organization is going to allow me to connect with many more people who share my conviction that humans and nature must be reconnected. I feel, too, that I've just stepped more firmly on my path. What a fantastic feeling.

Fall TerraPlaces Project Launched

Autumn begins this week, we get to enjoy a gorgeous harvest full moon, and we also get to revel in the launch of the Fall TerraPlaces Project!

During this three-month phase we'll be exploring the connection between place and dreams. How do landscapes show up in our dreams? How does a deeper connection with the land affect our dreams? I'll be teaching you how to foster a more in-depth relationship with both the land and your dreams. We had a fantastic time during the last phase sharing our places with one another and I can feel the momentum growing already with this new phase. Come and join us!

Nature Dreaming

Here is a startling example of how nature inhabits our dreams, straight from my own dreams.

On July 31 I had the following dream: I am in a cozy cabin with a fire going in the fireplace. I settle in and feel good, but there is a nagging something in the background. I look at the view -- I see the Golden Gate Bridge and the sun setting, but something feels off. Then a huge, luminous, gorgeous tidal wave sweeps toward me. It is so beautiful! Illuminated from the inside and turquoise and green. It is also scary. Then a goddess in a yellow dress appears in the room with me. I know she is the sun. She stands in front of me and says, "Jump!"

The next day, solar storms occurred on the sun that affected the magnetic field of the planet, causing gorgeous aurora borealis visible by many people on Earth. Pictures of the aurora that I saw featured colors that reminded me exactly of the tidal wave in the dream. When I heard about the solar storms, I was blown away...this is what my dream was telling me about!

There are many hints within the dream: the fire, the Golden Gate Bridge, the tsunami (the storm looks like a wave on the surface of the sun), the sun goddess. It's all there. Of course, the dream had personal significance for me as well with the emotional upheaval I'm going through. I believe most, if not all, dreams have several layers of meaning.

These kinds of dreams happen all the time and some have them more than others. I'm someone who happens to dream of natural elements, especially storms, quite often.

Image courtesy of NASA Goddard Photo and Video

Finding Our Place

I feel so much joy about how the TerraPlaces project is coming together. In just two weeks we've grown from six to 31 members and the numbers increase daily. We have participants from Australia, the UK, Europe, and the US. We all share a deep love of place and I can tell this from the responses people have shared about their experiences sitting with their special spot the last two weeks.

One member is sitting with an inviting strip of forest just outside Minneapolis. Another will commune with a lake in Maine. Still another will walk a path in Oakland, tending to the land by picking up the trash that daily accumulates there. We've talked about the Milky Way (something I've never seen) and people have guided me to local spots where I might catch a glimpse. We've shared how even our front porches, backyards, and decks provide us a link to the natural world. From cicadas to hummingbirds to deer, we're visited by our animal brothers and sisters and we revel in it.

Here are a few snippets from my journal entries:

August 4: "I immediately tried to find the redwood tree I'd had in my mind as 'the spot.' I couldn't find it. It's like it wasn't there, this amazing tree I'd created in my mind. I knew I'd visited a beautiful redwood there before, but 'the tree' hid from me this time. So instead I walked the concrete path, grumpy about how many people were there and angry I only had a little time to spend.

I ended up at a large pine tree with smooth bark that caught my attention. Lance pointed out that six crows sat in the tree. I looked up and had trouble seeing them at first, but they slowly appeared. Crows. I wasn't sure what to think about that. Lance sat down in the grass and I joined him, promptly putting my hand in bird shit. I felt defeated. A very emaciated woman walked by, telling her husband she was glad she'd be able to go to the doctor tomorrow. Seeing her felt right: I, too, was emaciated, but in an emotional sense. This divorce and the other circumstances surrounding it have left me exhausted, drained.

The next morning I returned, determined to have a better experience. A cold wind blew that made the park uninviting. I wandered to a stand of redwoods next to the outdoor pool. I saw several mushrooms blooming and felt uplifted: a sign of life. Then I noticed several Corona bottle caps as well. Light. Light in the darkness. I took a breath. I walked around a while longer and then left."


August 9: "It was much quieter at the park than during the day...there was no pool noise and fewer people overall so I thought I'd be more relaxed and happy. Soon, however, the highway noise overtook it all. After a while it was almost all I could hear, drowning out the sound of the wind and birds. I tried to allow it to be there but I found myself becoming more and more annoyed. I tried to focus on the beauty around me: the tree silhouettes darkening against a lavender sky, the feel of the redwood trunk behind me, the soft dirt under my hands. I breathed in the cool breeze. And still the cars and trucks haunted me.


I realized I must make room for the highway noise. The more we resist things, the more they push back. Somehow, I want to find a way to hold the reality of the highway and still enjoy the nature that surrounds me at the park. Somehow, I have to find a way to hold cities and nature. And here I am, setting up a duality. There must be a way to better integrate cities and nature so the flow is there, so it's not a this vs. that situation."

It's a learning process. I relish the idea of seeing where this practice takes all of us as we visit our places between now and December. 
 

I Heart Center for Ecoliteracy

I'd like to tell you about an organization I admire: The Center for Ecoliteracy. They call themselves a "leader in the green schooling movement" and they are doing some of the most important work in the world right now. Their programs focus on connecting children with nature and healthy food and creating a generation invested in sustainability.

As a former elementary school teacher, I am thankful that someone is bringing this work into the classroom. Programs like the ones the Center for Ecoliteracy creates are going to be instrumental in reshaping society's views on nature.

The center recently posted an article on their blog about children at a New Orleans school that have challenged their school to become less oil dependent. Check it out. This is just the kind of thinking the center aims to instill in the children it works with.

Sunday Service: Back to Earth

I have some amazing friends who put together fabulous events and I'm lucky enough that they invite me to take part. Just such an event is happening on Sunday, August 22, and I would love to see you there!

My friend Julieann had this amazing idea to create a daylong event in wine country that would connect food and the planet. She asked me if I would speak and I was there in a hot second. My friend Eileen and I will lead a workshop demonstrating several engaging activities you can bring into your life to foster a deeper connection with the land and the food you eat. It's going to be a gorgeous, juicy day!

Here are the details:

Sunday Service: Back to Earth
Creating Inspiration for the Work Week
$185 per person
Includes:

• A Porter-Bass Vineyard tour
• An organic sack lunch featuring produce from Quivira's biodynamic farm Ici ice cream
•  A workshop lead by me and Earthkeeper Eileen Pardini on reconnecting with nature
• Wine tasting
• A catered dinner from the Porter-Bass biodynamic garden created by chef Blair Warsham of graffEats

Location:
11750 Mays Canyon Rd., Guerneville, CA 95446

Organized by Julieann Moore of This Little Cookie. A portion of the proceeds will go to the Center for Ecoliteracy.

BUY TICKETS

Loving the Tarantula

For my entire life I've been terrified of spiders. Even the teeniest speck of a spider brought on panic attacks as a child (and who am I kidding...two years ago a black widow nearly scared me literally to death). I remember some story about a black widow being in my crib, but I don't know if it's true. I do remember the black widow that came crawling out of the faucet one day when I was about to take a bath. And all the black widows that made webs on the foundation of the house who terrorized me as I helped my mom plant marigolds. Me and spiders just didn't mix.

The last three months of college in Boulder I lived in the basement of a townhouse. Desperate to find a place, I'd taken the first one I saw. The day I moved in the former tenant casually said, "By the way, this place has a lot of spiders." Alarm bells sounded in my head. I went into full panic. How could I live there?! Just then, a big spider lumbered out of the closet. It was a long three months. Every morning, as I sat peeing in the tiny bathroom, one or two spiders would crawl out of the space occupied by the water heater (and a spider colony, apparently) and come to wish me a good morning. Or sometimes they sat in the bathtub, and spiders always look bigger contrasted against white bathtubs. These spiders met with a watery grave.

Other spiders in this house weren't so lucky. They were doused with Raid. And so was I. Perhaps all my health problems can be traced to living in a Raid bomb for three months.

Even though I thought the only alternative to going crazy from panic was killing these creatures, I didn't feel good about it. I just didn't want them near me...and especially not on me. 

One spider almost caused me to wreck my car. It was a gorgeous fall afternoon in Denver. I pulled out from the light at 6th and Speer and as I did, I looked to my left. I detected movement on my arm. My heart raced and then I saw it: a small, white, creepy-as-hell spider. I shrieked and flung my hand to whisk it off of me. Then I remembered I was driving. I looked up just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of me. Shaking terribly, I pulled into a gas station. I searched the car...it couldn't have gotten far. The spider crawled out from under my seat and met its death: pounding by ice scraper. 


So I guess I'm a recovering spider murderer. It doesn't feel good. But I am trying to make amends. Sometime in the last year my heart flipped over and I started to care for spiders. Not love, mind you, but I developed a respect and admiration for them. They're pretty amazing. They create incredible webs. And many cultures believe they are symbols of the goddess. So that changed my mind. I started to wonder if Spider was one of my totem animals. I had no trouble accepting Bear and Owl, but Spider? Hmmm.

Somehow, it sank in and I embraced spider as sacred. I placed the Spider card from the Medicine Cards on my altar. And I declared a moratorium on spider murder both at home and at work. Now they spiders are relocated. I have also spoken with the spiders and told them the house rules: they can live with me as long as they don't get on me. If they break that rule, I can't guarantee my reflexes won't kick in. No one's tried it yet. 

But the biggest change came last week on a hike with a friend in Mount Diablo Regional Park. (You may remember that this is the place where I first encountered Owl. It's a magical place...I've seen a mole, quail, and a coyote there as well.) We were out at dusk, our favorite time to be in Nature. At one point I looked down and saw my friend about to step on a tarantula! I yelled out, but couldn't articulate what I wanted to say. 

Luckily, she stepped right over it. That's when I realized I wasn't afraid. Instead, I wanted to see it. I wanted to watch it, take it in. I could appreciate its beauty, its fragility. It was big, at least the size of the palm of my hand. And yet, I had no desire to run away. I told my friend in amazement that this was the first time I'd seen a tarantula and not panicked. The last time I saw one, I was the one who almost stepped on it. As soon as I saw it I jumped several feet to the right and had a panic attack. This time, I didn't want to leave the tarantula. 

Eventually we sauntered off on the trail. I couldn't stop thinking about the tarantula. And I knew then that I'd accepted Spider as a totem, because that tarantula is in my heart even now.

Afraid of the Wild

I realized a while ago while visiting my favorite oak tree that I am still afraid of the wild. For all the writing and talking I do about getting into nature, there are some things I can't bring myself to do just yet. Like walk through knee-high grass in summer for fear of ticks, for instance.

My mom works for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and that means I grew up with a more-than-healthy concern for Lyme disease. As I stood at the edge of the trail, facing the magnificent tree that I've sat under so many times, I just couldn't budge. I'd never been there when the grass was high, so I'd never had to confront this particular fear. 

I tried talking myself into walking right through that grass without a care so I could lean up against the tree's wide trunk and take in branches and sky and Mt. Diablo and rolling hills. But it didn't work. I hiked further up the hill and sat under a much smaller tree right next to the trail where I wouldn't have to touch any grass. I felt like a wuss, like I had failed somehow. The view isn't as good from that tree; there are too many cookie-cutter houses and strip malls below. Leaf-blowers whined and car motors rumbled and there was too much smog. And right before me was miner-stripped Mt. Zion's deep ridges, a stark reminder of the damage we do to Nature. It didn't quite create the mood I'd hoped for. But, the view did echo my inner landscape: one in which I'm still afraid of bugs and diseases and dirt. A landscape of separation.

I think that's when the tiny iridescent-green beetle came to visit. It landed on my hand and stayed for a long while, tromping around. Eventually it settled on my finger and I was able to take a picture. I sat with that beetle, watching its antennae waving in the wind. It seemed to have achieved the relaxation I longed for. So I settled back and took its example, content to let the breeze tickle my face. Later, another beetle joined us. It landed in a container where I'd put cherry pits and carrot nubs. I got it to crawl on my other hand and I tried to see if the two beetles could be friends. It didn't work out. The second beetle soon flew off. The first beetle and I shared the space for a bit longer and then it left as well.

I like to think that beetle came as an ambassador from the wild. It visited to say, "Hey, we're not so bad. Get to know us. Don't shy away. And relax already." I don't know if the beetle cured my fear of ticks, but it did encourage me to slowly become more courageous about exploring the wild.

Muir Woods Wisdom

I recently visited one of my favorite places in the world, Muir Woods National Monument, a magical place. The first time I visited I felt I'd stepped into another world, and with each subsequent visit I come to know the forest more and love it more deeply.

However, during this visit I felt strangely separate from the trees, ferns, flowers, and banana slugs. My grief acted as a wall blocking the gentle love that flows from the majestic redwoods. It felt uncomfortable, this separation. The magic couldn't penetrate my defenses and I left feeling numb. I'm so used to having my heart wide open to nature that this nearly broke my heart again.

As I write this, I wonder if this dynamic is what keeps so many of us from connecting more deeply with Nature. We've all been hurt, some of us to our cores and multiple times. The constant crises happening around the world cause us intense grief and sorrow. Although Nature provides powerful healing, our hearts must be open to it before the healing will work. I see that now with an understanding I didn't have before.

Perhaps if I'd had more time (and I'm talking a few days here) the wall might have given way. I know if I'd been there to sit, relax, rest, and listen to the fresh green life growing all around me, that would have made a difference. Instead I hiked for more than two hours, and although it was slow, it was near-constant movement.

Action gets in the way of being. It gets in the way of absorbing and restoring and healing.

I have decided here and now the next time I visit Nature I will have the intention to sit, listen, and heal.

America's Best Idea

Lance and I have been watching The National Parks: America's Best Idea, a lovely new mini-series by Ken Burns. Each weekend we get to learn a little more about the history of the parks when a new disc arrives from Netflix.

After watching the first disc about the creation of the first national parks, Yellowstone and Yosemite, which happen to be two of my favorite places in the world, I fell in love with John Muir all over again. Once I graduate, I want to read his books and anything else written by and about him. I also want to make a pilgrimage to the John Muir House: admittedly it won't take me long because it's in the next town over. The picture decorating this post is from my favorite Bay Area locale, Muir Woods. It is one of the most magical places I've ever been and no matter how many times I visit, it never fails to entrance me.

In all, I've been to 14 places within the national park system:

Rocky Mountain National Park (many times...it was practically in my backyard growing up)
Yellowstone National Park (in 1990)
Mount Rushmore National Memorial (in 1990)
Canaveral National Seashore (in 1991)
Mesa Verde National Park (in 1993)
Grand Canyon National Park (in 1993)
Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve (in 1993 and 1996)
Golden Gate National Recreation Area (many times)
Muir Woods National Monument (many times)
Point Reyes National Seashore (many times)
Sequoia National Park (in 2007)
Yosemite (in 2000, 2005, and 2006)
Alcatraz Island (in 2009)
Presidio of San Francisco (many times)

The standouts for me are certainly Rocky Mountain National Park, Yellowstone, Yosemite, Sequoia, Muir Woods, and Point Reyes. The theme here is trees, I'd say, with a dash of ocean.

I recommend watching the series. It not only highlights our gorgeous national parks though the stunning cinematography, but it also points out who fought for the wild lands in this country, who we can thank for preserving them. Because let me tell you, if it wasn't for people like John Muir, Teddy Roosevelt (that surprised me), and Stephen Mather, I'm not sure how much of that land would have been saved from mining, forestry, and development. I am eternally grateful to them.

Thoughts on Earth Day

I am grateful. Grateful for the willows’ branches that gently sway in the wind. Grateful for the rain that breathes life into the soil. Grateful for the nematodes and peregrine falcons and hibiscus flowers and amethyst and right whales. Grateful for my intimate connection to each being on this planet.

I am grieving. Grieving for the bleached coral, the mountains that lost their majesty to dynamite, the ocean waters rendered dead by fertilizers. Grieving for the seal trapped in a fishing line. Grieving for the wolf shot from a helicopter. Grieving because of my intimate connection to each being on this planet.

I am hopeful. Hopeful that more and more people will become conscious of this deep connection. Hopeful that we will find a way to live on this planet sustainably and with respect for every centimeter of land, every molecule of water, every living being. Hopeful that we can heal the wounds within us that cause us to wound what surrounds us. Hopeful that we will realize and hold dear our intimate connection to each being on this planet.

Dumped On

Driving on the back roads between Moraga and Oakland recently, Lance and I stumbled upon something that hit me to my core.

In an area surrounded with lush trees, ferns, and wildlife lies a toxic make-shift dump. Lance spotted it out of the corner of his eye as we drove on windy Pinehurst Road, just a few feet from one of the entrances to Redwood Regional Park and the county line. We got out to take a closer look and my heart just broke.

The dump extends for hundreds of feet. In it are a rotting car, sofas, mattresses, and all kinds of other trash. And down-slope from this mess is the Upper San Leandro Reservoir. The area is a vital watershed that eventually ends up in the Bay and is home to many animals and plants.

I am stunned that the dump there, although I understand how it happened: it's a clear representation of our disconnection from nature. There are still so many people out there who think that dumping their junk onto nature won't really hurt anything because they have no way of relating to the animals, the plants, or the land. As long as it's out of their house/yard, that's all that matters. It's away. But not really. It's harming the land, the animals, the plants, and because we're all connected, it's harming us. The easiest way to see this is that people fish in the reservoir, and those fish could be contaminated by the toxins from dumps like these breaking down and flowing into the streams when it rains. Of course, the harm goes much deeper than that.

I don't know what's been done to clean it up: I'm investigating that now, as well as doing a lot of letter-writing. I do know from reading the County Public Works Department Web site that the county spends millions of dollars cleaning up dumps like this. If you're as incensed about this dump as I am, I've added some links to people to write to or call.

Places to contact:
County Public Works Department Road Maintenance Division 925-313-7000 (When I contacted them they wasn't sure if it would be their issue, but I would still call them...the more people who do, the more it will encourage them to do something.)
East Bay Regional Park District
East Bay Municipal Utility District
Contra Costa Times Environment reporter Mike Taugher 925-943-8257 or mtaugher@cctimes.com
Environmental Program at Merritt College in Oakland
Friends of San Leandro Creek