Draw an ensō around all that can be experienced: Tat tvam asi. Some understanding can only be achieved via emotive experience of the whole.
O
Horizon separates earth and sky, shoreline divides land and sea, light differentiates night and day, the Manai’a individuates. Some understanding can only be achieved via rational reductionism.
÷
The Manai’a has foot, fin, and feather to explore land, sea, and sky; heart to feel; and mind to deconstruct.
!
Special Ed Hileman and I headed out to Box Canyon hoping to fly our paragliders. Conditions were quite breezy from the southwest when we arrived in the LZ, so we took out time hiking up to the first knoll.
The SW winds were gusting to 22 mph, so there was no need to hike to the top. Ed and I had not flown in a long time, so we lounged about and had a nice visit while taking in the lovely view.
At 3:50PM, thick clouds covered the sun and the SW winds dramatically shut off. It's hard to believe how the winds can go from 22 mph to zero so suddenly. A very light breeze from the NW started flowing up the spine. Ed and I inspected various launch possibilities and checked the winds. We didn't know if the SW flow would kick back in once the clouds had passed, or if the NW flow would build, but we figured we had better get off launch while conditions were good or we would be hiking down. I launched first. The NW winds were smooth and light, the launch area was big and open (relatively speaking), and I had a clean, uneventful, float-off-the-hillside launch. In the air, the winds were right up the spine, so my westward passes were quite slow and my eastward passes were quite fast. It was a bit itchy and scratchy at first, but I slowly worked up the spine. It took me a while to make the hop from the false peak to the steep spine up to the top, but just as I made it to the upper spine, Ed pulled up and stepped off the first knoll.
Ed had the same experience as I and slowly made his way up the spine and eventually joined me a hundred feet or so above the top of Box. Conditions continually improved as the wind direction clocked around to almost due north and the velocity became more constant. We were having no problem ridge soaring and we were both flying with quite a bit of brake, so penetration was not an issue. At some point, the whole bowl in front of Box went off and we could fly almost anywhere in rising air. We both flew way out in front, until we felt the rotor of the ridge on the north side of the bowl, and way back to the peak behind the hang glider launch.
The biggest lift was consistently in front of the rock outcropping, straight into the wind. Ed and I fell into a pattern - from the rock outcropping, fly straight into the wind about halfway across the bowl; hang a left to the false peak, hang another left up the spine to the peak and back to the rock outcropping. The flying was as easy and stress-free as it gets. On one of my passes over the rock outcropping, I looked down and a huge golden eagle was just below me. S/he was uniformly very dark, had a seven foot wing span, very high aspect ratio wings with practically no dihedral. We both flew through the best lift, then s/he went right toward the hang glider launch and I went left. S/he came back and made a pass with Ed as well.
I flew over to the peak behind the hang glider launch and thought to fly north along the spine that leads to the east-west ridge on the north side of the bowl, but found the air to be a bit trashy and sinky, so I headed back into the bowl and climbed all the way back to the rock outcropping.
As the sun was setting, my body was shaking with cold, so I headed to the LZ. Not being current, I opted for a very conservative downwind-base-final approach and had an uneventful landing near the wind sock. Ed followed me in and I clicked a few photos of him with my crummy Blackberry camera.
As we packed up, the sky exploded in the sunset, as it only does in SoAZ.
I just put 6.5 kW of PV on my house in Tucson. I am so frugal with electricity, the PV system should generate more power than I consume, so I'll wind up putting power back on the grid.
My house in Elko has a "pop-out" on the second floor: Inside this "pop-out" is a bathtub: On November 24, the high temperature in Elko was 15F which was lower than the record 20F recorded in 1931. On November 25, the low temperature in Elko was -14F which beat the previous record low of -9F recorded in 1898. I was in Tucson at the time enjoying sunshine and warmth and Thanksgiving with Mom and Dad. Unfortunately, the copper water pipes that feed my bathtub in the second floor pop-out froze and burst. When I returned to Elko the evening of December 5, I found my house to be something of a disaster. My kitchen: The crawlspace under my house was completely flooded: Here is what a copper pipe freeze-burst looks like: My wood floors are buckling as they dry:The damage is quite extensive. I have a water-damage-remediation-contractor demolishing most all of the walls and floors. It will be another week or so before we know the full extent of the damage.
I am not quite ready to wax philosophical on this experience as I am still in the thick of it, but a thoughtful friend reminded me today that my favorite story is The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. That gave me some good perspective.
This adventure will inevitably bias my worldview either toward a perspective of scarcity or a perspective of abundance. Let's hope it turns out to be abundance.
If you can see the end from the beginning, you are not exploring. Exploration, by definition, is venturing into the unknown. - Sarah Vular (paraphrased) on the problem with engineers. We are out exploring. www.footfinandfeather.com
Somebody asked me, “What was your favorite part of the race?” It didn’t take me long to answer, “Just before it began and right after I finished.”
Some history:
I did a race a couple of times in the late 80’s with Chris Toriggino in Lake Tahoe called “The World’s Toughest Triathlon.” It was the National Ultra Distance Championship; a 2 mile swim in Lake Tahoe, a 100 mile bike ride over three mountain passes, and an 18.6 mile trail run around Fallen Leaf Lake. One year the water temperature was 53°F. Rip Esselstyn loaned me a small long sleeve wetsuit (appropriate for me but I can’t believe he ever got it on - he said a wetsuit was supposed to fit tight) and I wore a neoprene beanie under my latex swim cap. I remember plunging my head and torso into the water and swimming furiously, turning my head to the side to breathe, but not being able to inhale because the shock of the cold was so intense. I was in my early 20’s at the time, so I just kept swimming and somehow got enough oxygen into my lungs to finish the 2 mile course. When I exited the water, I was delirious with hypothermia. I ran straight into the spectators that lined either side of the runway to the transition area. I was like a pinball – the spectators kept pushing me onto the runway and I kept running back into them. I was so cold, a race official had to help me get my wetsuit off. As I left the transition area on my bike, I thought I would be warm by the time I crested the first mountain, but as it turned out, I never warmed up on the bike. My feet were still cold when I finished the bike ride.
Powerbar had just been introduced to the market and about 70 miles into the bike ride I bit off a mouthful. In the cool mountain temperature, the Powerbar was a stiff and sticky solid. I took one chew and my jaw and face muscles seized up with lactic acid. I rode several miles with that big plug of Powerbar filling my open mouth, my muscles unable to chew it, my body too cold to soften it. When sugary-sticky peanut drool started dribbling down my chin, I finally spit it out.
By the end of the bike ride, my blood sugar was a mess. I had to walk the 18.6 miles around fallen leaf lake, eating the whole way. I think my feet finally warmed up somewhere on the run.
I did Ironman Arizona in April of 2007. I had a great swim, but the bike course was quite difficult because the winds were howling. The winds made the race so difficult, the race organizers decided to move the race to November. Springtime in Arizona is always windy. The first 16 miles of the run in 2007 were great – I held 9 minute miles – but I was so tired after mile 16 that I had to run/walk the rest of the course. My times in 2007 were:
Swim Time 56:24 Bike Time 6:16:30 Run Time 5:07:56 Overall Time 12:33:10
Someday I hope to complete an Ironman in close to 10 hours, something like a 1 hour swim, a 5 hour bike, and a 4 hour run. I was hoping for a 12 hour finish in 2010, but my run training suffered a serious setback in August when my IT band in my right knee started bothering me. I think two things contributed to the injury; a week of hard core water skiing and the transition from training on my road bike to training on my tri bike, with the seat on my tri bike set an inch too high. I was able to continue riding through September and October, but I could not run, so I went into Ironman Arizona 2010 with the plan to simply walk the marathon. In a way, it was a relief to not be able to “race.” When you race, it is tricky to manage your energy, hydration, and blood sugar. If you go out too hard, or don’t eat or drink enough, or eat or drink the wrong stuff at the wrong time, an Ironman can turn into a miserable, even dangerous, endeavor. Not being able to run, I could have a fast swim and bike and then just do a very long walk. It is easy to eat and drink while walking and the aerobic effort to walk 15 minute miles is much less than the effort required to run 10 minute miles.
Ironman Arizona 2010
I got up at 4AM and ate a huge breakfast, something called “Rip’s Big Bowl,” and I drank 64 ounces of hot tea – Celestial Seasonings Roastaroma spiked with soy milk. This gluttonous meal did several things for me:
· It made me poop. Filling my belly got my intestines moving. You want to start an Ironman with empty intestines. · It got me super hydrated. 64 ounces is a lot of fluid. No caffeine in Roastaroma. · It started a long, slow release of blood sugar that would power me for many hours. Rip’s Big Bowl is complex carbohydrates and lots of fiber.
At 5:30AM, my support crew, Mom and Dad, drove me to the race. Lots of details to attend to: pump up bike tires, drop off clothing and food for the bike and run course, pee every ten minutes, etc. I choked up several times, almost crying, as I ran around the transition area, surrounded by athletes and the amazing positive energy of the event. It’s not like a competition where you want to beat your opponent. Complete strangers tell you that “You’re going to be an IRONMAN today.” It is a celebration of life and health and everybody is cheering for everybody else.
At 6:50AM the professional triathletes started their race. 3000 age group athletes had 10 minutes to jump in the water and swim to the start line. I was wearing a sleeveless wetsuit, a neoprene beanie, a latex swim cap, and goggles. The water temperature was 61°F. I wanted to minimize my exposure the cold water, so I waited until 6:55 to jump in. The water was cold, but I was so excited to be doing an Ironman, it didn’t seem like it was going to be an issue. I casually treaded water up to the front of the crowd and tried to scope out the buoys down the lake. Sunrise was still a few minutes away and we would be swimming straight into the sun. There was a huge PA system on shore and they had been playing peppy rock and roll music to set the mood. As we treaded water, we heard the first guitar chord of Black Sabbath’s “Ironman” blast out of the speakers. A huge cheer roared up from the athletes and the spectators and I got goose bumps, not from the cold, but from the spiritual excitement. A fellow next to me said, “This is AWESOME” and another fellow said, “It’s good to be alive.” Someone sang the Star Spangled Banner and they shot off the cannon blast that signaled our start.
I sprang from treading water to a full freestyle sprint, planning to pull away from the school of elbows and kicking feet, but after only a few seconds of swimming, I was in trouble. The shock of the cold water on my face, the tightness of my wetsuit on my chest, my belly swollen with my giant breakfast, my bare arms stiff with cold; somehow it all added up that I couldn’t breathe and I felt nauseas. I got light headed. I thought I was going to throw up. I tried rolling over on my back and doing backstroke, but I still felt ill. I felt something like an anxiety attack coming on and I knew I was in serious trouble. I am a really good swimmer and I am always very comfortable in the water. I swim with sharks and dolphin in the deep ocean and here I was about to drown in 15 feet of lake water. I did breaststroke for a few minutes, keeping my head out of the water so I could breathe. My blood-oxygen levels recovered and I put my face in the water again and started swimming a very moderate freestyle. I maintained a modest effort and I felt OK, but all the elbows and kicking feet were stressing me out, so I swam to the outside of the school where I could swim alone. There is an advantage to drafting off the swimmer in front of you, but I was still feeling stressed, so I stayed to the outside the other swimmers for the entire course. As I rounded the turnaround buoy at the halfway, breathing was no longer an issue and the nausea was gone, but my bare arms were still quite stiff from the cold. I maintained a good aerobic pace on the second half of the swim, going about as hard as I could while breathing every three strokes. I noticed that I couldn’t feel my feet anymore and my core was starting to chill. Fortunately the final turn buoy came quickly and I swam up to the exit stairs.
The bottom step on the exit stair was at about water level, so climbing out of the water was a bit inelegant, more like pressing yourself up onto the deck of a swimming pool than climbing stairs, but the volunteers were hoisting us out by our armpits and I soon found myself running to the transition area on frozen stumps that I could not feel. I tried to reach back and unzip my wetsuit, but my hands could not grasp the zipper pull strap. I coiled the strap around my hand and pulled the zipper down, but then could not grasp the wetsuit to pull it off my shoulders. I grabbed my transition bag and went inside the change tent. A volunteer had to strip my wetsuit off and I struggled to open my transition bag, dry off, and put on my cycling clothes. I ran out of the transition tent and stopped in a portapotty. As I stood there peeing, my whole body was shivering with cold. As I ran to my bike, I thought about my cold bike ride at World’s Toughest and remembered I had left a fleece sweater next to my bike. Before I put on my helmet, I pulled the fleece sweater out and put it on. With all my gear in place, I grabbed my bike, trotted out of the transition area, mounted, and rode out to the Beeline Highway.
I was cold and stiff. Tendons in my groin, gracilis maybe, were not happy to be in the saddle. I could not feel my feet. People were flying past me and I had the sense that I was going quite slowly. I zipped my fleece sweater up to my neck and lay down in the aero position and formulated the strategy to simply ride a moderate pace until I warmed up and felt better. I immediately started drinking the sugar water they were handing out at the aid stations. Hydration and blood sugar management in an Ironman can be summarized; constantly shove as much food and water down your gullet as you can without making yourself sick. My belly was still full from breakfast, so sugar water was my choice. The winds were from the south and we were riding uphill to the northeast. I was in my big chain-ring turning a good cadence. On that first outbound ride, the only difficulty the wind posed was the occasional crosswind gusts that threw you off balance and made you swerve slightly. The race course was very congested – they either need a bigger course or fewer athletes. You are not supposed to draft off other bikes in a triathlon, but the course was so congested, you often couldn’t help but draft. There were plenty of people taking advantage of the peloton-like conditions, but I decided not to waste any emotional energy on the cheating as I wasn’t racing. We reached the first turn around and after the 180° turn, my heart sank.
The south winds were much stronger than I had realized. It was downhill and southwest back to the transition area and I had to drop to my small chain-ring to maintain a reasonable cadence. The headwind was so strong, at times I could only maintain 8-10 mph. I tucked into the aero position and tried to be as streamlined as possible. It was much cooler riding into the headwind and I was grateful I had my sweater. I noticed several riders that urinated in their shorts while still on their bikes, a reasonable strategy for a top competitor, but by this stage of the race, everyone around me was in the middle of the pack. Quite a few fellows simply pulled their bikes off on the shoulder, unclipped one foot, and hung their dongle over the top of their shorts or out one of the leg openings. I chose to stop at an aid station about 30 miles into the ride and pee in the portapotty. It gave me a chance to stand still for a moment and gauge how I felt. I was still shivering.
Knowing that the outbound rides were downwind, I rode the second and third outbound legs sitting up in the saddle, using my back like a sail. Sitting up I was able to eat solid food – two raw food bars, about 560 calories - and reduce the strain on my lower back. The winds increased as the day wore on, so the outbound legs became easier and the inbound legs became much harder. I was tucked over in the aero position for the inbound legs. I stopped at aid stations to pee at 60 miles, 80 miles, and 100 miles. I was well hydrated. I think I drank 180 fluid ounces of sugar water, about 1575 calories. It rained on us for a few minutes several times and there were even some little pebbles of hail. I started to feel my toes about 70 miles into the ride. The drafting was atrocious. I noticed that I am a relatively good climber. People passed me throughout the ride, except on the uphill climbs. I consistently passed people on the hills – take that one-legged-fat-old-lady! The pro athletes started lapping me about 60 miles into the ride. It was impressive how fast they were riding into that headwind.
It was a huge relief to ride into the transition area and get off the bike. The winds were much worse than in 2007. My legs felt a bit wobbly and my left achilles tendon was achy as I trotted off to the changing tent with my transition bag. Once inside, I stripped down and sat on a folding chair. I was still chilled, but not shivering anymore. I decided I had better take my fleece sweater with me for the marathon. I had a bit of difficulty tying my shoe laces – my finger dexterity was impaired, from either the cold or the fatigue. There were quite a few fellows sitting in the changing tent, eating M&M’s, that had decided to drop out of the race. Everyone was talking about the cold and the wind. I was grateful that I didn’t have to run, all I had to do was walk 26.2 miles.
Mom and Dad were cheering as I exited the transition area so I jogged by them for the photo-op but returned to a brisk walk as soon as I passed them. I felt good running, so I formulated the plan to walk the first 18 miles and then, if I felt good, to try running the last 8 miles. The spectators were cheering, and it was difficult to walk past all the encouragement. I was super hydrated, so I had to stop to pee at every aid station. I soon had an aid station rhythm; pee, grab a handful of grapes, drink a gulp of water, and move on. I ate a few pretzels for the salt, a few potato chips for the grease and the salt, a few bananas for potassium, but mostly it was grapes and water. I was averaging 15 minute miles and felt quite good. There was the temptation to try and run, but I stuck to the plan and walked through 18 miles. The Phoenix Triathlon Club had a fantastic aid station and I couldn’t help but laugh every time I went through. They were having a good time.
I started getting hot spots on the balls of my feet four or five hours into the walk and by the time I was on my last 6 miles, I had monster blisters and was walking on the outside of my feet. Mom and Dad were waiting for me about 6 miles out and they walked across the Town Lake Bridge with me. A kind soul named Dee Dee walked several miles with me and our chat helped take my mind off the discomfort. (Dee Dee, I hope you finished, 17 hour cut-off time be damned.) By the time I was on the final stretch, I could barely walk because of the blisters and the rest of my body, especially my hips and shoulders, were all out of whack from walking on the outside of my feet. I promised myself I would walk across the finish line and not risk twisting an ankle or falling down trying to run.
I came around the corner to the finish chute and the place was lit up like a football field. Spectators crowded into bleachers on either side of the chute and the announcer called out my name and that I was from Tucson. I walked into the bright lights, grimaced in pain, and started running. The crowd went wild. I swear it was like the roar in a football stadium when the home team scores a touchdown. I felt no pain and I was running surprisingly well. I trotted across the finish line and a fellow put his arm around me and held my arms. I told him to not let go of me or I would fall over. My picture was taken and we shuffled off to the medical tent where I sat down on a folding chair and realized I was, once again, shivering with cold.
I saw Mom and Dad over the fence and hobbled to the gate to meet them. They supported me as I limped to a picnic table and lay down. They took my shoes off and we all stared at the blisters on the bottom of my feet. Dad collected my bike and clothing and went to get the truck. Mom held me up and we shuffled a few blocks away to meet Dad in the truck.
Back at the hotel, a hot shower did wonders for me and I ate a little bit of baba ganouj, brown rice, tofu and vegetables. I was asleep at midnight and I didn’t move until 5 AM when I had to get up and pee. I was still very well hydrated.
Final Results
Swim Time 1:00:06 Bike Time 6:43:15 Run Time 7:16:45 Overall Time 15:14:38
Retrospective
I used to tell people that doing an Ironman was all about managing your energy, hydration, and blood sugar. I will now add one more thing to the list: exposure. You have to manage your exposure to the heat/cold/sun/wind, the time your ass is in the saddle, the time you’re standing on your feet.
I love the Ironman lifestyle and I am fantastically motivated to begin training again. Someday soon I hope to run a 3 hour marathon and get close to a 10 hour Ironman.
Having reflected on my experience, I’d like to revise my opening statement. My favorite part of the race was just before it began – the roar of the crowd at the first chord of Black Sabbath’s “Ironman” – and those few seconds running down the finish chute – the roar of the crowd when I started running. I’ve never felt such unconditional encouragement and support from everyone for everyone, and I’ve never experienced such a collective joie de vivre. It is a shame that I felt so miserable after the race. Had I felt better, I would have liked to stay at the finish line and cheer the last athletes across the finish line.
3PM Friday. Checked in with Ironman Arizona at Tempe Town Lake park. Ten minutes to sign all sorts of waivers promising not to sue anybody, and then stood in line for an hour and a half for body marking. No longer do they magic marker your race number on your arms on race morning. The procedure now is to impress a more permanent ink on your arm with a stamp. Standing in line is normally a drag, but this is Ironman and the energy of the place is buzzing and everyone is happy and excited. There was a witty Aussie and a quiet Canadian in front of me and the Aussie and I had a good time trying to be more clever than each other. At one point, the Aussie commented on the water bottle the Canadian had mounted on her aerobars. In the aero position, she will spend considerable time looking at her water bottle and the Aussie suggested that she should print some sort of motivational slogan on the water bottle. The conversation then pursued what that slogan should be. Before too many witticisms had been offered, the Aussie asked me what my motivation would be on race day. After a short moment of reflection, I offered the following:
This will be a bit heavy, but a decade ago, a 40 year old friend died in an accident. Three years ago when I did this race, I found myself think of him halfway through the bike course. I was 40 years old, it was a glorious sunny day, and I was competing in an Ironman. I was alive and healthy. I had such leisure and luxury in my life that I spent considerable time swimming, cycling and running. I was blessed, and I knew I was blessed because my friend's death had given me perspective.
The Aussie asked me what that perspective was and I explained that when Arjan died, by most anybody's yardstick I was quite successful, but even though I had achieved financial and material success, I really had not done anything that was meaningful or fulfilling to me. The perspective that came to me through Arjan's death was the realization that:
1. I was going to die and it could happen at any time. 2. The comfort, convenience and security I had spent my life pursuing was empty of any meaning. 3. I couldn't clearly and concisely state what would be meaningful and fulfilling to me. 4. If someday I was able identify what was meaningful and fulfilling, I must relentlessly follow my bliss.
The Aussie turned to the Canadian and said, "There you go. Put that on your water bottle."
I do Ironman triathlons not so much for the competition. It is more of a lifestyle than a race. It is a lifestyle that apparently I find meaningful and fulfilling.
We are out exploring.
www.footfinandfeather.com
"Human beings tend to be miserable because they are preoccupied with themselves. When they are free of their self-centeredness they can find happiness."
"... compassion is the personal experience and practice of interbeing. We live our short lives not merely in interdependence but as a single great organism of many dynamic elements. What happens to you happens to me; what happens to me happens to you - at the same moment with the same intensity."
Some time ago, I was stretching in the Zendo, preparing for Zazen. A mosquito landed on my bare forearm. "Does the mosquito have Buddha nature?" I asked myself, knowing that of course she does. I swatted her and flicked the smudge that was her delicate body off my arm. The jikki rang the gong. I rose, bowed, and entered the Zendo.
I received an invitation today to join the fun of the first annual Barrick Cortez Coyote Call. Two hundred teams of two (four hundred individuals) will spend two days hunting coyotes in northern Nevada. The team that kills the largest coyote will win two rifles. Cash prizes will be awarded to the second and third place teams.
A work colleague, a veteran, and I were discussing a nuclear Iran and the second coming of the Persian empire. He, quite seriously, suggested that the US should nuke Tehran and strategic Iranian industrial sites. His exact words were "Level the place. If they need somebody to push the button, I'd be happy to do it and I wouldn't lose any sleep over it."
All the evil karma ever created by me since of old,
On account of my beginningless greed, hatred, and ignorance,
born of my conduct, speech and thought,
I now confess, openly and fully.
We are out exploring.
www.footfinandfeather.com
In the early 90's, I lived in a little duplex surrounded by avocado orchards in SoCal. We had a little doorless shack between the garage and house that housed the washer and dryer. One day I went into the shack and found the most bizarre insect on the floor. I was sure I had discovered a new life form. It looked like something from an aliens-invade-the-earth Hollywood movie and it looked dangerous. I was afraid of it and was certain it was deadly poisonous. I observed it from a distance for a while - it did not move with any sort of speed or agility - and then I smashed it in an instant with a shoe.
I don't recall when the feelings of guilt and remorse began, but sometime after the smashing, I became quite disappointed with myself. I think of myself as an explorer and an explorer courageously seeks out new experiences. I had found something new, something alive, and I had been afraid of it and smashed it.
Years later, I tried to show my nephew a spider's web on my sister's back porch. My nephew screamed and made a hysterical, irrational, panicked retreat. I suppose this is how we protect children from Black Widows and Brown Recluses - We make them terrified of spiders.
When I was my nephew's age, I went fishing alone on the shore of Lake Travis in the middle of the day. The fish were not biting, so I entertained myself by breaking limestone rocks, using big rocks to smash smaller rocks. I was using my right arm to break the rocks to the right of where I was sitting on the ground. I turned my attention to the left to grab more rocks and saw, not twelve inches from my left hip, a black snake, his head pointed right at me. Panic overwhelmed me. I threw the rock in my right hand at the snake, leaped up and ran screaming, bawling, completely hysterical up the hill to my mother, who gave me sips of iced tea to calm me down. My father and I revisited the place to recover my fishing pole and found no snakes.
I don't recall the reference I used to research the strange creature in the laundry room, but at some point I concluded that it was a Colorado Potato Beetle that I had smashed. It turns out it was actually a Jerusalem Cricket. Isn’t the internet great?
Yesterday I did a 100 mile bike ride between Elko, NV and Mountain City, ID. On my way back to Elko, I happened to look down at the asphalt, and there in the worn track of the passenger side tires was a Jerusalem Cricket. I wheeled back around and stopped my bike to look at the creature. It still looked bizarre, but not nearly as scary or threatening. In that moment, I confronted all my emotional history with this species and my sense of myself as an explorer. I had a decision to make. Would I do nothing, leave the creature alone, or would I move it off the highway so it would not be squashed by the next pickup truck?
I leaned my bike against a post and picked up a piece of litter, a plastic bottle, scooped the insect up and deposited it in the grass and sagebrush.
As I rode away, I thought about human potential and our ability to grow, evolve, and transform. I wanted to be redeemed, but I knew that I was not. The archetype of The Explorer that I carry in my soul is absolutely courageous and fearless, insatiably curious, reverent of life and awed by nature. It is an ideal I will never reach, but I will continue to evolve toward it.
Buddha says that with realization, all our karma is wiped away and Jesus says that we are already forgiven. And yet I know that the next time I encounter something new and scary, I will be afraid. But perhaps instead of running away hysterical or smashing the unknown with a shoe, I'll sit and wait patiently for my fear to subside and my curiosity to build.
Attire for the Underworld: I've been working in an underground gold mine and this is how I dress for work.
Hardhat Headlamp Clear safety glasses Reflective Vest Equipment belt to hold carbon monoxide respirator and headlamp battery Brass tag stamped with name, company, phone number (so when they dig my body out of the rubble, they know who to call) Steel toe rubber boots
Between the apple trees nebulous vines bend to the earth, heavy with hard green fruit. Above, vines of south bound geese honk “Frost - Frost.”
In the shade between the leaves, a glimpse of red leads my hand to fruit, plump and ripe. Polished on my shirt it is crisp and sweet.
How wonderful were the summer’s tomatoes, red fleshy fruit of my labor and love? These vines that I nurture nourish me more than the waxy, tasteless fruit of convenience.
We need more time, these autumn vines and I. This hard green fruit could feed the world. It’s the inevitability of winter that makes October’s tomatoes the sweetest. ----------------------------------------- A long time ago, my fantastically talented friend Marshall Ralph wrote a poem "Green Tomatoes" for a poetry slam in Ketchum, ID. He read it to me in the office one evening. It was about winter bearing down on his green tomatoes and how he needed more time to fully ripen.
I moved into my new house in Elko last weekend. The previous owner had a lovely little vegetable garden in the backyard and I have been enjoying fresh tomatoes all week. Winter is upon us here in Elko. The mountains were all dusted with snow this week. A few days ago, as I stood in the garden eating tomatoes off the vine, I thought "October's tomatoes are the sweetest, because winter is about to destroy everything" and I remembered Marshall's poem. I shot an email off to Marshall and he sent me his wonderful poem. I thought that would be the end of it, but somehow I had to sit down this evening and write my own version, "October's Tomatoes," of Marshall's poem, "Green Tomatoes." The line about vines of geese training south honking "Frost" is blatant plagerism, as is the whole concept of the poem, but hopefully this full disclosure somehow relieves me from any wrong doing. I'll ask Marshall if he would mind if I published his poem here for your enjoyment.
I tell you this, after struggling with "October's Tomatoes" and then going back and rereading Marshall's poem, I have much more appreciation for what he wrote.
The shovel that the Top Pit Substation is supplying. One of the things I enjoy in my work is the enormity of the equipment and machinery. Somehow it is gratifying when something so large and complex actually works and works well.
Before 9/11, before Afganistan and Iraq, before Koran burning, Aitken Roshi wrote:
Reconciliation of seemingly implacable religio-political positions that divide our world is a matter of seeing into the metaphors of the other, sharing our own metaphors, and living the truths which theirs and ours illuminate. Far deeper, and far more inspiring than the literal, the motifs of folk stories, myths and poetry are cognate the world over. When I find the words of Jesus to his disciples to be my own truths, my misunderstanding of Christianity falls away. However, if I were to treat such words verbatim and interpret them within a closed system, I would be just reinforcing the bulwarks of institutional religion and ethnic justification.
I’ve been living in a 1978 Airstream trailer in an RV park in Elko, NV for five months. There are a lot of transient workers in Elko right now working on a big gas pipeline from Wyoming to Oregon. Pipeliners come from places like Alabama, Mississippi, Oklahoma, Arkansas. Walking through the RV park is like eavesdropping on an episode of Hee Haw. Or maybe the Dukes of Hazard, only everybody is playing Boss Hog or Roscoe P. Coltrane. No Daisy Dukes here.
I have thought of myself as a transient as well. I really didn’t want to commit to being in Elko long term. I actually like Elko during the summer, but God help me this winter. It was only recently that I emotionally committed to being in Elko. I bought a house. That’s exciting. But I also decided that I needed to find community.
Last week I went to St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. I found about two dozen old white people celebrating a contemporary service with guitar music and hymns out of a book called “Gather.” It made me appreciate St. Philip’s in Tucson. There were three women sitting a few pews in front of me. One of the women sang loudly and terribly off key. It was awful. When the deacon came out to read the Gospel, he actually looked to see who was singing so terribly and he chuckled when he identified the woman. After the dismissal, the guitarist broke into the gospel hymn, “I’ll Fly Away” and the woman ran to the front of the church near the guitarist and sang, again loudly and off key, and flapped her arms as though she was flying. Still sitting in the pew, I finally saw the woman’s face and realized that she was a special needs person. I don’t know what clinical term would describe her condition. So I sat there and watched her singing, albeit terribly, and flapping her arms. A smile broke across my face. She was experiencing joy, and she was expressing it without any shame or inhibition. It was the most pure, spiritual moment of the service.
Zen Buddhist strive to take essential action with their essential being, free of relative thought. The special needs woman was the Buddha, completely free of relative thought.
The rector came over to say hello and noticed my fixation on the special needs woman. I don’t know what she presumed my take on the singing and flapping to be, but she offered not exactly an apology, but a very polite and socially graceful explanation of the situation. I told her that I thought the special needs woman was great and her singing and arm flapping were the highlight of the service for me. I was completely sincere.
At coffee hour, I sat next to the Buddha and with great enthusiasm she told me how excited she was to go to the Elko County Fair this week.
Another church, a Baptist group, uses the St. Paul’s facility after the Episcopal service and they started arriving and mingling with the Episcopalians. A large young woman, perhaps with special needs of her own, ate a donut and eavesdropped on my conversation with the Episcopal deacon’s wife. I was explaining how I am reluctant to self-identify as a Christian, because I find my personal convictions in direct opposition to mainstream Christianity:
Glenn Beck on liberaration theology - "You see, it's all about victims and victimhood; oppressors and the oppressed; reparations, not repentance; collectivism, not individual salvation. I don't know what that is, other than it's not Muslim, it's not Christian. It's a perversion of the gospel of Jesus Christ as most Christians know it."
The large Baptist woman interrupted and asked if I had asked Jesus to come into me. There was a very long, pregnant silence as I studied the donut crumbs around her mouth. Hoping to nip the conversation in the bud, I replied, “I am confident that Christ lives within me, as within you.” Another long pregnant silence followed.
Zen Buddhist use koans to lead students to experiential insights into essential nature. A koan might be something like this:
The Baptist asked Scott, “Have you asked Jesus to come into you?”
And then there is a challenge to “say a turning word,” to give some essential response from your essential nature that facilitates an epiphany, some new insight into the essential nature of life, the universe and everything.
In retrospect, I wish I had invited the large, young Baptist woman to sit down and join us and tell us about herself. I can think of no better way to demonstrate asking Jesus to come into me.
I worked at a really remote mine site yesterday until quite late. I was driving home in the dark on a dirt road and stopped for a rabbit in the middle of the road. He froze in my headlights. There was a truck a mile behind me, and I didn't want the rabbit to get run over, so I got out of the truck to shoo the rabbit off into the sagebrush. I happened to look up, I was somewhere between 7000' and 8000', and was stunned by the Milky Way, much as the rabbit had been stunned by my headlights. I turned off my head lights so there was zero light pollution and took it in.
Tonight I stepped out of my 1978 Airstream trailer in the middle of Elko and snapped a 60 second exposure, f2.8, ISO 1600, of the Milky Way. Lots of light pollution here.
I'm planning on returning to the remote site in the next few days to make a serious effort.
We refined the ski mount for a better angle, but the GoPro isn't quite robust enough for the impact of the ski hitting the wake. Dad and I fabricated a rope-handle-camera-mount from scrap materials in the garage. It worked pretty well, but we have a few refinements in mind to make it more stable and safer.
