CREATIVITY AND OTHER LIFE QUALITIES

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Sun, 15 Dec 2024 15:56:00 +0000

My story "Cheeseburger Man" is up and running

at The BULL Magazine:

https://mrbullbull.com/newbull/fiction/cheeseburger-man/

GRIEF AND WANDERLUST...

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Sat, 27 Jul 2024 22:43:00 +0000

I'm thrilled and honored to have two of my poems, Motorcycle Man and Mixed Company, chosen by the care-full and gifted editors at Sheila-Na-Gig, Inc.

https://sheilanagigblog.com/poetry-archives/volumes-8-1-8-4-fall-2023-summer-2024/the-poets-volume-8-3-spring-2024/d-m-chavez-solis/

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Wed, 14 Feb 2018 22:53:00 +0000

“These poems by California poet Diane Solis glint with distinctive Western light. Like Larry Levis, Solis exhibits her breadth of skill with tightly compressed poems (“Thirst Like This,” “Tigers of Her Imagination”) as well as sprawling suburbanesque narratives (“Bennies,” “Dolphin Skeleton,” “Cigarettes”). Solis’ work pushes the reader past California’s chardonnay-tinged Romanticism to face the mirrored glare of the land “east of Eden.” Here, reminiscent of Frank Bidart, we find cancer, industrial accidents, county jails, bars, syringes, internment camps, and mange—all tucked among camellias, quail, chaparral, and peach trees. Solis makes a well-cultivated and rich contribution; she extends the open gesture embodied in California poetry.”

–Rose Marie Berger, poetry editor, Sojourners magazine (www.sojo.net

Order your copy of ART SPIRITS today from Finishing Line Press.

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/art-spirits-by-diane-solis/

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Tue, 22 Apr 2014 00:16:00 +0000

Today's walking meditation. From the "Compassion and Love" files.

Walking Notes

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Tue, 11 Feb 2014 19:06:00 +0000

Writers, some of us, keep a notebook in a pocket. And we make notes when we get a chance, as we walk about the world. Here are some of mine from this morning's walk. Perhaps you'll recognize them in future poems.

You wonder, was it experience that made him so cautious, so afraid?

* * *

The knife you slip into your glove. The flattened fork with sharpened tines you carry like a shiv in your sock.

* * *

The only thing you have to fear is your own active imagination, and your father's, and perhaps falling rocks.

* * *

She holds her pen like a knife, who writes to defend them, women, children, elders, and other sentient beings.

* * *

The Pointer's odd approach. How he sneaks up, from avocet to plover, and digs his feet into the sand to chase them.

* * *

22 pelicans

* * *

Why we find so many claws on the shore. The giant crabs who cut off their claws to save themselves. If humans were crabs, we should all be missing hands.

* * *

How the scent of jasmine is pleasant and subtle like the waves at lowest tide. But gardenia, especially the fake kind, punches me in the face like a shrieking sea witch in a storm, scraping off the skin.

* * *

The tuna can floats along the shore like a small raft for tiny souls.

* * *

Conversation overheard as I walk by:

"I’ve been thinking."

"Thinking long and hard?"

"I'm not thinking long or hard."

* * *

Another conversation:

"She's been a consultant most of her life."

"Well, you know the trouble with consultants, don't you?"

"Hmm?"

"They come, and they give you all sorts of advice, or whatever. But they never stay."

* * *

I know why the surfers run down to the sea.

* * *

My first dead sea lion. When the tide comes in, reaching up over the berm to take the dead sea lion home.

* * *

Ropes twisted in the kelp on the beach...like the ribbons she wound through her hair.

That's it for today, my friends.

Writing Prompts for the Weekend Writer

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Fri, 16 Aug 2013 14:35:00 +0000

1. Choose a word from the list below, or another word. Write about it for three to five minutes. As in all journaling, don't worry about spelling or punctuation:

SILK, STRAY, STREAM, STING, STINK, STEAM, RICE, RISE, ROUND, RUN, RAIN.

2. What is in the trunk of your car (and/or glove box)? What does it say about you? (five minutes) Now take a look in your refrigerator or pantry. Same questions.

3. Something you never said to someone who is no longer here--something you wish you had told them. (five-ten minutes)

4. Tell me about your worst day in a relationship, and/or your best day in the same relationship.

5. If none of these prompts grab you, write about one of the photos in "Are You Dreaming the Dream? Or is the Dream Dreaming You?" below.

New post coming. See you soon!

Are You Dreaming the Dream, Or Is the Dream Dreaming You?

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Thu, 08 Aug 2013 16:08:00 +0000

What's the difference between seeing an illusion and being delusional? I listened to a CD of Pema Chodron's last night. She spoke about the difference between illusion and delusion.

Illusion, she explained, is all of us dreaming the same dream. If I understood her correctly, I pick up a ball, and others see me pick it up. I throw it through a window (by accident, of course), and others hear the glass breaking. But we're all dreaming, and it's all the dream.

Delusion, she went on to add, is when you're the only one who sees something, whether others are around or not.

So, what I want to know is: Are mystics and prophets seeing more of the illusion, or do they see behind the curtain, or are they delusional? For your journal/discussion, tell what you think about that. Or...

Choose one of these photos. Using descriptive language, tell what you see. Now enter the picture, entering the dream, and have another look around. Use two or more of your senses and tell what's going on, who else is there with you, what's happening out of the camera's view.

Finally, are you dreaming the dream, or is someone dreaming you?

"You're Gonna Make It After All!"

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Tue, 06 Aug 2013 16:40:00 +0000


Near the spot in the street where it happened.

"It was hard work, working on my work, at work today."

What are you working on now? What challenges are you facing? What new adventures? There's the work we do at our jobs or at school, the work in relationships at home or with our family, friends and community, and the work within. So, what are you working on now?

Okay, I'll start. Since I write poems about much of what I'm noodling or have puzzled through, here's some of the writing I'm working on now:

A poem about Oprah and Eckhart having a conversation when she's ninety, about what Truth is and whether or not God exists.

A poem about grief as a tomb on the floor of the ocean, and the decision to return from the depths, to rise and resurface to air and sunlight.

A poem about passionate love, about wanting to be in control of the emotions, to be care-full and respectful, trusting and trustworthy, and wanting to surrender more and more deeply and completely.

A poem about our debt to the earth and our response or lack thereof.

And the novel about Patricia's passing, and what illness and grief teach us about courage and devotion.

So, what are you working on now, at your job, at home, or within? If you're embarking on a great challenge or a new adventure, remember the words from the Mary Tyler Moore song..."You're gonna make it after all!"

If whatever you're working on is too heavy to think about now, like Scarlet O'Hara, you can think about it tomorrow. For now, what does your screen saver look like these days? Mine is the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp, where their noses haven't yet met, but the spaghetti strand is getting shorter. The look of hopefulness, love, and caring in their eyes.

Some upcoming events that may be of interest to Cali poets or visitors:

7:30, Thur 9/19, Al Young, California Poet Laureate, Emeritus, will be at Becket Books, SF
4:30, Sat 9/28, "100,000 Poets for Change" will be at Oceana Arts Gallery, in Pacifica.

CREATIVE SOULFULNESS

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Fri, 02 Aug 2013 22:08:00 +0000

What inspires you? Of all the activities you're able to do, which is it that compels, motivates, or drives you? You know what I'm talking about--what really gets your creative, competitive, or compassionate juices flowing?

Is it travel or cooking? Discovering or sharing something new? Building or taking something apart?

And how much time do you actually spend doing this thing that energizes your body, mind, spirit, or all three?

Does it involve animals or people? Music or art? Is it more a practicing and acting out, or a contemplating and be-ing within? Participating or observiing, serving or receiving? Sorting and finding relationships among things, or building and attending to relationships with others?

What would you have to do to spend even an extra hour a day doing this activity that would enrich your life and, most probably, the lives of those who love and are loved by you? Think about it.

For your journal or discussion. On Perspective:

(Nuestra Madonna de la Smithsonia)

What's it like to be

1. the new kid?
2. the mouse caught by the cat?
3. the artist at the gallery opening?
4. the tourist or the sales clerk at a strange gift shop in a far away land?
5. the hiker fallen into a ravine or the rescuer approaching the precipice?

What do they perceive, think, feel?

In Carolyn Kizer's book, THEODORE ROETHKE--On Poetry & Craft, the author reveals that Roethke said many useful things in his classes. He urged his students to "think of a poem as a three-act play, where you move from one impulse to the next, and a final breath."

For Southern and Central California poets and artists, two readings you might appreciate:

9/8, 2:00, Avenue 50 Studios, Highland Park
9/14, 4:00, Granada Books (the new bookstore), Santa Barbara (on State St., Downtown).

Notes For the Voyage...

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 19:08:00 +0000

What are the sources of the sacred in our lives? Really, beyond church and sacred texts, how do we, even as children, know what is sacred and what isn’t?

Life is a treasure…treat it with________?

“Follow your heart,” the saying goes. I see an image of a heart as a compass. So the question, “How did I get here?” And the answer, “I followed my heart--or I failed to.”

We watch movies like Amelie and revisit stories from our teens and early twenties. We begin to see them in new ways, with less seriousness, less preciousness, and, paradoxically, with more respect for all we knew then, and all we didn’t know we knew.

We can revisit poems, too, changing the perspective. My poem, “Namaste” offered fraught impressions of others who were present with me at a time of profound tragedy. For practice, and from a place of calm and increasing awareness, I rewrite it from their perspective, looking at me.

Los Angeles is a good place to find hope among the hopeless.

Who am I? Why am I here? What was I born to do?

How a sea of yellow mustard flowers sprouted in the two weeks while I was gone, to run like a golden river along the trail where I climb. The plant that greets me in the middle of the road, across the street from the place where we greeted each other years ago, where I held the back of her head while we embraced, where we poured out our hearts.

The courageous person enters deeper and deeper into the mystery, knowing s/he doesn’t have the answers--and then, when s/he gets some, going deeper.

Take your heart, for example. What is that? Hold it in your hand. What does it mean when you give away your heart?

For your journal/discussion, respond to any of the items in this post, or go “off-trail” and see what you find. Write or share about your discoveries or questions here or with another.

Smile and Be Inspired...

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Thu, 30 May 2013 13:11:00 +0000

Wyoming, gotta love it.

Fishing Clark's Fork one day, Climbing Beartooth Highway (in a car) the next.

Inspiration from sun and shadows.

Remembering the poem, "Two men looked through prison bars. One saw mud, the other, stars." ~Langbridge

My dad taught me to see things in the clouds from a very young age. We had a huge cellar at our home there by the reservoir. The cellar door was wide and slanted. We'd lie there looking up at the sky and he'd point things out to me. As I learned to talk, I started pointing things out to him. We could go on like that forever. When I look up and see things in the clouds, it seems we have. Dad would have loved Wyoming.

The Nurses Who Saved Me

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 14:28:00 +0000

"Do you continue to revise poems after they have been published?" Yes, evidently, I do. This poem has just been published in Packingtown Review, a literary journal. However, after I submitted it, the images and ideas continued to needle me until it became this, below. I like to see how a poem evolves. I thought I would share this evolution with you. What about you? When do you know a poem (or a painting, or any work of yours) is finished?

The Nurses Who Saved Me

After she died, I was lost, I wanted to be, like a dry

windswept thing. Memories where we lived were

rusted barbs wrenching into me. So I fled

to the desert. There the nurses were like Sherpas

telling stories of their travels--the old hiker on the peak

attacked and almost scalped one night by a grizzly.

While it ravaged his tent, they dragged him behind a tree

and propped him up against it, digging in on either side

to warm him with their bodies, keeping him awake

with stories whispered all night long so he wouldn’t

freeze or fall sideways, bleeding to death before one

of them could run for help in the morning.

Meanwhile, they were terrified by the bear’s stealth

coming and going, scavenging his busted tent throughout

the long hours--a darkness they could smell but couldn’t see.

Listening to their stories beneath the stars I was

distracted from everything, so close to the fire

my boots turned gooey, the toes started melting.

The next day on a high outcropping we rested

from hiking. I closed my eyes while the wind

buffeted, billowing all around me

and contemplated leaping to see how glorious far

from this world and my suffering its wildness

would take me--but thought the nurses

on either side might try to save me. Not wanting

to risk what could happen to them, I kept hiking

and listening to their stories.

(See the published version at www.packingtownreview.org)

To Remember

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 20:52:00 +0000

Today is the ten-year anniversary of the beginning of the war in Iraq. Here is a version of one of the poems I wrote during that time, published in TOTEM. The photo is of the "I HATE WAR" sculpture at the FDR Monument, Washington, DC.

Petunias

Last night, the ultimatum.

We hold our beloveds and wait.

Flowers in our courtyards

are too fragile
for these days.

Wind whooshes hard ice

parting my hair

so my scalp stings

as I pull aching shoulders

up around my neck.

Petunias hunker down

in the stark light

of an azure sky

that seems too bright

to be ironic.

Everywhere flower bursts

are pushed down,

almost flattened

against the brittle ground

by a searing cold.

After the fires, there will be

monarchs boasting,

dead sons and daughters

--all of them ours,

and even the flowers

will be drenched

in humanity’s shame.

For your journal/discussion: War, Ultimatum, Fragile, Stings, Brittle, Searing, Drenched, Shame. Choose one word, write for 3-5 minutes, or longer. Then choose another...and another. Use all your five senses, or as many as you can. Then read what you wrote. See if you have the beginnings of a poem. ("Petunias" originally appeared in TOTEM, the visual and literary arts journal of the California Institute of Technology.)

My poem about longing (in Avocet, a journal of nature poetry) with more for your journal

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 22:36:00 +0000

Waiting

This longing palpable

no matter where or with whom.

All these years

something missing.

Sometimes heard

in the pining

of the solitary bird

at the rim of the bluff,

unseen but sensed

in wind moving

like a hidden thing

brushing the sashes of the trees.

Calmed by the patience

of surrounding hills and mountains,

did others feel it?

Were they waiting too,

like the little songbird I sought

and followed

that flew just out of view

but at a pause

resting, came

and sat in the stillness near the tree

at the edge of the lake

in the shadow of the mountain

watching the water with me.

1. Choose one of these words, or another, and write for five minutes: LONELINESS, LONGING, CALM, PATIENCE, RESTING, WAITING, PINING, FEAR, JUBILATION, IRRITATION, SERENITY.

2. Describe a scene in nature or in a town, a place that captures a feeling, a space that is itself a metaphor for a feeling you want to convey. Use as many of your senses as you can.

3. Tell of an intense time when you chose or were forced to rest with an emotion, whether grief, anger, anticipation, hope, isolation, joy, or what have you. After a while, what did you do with the feeling? Did it escalate or dissipate as you sat with it? What was the benefit or fallout of simply resting with the emotion?

4. Respond for five minutes to one or more of the images in this post. "What's the story?"

Thank you for visiting my blog. I hope it's helpful. If you know someone who might benefit from it, please share the link: www.dmsolis.blogspot.com. Again, thanks, peace and all good,

Diane

On the Benefits of Creative Mindfulness at Work

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 19:04:00 +0000

First, to help you focus mindfully on the work you do, a few questions about you--for your own journal or discussion:

1. Who am I? As someone who works at what I do, what is my identity?

2. What am I accomplishing at work? What do I want to accomplish in my life through this work?

3. How was my work good or challenging yesterday? How might that impact my efforts or the efforts of others today?

4. What’s the most important lesson I’ve been learning in my work as a/an _____________ (insert occupation or role)? This lesson is important because...

5. Why am I grateful? What am I looking forward to in my work and in my life?

For creatives and non-creatives alike, attending to the meaningful experience of the present moment, even at work, can result in many benefits, including:

better decision making, calmer more focused discussions, empathetic awareness, and a broader sense of perspective, not only for solving problems creatively, but for dealing with others in truly effective ways. This can benefit you and others beyond the cubicle, office, work bench, kitchen, classroom, vehicle or field where you work.

When complications, problems, or disagreements arise, as they inevitably do, a practice of mindful reflection helps us to keep our emotions in check. As a result, we can approach conflict with calmness and even a sense of curiosity. “Hmm, I wonder why that happens? I wonder why he feels that way about it? I wonder how I or we can improve this situation?”

There’s a world in every mind and a universe in every heart, including the minds and hearts of our customers, whoever they may be.

Our lives and theirs, as well as the lives they touch, may be positively impacted by our mindful, creative approach to the challenges and far-reaching solutions of the day.

WHY WE DO WHAT WE DO...LIFE-LONG LEARNING

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 03:47:00 +0000

In my experience, two things people frequently want to know about a work of art, whether a poem, song, painting, drawing, photo, movie, or play are

1. How the artist was inspired to come up with the idea, and

2. Why she or he went forward to create it.

First, let me ask you: Why do you think people paint, write, compose music, write songs, sculpt, dance, blog, etc.? If you're a creative, why do you do the creative things you do?

Here's my short answer (and I'm really curious about yours): As a writer and artist, I create for a number of reasons, some of which I've explained here in the past. Beyond that, I write and add photos here not so much to show where I've been or what I've done, but

to communicate with people I care about what I've experienced, what the experiences have taught me, how I've grown or still need to grow, and what I've learned.

Through stories and images, I try to add to the balance of insight and meaning in our world. I hope this helps readers connect with me, and me with them, and that it makes me a better communicator, helping me to be better for relationships with people I've known for years and with the folks I meet here and there in my travels.

But more about you. Let me probe a little further: What inspires you to share the things you share with the people in your world? See if you can describe a specific example.

Life Is Short...How Would You Spend This Time?

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 18:21:00 +0000

(with Journal/Discussion prompts at the end of the post)

We get a box of vegetables and fruit delivered from an organic farm periodically. We never know what's going to be in the box, so it's always fun to open it up and see. Recently, as I washed some of this wonderful produce, enjoying the experience as usual, an unpleasant memory crowded in. It was a memory of the intentional and unintentional cruelty of others from the not-so-distant past. This took me out of the present joy of waking up every day with the most beautiful person in the world, of preparing for us a healthful meal, of taking in the colors and feeling the textures of the work that was before me. Perhaps this has happened to you too.

Thankfully, a sudden memory of my precious grandmother’s words brought me back to the present moment, “Only God knows the day, and the hour, and the minute when life as we know it could change or end. We have to cherish every moment.” Nellie was only fifty-six when she died. We were very close and I truly adored her, so I’ve always taken her words to heart. Similarly, Pema Chodron quotes her own teachers in a few of her books. I’ll paraphrase here: “Life is short. The end is uncertain. How would you spend this time?”

Thus, I was transported back to the present happiness in my life. I was pleasantly struck (upside the head) by Nellie's and Pema's words. As I heeded their message, and focused on my task, I felt grateful for the meditative aspects of doing something I’ve done a thousand times, like washing fruit and vegetables while feeling the refreshing caress of water pouring softly over my skin.

I focused with gratitude on my ability to use my hands as I chopped the various fruits and vegetables I chose. I enjoyed the bouquet of their colors and fresh fragrances, adding tofu, apple juice, and frozen organic berries, since they’re out of season now. I listened to the happy sound of my noisy blender, churning up the whole mixture, then to the dribble and splash as I poured out our drinks into tall glasses. I experienced the pleasure and satisfaction of handing a glass of nurturing healthfulness to my beloved, who greeted it with such joy and appreciation. At last, I tasted the sweet delicious coolness…. To think, I could have missed all that.

During my journaling time or on my weekend retreat, I can focus with compassion on the people who hurt me. Haven’t I failed to be kind at times? Haven’t I done or said things I wish I hadn’t? And I can work on my reactions to the things they did or failed to do. There’s a difference between not putting up with behaviors that are unkind or harmful, and lashing back, or holding on to what hurts from the past. I can work on that too.

For today, in present moments, it was good and important to withstand the way the memory took hold, not falling into a cycle of going over and over what they said, what I said, what I could have said, really telling them off in my mind…. It was healthful to stay in the “now,” to experience the joy in my life, even right in my hands as I performed a routine morning ritual. It was a far grander thing to honor the grace of the present moment.

Today is “Creativity Tuesday” here at the blog. Did you think I forgot? I’ve chosen to share all this from a creative healthful perspective, to use it as one of those teachable moments, even to share with you pictures of the veggies and fruit that arrive in our deliveries from the organic farm, expressions of creativity in nature and all around us. Perhaps you'll do similarly when you get a minute to consider one or more of the following suggestions.

For your journal/discussion:

Think about a time when the past choked off something good you were about to enjoy. Rewrite the scenario with a more fulfilling ending?

Get on with living: Write a letter or poem to a loved one from your past, telling them something you forgot to say, or telling them you love them, or telling them goodbye.

Write a description or poem about creativity in nature as you experienced it recently or in the past.

Share about a routine task, even a seemingly mundane one, that allows you the mental freedom to meditate or relax.

And never underestimate the power of a loyal pup to ease the pain of the past. As my friend Julie says, “Life is short…hug your dog.”

For the Voyage Outward, and the Voyage Within

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 19:54:00 +0000

What if, right in your own homeland, you find magnificent, pristine places that transport you to a state of serenity, awe, or joy?

What if you want to share them with everyone you know, but also want to keep them to yourself?

Here are some images from places that have impacted me in these ways. If you wish to know where they are, let me know. Where are the places you go?

For your journal/discussion:

1. Name one place you would like to see this year? Five in the next five years or so?

2. Have you asked yourself lately, “Why am I here? What is my purpose in this life, in this space, in this/these relationships, on this planet?”

3. AUTHENTIC, HONEST, TRUE. Pick one of these words. Tell how you’re being authentic, honest, or true in the place where you find yourself now, in your relationships with others, in your relationship with yourself.

Honoring Those Who Served Us With Their Lives

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 19:18:00 +0000

While we honor those who have fallen, let us also remember the veterans who are still with us, who are impacted every day by the lingering harshness of war.

These are a few of my photos from Arlington Cemetery. We're heading back to D.C. soon. I'm hoping to get out to Virginia to experience the sacredness of this space in autumn.

Creatures On and Off the Trails

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 17:41:00 +0000

I've been promising so many photos for so long that I don't know where to start. But here are a few before the next adventure begins.

This black oyster catcher surprised me at Venice Beach. I was on a meditation walk, not taking pictures. If you know these guys, you know how they can squawk. I heard him before I saw him. There were many folks taking photos and peering in one direction. So I looked that way too. Suddenly he saw me and flew down to land in front of me. I just took out my camera, hunkered down and started shooting. Folks who had been in pursuit were gracious enough not to swarm us. So I was lucky enough to get many good shots that morning. Has there ever been a time when serendipity in nature just unfolded before you, inviting you to have a good look? If you posted the photos, let me know, so I can see too.

This one is from a local park. I came over a hill and three squirrels dashed for their burrows. I figured if I waited around and was generally peaceful, one or two would get curious. This one finally did. I've noticed that about animals. If you sit still for a while, or even read softly aloud, they'll come around and check you out.Thoreau writes about it. Has anything like this ever happened to you?

We were heading back to Anchorage from Homer, one of our favorite places in the universe, and saw a car pulled over on the narrow highway with folks tumbling out, looking straight up through their cameras and binoes. We've learned to pay attention whenever this happens. I looked up. "Sheep!" I said, "Dall Sheep!" I hadn't seen any in two trips to Alaska. Lisa hit the breaks and we skidded to a stop at a sharp bend in the road. When we got out of the car, we realized we'd have to cross the highway blind, so to speak, because we couldn't see around the mountain. I hesitated--in fact I complained, "We're going to get a ticket! We're going to get killed! (California Whiner.) But Lisa ignored me. She was listening for a car. So I did too. Next thing I know she's running. I yelled, "Wait!" because I wasn't sure if I heard a car coming or not. "We're going!" she said. And I ran after her. If she was going to get creamed, I was too. These Dall Sheep were making their way down a steep wall of hematite. I noticed berries growing on the ground near our feet. I'm guessing they were climbing down for a taste. Stopping the way we did was well worth the effort to see them like this.

Looking for bears. Spotting them. We were lucky enough to have a guide who, with his wife, led a National Geographic expedition to this same location the year before. We figured it would be an outstanding adventure. We weren't disappointed.

Finally, the bears, Alaskan brown bears--called Grizzlies south of where we were. They literally took our breath away a couple of times. One minute we were tracking, following bear trails through the grasses, and matching our bootprints to their larger footprints in the mud, searching and searching. The next, they were quietly and stealthily all around us--one there, another there, two over there, two more out there. It was a little scary.

Fortunately, they were more interested in grazing than charging us or eating bear trackers. We did see some action between them, though. One female with cubs, fighting off a large male, was particularly frightening. I captured some photos. It's an amazing story I'll show and tell sometime.

Sailing anyone? We were on a sturdy water taxi--not a big vessel by any stretch, but to me a lot safer than a little sailboat. On the previous year's trip we met a small pod of four orcas. One nudged our kayak twice, beneath us. Good thing they weren't hungry. I was too nervy to appreciate their curiosity very much, but I'm glad I have the story.

This is from Thailand. That's another elephant in the water looking like a boulder. Earlier in the day three larger elephants each caressed my hand as they made their way down to the river for a bath. I still don't know what possessed me to reach out to them when they reached for me. I was just dumbfounded to see them so close and so serene. I think they were curious about my hair, or something, because they didn't reach for the other folks who gathered by the river. I dunno. That little bright fleck to the left of junior's face is the tip of her trunk peeking out of the shadow.

Finally, the Great Blue Heron, striking a pose.

Fly Fishing Clark's Fork, Wyoming

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 02:29:00 +0000

It was beautiful this summer in the Clark's Fork region of Wyoming. I wanted to learn how to fly fish since last year when we explored Montana and Wyoming. My guide was such an exceptional teacher that a novice like me caught six decent fish and several smaller ones on my first afternoon out, as well as my first monster-fish that got away. Actually, we let them all go. Lisa took it easy under a tree while I played in the water. What a day. Have there been any new experiences in nature or elsewhere for you recently? Do you blog about it? Let me know so I can have a look.

Tip of the day: Got tetanus and flu shots yesterday. Woke feeling kinda punky today. When I feel like that I hit the trails. And then I feel ocean, sky, mountains, and wonderful for the rest of the day. Try it and have a fine time!

Another Encounter On the Trail

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 17:44:00 +0000

Hiking along in the mountains above Claremont, California, I got the sense from the side of the road that I should be listening, paying attention. Not three steps later, I heard something big moving fast, towards me in the brush. It frightened me and I guess I frightened it too. Because before I could look up I heard it dart away, moving back down from the trail. When I looked towards the sound I saw a good sized buck moving away, with the brush near me bustling in its wake. I think he would have slammed into me if he hadn't been able to turn so fast. The buck moved along in the brush below me.

Then it circled around and climbed back up, stepping onto the trail six or seven feet before me. He still seemed startled, even a little defensive. I have to admit my heart was pounding pretty fast as we stood there, sizing each other up. For a second or two, I thought he might challenge me. The silence and stillness between us felt like the world had stopped, like everything, even my own breathing and my heart, was moving in that slow motion way you hear about. So we had a moment there. I hope I won't forget it.

I guess he sensed I wasn't a threat (he was bigger than I, after all, and so much faster). He climbed up the hillside across from me, which was probably where he was headed before we surprised each other. He watched me from above, while I watched him. "I love you," I said, softly, in awe and sort of like a prayer. I didn't intend for him to hear, as high up as he was. But he turned his ears towards me.

Then he began grazing, no longer alarmed or concerned that I was there.

Something Greater, My Poem in Avocet

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 19:49:00 +0000

Something Greater

Matt. 12:38-42

In the first bird

who keeps

singing

one note

pouring her

solitude

and longing

at last into

the waking

chorus

of morning

are reminded

with vigor

and relentlessness

that we are called to be

part of the chorus

and that something

far greater

than Jonah

and Solomon

is present

here with us.

If nature inspires you to write or take pictures, and you blog about that, let me know so I can have a look at your creativity too.

From the Grand Palace, Bangkok, Thailand

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 02:45:00 +0000

It was a wonderful trip.

More later....

CREATIVITY TUESDAY: A Story of Love, Loss, and Healing

noreply@blogger.com (D.M. SOLIS) — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 18:15:00 +0000

Here's something I'm working on, with prompts for your writing practice at the end. This section is called,

ONE. LOVE

Before Patricia’s terminal diagnosis, one of the first serious challenges we shared as a couple was the death of my basset hound, Iggy. That day Patricia waited at home for good news to follow what we hoped would be another routine trip to the vet’s.

While I spoke with Doctor Corley, Iggy slipped and slid in my arms. The dog had arthritis and painful hip-dysplasia, so she was working hard to find a comfortable position on the cold metal examining table. I had gotten in the habit of laying one of my gardening shirts across the stainless steel surface to help with her footing. But this time the shirt wasn’t much help. She nosed the side of my neck for attention.

Her breathing sounded and felt in my embrace like she was trying to drag herself up out of a muddy bog, as if her heavy hound’s coat had been drenched and was pulling her down with the weight of an old dog’s accumulated illnesses. I tried to hold her up, not knowing about other drowning deaths I would one day witness. Even then, Iggy’s gurgled-wheezing sounded to me like she was drowning.

Her coat wasn’t wet at all. In fact, it was almost as soft as the day my ex-husband and I first brought Iggy home. We started eastward across the San Gabriel Valley before the sun rose, worried we had missed her, that she was already gone. As we drove, the sky’s tint began to lighten, stars faded, and the purple-blue silhouettes of the San Gabriel Mountains soon appeared out of the darkness like sleeping giants. We were losing time.

There had been eight pups when we found the old ad the day before. By the time we called that same evening, there were just four. Only one was a girl. The next morning we had to get from the western end of the valley across several cities to the eastern edge, to catch the dog breeder before he and his family took off on a two-week road trip. We were so eager to see the puppy and perhaps bring her home, if she was still there, if no one had taken her.

On the opposite side of the freeway, workday traffic was already backing up. “Must be an accident,” I said. Rick nodded. Cars lurched towards Los Angeles. I bit at a hangnail, ripping it back too far, and poked at the radio. My cuticle stung but the traffic report on our side was still clear.

When we pulled near the breeder’s address a few minutes early, Bruce Roberts was prepping a double-decker-sized RV in front of his house. In the time it took us to drive by, turn the car around, park in front of a neighbor's curb and get out, Bruce hoisted suitcases, fastened bikes, and stowed boxes of provisions. We were both careful not to slam our car doors at that hour. I looked at the RV again. Bruce was gone. We all but tiptoed toward his driveway. Gazing across the lawn through the open front door of his house, I could see an amber lamplight glowing restfully inside. There a woman was anything but restful, packing and hustling about.

A toddler wearing nothing but a diaper hopped out onto the porch and ran across the lawn like a little goldfish escaped from a fishbowl. By then I could see Bruce was on top of the RV. So we hurried towards the child, afraid he might run out to the road, not that there were any cars on the side street at that hour. The baby’s mum chased out after him waving a t-shirt like a net with which to capture a little goldfish. We greeted her. Bruce climbed down and joined us. I wanted to ask if the girl-pup was still there. We all said hurried hellos and happy-to-know-yous while trooping up the steps, through the house, and out to the back yard. The mother flipped on some floodlights and left us to return to her packing.

Outside in a large pen, two adult basset hounds stood baying, their unmistakable deep salutes sounding both curious and protective, “Ahhhhh-roooooh! Ahhhhh-roooooh!” For all their stoutness, the sire and dam were large specimens, both in their primes. They reminded me of a couple of draught horses, stable, stocky and strong, yet graceful as they ran along the fence-line like ponies on parade. Their white-tipped tails were festive banners. With the adults in the pen were a large puppy and a little one, no others. Two more must have gone after we hung up the evening before. The breeder brought out the big pup, a male. He was a wriggly tri-color with dark brownish-black markings around the eyes, a chestnut saddle, and white legs and feet. Robust and long, he was a good size for four months. I stared at the huge sire, whose ample penis just about dragged on the ground. Then I looked over to Rick. “We were hoping for a female,” he said.

I held my breath.

“Female? Oh. Well, she’s just a runt,” the breeder said, plopping the male back into the pen to be inspected by his anxious mum. “You have first-pick of what’s left. I thought you’d go for the male. But sure, if that’s what you want.” Out came the little girl.

She was quite small, also a tri-color, but with a soft reddish-brown around the face, and beautiful magazine-photo eyes. She started right over to me. I’m on the small side, and guess dogs may mistake me for a child. They catch my attention, or I catch theirs, and they gravitate my way. Wagging with enthusiasm, I could swear Iggy was smiling. Sniffing the ground like a cartoon, she stepped on one of her ears, tripping and rolling forward, then hopped up as if nothing had happened, and, with the momentum of the tumble or her embarrassment, ran faster towards us, her ears like a flying nun’s cap in the breeze. (Did you ever see "The Flying Nun"?) She would, in the course of her early years, trip and roll forward like that many times.

Wearing her thick soft coat like a cozy-blanket around her neck and shoulders, she was the cuddliest, cutest thing. After lying on her back at our feet for a good tummy rub, she stood for several pats and hugs, helping herself to a few slobbery licks. Then her big floppy paws padded a circle around us in the long grass before she dashed toward the house, nuzzling open the screen door. The toddler met her there and they wriggled and hopped about, squealing like long lost pals.

“Now, you’ve gotta keep your eyes on a basset,” said Bruce as we made our way to the house. “They have a mind of their own, and it pretty much follows their snout. They’re amiable enough, but you must keep them on leash when they’re not in the yard, because they can be over-enthusiastic when they get on a scent trail. They’re notorious for getting lost.” Inside, the puppy quickly made the rounds, thumping with her big feet on the hardwood floors and tiles while the baby toddled after her...

For Your Writing Practice:

1. Tell about a first meeting with someone who struck you favorably or unfavorably. What were your first impressions?

2. Write about something very sad...adding comic relief to give the reader a break at some appropriate juncture ("They don't call it comic relief for nothing, folks," I've recently heard).

3. Tell about a type of dog or other animal that you know very well, adding traits about the species or breed that are unique, and which you've experienced in a very personal way--remember to write what you really know...not just what you've read, and not just what you've done. (If animals aren't your thing, substitute a sport, hobby, town or something else you've experienced uniquely, over some time, and in a very personal way.)

Good luck and happy creating.