Deep in the dark woods,
sunshine suddenly appears:
big leaf maples gleam.

Storm slams, surprises—
tall firs swoon into the gale,
branches embrace crows.

Wild winds whip waves white.
Giddy gulls glide gleefully.
We watch, wait, worry.

Pumpkins plump and glow;
wisteria wilts, withers;
ochre grass regreens.

Crow chases eagle,
but eagle flies much higher
and becomes the sky.

Nine crows congregate
in an old oak, each focused
on a young acorn.

Dusk: two heron stalk
the mauve low tide for dinner;
only the sea moves.

Lone eagle zips by,
clutching sturdy bare branches—
fall windstorm repair.

Fog falls, flows downward
cascading into the lake—
slo-mo waterfall.

Get your Zen on; see earlier group of haikus here.

my madrona friend glows in late light, click to enlarge

An old friend died yesterday, someone whose company I had enjoyed every single day for more than five years.

A soon-to-be new neighbor hired a crew of eight men to scalp the property below me in order to build a house with a better view. Now I’m no eco-snob—I already enjoy a lovely water and mountain view, and trees were surely axed before this house was built.

And I have mixed feelings about the result. I now have an even better view of the bay, and now I can see Mt. Baker from the other end of my house, too.

Mt. Baker shows off her fresh snow, click to enlarge

The full truth, though, is also more complex. Most of the distinctly beautiful madronas, whose red bark glows in the early morning light, are sick and dying. Something similar to Dutch elm disease is eating away at these wonderful beings. I took a walk down the hill this morning to visit with the tree as she lay scattered where she was felled, her trunk in a hundred pieces like the vertebrae of a dinosaur.

She lay on the ground in a curve of grace, click to enlarge

Deer wandered around in the rubble looking a bit dazed, yet delighted to have a buffet of green madrona leaves laid on the ground. I couldn’t shake the image of vultures picking over a fresh kill. I suppose the good news is that the leaves won’t go to waste.

I tried to count her rings at the stump, which is easily four feet in diameter, but I soon realized that accurate ring counting is beyond my abilities. This tree was surely 80-100 years old; of that much I’m sure. As I touched her dismembered limbs, I said goodbye and thanked her for the countless moments of beauty she gave to my life. I picked up one leaf to press and save and one small branch that caught my eye. It’s a classic Y-shaped branch, but one of the upper stems is long dead, with coarse peeled bark, while the other stem is smooth and strong and was clearly thriving yesterday. I will keep this branch as a reminder that when one avenue in your life comes to an end, another route can head off in another direction.

madrona against a foggy dawn, click to enlarge

As I stood on the bare land where soon a new house will rise, I had to agree that they will have a magnificent, sweeping view. I hope they really, really appreciate it. Someday I may invite them over see photos of my old friend, Madrona.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Have you ever had to say goodbye to a special tree?
• Are you ever conflicted about conservation and progress?
• Does a dying tree still deserve to live?
• Is a view more valuable than a tree?

See my madrona friend in winter, here.

Point Wilson just after dawn: it’s oddly warm and still on the bay, while gulls wake the day.

The ferry glides off into the fog, and the sun slices through clouds and shimmers the silver waters. Then cotton batting separates to reveal blue quilted sky. Comic crows scavenge for breakfast in the tide’s leavings, and the rising sun stripes the pewter bay with bands of gold. The night’s work is over for the lighthouse, but it sends its red-then-white beacon across the waters anyway, as the curve of this beach holds me in its embrace. I am safe here, and my heart opens to the wholeness of the day. Circling gulls make a ruckus near the dock and a heron adds her voice to the gentle touch of the bay upon the sand and upon my soul.

sitting on the dock at the bay, click to enlarge

Fort Worden Beach at dawn, click to enlarge

This is my very own beach this morning, as I sit leaning against a log and dig my feet into the sand. The remaining clouds have rearranged themselves into orderly pleats of gray, navy blue, pale gold and pure cerulean. The heron finally shows herself, swooping noisily out from under the dock and gliding majestically out over the bay.

A bold crow hops along the sand right in front of my dog and I. He eyeballs me with first one eye then the other, hoping for a handout. But I am empty-handed today, feeding only on this son et lumiere.

A tugboat tows a barge across the horizon as the ferry reemerges on one of her many round trips from Keystone to Port Townsend. I love this sort of morning even more than an all-out clear-sky day. The clouds push and play with the light and create an ever-changing drama. Just now we are encircled by a half dozen pushy crows who think perhaps I have underestimated their hunger and/or their winsomeness. They must know I am a kindred spirit, a fellow crow at heart. I must remember to bring them offerings next time.

As another tug and barge duo pass by in the shipping lanes near the point, their impact sends ripples of small waves onshore. I can see the tide is coming in as rafts of shiny brown kelp float in from the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The ferry crosses through a brilliant stream of sunlight and momentarily vanishes in the powerful glare. As she returns to port, so must I.

It’s a Friday. Another day in paradise.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• Have you been up to watch the dawn lately?
• Do you make enough quiet time for yourself?
• Have you fed a bird recently?
• Have you fed your soul lately?

Visit the beach on Marrowstone Island here.

The arrival of fall lures me away on a day trip by ferry from Port Townsend to Fidalgo Island.

Waiting to depart, I lean over the railing on the upper deck and watch blasé gulls sleeping on pilings below, despite the roar of the massive engine. My favorite thing is to be in the water swimming, but after that, it’s to be on the water in a boat. I love the sway of the boat, the churning of the waves as we push across the bay, then the escalating wind as we gain speed. I feel hyper-alive at such times.

Perhaps we never tire of the magic of crossing water in any sized vessel. There is always that desire to see what’s over there. But for me, the journey itself is every bit as important. I have taken this round-trip ferry ride as a walk-on passenger just to enjoy the sunrise above the Cascade Mountains that flank the east side of these waters.

Today as I drive onto the boat I enjoy the intense glints of light dancing in ever-changing patterns on the bay. As we surge across the shipping lanes that head down the Strait of Juan de Fuca toward ports in Seattle and beyond, we encounter all manner of ships. There is always a steady parade of freighters and tankers bringing in oil and taking out trees. A hardy tug blowing smoke tows an impossibly huge barge like an ant dragging a leaf thirty times its size. On this fine day, white triangles of sailboats cruise the shorelines.

Then I spot what I hate to see: two Coast Guard cutters escorting a nuclear submarine on maneuvers. This is a fairly common site, even from my house, as there is a sub base in the area at Bangor on Hood Canal. The image of the black sub—only partially exposed—moves through the water like some sinister whale. I hate to think of the destructive capabilities contained in that dark shape. It’s a vivid reminder that we are at war, and that I live on the very edge of the country whose borders need patrolling.

So I walk to the other side of the ferryboat and settle in on a sunny bench to savor autumn, my favorite, the season of transformation. I love watching the alchemy of greens going yellow then ochre, orange and overnight to scarlet. I collect leaves in every hue and scatter them across all the altars in my house.

It’s not enough that fall is decorating the landscape in flaming color—I need to bring the evidence inside where I can marvel at it hourly.

But out here on the water the signs of fall are subtle, even as we near the island there are simply suggestions of gold and amber on the hillsides. Back down on the car deck, I poke my head out a porthole to watch us glide into this shallow bay at Keystone. A sandy beach strewn with driftwood is just a few feet away as we slip easily up to the dock.

Later, on the return trip, the Holland America cruise ship Zaandam cuts across our path and dwarfs us, its black hull and many stories blotting out the setting sun. I can see passengers in the glassed-in boxes settling in for their trip to Alaska. During the summer and early fall on Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings, several ships each day head out on this same voyage. I don’t envy them—it’s as if a small city follows them wherever they go. I need quieter, smaller scale modes of travel. Still, it is an interesting perspective on one of these ships which I usually watch from afar. It makes me wonder exactly how it stays afloat, so huge and boxy is its shape. Of course it’s all mathematical calculations of tonnage and displacement of water that I’ll never understand. To me it’s just another example of the magic of crossing water, of being able to go where our own bodies were not designed to take us.

Rosario Beach, Fidalgo Island

It is unmistakable—it feels different up here. Vignettes of picture postcard perfection morph and delight every few feet of path I walk. The sound of Rosario Strait tumbling small stones into roundness is bliss. A pair of squirrels frolicking in upward spirals around an ancient fir makes me laugh out loud. There is a sense of peace in this remote place.

But even more, it is the allure of all these San Juan Islands—hundreds of them—from tiny verdant dots of rocks and trees to the four largest which are served by ferries. All of the other inhabited islands are accessed only by plane or boat, which is a romantic notion in itself. As a hermetic type, the appeal of rooting way up here detached from the mainland is magnetically attractive. I think it would be easier here to remain apart from most of the madness of the 21st century, to turn back in time and live more elementally. To relate primarily to sun, rain, earth and sea, to have as next door neighbors eagles, orcas, seals and gulls. To turn inward and upward to make sense of it all.

Of course what would make that possible for me is the technology of the 21st century—my invisible uplink to the Internet. More magic—connecting to people around the world with a few clicks and keystrokes. My own refuge on the bay, while not an island, still feels like one. I see water from all my windows and these very islands across the Strait. So I already have the isolation and the views, just not that sense of total separation. Time will reveal if I need that, too.

almost home, sunset over the Olympics, click to enlarge

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What are the islands or magical places in your life?
• Is there some place you fantasize about?
• Do you need some sort of refuge right now?
• Do you need to slow down, maroon yourself somehow?

Take other special trips here.

Storm slams, surprises—
tall firs swoon into the gale,
branches embrace crows.

A stormy quilt from area webcams, click to enlarge

Wild winds whip waves white.
Giddy gulls glide gleefully.
We watch, wait, worry.

A knot of starlings bursts from the tallest fir tree and explodes like fireworks across the pale morning sky, fluttering back to ground like fallen black stars.

Two does, two yearlings and three fawns lazily find breakfast in the meadow. Then something startles a fawn, and suddenly they all skitter into the woods.

The same scrawny fox I saw last week lopes into my yard and spends about five minutes hunting for his meal—an unlucky mouse. The fox repeatedly leaps up in the air in order to pounce heavily on the ground—perhaps to startle the mouse out of hiding?

I thought I heard the fox make some interesting sounds during all this, and one cry reminded me of a lost fawn. This video illustrates just a few of the many different fox vocalizations.

FOXY VIDEO

And while I stood stone still at the edge of my deck watching this drama, a hummingbird repeatedly tried to extract her breakfast from the large red blossoms on my wild, floral dress! As I stood between a hanging fuchsia and a verbena basket, I must have just seemed like another item on the menu. If she ever figured out I was human, she didn’t seem to care and continued to flit from geraniums to petunias to me.

We all nurture something or someone else.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What’s your role in your family food chain?
• Are you provided for, or are you the provider?
• Do you blend in, or do you stand out?
• Do you need to nurture yourself more?

Meet other animal allies here.

A cloudy day dawns:
a vase full of dahlias
floods my room with sun.

Warm autumn morning,
geese linger on the lagoon;
they’ll be leaving soon.

Geese pick cornfield clean
plumping up for their journey;
now they’re light as wind.

Big leaf maple hands
flutter lazily downward…
golden palms touch me.

Harvest moon rises
fat, orange and pumpkin-like—
I glow in the dark.

Geese follow moonlight,
winging south along the bay…
and into my dreams.

Clear October dawn:
islands etched across the Strait,
snow in the distance.

Morning in balance:
rising sun and setting moon
dance across treetops.

Get your Zen on; see earlier group of haikus here.

Warm autumn morning,
geese linger on the lagoon;
they’ll be leaving soon.

After a leisurely walk along upper Sequim Bay this morning, I stopped next to a harvested cornfield to watch hundreds of Canada Geese fatten up for their long journey ahead. They seemed in no hurry to leave, meandering slowly through the field against a drop-dead gorgeous backdrop of the Olympic Mountains. (Notice the first snow of the season.) I love geese, always have. Migration fascinates me, that ability to move twice a year and set up a new home each time. Some geese do return to the same spot year after year, but others will try something new each spring and fall. More and more, some Canada geese are choosing to remain year round in temperate places like this part of Washington state. Have they tired of so much travel, I wonder, or have they decided, like me, that this is a fabulous place to live all year long?

Why would you leave this? click to enlarge

geese heading south, glowing gold...click to enlarge

VIDEO

CONTEMPLATIONS

• How are you preparing for winter?
• What are you stockpiling?
• Are you stronger than you look in some special way?
• Can you find your way home?

No clouds overhead, slack tide, lavender and azure bay mirrors the sky; then a crow breaks the spell. Deer fold themselves into the meadow for a night under the stars, and a trail of quail scurry about on last-minute business before sleep. A ragged vee of nine geese fly low along the bay, heading for the lagoon. By the greeting they get, they’re in good company. It’s nearing dark, but still more geese return, and this chorus with their nasally, multi-pitched honking creates dissonant chords of modern music. A symphony of geese, gulls, quail and frogs sing up the still-big moon.

Meet other geese here:

Now the full harvest moon glides up from behind the ridge, the archetypal smiley face. I will not be alone tonight. I will celebrate my personal harvest, the accomplishments of summer just fading. I will wrap myself in the orange glow from my friend, my companion, and hold that shine in my soul to warm me from the inside out. The moon and I are wide awake.

CONTEMPLATIONS

• What ephemeral things are flitting through your life now?
• How does the full moon speak to you?
• What is your harvest this season?

DOWNLOADABLE AFFIRMATION CARD

click image to enlarge, right click to save and print

Bask beneath other moons here.