In reply to La Belle (partial)

[temperance14]

labelleizzy asked me The Five Questions, once upon an August.

1) what would your "Mr. Darcy" be like? which character of Jane's feels most like yourself?

2) Most amazing scene in nature you can remember seeing.

3) Have you ever had a moment of perfect contentment? what were the circumstances?

4) Describe a personal goal that pushes the envelope for you. (mine is daily physical fitness effort)

5) Would you ever read Tarot for money? why or why not?


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It's been hectic since those questions were posted.
And frankly, could not answer most of these quickly--my replies too vague and too long, as usual.

let's start with #2

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It's a toss up. I've seen some beautiful places. Many of them on the coast still give me a feeling of "this is the place of beauty and contentment, let me rest or die here," I still hope to end my years on the coast between the sea and the redwoods.

But for moments of glory? (Bear with me, some of you have heard these)...

a. My first or 2nd year smuggled into actors camp after hours at Blackpoint in the early 90's. Feeling free, and knowing it was just for the moment. And still not content, or perhaps just needing a break from everybody's energy/emotions/drama needs....walking away from Tanta's trailer, away from people, toward the pasture, moving carefully through the dark.

And I looked up, and saw the Milky Way for the first time. A thick gloss across a truly black sky, feeling somehow I could see into it, its depth, in both physical and mental space. It was a three dimensional thing, of a thick, velvety, lush texture if I could just touch it, just beyond my fingers, my leap.

No, I cannot describe it. It can't be described on a journal.
Joy, wonder, belief, contentment, arrival, homecoming, journey starting. Bitter, melancholy.
I stood there, all physical weariness gone, watching the universe arc and rise above me, and feel the grassy earth roll beneath me.

b. Driving through Mendicino to find the redwood encampment, where Mr. Snuffy and his 'tribe' had been a few weeks before. This was early to mid 90's. Looking at the maps, it might have been highway 128---I know it was winding, twisting, and buried within redwood forests.

We travelled for a long time beside a river; I think it was the Navarro river. I don't remember the time of year, but I think it was spring approaching summer. The river grew as we travelled, in width and strength. We could see more of it through the trees, as the white water grew. It was growing late in the day, with the sun dropping, but not yet setting.

And somewhere, we turned round a curve, and we were faced with the Navarro meeting the Pacific Ocean. The light--the sky, the river was gold and blue, framed in this sudden drop of mountains sloping into the sea, white water morphing into ocean waves. I could have wept. I knew that if ever I was to bring a novice to see the Pacific for the first time, this was the portal. This was a door to open to worship.

c. Bodega Bay region. All of you have seen this and understand. Salmon Creek, Goat Rock.
Husband brought me here for the first time in the 90's.

(I spent more time in nature in that brief span of years than I will ever had. That was my point of spirituality, and I feel the loss every so often. Very often.)

We came there on a summer's day, but returned more often during the fall and winter, during storm seasons. And there is the beauty. I discovered the beauty of hard rock and coarse sand beaches, unlike the southern California beaches. Greenery of the surrounding hills, and thick woods, the appearance and disappearance of creeks and rivers, all coming to meet the sea. I found the water color painting in the changing of the waters by moonphase and sunphase; changes of sea's temper and light.

The sky was the most glorious: watching the light and clouds ripple and race, like animals things over head, the sky sometimes split into storm and sunlight, velvety purples and transluscent gold. Light rain showers sparkling down, and the white tops of the waves lacing the blues, greens, purples of the waves into the slate colored sand at my feet.

I would come, bring paints and paper and pens, but find myself mute, fingers numbed into observation, watching the clouds, waves, birds. I became just content to make them my rosary, saying my prayers to who/what I found there. It would frustrate me with dreams, but sooth the soul at the same. For bad times during those years, it was my church, and confession/sanctuary would be found at the end of a three hour pilgrimage, calling in sick to work.

There was one point, at the western end of Salmon creek, at the base of the cliffs. A creek that was carried to the top of the cliff, poured down, and fell into a wind/water carved pocket at the bottom. It was a small, natural gothic arch shape, with a stone, and some ice plants, the water trickling down to the stone.
I called it my alcove; I would stop there, ocassionally leaving a stack of stones, or shells, or feathers, or prayers.


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ending here; it's 4:46, and I need some more sleep. I'm sleeping on the couch, where I can watch the moon through the open window. I'll answer the other questions later.