Curiosity 10: Witches

It's Halloween. I know I dressed as a witch a time or two back in the old days, when children roamed the neighborhood hoping for treats. Tonight, there were no trick-or-treaters at our door. I have to think all the kids go to "designated" neighborhoods. It's strange. Is everyone so afraid of their neighbors that Halloween has become a carefully coordinated event?

But anyway, it being Halloween, I got to thinking about witches. And memorials for witches. And I found a few. 

There's Salem, of course, and Proctor's Ledge, commemorating the 1692 witch trials and the hangings (not burning) of Sarah Good, Elizabeth Howe, Susannah Martin, Rebecca Nurse, and Sarah Wildes, among a dozen or more others.

Also in Salem, there's another memorial, somewhat more fully representing (24 victims):

Then, there's this memorial to Maggie Wall, one of many hundreds in Scotland who were accused of witchcraft and murdered. 

But finally, here are a few photos I took this last June, of a remarkable memorial to 135 women and men condemned as witches, 91 of them killed, in Finnmark, the far north of Norway, in a place called Vadsø. It's one of Louise Bourgeois's last projects. I found it so moving.

Each of the stations presents a story, such as this one, for Mari, Østeri's wife:

Brought before the court at Vardøhus Castle on 31 July 1638

ACCUSED

of having cast a deadly spell on Oluf Pedersen and his four hired hands in 1636
of having cast a spell on Oluf Bottelsen so that he drowned with three others in 1637

CONFESSED

that she contributed to spells on Pedersen and his four men sailing eastwards in 1636
that she and others cast a spell on Oluf Bottelsen so that he drowned with three others in 1637
that she was in the likeness of a white swan on that occasion

Convicted of practice of witchcraft

Sentenced to death in fire at the stake

I'm honestly not sure we've changed that much since 1638...

Curiosity 9: My day (gratitudes)

Some days feel blah. Today was one of those. I sort of slogged through it. But at the end of it, I realized that there were a few highlights that set it apart. 

(In July, I had a short run here of daily "gratitudes," clusters of three things that I could say I felt grateful for. This post fits in that theme.)

First, I made a couple loaves of bread: rosemary olive sour-dough. I started baking sour-dough bread a few months ago, and now, every week or two, it's time for a new batch. This recipe was a branching out from my usual plain sourdough loaf, which I feel I've mastered well enough. These loaves came out a little flat and dense—but not unacceptably so. Indeed, the bread tastes wonderful. We enjoyed it this evening with some leftover pasta, yum.

Second, on our afternoon walk-of-the-dog we visited the pine woods behind the local industrial park (medical offices, the airporter-limo fleet, the UPS and FedEx facilities, car detailing, a day care center, etc.). The woods are quiet and there's a nice winding trail where we usually meet not a soul. Today, though, we started hearing odd thwacking sounds. And soon we happened on a fellow, tall and lanky, dressed in full camo, a bill cap sporting the US flag—which might have been a tad alarming except for his broad Scottish accent (plus, as the photo here suggests, the camo is apparently a sort of uniform for bow hunters)—who was practicing his archery. He explained that a competition is coming up, next Tuesday. He was using a compound bow, shooting at a colorful rectangular target propped up against a down tree. We had a nice chat, and as we set off we wished him luck. 

Third, in my daily howler group (a subject of Gratitudes 7), my friend Sherilyn was working on a graphic "zine," about a few fellow passengers on her weekly SJC-BUR flight home. And at the end of the day, she shared it with us. It's sweet! Here's a YouTube video by a total stranger on the making of a watercolor zine.

It's little things that make a day different that help me through an otherwise blah day. Hopefully tomorrow will be better. At least it will have a bit more focus, because the final stage of an ongoing job came in today as well. Work can be good for a weary soul.

Curiosity 8: Maya Angelou

Today, a quote, from Maya Angelou's (1928–2014) Letter to My Daughter:

I am convinced that most people do not grow up. We find parking spaces and honor our credit cards. We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are still innocent and shy as magnolias.

Also: here is Maya reading her poem "On the Pulse of Morning" at the Clinton inauguration, January 20, 1993. And the poem:

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.

Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you,
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers—desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours—your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, and into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope—
Good morning. 

 

Curiosity 7: A day out geocaching

Spent a full day with our geocaching friend Alastair at Coyote Lake–Harvey Bear Ranch County Park. We did engage in discussions about things we were curious about—like how warm seawater contributes to the explosion of a hurricane (as, recently, with Hurricane Otis in Mexico), where a new 2,000-home development just beyond Alastair's back fence is going to get drinking water from, and where kids go trick-or-treating nowadays, because they sure don't do so in our neighborhoods. We talked about the 2022 World Cup in Qatar, which Alastair and his son, Colton, attended; about a proposed highway across all of southern England—for purposes of commerce, chiefly; about colorism in Haiti, where Alastair once lived; about Tajikistan and Cambodia and Tanzania, all places Alastair works as an advisor to education ministries; and about vintage VW Bug fandom (I now know the difference between 1965 and 1967 front fenders—and feel a little proud that my family brought a forest green 1958 Bug over from Germany... which my father later swapped for a 1960-something Toyota Corolla, rather less classy). We talked about kitchen gadgets and sourdough bread, our octogenarian president and the state of the nation. And all the while, we walked—a good 14 miles—and found 45 caches (did not find one). We saw a beautiful coyote, a pair of cavorting red-tail hawks, lots of deer, and a dozen tiny scorpions. Here are some photos I took.

Southern Santa Clara Valley

Coyote Lake

It is not a good picture, but there's the coyote.
He was using the trail below us, and checking
us out his entire trot up the hill.

A couple of the tiny scorpions
guarding a cache we found.

Lots of beautiful blue oaks today

Our last cache, called "Visiting Dirty Earl,"
had a lot of faves. We did not give it
a fave, but we were glad to find it.

Curiosity 6: Horses' colors

Today was our dog Milo's 13th birthday, and he told us he wanted to have a special birthday walk at the Carmel River—on the River Trail in Garland Park. Who were we to refuse?

While there, we encountered several horses. Two were a beautiful golden color, with long black stockings. The third was brown, but what made him special was his costume: he was dressed in an orange cape with pumpkin motifs and sported a black witch's hat. The woman riding him was cackling delightfully (or maybe delightedly). Halloween is just around the corner.

The first pair of horses made me wonder about the nomenclature for their colors. I know "golden" isn't right. And here's some of what I've found out:

bay is a moderate reddish-brown color
chestnut is yellow-brown or golden-brown (used more commonly among english riding disciplines; cf. sorrel)
claybank is a dull brownish-orange color
cream is yellowish-white
dapplegrey is a horse with a grey coat having spots of darker color
dun, caused by a specific "dilution" gene, creates stripes along the back and on the legs and withers, dark tips of the ears, and a darker coloration on the lower legs, and a faded overall color; variations include red dun, grullo (a black horse with the dun modifier, making for a smoky color), and "dunalino" and "dunskin" (dun + palomino or buckskin, buckskin being a breed of horse, not a color designator) [the photo above, of Hollywood Dun It, is a dunskin—beautiful, no?]
fleabitten, having reddish-brown spots on a lighter background
mealy: spotted or mottled
palomino is a golden horse with a cream or white mane and tail
piebald is a black and white pied horse: in North America it's called a pinto
roan: having a bay (red roan), chestnut (strawberry roan) or black (blue roan) coat sprinkled with white hairs
skewbald is marked or spotted in white and any color except black (also called pinto in North America)
sorrel is a light brown to brownish-orange color (same as chestnut; used more commonly among western riding disciplines)

And that's only the beginning. There is a whole lot of genetics going on in horses, with many many color variations, such as the "cream gene," the "pearl gene," and the "dun gene" mentioned above. The buckskin breed, for example, has this going on genetically: "buckskin has the Extension, or 'black base coat' (E) gene, the agouti gene (A) gene (see bay for more on the agouti gene), which restricts the black base coat to the points, and one copy of the cream gene (CCr), which lightens the red/brown color of the bay coat to a tan/gold" (from Wikipedia).

I had no idea! I'm going to go with dun for the first pair we saw, and bay for the Halloween horse.

And here's a very happy Milo swimming in the river:

Curiosity 5: Pantoums and villanelles

I met with my Thursday poets this afternoon, a generative group. We start with a theme, and several poems exemplifying the theme (today the theme was "simple"), read them out loud and chat a bit about them, then spend 30 minutes writing a poem of our own based on the theme. Finally, we share our attempts.

I have to keep convincing myself that I belong in this group. Many (most? all?) of the others are published poets. I just... like words. But so far, since I joined in March, they keep letting me in. And there's not too much eye-rolling at my feeble attempts at poetry. 

One subject that came up today was the difference between a villanelle and a pantoum (because one of the sample poems was... some hybrid form of both these, I think was the conclusion). Per WikiDiff, a villanelle "consists of five tercets and one [final] quatrain, with only two rhymes," while a pantoum "comprises a series of quatrains, the second and fourth lines of each stanza repeated as the first and third lines of the next." Got that? (I'm sure there's a more thorough discussion out there somewhere, but I'm willing to start simple.)

"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop was mentioned as an example of a villanelle:

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

A page of the manuscript of "One Art"

 

Or there is "The Waking" by Theodore Roethke:

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

As for a pantoum, there's John Ashbery's "Pantoum"

Eyes shining without mystery,
Footprints eager for the past
Through the vague snow of many clay pipes,
And what is in store?

Footprints eager for the past,
The usual obtuse blanket.
And what is in store
For those dearest to the king?

The usual obtuse blanket
Of legless regrets and amplifications
For those dearest to the king.
Yes, sirs, connoisseurs of oblivion,

Of legless regrets and amplifications,
That is why a watchdog is shy.
Yes, sirs, connoisseurs of oblivion,
These days are short, brittle; there is only one night.

That is why a watchdog is shy,
Why the court, trapped in a silver storm, is dying.
These days are short, brittle; there is only one night
And that soon gotten over.

Why, the court, trapped in a silver storm, is dying!
Some blunt pretense to safety we have
And that soon gotten over
For they must have motion.

Some blunt pretense to safety we have:
Eyes shining without mystery
For they must have motion
Through the vague snow of many clay pipes.

 And "Parent's Pantoum" by Caroline Kizer (for Maxine Kumin):

Where did these enormous children come from,
More ladylike than we have ever been?
Some of ours look older than we feel.
How did they appear in their long dresses

More ladylike than we have ever been?
But they moan about their aging more than we do,
In their fragile heels and long black dresses.
They say they admire our youthful spontaneity.

They moan about their aging more than we do,
A somber group--why don't they brighten up?
Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity
They beg us to be dignified like them

As they ignore our pleas to brighten up.
Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention
Then we won't try to be dignified like them
Nor they to be so gently patronizing.

Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention.
Don't they know that we're supposed to be the stars?
Instead they are so gently patronizing.
It makes us feel like children--second-childish?

Perhaps we're too accustomed to be stars.
The famous flowers glowing in the garden,
So now we pout like children. Second-childish?
Quaint fragments of forgotten history?

Our daughters stroll together in the garden,
Chatting of news we've chosen to ignore,
Pausing to toss us morsels of their history,
Not questions to which only we know answers.

Eyes closed to news we've chosen to ignore,
We'd rather excavate old memories,
Disdaining age, ignoring pain, avoiding mirrors.
Why do they never listen to our stories?

Because they hate to excavate old memories
They don't believe our stories have an end.
They don't ask questions because they dread the answers.
They don't see that we've become their mirrors,

We offspring of our enormous children.

 

Curiosity 4: Scorpions

We went for an afternoon hike today at Garrapata State Park, 15 miles south of us on the coast. Our goal was to find two geocaches that had been eluding us—and we did! So now that area is all smiley faces and we never have to go back! Because the hike is a real bear: steep up and, consequently, steep down. Still, it's a beautiful place and we had perfect weather: mid-60s, a nice breeze, clear skies, making for great views.

Along the way we saw many western fence lizards (Sceloporus occidentalis), what I'm guessing was a juvenile skink with its bright blue tail (Plestiodon sp.), a desiccated deer carcass, and, under a rock (still looking for geocaches), a scorpion! I'm guessing it was a California common scorpion (Paruroctonus silvestrii). 

That of course got me wondering: how many species of scorpion are there? Wikipedia tells me there are over 2,500 species, in 22 families, on all continents but Antarctica. Fun facts: Scorpions' exoskeletons contain fluorescent beta carboline and glow under ultraviolet light—which includes moonlight. The "glowing" is actually a way of reflecting the UV light, perhaps a protective mechanism from when scorpions were first on the planet, over 400 million years ago, and oxygen levels were low and UV light from the sun intense. Scorpions are nocturnal. Only a couple dozen species have stings venomous enough to seriously injure or kill a human. When scorpion babies (scorplings) are first born, their exoskeletons are soft, and their mama carries them on her back until they harden.

The more I study their anatomy, the more... impressed I am that a creature like this could even exist. Key: 1 = Cephalothorax or Prosoma; 2 = Abdomen or Mesosoma; 3 = Tail or Metasoma; 4 = Claws or Pedipalps; 5 = Legs; 6 = Mouth parts or Chelicerae; 7 = pincers or Chelae; 8 = Moveable claw or Tarsus; 9 = Fixed claw or Manus; 10 = sting or Aculeus; 11 = Telson (anus in previous joint); 12 = Opening of book lungs

A scorpion, by the way, has one pair of eyes on the top of its prosoma, and two to five more pairs on either side. If it weren't for the claws extending from the cephalothorax, I could almost buy that it has a head...

This is a quick entry, because I'm beat, and ready for some ice cream and TV (Great British Baking Show, perhaps?). But now I know a little more about scorpions than I did this morning, and that's a good thing. 

Here are two photos from our loop hike: overlooking the Pacific and on the way back through a redwood canyon. I will spare you the deer carcass, though it's actually pretty cool.

And the sea of smileys, with an idea of the steepness of the terrain (our elevation gain today was just shy of 2,000 feet, over the course of a couple of miles):

Curiosity 3: British long-distance paths

Talking with my friend Lynn recently about my (abbreviated) Thames Path experience, I mentioned that I'd love to go back and tackle another path—maybe a longer one, or a hillier one, or one that traverses a variety of landscapes. She said she'd be interested in joining me. I said I would not be camping, but rather staying in inns. Lynn is a hardy soul: she's completed the entire 2,563-mile Pacific Crest Trail—in sections, but still (at least, I think she has... but maybe she skipped the desert stretch). But she said she'd be happy living it up, and not camping. Okay then! Lynn is a wonderful walking companion—by which I mean also talking companion. It would be fun to spend a couple, few weeks exploring the British countryside with her.

But which trail(s)? There are hundreds of long-distance footpaths—defined by the Long Distance Walkers Association as "20 miles or more in length and mainly off-road." We could start with National Trails, of which there are 17: 

Cleveland Way, 110 miles, in North Yorkshire
*Cotswold Way, 102 miles, in central England
*Coast to Coast Walk, 197 miles, in Cumbria and North Yorkshire
England Coast Path, 2,795 miles
*Glyndŵr's Way, 135 miles, in Powys, mid-Wales
*Hadrian's Wall Path, 84 miles, in Northumberland, Cumbria
North Downs Way, 153 miles, in southeastern England
Offa's Dyke Path, 177 miles, along the Wales-England border
Peddars Way and Norfolk Coast Path, 97 miles, in Suffolk and Norfolk
Pembrokeshire Coast Path, 186 miles, in Pembrokeshire, southwest Wales
Pennine Bridleway, 205 miles, in the Pennines of northern England
*Pennine Way, 267 miles, in the Pennines and southern Scotland
The Ridgeway, 87 miles, in the Berkshire Downs of southern England
South Downs Way, 100 miles, southern England
South West Coast Path, 630 miles, through Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, and Dorset
Thames Path, 184 miles, southern England
Yorkshire Wolds Way, 79 miles, Yorkshire

Then there are the Scottish Great Trails—29 of them, ranging from 28 to 214 miles and including one I've already done, the exquisite West Highland Way (96 miles).

And the Wikipedia article on long-distance paths in the UK lists several hundred more. There is no shortage of places to walk! 

In fact, it's all a bit overwhelm-ing—and so I took recourse in Google and the qualifier "best," which pointed me to an article in Travel & Leisure magazine: "10 Most Beautiful Walking Paths in the UK—with Views of the Seaside, Snowcapped Peaks, and Mystical Glens." Now we're talking. Five of the ten are National Trails (signaled with asterisks in the above list); the five others are the Quiraing, Isle of Skye, and West Highland Way, in Scotland; the Causeway Coast Way, Country Antrim, and Slieve Binnian, County Down, in Northern Ireland; and the Wales Coast Path. 

Or here are "10 Great Walking Trails Where You Won't See Another Soul."

So much beauty to choose from! We could do several short (2- to 3- to 4-day hikes), or one long one. For now, we've narrowed our choices down to the Pennine Way and Offa's Dyke Path—for which we even have guidebooks already, which I borrowed from Lynn several years ago. Things seem to be coming full circle. Both those hikes are fairly ambitious, but we wouldn't be far from civilization no matter what.

At this point, I'm betting Offa wins. I'd be perfectly happy with that. We'll see what happens.

Curiosity 2: Women Talking

On my way home from England recently, on a mostly empty economy class United flight—oh, the luxury! three seats to myself!—I watched movies most of the way: John Wick: Chapter 4 (I blame this on my traveling companion Babar ☛), When Harry Met Sally and Stand By Me (my ripostes), and Sarah Polley's Women Talking. 

I found Women Talking, about an existential conversation conducted by the women of a Mennonite community about their future, intriguing, disturbing, liberating. But one thing I didn't understand was the use of the Southern Cross as a wayfinding mark. It's a minor scene, but it threw me.

Turns out, the original novel, by Miriam Toews (2018), is based on events that actually transpired in a Bolivian Mennonite colony between 2005 and 2009. However, the novel shifts the story to somewhere in North America. And the film was shot in Canada (where Toews was herself raised in a Mennonite community). So clearly, the Southern Cross becomes incongruous—or, to use the geographic equivalent of the temporal term anachronistic, anatopic or anachoristic. (Yes, I just looked those terms up, and am happy to expand my vocabulary.)

It's funny, though, how one little detail can derail your willingness to suspend disbelief, even if only momentarily. Because of course, any movie demands that you do so. Any movie is a story. Even if it's a documentary: it's told from a certain perspective. A particular message is meant to be delivered. And it needs to be consistent.

Of course of course, I got over that silly Southern Cross detail, when it came to simply appreciating the weight of the story—though I did keep wondering: where in the southern hemisphere are there Mennonite colonies? Turns out, they're all over. In 1995 in Bolivia, there were 25, with a total population of 28,567. They're in South Africa, Australia, throughout eastern Africa, Indonesia, Brazil.

Was I the only person thrown (if but briefly) out of the story by the mention of the Southern Cross?

That said, I was delighted to be reacquainted with the song "Daydream Believer," which appears in the context of national census takers wandering through the area, the song blasting from speakers on top of their van—completely shunned by the community, until two young women decide to go talk to the drivers:

It's so incongruous—a 1967 hit becoming the theme of the 2010 census? in Canada, no less?—and yet so very perfect: somehow, not at all anachronistic, to my mind anyway. And honestly, I can't tell you how happy that song makes me feel. Which also makes me feel oh so hopeful about the women who have been talking.

And yes, I know I've said nothing about the issues discussed in the movie. See the movie. See what you think.

Curiosity 1: October 23

I wrote the other day about possibly reviving this blog. For a year. (A year!) 

I do admit, I like going back and looking at old posts. Oh: I used to like doing that! Oh: I'd still like to try to do that! Really? I did that?

Or looked at another way: it's bits and pieces, that all start to add up (maybe 50%, so far) to me. Maybe I'll try for a few more percent in this newest iteration.

For today—and this might well happen frequently—I searched for the date, October 23, on my Flickr feed (which I have not been keeping up with). And I got three hits, going way back:

2007: We got our midterms back today.
I didn't really get 100; I really got 99 (I wrote pide
instead of the correct pedí, but she gave me an extra point
for a fancy sentence I wrote about a ladies' man in the telenovela
we're watching, so who am I to argue?). Too bad I'm going to
have to drop the class soon when I take off on a climbing trip.
I'm doing so well!

2009: Went for an afternoon walk with Mary at Toro Park.
The views from the top were stunning. Here I'm looking pretty much
into the sun, about to set over the Pacific. Sometimes I feel
like I live in heaven.

2010: Well, you gotta practice on something, and better a truck tire
than one of our team members. These guys (Deputies Fritsche
and Dominguez, and our newest volunteer, James)
were hauling on the mainline with a 3:1 mechanical advantage;
the other team had a 5:1 system. Ours was harder to pull on
but required less resetting. I have no idea who won.
But we learned some kind of lesson.... Tomorrow the fun and games
will continue—in the rain.

There, a few aspects of my life: language learning, or schooling generally—I am an inveterate student; hiking and enjoying views and landscapes; and, formerly, Search & Rescue, but volunteerism generally. I still volunteer as a wilderness ranger in the Ventana and Silver Peak Wildernesses. 

As I said, I have not been posting to Flickr. I do post to Facebook, where I have some bit of an audience, but Flickr has fallen off my radar. It is, however, good for archival purposes. I should return. Even if I don't have an audience. 

Like right now: I'm kind of curious about October 23s from 2011 through 2022. 

As for today: I didn't take any pictures. That's on record.

UK '23

Back in June, I posted links to my recent European trip as curated on FB—and now I will do the same for my even more recent trip to the UK. It's a handy way to save some memories, and photos.

Day 1: Getting from MRY-LAX to LHR and, ultimately, Greenwich—followed by an afternoon walk along the Thames.

Day 2: I rendezvoused with my friend Gill, whom I met birding in Vietnam, for a walk at Hampstead Heath, and later met, for the first time in person, my poet friend Tracey ☝︎ for drinks and dinner. Delightful!

Day 3: A stroll through London, from the British Museum along the Embankment to Westminster and Trafalgar Square.

Day 4: Switching between Greenwich and Putney—and in the afternoon, a much-needed massage.

Day 5: A brief visit to Wimbledon Common, followed by a transect from Putney up to Kensington Gardens—walking, walking, walking.

Day 6: A stroll along the Thames to Kew Gardens.

Day 7: Heading by train and taxi to Lechlade-on-Thames to start my walk along the Thames.

Day 8: A wander around Lechlade before boarding the Tranquil Rose.

Day 9/1: A two-parter: general scenes from our 13-mile walk from Lechlade to Shifford Lock; and Babar on this first day along the Thames Path.

Day 10/2: Onward to Eynsham.

Day 11/3: To Oxford and shortly beyond.

Day 12/4: A day on the boat, from Sandford Lock to Goring Lock.

Day 13/5: Another boat day, with a 5-mile walk at the end, to wind up in Marlow.

Day 14/6: A long, last walking day, from Marlow to Windsor.

Day 15: A day wandering around Eton and Windsor.

Day 16: Bidding farewell to Windsor and onward to Heathrow for the night.

Travel day—and home.

It was a terrific trip. I can't wait to do another long-distance walking path. While I still can!

A new daily project?

I am winding up two weeks in England, a little experiment in self-awareness (I guess you could say). I more or less stayed away from the main tourist sights (the British Museum being a brief exception), or anything that cost money for admission (aside from Kew Gardens). Really, mostly what I did was walk. And walk and walk and walk. In London, through various neighborhoods, along the banks of the Thames, through green spaces—Kew, Kensington Gardens, Hampstead Heath; and then I spent a week on the Thames Path, from Lechlade in Gloucestershire to Windsor in Berkshire. Walking, daily, 20, 30, even, one day, 40,000 steps. It was glorious.

And every day, too, there were so many things that caught my attention, whether a piece of public art by Antony Gormley (in Greenwich and then again in Eton), a cute and funny dog (every single day: so many dogs here!), a snatch of conversation—with Steve the Northmoor Lock keeper, or the 90-year-old man in Windsor who kept declaring, "There! I made you laugh!," or our captain James ⬉, just now winding up a 13-year career with his hotel boat the Tranquil Rose. The red kites (that's a bird), the weasel at the Church of St. John, Inglesham, the rutting deer at Windsor Great Park, the flash of turquoise across the river that I declare to be a kingfisher. Some arcane fact of history or of popular culture. The ways that people spend their time, whether to make a living or simply to amuse themselves. It's been, to say the least, stimulating.

Today in my FB Wordle group, I posted this quote, by Anthony Doerr: "'Research,' for me, is a big word that encompasses a lot of different activities, all of them based around curiosity. Research is traveling to places, or studying snowflakes with a magnifying glass, or excavating one's memories. Research is walking around Hamburg with a notebook."

Based around curiosity. 

To which Gabi responded with a quote by Zora Neale Hurston: "Research is formalized curiosity. It is poking and prying with a purpose." And, doing a little research, I finished the quote: "It is a seeking that he who wishes may know the cosmic secrets of the world and they that dwell therein."

The cosmic secrets of the world and they that dwell therein. 

I've been missing my old projects of paying attention, of being actively curious, here in this blog. And so, I think I might give it another go. Once I get home and settled in. This is merely my Statement of Intention. Let's see if I remember to actually do it.

(I couldn't find a single image of my own to illustrate this post with, so I googled and found the above painting by Doris Duschelbauer, entitled "Curiosidad." It works.)