Butterfly Effect

Walking from the parking lot to the dock, I hear a buzzing sound and look up. The Bottle Brush tree is thrumming with bees. I look down and see a butterfly on a flower near a stick. Earlier that day,  in the free pile near the mailboxes, s…

Walking from the parking lot to the dock, I hear a buzzing sound and look up. The Bottle Brush tree is thrumming with bees. I look down and see a butterfly on a flower near a stick. Earlier that day,  in the free pile near the mailboxes, someone left a book called, "The Meaning of Flowers".  I thought, Really? I need a book for that?? What about "The Meaning of a Book"??    Or,  "The Meaning of a Walk from the Parking Lot to the Dock"? Perhaps I'll just watch the butterfly, and listen to the bees ~

Hull Inspector

The other morning I was working at home and heard someone talking close by, possibly outside on our pod. Sometimes tourists come down our ramp. It's a little like someone coming onto your porch, though I'm not sure they always realize that! Turns out it was a marine inspector examining the hull next door and dictating his report - hence the voice. I hadn’t seen such an inspection before (and frankly always wondered whether it was possible to walk on the bottom of the channel without sinking). Inspecting the hull is like examining the foundation of a house. When we first moved here, the concept of a concrete hull flummoxed me (how does concrete float anyway . . .??? - Displacement).  When the inspector finished and climbed back onto the dock in his suit of rubber overalls, he explained how he works at very low tide and often wears  snowshoes to keep from sinking in the mud, which requires extreme care as they have small spikes and some rubber hoses that run from the dock to the houseboat, house electrical wires inside - yikes! Sometimes he sports long wooden shoes, like skateboards or small skis, curved up at one end, a design of his own creation. . . And how was the hull?  I wanted to know. "Excellent," he replied, looking at his watch. "But now I must go - there are many hulls to inspect,  and low tide waits for no one!"

 

Farmer's Market Poet

At the small Friday Farmer's Market in nearby Mill Valley, a Greek woman sells produce from her family's farm in San Juan Bautista. I admire the Hearts of Romaine and she explains how she and her husband try to avoid bread and make their sandwiches with romaine, instead. Their 11 yr. old son has decided he wants to eat his sandwiches that way, as well. And now his friends at school eat their's that way, too . And I think, what wonderful parents and teachers. So natural. No insistence. The light falls on those who rise. Others notice, or don't. I look at the bin of summer squash, delicious looking and sweet. One is half yellow/half green. 'Ah,' she says, 'that one was kissed by a zucchini!'  She's a poet. I mention this. She says, 'I never write anything down.'    And I think, not all poets are writers, & not all poems are written down.

Sunday Morning

writing on the dock of the bay

I love low tide in the early morning. It has a certain wabi sabi beauty where you can see to the muddy bottom of the channel all the things that are stuck there - remnants of broken pilings, half buried shells, a floating board that broke free but didn't get far. This morning as I sip my coffee, Dancing Water from Philz, I see a beautiful heron patiently waiting for breakfast. The ceramic pink flamingo in the window has a velveteen rabbit moment as she joins me in my watch, while the sculpture next door breathes Om . . . and our cyclamen waves yo ho! to the pirate's pansies  across the pod. A curious coffee klatch. And I refill my cup.