PEEK-A-BOO

The migration of the grey whales.

Changes in the dune patterns.

Coast Guard rescues.

Booty-seeking beachcombers.

Tide-chasing dogs.

Vermillion sunsets.

 Unexpected snowfall blanketing the shoreline.

These were the reports

I received from my ocean-loving mother

about the Pacific, my parent’s backyard,

seen from their solarium, until

the Tohoku, Japan earthquake

and tsunami, in 2011, sent a massive tree  

to their little sliver of the Oregon Coast,

to the beachfront just below the bluff

their house sits on.

For years after, the solarium reports

had one focus only:

Kids are using my tree as a jungle gym.

The tide is pruning its branches,

shearing off its bark, polishing the wood.

The sand has buried the trunk.

But then one fall

the reports stopped altogether.

Because there was nothing to report.

The tree, my mother’s tree,

her long time acquaintance, 

companion really,

had all but disappeared.

Only a stray limb remained.

For years not a single peep

about the famous tree. 

Nothing new to say.

Until last week when

a storm pummelled Newport.

Then I got this message:

Look what happened over night...

My tree was unveiled.

So happy! I had forgotten how huge it is.

I haven't seen "all" of it for 3 years :) !

Just goes to show you:

even Mother Nature loves

a good game of Peek-a-Boo.

Expect the unexpected.

What seems lost,

under the right conditions,

will reveal itself again.
Give it time.
Weather the storm.

SCRIMSHAW

I felt sometimes like I was trying to carve scrimshaw

while wearing oven mittens.

Elizabeth Gilbert

I had to look the word up.

Delicate engravings done

by seafarers on whalebone.

Gilbert was referring to

her writing life

and what it took to keep

the practice alive.

To scrimshaw on

tooth or bone,

metaphorically speaking,

to employ the fine point

of an engraving tool,

you must first employ

another mightier implement,

a harpoon.

You must hurl it into

a great ocean.

You must kill a whale.

Life is my leviathan.

Ishmael, Ahab, White whale…

teachers one an all,

help me to stay committed to the chase.

But let me learn to make compassion,

kindness, my harpoon.

Only then can I truly do

the more delicate work

of writing down the bone.

POUR

Santa Cruz.

The Pacific Garden Mall.

We duck inside

Out of a sudden 
Downpour.

A wall worth

Of spigots 
Greet us.

Tap after tap

Ater tap.

Pay by the ounce.
All you can drink.

Belgians. Sours. Stouts.

Saisons. Ciders. IPAs.

So many choices.

We work our way

Down the line.

The beer just flows.

Why not live like this.

Where each and every moment

Is a new draught to try.

To savor.

If we don’t like one

Then we try another.

And all the while…

Getting tipsy

On the taste.

On life.

One pour

At a time.

THE CONCIERGE

You spend your days

catering to others,

making guests feel

welcome and cared for

in a place

that is not their home.

You do this well.

All too well.

At night, folding laundry,

you notice

how sad and empty

the pillow cases look

when there’s no cushion,

no down inside.