field notes:

10.10.2003

I heard one chainsaw, then another, and after that I couldn't tell how many there were. I began calling neighbors, but couldn't reach anybody. I was afraid I knew where they were, but was afraid to look.

We all use the same path to get to the beach. Once you enter "the path," there's a sense of being in the wild. Redwoods guard the entrance, then tan oaks, coast live oaks and madrones stretch out to either side of the path and follow the creek down to the beach--a small patch of woods. Once you enter the path, you've entered sacred space, enchanted ground--your thoughts are let loose from everyday concerns--you're going to the beach.

The path was shaded, with mere slips of sunlight, undergrowth that hid deer and towhees, and could have hidden a lion or a bear. Dense and wooded, the flora guided your attention down the path, to the small opening of light at the end, to the water, to the beach.

But not anymore. After the chainsaws came a chipper, and finally, we walked down to see what had been wrought. Part of the land lining the path opposite the creek belongs to a family who've owned it for two generations. Common knowledge was that it was near impossible, at least improbable, to build on that lot. It's only approved for a one-bedroom septic, it's a small lot, it needs to include three parking spaces, and the builders would be required to bring water in not only for themselves, but for another neighbor further away from the source than themselves. Everybody who looks at land in west Marin has been shown this lot. Over the years, several groups have submitted plans to build, but none of the plans respected the envelope that the land and the laws require. One man had a plan that was approved, but he couldn't get financing. So the stories go, until you believe that the land will never be developed. They say it will cost a million dollars for a small one-bedroom home.

Apparently, the owners of the land are serious about trying to build here despite the restrictions. The young men swarming over that land, that land that is now a lot, are serious about clearing it. They told us it was being cleared for a survey. Just from the ground to head high, they told us. But there are trees down. Coast live oaks cut off mid-rise, logs littering the place.

Of course it's private land. Of course it's their right to build, to clear, to cut, and to raze. You know all this, you believe it, but still it feels like something vital has been ripped out of the world. One small piece of land on it's way to becoming somebody's home. It will be a warm beautiful house, and the people who live there will probably be my friends, will certainly be my neighbors. We will get used to the house sitting there, and in the best scenario, the house will complement the surrounding woods, will reflect the environment. But today there is a gaping hole, both in the woods and in my imagination. Something alive is dying. Something is missing and there's not a milk carton or a classified ad or a police department big enough to find it and bring it back.

posted by Lisa Thompson on 7:48 AM link | comments []

10.9.2003

Don't walk much at low tide in the summer--instead I go to the beach at high tide and swim. I'm rediscovering the low tide walk.

Yesterday we walked under darkening skies. Fog hung low over the bay, just above head-high, glowing pink and orange from the sunset. Heading south, I stopped to make bad rhymes over my broken rudder, then picked up speed enjoying the cool slip of evening. Just before Chicken Ranch Beach I stopped behind some rocks to watch a group of snowy egrets on the shore just ahead of me. Dog sat in the sand, and I crouched near the rocks. We settled in. The egrets were startled, but didn't seem to pinpoint where the disturbance lie, as they flew towards us. They continued past our still forms, heading upwind, then banked a slow, beautiful turn and returned downwind, speeding back the way they'd come, turning again and flying over my head to disappear above the cliff behind me, only to reappear again to make the slow banking turn and again the heady flight downwind. We watched them for a breathless while. Most stayed together, but some strayed behind or joined late and were on opposite legs of the circuit. Some near-collisions occurred and always it was the downwind bird who broke stride to avoid the upwind bird--akward and polite.

As the egrets made that first upwind turn, before it became a flying game, they slowed and became angels. Lit by diffuse light and seen from below, each upward wing beat impossibly white against the already-whiteness of their bodies and the sky, combined with the slow upwind ascending turn to suspend time and bridge the earthbound with an idea of heaven. Each upwind turn an attempt at ascension, the downwind sprint a return to pleasure and the limits of time.

I forgot myself, crouched there in the sand, until they gave up for the night, and lit in a tree--a resting place somewhere between the restless earth and the beauty of sky--a place from which they could reach both worlds.

posted by Lisa Thompson on 7:56 AM link | comments []

10.7.2003

Our local historian, Dewey Livingston, writes a column in the Point Reyes Light called 'West Marin's Past'. Last week he excerpted the following from the local paper of 48 years ago, the Baywood Press:

Dial Phones Come to Pt. Reyes Area Night of Sept. 30
Over 400 telephone subscribers in Pt. Reyes, Inverness and nearby West Marin will get new dial telephones Friday, Sept. 30.
...The change over, from the old-fashioned "box and crank" telephones which are among the few left in use, will come at 10 o'clock p.m.
Complete instructions covering use of the dial instruments for those unfamiliar with mechanical telephones, will be given by company representatives before that date, Gilman said. Pt. Reyes numbers will carry the prefix Mohawk 3 and Inverness, Normandy 9.
A special telephone directory will be distributed before Sept. 30.
Change to dial service affects Pt. Reyes and Inverness exchanges serving Olema, Tocaloma, Five Brooks and Marshall. In addition, service will be extended to Cypress Grove, Hamlet, McDonald and Ocean Roar, formerly toll stations, North of Pt. Reyes, and to Camp Taylor, in San Geronimo Valley. San Geronimo Valley villages long have had dial service.

Why did we ever drop the convention of referring to our phone numbers in this charming way. Normandy 9-5555. I love that. Also, where in the heck are Ocean Roar, Hamlet, McDonald and Cypress Grove? And finally, when did we stop referring to ourselves as villages, and start calling ourselves towns, and why?

posted by Lisa Thompson on 7:22 AM link | comments []

10.6.2003

We're back to weather as usual here. The coming-of-winter scare has passed, for now. It's warm again, even this morning with the fog "in" the temperature inside my cabin is pleasant. I measure the temperature by what I need to wear. Reports range from 'barefoot with shorts' to 'long johns, two sweaters, fingerless gloves and an all-day fire'. Today's a 'sweater but barefoot'. For October, I'll take it.

Yesterday the water on the bay glowed electric blue. Just before sunset I pulled my old boat out from under the boathouse. Before embarking I made a shoreside repair--new duct tape to hold the rudder in place. A summer of high tides and sun had eroded the old repair job so I opened a brand new roll of duct tape and slapped it on. I made it just beyond the end of the pier. The big moon was hanging to my right, and I was just clearing the point that hid the setting sun when I felt both pedals go slack to the floor and knew that the rudder had drifted away from my boat. It's tricky turning around to see the back of the boat on a surf-ski. It's a 19' fiberglass boat with mere indents in the surface for a seat, feet and legs. To turn fully around is to get wet. But I could see and feel enough to know that I was dragging my rudder by its cables. Fortunately, I was close enough to shore that it was an easy matter to turn the boat around, right myself in the wind and paddle with the incoming tide back home.

My inaugural trip was short, but sweet. Bring on the fall.

**

Recall Election: If you know anybody in California who would vote no on the recall, but might not get to the polls without a friendly nudge from you, please call them, write them, urge them to help. If you think the political scene is surreal now, just wait until Wednesday if "Governor Ahnold" takes the helm. This proves to be a close election, every vote will surely count!
posted by Lisa Thompson on 7:10 AM link | comments []

10.5.2003

I heard Bly recite this poem at a conference that I have on cassette. After several months, a friend finally located it for me.

Warning to the Reader
--Robert Bly

Sometimes farm granaries become especially beautiful when all of the oats or wheat are gone, and wind has swept the rough floor clean. Standing inside, we see around us, coming in through the cracks between shrunken wall boards, bands or strips of sunlight. So in a poem about imprisonment, one sees a little light.

But how many birds have died trapped in these granaries. The bird, seeing the bands of light, flutters up the walls and falls back again and again. The way out is where the rats enter and leave; but the rat's hole is low to the floor. Writers, be careful then by showing the sunlight on the walls not to promise the anxious and panicky blackbirds a way out!

I say to the reader, beware. Readers who love poems of light may sit hunched in the corner with nothing in their gizzards for four days, light failing, the eyes glazed. . . . They may end as a mound of feathers and a skull on the open boardwood floor ...

from What Have I Ever Lost By Dying?

posted by Lisa Thompson on 8:34 AM link | comments []