Moments from My California

In Fresno, and nearby areas.

The San Joaquin River at Woodward Park.

Incense in the air, like a spirit, in my grandparents’ house.

My cousin and I meet an adorable, friendly cat in the orange orchard at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Fresno.

This kid is all KINDS of precious! What a cutie! He also let me pick him up.

I pass by my old house, where I lived when I was ten. A lot of memories here.

Back in my grandparents’ house, I always want to take in every moment of home. Even the oranges are beautiful.

This dining room is where we have shared many meals together. It’s emptier, now :,(

But still, I remember the joyful things my grandpa created, and I carry them with me.

But this is still the land of angels, and I wish to return again, again…

– Gentle J. Pine

The Names of Friends: Species I Have Known (in the San Joaquin Valley and Sierra Nevada Mountains of California)

Early in July of 2017 I visited my homeland region of the San Joaquin Valley and Sierra Nevada Mountains. It’s something gentle to my heart, a mystery why this place keeps calling out to me with such love over such distance, across time and space. The Sierra Nevada mountains of California, I have long held, are what a heaven shall be like when the great celestial places come to settle their love on our small and intimate Earth, it is told, in the life of the world to come. How I love this cathedral range, mountains of gentler snow and light and love.

I journeyed into these mountains of mine for two days, alone with my little car and a quietness in me, on July 6th and 7th. I stayed at extraordinary Mono Hot Springs, where I wish the likes of me could somehow live with my sweet husband, our two cats, and a sure chosen family-community for the rest of our lives. Of course, this magical little town of a dozen-or-so is seasonal, arising out of the glitter-snows of winter for half the year in hotter days of late spring through early autumn. There are real true springs, there: warm, lovely scented (a good smell of the washing and comforting earth!) sulfur springs welling up from the high meadow paradise grounds. It is said the Original Peoples ventured there, the Mono and Miwok and other ancestral, indigenous travelers from over the range. I speak prayers of thanks and friendship to them while I walk, barefoot and lightly clothed in rectangular fabric, the paths of the little mountain meadow hillsides where these springs of warm renewal rise.

Walking this land, this place I love likely more than any other I have tread or even seen depicted by the captured frames of light, my heart jumps in happy greeting at the sight of familiar specie-friends. What a happy revelation to find that the days of searching and studying the knowledge of these plant and animal species truly does create clearer eyes in humans who go walking int heir homelands. At various times in this visit to the Sierras I was, at turns, lovesick in my heart for feeling, at once, such a great love for this place yet missing my husband and our two little cats back in my current home of the Puget Sound. I wanted, with longing, that all my loves would be gathered together –as we hope for in heaven. No wonder that the images I have dreamt of my original family resurrected to life is of our meeting in these Sierra Nevada mountains.

And here, friends, I speak your names once more, a litany of love and homecoming, of belonging to the profound and sacred heart-comfort of this place. I recorded your good names in a notepad to remember you, that I should not forget I have seen you again. I shall see you again.

Western Juniper – Juniper occidentalis

Douglas Fir – Pseutotsuga menziesii

Ponderosa Pine – Pinus ponderosa

Jeffrey Pine – Pinus jeffreyi

Western White Pine – Pinus monticola

White Alder – Alnus incana

California Bay Laurel – Umbellularia californica

(Up and down the way through Oregon:) – Interior Live Oak – Quercus wislienii

Mountain Dogwood – Cornus nuttallii

Oregon Grape – Berberis aquifolium

Poison Oak – Toxicodendron diversilobum

White Stem Raspberry – Rubus leucodermis

Thimbleberry – Rubus parvifolus

A Gooseberry Unknown

Manzanita (Greenleaf, likely)

also Pinemat, Whiteleaf

Bracken Fern (whom I thought was Lady Fern, mistooken)

                    Pteridium aquilinum variation. pubescens. Rounded lobes.

Lady Ferm pattern: little tufts along her spine,

                                        Athyrium falpestre var. americanum

Lupine – type? Who, among so many names.

Miner’s Lettuce – Claytonia perfoliata

Paintbrush – Applegate’s, Indian? – Castilleja applegatei species.

Jepson’s Pea –a brilliant pink of hearts! – Lathyrus jepsonii

Prickly Pear

California Poppy

Gay Penstemon, happy, joyfulPenstemon laetus! –Laudete!

 

Animals, Animalia, Kingdom

the Ones through Whom God looks out through all eyes.

Golden Buprestid, a Beetle of Brilliance

Sierran Blue-winged Grasshopper

Marmot

“Northern & Boreal Bluet”, Common Blue Damselfly – Enallagma cyathigerum

and female var. E. boreale

Western Fence Lizard! Blue-Belly!

Sandpiper (almond orchard, down in the San Joaquin Valley)

Turkey Vultures (different from Condors, the greats)

Coyote, always!

Mourning Dove, whose song I love, who greets the hot day

and makes her mourning into singing.

Northern Mockingbird, the scout-flapper-flier.

  – Do not all these deserve the same love?

American Robin – Turdus migratorius – steady on laws to remind us, to cheer us

Saw somebody with a yellow belly, not sure of his name yet, fine feathers of turmeric.

Red-breasted Nuthatch

Stellar’s Jay – his eyebrows stripes of vertical white are different here

                                                             than in the Puget Sound. Two light-blue

                                                             eyes stripes vertical!

Dark-eyed Junco – Junco hyemalis

Brewer’s Blackbird

European Starling

California Ground Squirrel (distinct white back)

Brown Creeper

Raven – Corvus corax

                                             harbinger unto the end

 

 

 

 

Sienna Acorn Luminance

A journal from 7.18.2016

Sixteen years ago I was here. In summertime in Fresno, California, there is River Camp on the San Joaquin River. The air heats up quickly here, but by the river it is not so bad. The water and the trees make it cooler. This way you can go down to the river at Woodward Park some extremely hot dry valley day –try it in the afternoon, sometime– because you will find water there. You will find beauty you didn’t see before. When you go, be yourself caught in the river’s sienna acorn luminance with cheerful pale green leaves, where living water flows from the Sierra Nevadas. It was on a day like this I was ten years old and Grandma was driving me to this our beautiful river. There would be wonderings I could never forget, owl pellets and river rocks and the feel of the golden silt-sand underneath my bare feet in the shallows of the shimmer-green river. Now I am here visiting without a car, this day as an adult, and it is difficult to get around these parts without a car. Without a car you have to walk to the river because the places where the people live aren’t built like they used to be, how people used to be able to expect to get to the rivers on their own two feet.

This morning I walk the streets of my desert city and I meet an abundance of purple wine grapes planted for the joy of the public on the side of the road, at Blackstone and Shaw. In handfuls, they give themselves to me. The energy of this climate is condensed into these tiny clusters of grapes, a land and air so akin to the Mediterranean, and so the climate is called. These grapes are care-taken by some kind human who comes by to see that they are robust, but mostly the sun does his work and the valley soil does hers, even in the middle of the city. Firm and gleaming, a pale dust settles pleasingly on the ripe curve of each grape, making the backs of my jaws water by the look of them.

Margaret Hudson is a famous sculpture artist from here in Fresno. I went to visit her studio in the month of June earlier this year. It’s very hot in June in Fresno. Margaret wasn’t home because she is very old now and living elsewhere, but her art is still lively and all her sculpted creatures are still smiling who are created by day, by kiln, by the work of her hands. They are formed out of mud and earth and some deep joyful material. It must be the same joy that knows about making a desert a paradise, because the bringer of good words, the great one who forms faces from clay, is in all places in need of good water.

Every time I come back here I love this land more and more. When I was a teenager dreaming of other places, it wasn’t from a lack of love for this place. I wanted to take the pink blossoms of The Blossom Trail with me so they, too, could live in cleaner air by the sea in San Francisco. But that city didn’t really open to me, and I was never at home there, a traveller there for two years. But I always feel at home in Fresno, close to my Sierras, especially in the north by the San Joaquin River, or in the east near Clovis where in spring the Blossom Trail blooms.

 

8.13.2017

I think again of this poem I wrote, Heat Time Dawn

Heat time sunrise Fresno California
roses hum cricket’s continuous singing–
mourning dove’s soft hoot on the terrace
is perched at the edge of the sky

My desert is alive with the spirits of pine needle,
cottontail bounding in sage, to San Joaquin river
white live oak offering incense,
a hanging pot floats magic carpet to red roof

In the lush breeze of July dawn in the valley
listen for Worldmaker sauntering in the garden,
with Coyote and prickly pear he goes in the garden–
run out to meet him in dew drops on adobe

 

Photography © Gentle J. Pine. All rights reserved.

Cordillera

I have dreamt the mountains are so close to my house in the city, the whole long range spanning the Cascades down to the Sierras, huge and magnified, their icy caps leaning over small neighborhoods in primeval protection. American Cordillera. In my dreams, the mountains spell the nearness of God. They are the mother mountains where clean waters come down and angels go to live in animal bodies a while. From the car driving by the foothills it looks sometimes like you can jump out of the car and run up there to catch fish in clear waters. Glitter white-gold sand, burnt-sienna Ponderosa pine needle trails, my California; wet Western Redcedar mossy deep green curling ferns, my Cascadia– I turn to the great land and the land turns in closer to me. A banner of turquoise in lakes, Milky Way trail of spirits –Inland Pacific! Lands of my birth! And the Range of Light is always at the edge of my mind, moving mountains in dreams.

 

 

image: Creative Commons CC0

Coyote Loses His Son

An excerpt from the book
‘Deeper Than Gold: Indian Life in the Sierra Foothills’

a story from the Maidu Nation of California

In the early days of this world, there was no death. When someone was killed or died, it was always possible to bring them back to life. It was Worldmaker who had said:

“When people die, after they are dead, they will be laid over into the river, and, when they have lain there, they will come to life again.”

However, Coyote disagreed:

“When people die, they shall be dead, and they will be buried under the earth. Indeed, the dead will not be going here and there in the morning. When they are dead, they will be dead.”

After that, Worldmaker did not speak. Instead, he gathered his things together and left. He soon came upon a small creek, whereupon he set two horsetail rushes on either side of the meandering little waterway.

Soon after Coyote asked his son, who he loved dearly, to fetch some water. When he reached the edge of the creek, the two horsetail rushes had turned into rattlesnakes, and they bit him. Then it was that Coyote’s son died. It was then that Coyote pleaded to reverse the outcome of death he had argued for. But it was to no avail; it could not be undone. He chased after Worldmaker, pleading for his son to be brought back to life. Worldmaker ignored him, continuing to travel about the country. And so it is today: when people die, they stay dead. The horsetail rush continues to live by the stream. And sometimes they do indeed turn themselves back into rattlesnakes, there, by the water’s edge.

 

White Spine Mountain

Backbone of the world

feather and spine rock

white mountains bridge

arching downward to stars

 

Place of the great mountain,

I turn to your turquoise

in a necklace of rivers

returning sight to the blind

 

You come from where lava flows

and pink blooms on your banks

in the wake of your thunder

in feather and bone

 

Traversing your old back

and making home in your rib valleys–

Mother! Enfold me in crevasses

unseen by the road

 

In the great places

where sky bends down to dust

I wake up in you, grey mountain,

green pine

 

 

 

Image © Gentle J. Pine. All rights reserved.

Remember Me Who Have Not Any Wings

 

Sparrows who come to live in our rafters, here you are welcome to nest. When you fly, will you take with you the undigested weight of the earth? I am not the mighty soul who remembers each one of you falling, but I, I can give you a place for your homes in the hallways above me, welcome your conversations and song into the courtyard in need of trickling water. Your voice taught the stream how to sing. Your Avian voices are water to olive groves, and to orange trees you are the crown. Do you hear all we say here below of you, Sparrows? You follow us into cities to watch over the wanderers, we without wings, who think they must fight to know God. You know a better way, in the trees, travelers of the wings. For you the Creator plucks feathers from Her own breast. Unafraid of the heat or the sun or the winds of the seasons, you are familiar, dear sparrows, to the gardenia of day, to purple jasmine’s desert night. Come, friend of the sunflower, and take with you our prayers and oblations, small birds, those who dip close to the walking world, that we too will find the house of the morning, that we will make our nest in the garden at dawn. Feathers of stained glass, I implore you, remember me who have not any wings, but two legs and full heart to walk to the daybreak of birdsong.

 

 

Written at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Fresno, California, July 17th 2016

 

Photo by susannp4, CC0 Creative Commons Public Domain, Pixabay.com

Heat Time Dawn

 

Heat time sunrise Fresno California
roses hum cricket’s continuous singing–
mourning dove’s soft hoot on the terrace
is perched at the edge of the sky

My desert is alive with the spirits of pine needle,
cottontail bounding in sage, to San Joaquin river
white live oak offering incense,
a hanging pot floats magic carpet to red roof

In the lush breeze of July dawn in the valley
listen for Worldmaker sauntering in the garden,
with Coyote and prickly pear he goes in the garden–
run out to meet him in dew drops on adobe

 

Chalk Neighborhoods

Chalk is the story of neighborhoods.
The children point the way in the roads.
Histories hover over these sidewalks
where the mothers stood in the doors
while we buried our wars
at the end of the cul-de-sac,
the shrine of the pack.

Old land in your infamous summer.
You were paradise and continue to be
in your wrinkled oaks of the valley,
yellow stone hills thirsty.

On paper it rains ten inches a year,
desert magic washes boneyards in creek-beds.
I was a child on the roof, in the clouds,
small ears alert to industrial thunder
that would dare take the soul
with the earth.

Recollection of the Birds of California Route 41

It might be the drive between sparkling, montane Quail Springs and comforting, familiar Fresno which is the most dismal, alienating four-hour drive in all of California. A ghastly expanse of oil rigs puncture godforsaken rock and ash where once were gentle Valley Oak and wildflower savannas roamed by Tule Elk and Bear. Nameless towns of nowhere on dusty highways appear from the no man’s land of big-box fast food stops, gas stations and sketchy motels with blinking neon lights. Any sight of human habitation in the form of neighborhoods are either monolithic tracts of identical mini McMansions, or lopsided old houses supported by tarps and barbed wire appearing to huddle together for dear life (assuming the inhabitants have found strength in community, as I hope). Just to make sure I got the message, I was pulled over by flashing blue and red lights and awarded a speeding ticket for doing a modest 68 in a mysteriously unmarked 55 mph zone, according to the cop, who was just doing his job. And when I, approaching Fresno from a distance still on the lower highway 41, saw that the air was so afflicted by a heavy carpet of smog so as to veil the mountains and the sun’s full shine in a brown haze, I almost no longer believed. At the edge of despair I thought the land was lost forever, when at once, something flashing, flame-shot with gold, caught the corner of my eye. From below the signposts and still grass of the roadside there arose in chorus a great congregation of birds from the earth like a fleet of angels in resurrection. I saw their beating wings catch the morning sun and reflect, in each perfectly synchronized turn of the flock, the red haze of the marred light in a new-made shimmer as if to give unshakable glory to the life eternal which still lives in this world, even in such a time as this. I saw more flocks gather around me as my car traveled on, and they flew overhead and resided there in the air in cadence with my own pace of flight. Their shadow was so dense above me that my sight became for a moment darkened, the outline of each feathered body becoming one. When having passed over me entirely, and, leaving the wake of my movement to myself once again, they seemed to take all darkness with them. And my eyes were wider, restored with light.

A recollection from my time at Quail Springs Permaculture Farm, Autumn 2013

 

image source: pixabay license