September 12, 2024, Manila- It seemed to take forever, for one reason or another, mostly due to traffic, but another friend and I made it to The World on a Plate, a pop-up dining experience, in Ayala Mall. My friend, K, was already there, as she lives closer, so we chatted about a few things and perused the menu. It was about 50 pages, on a Tablet, but I saw what interested me, right away: Thai red curry with beef and jasmine rice, as well as a two-piece salmon and cheese roll. Along with fresh mango juice, that filled the bill. The ladies stuck with fried chicken-Korean and Thai varieties. We watched a rapid-fire set of images, from different countries. I was able to identify all but one or two.
Question of the evening was: “Why is Golden Gate Bridge red?” The answer is that San Francisco Bay was the gateway to gold seeking. Red is simply easy for ships coming in to see the suspension bridge.
Afterwards, we strolled around the patio of Ayala Place and spotted the different restaurants which contributed to The World on a Plate. In the early evening, my friends stood happily in the bright light.
There is an elegant mix of subtleties in Filipino culture, as there is many societies around the world. Being here is good for my soul, as I am being shown again that keen awareness of what surrounds us is ever important, if one is to live life to the fullest. It starts, as I reminded the caretaker of the Baha’i Center, earlier today,with being at peace with self. From that point, one can then be truly valuable to those with whom one is in regular contact.
September 8, 2024- I had a full morning and early afternoon, with an excellent breakfast at Post 6, then ninety minutes or so of conversation with some line mates waiting for Empty Bowls to open their “gate”. The fund raiser for Prescott area Food Banks and Pantries has taken place every year since 1997. I have volunteered in the past, but today, I was one of the multitude who purchased a bowl, and two servings of soup. There were fourteen types of soup, from seafood gumbo to charred peach. I took a helping of gumbo, then an old favourite- garden minestrone. Local Girl Scouts were present in force-minding the recycling area and washing/drying our bowls-loudly advertising their services, for about two minutes, until they were gently advised to let the signage do the work.
I chose carefully, from a wide selection of beautiful bowls. The basin reflects life itself-half polished and half rough.
The outside evokes basket weaving, both First Nations and indigenous Filipino. It is, though, very much glazed ceramic.
Afterwards, I had a small meal with Hiking Buddy, introducing her to Lazy G, before heading back to Home Base to continue packing for tomorrow’s Prescott-Phoenix-Los Angeles leg, which will of course be followed on Tuesday/Wednesday, to Hong Kong and Manila.
Prescott in the Fall offers an almost continuous array of festivals, so local readers and would-be visitors, consider:
Hope Fest- September 14, at Courthouse Square. This day-long event features a variety of community services, from Legal Aid to haircuts, family entertainment and inspirational music. It’s free.
Prescott Powwow- September 20-22, at Watson Lake, has a theme of “Elders Embracing the Youth”. I have attended twice in the past, and found it a strong expression of First Nations values. There is a $5 parking fee, and food trucks are onsite.
Prescott Valley Harvest Festival- October 5, at Prescott Valley Civic Center, one of many Harvest Festivals in the area, in early October. This is the one that is presently being advertised. It, too, is free.
Prescott Plein Air Festival- This series of art exhibitions takes place from September 17-October 13, in locations from Yavapai College to Highlands Nature Center. No mention of any admission fee.
Prescott Highland Games and Celtic Faire- September 28-29, at Watson Lake. Tickets are $15 for an adult day pass and $30 for an adult weekend pass, at the gate. Discounts for on-line booking and for seniors/students/military. https://www.prescottareacelticsociety.com/ticket-prices/
Besides these, there are several concerts featuring Country Music, Christian Music and several other genres. Home Base is never dull.
August 11, 2024, Phoenix- This was the opening sentiment, expressed as a chant, by a devotional singer, as our second day of study of a document on bringing our Baha’i communities’ actions into sync with the true needs of society unfolded.
My main task, this morning, was to take notes for a breakout session, so I determined to be a lot more careful in my printing and to use the cursive writing that was instilled in me by Mom, at a very young age. Practice noble things.
My dear friend, across the ocean, told me of concerns she has. Her troubles are my troubles, so I will do what I can to bring resolution to those that I can, and find help for the things that are beyond my capacity. Practice noble things.
At the end of the gathering, several of us joined the volunteer kitchen staff and made sure the food was stored or prepared for distribution to the unhoused, the coffee and tea were dumped and the vessels cleaned and that the chairs were properly put back. Practice noble things.
Once back in Home Base I, tomorrow and for the next four weeks, there will be activities that will bring to bear a determination to- Practice noble things.
Small and large; commonplace and novel; with friends, family and all those extended kin that we call acquaintances and strangers-Practice noble things.
August 4, 2024- The troupe spent a refreshing amount of time on stage dancing to an acoustic rendering of William Shakespeare’s ditty from “Much Ado About Nothing”. They sang it, while dancing, and the audience joined in. Such was the production of the comedy, by the troupe calling themselves, Halfwit Shakespeare. They were hardly half-witted, and absolutely delightful. Admission was free, with gratuities asked for the players as a group.
“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more.
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more
Of dumps so dull and heavy.
The fraud of men was ever so
Since summer first was leafy.
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into hey, nonny, nonny.”-William Shakespeare
The play, for those unfamiliar with it, is a comedy that accents the ridiculous, and avoidable, damage to a person’s reputation from backbiting and gossip. These flaws are an almost ingrained part of the human psyche and, as with many flaws, derive from insecurity. The character assassins are called out, and given one chance to redeem themselves-which they do. Would that all such incidents of assault on character be so easily resolved and reversed.
We are probably due for another round of negative back-and-forth, in the ongoing election cycle-and there is a lot of angst about who is doing what, to wreak havoc on the economy. Backbiting, however, does next to nothing to actually solve matters of concern, and is actually worse than kicking the can down the road. As in the play, however, all that is dark will be brought to light.
It may be a nice temporary fix to stop, take a few deep breaths and, if it helps any, sing a song similar to Shakespeare’s ditty. Then, we can get back up, dust ourselves off and start all over again, as Nat King Cole once advised.
July 21, 2024, Powell River,BC- I must have looked like a duck out of water, clad in t-shirt and shorts, in 55 F (12.7 C) and cloudy weather. A Tofino pull-over hoodie presented itself, and so the duck was back in the water, in short order. The few small children present appeared to breathe a sigh of relief. The adults, being the flinty sort, were more “Well now, that shows there’s a light on upstairs, after all, eh?” Thus it goes, when one finds slivers of foggy dew, after days of high heat, even ten kilometers inland.
Tofino, and its sister town, Ucluelet, are the north and south anchors of Pacific Rim National Park Reserve, western Vancouver Island’s well-visited gem. I first heard of the place, when sent a recording of a young girl prodigy from there, and was drawn to its artsy vibe. Friends who had been to the area corroborated this rather laid back aura, but said it was getting somewhat more commercialized. So, as with any other place that sets forth competing reputations, I had to go see for myself.
This brief break from Baha’i-centered visits took me to Whalers on the Point Guest House, at Tofino’s north end. The name refers to the whale hunting traditions of the Tla-o-qui-aht (“Clayoquat”, in English parlance) First Nation and their neighbours along V.I.’s west coast, as well as of the Makah people, across the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The large and comfortable, family-friendly hostel was a beehive of activity, especially in and around the kitchen. The ambiance, though, was most welcoming.
Between an evening sunset stroll (at 9:45 p.m.) and a longer walkabout in the downtown area, this morning, I got a sense of Tofino life. Here are some scenes.
The salubrious hostelClayoquot Sound, on a foggy Sunday morningThe entrance to Tofino’s children’s parkSalvage art, part of a display by Pete Clarkson, a marine debris collector. His Washed-Up Workshop has several pieces in this unique downtown garden.Another of Pete’s piecesCiinul (totem pole), with explanation below:
So I found this earnest community, of First Nations people and eclectic artisans. Now, it was time to check out the National Reserve itself.
June 15, 2024- The sun came up, fierce and hot, on this first day of relative time off. There is still the work to be done here at Home Base I, yet nothing will draw me out of state until mid-July, unless I get that call from Massachusetts.
I had the honour of spending a couple of hours sharing stories of life, and thoughts, with someone with whom I thought I had fallen out of favour. No such thing had happened, as it turns out. The Red Cross booth drew passing attention, and one person wanted to have smoke detectors installed. Mostly, though, it was just M T and I, sharing stories of our departed spouses and of those who have won our hearts, more recently.
It was a joy to get back, a short time later, to Farmers Market. My good friend M M told of her own brief time away, which does my heart good, and I offered to help for a few hours each day, clearing the area around her forever home. That offer will stand, for the month or so that I am here, as well as in August, which also will mostly be spent around HB I. The young people who run the Market were glad to have me back, albeit only for few weeks.
After a few hours of rest, it was time to head over to a place from which I had banished myself, for a couple of years now: Synergy of Sedona. S R had sent me an invitation to the Saturday evening portion of their 6th Anniversary celebration, so it was time for self-imposed exile to come to a close. It was an entertaining mix of genres, on the stage: Jazz, folk, spoken word and poetry slam-even a comedic recounting of a lady’s post-divorce westward “drift” , as she put it. The plea for a “divorce shower” was half in jest, half in earnest; and you know, it makes perfect sense. When someone’s life is completely upended, why not a life change registry? I had plenty of help, after Penny passed on, but a divorcee’ ,oftentimes, only encounters the Wall of Shame.
The feeling I got from S R, though we only spoke in greeting, was that whatever it was that transpired, two years ago, had long since flowed into the ocean of bygone and had sunk to the bottom. I may not beat a path to Sedona, all that often, but knowing the door is open does my heart good. Mended fences can stay up.
May 25, 2024, Bethlehem, PA- I was drifting off to another blissful sleep, and the unmistakable sound, from years of running drills at various schools, got me out of bed and out of the building, in a flash. There I was, pajama-clad, and in sockless shoes, with a slowly-accumulating gathering of fellow guests, and the few staff who didn’t need to be in the office. “It’s just like school, huh?”, I remarked to an excited little girl, as her father grimaced and shook his head. The whole episode lasted twenty-five minutes, the police officer gave the all-clear and we headed back inside, as the seven firefighters continued their inspection of the wiring and checking for signs of (illegal) indoor smoking, or untended cooking. (This is an extended stay establishment, and there are two flat stove burners, in each room, as well as a microwave oven-which could lead to burnt popcorn.) The Cuban maintenance director, sounding like Desi Arnaz on steroids, promised he’d find out if anyone was responsible for the mayhem. All I know is, it wasn’t me-and probably wasn’t the guy standing next to me, who looked as if he were a clean-shaven Rip Van Winkle.
My last night in New England, for this trip, anyway, came to an end with a small purchase of a coffee and empanada, from 7-11, and a farewell to Nitey-Nite Motel’s owner, who barely looked up from his game of Solitaire, as I dropped off the key card. That’s okay; he offers clean, quiet rooms at a decent price. Hartford and Waterbury were a breeze to get past. Danbury was still Danbury-the same jockeying for position, at the split between U.S. 7 and I-84, leading some of us to wait 2-3 seconds in the inner lane of 7, before a quick break let us onto the 84.
It’s been a while since I stopped at Arlene and Tom’s Family Diner, Port Jervis. The same “Home of the Free, because of the Brave” sign is there, and the TV is still set to Newsmax. The pastrami is still among the best in the Catskill region, though, so that’s what matters most. Besides, it is always good to know what both sides are thinking, in this cosmic stew that is America, and the world, in 2024.
This visit to New England, and to the northeast Atlantic region beyond, reassured me of everyone’s love. Seeing cousins from both sides of the family, being able to repay Mom for all the nurturing she has given, over seven decades, being with my three siblings in a delightful dining room, visiting the graves of my father and baby brother, visiting a boyhood friend and connecting with Baha’is in Cape Breton Island, Corner Brook (NL) and Green Acre Baha’i School have made the month an exemplary one. Starting May off with a visit to the House of Worship certainly helped, in terms of spiritual energy. There was more interest in the Faith, from family and friends, this time around. Mom even read some prayers from my book. I was sent forward with top-notch pizza in Mishawaka, and, despite the jibes from someone I love very much, managed to keep in the good graces of hoteliers from Gallup to South Windsor. Time on the French-ruled island of St. Pierre was the icing on this very rich cake.
Now I am in Pennsylvania, with this hotel, an Air BnB and a private guest room as places of rest, during this second round of family visits. This evening was another special event-well before the fire drill. I visited these fine people, enjoyed fabulous Persian rice, salad and soup, with copious amounts of jicama and watermelon for dessert. I was also edified by the various “Got Talent” clips of performances by American and British senior citizens-most of whom were extraordinarily talented.
I also was briefly introduced to Tatamy Village’s community park.
As I stood atop Signal Hill, the wind howled in a way that made me think of the few of us taking in the majesty of this St. John’s landmark as intrepid. I immediately thereafter conjured a snarky voice saying “ I can think of another word, ending in -pid.”
The Battery (Cabot Tower), Signal Hill, St. John’s
I had spent an hour or so at a cozy coffee shop, among very warm and friendly folks, so discomfort was not hard to take for a bit. On a less blustery day, I could very well have walked from Battery Cafe to THE Battery, or Cabot Tower, as it is called in memory of the 400th Anniversary of John Cabot’s landing in Newfoundand.
With a sense that I wanted to get to an old haunt, Abbie’s Garden, I punched in directions to TCH West. After getting through the funky neighbourhood of Quidi Vidi, I was westbound, in short order.
Just before turning off on NL 210, I gassed up at the pump. North Atlantic is one of those places where paying at the pump is new, so a hefty security deposit was tacked on. I later learned that this will fall off my tab, in a few days, with only the actual purchase price remaining. Lesson: In Newfoundland, pay inside.
I got to Abbie’s Garden, around 5:30, finding that I was the sole guest. Bruce put me in the same room I had two years ago and came by later, with one of his signature pastries; this time, a freshly baked cinnamon roll.
The place, in a drizzly ambiance, was eerily quiet. Just two older men, at opposite ends of the property, with memories of their respective beloved wives and going forward with new love interests.
I ended the evening watching the first “Hunger Games” film. It struck the same chord as when I first saw it. I am still skeptical of anyone in authority who claims to have all the answers.
April 14, 2024- I got a report, from somewhere, that someone I met once, last Spring, had suffered the indignity of his hair catching fire. He is okay, just a bit unnerved and probably giving his scalp an aloe bath, for a day or two.
Although it was not due to the brisk wind that we have in Arizona, during the month of April and into early May, the incident underscored the danger that all of us keep in the back of our minds. I spent part of yesterday helping install smoke detectors, in a small town, about an hour southeast of here. The season of high winds and dry skies is upon us, so being fire wise is a huge undertaking. I will spend part of next Sunday raking pine needles, at a site where I have spent a good part of the month of June, for the past three years. The forest is always at risk, so it is not too soon to start preparing.
Walking downtown and over to a place where there was a concert on the patio, I found I had to hold my desert sun hat, that is probably one size too small, several times, as the gusts came and went. The grilled cheese and salad, and the acoustic guitarist, were worth the occasional gust, even on the patio. My food didn’t blow away, but someone’s beer glass was blown over, and the impromptu clean-up crew took care of business. That’s what people do for one another here. Both the hapless lady and her husband were given refills on the house.
I was born under the sign of fire, but preventing it from being destructive is as much, if not more than, my mission as using it carefully to cook and purify. Stay fire wise, wherever you may be.
March 23, 2024- “What about the thousands of Vietnamese and Cambodians who have been killed?” So asks Henry Wyeth, an unseen character in Jon Robin Baitz’s “Other Desert Cities”, in response to his father’s admonition to turn himself in, after a bombing, in which he was involved, results in the death of a janitor. Father slaps Henry across the face, and the disheveled young man runs away.
This incident, and its aftermath, are the plot of Baitz’s 2011 play, about family dysfunction, the effect it has on the Wyeths, their two younger children and their doting, but feckless, aunt. It deals head-on with the overemphasis on political differences and how artificial those turn out to be, at the very basic human level. It is, at its core, a horror story. The catalyst is Henry’s sister’s writing a memoir, centered around his disappearance.
I went to a production of the play, this evening, at Prescott Center for the Arts. A fairly new studio theater affords an intimate, “in the square” presentation, almost like watching a play in one’s own living room. This makes the interaction, the tension, that much more relevant to the audience. It also increases the impact of various ad hominem attacks that the family members foist on one another, and no one is spared.
My family, even on an extended level, never fell into such holes of judgment. When we argued, things were resolved by nightfall, or by the problem person apologizing, whichever came first. The same was true in our marriage. Neither of us went to bed angry at the other. None of us let political differences trump familial love. So it remains today. People choose their political and social stances based on their personality, view of the world and experiences. No one else can really judge them, for those things alone.
In the beginning, and in the end, there is only love.
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A Sagittarian Seeker 