tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44713487324303443062024-03-19T00:32:43.071-07:00Womad WaysChristina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.comBlogger246125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-48273401270423507972023-01-17T16:41:00.000-08:002023-01-17T16:41:21.062-08:00Hobo's Purrfect Blessing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZTtISFtfTuepUOU3ZLu5AbaP-5ItVKM4tOO8Q9wCYPvK-YKNZpOnbgUyo7KRZBT_xTQoDxIslCl7j88ewc4AvwgqEguXYGeyj01_JrR0-sTRjnyrcOPvW6mZJnYVdigA3-Il6juwCOdZV_QdABH1qScC4z0F31px9M5Xq5hBhRVbUXSaM6fqLb0x/s2259/PXL_20230115_013609872~2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2259" data-original-width="2233" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZTtISFtfTuepUOU3ZLu5AbaP-5ItVKM4tOO8Q9wCYPvK-YKNZpOnbgUyo7KRZBT_xTQoDxIslCl7j88ewc4AvwgqEguXYGeyj01_JrR0-sTRjnyrcOPvW6mZJnYVdigA3-Il6juwCOdZV_QdABH1qScC4z0F31px9M5Xq5hBhRVbUXSaM6fqLb0x/w395-h400/PXL_20230115_013609872~2.jpg" width="395" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p>I didn't want a cat. What I wanted, if anything, was a kitten. No therapy like kitty therapy, I said. They are constant laughs. In reality, however, what I wanted was Hobo and that wasn't going to happen. His spirit lingered, but his chin nips and lifeforce were long gone. I was left with eleven years of travel memories with him and Teak, my Lab. The next feline would not be an orange tabby cat ... Hobo would be an impossible act to follow. Furthermore, if a feline was going to come through my door it would be with his blessing. </p><p>A Bengal, perhaps? A dozen years later, I still missed Pooka, my little leopard cat. I was shocked to discover that prices for Bengals were over $2000. That wasn't going to happen. A calico? I'd always loved their chaotic, stunning markings, but they were rare. The XX chromosome wasn't common. 99.9% of calicos were females and I was ready for that, having gone through Hobo's urinary tract problems, common in males. I began to check out rescue centers within 100 miles. No calicos. That's okay, I figured. A kitten will come along when it's right. </p><p>Winter solstice behind me, the new year closed in. Cold winter temps held off and Southern Arizona was blessed with warm days and calm, cool nights. Several faraway friends texted to say they would pass through around new years. I decided to have a new year's eve fire. Friends arrived and filled my rv spots, my daughter Hope arrived from Tucson with Norma, a friend and fellow teacher. It was Norma's first visit to the land. </p><p>It was a fun evening with a small circle of friends. The fire blazed as we toasted the New Year on the hour, beginning at 6 o'clock. Around 8 p.m. I sat next to Norma, my first opportunity to talk one-on-one. I was fascinated to learn that in addition to teaching and raising her son Miguel, who I had met, she also fostered special needs cats for Pima County. I was uber impressed. She mentioned that she recently approached them to take on another. None had appeared but they did have a healthy new arrival and asked if she be interested. The cat was a tiny thing, not quite six pounds, surrendered for "changing family circumstances." (New boyfriend? Housing change?) Norma looked at me as the fire cast its warmth. She said the cat was a Calico. </p><p>A Calico! And she was adoptable. Norma had already fielded inquiries for the one-year-old. My mind spun. She wasn't a kitten but Norma said she acted like one. Norma showed me a photo and said the adoptee status wouldn't last long. Two days later I traveled to Norma's home in Tucson to meet calico. She was beautiful and smart and affectionate. I hung out with her for an hour and told Norma I would take her. I drove to the Pima Co animal facility and adopted her. She was scheduled to be spayed in two days and I was scheduled to travel to NM. I would pick her up on my return, in a week. </p><p>Synchronicity. What were the chances of that conversation with Norma? That she would even turn up on my land for the first time? That the cat had just shown up and Norma took her even though she was not special needs, when she already cared for two cats? As if I needed more validation, I hit green lights between Norma's southwest home and the Tucson northside adoption office. </p><p>What I remember about that day was how the animal shelter parking lot was crammed full. The inside was packed with people. The limited staff were working their behinds off. I was impressed with the effort and care of everyone I met. When I asked what the fee would be I was told it was free adoption week. I filled out the form and the calico was removed from the available list. Thankfully, she had passed from her owner to Norma and skipped being held in a cage. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimXBHlMLjcF1V8Uynu1W-tLTlpbONwrHoPcE8QGaTrfr0jEKChIk9qobKaKGR663QubIFg3Ki1D8X-BHdE66vE7lg8YhhQUlSQDaX3u_2x4hR2IiRUPi0erZtBkQPO2gMIOFaZFVRnum4798yGO6V1mSG3CZ854pB_H8xjtNldJAovRATnfanwkojB/s2522/PXL_20230114_234224165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2049" data-original-width="2522" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimXBHlMLjcF1V8Uynu1W-tLTlpbONwrHoPcE8QGaTrfr0jEKChIk9qobKaKGR663QubIFg3Ki1D8X-BHdE66vE7lg8YhhQUlSQDaX3u_2x4hR2IiRUPi0erZtBkQPO2gMIOFaZFVRnum4798yGO6V1mSG3CZ854pB_H8xjtNldJAovRATnfanwkojB/s320/PXL_20230114_234224165.jpg" width="320" /></a>I'll never know the story of why she was surrendered. She was obviously loved and cared for. She was quiet and calm on the 90 minute drive home. She exited the travel crate with ease and confidence. She and Dulce dog were comfortable at first sight, although yes, Dulce's curiosity contained a hefty dollop of jealousy. </p><p>She is a stunning lil cat, her black and gold markings smattered across her white body like an early map of islands, a jazz tune set to paper. I have named her Kalliope, for the ninth and eldest Greek Muse of eloquence, writing and epic poetry, depicted as a bold woman in flowing robes holding a writing tablet in one hand, a lyre in the other. Her name translates to "beautiful voice." I love how speaking her name captures the feel of a playful, spotted excursion across her shorthaired pelt.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_IclYePaHr30Y3PaEe_f-gGTqIUcdpMMTICdRKLGS5PoAymglGnlQ5WxxPAAXP38oU5FRnH_iImL4nfg4HF5pn0D52BljPmPe7iGF58H56ESGAco9x5IJ4v1fssSAumZulHbwSRzkEcSsPZfIIo9yKYX2CSMhzEZkx8ZX9J6iFdUOalvBlaTADam/s2724/PXL_20230115_143920114~3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2635" data-original-width="2724" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_IclYePaHr30Y3PaEe_f-gGTqIUcdpMMTICdRKLGS5PoAymglGnlQ5WxxPAAXP38oU5FRnH_iImL4nfg4HF5pn0D52BljPmPe7iGF58H56ESGAco9x5IJ4v1fssSAumZulHbwSRzkEcSsPZfIIo9yKYX2CSMhzEZkx8ZX9J6iFdUOalvBlaTADam/w400-h388/PXL_20230115_143920114~3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>So here we are. I'm intrigued by her tiny nose and large ears, minute padded feet with claws I have yet to experience or the voice she uses sparingly. She has been a contented indoor cat all her life. I would not entertain a shift until she bonds with Dulce, who would protect her once outdoors, just as Hobo cued off his dog companions. I'm content to see how it unfolds, well aware of bird predation. Hobo, thankfully, preferred mice. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xMit3Qqe0AeMS6CRNvzW0Mi7CXEdIEIQwbkpKvHXGsrxhpZfEJFvfH7nB3ZKTw2FYMYlgvMJRASa0ZvAd9Ss4tudVNIV35BnnDRJlfdhl447jR0zkjvvKJ7Wp9EWFtUo01GSPfX4uoHlHrssvZLWGOyp49dhmQpAh0TfRuE2YU-hchm5dQVNUrvV/s2263/PXL_20230115_140547525~2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2263" data-original-width="2124" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xMit3Qqe0AeMS6CRNvzW0Mi7CXEdIEIQwbkpKvHXGsrxhpZfEJFvfH7nB3ZKTw2FYMYlgvMJRASa0ZvAd9Ss4tudVNIV35BnnDRJlfdhl447jR0zkjvvKJ7Wp9EWFtUo01GSPfX4uoHlHrssvZLWGOyp49dhmQpAh0TfRuE2YU-hchm5dQVNUrvV/s320/PXL_20230115_140547525~2.jpg" width="300" /></a>It is not quite a week since her silent journey home. Kalliope and I are getting to know one another. She is part ghost, part Meerkat. She leaps across the bed as tho she has wings. Her purr is hearty. She commands her environs. She loves to open cupboards and explore yet she has not touched the solstice tree with hanging decorations. She tosses and rolls the catnip toy and faithfully uses the cardboard claw scratcher. She barely sheds from her short, calico coat. She is a cuddler and a tunneler. A statuesque goddess cat, worthy of Cleopatra's smile. </p><p>I've yet to inform her of the inspirational responsibility that comes with her name, as her golden-green eyes pierce my soul. I have a keen sense that she already knows ... that she'll strike a perfect balance between a-mews-ing and a-muse. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhs4iW7tX2KAcK36Xxm4aYjJe13bp0wAYvqm4wSa9HIOUc2EUd7ydsUMJApip-WWQIp5Uxj8LLHEBAw8t3sGxq6dYkoxVdoYaNZc0vC7F1GejzOEmvCuQ8P0XWyQRv1F1_kVvV50mII8B_ssmMFAIU5WnTrGlQ_t8u64rRZ5McXizWYnV9BpvhyYu/s2641/PXL_20230114_234704322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1992" data-original-width="2641" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlhs4iW7tX2KAcK36Xxm4aYjJe13bp0wAYvqm4wSa9HIOUc2EUd7ydsUMJApip-WWQIp5Uxj8LLHEBAw8t3sGxq6dYkoxVdoYaNZc0vC7F1GejzOEmvCuQ8P0XWyQRv1F1_kVvV50mII8B_ssmMFAIU5WnTrGlQ_t8u64rRZ5McXizWYnV9BpvhyYu/s320/PXL_20230114_234704322.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Thank you, Hobo.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKit_8ZgVp4DeP7WVosvaQPsRJifFwbyfxRjmAwoWbo8sASXUe9iw7w5Q1EFtz6Y1bUDKPCi7pd3V3UcEGOvvq-aVrJjlG5MQp9U71HXM6EPqDr5w6_5RaQCV1JL-JYS2DYL2N2SVAbA7AwJNcMYckccXdUHqqN8QztlwXJZr5Fs2nLO_o1mgj76r/s640/FB_IMG_1650934016532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="402" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKit_8ZgVp4DeP7WVosvaQPsRJifFwbyfxRjmAwoWbo8sASXUe9iw7w5Q1EFtz6Y1bUDKPCi7pd3V3UcEGOvvq-aVrJjlG5MQp9U71HXM6EPqDr5w6_5RaQCV1JL-JYS2DYL2N2SVAbA7AwJNcMYckccXdUHqqN8QztlwXJZr5Fs2nLO_o1mgj76r/s320/FB_IMG_1650934016532.jpg" width="201" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2t_iBWn5Jve_d_UuiS9nKsYuH-Bs7VWtGB-V3f1j5Slbdxf97RyPdvXa3pgqyK5Hxa-Lpm7TeR3xDWlWwxEZl1bseeqPaMHX-5LxSrZUUKfRNl32Wbee0w7XYlY-XCxeZIxF8D1_g05e6hQvCTiOh6T8cnl6RhABAC81JlsmK22_U7R_u9CxLuvJ/s2691/PXL_20230114_235111099.MP~2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2170" data-original-width="2691" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2t_iBWn5Jve_d_UuiS9nKsYuH-Bs7VWtGB-V3f1j5Slbdxf97RyPdvXa3pgqyK5Hxa-Lpm7TeR3xDWlWwxEZl1bseeqPaMHX-5LxSrZUUKfRNl32Wbee0w7XYlY-XCxeZIxF8D1_g05e6hQvCTiOh6T8cnl6RhABAC81JlsmK22_U7R_u9CxLuvJ/s320/PXL_20230114_235111099.MP~2.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-83420982057598088312022-10-20T14:05:00.001-07:002022-10-20T14:25:38.969-07:00Ephemeral Smackdown: Return to Grandmother Tree <p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoETqY619sbxPWTprPKovREYlcxdRs7uWjAi6PixMOtaVOwY_yQhv8XPUwZnUqhPogMnyFkzc36vvGgl5GMhxG5N0Fnprh4x87WCOIvfWXvg4EWQ5p3jx1tKeDJT4klNwmKsCp86dfh2fJARfDkfMgR5Mfbsv6LI1GZhDTudKDqWqF2-2ysQAaAdL/s640/20221012_104733.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="640" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoETqY619sbxPWTprPKovREYlcxdRs7uWjAi6PixMOtaVOwY_yQhv8XPUwZnUqhPogMnyFkzc36vvGgl5GMhxG5N0Fnprh4x87WCOIvfWXvg4EWQ5p3jx1tKeDJT4klNwmKsCp86dfh2fJARfDkfMgR5Mfbsv6LI1GZhDTudKDqWqF2-2ysQAaAdL/w400-h291/20221012_104733.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Prayer</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I almost bypassed Taos. I was on the tail end of a two week excursion into Colorado's high country, a sweeping sensory overload of neon yellow aspen, hot springs and visits with dear friends. Dulce, VAN-essa and I, on the road. It was the first road trip since BC (before covid). The novelty-loving, risk-taking adventurer was back, on the cusp of my 72nd birthday. Taos had always been part of the plan. I'd been hellbent to visit Grandmother Tree for three years (BC). Ten days on the road, all had unfolded perfectly as I pulled into the remote San Luis Lakes, two hours north of Taos, and parked. I made a cup of camp stove espresso as Dulce and I took in the dune-framed Sangre de Cristos; listened to the migrating Sand Hill Cranes, too high to see. Bialetti stowed, we hopped into VAN-essa and she wouldn't start. AAA towed us to Alamosa, where I ended up with a referred mechanic (thank you Crestone Dan). <i>He's really good and really busy,</i> he warned. The angels were with me ... Jeff thankfully agreed to fit me in and let me spend the night in his parking lot while the fuel pump was overnighted. Twenty fours and $900 later (ouch), I hit Highway 285, skipping Taos to head for Bosque del Apache, south of Albuquerque. I'd lost two days and there were too many Taos friends to squeeze visits into a day. I decided I would come back another time. Reality set in, however, as Antonia Mountain came into view. I had to stop <i>some</i>where for the night. I wasn't in the mood for Ojo Hotsprings, and Lee's Taos invitation still stood. I turned east toward Taos Mountain. Lee and I had a heartfelt, albeit short, visit. I departed early the next morning for Grandmother Tree as Lee reminded me: <i>She is waiting for you. </i></p><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8A3zQOYuTJ3WJJYALvvsncyd3R9vlnt9dtumJ6VpltY-KWA1pTUPtaNqFbQzVfiS_bnTWdaclguEMFWYg6t4KbZA39NksQvs32a7KFO6i7GrITRfM6vWByT29zmCFJP8naEhMJoFjmElc32rCJiuPseQ5kj7VX2UqQc5HNyau2g1S6XN0CeeNjk9F/s640/20221012_115406.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8A3zQOYuTJ3WJJYALvvsncyd3R9vlnt9dtumJ6VpltY-KWA1pTUPtaNqFbQzVfiS_bnTWdaclguEMFWYg6t4KbZA39NksQvs32a7KFO6i7GrITRfM6vWByT29zmCFJP8naEhMJoFjmElc32rCJiuPseQ5kj7VX2UqQc5HNyau2g1S6XN0CeeNjk9F/s320/20221012_115406.jpg" width="320" /></a>I departed Taos, turned onto gravel, traveled up the mountain to the fork in the road and continued to the dead end turn-around parking area. I smiled -- wildscape memory was a wonderful thing. Dulce jumped from the van as I collected the ritual objects I intended to share with Grandmother Tree. Tobacco, a feather from Raven Emma, even a bite of dark chocolate. I started up the mountain, enveloped in autumn rapture, recalling memories of the many sojourns to Grandmother. There was the crashing sound of antlers of two bull elk jousting, cross-country ski glides, snowshoe trips and hunts with Hope for a Christmas/Solstice tree. There were the few special times I'd shared Her with friends as we searched the ground for sheds.</div><div><br /></div><div>I rounded the final curve that would reveal Her presence. I didn't see Her and sought a different angle. It had been a decade since I'd visited, I surmised the other trees had grown up around Her. A White-breasted Nuthatch called as I sought Her through the forest canopy. I stopped where I always left the trail to bushwhack the final steps. It took a few seconds for my mind to grasp what my eyes saw. Or rather, didn't see. She did not fill the sky. I stared, instead, upon a huge stump and her old growth body, with all its thick limbs, sprawled across the forest floor. I cried out, approached and laid my head on her supine body. I shook, bereft with confusion. How much time had passed when I picked up a pine needle and began to count Her rings, as if that would make her stand? I lost count at 350 circles. Anger. Questions. Numbness. I took some deep, slow breaths and emptied my pack; removed the items for the forever-changed ritual of return. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2zMzeV9PskqPGAsWiinLbxUGpHWmfEYrr7tQ8hm8pg8sWb-GAWVu42ftgwE-PrKINNtUW_IxR0BlIanOLGLWAyuynF36UJ_eUyNpnAixAHUzVVAajcnPKR0apBEFI_P3Qj_7Z1eIrBmrFxui2GpvfEwYvIACp69j7lTsXrW8LwnGxm0DrQvvBOar/s640/20221012_092935.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh2zMzeV9PskqPGAsWiinLbxUGpHWmfEYrr7tQ8hm8pg8sWb-GAWVu42ftgwE-PrKINNtUW_IxR0BlIanOLGLWAyuynF36UJ_eUyNpnAixAHUzVVAajcnPKR0apBEFI_P3Qj_7Z1eIrBmrFxui2GpvfEwYvIACp69j7lTsXrW8LwnGxm0DrQvvBOar/w480-h640/20221012_092935.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fallen Queen</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm0u-84sHwsYQupScvtTOBRr31gr8I5Dtcvx-pDGQgqYcy9sOEQ8XPbsmTz43T2p0eoFih8nb4eyOMizDvb-YAssNYiRY5gHKo7GXChibLL9SIJWvSWYX4E14tVndDh3pZZsi-aKdVJOHlFBr99l0VioQAAUNZWLRfxz6X1q9klSrplvCLqcfiUZh4/s640/20221012_095404.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm0u-84sHwsYQupScvtTOBRr31gr8I5Dtcvx-pDGQgqYcy9sOEQ8XPbsmTz43T2p0eoFih8nb4eyOMizDvb-YAssNYiRY5gHKo7GXChibLL9SIJWvSWYX4E14tVndDh3pZZsi-aKdVJOHlFBr99l0VioQAAUNZWLRfxz6X1q9klSrplvCLqcfiUZh4/s320/20221012_095404.jpg" width="320" /></a>I offered prayers, carried on the smoke of tobacco. I climbed over a fence to Her prone top and placed Emma's Raven feather in her branches, that She may always have the company of flight. I returned to Her thick base and sat as I my mind interrupted. What the hell happened? Old growth seed trees are not targeted for thinning. She was healthy; showed no signs of disease. I wanted answers. All was silence. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the decades of visits to Grandmother I had never seen another person. This day, a man appeared, walking up the trail with two Huskies. I called out, desperate for answers. <i>Hello. Do you come here often? Yes, </i>his friendly voice responded. <i>Do you know when this tree was cut? </i>He did not. He hadn't noticed her disappearance. He walked closer. We surmised it was several years. Nothing about her demise was recent. </div><div><br /></div><div>I circled Her evenly sliced trunk in prayer. A glint caught my eye, a shiny explosion on the ground. I bent down to see a piece of crystal half submerged in the dirt at Her base and I was struck with disbelief. Could it be? The piece of the quartz crystal I had left embedded in her bark years ago.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhGOTsV6Y_ebqCKphz_tPKq3jM-ojzOLSenJmxMr1uJTs3Im1pxkbk8zkRpdpeY13Ht73kWuMhUl-bNIkVMJs6Ko2PQe_fG-_UZW4QwLcZBKaaCo4FuZt3NkBopxVKLay3xKBHn2-3f4EdGkVkoDryrqLbNI1sVnjK2Cqz739r-Lmc17EKSRxYJr_/s640/20221012_100548.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhGOTsV6Y_ebqCKphz_tPKq3jM-ojzOLSenJmxMr1uJTs3Im1pxkbk8zkRpdpeY13Ht73kWuMhUl-bNIkVMJs6Ko2PQe_fG-_UZW4QwLcZBKaaCo4FuZt3NkBopxVKLay3xKBHn2-3f4EdGkVkoDryrqLbNI1sVnjK2Cqz739r-Lmc17EKSRxYJr_/w400-h300/20221012_100548.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>I had started this sojourn purposely at 9:00 a.m. Nine: endings. I arrived at 10:00 a.m. One: new beginnings. I'd planned it as a portal to a new life. She had called me here; now She gifted me. Gratitude and awe suddenly turned to grief. The protection rituals on our final parting did not work. I felt like a failure. She stopped me short. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>No</i> she said. <i>Rot is rot. My children stand guard around me. Chickadee's song floats on air, Nuthatch's upside-down antics delight. Remember my instructions so many years ago: to enter the unknown and "write what is given." The Mystery, My Child, is all there is. You are good and kind to wild kin. The two-legged's attitude of supremacy, unwillingness to hear our voices, to see what stands before them, will be their downfall. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Silence. Then she continued ...</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I know your pain. I, too, would have preferred the elegant decay of decades, the march of a snag, </i>(rhymes with hag, a wise woman)<i> but tree wisdom is not valued in these times of mass extinction. My disappearance was noticed by few: the elk and deer earthwalkers, the chicadee raven and hawk skyflyers, the subterraneans deep in the earth ... and you</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Downfall.</div><div>That day. The teeth-cutting sound of the saw. The quake. The shake and shudder. The waves of aftershock.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Your love is received. Go forth. Time is short for the Two-legged Fleshy Ones. My decay shows the way. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>I struggled to scribble her words. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eternities sometimes pass in moments, a lifetime is lived in a blink. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Grandmother, I want to die next to you. </i></div><div>The crystal pieces blurred through tears. </div><div><i>I am sorry I didn't do better. </i>I couldn't shake the guilt. If I'd only been there ... I had seen evidence of thinning, I never dreamed ... </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Re-member our last meeting when I told you: Even in death, all is alive. </i></div><div><i>Wherever you are, you will die next to me.</i></div><div><i>You are perfect, My Daughter. I love you. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnNZrDYdqP8WM9B7hQntx2kOP3TJeVYBpRepUoMI10Fu2NFuyU1DAvrqGRQj0fzPpR1yMN3OP9fhq8NBYkNNuLcwdfjiJaCG20OwRouf0rSRE0BS8Q7yN00Fq9n_BFvImjNbSempHMrsmvIF_4MeshvwNSmzVBWwf4-0542YjkcnQZRcpmAKNsvc3/s640/20221012_104116.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="640" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnNZrDYdqP8WM9B7hQntx2kOP3TJeVYBpRepUoMI10Fu2NFuyU1DAvrqGRQj0fzPpR1yMN3OP9fhq8NBYkNNuLcwdfjiJaCG20OwRouf0rSRE0BS8Q7yN00Fq9n_BFvImjNbSempHMrsmvIF_4MeshvwNSmzVBWwf4-0542YjkcnQZRcpmAKNsvc3/s320/20221012_104116.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dulce downloading Grandmother's energy </td></tr></tbody></table><div>I dropped a stone heart, gift from Hope, into a water-filled gap that split Her centuries of tree rings. I slid a quartz crystal into an axe slit on Her gray trunk. Dulce, quiet, calm and holding the space throughout, rose from her silent resting place between stump and trunk as I strapped on my fanny pack. We started down the mountain as my Libra sense of justice erupted. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. I would contact the forest supervisor for the Carson NF. I would check maps to ensure this was public land. I did not know She would send me another gift that very night: a surprise visit with a Lakota medicine man-friend ... Spirit listens. Spirit provides. Spirit puts me where I need to be. Grandmother Tree's crystalline energy would light the way. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(The image at the top, with my hand in prayer over Her body ... I did not take that photo. Yet, it was on my camera. Let the mystery BE.) </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div dir="rtl"><div style="text-align: right;"> </div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-70290443619322916192022-09-22T06:23:00.001-07:002022-09-23T06:41:01.905-07:00Equinox Truce <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nAfwvd3Wi6yt8qauYe-hZMS0WQT4eVqC9V3VS8QHcm6gIyvQXdiu5Fi77kGnN0QOhevwhou7ArOackRj0xx2aJrbmpoz9sxiAZoDWqt4HQKCJ4A2AygoKzN0RyOyQeMB1dvz8W6588_IOZmSQtJvfsKWLKLyj68YF1WILq_8bscW0L3h01HW7Pqw/s640/P1050908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nAfwvd3Wi6yt8qauYe-hZMS0WQT4eVqC9V3VS8QHcm6gIyvQXdiu5Fi77kGnN0QOhevwhou7ArOackRj0xx2aJrbmpoz9sxiAZoDWqt4HQKCJ4A2AygoKzN0RyOyQeMB1dvz8W6588_IOZmSQtJvfsKWLKLyj68YF1WILq_8bscW0L3h01HW7Pqw/w400-h300/P1050908.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Autumn closes in. The Cuckoos have yet to depart. I remind them they are welcome to winter in the warm climes of Southern Arizona, a hopeless overture, I know ... but I find myself doing this more and more, despite the odds. Inviting the impossible. Alas, to overcome migration instinct is a monumental challenge. Mexico and Central America call them home. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRF2R-RfC-_vnPQvJpCseX6GJLTK7iDvXU5Pwxv-B7boRRhNGm5G8vUd3lEPtuBBYZEt6Pyuz-9m7sYw2MCm7UpH6ozidHeSLPiSJwBY68kkKJAv97xUPgN3NjPF4eBeHcEtitFOkFd8l7RCwt10UTM4n6E3PSbrHce3FryUT_oThK_zuoi3ESA5Wg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRF2R-RfC-_vnPQvJpCseX6GJLTK7iDvXU5Pwxv-B7boRRhNGm5G8vUd3lEPtuBBYZEt6Pyuz-9m7sYw2MCm7UpH6ozidHeSLPiSJwBY68kkKJAv97xUPgN3NjPF4eBeHcEtitFOkFd8l7RCwt10UTM4n6E3PSbrHce3FryUT_oThK_zuoi3ESA5Wg" width="288" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yellow-billed Cuckoo</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Proof of summer's end is everywhere.</p><p>Scarlet zinnias are coated with butterflies in the monsoon garden, so named because I did not plant until July, once the rains had begun. The flowers climax, a waving sea of thick green leaves and orange/red blossoms. A sensual ode to summer's last gasp. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIEOD_qL-NbGxbdGT4cWPepk5ObfVYPKbhAimvnSB5e2ZsMz36BEYvCSF4roTbh9FP46-KTcAQo6cJLVEa4k7DT_KPmFnKqWliJ9XUt8itznf46LGvBLKkgflE4thAZGK2UCslWwop4K7fbNiL9tXl5zkN7NAnpACTaqcszKmj-l6BF84z4CoGxYuj" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1863" data-original-width="2023" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIEOD_qL-NbGxbdGT4cWPepk5ObfVYPKbhAimvnSB5e2ZsMz36BEYvCSF4roTbh9FP46-KTcAQo6cJLVEa4k7DT_KPmFnKqWliJ9XUt8itznf46LGvBLKkgflE4thAZGK2UCslWwop4K7fbNiL9tXl5zkN7NAnpACTaqcszKmj-l6BF84z4CoGxYuj=w400-h368" width="400" /></a></p><p>The Bird-of-Paradise, planted with the rains, has grown a foot. The same for the three red pistache trees. The Ocotillas have tossed their tiny leaves to the ground as the still-green mesquites look on and wave, "what's the hurry?"</p><p>Grey Hawk's call splits the morning air as Swainson's wing south, Argentina-bound. Dozens of vultures kettle daily toward thermals that will sweep them south. Cicadas sing down the sun as the pond volume falls. I mowed paths to the peninsula tip in one morning's weedwhack frenzy. Dulce and I easily access the point of her new morning swim. Yes, she decided at age four to release the ground beneath her and paddle forth. Faith acknowledged. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWidjceS_xF0rNMeBu0Vx7DN2ACzV5_RuHq8IvjcVL-x3H6gGUNGmSzycSDyKyrL_ik0_DNQcMYbsk3wyQt_UMrnBO-cI_TB-qAVtX60w13juU_k2YVDKtFk1cOF3nYLiXKaQuHD2C1cA3q9FnKnlzvNkO3eAPGi5C-jdihdEQqbtLUWRA9r75KtkA/s640/P1050857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="610" data-original-width="640" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWidjceS_xF0rNMeBu0Vx7DN2ACzV5_RuHq8IvjcVL-x3H6gGUNGmSzycSDyKyrL_ik0_DNQcMYbsk3wyQt_UMrnBO-cI_TB-qAVtX60w13juU_k2YVDKtFk1cOF3nYLiXKaQuHD2C1cA3q9FnKnlzvNkO3eAPGi5C-jdihdEQqbtLUWRA9r75KtkA/s320/P1050857.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Rosa and Noam visit daily. Fledgling-free, their soft love chortles carry on the breeze. They fly high in tandem, race fast-moving cumulus that hint of one more monsoon rain. Querencia Hill has received eighteen inches since July. A desert blessing; a drought respite. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj0fSzHoYUD7xcRtdxv-7Oe_lVkKQva39glPI5d_cJW-M_o6mhrdtr1_fboCGp7XK-tge6P8Mj1oiexdBSBcCDpGDaQc7avdQCIdddR2Pz6PUUYEtShRYg9j1AVhMGBBi-H0hSNBlQmVvv4D2cTVwrfUZ37ryD8E7Yca_ZAPNzomV4U7yFlFcsfe5S/s640/P1050903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="640" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj0fSzHoYUD7xcRtdxv-7Oe_lVkKQva39glPI5d_cJW-M_o6mhrdtr1_fboCGp7XK-tge6P8Mj1oiexdBSBcCDpGDaQc7avdQCIdddR2Pz6PUUYEtShRYg9j1AVhMGBBi-H0hSNBlQmVvv4D2cTVwrfUZ37ryD8E7Yca_ZAPNzomV4U7yFlFcsfe5S/s320/P1050903.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Hail All, autumn's arrival. A friend who summers in the Pacific Northwest texts to ask if I like smoked salmon, as he considers a gift upon his return. Two turkey vultures perch upon fenceposts on the high desert hills. Not a building in sight from where I sit as I faithfully count bird species and check the game camera for nocturnal visitors. <p></p><p>I draft the Equinox invite to my women's circle as grasses turn tawny and the clothesline wash waves in the wind. Let us gather and honor, I write, the energy of equal day and night. Tis time to stand in the equinox portal and consider our personal entry into darkness. Nothing is immune from the cyclic change, the potent energies of death and dissolution. The air is electric with the migration magic. South. Downward. Inwards. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Q42p8a7RBeqy4oCqzBh4ICgTTW_If7lxclEF_M2QXbqKmM5SQ0XOAZP-5LBQFcilPGAI-WaPmPFLufi5D3PUqL4PAF2qNf3J9TWxsELGu3p8QYLhRz86GgquBbGZ2_gLrx-bZajrIfNhYlOgE6h2mjX_NGVifuWoQudZaU9sZJ8r2IsFNUXKxHp4/s640/P1060010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Q42p8a7RBeqy4oCqzBh4ICgTTW_If7lxclEF_M2QXbqKmM5SQ0XOAZP-5LBQFcilPGAI-WaPmPFLufi5D3PUqL4PAF2qNf3J9TWxsELGu3p8QYLhRz86GgquBbGZ2_gLrx-bZajrIfNhYlOgE6h2mjX_NGVifuWoQudZaU9sZJ8r2IsFNUXKxHp4/w200-h200/P1060010.JPG" width="200" /></a>Monsoon's life-giving rains may wane, but not so the earth-shaking thunderstorms. Lightning branches horizonal across dark skies; bolts land so close I lift off the couch. I muttered <i>that was close</i> more than once. Indeed it was. A mesquite smouldered ten feet from the covered porch, a raw split down her trunk; a reminder that as seasonal changes come upon us in waves of transition, the energy of sudden change is part of the autumnal soulscape. Trickster coyote is everywhere. </p><p>Death and dissolution clear the way for spirit restoration. I will continue to tempt fate with impossible propositions. I didn't live 71 years to do otherwise. My ephemeral journey is immersed in the seasonal cycles and their authentic assurances. For one short time today, light and dark will call a truce upon the soul. </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2M7lDCMMVjpPEEpSJQ3z9v3xsaOti-Sg2veuBGqorvb2b_EvsN19gyKSql6c0V5_Z1HBaHEn02AXwC1FDM2mcDvojFD7hVyKOgiIWE6e2UlDXC_DsINyO6xez6NW4kIBimxZmBxTWAZhJCTEmlzWk9d3KvZdQ4TSUf7ESsbmrFplyMaBk0PMGWCo/s4000/20220702_192808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2653" data-original-width="4000" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2M7lDCMMVjpPEEpSJQ3z9v3xsaOti-Sg2veuBGqorvb2b_EvsN19gyKSql6c0V5_Z1HBaHEn02AXwC1FDM2mcDvojFD7hVyKOgiIWE6e2UlDXC_DsINyO6xez6NW4kIBimxZmBxTWAZhJCTEmlzWk9d3KvZdQ4TSUf7ESsbmrFplyMaBk0PMGWCo/w640-h424/20220702_192808.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKDCrkYYzVzVtaNTNaN8Ro22jRx7Wl7F3CbHMSFxKE_2TiJ7wXyaokeJgYevBqe_IWB54QjmLm6quP1IYj3cjfPfU-yNyzal3WhCBrzgqBGAuteJ-VLfJrcGDVwq9AQ_x6y67pbV7E8pq9wGg2szyBfRUP5jB8KlqUxZ0EYiZIQOBMldXiFzpact8/s640/P1050994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="569" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKDCrkYYzVzVtaNTNaN8Ro22jRx7Wl7F3CbHMSFxKE_2TiJ7wXyaokeJgYevBqe_IWB54QjmLm6quP1IYj3cjfPfU-yNyzal3WhCBrzgqBGAuteJ-VLfJrcGDVwq9AQ_x6y67pbV7E8pq9wGg2szyBfRUP5jB8KlqUxZ0EYiZIQOBMldXiFzpact8/w570-h640/P1050994.JPG" width="570" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-7576995159234136722022-08-02T05:45:00.001-07:002022-08-02T06:36:16.444-07:00Cloudstruck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFd1mjoQVtTk-9LufUH2RKKyvOwjeCBuFBOQ6h8PQlOJtinDki6MNDvOFJc5PK-31IVR8j0H5-i7JVSwqXaBh_PZAACppe3GQZFtXZHdLlA4dbRA3pxcddjHsVmm_R0r6mUP1UGphuQiDVUW90tuJNRdKES3rzk6AjDBnh5wmj3WcKrv9kOSibCVW/s640/P1050770.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFd1mjoQVtTk-9LufUH2RKKyvOwjeCBuFBOQ6h8PQlOJtinDki6MNDvOFJc5PK-31IVR8j0H5-i7JVSwqXaBh_PZAACppe3GQZFtXZHdLlA4dbRA3pxcddjHsVmm_R0r6mUP1UGphuQiDVUW90tuJNRdKES3rzk6AjDBnh5wmj3WcKrv9kOSibCVW/w400-h268/P1050770.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p> </p><p>I awakened to an automatically generated email, telling me the power was out in my area. I checked with friends and discovered it's an outage of one. Me. A neighbor suggested I go to the main pole and flip the master switch. Good idea! I headed outside. Noam and Rosa were in alarm mode, screeching and squawking and flying low overhead. I squinted as I neared the pole, something dark was on the line next to the transformer. Oh no. My heart raced. It was a fledgling raven, hanging by her feet from the electric line. A switch flipped, alright, but not the intended one. I was gobsmacked, wavering between a monumental attempt to stay centered and Hope's voice on the phone: <i>Not again!</i> <i>Mom you gotta get out of there. This is a sign!</i></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxX_9YsxEO3wcxR_klcG9A3h1v18ZreNvbIe3iIGlP3QNPJazvU9TocwWaGn8r3AkSfgVA3v01DGgBZ61x9Pg2ODeYRHoz64EsQ2EiMzGS_YzXkS9TQibhkdXrGzhzsHjS5LAVXEwsIjc-CoO-1_BnJx7uaGdaRJ-O-CbpSDkJupC7v1NeShTA3eW/s640/P1050673.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="640" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxX_9YsxEO3wcxR_klcG9A3h1v18ZreNvbIe3iIGlP3QNPJazvU9TocwWaGn8r3AkSfgVA3v01DGgBZ61x9Pg2ODeYRHoz64EsQ2EiMzGS_YzXkS9TQibhkdXrGzhzsHjS5LAVXEwsIjc-CoO-1_BnJx7uaGdaRJ-O-CbpSDkJupC7v1NeShTA3eW/s320/P1050673.JPG" width="320" /></a>It was around 6:00 a.m. I called the electric company off-hours dispatch. I figured they would want to know there was a dead raven on the line. I live 90 minutes from their north Tucson office. A longer drive during rush hour. Danged if their truck didn't come up the gravel hill by 8:00. I was impressed. I made my way to the truck as the worker extended a flexible pole, reached up to the highwire and pulled down the young one. <i>We see this often</i>, he said. <i>The babies peck and peck on the protective caps until they get it off.</i> The raven had already disappeared. I asked if I could have the body but the man named Amos said he had to take the body. It is sent to the university for research and an autopsy; they want to determine if it is a Chihuahuan Raven. I told him it was. Amos showed me the replacement piece and the cap. It took him a few more minutes to get the cherrypicker up there and replace it. I had power well before the 10:00 marker when my AC kicked on to save me from the triple digit desert heat. </p><p>The shock of the sudden death faded as Amos shared animal rescue stories. My favorite was his account of chainsawing an old powerpole. He had loaded it onto a flatbed truck and thought he was finished when a Western Screech Owl poked her tiny head out of a hole. Uh-Oh! He offloaded the pole and chainsawed the upper portion of the pole that contained the nest as the owl watched curiously from her hole. He then attached the owl home to the top of another pole, all the while, she watched with approving eyes. </p><p>Noam, Rosa and the remaining ravenita had quieted down. By the time Amos departed the three of them were perched in the Grief Tree, the mesquite snag on Baboquivari Ridge where Noam had spent weeks after Emma's death. This time was different, however. Life must go on, as he and Rosa cared for the fledgling. They had begun to separate from them prior to the death, and that continued. Rosa spent time with the baby as Noam perched silently. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjByJ6Mqc5nvu-mnw9jBuC4mrQxSC4WUDGpQas22X98QDtWRng55F6xeCks-86-Xj4jcsizOrM53YkTAqqoetrf0mw7El6lgwVEm3YxJisf71ANUBf950Q1cysAHrlHAtbX11SwM812Qco6-W2lU9bNadZk4ukl-qRV7RyL0Kv-h5gvk15xEOiXKd-I/s640/P1050717.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="621" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjByJ6Mqc5nvu-mnw9jBuC4mrQxSC4WUDGpQas22X98QDtWRng55F6xeCks-86-Xj4jcsizOrM53YkTAqqoetrf0mw7El6lgwVEm3YxJisf71ANUBf950Q1cysAHrlHAtbX11SwM812Qco6-W2lU9bNadZk4ukl-qRV7RyL0Kv-h5gvk15xEOiXKd-I/w622-h640/P1050717.JPG" width="622" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noam on the left, Rosa and Amos on the right<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Ravenita, who I now affectionately call Amos, showed up more and more alone. She sat in a nearby mesquite and carried on conversations with herself, reminiscent of a parrot, a variety of caws, mews, notes, chortles. I watched her wings stretch as she struggled to keep balance on top of fenceposts; I laughed at her awkward wingtilts in flight. When she showed up with Noam and Rosa, Noam hopped over her, as if to ignore. The separation process heartwarming and fascinating. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqmAKQivJj2hk92nqjLeNUCuCDZZnmuCJNCVEO-F8m4vpbAv25EAfR2gDvtHvuB8wpYt_E6AFkgnqvHYFyE6i0X0czDGWNQvwd6ELjSudz1UjPvEcL9H3ZUUDwHXzmIz44YFIdu4Xu2R1Ni1G5luyiy6pp5LnCSZQoW4KHjLtF3-HOvSeVPA3erCY/s640/P1050692.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="640" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqmAKQivJj2hk92nqjLeNUCuCDZZnmuCJNCVEO-F8m4vpbAv25EAfR2gDvtHvuB8wpYt_E6AFkgnqvHYFyE6i0X0czDGWNQvwd6ELjSudz1UjPvEcL9H3ZUUDwHXzmIz44YFIdu4Xu2R1Ni1G5luyiy6pp5LnCSZQoW4KHjLtF3-HOvSeVPA3erCY/w320-h229/P1050692.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noam and Rosa resume mating rituals, feeding one another</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHKnN8qiz6NFfDp1Gig_s_Uz7d84LRq4wp4mT-gjSSThI_goY872bMFGBRQak3MBpf5EoeYLA-ppOB4GO8OpvzHnEpC7f0NHoMptSOapgKNkPJ3BJVTPIYm5PSh3jnMiL3ntsCffi6ggxAwN0fJ_cnNCIlADeEdL0eQt_92jLFjRZty_LaqBeUYhZ/s640/P1050700.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="640" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHKnN8qiz6NFfDp1Gig_s_Uz7d84LRq4wp4mT-gjSSThI_goY872bMFGBRQak3MBpf5EoeYLA-ppOB4GO8OpvzHnEpC7f0NHoMptSOapgKNkPJ3BJVTPIYm5PSh3jnMiL3ntsCffi6ggxAwN0fJ_cnNCIlADeEdL0eQt_92jLFjRZty_LaqBeUYhZ/s320/P1050700.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">and strutting together when ... </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6082R-TwSXj2_eJX4PNUF4FRVsaKzNy6t8UPswh4cZmZT0b6aeMqMZHZBc8wmaszTU_oUZyMwWiBARQNzYxORAOl5APZ2ewy6iXiIoSxqyOhECTL2mwaSYwGwytTn4_3c3VjsZrgM0-sg-fzBeSNzjTUgqqux_s59hSOCTDyk3gyWDdC9ZUZSaRy/s640/P1050701.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="640" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6082R-TwSXj2_eJX4PNUF4FRVsaKzNy6t8UPswh4cZmZT0b6aeMqMZHZBc8wmaszTU_oUZyMwWiBARQNzYxORAOl5APZ2ewy6iXiIoSxqyOhECTL2mwaSYwGwytTn4_3c3VjsZrgM0-sg-fzBeSNzjTUgqqux_s59hSOCTDyk3gyWDdC9ZUZSaRy/w320-h258/P1050701.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">in flies the kid and begins to squawk and beg.<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>It is August first, the cusp of Lammas, the olden celebration of first harvest and abundance. At 71 years, I am well aware of the downside of abundance, as well as the upside. The downside has been predominant since covid. The loss of Emma and Hobo have left me raw. Hobo's departure was the final vestige of my 19-years on the road. The fledgling's body, hanging from the wire, relit the memories and pain. An abundance of grief, yes. Sometimes I wish I could fly to that snag and perch beside Noam. We all need a grief tree, do we not? </p><p>Yet, the upsides of abundance surround me. The lush monsoons have gifted the desert wildscape with eleven inches of rain this summer. The pond is full beyond old markers, frog and toad songs fill the night air. The weedeater is close to becoming a permanent appendage. I stand in the rain and ask deeper questions. I am a woman accustomed to large changes. Deep novelty. There are longings not fulfilled at this time of my life. Where will these stirrings deliver me? A few days ago I removed all jewelry. Some I have worn daily for decades. I want to confirm that the energy held therein serves me at this delicate time. That it propels my soul down her karmic path, not tether me to old roads and hidden ruts. Thus far, the only piece I have returned to my body is the gold and garnet ring I gifted myself years ago, when I completed my graduate degree, a symbol of Christina against all odds. And yes, I see myself re-clasping the wild woman pendant around my neck, purchased on Berkeley's Telegraph Ave. from a street artist so very long ago. I pause before the silver Vidal Aragon bracelet, gift from a past husband and certain pairs of earrings. Everything is energy, and the energy of jewelry is profound. </p><p>Soulwork is complicated. Purpose is clouded by eco-crisis. The great unraveling. A world drenched in extinction. And yet here we are, born into this time. How to find our way? Bertolt Brecht: In the dark times/ Will there also be singing?/ Yes, there will be singing./ About the dark times. </p><p>Noam, Rosa and Amos visit daily. They circle Querencia Hill and call hellos. They land on mesquites and perch atop my powerpole. They eschew, however, the main pole and wire where the young one died, once their favorite gathering place. On this August day, the danger that lurks is <i>abundantly</i> clear. Clouds lift. I keep the grief tree in view. Sing to her. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47kXsiYbWfgFwAwV7qO2CmD0hdgYc9DPO1Gwc-dxc5Pmrt01T5fRse2Xbz1r8awniUJodhiKbzRu7n9oNE0M6h7p_ntueOdiD_1JXudmyhlOjgSEOrU6PZRodVWIQHjVVNeBipuCFochxSudjn9grqhl7J2L821cH6q1m7p2wl6efsascoFbE2OzP/s640/P1050774.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="603" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47kXsiYbWfgFwAwV7qO2CmD0hdgYc9DPO1Gwc-dxc5Pmrt01T5fRse2Xbz1r8awniUJodhiKbzRu7n9oNE0M6h7p_ntueOdiD_1JXudmyhlOjgSEOrU6PZRodVWIQHjVVNeBipuCFochxSudjn9grqhl7J2L821cH6q1m7p2wl6efsascoFbE2OzP/w605-h640/P1050774.JPG" width="605" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noam in the Grief Tree </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEl86TaHJXAttTfW8ZmW2PQybJY2G0jc4tckCUsDdAnzd6D1W6GYWjbuNuJf5kZW0Cyozu8YpmiRXi5EI1BG3QDPfzOdoIbC8EO9GzzQw61gJ-PJXq0XvzQ8TCiuq787ADMPQu43hmoPWp247OTT2JFIVEmLvNQDddHI1f31NJEZMLryy7ti34WtX/s640/P1050753.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="640" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEl86TaHJXAttTfW8ZmW2PQybJY2G0jc4tckCUsDdAnzd6D1W6GYWjbuNuJf5kZW0Cyozu8YpmiRXi5EI1BG3QDPfzOdoIbC8EO9GzzQw61gJ-PJXq0XvzQ8TCiuq787ADMPQu43hmoPWp247OTT2JFIVEmLvNQDddHI1f31NJEZMLryy7ti34WtX/w400-h304/P1050753.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then there were three ... </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-78397228883377581462022-07-16T06:34:00.001-07:002022-07-16T06:34:17.943-07:00Takeover<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieGC4BoPWJqnWj8RbmSyiIB7pin6LwSXGVuxRYvSORCTJguOobq1AAJx5Kiej-TiwaPRywRfBhRikhbZW3HYJ8JT2CVPpJk-iF2sgBBx3xeRGxA7ZjIWZZ8khqUavmuHFaBsdZk0aDDZl6rNgwE6jMRb9rFcWxAnkBraKpMpRJ1ixi7z9jyNK3CcHb/s640/P1050656.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="640" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieGC4BoPWJqnWj8RbmSyiIB7pin6LwSXGVuxRYvSORCTJguOobq1AAJx5Kiej-TiwaPRywRfBhRikhbZW3HYJ8JT2CVPpJk-iF2sgBBx3xeRGxA7ZjIWZZ8khqUavmuHFaBsdZk0aDDZl6rNgwE6jMRb9rFcWxAnkBraKpMpRJ1ixi7z9jyNK3CcHb/w400-h278/P1050656.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noam (on the right) and Rosa </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>I was a three-week runaway in Silver City. I had vowed to not spend another June on the Sonoran Desert, the hottest month of the year, and a friend's New Mexico house was available. The plan was to exit for a month, but a root canal gouged away one week. Rooted out, I headed down the road, despite a newly-discovered (thank you, Hope) oil puddle under VAN-essa. Nope, no more delays, I'd chance it. It was my first lengthy trip since the pandemic had enforced it's multi-level imprisonment. Silver City was the perfect choice: a few hours away, 6000 ft altitude, and with gas prices nudging $5.00 a gallon, an affordable distance. So it was I departed, leaving behind Noam Chomsky, who was courting a new raven gal I'd named Rosa (Luxemburg), myriad songbirds and hummers, and a chest freezer I hoped would not fall victim to an electric outage. As for the oil leak, I scurried into a mechanic upon arrival in Silver City, who quickly determined that <i>iffy lube</i> had not tightened the filter. </p><p>Three weeks does a lifetime make. At least in this case. The vibration lifted as I checked out the live music scene and danced public for the first time since covid. I frequented a favorite secondhand bookstore and met an old friend at Faywood Hot Springs for a camping overnight. Hope visited for several nights and we drove through monsoon downpours to places like the Glenwood Catwalk and made our way to Palomas, MX to the Pink Store and a visit to my favorite dentist ($40 for check-up and clean; $40 for a filling). I filled quiet time reading Willa Cather, DH Lawrence, Joy Harjo and a revisit to Leopold's <i>Sand County Almanac</i>. I wrote again. Let me repeat: I wrote again. On the final day I journeyed solo into the Gila Wilderness to the sandy-divine hot springs; soaked under the pine-scented forest canopy. The first pool I dipped into brimmed with chatty, partying women from Silver. It was a great networking opportunity and fun for a bit but not what I needed on this day. Seeking solace, I moved to a smaller, quiet pool with one person who appeared to be leaving. Hot springs magic prevailed. Short words of introduction led us to discover we had travelled similar places at similar times. He was an uber-interesting man who happened to be a fabulous birder. Alas, he was headed to Montana and I was headed to Arizona. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqu5LqlJYwgBlcgb4BHywwVEd_EcPLaanF6iWH68kGDAjcd-yme12EQAd9fSGZhQ8E_AjsdsBT8mdFewziZ6LSYfu6ccmgCRNjH9qsUo6-o4r5tN41mnst2YtzlJyqPbSnC9YK42FSNZbXE75mwxf-OkjsQ3Q7D_JkUV0u7_UCfN2oIbKcZzciqyb/s1027/P1050578.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1027" data-original-width="1026" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioqu5LqlJYwgBlcgb4BHywwVEd_EcPLaanF6iWH68kGDAjcd-yme12EQAd9fSGZhQ8E_AjsdsBT8mdFewziZ6LSYfu6ccmgCRNjH9qsUo6-o4r5tN41mnst2YtzlJyqPbSnC9YK42FSNZbXE75mwxf-OkjsQ3Q7D_JkUV0u7_UCfN2oIbKcZzciqyb/w200-h200/P1050578.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>All this to say, I returned to Querencia Hill with spirit rejuvenated. The first monsoon rain flooded the land: one inch in 45 minutes. The pond filled to half, signal for thousands of Spadefoot Toads, a foot underground for a year, to dig themselves to the surface and embark on a 24-hr sex orgy. Their deafening croaks filled the air in a miraculous, continuation-of-species ritual. <p></p><p>Hillsides transformed from brown to green. As I uncovered the firepit a hand-sized tarantula fell from the tarp and ambled away. Quail calls filtered through grass and mesquite as hatchlings, resembling zippy walnuts on legs, scurried between two parents. Thorny, short branches waved in the breeze from a portale rafter, signs that Curve-billed Thrashers had staked a prickly claim and taken up residence. In a few short weeks I had progressed from previous months of <i>hijack</i> to witness a physical, olfactory, visual, tactile <i>takeover</i>. I was ecstatic.</p><p>Enter Noam, to seal the deal. He arrived, strutting his hello. A few steps in, his Rosa arrived. Oooo my. He wasn't too old to take a new mate after all. I watched as they allopreened, a caressing ritual for bonded pairs. And then I witnessed something amazing. As they nuzzled back and forth, her second eyelid, a white nictitating membrane, lowered over her eye, a sign of affection and trust. I had seen Emma do this when she communicated with me, in a different context. Their presence initiated a healing inside of me as grief dissipated. Yes. Noam took the lead.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqesH-GxOVmV29c--nunhB1MtilqO8ExKAm8QSOHcIoJkShKPBf81o3DFUt1ERKLhvhI0Ldq-lkS0CifuS9fthy4xNGcOgQjt8Gfg8bYNwbnJStQDD7luyhTWMA-CXWB5uJTaHTZ6cPhB1AR_Rz4fDdV2phHHpo7RtKMCcPmJcpA3iBNvA-yy9q9I/s640/P1050658.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqesH-GxOVmV29c--nunhB1MtilqO8ExKAm8QSOHcIoJkShKPBf81o3DFUt1ERKLhvhI0Ldq-lkS0CifuS9fthy4xNGcOgQjt8Gfg8bYNwbnJStQDD7luyhTWMA-CXWB5uJTaHTZ6cPhB1AR_Rz4fDdV2phHHpo7RtKMCcPmJcpA3iBNvA-yy9q9I/w640-h428/P1050658.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>And then, sweet surprise! SQUAWK. Squawk. So much for intimate moments as two raucous fledglings arrived. Wings flapping, beaks ajar they demanded to be fed. The unit had gone from 2 to 4, as they<i> took over</i> the airspace with cheeky antics and awkward landings. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dRd5KdcBWUuEmXfpU-IUcm0inTpnxS-Xpj-kH--uUjsqEfkRU5Ll2MAbEFrV65I1RPyQ7f9YYfmHf2WKcp5AVS1nooiG4xeNrgJtMWtMApP3FbV-udKxNJzGpDKdVRk_CPYD8c2bgDjd_F8nSkZ4mf5JpKy4KyXwyPx_2uQmK7Cg44zM_i43xZVF/s640/P1050663.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="640" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dRd5KdcBWUuEmXfpU-IUcm0inTpnxS-Xpj-kH--uUjsqEfkRU5Ll2MAbEFrV65I1RPyQ7f9YYfmHf2WKcp5AVS1nooiG4xeNrgJtMWtMApP3FbV-udKxNJzGpDKdVRk_CPYD8c2bgDjd_F8nSkZ4mf5JpKy4KyXwyPx_2uQmK7Cg44zM_i43xZVF/s320/P1050663.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ReXGXaQppiG4RsB0QxPmcwX8FANSw-fRO43qG5iDCIB0V3QSK6lOKTyduGd-ImTAnXr3G4UCqAN5McS-PDNJjx5cHfkfW6-lNEL5kXHyqzHTiRkonNeo39hi0c99dzDdm7WUWSkY9serPfTP-6q0BcTgd9CFENez9jlfZlnmxDH7AWKjm0qL9xkL/s640/P1050667.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="640" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ReXGXaQppiG4RsB0QxPmcwX8FANSw-fRO43qG5iDCIB0V3QSK6lOKTyduGd-ImTAnXr3G4UCqAN5McS-PDNJjx5cHfkfW6-lNEL5kXHyqzHTiRkonNeo39hi0c99dzDdm7WUWSkY9serPfTP-6q0BcTgd9CFENez9jlfZlnmxDH7AWKjm0qL9xkL/s320/P1050667.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />It was hilarious to watch these large birds act like the babies they were! Except for mouth color, ravens look the same as adults at one month. They are full size in forty days. I differentiated them by their squawks, nervous hops, begging, leaner bodies and higher pitched calls. It was a new flood of energy. I was excited to witness and study this raven family.<p></p><p>What <i>takeovers</i> have in common is the element of surprise. My favorite viewing platform is the deck outside my door. From this perch I have an unobstructed view for 75 miles to Baboquivari Peak and oversee my bird feeding station a few feet away. I'd heard a strange bird call in the mesquites, near the pond, since my return. Friend Judith and I were enjoying the raven show from the deck when she interrupted and proclaimed, <i>That's a cuckoo! </i>A Yellow-billed Cuckoo call. I'd been searching for this bird for years and there she was, on the land. I now hear her several times a day, when not drowned out by the rowdy ravens. I have seen the shy one once. </p><p>Yes, it is good to be home, ensconced in the wild richness of Querencia Hill. </p><p>A lasting peace, I pray. </p><p>Blessed Be.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFasTU5MQdG0kVBDA2k0fnVAfVk00pEw1M5Iq-Qs6GmkNbMxLOoPIrfQ27BO-6GnsDw2G5to9WuVPHMjSAN5mr7obnPKpRtB0OfuHReA8SAyM-OChK-vwzCsKcobhJ2E3sdb1rPO4MHFcj2Ypz1_H8gSmEm7c_ArcKzvCElBaSkCPMFJKSTq4YcJV/s1600/P1050377.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1465" data-original-width="1600" height="586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFasTU5MQdG0kVBDA2k0fnVAfVk00pEw1M5Iq-Qs6GmkNbMxLOoPIrfQ27BO-6GnsDw2G5to9WuVPHMjSAN5mr7obnPKpRtB0OfuHReA8SAyM-OChK-vwzCsKcobhJ2E3sdb1rPO4MHFcj2Ypz1_H8gSmEm7c_ArcKzvCElBaSkCPMFJKSTq4YcJV/w640-h586/P1050377.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Deck: Baboquivari and Pair Flying at its Best<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-51036026644165956792022-06-24T08:14:00.000-07:002022-06-24T08:24:56.136-07:00Raven Soliloquy<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEg_b6yheWG_DQPhk4wHgNtjnEeyNIvdcYVG-WcxPTtqLIvxum5ZCkCRIgxD5wlGRbQ5o8etyGdkjOwaXxm1rL9q-xkiRfosaYocMUJngHgPkCRs2fcazjBSV2Y0t0PcTbH_eQGdfZgd_JipEXGhd4BYl1-mIRqIwbfP6IGijNyyQCWfAbu34ePNwO/s640/P1050095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEg_b6yheWG_DQPhk4wHgNtjnEeyNIvdcYVG-WcxPTtqLIvxum5ZCkCRIgxD5wlGRbQ5o8etyGdkjOwaXxm1rL9q-xkiRfosaYocMUJngHgPkCRs2fcazjBSV2Y0t0PcTbH_eQGdfZgd_JipEXGhd4BYl1-mIRqIwbfP6IGijNyyQCWfAbu34ePNwO/w640-h482/P1050095.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The rain-soaked hills must dry a bit before my steps return to their grassy, graceful fold. </p><p>The wait. Yes. For moisuture to dry. Rain. Tears. </p><p>Patience was never my forte'. I await clarity in a covid-changed world, but there is none. Even the most base beliefs have turned tentative. Like: "spirit puts me where I need to be." I mean, how do I reckon the daily, magic company of a raven with her apocolyptic goodbye? I named her Emma, for Emma Goldman. Ravens, after all, are the proud anarchists of the bird world. All worlds, for that matter. Ask Poe. Ask the indigenous peoples. Emma, a smaller Chihuahuan Raven, frequented the airspace of Querencia Hill. When I acknowledged this, and reached out to her, she responded. She and her shy-boy mate, Noam (Chomsky), began to visit a feeding stone every morning. While Noam was all about food, She would land in the branches of the Velvet Mesquite and talk to me. She followed me on my morning walks. She landed near by and held witness to fire and drum circles. And one day when I fell hard and let out a pained scream, she came flying to me, circling with her raucous alert call, to let ears know something was very wrong. She did not stop until I stood upright.</p><p>I have observed ravens for decades; they figure large in my writings. Emma, however, compelled me to study in depth and transformed me into a full-fledged ravenphile. I read books and articles; I consulted my friend, author John Nichols who has spent hours watching them in the Sangre de Cristo high country. In the throes of a changed, pandemic world, Emma was the most fervent of omens, a hope-full, wild spirit. So how was it, on April first, while happily feeding and watering abundant songbirds and quail, I turned my head at the moment she hit a guywire at full speed, followed by a sickening vibration, as she fell to the ground. </p><p>I screamed <i>NO</i>, grabbed gloves, a towel and ran-stumbled across rocky grass. I rolled under a rusty, five-strand barbedwire fence to reach her at the base of the powerpole. But there was no saving. No rescue. Her broken neck wobbled at the apex of her queenly ebony wings. </p><p>Dirt-covered and dazed, I gathered her up and walked home. I lit a candle then smudged and prayed over her, as Hobo and Dulce, her buddies, looked on. Then I laid her under a tree to let nature take its course. Burial was out of the question for this Matriarch of the Sky. I turned from her body and heard Noam's faint <i>Quork Quork Quork Quork.</i> He was perched on a mesquite snag on a distant ridge, calling for her. Sacred Baboquivari Peak was his backdrop.</p><p>One hour passed, then two. He lifted off and flew over her resting place as the sky filled with ravens from every direction. Where did they come from? As long as Noam and Emma were on the land there were no interlopers. The hilltop adjacent to Emma's body was eventually coated with reserved, quiet ravens, forsaking their usual safe, limbed perches. I was witness to a wake. They mingled for over an hour and then as they had arrived, they dispersed in all directions.</p><p><i>Quork. Quork. Quork. Quork. </i> </p><p>Noam's low-toned call reverberated from the far-away mesquite for days. He called across the hills in various octaves, beseeching an answer never to come. <i>It is good she died so quickly,</i> said my friend. <i>Yes. I guess so. </i>If there was any good in this. For the moment, I couldn't fathom how it happened that She flew into the support wire angling down from the pole. This was familiar territory. She was following Noam across the sky, with joyful calls. Was there some strange shift in the magnetic field? Did shadows deceive her? </p><p>Noam's four notes echoed across the land; forever part of the wildscape. It took two weeks for him to return to the close-in trees where he and Emma allopreened and cooed. His tail feathers were askew, my guess from some territorial challenges from outlying ravens. This made him easy to identify, however. A small comfort as I sought answers to Emma's joyous arrival and kinship; her torturous departure. To someone who ardently believed there were no accidents, this had shaken my core. I wondered if he associated me with her death? If he knew I, too, was immobilized by mourning. Ravens brains, twice the size of the crow, are capable of amazing discernment. </p><p>Coyote yaps and vulture circles ceased. I walked to her body. All organs and flesh were gone. A wing and her noble beak remained. Scattered feathers dotted the hill like newly-sprouted grass. Noam's shadow burst across the land, a haunting darkness cast from the sky, it tipped and passed through trees, across buildings. A reminder that he had not given up hope that she would return to their favorite limb to coo and preen; to reoccupy the airspace that was solely theirs. We were clearly in this together. That evening I stepped outside onto the deck as Noam approached across the hills to the north. When straight above, he tucked his wings, dove straight down and curved upward again, a quick spirit-charging dance, as if to reassure me, <i>magic remains.</i> </p><p>Ravens mate for life, but will sometimes form a new bond if the one left behind is young. Noam appeared with another raven within a couple of months. She was uber shy; would do the nervous hop-hop on the ground many feet from the feeding stone, something strutting Emma would never do. I am thrilled to see them. I talk to them. Leave them the occasional chicken carcass or boiled egg. I call her Rosa. Rosa Luxemburg. They take flight when I near, however, in contrast to the close-up spirit-bond held by Emma and myself. Her enchanted presence. The clucks. The outstretched, ruffed neck, knocking sounds and gurgles, usually reserved for a mate, to say, <i> I'm a powerful female. </i>To that I add: <i>We are kin</i>. </p><p>This I know. I will never see that rare, white eyelid lower over her glassy eye again, a symbol of affection. Her most of the 80-some calls in a raven repertoire will remain a mystery. Her presence that defined this land and began to define me, in a world of diminishing definitions, is gone.</p><p>I, the witness, with no clue where this mourning path leads. For certain, it continues.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7S6E-GmwzyVJRUjFOLPWLpuf5r5pjP7tEbxxxnQ1QywPAOqzXVu65uEKSuDZ8DK-xDIjlEl-fK-9AvQZw1UDUgb-3gVwPKnrugfEWNfbxOzX8Uu-ENg2H_mSSWGRMx1eLMkhzuww5qMJH7scq9O9KY97gzHJpJeTTWmEN2cdTYYWUHm83KS0Op3Fz/s640/P1110605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="640" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7S6E-GmwzyVJRUjFOLPWLpuf5r5pjP7tEbxxxnQ1QywPAOqzXVu65uEKSuDZ8DK-xDIjlEl-fK-9AvQZw1UDUgb-3gVwPKnrugfEWNfbxOzX8Uu-ENg2H_mSSWGRMx1eLMkhzuww5qMJH7scq9O9KY97gzHJpJeTTWmEN2cdTYYWUHm83KS0Op3Fz/w320-h285/P1110605.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emma and a White-winged Dove<br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzPS-Qmy-yT8ILh8aXVkn7KJ8MxGig1vCR4ZeXEapcFFp9CX9bND4M9wuUKO45m-muHly-uM1z7_qnHWzGzgX6c8zg6G3xmMB6jKUx6YT3IgAoYRejCmRSO3fLAePmRKcrNuJtPzQamSwaI-YknlaoHOtQTlq09_h_WZkwWE3D_fhEXECgNtZm9IX/s640/P1100856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="640" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjzPS-Qmy-yT8ILh8aXVkn7KJ8MxGig1vCR4ZeXEapcFFp9CX9bND4M9wuUKO45m-muHly-uM1z7_qnHWzGzgX6c8zg6G3xmMB6jKUx6YT3IgAoYRejCmRSO3fLAePmRKcrNuJtPzQamSwaI-YknlaoHOtQTlq09_h_WZkwWE3D_fhEXECgNtZm9IX/w320-h286/P1100856.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her Morning Arrival</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg7mEj4a51SlhcvvibW3-_5zHt13wx_njoeFVUH0rcNvyLQZYW_tT41gerIVyzgxxZYTDoCjYtGsWEcw6pNg7uPiCEdpuKoIPkzIZ0WbdlW11yPgUGz6OtczKX8zWg9DeUwt_uLxQMI0QaP8NtDHJl5JgjnNgnVDvJglzDmYeZT3ae_rYsmwdo303/s640/P1090908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="640" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg7mEj4a51SlhcvvibW3-_5zHt13wx_njoeFVUH0rcNvyLQZYW_tT41gerIVyzgxxZYTDoCjYtGsWEcw6pNg7uPiCEdpuKoIPkzIZ0WbdlW11yPgUGz6OtczKX8zWg9DeUwt_uLxQMI0QaP8NtDHJl5JgjnNgnVDvJglzDmYeZT3ae_rYsmwdo303/w320-h266/P1090908.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Her Ocotillo World</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieM7cO31bU5zIDu_uvkzIhiiF4vwZtPhVgg3c83rofYEKzVeaqPbvVw_cjgUE5t5XwYfoDwQY0DAH14id5PkH9UzVSMrJEqfq-Bzcjs5nQTOO5EPwGVzH3305RX5tqaMSGDiIO4WXIKrXlWBSHkRjd774qi_5NrdnqHiOGXzQUSARWe199VGAM1nHw/s640/PANA1570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="640" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieM7cO31bU5zIDu_uvkzIhiiF4vwZtPhVgg3c83rofYEKzVeaqPbvVw_cjgUE5t5XwYfoDwQY0DAH14id5PkH9UzVSMrJEqfq-Bzcjs5nQTOO5EPwGVzH3305RX5tqaMSGDiIO4WXIKrXlWBSHkRjd774qi_5NrdnqHiOGXzQUSARWe199VGAM1nHw/s320/PANA1570.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love and Care</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-3239475863177096622022-06-22T06:53:00.002-07:002022-06-22T07:04:11.187-07:00Hijacked<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1o-FGVuxvtrcE0AxcWm7WBpMeOVRY9Id5nhK5y0JFfN8Jn99iZOTVt2UFXzJp5pokyGobCqt9LCFC6LobMkklOiy8TDqVZAxnxJjelMsud8sjcUrsl8SdP0MpgKdcmqft2EPWNe9mqKS6tAalg5AVjK7esn-1W0rQyFmwpEa68QYgFkqhiTsW-8bJ/s640/1-P1090405.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="640" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1o-FGVuxvtrcE0AxcWm7WBpMeOVRY9Id5nhK5y0JFfN8Jn99iZOTVt2UFXzJp5pokyGobCqt9LCFC6LobMkklOiy8TDqVZAxnxJjelMsud8sjcUrsl8SdP0MpgKdcmqft2EPWNe9mqKS6tAalg5AVjK7esn-1W0rQyFmwpEa68QYgFkqhiTsW-8bJ/w400-h215/1-P1090405.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Solstice. Sol. Sistare. Latin root words that denote when the sun stands still. On last year's longest day I celebrated with a fire, drum circle, laughs and stories with dear women friends. The first day of summer marked the beginning of the third wettest monsoon season on record. Eighteen precious, wet inches fell upon Querencia Hill. The land turned excitedly verdant until September, then drought returned. Drought, in fact, became the metaphor for my pandemic reality, as written words dried up and ambition withered. Weird health phenomena sprouted anew from a body that had never let me down, except for the couple of times when I pushed the limits and broke an elbow bone while rock climbing; a leg and ankle while mountain biking. Suddenly, my life was structured around doctor's appointments, not writing schedules, readings, signings and public events. Even live music and dancing shriveled away. Looking back, I had reached my pandemic limit. That second year was harder than the tangled trails of the first, which I had assumed were a novel inconvenience. Deaths continued to rise, new variants birthed, the US hit a million dead, the world writhed. The pandemic became a permanent reality in the second year, as I numbed to the new existence. No travel. No seasonal park ranger position. </p><p>I stared at the television screen for more hours than my previous seventy years combined. I logged more movies on Netflix and HBO Max (thank you Roku stick, another learning curve). I watched more television news than EVer. I did not, however, become part of the Zoom culture. To date, I've only logged into three recent zoom talks of an anthropological/ nature. I have no idea where resistance to zoom resided. I mean, what's the difference, really, between television and laptops screens? </p><p>As authors I admire continued to write and publish, others resembled me, with no where to put the scope of the new, deadly reality, no way to process and regurgitate the darkness into words. The wild of Querencia Hill, the source of my strength and solace, took on an added layer of dread. The pandemic, after all, did not happen in a vacuum. It was part of a larger, climate-changed world, a world enveloped in the sixth mass extinction, the human-produced destruction of eons of evolution. </p><p>Writers are empaths. It is our poetic necessity to feel. To intuit. To take what we witness into our cells, send it flowing through the bloodstream to our beating heart, inspire and breathe impressions through our lungs, down our arms into our fingers that hold a pen that scratches ink to paper. To not fulfill this force majeure results in the most serious form of constipation. Soul constraint. Spirit hardening. As the shit hit the fan in the outside world, it backed up internally in a gangrenous procession. My brain stopped finding words. I put on weight. My enthusiasm took a powder. It's as if two years erased my passion-studded life. My muse had been hijacked. </p><p>The only way out was to write. </p><p>It is summer solstice night. The thunderous sky has opened and water floods the streets, a torrent of wet with the promise of new life. This, as I type these words and the dam breaks on my writing drought. There is so much to say; to distill. Can I push against the walls of grief and squeeze toward the muse? She is there, I know. Thru the tears. The memories. Leaning into hope, if only for a breath. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-64801799227096634802021-08-27T06:39:00.000-07:002021-08-27T06:39:26.237-07:00Chubasco's Magic Shit Show <div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZSbGyyoBwrn5Bra-nH7kJ3Vae3df2hVGtSxMftCEziF6df92-r-hWkVReHEZrBuXmeQwJAsV0kBbIQTQYCXg8w_NXH1capcikC3eKEUeexBDL9mt6ywT7RjbU6PAAGV1t-7RwVAnbKa4/s640/20210818_081716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="640" height="501" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZSbGyyoBwrn5Bra-nH7kJ3Vae3df2hVGtSxMftCEziF6df92-r-hWkVReHEZrBuXmeQwJAsV0kBbIQTQYCXg8w_NXH1capcikC3eKEUeexBDL9mt6ywT7RjbU6PAAGV1t-7RwVAnbKa4/w640-h501/20210818_081716.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>A dream directed me here. Serengeti landscape kept me here. </p><p>I was preparing to depart Washington State when a dream awakened me with a snapshot image of an unfamiliar crag jutting into the air. The image returned in two more dreams, tickled my subconscious as I drove southeast, Arizona-bound. I had just gassed up in Tucson, headed to Patagonia for the winter, or so I thought. I was breezing down I-19 when that rock appeared out my driver's side window. Not one to ignore omens, I took the next exit and turned onto Arivaca Road. It only went in one direction: west. A ribbon of highway weaved over hilltops, around curves and into dips across dry arroyos, following the contours of the Sonoran desert hills. Long grasses and mesquite thorn bush reached in every direction. It was as Serengeti-like as possible, short of returning to the African plains. I pulled the truck and trailer to the side of the road, jumped out and stretched into the expanse. My eyes scanned the hills, half expecting a lanky giraffe to lope over the hills. </p><p>I am on my seventh year in Arivaca-land. Five of that was half year, wintertime stints whereupon I headed north for Park Ranger seasonal positions. The past year and a half, since covid, I have remained year around on the ten acres I call Querencia Hill. Querencia, Spanish for safe place; a place where one can be their authentic self. Authentic self? -- my first instruction to visitors is to pee anywhere, the desert needs it. This place continues to parallel Africa. Pronghorn, closely related to giraffes given their leg structure, grace the Buenos Aires Refuge hillsides. There is a rainy season called the monsoons, and like the Serengeti, it explodes the tawny landscape into green. Waterholes fill, including my very large, horseshoe-shaped pond. The unusual abounds. Roseate Spoonbills were recently spotted at Aguirre Lake. No hippos have taken up residence in my pond, but it is possible a jaguar could drink from water's edge. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwZLzQum9laAcG4FfSPSTro3wC5bQSYxOGuDhHG4JyeLxKqHGlnrBH-pIlxp8sZa0zHMz33TGfasKZEcsDn0cJwk0ULPq4QZTMy-z6rVOv9kUPotJGgQ7gXlZCbfGqDJhq87bJRdyciU/s2048/P1100804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1233" data-original-width="2048" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwZLzQum9laAcG4FfSPSTro3wC5bQSYxOGuDhHG4JyeLxKqHGlnrBH-pIlxp8sZa0zHMz33TGfasKZEcsDn0cJwk0ULPq4QZTMy-z6rVOv9kUPotJGgQ7gXlZCbfGqDJhq87bJRdyciU/w400-h241/P1100804.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roseate Spoonbills at Aguirre Lake </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDm8Ww5ZpyhADaQRHyxskHzCvJFrmEsZQfNRJoEXSBIct-VY6BhRgv71mAaNMjMHigSDR7_Ud0kwb2dMION0ViZAw0GDc18i50FHNVhOZh5BxJgLiaFIjgFFqdkt_DlR_iOjbJFoFD98/s2048/P1100810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1392" data-original-width="2048" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDm8Ww5ZpyhADaQRHyxskHzCvJFrmEsZQfNRJoEXSBIct-VY6BhRgv71mAaNMjMHigSDR7_Ud0kwb2dMION0ViZAw0GDc18i50FHNVhOZh5BxJgLiaFIjgFFqdkt_DlR_iOjbJFoFD98/s320/P1100810.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And then, there's these ... the crazy, head-turning, miracle worker beetles rolling ... shit.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgtdm0ycKAlmokP78LOWqA9bPriCSttrR_qzU22sesKXhh_7wVw6OdDpqui11vNCoU66mta9m-g0hVTEbQ2Nmh5JmdIuZUUSuqhK1NyMKEHXmxd8qKTqmUqeh8jgnMUgFD5fGvpr18_s/s640/rps20210826_133814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="640" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNgtdm0ycKAlmokP78LOWqA9bPriCSttrR_qzU22sesKXhh_7wVw6OdDpqui11vNCoU66mta9m-g0hVTEbQ2Nmh5JmdIuZUUSuqhK1NyMKEHXmxd8qKTqmUqeh8jgnMUgFD5fGvpr18_s/w400-h344/rps20210826_133814.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>How DO they do it? Look at that perfect ball! </p><p>I'd seen these dung-rollers in Tanzania and Zimbabwe. I honestly didn't pay much attention while in the company of elephants, cheetahs, klipspringers, zebra, wildebeest, ostrich, well you get the idea. But when recently riding my e-bike across the Sonoran hills I spotted a ball of cow poop rolling across the asphalt road. I braked and turned around. Could it BE? </p><p>So, <i>why DID the dung beetle cross the road? And, how</i>? I was shocked to see that they direct their ball with their rear legs, standing on their front ones. I thought they worked with gravity because they were using the curve in the road in their favor, but then I witnessed one reach the opposite side of the road, only to hit the white line and nope. He didn't like it. He changed direction and headed up hill. Another had no problem with the white line, rolled his ball across and onto the ground. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrEFL76bamaX5Lju7zkFqrbqfkZDNZHj6eEQIrAx31jBZxLnYo3_SfmZo2yMJucO7CXfKiu9ZbpYqiwdPrVORdygaPWWnwJbQHpC0yigdZ2ji-IaiVpivp1KT4hqhbTDKbTnOSDSciFo/s640/20210815_093241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="640" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrEFL76bamaX5Lju7zkFqrbqfkZDNZHj6eEQIrAx31jBZxLnYo3_SfmZo2yMJucO7CXfKiu9ZbpYqiwdPrVORdygaPWWnwJbQHpC0yigdZ2ji-IaiVpivp1KT4hqhbTDKbTnOSDSciFo/w400-h295/20210815_093241.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>As to why? These beetles use their ball of dung to nest, feed and raise their young. The "roller" is the world's strongest insect, observed pushing 1,141 times its own bodyweight. That's equivalent to "an average human hauling six double decker buses full of people." Their journey is fraught with risks. Besides being squished, the male roller may come under attack by another male to steal his ball. (Dung ball theory of history, anyone?) Once he gets rolling, a female joins him, crawls upon the ball and rides along. Remarkably, the dung beetle uses the Milky Way to orient and find his way. </p><p>To witness a dung beetle is to see a being who has been around for eons. They wrangled dinosaur dung (their remains found in coprolites, fossilized dinosaur dung) and images of the Scarab beetle are found throughout Egyptian iconography. They believed the Scarab's ball of dung a representation of the sun traveling through the sky, carrying new life. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxauaH40UzKu3Kj9wAcSE8VfrXdbpDH6ZNoo41JgTsdM35YcwOiZ1veIlZZb5PHw6HSI-kFuFDSc0zaZy7XIw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />The chubascos are full on. Rains began late June and continue. It is not the normal spotty storms laced with scenic lightning and rolling thunder. This year the storms are angry. Thunder rocks the land, lightning bolts blast the hilltops. Thankfully, I have received fifteen inches of rain on Querencia Hill. The pond is full. Spadefoot toads sing the night awake. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSUq3Z7mdBoUBYVytpj6G9Qe7PjREW-gLIprX9dMszD2tzT1nT31JuDikeOYV0MA3509X0P0q1yDeDpvQjeGotwSF3yfCGtGY1NYqWocT4PPDBC-3-Qnd7tAPr4oYpixYl6HnnwrTJ7E/s640/IMG_20210811_063954_268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="640" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiSUq3Z7mdBoUBYVytpj6G9Qe7PjREW-gLIprX9dMszD2tzT1nT31JuDikeOYV0MA3509X0P0q1yDeDpvQjeGotwSF3yfCGtGY1NYqWocT4PPDBC-3-Qnd7tAPr4oYpixYl6HnnwrTJ7E/w400-h331/IMG_20210811_063954_268.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>In between the squalls a small beetle pushes a large, round ball of waste across a road. Guided by the Milky Way, his ball guarantees the next generation. Or as the Egyptians believed, the genesis of new life. I inhale the wildness of these hills; ferret out the metaphors. It is a potent realization that a small beetle has evolved for eons as thousands of butterflies flutter through the lush green grasslands. The covid Delta variant spreads like fire across the globe, and here I am, in the dizzying cosmos, under the brightest Milky Way I have ever seen. I ponder excrement and birth, my journey to this Serengeti land led by a dream of an elephant head, and the necessity to roll shit through rocky terrain into verdant hope-filled fields. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietkYxYRCwdiP7ywx-2U_D96feF0BOc8DEOz1r3DSYGSU9M7fHLJU0K5Y5w5W8tqFyacbIKpxkWFVERNXEW1X7WkUQkYlboPnYKQ7BWEXZwvdQd7Gfl62cd6EYIzaWvzuTJHoK0VJUbzg/s640/20210815_092729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="640" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietkYxYRCwdiP7ywx-2U_D96feF0BOc8DEOz1r3DSYGSU9M7fHLJU0K5Y5w5W8tqFyacbIKpxkWFVERNXEW1X7WkUQkYlboPnYKQ7BWEXZwvdQd7Gfl62cd6EYIzaWvzuTJHoK0VJUbzg/w400-h333/20210815_092729.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-9115388469974068622021-06-16T17:39:00.113-07:002021-06-17T09:50:08.898-07:00Horned Lizard Magic: A New Neighbor on Querencia Hill <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZx_PDImzMXM9LSsSNq7Ll1MtKAyai_gv_S1AVmj5tVB8U_mlWQloa47UfKMuedlT8dQLNp-kWZI7566bWaFv6LTsyoJ2Lyri3tPEMKf24YyZWucwwY4fEVTZfig3SQ-EWsMr2syYqa6M/s640/P1100517.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZx_PDImzMXM9LSsSNq7Ll1MtKAyai_gv_S1AVmj5tVB8U_mlWQloa47UfKMuedlT8dQLNp-kWZI7566bWaFv6LTsyoJ2Lyri3tPEMKf24YyZWucwwY4fEVTZfig3SQ-EWsMr2syYqa6M/s640/P1100517.JPG" style="display: inline; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: left;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="640" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZx_PDImzMXM9LSsSNq7Ll1MtKAyai_gv_S1AVmj5tVB8U_mlWQloa47UfKMuedlT8dQLNp-kWZI7566bWaFv6LTsyoJ2Lyri3tPEMKf24YyZWucwwY4fEVTZfig3SQ-EWsMr2syYqa6M/w400-h353/P1100517.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I<span style="font-family: helvetica;">t was a few days before summer solstice. Daytime temps breached 110-degrees, forcing life into the cover of shade. The anticipated end of day took on a heavy significance. I did not step outside until the blistering sun was down. Once thankfully behind the mountains, the world in shadow, I ventured out to watch the remaining quail, doves and towhees vigorously scratch for overlooked seed. For several days, o</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">ut of the proverbial corner of my eye,</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> I had noticed something run across the feeding area and into the rocks. It appeared gray at low light. I figured it was a mouse. Two days later the little stranger's head peaked out from the rocks. Definitely not a mouse! I was pretty certain it was a rare horned toad and I was ecstatic. The next night, walking along rocks in the feeding area, I almost stepped on her. Her entire body exposed, there was no doubt as to her identity. I leaned down and welcomed the Regal Horned Toad to Querencia Hill. Not that it hadn't been here all along, but she finally decided to show herself, camouflaged par excellence! This morning she showed up again and I grabbed my camera for this shoot. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwzHBiV1IaNuDd-eiZgBMA09JvkXIqv9_k2DSu-r7zZvB-AX74-7YTGt65bWWRaKc12KhGgVZozbT4PWetR8PkI6E-mEa1kC6mg3aYaxLGSrPgw-W7_BxXBFcUi6_E8iXkUYQFzvgrOA/s640/P1100491.JPG" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="640" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwzHBiV1IaNuDd-eiZgBMA09JvkXIqv9_k2DSu-r7zZvB-AX74-7YTGt65bWWRaKc12KhGgVZozbT4PWetR8PkI6E-mEa1kC6mg3aYaxLGSrPgw-W7_BxXBFcUi6_E8iXkUYQFzvgrOA/w400-h283/P1100491.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are fourteen horned lizards in the United States. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Most are in the southwest but they range from </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHB2ASTfMwTjbyJi4gPJeL1f-8R3BdY1A0nm-YDz1Qkn56USNpahUi3hxJm7PUzm3tC0InfOzCfDClKm10OJeHroJ6EzomuPPl9JWrebXUZ5ydCX7nxZmUtsGt1z9ilbzyYy_zr42IK4/s640/P1100493.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="640" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBHB2ASTfMwTjbyJi4gPJeL1f-8R3BdY1A0nm-YDz1Qkn56USNpahUi3hxJm7PUzm3tC0InfOzCfDClKm10OJeHroJ6EzomuPPl9JWrebXUZ5ydCX7nxZmUtsGt1z9ilbzyYy_zr42IK4/w320-h246/P1100493.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">the Sierra Nevada into the NW, to the Great Plains, the Colorado Plateau, Chihuahuan Desert, west to the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts and to the Pacific Ocean. The Regal prefers mesquite, rock and gently sloping desert hills. Well dang, that defines my ten acre Querencia. They like to eat ants and I have plenty. They can down 2500 ants in one meal. They catch them like toads, on their long, sticky tongue. The Regals are slow movers who depend on their camouflage, but when threatened or captured they squirt blood from their eyes, aiming at their predator's mouth and eyes. This defensive stream can travel four feet and can be repeated. I'm glad my visitor trusted me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Indigenous cultures of the southwest have long held horned lizards in esteem. The Pima, Tohono O'odham, Hopi, Dine (Navajo) and Zuni believe they symbolize strength and possess healing qualities. Anasazi, Hohokam, Mimbres and Mogollon cultures painted horned lizard symbols and images on pottery. Navajo's refer to the </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">horned toad as Cheii, the maternal grandpa of all Navajo's. They </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">offer him water and corn pollen when they come across a horned lizard. They place him gently on their hearts in a ritual of protection. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For myself, I am honored that the Regal one has graced me with her presence. Mating starts this month, egg laying starts in late July and August. That's rainy season on the Sonoran desert. I'll be on the lookout for babies and watch where I step. I welcome horned lizard's strength and protective energies, right down to projectile blood spurts. The land feels different with this discovery, full of promise, as an untold story unfolds:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>She arrived with the brutal heat of summer ... </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs83850IsAcbUxiE6uzcy3B60GrEKpQYzgVG4iDNzv-PQfFfWCI9lS1lCAXovMTEZLBDQ2IROIIvPXZonZpbJoStIJ3S5sgWA3NbCExl6webrXbjTeJtZYndahexL4thdf4MM5W_lHod0/s640/P1100512.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs83850IsAcbUxiE6uzcy3B60GrEKpQYzgVG4iDNzv-PQfFfWCI9lS1lCAXovMTEZLBDQ2IROIIvPXZonZpbJoStIJ3S5sgWA3NbCExl6webrXbjTeJtZYndahexL4thdf4MM5W_lHod0/s320/P1100512.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #353535;"><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="color: #353535;"><br /></span></span></div><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #353535; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="color: #353535; font-family: times;"><span> </span><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJ_YGRXabGZCKcWbmFkTiU7pcR2Q_QWQ9T5thx0yWV2gdnp4zsb4QobD0MpR4Oi6P_XTnVd5XiLxVYMfwtxtNO0wLWIM9wfcUuHyKE8gZukhOKtNVXC1QRGDsCS1jshS5zP37W6CXud8/s640/P1100506.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="640" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJ_YGRXabGZCKcWbmFkTiU7pcR2Q_QWQ9T5thx0yWV2gdnp4zsb4QobD0MpR4Oi6P_XTnVd5XiLxVYMfwtxtNO0wLWIM9wfcUuHyKE8gZukhOKtNVXC1QRGDsCS1jshS5zP37W6CXud8/w400-h356/P1100506.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #353535; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXR45Q1WQeMtByJXRGofB0TFwYQBcPceDGn2_Ru9j7JX9cDdp16F_DSm-yYbjN6gJIIlx09E9Er1iQn1AoPVl5kvele6cUMkSOXX_gRxjLbfkHBTKuydvOSEWgcbNd-BC6Av8LvUlGdUw/s640/P1100494.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="640" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXR45Q1WQeMtByJXRGofB0TFwYQBcPceDGn2_Ru9j7JX9cDdp16F_DSm-yYbjN6gJIIlx09E9Er1iQn1AoPVl5kvele6cUMkSOXX_gRxjLbfkHBTKuydvOSEWgcbNd-BC6Av8LvUlGdUw/w400-h331/P1100494.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #353535; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrtCQTWsE4v2jEbNfhB6pxK3X42QXEkJoNb7puczjqvtEPx4x-qHlXO7RakvMguGzwUsz9edWB4k-kU3-UWV-DVS7ydtNgr5wIECJJEv3-KDWlfWQ34gtXzujp-d6IsGhk7htDO1tdlg/s640/P1100515.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="640" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrtCQTWsE4v2jEbNfhB6pxK3X42QXEkJoNb7puczjqvtEPx4x-qHlXO7RakvMguGzwUsz9edWB4k-kU3-UWV-DVS7ydtNgr5wIECJJEv3-KDWlfWQ34gtXzujp-d6IsGhk7htDO1tdlg/w640-h458/P1100515.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-4UobA8dvZr0X05eVO8FmcsqYLvpdnnCVwdDM1MF4iuAaJUllZdpwy8szTEr_hDmiZSMRuwnT3h3Vuej6TB5ntTvF9A3gMGSodOcB9XZNZbQ_rkrZqoLtvf9TtCa7yk-IlG2qof2Es8/s640/P1100507.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="640" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-4UobA8dvZr0X05eVO8FmcsqYLvpdnnCVwdDM1MF4iuAaJUllZdpwy8szTEr_hDmiZSMRuwnT3h3Vuej6TB5ntTvF9A3gMGSodOcB9XZNZbQ_rkrZqoLtvf9TtCa7yk-IlG2qof2Es8/w400-h335/P1100507.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="text-align: left;">_</span></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div>______</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you Mary Scott, dear sister friend, who gifted me a photographic field guide to <i>Lizards of the American Southwest.</i><br /><br /><br /><br />
</div><div><br /></div>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-30030972178360957952021-06-03T20:53:00.000-07:002021-06-03T20:53:46.055-07:00Dulce in Snake Land: Aversion Training Up Close <p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BBMX3sDFhjuZjYBPhhwLxY2VZiqVVaMUHzsVuWwVL_GkS0-tUycpbHxsOA_tFjnX8vGTkOaOUnqVQkVLmVRV-kT76QZ2iyfS6ipC1BSuh1UVFGsVJhaKuIQRWJ1Dg1fsxNty-yV-xkY/s640/20210601_161626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="640" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BBMX3sDFhjuZjYBPhhwLxY2VZiqVVaMUHzsVuWwVL_GkS0-tUycpbHxsOA_tFjnX8vGTkOaOUnqVQkVLmVRV-kT76QZ2iyfS6ipC1BSuh1UVFGsVJhaKuIQRWJ1Dg1fsxNty-yV-xkY/w400-h259/20210601_161626.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dulce closing in on coiled, hooded rattlesnake (circled) seconds before shock<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>I was about to depart for Dulce's snake aversion class when I received word that a friend's dog was bitten by a rattlesnake. Twice. Once on the foot and once on the face. Her beloved Corgi was in the throws of emergency treatment, receiving doses of antivenom. She was hopeful for a full recovery and looked forward to bringing Dweezil home the next morning.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpkqHJBv9NfePKVOs3Wzyj1R36whiHrc2NiVeEiuhFLrBi9eyzl5YP2qQgG6CFSN2QroZ_kv_pGNZk4j0D4hmZBqK3Oerdyb6mZDWwyEN-urhWZ8-4PLuP8NGlnaB8bIPx15wsnJCzXr0/s640/IMG_20210510_073838_451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="597" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpkqHJBv9NfePKVOs3Wzyj1R36whiHrc2NiVeEiuhFLrBi9eyzl5YP2qQgG6CFSN2QroZ_kv_pGNZk4j0D4hmZBqK3Oerdyb6mZDWwyEN-urhWZ8-4PLuP8NGlnaB8bIPx15wsnJCzXr0/s320/IMG_20210510_073838_451.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snake tracks across the road </td></tr></tbody></table><p>The class took on a heavier note. Dulce had already had four encounters with rattlesnakes: twice while on walks along the road, once in the dark outside my home and most recently one crawling by the deck at nightfall. I used the experiences to reinforce "NO, get back." She'd done well, but the fact remained, I would not always be with her to warn her curious nose away. The class was $100 and the professional trainer was coming to a local park. It couldn't have been more convenient.</p><p>The outdoor class entailed four snake encounter sites and used a shock collar to negatively reinforce the dog's curiosity of a snake. A shock was delivered as soon as the dog began to show interest in snake sight, smell or sound. My concern was that Dulce was timid in strange circumstances. I didn't want her overstimulated, on the other hand, I wanted her trained.</p><p>The teacher collared Dulce, led her on a lead and instructed me where to stand in relationship to the stations. The first station was a large plastic coiled snake, head rising with a scent pad. Dulce circled a wide berth, whereupon the instructor asked if she'd had encounters before. Most definitely, I said. The second station was a live, hooded, angry snake on the ground and a bucket w/scent. Dulce showed some curiosity about ten feet out (see first photo). ZAP. A shock, a yelp, a jump. That's all she needed. The third station was another species of snake and Dulce had nothing to do with it. Same with the final station, a scent bucket. The class reinforced immediate feedback many feet out from the snakes, who have impressive striking distance. </p><p>The training was quick and effective. I don't anticipate Dulce getting near a snake again. Some folks get the snake vaccination and believe their dog is protected, however, every snake has a different venom and needs an antivenom to match. There are over forty species of rattlesnakes in the US and the rattlesnake vaccine works on <u>one</u> of those. In this neck of the woods, the vaccine is for the Western Diamondback rattler. Even in our small group of eight dogs, two owners had had encounters with deadly Mojave rattlers. If the vaccine and snake match, the vaccine may give more time to get to emergency. It may save your dog's life, but it will not save you the panic, emergency drive, heartbreak and vet bill. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5RSoA8wrzq0minfBtJpzUIwjHKBt4_PtF9YIpT0oeBHZIn5TQEeV-MHNwOKq7k3i-iZJLs-ArzRYgReJMMGLn4TVYjk5WcU1gJMrmedX5_3iqzLbui8Pmn2BoWoGTG07uutAbnII6I-o/s2444/20210514_193132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2181" data-original-width="2444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5RSoA8wrzq0minfBtJpzUIwjHKBt4_PtF9YIpT0oeBHZIn5TQEeV-MHNwOKq7k3i-iZJLs-ArzRYgReJMMGLn4TVYjk5WcU1gJMrmedX5_3iqzLbui8Pmn2BoWoGTG07uutAbnII6I-o/s320/20210514_193132.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rattler passing through </td></tr></tbody></table><p>I have a deep regard and affection for snakes. The one that slithered by my deck a couple weeks ago was rudely interrupted by Dulce's barks. When I came outside to check I saw a four-foot, stretched out rattler beginning to coil. I ordered Dulce back and she actually ran a fifty foot circle around the house and came up the back stairs. We left it alone and it was predictably gone in the morning. There was another a few weeks ago near my portale, rattling so loud in the dark it sent chills through my body. We never did see it. Most dogs are curious, however. Many mistake a snake for a toy or a challenge. Last year a friend's unvaccinated dog got bit. My friend raced 50 miles, late at night, to an emergency vet service. They could not save his dog. Not only was his heart broken but he received a bill for $2500. </p><p><br />It's a myth that young snakes are more venomous than older ones. Large or small, Dulce and I live in snake territory. There are plenty or rats and mice for them to feed upon. They like to be close to house foundations, shadows and porches. They can show up anywhere, and do. They hunt at night by following the heat of their prey, and while they will strike to defend themselves, they prefer not to be seen or threatened and go on their slithering way. If confronted, however, the snake is equipped. Hinged fangs unfold from the upper jaw; she lunges forward and delivers a powerful bite. The strike takes a half second to deliver venom. She chooses how much to inject, depending on the size of the predator, and may not inject venom at all.</p><p>My California friend's two Corgis were exploring the same area of yard together. One had snake aversion training, one did not. The one without training got struck. Forty-eight hours after the incident and numerous antivenom treatments, their beloved, vibrant dog couldn't turn it around. He was in extreme pain with neurological issues. My friends said goodbye to Dweezil. </p><p>If your dog is six months old s/he is old enough for training. There's no perfect solution to dogs and rattlesnakes in the wild. I'm sure coyotes and wolves have figured it out. Shaking tails and hissing warn them away. Domestic dogs, on the other hand, need help to identify and avert snakes by smell, sound and sight. When Dulce bounds out the door I know I've done all I can to protect her. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSlCZIaxa0EKxplBBh-PAKXYvl3sZs-hedR7gUkbUhbPDd2XdgiedEovI_UCfE0f5BTW-HHdB6aw-QRbSMtstT1Agk6-DcmyN9j_B0xL7guaC0HPKBT1V0qcApQVa-Ujf6WfJdxKVLQk/s3540/20210512_061350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2643" data-original-width="3540" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSlCZIaxa0EKxplBBh-PAKXYvl3sZs-hedR7gUkbUhbPDd2XdgiedEovI_UCfE0f5BTW-HHdB6aw-QRbSMtstT1Agk6-DcmyN9j_B0xL7guaC0HPKBT1V0qcApQVa-Ujf6WfJdxKVLQk/w400-h299/20210512_061350.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dulce on watch <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-73002018928288636662021-05-10T14:08:00.001-07:002021-05-10T14:14:56.758-07:00One Fated Year <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HBvO7GIQXVOpfWT8K-h7vcl_HiVZ1AQc0y0EXnAE2faLOQrIgQW7s_xcD9WfpSAb6XXH3CiFOKtl-B55omFVjv4J4Wt8eP0FtDnp1JgI8gJVRfrpsxl8s_ppdo1mUQz0I4_qf69lYDw/s480/P1090453.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="480" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HBvO7GIQXVOpfWT8K-h7vcl_HiVZ1AQc0y0EXnAE2faLOQrIgQW7s_xcD9WfpSAb6XXH3CiFOKtl-B55omFVjv4J4Wt8eP0FtDnp1JgI8gJVRfrpsxl8s_ppdo1mUQz0I4_qf69lYDw/w400-h303/P1090453.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Oh those wily Fates. After several failed attempts to purchase land, I wondered if the Serengeti landscape southwest of Tucson Arizona was meant to be my home. That's when a piece of land I had eyed for over a year, and even recommended to others, became for sale. Not formally, mind you. I'd been perusing the internet and saw mention that the owner had ten acres for sale. Was it THEE ten acres? I contacted her immediately. We met that week and shook on a deal. We finalized weeks later, on spring equinox. A few days later the country closed down in the face of Covid, as everyone struggled to get their bearings in the pandemic world. </p><p>The Fates. World mythologies reference the trinity of magic ones in one form or another. They are the Virgin, Mother and Crone (Creator, Preserver, Destroyer); the Spinner, Measurer and Cutter of Life's Thread; Order, Destiny and Peace. Fairy Godmothers have their genesis in the Fates that stood at the cradle of newborns and determined the child's future. Parents would leave the door open and set out food to appease. As the Fates were present at birth they returned at death, to take back the soul. </p><p>The energy around this land was definitely fated. From the fortuitous Facebook discovery to shaking on a deal with no idea how the money would materialize, right down to the flowing process with the county permits and electric pole installation. Even the trenching went smoothly, notwithstanding some major rock. Fates and friends were present from the beginning as the vision took hold: to create a place for rejuvenation and creativity on behalf of the planet. I named the land Querencia Hill. True to her name, those needing a safe place to express their authentic selves showed up and hooked up in the the RV guest spots I created. Build it and they will come. </p><p>One year ago I moved onto this land. The work has been non-stop. The Fates giggled as countless loads of trash were hauled away, from RV walls to car parts to stoves and water heaters and a couple dozen tires. I joke that I am living atop a 1950's hardware store of rusty bolts, nails, screws and springs. I pull on a piece of buried wire and gawd knows where it will end. This morning I found a crochet hook. Pushing my rolling magnet is a regular exercise as more metal rises through the dirt. I wish there was a similar gadget for broken glass. The land sparkles at sunset. </p><p>And yet, what more honorable work? Covid forced me here for a year, through 115-degree summer temps and a piece of the earth is better for it. What felt like a snail's pace now feels like a humongous accomplishment when compared to last April. This land has been an energetic confluence of loved ones. Solstice fires burn bright here; sisters drum heartbeats. Many grab a bucket to fill with trash or contribute to further the small projects. A shade ramada by the pond was moved to a back burner when the rains didn't come. The pond remains dry, in wait for charcoal moisture-laden clouds. </p><p>The transition from eighteen years on the road to womad-in-place has been brutal at times. Although my spirit was tiring of daily movement, I thrived on the novelty of the road -- witnessing new places through fresh eyes, the effervescent trust in spontaneous decisions, the faith-filled courage of risk. And while nomadic life can take place on the edge of one's bed through vivid imagination, it isn't the same. Leastwise for me. </p><p>One year into life on Querencia Hill and two vaccinations down, I loaded VAN-essa for my first road trip to a NM hot springs. Four glorious days. White lines under the front bumper once again, and yes, it was good to get home where projects continue and I hold out hope for a healthy summer monsoons to fill the large horseshoe-shaped pond. I envision a meditation spot on the peninsula and a game camera to reveal nightlife secrets of this holy landscape. My neighbors had Spoonbills and Ibis on their pond. I am jealous.</p><p>I have learned new patience in this covid world. Plans are tentative at best, and sometimes I struggle to trust the unfolding. The Fates dropped me on the wind-whipped hillside where sunsets give new definition to awe. The fairy godmothers brought me a rescue dog, Dulce, who guards the boundaries with aplomb and cherishes life at my side. They provided Hobo a place to curl his snoring self in a patch of sun. Now the Fates stand at the open gate to welcome those who seek push the refresh button, to meet their muse and create. I smile. Prediction has dropped from my dictionary as my wild friends hold court. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0n9BNWBIvLzZ-9zTCQn_cXzFstK9_Gsw3ipmdaNmF-ZUY8DeOwenvJi08D8tdU06bW_KsqhE0MHwk_lBJrWQTclDkwBOax1xSYQ2W5LGnv9_dgYAD46KBjsWJgy3Zfk_5b9OmidULiE/s480/20200217_092744.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0n9BNWBIvLzZ-9zTCQn_cXzFstK9_Gsw3ipmdaNmF-ZUY8DeOwenvJi08D8tdU06bW_KsqhE0MHwk_lBJrWQTclDkwBOax1xSYQ2W5LGnv9_dgYAD46KBjsWJgy3Zfk_5b9OmidULiE/s320/20200217_092744.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCr5N9mmi1iZsOXAyMxLRW09xIvVtbUehnLSNMCYAzqRD8ZzX4fvSkm_stDvQJz32VRGEoONwTTRAu8CW3qVTyhdx0iuH5dO5tFiat14yZJBbwuMrc03knYFNwz-gE7I8xEEJrOLHCIQU/s480/P1070418.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyXNdOd-95aAOEEYo59cay_F8cO-aKvY1g9d96EAxBkIWKlan1bQdIAMC3g3IYdHBep5x4oQBl7K3CFFUvl88cf8zz1Z4_ANNlLqyHB7tYUwkmcBO04Wd-MXR3yP6V9-7cLYKi4ME8x0/s480/P1090389.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyXNdOd-95aAOEEYo59cay_F8cO-aKvY1g9d96EAxBkIWKlan1bQdIAMC3g3IYdHBep5x4oQBl7K3CFFUvl88cf8zz1Z4_ANNlLqyHB7tYUwkmcBO04Wd-MXR3yP6V9-7cLYKi4ME8x0/s320/P1090389.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsLm611wdQ6ktp-Vnl4GlA1M63p-uDe69ZE6rL4Fradzom96gBGBk7RK4wQZeMvC-GnV-x9W8FgorszGJjj3Rrd3Is8r6sRTsevWIfLstvokJ2DQ3_yMS5ShLNDnhxiz4J9WlM1WG-HZ8/s480/P1090819.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsLm611wdQ6ktp-Vnl4GlA1M63p-uDe69ZE6rL4Fradzom96gBGBk7RK4wQZeMvC-GnV-x9W8FgorszGJjj3Rrd3Is8r6sRTsevWIfLstvokJ2DQ3_yMS5ShLNDnhxiz4J9WlM1WG-HZ8/s320/P1090819.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSt0d7FJUWdEJXbMbWwj1nLoT65F1kHmhDHN0RXPN9kGH0DidVaoFr9Lt1jYAXbUQP6GpnTAhQPnUlSSj6TG2fUKc9K1y-ifUeX3u8O51lMuil2F-hwfMydLqAZV0xvqfHFzAX5ZHxpLs/s480/P1090908.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSt0d7FJUWdEJXbMbWwj1nLoT65F1kHmhDHN0RXPN9kGH0DidVaoFr9Lt1jYAXbUQP6GpnTAhQPnUlSSj6TG2fUKc9K1y-ifUeX3u8O51lMuil2F-hwfMydLqAZV0xvqfHFzAX5ZHxpLs/s320/P1090908.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjVbrUQxpSjsdBMVEWt_goVnlBKcqlqMTShtKWaEstXslfI2EyXLFs4d5d4-U7IQzJ_GjK2XOJ0k9w2SuxeDgsC4LNtuLHxxBdnQ2x-xyDNE4CPfrnQCSQ3x-_YR9AbHkZ8WlODH3E_k/s480/P1100028.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjVbrUQxpSjsdBMVEWt_goVnlBKcqlqMTShtKWaEstXslfI2EyXLFs4d5d4-U7IQzJ_GjK2XOJ0k9w2SuxeDgsC4LNtuLHxxBdnQ2x-xyDNE4CPfrnQCSQ3x-_YR9AbHkZ8WlODH3E_k/s320/P1100028.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-36690555023119714312021-03-02T06:53:00.003-08:002021-03-02T15:07:49.429-08:00Kill on the Hill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUkj8yW14qQ0KDuHKQ3dx7JtXS-i-UiJ0HHzaPA0e-F10J_0SbeXO9AG2vCJG8TOpW54Vl1pNeUPgoo_RbPjh-Enjbi5Hn0dhX3oWcRzzIFi0D7O0OmtwWNGi1WKlQJDVW0ffJkcYQoc/s480/P1100003.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkUkj8yW14qQ0KDuHKQ3dx7JtXS-i-UiJ0HHzaPA0e-F10J_0SbeXO9AG2vCJG8TOpW54Vl1pNeUPgoo_RbPjh-Enjbi5Hn0dhX3oWcRzzIFi0D7O0OmtwWNGi1WKlQJDVW0ffJkcYQoc/w400-h225/P1100003.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The soft transition from dawn to day was still in progress when Dulce's urgent bark propelled me from my chair. Barefoot on the frosty deck, I scanned hundreds of acres of tawny hills, a collage of sun and shadow against a cloudless sky. Dulce was insistent. I followed her stare to two anxious mule deer does twenty yards away, their eyes transfixed downslope. They took turns charging at a form I was yet to discern. They stomped and snorted their obvious upset. Within seconds two, three, then six coyotes appeared and circled. They backed off when charged but returned to a spot they would not give up. This dance went on for several minutes. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4zS8SuHWLmLYJA-tXu5iNXSWu09dUibb0BFD-Efdu1JuOnfwAJWvrbYawDObBnXPVGyPvuFn4xKMLk2rak0yZW9KggDa96Ok8LQjMGo1C4-tHCaWgSVIc1LwSmQuEGr_LRM3Bc31kZA/s480/P1100001.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="480" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4zS8SuHWLmLYJA-tXu5iNXSWu09dUibb0BFD-Efdu1JuOnfwAJWvrbYawDObBnXPVGyPvuFn4xKMLk2rak0yZW9KggDa96Ok8LQjMGo1C4-tHCaWgSVIc1LwSmQuEGr_LRM3Bc31kZA/w400-h170/P1100001.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BjR4jDvhPMsYhwHyX3IPDZwNqKWkQV_xEPNYfqXxef-K6mpBmZeDItfwUgFGwj4NZffgTLW6EU4IvSihAU-CGGSt0rPd2eFMMcPVFhWnJahns-ERRB10HZHsB_fSGRrWdB4MkiHpsmU/s480/P1100012.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BjR4jDvhPMsYhwHyX3IPDZwNqKWkQV_xEPNYfqXxef-K6mpBmZeDItfwUgFGwj4NZffgTLW6EU4IvSihAU-CGGSt0rPd2eFMMcPVFhWnJahns-ERRB10HZHsB_fSGRrWdB4MkiHpsmU/w320-h240/P1100012.JPG" width="320" /></a>I grabbed my camera and headed toward the drama, choosing to leave my gun be. Dulce and I walked toward my northern fence line. The deer surrendered their positions and reluctantly trotted east as we closed in The coyotes, now numbering a dozen, dispersed downhill into a ravine. I followed bloody grass and chunks of wiry deer hair to a half eaten carcass, the bright red ribcage protruding from pulled back skin. Thin, small-hoofed legs hinted at a yearling. The doe's coyote charge, although in vain, was the instinctual defense of her young. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2SboT0I64OMKqlGg_KTMOilVFVYikbST0lmRqYNizqEg2kH06hYoLjoDfnnZ3RFS_aXEDpKczFXnJT5BHIAWaI5HOMIva37YJFSNJ-7sXTXDM-nhPvYSKg3wvo-7kMfchCPUwhJlNwY/s480/P1100016.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="480" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2SboT0I64OMKqlGg_KTMOilVFVYikbST0lmRqYNizqEg2kH06hYoLjoDfnnZ3RFS_aXEDpKczFXnJT5BHIAWaI5HOMIva37YJFSNJ-7sXTXDM-nhPvYSKg3wvo-7kMfchCPUwhJlNwY/w320-h219/P1100016.JPG" width="320" /></a>I stared, mesmerized, at the glossy red sinew as wary coyotes skulked around a wide perimeter. An ebony raven flapped low overhead and perched in the top of a mesquite. She would patiently wait, eyeing the venison spoils, the bones she'd pick and poke clean. Spring was anything but shy on this first day of March. A hefty rainbow pincushion cactus was aglow in pink; a small ocotillo cactus exploded in new leaves. To my left was a gut pile, so neat and defined it looked like a sculpture. I called Dulce to my side, lest she get a hankering to dive in and roll. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfpRmZtnpCXfeh-Axb18B1yc9smD8fJ5g4xNFNmtrl0GlOxq6Eu1ac7DAPZdXN_yMcejtQlDVpu9EVEUc0sze8ZQW2pQQ_YxKFGq8J-3yH2Kgzzq0vVkvPAuSGECxrKljTP3T5yMq_kY/s480/P1100006.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="480" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfpRmZtnpCXfeh-Axb18B1yc9smD8fJ5g4xNFNmtrl0GlOxq6Eu1ac7DAPZdXN_yMcejtQlDVpu9EVEUc0sze8ZQW2pQQ_YxKFGq8J-3yH2Kgzzq0vVkvPAuSGECxrKljTP3T5yMq_kY/w640-h482/P1100006.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>I have garnered myriad lessons from the wild through my seventy years. Foremost, that one can not escape the ephemeral nature of existence. The song dogs that fill the night air with exhilarating howls and yips will feast on beloved jackrabbits. The coyotes that slept curled protectively by the door of a recent visitor, night after night, will probably gnaw on this deer. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNWnzpMdbQgbWnTIDhDdgvdPTUvN9b3r39Qj2gjrFZGIwNxFjjWzFNSnYeNrZmVyA76pgxrmK-cPzUoeQwFBTcxLCDt6n1Iccmg-IO1hlYKa0dAHUjDaVJIleHNOXADnVvPLlwq_oZmE/s480/P1100010.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="464" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNWnzpMdbQgbWnTIDhDdgvdPTUvN9b3r39Qj2gjrFZGIwNxFjjWzFNSnYeNrZmVyA76pgxrmK-cPzUoeQwFBTcxLCDt6n1Iccmg-IO1hlYKa0dAHUjDaVJIleHNOXADnVvPLlwq_oZmE/s320/P1100010.JPG" /></a>The sounds of the chase and takedown must have been a horrific intro to the mysterious unfolding. Were the coyotes latecomers to a lion kill? Were they the takedown artists or scavengers? It is known that ravens follow coyotes to find a kill. Vultures, who smell death a mile away, need no such queues, but they are yet to arrive, to scrape spring skies with their tippy soars. </p><p>The spirits are many on Querencia Hill. Most prevalent are deer, javelina, coyote, rattlesnake, cooper's and red-tailed hawks, finches, doves, sparrows and meadowlarks, zippy hummers and soft-spoken quail. Outspoken ravens and silent vultures rule the sky. Cottontails and jackrabbits scurry amongst rock. Packrats and mice join in clandestine deeds. When the large pond fills with monsoon water and game cameras are in place, I'm sure to confirm coatis and ring-tailed cats and mountain lion; perhaps even a jaguar visit. </p><p>Mysteries unfold. Wild tales/tails abound. Spring winds carry many secrets. Coyotes lope amongst deer.</p><p>Blessed Be.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjBYot_WO9IHjztYN-nHlfYhLmor9Cblt7vyunDIpGluSl8EcSGf30EELf6g4YIsAolzMfeJOlbBeODrBiTbzk605BBJwf__TglVg2MPcbQ67sDAH0wHYmebLvRA6Z0KW2ltWA6-B6Ow/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjBYot_WO9IHjztYN-nHlfYhLmor9Cblt7vyunDIpGluSl8EcSGf30EELf6g4YIsAolzMfeJOlbBeODrBiTbzk605BBJwf__TglVg2MPcbQ67sDAH0wHYmebLvRA6Z0KW2ltWA6-B6Ow/" width="263" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiilJPXBcpqcW1X4lH3VKYiCPxbHJ4GNizCp7xcQB_5wWPw-uwkBZdbKxftylLDFTF_eDMHGdZyFCH07skBWSGJI3tjkhZG9s612VooRJ3spStttbTDSV37Q0n1IoXU6Lv4AdaIin3ng/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHiilJPXBcpqcW1X4lH3VKYiCPxbHJ4GNizCp7xcQB_5wWPw-uwkBZdbKxftylLDFTF_eDMHGdZyFCH07skBWSGJI3tjkhZG9s612VooRJ3spStttbTDSV37Q0n1IoXU6Lv4AdaIin3ng/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFmkt7px2cCUjmFMJKGOg9NfhXX3lLBCLcl1r7pD7onUNglm-32nyZXAku_I_sgotkyxtDn0GmbAxFZVGt5N7RteIudbLcF8AiaWCQ8gYa56sfDPhtDA7Ns_u81yo9WZA7Sis-Pt3ijo/s480/P1090999.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="480" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFmkt7px2cCUjmFMJKGOg9NfhXX3lLBCLcl1r7pD7onUNglm-32nyZXAku_I_sgotkyxtDn0GmbAxFZVGt5N7RteIudbLcF8AiaWCQ8gYa56sfDPhtDA7Ns_u81yo9WZA7Sis-Pt3ijo/w400-h311/P1090999.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4YPz8Lup7hA8AhO6G7Job_yoIsCBLac-zlJY106puoX7xkNV9zVX4llkddYbYfkpcIxP5N2Xo9b28x6pidnnqKW_KqSeUwvxRBVEnQdcUkYDMdvw-9vBmrQsXj95ebDqzlm1Q3tFjXvI/s480/P1100007.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4YPz8Lup7hA8AhO6G7Job_yoIsCBLac-zlJY106puoX7xkNV9zVX4llkddYbYfkpcIxP5N2Xo9b28x6pidnnqKW_KqSeUwvxRBVEnQdcUkYDMdvw-9vBmrQsXj95ebDqzlm1Q3tFjXvI/s320/P1100007.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZQHLtdX42UA-ODF032-qNeliB97CKlRC_loJjtxEfzo-6t_5JC2LqupMGd5pAi03eYMeOkqYpHFI7qCOEKV0XyeZqvrfzzXxvUrSg7xjo8Sw331yM4zHg2l844OaBh98wkcnW0PyAg8/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img data-original-height="834" data-original-width="960" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZQHLtdX42UA-ODF032-qNeliB97CKlRC_loJjtxEfzo-6t_5JC2LqupMGd5pAi03eYMeOkqYpHFI7qCOEKV0XyeZqvrfzzXxvUrSg7xjo8Sw331yM4zHg2l844OaBh98wkcnW0PyAg8/w400-h349/image.png" title="Casa Blanca, our home on Querencia Hill" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Casa Blanca, our 5th-wheel home</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">---------------------</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Querencia: Spanish word for that safe place where one can be her/his authentic self. </span></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-57548675734704183172020-09-16T16:38:00.000-07:002020-09-16T16:38:43.064-07:00Up Against the WALL: Breathing Peace on the Borderlands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8cYqWCSZu-wAJC2Xs0BxIIhtPjG2AY6_pxnpqgc1AJfDgBhR6Fdcw0YDnN9NnnzPKVXzZlv0I4NHY3-sXEa0ts36sWULGnw2vbr0eXn2j6q6rh7mhAli4W6fzBQdKiAeBTmSaROQGpA/s480/14-P1090564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="480" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-8cYqWCSZu-wAJC2Xs0BxIIhtPjG2AY6_pxnpqgc1AJfDgBhR6Fdcw0YDnN9NnnzPKVXzZlv0I4NHY3-sXEa0ts36sWULGnw2vbr0eXn2j6q6rh7mhAli4W6fzBQdKiAeBTmSaROQGpA/w640-h446/14-P1090564.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p>There were two dozen of us. We travelled the ribbon highways from Arivaca to Sasabe Arizona, swung a left onto dirt, raised dust for another four miles and found ourselves at the WALL. We were one piece of five, a week long multi-faith spiritual resistance to witness the construction of one of the most destructive, ill-conceived and ignorant US presidential acts: the construction of a border wall at a time when border crossings were at their lowest in years, and the major drug portals were proven to be the legal border crossings, not the migrants. Studies and facts are irrelevant to this ego-driven man. So it is, land is ripped open, sacred burial grounds are decimated, border towns and cities are divided, village water supplies are dried up and wildlife migration routes, intact for eons, are destroyed. This week long action was our response:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIzjc19hqg7EmI-yquAJzCnGEYpFSctG028ptI0oCtFtLmlyAarGO9aWQU4DpXRbJlZ-D2WHUUiIRjqUVG0eaCdMUJOc_gduR5ddFdyH1ceoXHMf3oWYpsMMDKGYAohBwww_IC4e7c_Q/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="925" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuIzjc19hqg7EmI-yquAJzCnGEYpFSctG028ptI0oCtFtLmlyAarGO9aWQU4DpXRbJlZ-D2WHUUiIRjqUVG0eaCdMUJOc_gduR5ddFdyH1ceoXHMf3oWYpsMMDKGYAohBwww_IC4e7c_Q/w312-h400/image.png" width="312" /></a></div><br />This was Buddhist day. I joined with others in meditation and service to contribute my energy to the greater good. In the spirit of my mentor Thich Nhat Hanh, I would seek connection and change through spiritual resistance. I was deeply thankful for the opportunity.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXVGOxbXAIgMUrf4rdSgbieN6VdMRRy1uaCrCER3u6BXDU5vvqCiZ_OCXsFU1Z1YSyFnha67bQHRU8XY6RjSA5Sx6U2L0oZ7OyY4G6DqMSiVq1IjdligpNAregcQAyDOHXQ4s_T6im3c/s480/05-P1090550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXVGOxbXAIgMUrf4rdSgbieN6VdMRRy1uaCrCER3u6BXDU5vvqCiZ_OCXsFU1Z1YSyFnha67bQHRU8XY6RjSA5Sx6U2L0oZ7OyY4G6DqMSiVq1IjdligpNAregcQAyDOHXQ4s_T6im3c/w400-h300/05-P1090550.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ-oCquCm-p8ziuNu4MMuJ9JJhSTIC4f_bnszvM78__6xzAHxo_oaj3tJMxvoFlb4SljB84zY2FSPxaG6NPqV027wTbU5kNt7VbRRQt13OUxRcTVxZ_4QzMewk2ULTctVXjLKn2ki1Io/s480/09-P1090554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ-oCquCm-p8ziuNu4MMuJ9JJhSTIC4f_bnszvM78__6xzAHxo_oaj3tJMxvoFlb4SljB84zY2FSPxaG6NPqV027wTbU5kNt7VbRRQt13OUxRcTVxZ_4QzMewk2ULTctVXjLKn2ki1Io/w400-h300/09-P1090554.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yS7fKuFQYX-tFrDnPeysRSy0kM8xxmhBxXN3eEZcvnjUvqZQywJRab7I2ODQiVabAaEH0hCRXoGdebjNvWGkzl4GNelkbruLvgPN_pKFHrH-HFFXskBlCUql5O05CBG-qOZKx6mYZ7I/s480/04-P1090549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yS7fKuFQYX-tFrDnPeysRSy0kM8xxmhBxXN3eEZcvnjUvqZQywJRab7I2ODQiVabAaEH0hCRXoGdebjNvWGkzl4GNelkbruLvgPN_pKFHrH-HFFXskBlCUql5O05CBG-qOZKx6mYZ7I/s320/04-P1090549.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAwJ1U1jeNhdc68J9g3hjEQ9FA_DHg-6po5UhyT9kEZSs-doBu8dzBfeCoYDemmzES4F9DUAit4secGtpg0e0HvugnZEQgKHUKkKo_sBkRL2AxGwlmZMXQVFH8556ATCFSQ5wweiHkTA/s480/07-P1090552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="480" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAwJ1U1jeNhdc68J9g3hjEQ9FA_DHg-6po5UhyT9kEZSs-doBu8dzBfeCoYDemmzES4F9DUAit4secGtpg0e0HvugnZEQgKHUKkKo_sBkRL2AxGwlmZMXQVFH8556ATCFSQ5wweiHkTA/w200-h131/07-P1090552.JPG" width="200" /></a>The WALL's metal slats loomed as we drew closer. Construction was ongoing. Wide gouges scarred the landscape to the east and west. Heaps of metal were stacked across the desert. Large machines moved up and down the hills. We arranged our chairs under shade tarps and with wall construction as the backdrop, we began our meditation. We were instructed to choose a focus that caused personal distress. The juxtaposition of peaceful intention and the WALL, with it's sounds, activity and repercussions, were overpowering.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4EJv6wpaaW0ld0kGW_9WMgCsDWhkzthHLUjc-WMzpdnEXN0gm1Pb3HVaL1SwxQO630mNMJFPlqIwxqqKa50Wg4wHiWObLUt9BUTX9cMkgKx6cNh1hh2fQXZy9-V9JDF7qanCB_6IIWo/s480/12-P1090561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="480" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4EJv6wpaaW0ld0kGW_9WMgCsDWhkzthHLUjc-WMzpdnEXN0gm1Pb3HVaL1SwxQO630mNMJFPlqIwxqqKa50Wg4wHiWObLUt9BUTX9cMkgKx6cNh1hh2fQXZy9-V9JDF7qanCB_6IIWo/w640-h452/12-P1090561.JPG" width="640" /></a></p><p>I relaxed into the meditation and was surprised when I landed upon an image of my estranged 98-year old mother who had recently fallen and broken her hip. She had severed communication with me nearly a decade earlier, after my father died, and we had settled into a distant quiet. Her fall had stirred the emotional pot. In addition to blessing the desert-dwelling beings such as tortoise and jaguar, I wished her wellness and recovery as I sat in the shadow of the wall, cocooned in meditative compassion. Then, holding this vision, I whispered, "Wounded Mother." This revelation overtook me as the wounds of mother earth were exposed in miles of vertical iron and men driving machines, blasting through mountains, doing the work of one crazed man with stolen funds. To the extent we humans are desperately out of balance we can follow the heart-torn paths to the wounds of Mothers. The birth givers.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5d1q2KZJS-MoNhceJdkiveqh9RVeRGDdSTbtJhEt4aVbh7d20hYQM2-XrtoVEOawJQYBezbnuG2I1zXIDrUxGuUej3Bta1-FtrwtnMAiet-SuNng9DeFzEy4SZF2SaoGnuOFg4ScI5Pk/s480/06-P1090551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5d1q2KZJS-MoNhceJdkiveqh9RVeRGDdSTbtJhEt4aVbh7d20hYQM2-XrtoVEOawJQYBezbnuG2I1zXIDrUxGuUej3Bta1-FtrwtnMAiet-SuNng9DeFzEy4SZF2SaoGnuOFg4ScI5Pk/w400-h300/06-P1090551.JPG" width="400" /></a></p><p>I had reached the point of peaceful indifference with my birth mother long ago. Her Karmic path is hers alone. Earth Mother, however, is another matter. I will not sit by and allow our sustenance and existence on this planet be destroyed, day by day, by greed-driven men. </p><p>I wish the machine men would have stopped, jumped from the metal monsters and joined us. The man assigned to keep the wall secure began by telling us we could not approach and ended up protecting our right to do so. </p><p>Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that we are what we love as well as that which we resist and hate. Resistance and peace must come from this realization. Compassion, if only for a few moments, can permeate the battlefields, whether personal, family, community or global. In viewing the worst of what humanity builds I spawn an image of tearing down the WALL. That the decades-long murderous unrest the US has created in Mexico and Central America, causing people to flee on foot, walk thousands of miles and risk their lives in our deadly desert wilderness, will culminate in justice for all. </p><p>That all wounded Mothers will be healed. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISxcxsZDPe9GM0Gz62ZlmxaYbx_GHMjjs8WzGD-OZouzi2PzX2ag7Unki2MtMexwEvG6-ItYuftNKNxqgz5npMVRMBotB_-QzE0ihBHEWR9EJjJErBBEKd9F6O_pbWK52-0rwWdeCEDE/s480/15-P1090569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISxcxsZDPe9GM0Gz62ZlmxaYbx_GHMjjs8WzGD-OZouzi2PzX2ag7Unki2MtMexwEvG6-ItYuftNKNxqgz5npMVRMBotB_-QzE0ihBHEWR9EJjJErBBEKd9F6O_pbWK52-0rwWdeCEDE/w640-h480/15-P1090569.JPG" width="640" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><b>More Photos of the Day:</b></p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcChJIjhzdO5DpLIdZ-xoRycGR27UfPLwvrC_8J4thmNQ12C1iMh-IO2tysCKxZcLa2trBCMAIpe5Mn3IFP-gvkth_mL-qPkTOso6L5-KTRFKIBMf6aTdEuOhZtu-MsQxMrt7PWfmOEc/s480/01-P1090541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="480" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcChJIjhzdO5DpLIdZ-xoRycGR27UfPLwvrC_8J4thmNQ12C1iMh-IO2tysCKxZcLa2trBCMAIpe5Mn3IFP-gvkth_mL-qPkTOso6L5-KTRFKIBMf6aTdEuOhZtu-MsQxMrt7PWfmOEc/w400-h304/01-P1090541.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rising Sun <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5P0-EoSo0QSCboFs2O5cnZw1RRlQTbHyvq5bDXLydoDEfwWnatzRr4zyfG0Ud9LPZsdduaT2j9ui5tSraqJkEsfxXZ3L6cCbyJQFw45bTS_bN8Flf6waHtq61b3GeNegAoBTZCI8PzCE/s480/03-P1090547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="480" height="485" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5P0-EoSo0QSCboFs2O5cnZw1RRlQTbHyvq5bDXLydoDEfwWnatzRr4zyfG0Ud9LPZsdduaT2j9ui5tSraqJkEsfxXZ3L6cCbyJQFw45bTS_bN8Flf6waHtq61b3GeNegAoBTZCI8PzCE/w640-h485/03-P1090547.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznKymaPVYuYqN2brYBdwQmhyphenhyphenRHvf_EP9GKQgVw9jEGhtz8G8XVIdjvUY4iRUUFCFs0WxNny0kKMY5T7KdpD_ZtP_d2MMxhFILiLnyDenmw-w9pq23sPZbaNiitcEc_QJhfE995BX8Pno/s480/08-P1090553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznKymaPVYuYqN2brYBdwQmhyphenhyphenRHvf_EP9GKQgVw9jEGhtz8G8XVIdjvUY4iRUUFCFs0WxNny0kKMY5T7KdpD_ZtP_d2MMxhFILiLnyDenmw-w9pq23sPZbaNiitcEc_QJhfE995BX8Pno/w400-h300/08-P1090553.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meditation Instructions <br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWjIAusIcOnEl7KhE54Sj4MjdMM4WcLYs_se5EBDZ0bNHJkR7aLzDeXat8fYTnno35__qlIKITo0S88RvOESZKkBKmQOiKiig96ULIHURuC9DcbzKlfEqpJaK11D9GWZtCB2Cym6mnenY/s480/10-P1090556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="480" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWjIAusIcOnEl7KhE54Sj4MjdMM4WcLYs_se5EBDZ0bNHJkR7aLzDeXat8fYTnno35__qlIKITo0S88RvOESZKkBKmQOiKiig96ULIHURuC9DcbzKlfEqpJaK11D9GWZtCB2Cym6mnenY/w400-h306/10-P1090556.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Witness to Destruction <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4CNt6sHytNTgZo7mHZ7nd-RODK8Qb-mUt8q6_x2cm6kIalmWcqQ1J52jBhUYsbr-uOWRxrRVjwuZxCpb9qiY8aDNo9mg1ri5gBjpfxrBjsoQl0V_Iwd_IgDHiJQUKfAfoR7vYgyDKoh8/s480/11-P1090559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="290" data-original-width="480" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4CNt6sHytNTgZo7mHZ7nd-RODK8Qb-mUt8q6_x2cm6kIalmWcqQ1J52jBhUYsbr-uOWRxrRVjwuZxCpb9qiY8aDNo9mg1ri5gBjpfxrBjsoQl0V_Iwd_IgDHiJQUKfAfoR7vYgyDKoh8/w400-h241/11-P1090559.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZepPwUUQNX576iTDRxKfy9E67mQcbMY-wDjwdIgTufAoDdHoiR2HmX33WzuXqlLdeFRZZ1LZwwmgd1XekwYkc6V2lMba28hmH16fwhfZQMO4Tm7K44h2z-HqKMe20Yl53z5Yi_4SPhK8/s480/13-P1090562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="480" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZepPwUUQNX576iTDRxKfy9E67mQcbMY-wDjwdIgTufAoDdHoiR2HmX33WzuXqlLdeFRZZ1LZwwmgd1XekwYkc6V2lMba28hmH16fwhfZQMO4Tm7K44h2z-HqKMe20Yl53z5Yi_4SPhK8/w400-h305/13-P1090562.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marked Remains <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZ_Y4X9ftnHa52FIzrBMjLol5_nekJHb3LP-XCEW9Sx-XkOkWeAG8Tfr-pQWEVZucbEH5_UFcbMaS2OFwRXvu0yAZq1emtioNeEPTRIkHT2dlicA_Z75JvsOa5AtmV7sty_ySNjO8JS0/s480/17-P1090574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="480" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZ_Y4X9ftnHa52FIzrBMjLol5_nekJHb3LP-XCEW9Sx-XkOkWeAG8Tfr-pQWEVZucbEH5_UFcbMaS2OFwRXvu0yAZq1emtioNeEPTRIkHT2dlicA_Z75JvsOa5AtmV7sty_ySNjO8JS0/w400-h288/17-P1090574.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THE FUTURE: Looking East Toward Nogales, toward Sycamore Canyon. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha05hiFGg7hQIzXepZktiGRS2XxyK7WpYqa_whtTWiLrIgBOuzKISGSBgee579QAdTQKsbRk73lnMRKhHTKO7G9_XuYusb8jJX0bB_vXM2BeB0HnhvUi99KalitRzAPoKK_F5UCdRJfHU/s480/18-P1090575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha05hiFGg7hQIzXepZktiGRS2XxyK7WpYqa_whtTWiLrIgBOuzKISGSBgee579QAdTQKsbRk73lnMRKhHTKO7G9_XuYusb8jJX0bB_vXM2BeB0HnhvUi99KalitRzAPoKK_F5UCdRJfHU/w400-h300/18-P1090575.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Border Patrol Flyovers <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-86464111049401229712020-06-13T17:25:00.002-07:002020-06-13T17:25:28.144-07:00Madera Canyon: Wild Salvation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; 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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_30jrUgIcqt-hR0gG3hxkyUuq2Ar8NkXm8EZabGJrT6uMkq1bpQz-ZH15lnfL08170tf4me2-9USyYwCR6DZ2B-mLaynn9A3-clnN5pq3VTUBPjufPGuBp1DpVv5R4sU6SkbqDXeOdPE/s1600/1-P1090209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_30jrUgIcqt-hR0gG3hxkyUuq2Ar8NkXm8EZabGJrT6uMkq1bpQz-ZH15lnfL08170tf4me2-9USyYwCR6DZ2B-mLaynn9A3-clnN5pq3VTUBPjufPGuBp1DpVv5R4sU6SkbqDXeOdPE/s320/1-P1090209.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into the Santa Rita Mountains I go ... </td></tr>
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Oh Lordy, it was good to be back! It had been a couple years since I'd been in Madera Canyon. The last time, in fact, had been with Carole. We returned for a day hike along the lush sycamore-lined stream, one of many visits we shared to this land frequented by the jaguar. It was also the locale of Hope's first backpack some forty years ago. Yep, there were many memories in the Santa Rita mountains. This visit was spurred by June's triple digit heat and a burning desire to connect with some very special birds. I set my alarm for 5:00 a.m. but awoke at 4:00. I arrived the canyon at 6:30. Primo bird time. I expected to get a good dose of the 250 recorded species.<br />
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I parked in front of the small lodge to await my friend Judith, and headed for their natural viewing area replete with bird feeders. Within minutes I learned that the very rare Berylline Hummingbird had been spotted, and was showing up about every twenty minutes at a feeder to drink. I would attempt to see it several times before my visit ended, but would I be successful?<br />
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Judith arrived and we headed upcanyon to see the Sulfur-bellied Flycatchers, said to be nesting in an old telephone pole not far from the road. I heard them before I saw them ... sounded like the squeaking of a bunch of dog toys. They were remarkable! That yellow chest and rusty tail ... gorgeous birds. And a new sighting for me. Yahoo!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_uXsRJZerhobqN1lRSP3lhZOUbCPOhqC8qicuIMqBPa3pLHkVN6ANUjkFCjEuQmu8lYs64ufHZzB5BTWCXtlxE8KvJQiemDNsMkLCqo5bZlDR1KzLgdxDN6Ur6rmKd922QF6B2c_w2A/s1600/2-P1090233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="493" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_uXsRJZerhobqN1lRSP3lhZOUbCPOhqC8qicuIMqBPa3pLHkVN6ANUjkFCjEuQmu8lYs64ufHZzB5BTWCXtlxE8KvJQiemDNsMkLCqo5bZlDR1KzLgdxDN6Ur6rmKd922QF6B2c_w2A/s400/2-P1090233.JPG" width="307" /></a></div>
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The bird I longed to see the most, however, was the Elegant Trogon. A Mexican bird, S. Arizona is its northernmost range, and it's rare. It has been frequenting this canyon, however, for many years. I have spotted them in the Huachuca Mountains, Cave Creek near Portal, Sycamore Canyon and Mexico. I wanted to share some time with one here, today.<br />
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Miraculously, I was awarded within minutes. A female was spotted in an oak tree not far from the road. Furthermore, I'd never seen a female before ... always the colorful males. She perched in their unmistakable way, with rump out and tail tucked inward. A picture of peace.<br />
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Her male, meanwhile, called from the thick Sycamore canopy. I was able to catch this shot at a distance. I would hear him for the next few hours, but rarely got a glimpse.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjV1vkQudHjLP7nYwjCfoSYb85tw4qEuZSnuchq2ZBipyWCxz-Hxlk8flQmBfaBskKuECBXpCwuHDUiKeSLjz3bBAip4Zh0bsiTFd8k4F8JOTnQbM3XSmGOvlAGlAYzdjMdw3K2z-mJY/s1600/1-P1090225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="800" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjV1vkQudHjLP7nYwjCfoSYb85tw4qEuZSnuchq2ZBipyWCxz-Hxlk8flQmBfaBskKuECBXpCwuHDUiKeSLjz3bBAip4Zh0bsiTFd8k4F8JOTnQbM3XSmGOvlAGlAYzdjMdw3K2z-mJY/s640/1-P1090225.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Trogons nest in tree cavities. After years of trying to see these elusive birds, I was gobsmacked to see this pair nesting in the top of an old telephone pole right on the road! They take turns on the nest so we waited for an hour for the exchange. At one point Momma came out of the hole to chase away a woodpecker, but she returned inside and did not exchange places with the guy who must have been having too much fun in the forest.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WmEzP1116OyaNTFF9MSulLpkI_qlyTFDMPWbfpHldrIM-3edQ3bany98YNBlUtpGVXj7546fLZg9hBrBXRYaSyxAy_OWwb32V_aqA-angeQmMZt8fE4M0ebSPsYh2M0CSbzMhWsSYcQ/s1600/1-P1090221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="640" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WmEzP1116OyaNTFF9MSulLpkI_qlyTFDMPWbfpHldrIM-3edQ3bany98YNBlUtpGVXj7546fLZg9hBrBXRYaSyxAy_OWwb32V_aqA-angeQmMZt8fE4M0ebSPsYh2M0CSbzMhWsSYcQ/s400/1-P1090221.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Momma Trogon returning to her brood</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-xVF25YzDsR17ir_VGaDsen7haIFF6ZMrFAxV8ipeZaZ2IhXmGR1-l7pfv03aSMrCrQmVFL8au2iSbDYZEMYJhYxhEtTCIUZ7Kfn1IiDy_RKYUIBH0aXtuNMMojvhZ_njQN4ap5930Y/s1600/5-P1090278.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-xVF25YzDsR17ir_VGaDsen7haIFF6ZMrFAxV8ipeZaZ2IhXmGR1-l7pfv03aSMrCrQmVFL8au2iSbDYZEMYJhYxhEtTCIUZ7Kfn1IiDy_RKYUIBH0aXtuNMMojvhZ_njQN4ap5930Y/s320/5-P1090278.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Two hours of Trogon waiting was enough.<br />
We donned our covid masks and returned to the popular hummer feeders to see if that Berylline was around. The sun and scenes were irresistible. If you want an idea of why the Magnificent is so named, check out the difference in sizes of this male Magnificent and an Anna's hummer at the same feeder.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyEDYH2cTFHzEM5KKX33JLCCWwdzBOnpHJLbf3HTlYPqAVFFHtXvJS4LzAzfCf6SbggfWqzNnTD4toGlteoA4Uzu9MahnbwXMIawncDMkZZSKTI9YoHIUERIlt4yu4_fXPOb7C2SD98bg/s1600/4-P1090269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="640" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyEDYH2cTFHzEM5KKX33JLCCWwdzBOnpHJLbf3HTlYPqAVFFHtXvJS4LzAzfCf6SbggfWqzNnTD4toGlteoA4Uzu9MahnbwXMIawncDMkZZSKTI9YoHIUERIlt4yu4_fXPOb7C2SD98bg/s400/4-P1090269.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Judith and I had one more stop to make, but before we departed, I ducked down to look into a bush where the Berylline was said to hang out. As I did so it flew up to a feeder and was promptly chased away by other hummers. We got a good look at her green body, nondescript face and and rufous wings, More than enough to call it a sighting. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Must be lonely to be the only one of your species in a world of feeders.<br />
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Down the road we went to a distant sycamore tree where a tiny Northern Pygmy Owl was nesting in a hole in tree. Normally this would be the highlight of a birding trip. On this day it was one more incredible moment. We didn't get to see the parents feeding but we did spy the baby peering out of the stunning white trunk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga8gcRrDR9bll0NwXBYCTabeNu4_-ytZLAE5cA-X93XNVuoU5imW9RDalznJxsW2CxXQYCjzwp8NNl45k82EdZiNNeMCZIhxB1mbdlGVis6DInpNwq0A85_zI328XGxcJAWIvDiNYRYWc/s1600/6-P1090284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="640" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga8gcRrDR9bll0NwXBYCTabeNu4_-ytZLAE5cA-X93XNVuoU5imW9RDalznJxsW2CxXQYCjzwp8NNl45k82EdZiNNeMCZIhxB1mbdlGVis6DInpNwq0A85_zI328XGxcJAWIvDiNYRYWc/s400/6-P1090284.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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I can not count all of the birds we saw this day. Bridaled Titmice, Hepatic Tanagers, Wrens, Arizona Woodpeckers were profuse and even an American Robin, rare for this area. His song lilted through the forest, taking me back to my Iowa childhood, hearing his riff through the humid haze as the sun rose. <br />
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Two new bird sightings is a banner day and the Trogons were an uplifting gift. What counted the most, however, was the preciousness of this holy place and the many beings that call it home. The coatis, jaguar, ocelots, birds, lions, bears ... these wild spirits keep us sane. They offset human addiction to control and domestication. Their presence calls upon us to respect and protect them. To acknowledge our kinship.<br />
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I hope you can find a special place as the summer solstice approaches. Commune with those energies larger than we. May we join on June 20th, New Moon and solar eclipse, and give humble thanks for this hallowed planet. Love to you and all our relations. Be well ...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jimson Weed</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moon Over Wrightston and Hopkins Telescope</td></tr>
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One never feels alone in this canyon. The deep ravine speaks in many tongues.<br />
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For more on the cultural history of Madera (spanish for 'wood') follow this link:<br />
<a href="https://friendsofmaderacanyon.org/cultural-history/#:~:text=Madera%20is%20the%20Spanish%20word,road%20to%20haul%20the%20lumber.">https://friendsofmaderacanyon.org/cultural-history/#:~:text=Madera%20is%20the%20Spanish%20word,road%20to%20haul%20the%20lumber.</a>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-19734636881117425482020-05-08T09:36:00.000-07:002020-05-08T09:36:27.272-07:00The Ultimate Download<br />
Day two.<br />
She is gone.<br />
Mind swirls with memories<br />
calendars and journals at my side<br />
I decipher scribbles of the final days<br />
Carole dying into death <div>the send off.<br />
<br />
She had visited Arizona late March</div><div>days marked with unspoken words</div><div>like <i>final </i>and <i>last</i><br />
we stepped naked into a hot tub<br />
gorged on banana creme pie</div><div>made our way up a hill</div><div>above Arivaca Lake</div><div>joined good friends to<br />drum the rise of the </div><div>equinox full moon.<br /><br />I photographed <br />Carole with<br />
daughters and granddaughters<br />
we watched shadows pass</div><div>across the accordion pleats of sahuaros<br />
from a Tucson back porch<br />she cheered daughter Laurel on<br />
in the discovery of </div><div>her first home. <br /><br />Carole's Kaslo return </div><div>to her idyllic home was tough</div><div>tearful phone calls </div><div>followed <br />soon thereafter by</div><div>one I missed.<br />This voicemail --<br />
<br />
<i>Hey Honey, this is Carole. Give me a call.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I knew what this was.<br />
I was about to hear<br />
the hardest words of my life.<div>I returned her call.<br />
<i>It's time </i>she said.<br />
<i>I can't keep food down and I'm having horrible days. </i><br />
<i>I want you here. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Her date with death was set:<br />
May's New Moon<br />
a week away.<br />
<br />
I arrived under<br />
the waning sliver moon<br />
kissed her and sat at her side<br />
she wasted no time<br />
of course not<br />
she had no time to waste<br />
<i>what are you doing about land?</i><br />
She wanted me settled<br /><i>seventeen years on the road was enough.</i></div><div>A recurring theme<br />her closing goal.<br />
<br />I found her alone </div><div>the next morn</div><div>on the couch<br />
in palpable pain<br />
I smudged her <br />with the white eagle tail feather </div><div>I once brought<br />
her from Alaska.<br />
We sang an old favorite<br />
<i>We all come from the Goddess</i><br />
<i>and to her we shall return</i> ...<br />
I leaned toward her face<br />
took her hand as we gazed</div><div>lifetimes deep <br />
into one another's eyes.<br />
I began to shake.<br />
Shiver.<br />
<i>Do you feel that</i> I asked.<br />
<i>the energy transference?</i><br />
<i>It's like ...</i></div><div><i>you are downloading into me.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The ultimate download </i>she answered.</div><div>Her words were barely discernible.<br />
<br />
We sat spellbound <br />
until her eyes twinkled </div><div>
<i>Well, <b>I've</b> taken care of <b>my</b> business </i></div><div>she joked<br />
<i>I'm <b>out</b> of here ...</i><br />
<i>before <b>you</b>.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Ya, thanks a lot</i> I said<br />
this, our final<br />
laugh together.<br />
<br />
She wanted another song<br />
one we sang so long ago<br />
<i>we all fly like eagles ... </i><br />
she was angelic<br />
<br />she said </div><div>when the time came to die</div><div>she wanted someone at the door </div><div>protecting the space:<br />
<i>Death is like a birth </i><br />
<i>someone always shows up unexpectedly.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The old moon<br />
was taking Carole with her<br />
into the void<br />both of them</div><div>thinner and thinner<br />disappearing into darkness<br />
to birth anew.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_CC-2usrdfVusRW89LbNL1IcWOxZq5GUMUzwY2XNWkC-8VZZCC2nF55l25MiFrjxemXrjqtUku1JBQNjEyw5qeTr4eMCWcRGJLbwOSNs1qx01_5Ccq8N47d56AYvALNeRw6uyHbEd-M/s1600/01-P1070820.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_CC-2usrdfVusRW89LbNL1IcWOxZq5GUMUzwY2XNWkC-8VZZCC2nF55l25MiFrjxemXrjqtUku1JBQNjEyw5qeTr4eMCWcRGJLbwOSNs1qx01_5Ccq8N47d56AYvALNeRw6uyHbEd-M/s320/01-P1070820.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring Tucson Visit</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizhnFn9cI00rBZ-alfeGv6e3-NakOami7a98jqTo-H5fYUXuVCDcIwxavb4KtM1R7HxLbWw1pux4ejbJ3_g7F_EO47f6urPgbUakfdhkqopJHpbna4ysoihLxYlyuCwSbr6t38v2Hs_A/s1600/14-P1070838.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="625" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizhnFn9cI00rBZ-alfeGv6e3-NakOami7a98jqTo-H5fYUXuVCDcIwxavb4KtM1R7HxLbWw1pux4ejbJ3_g7F_EO47f6urPgbUakfdhkqopJHpbna4ysoihLxYlyuCwSbr6t38v2Hs_A/s320/14-P1070838.JPG" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add Daughters, Grand-daughters and Maya </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHg0h96I8gITuy1Wku_8NVUGj6IJkx0dASzdcqauoE6xpJvAGYdtAUpVL8BnWfzCDCRCWqnJK9CU-Fysn_EI5m-NsizCvygdlW3zCLu0cLZPrMrlMCnpZcAvE3VMX5CTjh2rgB_B3YOtk/s1600/25-P1070865.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="502" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHg0h96I8gITuy1Wku_8NVUGj6IJkx0dASzdcqauoE6xpJvAGYdtAUpVL8BnWfzCDCRCWqnJK9CU-Fysn_EI5m-NsizCvygdlW3zCLu0cLZPrMrlMCnpZcAvE3VMX5CTjh2rgB_B3YOtk/s320/25-P1070865.JPG" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Granddaughter Fun </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div></div>Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-35099647146631928602020-05-04T15:28:00.001-07:002020-05-08T09:37:02.756-07:00Dying into Death: Alive as Ever <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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5 a.m. with my<br />
journal and strong-as-I-can-stand-it-coffee<br />
pajama-clad in<br />
her pajamas<br />
the ones she tossed me<br />
when she opened the package to<br />
discover eight nightgowns and pj's<br />
she had ordered weeks ago.<br />
It was two days before new moon.<br />
<i>Are you going to change every few hours? </i>I joked.<br />
She laughed<br />
threw one set at me<br />
and chose another for her final earth-bound moments<br />
her deathbed outfit<br />
to match her coral-painted toenails.<br />
<br />
It is the one year anniversary of her death.<br />
Cancer's fatal kidnap.<br />
Flame flickers on my altar<br />
sage smoke curls and wafts<br />
carries my drumbeat<br />
into the cosmos<br />
mixes with memory and<br />
the certainty that she is with me this morn.<br />
I rarely drummed without her, afterall.<br />
<br />
The poignancy of our final hours<br />
is seared within --<br />
<i>It's just my luck this new moon is late in the day</i><br />
she sighed.<br />
I smiled. Reminded her<br />
that moon's birth time once forced me<br />
to be married at 5:30 a.m.<br />
She cast me a <i>shoulda-slept-in-grin.</i><br />
<i>Come help me in the bathroom</i> she said.<br />
An honor.<br />
<br />
One-by-one<br />
we gathered around her<br />
twelve moons ago --<br />
husband, soul-sister, older daughter, younger daughter --<br />
stuck like glue<br />
there was no place else to be<br />
except in her final waking presence<br />
rendered complete by her admonition<br />
<i>stop sitting there staring at me </i><br />
with laughter-soaked tears<br />
our tether was cutting us loose.<br />
<br />
So I sat at her feet, rubbing and humming,<br />
watched the woman who lived for spring<br />
and towers of seed catalogues<br />
raise her eyes and gaze to the sky<br />
as if to discern her personal portal.<br />
<i>Bring me some dandelions </i>she said<br />
eschewing the explosion of cultivated blooms<br />
in her garden beneath the window.<br />
<br />
I cleaned and prepared her altar mid-day --<br />
sage stick, Bald Eagle feather, Venus of Willendorf<br />
Green Tara at the center<br />
open eyes on Her palms<br />
bottoms of the feet<br />
and center of Her forehead<br />
the focal point of Carole's morning meditation<br />
tucked between morphine and body's decay. <br />
The Tarot death card sat upright in a shell.<br />
We agreed: it was time for it to go.<br />
<br />
Linear time tagged Luna.<br />
Or was it the other way around?<br />
The moon was about to birth<br />
our dying mid-wife was called to witness.<br />
<br />
We final four encircled the bed<br />
<i>Time to smudge, Christina</i><br />
cleansing smoke for the primal brain<br />
sent oer Carole, dr-friend, daughters, husband<br />
accompanied by the near-by heartbeat of drums<br />
the sister's journey song.<br />
<br />
IV drip prepared<br />
dr speaks<br />
the legal necessity<br />
reserved for those<br />
with no promise<br />
of an earthly<br />
healthy tomorrow<br />
<br />
<i>you can </i><br />
<i>stop</i><br />
<i>the lethal process</i><br />
<i>at any time</i><br />
<i>do you know what you are about to do?</i><br />
Thus<br />
Carole's ultimate struggle<br />
to keep morphine balanced<br />
with lucidity<br />
an orchestration of perfection<br />
so she could answer<br />
a resounding<br />
<i>yes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
A daughter at each foot.<br />
Husband and Soul-sister at each shoulder<br />
one by one<br />
she looked into our eyes<br />
<br />
<i>I love you.</i><br />
<i>I love you.</i><br />
<i>I love you.</i><br />
<i>My Perfect Love</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
the silent slip<br />
into death<br />
<br />
peace<br />
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<br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-39400329278076183412020-03-21T14:48:00.000-07:002020-03-21T15:09:50.601-07:00Land-love and Covid-19 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The phone call came at exactly 1:00 p.m. No accident. One, in numerology stands for new beginnings. Every zero after exaggerates its potency. <i>The title has been transferred</i>, said the voice on the other end. <i>Congratulations. </i>Tears streamed down my face. It was happening. After almost twenty years, I was a landowner again.<br />
<br />
All the signs and omens portended this. Astrological messages were clear, with four to six planets in my 4th house of home, at any given time. I had been looking for land for three years but nothing had coalesced. I knew the right deals flow. Spirit puts me where she wants me.<br />
<br />
Synchronicity. I was scanning facebook and noticed a woman's post. She remarked how much she liked Arivaca and how she wanted to return and look for land. Another woman chimed in, <i>I have ten acres for sale</i>. Bingo! It was ten acres I knew, in a location I loved. Three interested friends had attempted to contact her the year before and their calls weren't returned.<br />
<br />
I contacted the seller immediately. We walked the land four days later and shook on a deal. It was that fast.<br />
<br />
Synchronicity two was the method of purchase. Before she died, Carole made me promise that I would purchase land. <i>Twenty years on the road was enough</i>, she said. She was not wishy-washy. She left instructions for raising funds and I promised her I would follow them when the time came. Through various means I was able to purchase the land without pulling a <i>Thelma and Louise.</i> I felt Carole's hand in the endeavor every step of the way, as the support of the universe followed suit. She was a pro at manifesting.<br />
<br />
Synchronicity three was a medical procedure scheduled the week of closing: photodynamic therapy. It involved an intense light that initiated a deep burn to rid my face of cancerous cells. I happened to call the drs. office the week before the procedure to check on cancellations. It was a cold, rainy day; a cancellation had just come through. I went in that day. The aftereffects were intense pain, puffer-fish swelling and light sensitivity. Then, peeling. Sheets of thin skin shed in pieces, akin to a snake, except I couldn't crawl out of it. If I had had the procedure as scheduled, the day before closing, it would have been intolerable.<br />
<br />
Synchronicity four was the closing date. March 20th was chosen at random. Days later I was checking my astrological calendar and was utterly shocked to see March 20th had Mars and Jupiter in Capricorn in my home sector. <i>Home action peaks to happiness.</i> It was the perfect day to close. This day was to <i>give me a taste of my future and the supportive milieu.</i> It was all systems go. Heavens to Betsy!<br />
<br />
Would all this, however, be enough to offset the pandemic pandemonium that was overtaking the world? A low grade nervousness overtook me. <span style="text-align: center;">Within a few days the stock market fell to pre-2016 levels, towns were shuttered and people were quarantined as Covid-19 swept into people's lungs and rendered them breathless. The global scene was surreal and nothing was certain. I wanted to stay healthy. I wanted my loved ones, my community to stay healthy. I wanted to secure this land before who-knows-what-might-happen. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_jq7yvCFtL5fWZcvvqJlDEUW4szUYVLPbIvYLJEBF8S_XourdrO9cdiC1svY67LZ_T4jpY6e-XrSni9xly_bIXZc3lOlcFOHYLQYOmZ31mtRw7cQJ1RAhQJAWsemOi3U1RUqi_bstdq4/s1600/rps20200321_073003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="1280" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_jq7yvCFtL5fWZcvvqJlDEUW4szUYVLPbIvYLJEBF8S_XourdrO9cdiC1svY67LZ_T4jpY6e-XrSni9xly_bIXZc3lOlcFOHYLQYOmZ31mtRw7cQJ1RAhQJAWsemOi3U1RUqi_bstdq4/s320/rps20200321_073003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert Chicory, like huge snowflakes in grass.</td></tr>
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It was a FSBO deal. We, seller and buyer, signed separately at the title company on March 19th, the first day of spring. I hightailed it home, ate some ice cream, called daughter Hope and collapsed exhausted into bed by 8:00 p.m. I awoke in a dream-like daze, strangely disconnected. Did this really happen? The process was six weeks start to finish. I returned to the land for validation and awakened to the thrill. The hills were awash in birdsong. Golden poppies and desert chicory joined hundreds of spring flowers in carpets of color. I walked the thick grasslands and gazed beyond to Baboquivari's unobstructed view. Carole and I had trekked up to Baboquivari's Tohono O'odham emergence cave years before; it was a spiritual tether.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAo_6zhVQ0RTIuEI6gULUZcHjdxEHKUuC0yqG02rszijFkfong1D6h7ICf2iJO66IUunzWCYfHh_IC1I8e3KtzvPJXZ7Hqf3M20Tgn2Lvs-ywmPjjJiN7m6yvR0j2am0TnH91TYiM_UQE/s1600/rps20200320_162454_664.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAo_6zhVQ0RTIuEI6gULUZcHjdxEHKUuC0yqG02rszijFkfong1D6h7ICf2iJO66IUunzWCYfHh_IC1I8e3KtzvPJXZ7Hqf3M20Tgn2Lvs-ywmPjjJiN7m6yvR0j2am0TnH91TYiM_UQE/s400/rps20200320_162454_664.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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From the ocotillo forest to an elegant horseshoe pond, I could not believe my good fortune. Dulce waded into the pond for a drink as I visualized a meditation spot in the middle of the horseshoe, surrounded on three sides by water. This was real.<br />
<br />
There are, of course, a healthy share of Arivaca stories that came with this place. I'll share them as time goes by. But for now the path is one of healing: ceremony to heal the land, as the land heals me and all who visit. The vision for this precious place is a haven where artists and writers create on behalf of our wounded Mother planet.<br />
<br />
The first order of business is to cow-proof the property by fixing gates. Then, plod through county regs and electric company bureaucracy to bring in the electricity. The well is excellent, but I need power to run the pump. Who knows? In the time of Covid-19, perhaps a community garden is in the works. The land will tell me what she needs, and spirit will provide the resources and people-power to make it so.<br />
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I sit here typing, picking at the flaking skin on my face. The symbolism is not lost. Snakes have long been powerful Goddess symbols that shed their old life and emerged anew. One year ago this day, Carole and I drummed together on a bluff overlooking Arivaca Lake. Our final spring together before cancer took her away.<br />
<br />
I am shedding my skin, The terror and excitement is palpable. She's watching, I know ... swirling the energy into spirals. <i>Face it, </i>she smiles. I am home.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1DQo_0E_EOyQHkE1WtWl6F4HOo9emGMABTJgBx30PNmjv7CCVpT9zUhDMFsJyV_xbfJMSIqBPbaXOr9j-wvs0an0Tg69zhlKCfVQ9eEb9MPhISf_XcfXYZbJ_OuLyqUMV8Ihj-HbUoM/s1600/rps20200320_162700_697.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="1280" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1DQo_0E_EOyQHkE1WtWl6F4HOo9emGMABTJgBx30PNmjv7CCVpT9zUhDMFsJyV_xbfJMSIqBPbaXOr9j-wvs0an0Tg69zhlKCfVQ9eEb9MPhISf_XcfXYZbJ_OuLyqUMV8Ihj-HbUoM/s320/rps20200320_162700_697.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The porch that will become my outdoor living area, extension of a half-built cinder block house.<br />
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</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxJFFkGlqyxr_mxn25ccI4RkdPwOERXN4-juGY_5T9H_dCvcpGg_z-IKSrIDOiuCA5IQCHdEvSf-h89UakXi5hfqjx-OKa-uzxaZ97S4aXKJEqXgmJW9SiNhurWgBqydNYczXJGIY5CA/s1600/rps20200321_073107_896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1280" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxJFFkGlqyxr_mxn25ccI4RkdPwOERXN4-juGY_5T9H_dCvcpGg_z-IKSrIDOiuCA5IQCHdEvSf-h89UakXi5hfqjx-OKa-uzxaZ97S4aXKJEqXgmJW9SiNhurWgBqydNYczXJGIY5CA/s320/rps20200321_073107_896.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The land has varied terrain, from the high Serengeti-like grasslands to park-like wide open areas.<br />
This is the driveway to the house..</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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With humble thanks to those who support this dream on various levels -- prayers, real estate advice, monetary gifts, jokes, a well-timed contact. Everything is energy. Now where did I put those 3 ml clean-up bags? Yep, I ordered 100. Bring your gloves and drop by any time! </div>
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To the seller of the land, a wonder-woman if there ever was one, thank you for your unending commitment to preparing this land to pass on to me; for honoring the spirits of the land first and foremost. <i>Divine</i> intervention, indeed.<br />
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Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-47377884191461581902020-03-13T19:22:00.000-07:002020-03-13T20:04:49.860-07:00Travel as Spiritual Practice<div align="center" class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PdBxuJGa5vomvOZx-2bGuYAIxFWE6as46wrjfc5RpcmZA0iy3fXCp06zQl_A-YD2xSyyfFSE9zAzFFiy6gSSh0uzij933eCg-QHjqY3RNIrqdv75D4haS1-fTy5IQHY98c3e1Qn9kU8/s1600/IMG_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PdBxuJGa5vomvOZx-2bGuYAIxFWE6as46wrjfc5RpcmZA0iy3fXCp06zQl_A-YD2xSyyfFSE9zAzFFiy6gSSh0uzij933eCg-QHjqY3RNIrqdv75D4haS1-fTy5IQHY98c3e1Qn9kU8/s400/IMG_0002.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The campfire crackles, sending
flames into the dawn sky. Cream-laden espresso steams, a journal is by my side.
This is the beginning of my day: the distant howl of a coyote as birds awaken.
No traffic. No internet chatter. No daily news. I pick up my journal and begin
to write.</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Quiet and stillness are the
essence of creating a space for the unknown to drop in, a central tenet of
spiritual practice. Think of a womb, where germination takes place. This is
where you want to be. One can create a womb of receptivity in many ways --
sitting meditation in a peaceful room, walking meditation in a park, cocooned
in one</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s uninterrupted candlelit
bedroom. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Travel, however, allows for
its own gateway to the soul. There</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s a reason monks and saints
journeyed solo to the desert to seek direction and wisdom. Indigenous peoples
continue to fast and seek vision in remote, wild places. Nature informs.
Emptiness invites spirit. In the case of travel, the emptiness of leaving
familiar habits behind in favor of unforeseen possibility. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br />
</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>N</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">OTE TO SELF: turn off phone ringer and text
alerts. Your phone is now your emergency contact, not ego</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s constant companion</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">.
Camera and GPS okay. The less the better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswl4Kl1q8rWqyAUPxfFKToGQi9dgZsnjIRkwMyzA1hqI657NIahspIdwncH12UKkaDMHNxx1PPzwmxwDunSfUzlL5xAfMO53JX5n-AN9VhmPvXTr8tD7qCEduZ5sEXJ1oJKyqOe9domM/s1600/P1070431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="640" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswl4Kl1q8rWqyAUPxfFKToGQi9dgZsnjIRkwMyzA1hqI657NIahspIdwncH12UKkaDMHNxx1PPzwmxwDunSfUzlL5xAfMO53JX5n-AN9VhmPvXTr8tD7qCEduZ5sEXJ1oJKyqOe9domM/s640/P1070431.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now, the journey. Picture
yourself driving down the road. Who has not cranked up the radio and</span><span lang="DA" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: DA;"> sung</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> out loud? Clenched the
steering wheel and rage-screamed? Sobbed out loud or yelled in joy? Our vehicle
is a therapeutic bubble. Once behind the wheel we carry on imaginative
conversations; put our everyday lives in the rearview mirror. It may take a few
or a few hundred miles, but away it goes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Two lane highways are the
best. They allow for a slower pace and follow the contour of the earth </span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">… </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">the hypnotic road takes over. We soft focus and take
notice of the natural world. The distant waterfall. A field of purple lupine. A
horse in the field, rump to the wind. An old prairie cemetery. It is easy to
pull onto the shoulder, exit the vehicle and take a deep breath of crystalline
air. We smell the arid desert; the damp pine forest. Our body chemistry begins
to change as stress levels dissipate. </span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">NOTE TO SELF: Travel light;
leave the heavy baggage behind, i.e. drama, toxic relationships, whatever does
not bring out the best in you.</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The natural world, the <b>real
</b>world, is the backdrop. What allows for spiritual revelation, however, is
our nakedness. Naked because we have left our roles behind. We are no longer
defined as mother, girlfriend, wife, waitress, real estate broker or pickleball
pro </span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">… </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">the roles that defined and
supported us are gone, rendered mute in a novel setting. We come face-to-face,
spirit-to-spirit with our core and begin to ask, <i>Who am I, outside of my
roles?</i></span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If one seeks to integrate travel
and spiritual practice I suggest the following:</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Travel alone.
There are no distractions, no chatter, and it allows optimum freedom to choose
your route and stopping places.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Carry many maps.
I prefer to park on public lands away from other people. Your GPS isn’t going
to get you there. I carry a Benchmark Map book for every state I travel. The
more detail, the better.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Tune into the
senses: witness, smell, listen, touch.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Never, ever
override intuition. If you feel uneasy or in danger, leave. If you sit by a
lake and something doesn’t feel right, leave. Don’t analyze the feeling. If you
hike a trail and feel uneasy, turn around. I once pulled into a rest area with
my travel trailer prepared to spend the night. I turned off the motor, relieved
to have found a pretty, treed spot. I sat quietly and began to feel edgy.
Despite being exhausted I turned the key and continued up the road to a casino
that offered free overnight parking. Not my preference, but it was there when I
needed it. When I mentioned the rest area to the attendant, he looked me in the
eyes and said, “Good you left. There was a murder there last night.” Our bodies
and bones “know” before our brain registers.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Trust signs and
omens; pay attention to dreams. They are a secret language. Note repeating
themes. There are no coincidences. If a stranger at a gas station happens to
mention a hot spring nestled into sand dunes, follow up! There may be something
very special there for you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Travel without an
itinerary to allow for spontaneity. A necessity for signs and omens. Even if
you have a destination in mind, say, a favorite camping spot, try to keep a
flexible travel schedule.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Keep a journal
and write in it every day. Do not edit. Let your inner feelings and thoughts
flow onto paper. Pen to paper is multi-sensory. It takes you into the right
side of your brain. This is one of the benefits of journaling as opposed to
using a laptop which lights up the left, linear side of the brain, and removes
you further from emotion.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Discover the time
of day when you most connect with your muse; kiss the crepuscular. Early
morning is my most creative time of day, when I am most receptive to messages
and insights from other realms. Find yours.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">·<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Find a private
sitting spot and return every day. Witness nature. You will be amazed. The
longer you are there the more wildlife will trust you and come forth. My
sitting spots are usually under trees. Trees actually produce a chemical that
lowers blood pressure and changes body chemistry. Buddha and his sacred tree
shared many secrets. Buddha knew that smiles change body chemistry.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You can personalize these
points in myriad ways. To the spiritual traveler, however, all roads lead to
the same place -- the pursuit of awe, that all-encompassing experience that
lifts one from our little ego selves and into contact with spirit, that which
is beyond and unexplainable. </span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">NOTE TO SELF: Trust the
unfolding.</span><span lang="DE" style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8u783rmfYG2jpglk4V2bITcSkKR_jLxGOgcG54zR8v_iBRd5XbPVGAvvqdZFMACsds3TL_WdKZeZXxIEDtS_4rMiK5z0mNbD_A1Azsw7WfKPCpAFpXPPDTL7ee7f0-_iOk3DlDftFTDI/s1600/P1050069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8u783rmfYG2jpglk4V2bITcSkKR_jLxGOgcG54zR8v_iBRd5XbPVGAvvqdZFMACsds3TL_WdKZeZXxIEDtS_4rMiK5z0mNbD_A1Azsw7WfKPCpAFpXPPDTL7ee7f0-_iOk3DlDftFTDI/s640/P1050069.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old growth near the River Styx in Tasmania </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">__________________________</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Lots of <i>new</i> in my life and it includes my website. Take a look! Womad slide shows, videos, books and articles. There's also a surprise around the corner. Stay tuned!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
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<br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-5072646811905534582020-03-05T18:48:00.000-08:002020-03-08T11:16:28.121-07:00The E-bike Grin<br />
<img alt="Image may contain: 1 person, tree, mountain, sky, outdoor and nature" height="554" src="https://scontent-dfw5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/s960x960/88321389_10218435466330584_5296367783242629120_o.jpg?_nc_cat=102&_nc_sid=8024bb&_nc_ohc=s1qfVlRxVCwAX9_u3-d&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-2.xx&_nc_tp=7&oh=521782144d44e341eb0a2a70ab4a1696&oe=5E97765F" width="640" /><br />
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I resisted for a year. A friend kept insisting I would love an ebike but the price, in the thousands, was impossibly beyond my budget. Then the bike company made the changes he deemed necessary. I paid attention. He was an ebike wonk, afterall. He'd researched them for months and had a couple thousand ebike miles under his belt. The company he recommended sold direct. No middleman and much lower prices. As the saying goes, timing is everything. I was assisting my dying soul sister into the next realm, as well as my dog-companion of twelve years. In desperate need of an energy diversion, I took the plunge. I purchased a step thru ... new name for a girl's bike since men are buying them too ... SO much easier than hefting a leg over a bar.<br />
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I never anticipated the changes this bike brought to my life. From the moment I straddled the bike and took off I felt pure exhilaration. First of all, it has a throttle. It launches from a standstill position with no effort which is waaay fun. Once riding, it has five levels of assist. Technically speaking, there are no more hills. Come to an incline, press the button and go into assist 4 or 5. Up I go, pedaling at the same rate. Throughout my life I'd had road bikes, mountain bikes and cross bikes. I stayed in the shape necessary to ride them. In my sixties I didn't ride enough to stay in shape to take on big hills. With an ebike this was no longer an issue. The bike can go 50 miles on a charge, depending on wind resistance and hills. Battery life is excellent and it is a powerful 750 watts. The speed tops out at 20 mph. except for coasting down hill when I've reached 37 mph. To top it off, the bike folds, convenient for womad life. It has four inch tires for stability and is as snazzy as can be.<br />
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My odometer has hit 1200 miles. Here is what I have learned from nine months in the saddle:<br />
<ul>
<li>It is age resistant. It has given countless seniors a new lease on life.</li>
<li>It is excellent physical therapy. One gets the motion and flex without the pressure and can easily bike many miles. My hip pain has disappeared. When I broke my fibula and ankle last year the bike was key to quick recovery and no need for formal PT.</li>
<li>It is NOT a regular bike. Take time with it. Respect the speed. Learn to interact intuitively with the assist levels and gears. </li>
<li>It's an attention-getter! Expect to be stopped. People want to know about it and it's a far superior man-or-woman magnet than a dog! No poop bags needed. </li>
<li>They carry weight ... groceries, camping gear, library books ... perfect for errands and adventures.</li>
<li>Saves on gas while improving health. Studies show that calories burned are only slightly different for ebikes compared to a non-ebike. 20% less on an ebike BUT ebike riders ride longer, further and more often. Soooo....</li>
<li>Be prepared for the most fun ever.</li>
</ul>
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Negatives:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>It's heavy. Sixty-eight pounds with battery; sixty without. I can't comfortably lift sixty pounds onto an elevated bike rack and I'm not about to wrench my back. Even if I have a friend to help, my solitary life demands I can go it alone. I bought a ramp and roll it into VAN-essa. Easy Peasy! </li>
<li>Ebike racks are expensive in order to support the extra weight.</li>
<li>Ebike service isn't readily available, but as ebikes gain in popularity, it's better all the time. I've not had trouble getting tune-ups, etc.</li>
<li>Price. RAD ebikes top out at $1500. Other brands go beyond $5,000. RAD's customer support is excellent and RAD customers have a F<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/radpowerowners/?multi_permalinks=2631279127156352&notif_id=1583602209520793&notif_t=feedback_reaction_generic">aceBook page</a> if you want to get an idea of ebike realities, pros and cons. Their only US showroom is in Seattle. RADS are only available online but you can find RAD owners on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/radpowerowners/?multi_permalinks=2631279127156352&notif_id=1583602209520793&notif_t=feedback_reaction_generic">FaceBook page</a> for a test drive. </li>
<li>Once on the bike, one can't wipe that grin off your face.</li>
</ul>
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Occasionally I hear "Cheater" erupt from a gawker's lips. I look at them and smile wide: "You betcha, I'm cheating death!" </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image may contain: motorcycle, outdoor and nature" height="300" src="https://scontent-dfw5-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/81368866_10217927835400128_2004996793695207424_o.jpg?_nc_cat=111&_nc_sid=8024bb&_nc_ohc=3tTgXp-oJVgAX_MJMqy&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-1.xx&oh=ee52af1baa54fde2a9bd6fa658d62233&oe=5E96A2D3" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panniers/saddle bags are awesome. The bike effortlessly carries weight. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image may contain: mountain, outdoor and nature" height="300" src="https://scontent-dfw5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/78958775_10217656923547501_8642122297232064512_n.jpg?_nc_cat=104&_nc_sid=8024bb&_nc_ohc=nCy62S5XprgAX9BifOw&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-2.xx&oh=289ab1359863dd0d18aa33239bc2ebe3&oe=5E92FDB8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sonoran desert rides are a dream. Baboquivari Peak in the distance.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image may contain: cloud, sky, mountain, motorcycle, outdoor and nature" height="346" src="https://scontent-dfw5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/s960x960/64750882_10216357871432010_6249313484538904576_o.jpg?_nc_cat=108&_nc_sid=dd7718&_nc_ohc=dKZSTjiwf_4AX_9QC1_&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-2.xx&_nc_tp=7&oh=9824d82e813ff0d75414d7ffd81dded9&oe=5E833357" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lil Pony on a Wyoming back road. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image may contain: grass, sky, shoes, tree, outdoor and nature" height="240" src="https://scontent-dfw5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/67033292_10216528275211998_3858982172190834688_o.jpg?_nc_cat=100&_nc_sid=8024bb&_nc_ohc=yGX7YDbFaKEAX_OHOVO&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-2.xx&oh=e5b02fbe1bf22ebd7ea4d8d882700e42&oe=5E824AF0" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devils Tower (Mato Tipila) WY, my last NPS Ranger assignment</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image may contain: cloud, sky, motorcycle, mountain, outdoor and nature" height="320" src="https://scontent-dfw5-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/p720x720/64463196_10216322527948445_2521306378694295552_o.jpg?_nc_cat=105&_nc_sid=110474&_nc_ohc=44pQZY3QUyoAX831GSU&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-1.xx&_nc_tp=6&oh=a34f9b06a9a29c42a4b3f95265a296b4&oe=5E922421" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devils Tower Monolith</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image may contain: one or more people, outdoor and nature" height="234" src="https://scontent-dfw5-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/87853022_10218384431414743_5711245011102728192_n.jpg?_nc_cat=105&_nc_sid=8024bb&_nc_ohc=7nGuXmuYGEsAX_Td2r_&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-1.xx&oh=4351a276e71549c9e3d2ce25ce0d6c69&oe=5E9385B0" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back Road's Babe</td></tr>
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<tr><td><img alt="Image may contain: one or more people, sky, motorcycle, cloud, outdoor and nature" height="480" src="https://scontent-dfw5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/79338393_10217639696876845_1604007059118882816_o.jpg?_nc_cat=104&_nc_sid=110474&_nc_ohc=y4uCqVNR5ogAX_5m81R&_nc_ht=scontent-dfw5-2.xx&oh=a24a6c1817660d3f1a17fdc0295a5116&oe=5E96AF06" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Lil Pony and Rainbow. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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If you decide to go with RAD, mention me as a referral (first and last name) when you order. You get $50 off and I get a $50 gift certificate. Cool, eh? I'm happy to try to answer your ebike questions.<br />
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<br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-65448672159863519782020-02-24T10:32:00.000-08:002020-02-24T10:42:08.342-08:00And the DNA Winner is ... Dulce<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCTBCV0RVfxflj2e-5TBM5sYKlZcxedDKS_rtGgZP92iumjjRxj5Wpphfl5cRIDNvZ7-VFl-4vwShyLrn6VYEZNSxs-LYXvL4asqKoKomD7COZ6gvyBuAKNjdDpqlwLm7FkcK9eqg_uw0/s1600/P1080839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCTBCV0RVfxflj2e-5TBM5sYKlZcxedDKS_rtGgZP92iumjjRxj5Wpphfl5cRIDNvZ7-VFl-4vwShyLrn6VYEZNSxs-LYXvL4asqKoKomD7COZ6gvyBuAKNjdDpqlwLm7FkcK9eqg_uw0/s400/P1080839.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Dulce's DNA results are in. </div>
Who came the closest to her breed mix?<br />
Her vet, right here in Arivaca. She nailed Dulce's three primary breeds.<br />
Closer than the Humane Society, closer than friends, and waaaay closer than me. (I had the easy, Lab part right.)<br />
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<b><u>Her parents were</u>: </b><br />
<b>One parent was Labrador Retriever; the other was American Staffordshire Terrier w/minor Australian Shepherd. Lab and Staffie are the predominant breeds by high percentages.</b><br />
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<u>Her Grandparents were:</u><br />
The same big three, with a minor mix of other breed groups:<br />
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<u>Great-Grandparents were:</u><br />
The same big three, with a minor mix of other breed groups.<br />
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What I have experienced in our month together is the gentleness and love of the<b> Lab,</b> her webbed feet, love of water and her coat color. She possesses the gentle and trusting nature of the Lab, affectionate to the max. She never grabs food from my hand and waits to be fed. She skipped the retriever gene, however. When I throw a ball she fetches and runs right past me, inside to her bed. Quite the change from Teak!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglMMbnsnJxC0e-UNCJwlkqEjA0TUsKlTXNkpvvouEu26InDglP4k-ml05jWy70Dvle0gkFKqKSHZrlaHT2UDtUPzyYiOcASznwbjm68p21s45QTAUgWSzoX-xbcOKhI6utrGd_56b64s/s1600/P1080796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="594" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglMMbnsnJxC0e-UNCJwlkqEjA0TUsKlTXNkpvvouEu26InDglP4k-ml05jWy70Dvle0gkFKqKSHZrlaHT2UDtUPzyYiOcASznwbjm68p21s45QTAUgWSzoX-xbcOKhI6utrGd_56b64s/s320/P1080796.JPG" width="320" /></a>The <b>Staffie </b>is known as a hard-working, intelligent, strong and loyal dog. I have seen this too, as she likes to patrol the property and sounds the alarm at interlopers, whether vehicles, coyotes or javelina. Her hearing is amazing. She hears the smallest strange sound outside, even above indoor sounds like the furnace. It's fantastic.<br />
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The intelligent, obedient, energetic <b>Aussie Shepherd</b> likes to herd anything. The first three adjectives apply to Dulce. I haven't experienced the "herd anything" aspect, but when we go for walks she begins at my heels, as if to herd. No nipping, thank heavens!! She breaks off quickly, however, and takes off to run and sniff, but never goes far afield. SHE COMES WHEN CALLED.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZQrzioKoI2CZMqp0lYyktroyX0kwdmKhAjsBvz0gDeS2S9ZKJo_sKlJAHjU7xv-ooMa9KZKk3s2444zMq_VyIaLsOkWuYvlMPgRgurdiPSPjnRgRjt3rwmjMBWKpSigrpr8gpvmQwIs/s1600/P1080791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="639" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZQrzioKoI2CZMqp0lYyktroyX0kwdmKhAjsBvz0gDeS2S9ZKJo_sKlJAHjU7xv-ooMa9KZKk3s2444zMq_VyIaLsOkWuYvlMPgRgurdiPSPjnRgRjt3rwmjMBWKpSigrpr8gpvmQwIs/s400/P1080791.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Most importantly, and this would have been a deal breaker, Dulce loves Hobo. She has learned a healthy respect for Hobo's limits, as defined by a claw-led swat. And Hobo is venturing outside again to explore now that the protection of a dog has returned. It's wonderful to see.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0rFfHJlkEUfNHOB4MjhyphenhyphenRIBn4WAJjqzGwNRNayfFU01zE3qLzsTrSrCPmcBMiMKuUM1Yc_BGRKWLrJjcsk2ixLFfYZM33EHZQtaOUIOy4PfxKESzQosQUd6H3l-9Yw074dJv86ewxlnM/s1600/Dulce+Hobo+Love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1131" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0rFfHJlkEUfNHOB4MjhyphenhyphenRIBn4WAJjqzGwNRNayfFU01zE3qLzsTrSrCPmcBMiMKuUM1Yc_BGRKWLrJjcsk2ixLFfYZM33EHZQtaOUIOy4PfxKESzQosQUd6H3l-9Yw074dJv86ewxlnM/s320/Dulce+Hobo+Love.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's been a month since Dulce entered our lives. Her extreme shyness diminishes more every day, in fact, yesterday she greeted a stranger with a dog! She doesn't like raw carrots, she buries her pet toy in her blanket, she sings in the morning and she has cowlicks in the cutest places, like her flanks and two little spirals on her hind end. I adore her coyote shaped body; she even sings in the morning. She tested negative for the MDR1 mutation, which make her immune to many medications. Good information for her vet.<br />
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It's all good. We're off, running and having fun!<br />
Thanks for your input, support and feedback. It is heart-felt.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXLgM9-uarpDnQjXpY3MEuq-Qlm1-F3XGxqlBfZ6chRwtnlakaPayxD9zmNKPZ7RU8AhV0VMlD9xX99aSmwqg1WQww1MupNqwlk_xVKX3VmEOp59lhlHE_KptP2OFjbqZc8mwrSD0xE4/s1600/20200217_092744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXLgM9-uarpDnQjXpY3MEuq-Qlm1-F3XGxqlBfZ6chRwtnlakaPayxD9zmNKPZ7RU8AhV0VMlD9xX99aSmwqg1WQww1MupNqwlk_xVKX3VmEOp59lhlHE_KptP2OFjbqZc8mwrSD0xE4/s400/20200217_092744.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I used Wisdom Health, ordered through Amazon for $80. Easy, mistake-proof process.<br />
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<br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-34705831379875807872020-02-17T10:17:00.000-08:002020-02-17T10:17:49.966-08:00Abracadabra:The Womad-mobile!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Energy shifts often arrive with an air of coyote...sneaky, outrageous and efficient, the tricksters also blindside their prey. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloenwj4wIuylINziCJ5j1ZvimevkvXnz3ajCHSUnEpU3u6oZGTi24DHUG_tHAC-Ic0D58eT8FLP0iRH9fUgnYOG_jabUGyQRE_DpkdfvihWdOd-yLNPOL4PMP7-f-DHfY4rZUUqTFtk8/s1600/rps20200217_080715_462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="1024" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloenwj4wIuylINziCJ5j1ZvimevkvXnz3ajCHSUnEpU3u6oZGTi24DHUG_tHAC-Ic0D58eT8FLP0iRH9fUgnYOG_jabUGyQRE_DpkdfvihWdOd-yLNPOL4PMP7-f-DHfY4rZUUqTFtk8/s320/rps20200217_080715_462.jpg" width="320" /></a>I met a fun-luvin' man in October, right before my birthday, at Faywood Hot Springs. I admit to asking the universe to fulfill a wish. Voila! We played well together: biked, soaked, explored and extended our reservations to fill a week. I'll call him Pinball for what I was soon to discover: his ability to propel himself from one place to another with projectile force. Three tasteful houses, three RV's, as many cars, more bikes, his retired life was a carefully constructed game plan of locations and toys to fit his recreational desires like biking and skiing. Early in our friendship he proclaimed I should have his van, which sat in his driveway in Santa Fe. He affectionately called her Ms. Day. (Score points for naming his vehicles.) Yes, there was a Doris in the van's lineage. Pinball explained she was a 2003 Chevy conversion van tricked out for camping.<br />
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I ignored the push. I was a big truck-4-WD-mamma. I associated vans with child molesters and rapists who drove up to the curb, grabbed a child or a woman and sped off. No thank you. But he kept saying it: <i>Ms. Day should be with you. She's perfect for your life. </i>He showed me photos. Hmm, beautiful platinum color; looked new and in excellent condition for an oldie with 106,000 miles. I knew the van would not be in my price range. He persisted. Comfy bed. Customized. Insulated. Swivel front seat.<br />
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Weeks later I broke down and asked <i>How much; </i>braced for the blow of impossibility. The price he quoted was a shock. Shockingly low. I could pull it off with selling ole Blue, my 4WD pickup with 204,000 miles.<br />
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My bones said do it. My intuition said do it. My brain said do it. I did it. I flew to NM in December and returned behind the wheel before New Years eve. She was such a smooth, easy ride -- complete with a homemade footrest that allowed for a bent leg -- that I drove straight through. It took time and concentration sort and move the possessions from truck and van. Friends helped shuttle me back and forth in order to put Blue on display with for sale signs. It only took a week to sell her. The heavens were smiling. Clutter cleared and the transition took hold. The floorplan allowed for space and easy loading for my ebike and kayak. There was lots of easily-accessible storage. The bed was surrounded by a great speaker system. I loved having large double doors on both sides! The vision coalesced: I would use the van to take short trips; easily stop for photographs and wildlife. She would take my travel passions to a new, seamless level. I named her VAN-essa. Vanessa, Greek for butterfly, the ultimate symbol of transformation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1bgQ32i8F10oJrirVuZxnGZjkFxUqPJOZTf7qKWVSQMFzsfkh4RcOPp7T9_HRb_euJ1Qnu538g0jRf0nkCFhAUwUDyQoNkEXXH8OcMgb1oI2xIBjM_XgUNtUyo6lxB6PizNBK5SLNSI/s1600/rps20200217_095127_630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="1024" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1bgQ32i8F10oJrirVuZxnGZjkFxUqPJOZTf7qKWVSQMFzsfkh4RcOPp7T9_HRb_euJ1Qnu538g0jRf0nkCFhAUwUDyQoNkEXXH8OcMgb1oI2xIBjM_XgUNtUyo6lxB6PizNBK5SLNSI/s400/rps20200217_095127_630.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">double door Dulce ease</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRbQNiaQfKqHtocf_IGnX_0K0YGx4olS_sfvuL7ExZIa551wXKFir1x_WtVTqzocRWazkbWoEjetP9QnpEwHFyegPo16NmLWp3ADfAjIaeRRQDLfSk790QzcxJw5A39SH9PhFhJxLuRw/s1600/rps20200217_095211_365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="1280" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmRbQNiaQfKqHtocf_IGnX_0K0YGx4olS_sfvuL7ExZIa551wXKFir1x_WtVTqzocRWazkbWoEjetP9QnpEwHFyegPo16NmLWp3ADfAjIaeRRQDLfSk790QzcxJw5A39SH9PhFhJxLuRw/s320/rps20200217_095211_365.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bed in back</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FhjaNkfJcdOAsRR8ePmfMwRR9Icisx7LXsj8oeg9LpoROXbborJqrCHbCfwxJqGf-iS6mDU7Hq4Mtd0WD508xC1JIAI4G9feGDO9d3dPMonVM-diyTWsfkAMN3JxNQIqV5g-ldCNWpo/s1600/rps20200217_102028_453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="1280" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FhjaNkfJcdOAsRR8ePmfMwRR9Icisx7LXsj8oeg9LpoROXbborJqrCHbCfwxJqGf-iS6mDU7Hq4Mtd0WD508xC1JIAI4G9feGDO9d3dPMonVM-diyTWsfkAMN3JxNQIqV5g-ldCNWpo/s320/rps20200217_102028_453.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">nifty footrest in the door compartment</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_p2DnCWXeVM9KMrjuixaqyLRrQztCWwRYghv35OKigdr5gZCZ9HzUNWAkRXeUoWKg37AXadfelnoLH_SbGw7OZ5pZe5VzuzimIwXj9rTvV7_vHlnCAZK45LN0okDJ9BAZBGc48PHh888/s1600/rps20200217_080332_881.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1024" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_p2DnCWXeVM9KMrjuixaqyLRrQztCWwRYghv35OKigdr5gZCZ9HzUNWAkRXeUoWKg37AXadfelnoLH_SbGw7OZ5pZe5VzuzimIwXj9rTvV7_vHlnCAZK45LN0okDJ9BAZBGc48PHh888/s320/rps20200217_080332_881.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VAN-essa and Jera, my tiny house on wheels </td></tr>
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<br />Excitement took hold. I ordered van-ity plates for the first time. I was shocked to find that WOMAD was taken, but fun to know someone had read my books and the word I coined in <i>Wild Road Home</i>. I chose WOMAD 03, a number of deep spiritual significance.<br />
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VAN-essa and I recently departed for our first camping overnight, complete with a cool little hassock toilet I ordered online. One night was a good start on determining what I need to add for travel. (Cutting board, potholder, headlamp start the list) My rules of eighteen years on the road applied: take only those things that speak to the soul or fulfill a multi-functions. Yes, Hobo has a covered litter box hidden away.<br />
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I've gone from <i>a van? not me!</i> to <i>wow, this rocks! </i>I sense a cascade of unknown changes will follow. Jera, my house on wheels, is not pressured into shorter trips. Although I haven't done so yet, VAN-essa can pull 25-foot Jera. She has a larger engine than Blue.<br />
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I am forever grateful to Pinball,. He's not shy in reminding me that he knew it was right. Perhaps our synchronistic meeting was as simple as this.<br />
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VAN-essa, Dulce, Hobo and I. Watch out back roads, the Meander-thals are fired up!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VAN-essa's altar</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzBkZ7fqocsnJaYs31YlKtUPeXGO6byBS2FejZv4hIttnV4kXwKE1hMjjR0rUvDU1DCsGc5l1iarjqtTPbPu9lvSw_5ZZUyWB6kVzUtDb2_9aDWp4LicZss4NHD1JkDIIMkPDU2-d6PU/s1600/rps20200217_072415_751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="854" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzBkZ7fqocsnJaYs31YlKtUPeXGO6byBS2FejZv4hIttnV4kXwKE1hMjjR0rUvDU1DCsGc5l1iarjqtTPbPu9lvSw_5ZZUyWB6kVzUtDb2_9aDWp4LicZss4NHD1JkDIIMkPDU2-d6PU/s640/rps20200217_072415_751.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meanderthal route up Gates Pass AZ</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's right at home ... </td></tr>
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Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-89059268526333236882020-02-06T10:54:00.000-08:002020-02-09T06:16:21.323-08:00Welcome Dulce! The World Turns <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was destined.<div>
It was almost a year since I had assisted my Lab, Teak, into the next world. Her cancer had spread beyond comfort and dignity, while at the same time my soul sister Carole was dying of bile duct cancer ... my closest friend in life and my dog companion of twelve years exited my life within weeks of one another. Both were interwoven with my essence ... travels, writing, my movement across wild landscapes. I'd lost two tethers and my sense of who I was in a world, They were my co-pilots. Then, I broke my ankle, fibula and foot. I literally limped through it all. Carole's death overshadowed Teak's. I had never been so painfully positioned -- a physical, emotional and spiritual deluge. The brain fog of grief lifted enough for me to function through another season at Devils Tower WY and a shortened summer park ranger stint. Hobo and I waded through. He'd been grieving Teak for months. It took me until summer's end to work my way to the full force of her absence. Never so poignant as when I hooked up Jera and started down the road, my travel companion absent. <div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
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I began to consider another dog this winter. I had always chosen a pup at eight weeks and raised her. A litter of fun-loving cockapoos was available down the road. I could use some fun and laughs; I put down a deposit. Over the next few weeks, however, I decided a little dog, albeit a cute companion, was not the best choice for my adventurous life. Think: coyote cookie. Most importantly, it was a huge revelation to feel that adventure would return to my life. I visited the animal shelter weekly seeking a medium-sized dog. I attempted to adopt twice but both times the dog went to someone ahead of me. I was disheartened. Careworn. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGm2NrTtgYPfRduTb-zI-_kAC9_iie9WYsz6Gg9U6V6404_VLi2uCeIT7Q728l-n39lQYWS9B9ssLclZnyhlSvBv9da6T7LUZMJhdCQuCdWA7OZ0rX5K_qXM8IAkDJ_1pWBrABO4AHfpE/s1600/Dulce+looking+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="120" data-original-width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGm2NrTtgYPfRduTb-zI-_kAC9_iie9WYsz6Gg9U6V6404_VLi2uCeIT7Q728l-n39lQYWS9B9ssLclZnyhlSvBv9da6T7LUZMJhdCQuCdWA7OZ0rX5K_qXM8IAkDJ_1pWBrABO4AHfpE/s1600/Dulce+looking+up.jpg" /></a>Then I saw her photo on a website. Her name was <i>Neesy</i>, short for <b>nise. </b>She was a short- haired, medium sized (55 pounds), lab mix. I clicked off the boxes of my preferred dog. She had been raised with a cat and was not an alpha personality. It was her story, however, that clinched it. The one and half year old dog had been rescued from her dying owner. Cancer prevailed within a few hours of the rescue.<br />
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The rescuer's dog did not take to Neesy. Several attempts to merge the dogs failed. Regretfully, they surrendered her to the Humane Society. She immediately contracted kennel cough. Within days she went from her owner's bedside to sick and quarantined; I couldn't visit. I called everyday and developed a relationship with one of her caretakers. Two weeks in, I received a call late the next day that she had been cleared by the vet and they would forego adoption for 90 minutes, providing me a window. It was rush hour. I made my fastest trip ever to north side Tucson.<br />
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I entered the building and was met by the staff person I had talked to many times. All went smoothly. I departed into the night with a folder of paperwork and a confused dog spirit on the end of a new green leash. The little golden one was afraid to jump into the truck. I climbed into the seat and called to her. She obliged. I hugged her and assured her all would be well. She was silent and still for the ride home.</div>
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Three days, three weeks, three months. That's the formula for the adjustment of a dog into a new home. The first hurdle was Hobo. I had assured Hobo I would not bring an entity into our home that would not work for him. The newcomer displayed no bad habits. No chewing. Fully housebroken. No excessive barking. And she respected Hobo's presence. Intent to bring out the best in her, I changed her name to Dulce. Dul-say ... Spanish for sweet. <br />
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The unfolding proceeded. I was determined not to put perfect-Teak expectations onto Dulce. As much work as puppies were, I was glad to not start at the beginning, yet anxious that some hidden neuroses would surface in an older dog and ruin the effort. End in broken hearts. As much as I could muster, I put myself in Dulce's place. What did she hear in my wild world, knowing that dogs hear high pitches 100 X more, and softer sounds we can not detect. She loosed coyote warning barks at yips I didn't hear until I opened the door. How must my world smell to her, whose olfactory map is scattered with 10 to one million times the smells and stories detected by her wet nose? Love and treats led the way.<br />
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One week in, Dulce's remained painfully shy. She hid in the bedroom when a friend showed up and wouldn't show her face to anyone but me. But oooo, she loved the life. Walks on leash became off- leash adventures. She came when called. She blossomed. Three days, three weeks, three months. My mantra.<br />
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Week Two. I coaxed Dulce into VAN-essa (new van, another blog coming) and we headed for a public trail. She saw her first deer and watched with intent, no inclination to chase. This was followed by a trip to Arivaca Lake. Dulce approached the water gingerly and within minutes was standing up to her chest watching ducks and coots. Javelina encounters followed, as she and Hobo tagged teamed on announcing their arrival.<br />
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Dulce was doing well enough that I decided to visit daughter Hope in Tucson for a Super Bowl Party. Dulce and I would spend the night in the van, which would double as a protective place for her. We arrived to find two strange dogs, two cats and six people. She walked in like she owned the place, tail wagging and doggie happy. Since then she has met other strangers and dogs with no incident or shyness. Like magic.<br />
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A few days ago I took a couple of cheek swabs and sent Dulce's DNA into a lab. I'd done the same for Teak, suspecting she had something else in her genetics besides Lab, and she did: Russian Wolfhound three generations removed. I can't wait to see Dulce's results. Stats say that those who guess, including vets, are only correct 25% of the time. I polled facebook friends and have come up with a couple dozen purebred mix possibilities. What do YOU think?</div>
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Week three is coming up. Dulce's toy just squeaked and scared her. I don't think she had toys before. If she is a Lab mix the retriever gene didn't make the cut. Desert walks are a reminder to carry a comb so I can easily remove cholla cactus from her paws. For the first time since Teak's departure, Hobo is expanding his range, exploring outside, watching Dulce for clues and alarms. Like old times.</div>
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We are healing one another, and it is sweet.</div>
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Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-88929644487093191722019-03-26T08:16:00.000-07:002019-03-26T08:38:19.467-07:00Buzzard's Return<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
a joke that garners a wild west guffaw: you’re sitting with friends taking a
break and along glides a buzzard aka Turkey Vulture. Her featherless head
points down as her slow, tippy flight circles ‘round, casting a shadow across
dirt and rock. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Better get moving</i> … <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">show</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">signs
of life</i>! laughs the group. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Mercifully,
we’re not the target of their fly-bys. Their chicken-like feet aren’t designed to carry
food. Their preference is soft rotted skin that’s easy to tear with sharp talons and eat
immediately. Evolution has equipped them well: they have the largest
olfactory system of all birds and can smell death over a mile away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small perch not a problem!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
March. Arivaca’s dozens of migrating, red-leathery-headed vultures have arrived
from south of the border, perhaps from as far away as South America. Whether
you call them committees, venues or volts (all correct), they soar in on blue-sky
days, eschewing clouds and rain for warm sunny thermals. They land in various
tall trees and snags around town, and roost in the rocks that surround Arivaca
Lake. Further afield, their migration flocks can number thousands. Their routes
are overland, avoiding large bodies of water in favor of land-birthed thermals
to aid their five to six-foot wingspans. Their wing flaps are few and far
between, lending to the mesmerizing quality of their flight. While their day
time foraging is solitary, they gather in groups to feed on carrion, eating one
at a time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A group of feeding vultures
is called (are you ready for this?) a wake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve
camped for weeks under an old growth mesquite TV roost and it’s a sight to
behold. Silence pervades their lives. No songs, no calls, only soft hissing or
an occasional cluck. The rush of their dark brown wings is magic. Even their
roosting arguments are silent, as those already positioned for the evening are
displaced by late-comers. The jockeying for position on tiny branches amazes. A
full-grown vulture with a 67’’ wingspan, 26” long, weighs only three to four
pounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOn3oZ159PenuLSqAEpJgYvk9xSmrKM3gEqaLWc3G6B86RV9P6gHeHNyJLga-VlEdQLEUwNrTUzOQsUi4Ko3dUqaghD2wF8ZToS6xJKB6La9itP8sC1m_XDE7_l28KNS2hQXcTC5XJGw/s1600/4-P1000669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOn3oZ159PenuLSqAEpJgYvk9xSmrKM3gEqaLWc3G6B86RV9P6gHeHNyJLga-VlEdQLEUwNrTUzOQsUi4Ko3dUqaghD2wF8ZToS6xJKB6La9itP8sC1m_XDE7_l28KNS2hQXcTC5XJGw/s400/4-P1000669.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
Turkey Vultures passing through Arivaca will roost, replenish and show off that
wingspan </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">in </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">early morning stretches from tree tops, cliff edges and power
poles. When they nest further north, they lay eggs on ledge recesses, in caves,
hollow logs or even on the ground. They take over abandoned nests but do not
build their own. They are monogamous and return to their nest site yearly. Nest
sites from which you want to keep your distance. When adults or chicks feel threatened,
they will vomit in your direction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Barring
projectile vomits, Turkey Vultures and I share commonalities. We prefer
seclusion and silence. We are drawn to tree snags … them to roost, me to
photograph. We fancy juniper berries and grapes, theirs on the vine, mine in a
bottle of gin or wine. We even have similar migration routes. I’ve pondered if
the TVs catching thermals at the top of Devils Tower WY, my recent park ranger
locale, were Arivaca familiars. While I’m not one for rot and never owned a
roadkill cookbook, I like to think, in a nod to Darwin’s survival of the
fittest, we agree that roadside guard rails should go away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Turkey
Vultures are named after wild turkeys, who also have a red, featherless head. They
are related more closely to storks than hawks or eagles. Perhaps we need a
version of a buzzard delivering a baby to desert-dwelling parents? Okay, maybe
not, but Arivaca’s harbinger of spring begs for acknowledgement. A shindig. A parade.
While Hummers and Meadowlarks are resplendent, nothing jerks our chain like a
buzzard’s morning statuesque wingspread facing the sun; or their circling
hundreds kettling up and up to catch thermals as they go about their daily mop-up
of roadkill and desert death. They fill our sky with silent grace and continue
on, leaving us to ponder empty skies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Worthy
of a toast, I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-28968162045385077222018-12-13T08:54:00.000-08:002018-12-17T21:07:22.427-08:00Killing Grace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopMvfXO6TdT5jhELmGoMLSeNVZOFmDI9ESOjonWt3Wze0g5fPE0UPtiTy1dULUWZql_B8MiJP3L1yXxJJIfka3Ql5NnubJAfGuzD8IRSNDcUx7Kh3Brcpttvy1rkRPxjYto5_6jh-eTQ/s1600/IMG_0025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopMvfXO6TdT5jhELmGoMLSeNVZOFmDI9ESOjonWt3Wze0g5fPE0UPtiTy1dULUWZql_B8MiJP3L1yXxJJIfka3Ql5NnubJAfGuzD8IRSNDcUx7Kh3Brcpttvy1rkRPxjYto5_6jh-eTQ/s640/IMG_0025.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s hunting
season in Arivaca, a yearly ritual of anticipation, tags, fees and designated
locales that bring hundreds of men and a few women into our village. The autumn
wave of camouflage is a welcome economic boon to our few stores and campgrounds.
Pick-up trucks multiply; rare lines form at the only two gas pumps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Night comes. Men
in camo head for La Gitana, the local cantina, entrance granted only to the
gunless in a town that contends with borderland militias. They take a place at
the old wooden bar and order up. Hunter humor beams from tired eyes and
unshaven faces. They mix it up with the locals and are glad to be here. Depending
on the hunting season, they travel to our spacious outback to shoot a grazing
mule deer; a wary whitetail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zwAfnCwbQLJfk02uSZy-BNLFzMubcnTWcHcIzZFwXSe9SuPp3thnHh9km-Ne-_I-c8-wWjnJoEwEY9WcqKqrpXCtKRzKZDd5voJ5EixGOcaoXr8F2Ivt5eD0hvJ4Fr-Tig_NvrK92EQ/s1600/P1030372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1482" data-original-width="1600" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1zwAfnCwbQLJfk02uSZy-BNLFzMubcnTWcHcIzZFwXSe9SuPp3thnHh9km-Ne-_I-c8-wWjnJoEwEY9WcqKqrpXCtKRzKZDd5voJ5EixGOcaoXr8F2Ivt5eD0hvJ4Fr-Tig_NvrK92EQ/s320/P1030372.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Deer drape our
high-desert grasslands. So do a few Pronghorn. A special species that belongs
only to North America, they are not as plentiful as deer. Their prairie grassland
evolution did not equip them to jump fences. Manifest destiny and the
introduction of barbed wire delivered them to near-extinction as their numbers plummeted
from over 15 million across the west to 13 thousand a century ago. There are
now 10 thousand in Arizona, and a short hunting season by lottery. Deer, on the
other hand, are ubiquitous, bedding down in tall grasses, wearing down game
trails to waterholes. They browse woody plants. Think mesquite leaves and beans
--- profuse around here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I have witnessed deer,
pronghorn and the mountain lion that preys upon them. Get too close to a deer
and you will hear it stomp and snort. They will attack as well. Most anything
can happen during rut. As for the elegant pronghorn, I once watched a one give
birth outside my cabin. That wobbly baby was up and trotting with mom in
minutes, followed within seconds by a coyote to chow down on the afterbirth. Close
in on a pronghorn and you will be awed by its take-off and speeds nearing 70
mph, as fast as a cheetah. As for lion, I have watched a mother and her three
yearlings eschew my sudden presence and leap across a creek on the strength of
their thick tails. Yearlings first, then mom, who cast me an incisor snarl. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether deer, pronghorn or lion, their
presence catapults one to another reality; grants an opportunity to witness
grace and power; evolution’s perfection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpTR7I6ckerXovJotvg8UdtgIXgnlpt1rwDt6CxPY7FnhqnXKVyHsFG_ELIjtREdiIdnT4zRseIGgoDIAHkjBLITafOSn3t_vqAOZZL0sj411nJ6pCAonskjMl4e6GjTzCECoRrZVQuc/s1600/IMG_0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="611" data-original-width="640" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIpTR7I6ckerXovJotvg8UdtgIXgnlpt1rwDt6CxPY7FnhqnXKVyHsFG_ELIjtREdiIdnT4zRseIGgoDIAHkjBLITafOSn3t_vqAOZZL0sj411nJ6pCAonskjMl4e6GjTzCECoRrZVQuc/s320/IMG_0003.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The hunters exit
the cantina and return to RVs that dot the surrounding public lands. They rise</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> in the early morn, eat a hearty breakfast and go in search of a doe or buck.
They do not hunt out of hunger. At least not physical hunger. The hunters scout
ravines with scopes and high-powered rifles along our winding roads. They drive
to get closer; crouch and wait. With rare exceptions, they shoot from an
assassin’s distance, sometimes 300 yards. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">That’s three football fields. Their prey browses
one moment, falls the next. One can only imagine the four-legged’s split-second
explosion of confusion at what fluke of nature overtook their evolution; what
sensory failure allowed for their demise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Modern hunting
ritual begs the question: How has it evolved not so much to kill a deer, but to
kill grace --- eons of evolution --- through acts that holds no risk? There is
nothing brave in taking down an animal that cannot catch your scent. No
challenge in filling the ATV gas tank at the Mercantile. Hunting has transformed
from an intimate knowledge of landscape and a skilled act of survival to feed
family and community into a video game played outdoors. Like the teen who sits for
hours at the computer screen and fights off dragons and demons, there is no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> risk. Without risk one does not
learn how to live. One takes without sacrifice, avoiding a central tenet of a
healthy society. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9WcgZnlgIE5HpAsMBosvmM_tYCVP5oJIYRvni1nvLJiHg_8wAG5VlMDngozVYIgu1Z130jzmIhdAZXcyCVBnH85LAd3uVK4IQWaoTmBRgU7XRa9TdnBVK4yIdDP55GLvXJ-J6ZzcRjc/s1600/IMG_0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9WcgZnlgIE5HpAsMBosvmM_tYCVP5oJIYRvni1nvLJiHg_8wAG5VlMDngozVYIgu1Z130jzmIhdAZXcyCVBnH85LAd3uVK4IQWaoTmBRgU7XRa9TdnBVK4yIdDP55GLvXJ-J6ZzcRjc/s400/IMG_0010.JPG" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The ritual of the
hunt begins with reverence for the hunted and their landscape. Deference to the
those who track, stalk and shoot from short distances, gun or bow. Who crawl on
their bellies and risk exposure to prey and the elements in a complicated rite of
equals. Ever aware of their place in the food chain, they wander rugged terrain
in search of a sustenance, exchanging sacrifice for sacrifice. They sit down to
their savory venison meal knowing ritual without risk has no validity. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">That killing grace
deserves better.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">This piece was previously published in the Connection and the Crestone Eagle. With thanks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Photos by Christina Nealson</span></div>
<br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4471348732430344306.post-70247272211031958382018-11-28T10:27:00.000-08:002018-11-28T11:31:19.824-08:00Tasmania Goodbye<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhFgTYDcc51CUZHLPpzRwuugdxtKCEBLlTVif7EOnzmoCqRnxcKo5SfIDd_7N6BqxfSBIfIIKS6UiewlWOgCQur6-xgy3nqy9jantRBXAoRySZ7YR4JIOPRAEc2VDYF_IBf3vQrx9Ds0/s1600/Tas+Cockatoo+n+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: 12.8px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="914" data-original-width="881" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhFgTYDcc51CUZHLPpzRwuugdxtKCEBLlTVif7EOnzmoCqRnxcKo5SfIDd_7N6BqxfSBIfIIKS6UiewlWOgCQur6-xgy3nqy9jantRBXAoRySZ7YR4JIOPRAEc2VDYF_IBf3vQrx9Ds0/s400/Tas+Cockatoo+n+me.jpg" width="385" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White wild wings came a-callin' ...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4T_kjA84nAQwkhwTZmqgH2Ow8l3PHVRrnnMfGqzTboITPUEO7j6SWqohCe_vQRpDH3gxK5UZZWM2Tw-q5yp5bHhCC3c37K8b7x0iQv7fxc5_vVx7lKyslOWWiv2PdMWo5UDQd7C-MEBE/s1600/P1050131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="480" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4T_kjA84nAQwkhwTZmqgH2Ow8l3PHVRrnnMfGqzTboITPUEO7j6SWqohCe_vQRpDH3gxK5UZZWM2Tw-q5yp5bHhCC3c37K8b7x0iQv7fxc5_vVx7lKyslOWWiv2PdMWo5UDQd7C-MEBE/s400/P1050131.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrance to MONA </td></tr>
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I felt assured, in the wake of the forest giants, that the revelations had run their course. I was wrong. We returned to Hobart for a rip-roaring 24 hours that included MONA art gallery -- a dip into the outrageous borders of the creative mind ---<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIaOpktHHTzcGuaHK4ySJatl2s1zvwZ9UjOqYOpKw0a2LpWUMY5pFQDtdzbbxuBqdciNDEkWfB3PvGlWcavDI0Rlg40u2QcgngisqGjySVx6I3cANp9gNI8ymHezJCBSHWLfDybTzJN8/s1600/P1050136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="480" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIaOpktHHTzcGuaHK4ySJatl2s1zvwZ9UjOqYOpKw0a2LpWUMY5pFQDtdzbbxuBqdciNDEkWfB3PvGlWcavDI0Rlg40u2QcgngisqGjySVx6I3cANp9gNI8ymHezJCBSHWLfDybTzJN8/s400/P1050136.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Velocity of Death=Fate over Will</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDq3gFEk8lleDPOHYROj2_To8OpVVkSwCL4x8bno1ylijyQcpA2J3EXQmPOhQOZ0Y1I33yghGjxMEVCfSEtXaKMzABbqy47KfCxttAx55Np-QWSVnAlVReNMVG0DRsL7GtlQiguH40iWk/s1600/P1050143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDq3gFEk8lleDPOHYROj2_To8OpVVkSwCL4x8bno1ylijyQcpA2J3EXQmPOhQOZ0Y1I33yghGjxMEVCfSEtXaKMzABbqy47KfCxttAx55Np-QWSVnAlVReNMVG0DRsL7GtlQiguH40iWk/s400/P1050143.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Women Thru Time<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqDcSgQkoqFkbuLrpVb17IQhmfc68rd8YqiGWwktvYX11XeQ16L2miFgjFUMFExOd3KG0uFvJTF15B4Jz6BQkIpZkkxIo9GLW5O3O32kABQcR1LA9I6QmF1m_CW-7qBACwtlskq_6fh8/s1600/P1050155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqDcSgQkoqFkbuLrpVb17IQhmfc68rd8YqiGWwktvYX11XeQ16L2miFgjFUMFExOd3KG0uFvJTF15B4Jz6BQkIpZkkxIo9GLW5O3O32kABQcR1LA9I6QmF1m_CW-7qBACwtlskq_6fh8/s400/P1050155.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvdC8Ke7Twp_UmZWlkiPpANuyZqWZnb78CiBE-p9PTaheJoqL2VUZB71am8TxxsUZAFvq0MA1luHk4YR2lYoIE8z19WDC9LgnU0YfxYhklRvd60oZaWMvpNu4IT-t2xTjk4qcQdCxbvk/s1600/P1050147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="480" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvdC8Ke7Twp_UmZWlkiPpANuyZqWZnb78CiBE-p9PTaheJoqL2VUZB71am8TxxsUZAFvq0MA1luHk4YR2lYoIE8z19WDC9LgnU0YfxYhklRvd60oZaWMvpNu4IT-t2xTjk4qcQdCxbvk/s640/P1050147.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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Travel and MONA converged into exhaustion. Too tired to eat out, we checked into our sweet hilltop cottage. I ran a deep, hot bubble bath (yes, I'd brought my own and still had some left!) and we ordered up a fresh prawn/oregano/garlic pizza that took its place as a ten out of ten on the delicious scale. We fell dead tired into bed ... the most comfortable bed I'd ever slept in. No exaggeration. That night I dreamed I walked into that very room and Greg was in the bed reading my journal. I yelled and grabbed it out of his hands. The dream woke me, a shocking image that needed further scrutiny.<br />
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The final morning in Tas was fresh and glorious. I gazed through heart-shaped branches at parrots and a view of the harbor. Leaving the island was wrenching. I placed my traveling flower bouquet in the room as we packed for the flight to the mainland. We arrived at the famous Salamanca street market with only an hour to sample what easily could have taken a day ... an impressive array of foods, beers, hand woven and hand crafted goods. I selected a handwoven wool hat from one of the countless Tas sheep on the island. We returned the van; no discount for the leak that had drenched the bed. We slept on the short flight to Sydney and Uber-ed to the original bed and breakfast. Full circle.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfl3kuCVE7FlkS6_GIrSY-k4OHIycxHSztucehjGx27qaXHDFJcfM-6cV8ZF8pWDTa_eRPbnkjII7E-K0THdBw1BG-TvKMSJFAWUO-vpSs19sfIBMRWQ_Ik20TB3cf7X0m8UG7UiNx7QI/s1600/20180204_183547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="915" data-original-width="686" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfl3kuCVE7FlkS6_GIrSY-k4OHIycxHSztucehjGx27qaXHDFJcfM-6cV8ZF8pWDTa_eRPbnkjII7E-K0THdBw1BG-TvKMSJFAWUO-vpSs19sfIBMRWQ_Ik20TB3cf7X0m8UG7UiNx7QI/s320/20180204_183547.jpg" width="239" /></a>Three days until departure. We ferried to downtown Sydney to see a Broadway version of <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>, tickets Greg purchased weeks before. What fun! Little kids decked out in costumes. Poignant to revisit the metaphorical journey of Dorothy, her three sidekicks and the delusional Oz. A reminder that the wisdom one seeks outside oneself is found within. The hero's spiritual journey.<br />
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With one day to go we headed to famous Taronga Zoo to photograph the elusive Tasmanian Devil who had shown up unexpectedly that magical eclipse night. An early start was desired; the universe had other plans. First, we waited over an hour in pouring rain for a ferry that did not come. We hopped a couple of buses, a ferry and landed at the zoo near noon. I hurried uphill to find the Devils and Koalas but the zoo was under construction with poor signage, a difficult combination for an already-rough day. We missed the last ferry back and had to re-route once more with hurried runs to buses. I'd hoped for a short nap before we walked to dinner but that didn't happen. Exhausted. Hungry. Ready for a rest, meal and a gin and tonic, we headed for one final seafood dinner.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurd09G4SR6Ri7zMjqUufzm7knFk0J8jZx119xQla_hdcW2qT1kDBrlRA8SGAcl05qRVbeC0qjpuzPtkY7CO-jD6rfv10cRZClWds1DVQVu4aYOx2IW7sUsOJByOw4hOX88r1nDjrI7S4/s1600/P1050185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurd09G4SR6Ri7zMjqUufzm7knFk0J8jZx119xQla_hdcW2qT1kDBrlRA8SGAcl05qRVbeC0qjpuzPtkY7CO-jD6rfv10cRZClWds1DVQVu4aYOx2IW7sUsOJByOw4hOX88r1nDjrI7S4/s640/P1050185.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkwtthia3XZglIs7SoNcvW8lh-3moCzZVYjIOxv43rjWBPa63mC8jDDnogyyFwwNc8iWec48J7BU2jRvCRIHBcskB1gBPDOmuloZopvIoOKTALA-8hWBavMfAF-bCywY2BAJJrlCydQ8/s1600/P1050231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkwtthia3XZglIs7SoNcvW8lh-3moCzZVYjIOxv43rjWBPa63mC8jDDnogyyFwwNc8iWec48J7BU2jRvCRIHBcskB1gBPDOmuloZopvIoOKTALA-8hWBavMfAF-bCywY2BAJJrlCydQ8/s640/P1050231.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU-74A8OOChwy7x0GzCJVOHT-hsz8BWkaJsNh1qtdKzHvo4lUcNLD9EemzOVL6kRR9t2mNLYXHxfNn6J55rIjulSpunItmyoD-qaOP-t6L7iSnB59Wu0z_80oucESO64aDpEx0jQOAuzE/s1600/P1050213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU-74A8OOChwy7x0GzCJVOHT-hsz8BWkaJsNh1qtdKzHvo4lUcNLD9EemzOVL6kRR9t2mNLYXHxfNn6J55rIjulSpunItmyoD-qaOP-t6L7iSnB59Wu0z_80oucESO64aDpEx0jQOAuzE/s640/P1050213.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAn23Mb1YOXTpcRwQPgvjOmuxyv-tB9GVxXTIBiWTDMr97lChl0Rdcvwf7ETH7rNsWUUgYioN3QCeqGSFp6aMuzpy_m8bLUTWIdjXX-QcYM75pNHbXmbljvNTe10QuJGaCWEY1ctMuGE/s1600/P1050207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="343" data-original-width="480" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAn23Mb1YOXTpcRwQPgvjOmuxyv-tB9GVxXTIBiWTDMr97lChl0Rdcvwf7ETH7rNsWUUgYioN3QCeqGSFp6aMuzpy_m8bLUTWIdjXX-QcYM75pNHbXmbljvNTe10QuJGaCWEY1ctMuGE/s320/P1050207.JPG" width="320" /></a>I sprinkled malt vinegar over crispy fish n chips; watched the sun set over the waters and downtown Sydney as Greg appeared on the beach to photograph. I let go into the tangerine world as I recalled the recent dream and hectic day; sought balance in the wake of challenges and then ...<br />
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Large and black, it resembled a raven as it dipped and landed in a nearby tree. Then, another. And dozens. Fruit bats! I never imagined bats so large and there they were, filling the twilight sky, landing in nearby fruit trees. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj-N7Bd4jPQ">Flying Foxes</a> transformed the landscape, wiped the energetic slate clean; revitalized the air. (Click on the link!) It may have been nightfall but it was a new day.<br />
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I departed for the US the next morning and Greg headed back to his Australian home. I watched Greg get smaller and smaller as the Slovakian Uber driver asked about my trip. Where to begin? When the subject came down to the wild he smiled wide. You must go to Slovakia, he said, for the wild. His enthusiasm for his home country was infectious.<br />
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Tasmania memories flood my soul. As with many past journeys, a part of me can not believe I was there. Photos verify. Parallel universes abound. What portal did I slip through?<br />
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Greg did go to Guanjuato MX to finish his book. He continues the project while I savor memories of the jaw-dropping island journey. In retrospect, the eclipses exaggerated energies already set into motion. As the trip progressed we headed in different directions. Prominent events were not experienced together, like my Bay of Fire walk when I met the aboriginal couple; the full moon eclipse and seeing the Tas Devil. And, many magical moments were shared -- the Fairy Penguin night! The wallaby's, kangaroos and cuolls! Wombat encounters, platypus, echidnas. Sydney theatre nights. Hikes to unforgettable views. Spirit puts us where we need to be, together or apart.<br />
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Our over-the-rainbow is a precious friendship.<br />
Thank you, Dear Man "Mario," for the wild ride. Now get that book done!<br />
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Thank you, Tasmania and your soul-sparking wild ones.<br />
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Slovakia, eh? The High Tatras ...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5fXfEYzSfeONIVaewUGB6N6-nUxNJyVLH2IYr0NwxoK0Ju5p8KbvD9zSedD77xK6SWk2HVBwVmVkocreqtKnV9Mt6uCkmDuaLQRF8lkRxVeOasbxz0liXp59VzybsOaL1pysCDkSpz4/s1600/P1050176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="480" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5fXfEYzSfeONIVaewUGB6N6-nUxNJyVLH2IYr0NwxoK0Ju5p8KbvD9zSedD77xK6SWk2HVBwVmVkocreqtKnV9Mt6uCkmDuaLQRF8lkRxVeOasbxz0liXp59VzybsOaL1pysCDkSpz4/s640/P1050176.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tasmania ... forever in my soul</td></tr>
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<br />Christina Nealsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11974448879007609201noreply@blogger.com0