Reflections on Jason and Argonauts

Like Odysseus lashed to the mast, but perhaps more like Jason with his fellow Argonauts sailing through the Bosporus past Sirens and Crashing Rocks between Scylla and Charybdis on their journey through the Euxine Sea in their quest for the fabled Golden Fleece of exotic Colchis, I have passed through the Gates of Medicare and now the Gates of Social Security Full Vesting on my quest for the Golden Fleece of Retirement. Such is the passage of time marked by birthdays.

There are many more adventures ahead as I sail the Black Sea with kith and kin, wending by, through and around a cast of fellow laborers, restaurant servers, competing horseless chariot drivers, and innumerable extras towards my mythical goal.

The Golden Fleece of Retirement remains unattained as the habits and rewards of my professional if surreal labor, not to mention the daily chores of tending furry and floral children, constrain and bind. Ah! But to sever the knots! To be carefree and revel in pastimes of . . .

. . . not bloody likely.

The adventures, boredoms, frustrations, perils and decrepitudes of traveling life are without end. But I do have fellow Argonauts, heroic kith and kin with whom souls are interconnected, fellow characters who have cast ourselves together in this play of consciousness. They are my inspiration, sources for my astonishment, admiration and encouragement in this reverie we call life.

I hope to still write another book or two, marvel at the wonders of creation and our cultural histories, participate in foodie gatherings with the best of friends, record, edit and narrate more video documentaries, plant and nurse cacti and agaves, and cherish nieces, nephews, their creations and progeny. Hopefully, there will be less need to social-post expressions of disgust at the less wholesome aspects of our humanity. But the meaning of life remains clear: do something, anything.

And always, nourishing me from within, is the actual experience and subconscious certainty of the Divine Play which illuminates all phenomena as equally known and equally unknowable.

My sincere thanks to all shipmates on the Argo vessel: those who have already passed over to journey on other ships, and those who still enliven this one.

Palo Verde Bloom

This spring, thanks to monsoon and winter rains, pretty much all the palo verde in our area decided to bloom at the same time. Normally, some bloom early, others follow, and a few bloom late. This year, it's as if someone set off fifteen minutes worth of fireworks in a single minute. It follows the spectacular wildflower bloom we had -- and the acacia and mesquite are also going bloomey.

Follow the drive down our driveway, then shots in the gully (coat hanger valley) on the south side, shots in back on the north side, and, only two days later, the beginning of the yellow carpet of golden blossoms under the trees.

Sarod and harp music by Madhu Murthy,

Farewell Smoke Ganesha, and Hello Pearl

The oddest feeling about buying a new car wasn't being resigned to the expense, or even the information-overload of three in-dash screens, multiple sensors, and a rear camera. It was having to abruptly bid farewell to our beloved Smoke ("Smo-kay") Ganesha who had served us faithfully and comfortably for seventeen years and over 130,000 miles. I am almost as sad to let Smoke go as when our beloved Jasmine the Wonder Dog surrendered her spirit.

My first meaningful introduction to New Age spirituality was through Ralph and Lois Mitchell. Ralph talked about how simple spirits, elementals, attach themselves to things that are close to us. In the field of transportation in days of yore, we were close to the horses, donkeys and other fine beasts that carried us or pulled our carts. Spirits would associate with such furry employees. Nowadays, it's our automobiles. Ralph's idea stuck with me. Shari and I have always named our vehicles. We make a point of thinking kindly and gratefully about them, and we often affectionately pat them on the dashboard.

We named our 2003 Ford Explorer Smoke on account of its tan color and a play on the Danish word for handsome (smuk), and Ganesha because, well, because it was big and capable of removing obstacles. It carried us with our furry kids, and pulled a trailer back and forth several times when we were snowbirds migrating between Lower Alaska and Baja Arizona. With Smoke, we got to know almost all the routes: I-5 via Tehachapi; I-5 via Los Angeles; the various routes via the Great Basin Highway and Las Vegas; I-15 through Salt Lake City, Panguich and the canyon lands of the four corners states; and even once through Denver and Santa Fe (a bit of a story). Our older posts with the "travel" label include many a photo of our beloved Smoke.

It was a little jarring to have Smoke in its allotted garage space in the early afternoon, then this new, almost white 2019 Explorer in its space come late afternoon. We left Smoke in the Holmes Tuttle Ford parking lot in exchange for a $1000 trade-in. It wasn't the trade-in value as much as our garage only holds two vehicles. Aside from the expense of carrying insurance on a third car, leaving it parked outside would be an invitation for local pack rats to nest and chew up its wiring. The sales folks said they would probably sell it to a used car lot that sells cars to people with bad credit, people who need transportation. That has to be better than letting Smoke go derelict.

I spent a couple of hours this morning learning the basics from the 500+ page owner's manual. I now know how to dim the dash lights, open the back hatch, and adjust the steering wheel. I am still working on the FM station presets, but I am pessimistic whether I can delete the ones I don't want. Shari, who will be the primary user of this new snow-colored bird, has decided the vehicle is feminine and tentatively has dubbed her "Pearl".

Farewell, Smoke Ganesha.

Sonoran Winter 24 Hours

I like to joke that if you don't like the weather in Tucson, wait a few hours. Last Friday's weather offers a great example.

I thought snow on the Santa Catalina Mountains a few days earlier was pretty neat. It inspired Finger Rock Wash Winter Morning. But the big storm was last Friday, and it offered lots of video opportunities.

We were living in a storm cloud most of Friday. There were no Catalinas, only a white-out, and a dark one at that. Only by evening did the dense clouds begin to lift. By dawn, the sky was clear. Hoping for a nice sunrise on the Catalinas, I mounted my camera on a tripod and left it running there for about three-quarters of an hour while I had my breakfast.

Less than twenty-four hours after it began snowing, the sky was sunny and clear. Baboquivari, the sacred mountain some forty-fifty miles distant, was clearly visible.

Finger Rock Wash Winter Morning

Some winter mornings are especially beautiful. After rain in lower elevations and snow in the higher, and as the sun rises, backlit raindrops glisten on creosote bushes and palo verde trees. Clouds slowly lift revealing the snow-dusted pale granite peaks of the Santa Catalina Mountains. Like they do each morning, phainopepla birds survey their mistletoe berry domains.

Working Terra Bella

Reading Taking Care of Things, Shari suggested posting a clip of Randy and his bulldozer clearing terraces on the hillside that became Shari's Terra Bella garden. The clips begin with my first use of Scottie the tractor-mower and end with my inept use of a rented Kubota. All were taken in 2000, the year we bought the five-acre property.

Wildflowers

I am so proud I could spit. A year or two ago I bought a packet of Southwest wildflower seeds. After weeks of indecision, I sprinkled them in various bare places along the gully hillside. Over months, I forgot exactly where I had planted the seeds. Then a season or two passed and I figured the seeds were duds.

It's winter and with all the winter rains we have been having, the grass and weed season is in full swing. There are thick patches of invasive grasses in many places, and the sticky and seed-spitting varieties of weeds are coming up all over. What makes a weed a weed? Grasses in this part of the world because they don't belong here. Plants that stick and hitch a ride on socks and dogs. Plants that when you touch them, they spit seeds a foot or more. (Watch out for your eyes.) Plants that I do not like so I am constantly pulling them up in the hope they will not go to seed in any unmanageable number.

There are some plants that in my first Sonoran years I considered weeds, but no more. I need to find the name of the one plant that has small fleshy leaves and, as the plant dries out with our dry spring seasons, its delicate, small bushy, lacey, umbrella frame turns reddish, sharing its hue with the bare tan and pink ground. I now classify it as a wildflower, along with brittle bush, seaside petunia, and desert senna. I recognize these plants as they sprout and never pull them.

So I am pulling weeds from various bare places along the gully hillside. I notice there are some oddly configured sprouts coming up. They seem different. There are plenty of identifiable weeds, so I ignore the unfamiliar ones. Thank goodness. As their brilliant green foliage matures, pretty yellow and orange flowers bloom. I realize that at least two species of wildflowers have sprouted from my packet. One of them I recognize. They are the orange flowers: Mexican or California poppies. I have seen entire hillsides and roadsides draped with their beautiful apricot color.

I hope my few flowers go to seed and multipy, but I think I should buy several more packets of Southwest wildflower seeds.