On The Road - At Home in Dexter, MI

Hudson Mills Metropark, Dexter, Michigan.

May 26, 2010.

Hi Everyone,

The dawn broke bright and warm, sunlight streaming through the open bedroom windows, a special day, Susan's birthday, her 70th, exactly three months after her transcendence. The night had been restless. This was to have been a memorable day. Susan and I had discussed it at length. "I'd like a big party but it's a lot of work and many of my friends and some family probably won't be able to make it," she worried out loud. "We could take a trip ourselves or we could do something very special at home," she conjectured. I didn't have a clue, although I was relieved that she seemed to be nixing the big party idea. "Time enough to explore alternatives," I had thought to myself. But the day had arrived wrapped in a cloak of transcendental circumstance, its significance begging acceptance and recognition.

I had planned to release some of Susan's ashes into the Huron river today. The event would mark not only her birthday but would celebrate the completion of our California cross-country healing odyssey. But there would be no whales as witnesses, no energy vortexes to swirl the ashes heavenward, no giant redwoods penetrating the divine light. Just me, Orion and Rosie and the very familiar Huron river rolling through Hudson Mills park, a scant two miles from our home. "How do we make this day special?" was the question that hung in the soft humid morning air.

Sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, my thoughts carried me over the park's trails, footpaths and bridges. This past year Hudson Mills has become a sanctuary, a place of worship and replenishment amidst the turbulence. For years Susan and I had walked these trails together with Gaia and Zeus. But this past year I walked without them, Gaia and Zeus having crossed the rainbow bridge, and Susan's foot wound preventing her from walking any distance without severe discomfort. My thoughts now turned to an event, a mysterious synchronicity that had transpired on the day following my return from the road trip, and in my crystalized recollection I could sense the glimmer of an idea.

I had never seen a white-water kayaker on the river here before. Lot's of canoeists do float along this stretch from upstream. When they get to the rapids in the park, they stiffen, grab their paddles extra tight, and allow themselves to be carried along by the churning current, surrendering themselves to the will of the water. But directly before me is a kayaker joyously playing in the waves, the white foam spilling over him, he rolls his kayak over and over, he reaches behind him with his paddle and the kayak rears up like a stallion and falls over backwards on top of him. He laughs and laughs as he frolics, as much under the water as above it, never drifting with the current. His play reminds me of the whales. When he emerges from the river he spots Orion. "How old is your Curly?" he asks. "You know about Curly Coated Retrievers?" I reply with surprise. "Yep, owned one myself." Astounding! I have never met another Curly owner outside of a dog show. Curlies are rare. Just a handful of people in the park have ever correctly identified the Curly breed. I sip my coffee. The adventure of the day percolates through my gray matter. Susan will have her special birthday. Today, her ashes will ride the waves in a miniature kayak that I will now build.

Two hours later I enter the park, the six inch cardboard kayak containing the ashes resting on the seat besides me next to my camera, Orion and Rosie restlessly await our arrival at the parking lot next to the rapids. Not a hundred yards past the park's entrance gate a deer crosses the road directly ahead of me. I've never seen a deer cross the road in the park before. An animal crossing your path is not a good omen. I ignore it and proceed on. I concentrate on separating myself from ordinary reality, allowing the divine mysteries to dictate events from here on. "I am not subject to the laws of man," I chant to myself. "I separate myself from consensual existence and enter the realm of unexplored experience.

When I reach the parking lot and uncrate the dogs the sun beats down on my balding head and I am surprised to realize that I have forgotten my baseball cap. I never, ever forget my baseball cap. Bad omen number two. A sign posted on a pole warns me to keep my dogs on leash. Enjoying my separatist fixation I drop Rosie's leash to the ground. As I glance up, a golf cart appears at the top of a hill that I affectionately call "The Pyramid of the Sun." The cart heads straight for me, driven by a young man wearing a shirt bearing the park logo. "Pick up the leash," he commands. As I dutifully comply I count omen number three.

Now I am standing next to the river on a concrete walkway that runs under the highway bridge that crosses the river. This is my "Temple." It is a holy place of solace and transfiguration for me. I have stood here many times before, in prayer and in gratitude for prayers answered. The river silently runs through here, a hundred yards upstream from the start of the rapids. The concrete slabs above my head and the concrete piers that support them are my cathedral. Its walls are decorated in graffiti with the names of the saints, Bean, Coryn, Dahlia and Rose. I associate the names with my four fur children, Orion, Koda, Kitchi and Rosie. I place a clear quartz crystal on a rock alter and sprinkle a tiny bit of ash as an offering. After a silent meditation, I am ready. Let the adventure begin.

I lay down my camera as I prepare to launch. I'm going to throw the kayak as far out into the river as I can, upstream of the bridge. In the deep flow of the river's core there will be less chance of the kayak getting hung up along the river bank. Susan cries out "Stan, are you sure this is going to work?" I reply "I've worked out all the details, everything will be fine," as I convince myself they will be. As soon as the kayak is water-borne, I will run downstream with my camera and record Susan's miraculous birthday adventure. "Everything will be all right," I reassure myself, nervously.

The kayak strikes the water far from the riverbank. It is floating vertically, its bow pointing straight up, its stern under the water's surface. Susan cries out "HELP," but there is nothing I can do to help. I watch helplessly as the tiny craft slips below the water's surface and disappears. It has traveled at most ten yards before sinking. And as I walk slowly back to my vehicle, my mind clouded by failure and disappointment, a trickle of ash finds its way out of the water-soaked cardboard kayak and into the smoothly flowing current. The trickle becomes a stream, and the stream merges itself into the river, flowing like a river, smoothly navigating the rapids, raising its head up in the snowy white-water caps of the rapids, diving deep to the solitude of the rocks below, embracing the freedom and joy of being one with the river's passion. I reach my vehicle and load in the dogs. It will be some hours before I can let go of my failure. Susan's spiritual name is Sarita, it means "flow like a river." Flow, flow my dear Sarita. I'm so sorry.

Wishing you many successful adventures,

Stan

On The Road - Lincoln, Nebraska

Holiday Inn Express, Lincoln, Nebraska
Monday, April 19, 2010, 6:00PM

Hi Everyone,

I'm sitting on the edge of a queen bed, my legs straddling the corner. Rosie and Orion are laying on the other bed, awaiting my invitation to play. I'm not in the mood to play. I'm feeling sorry for myself.

We left Natalie's house in Chicago this morning. The trip was long and monotonous. I thought over and over about how I had been blessed throughout my life with the unbounded beauty of unconditional lifelong love. Now I was feeling wounded. "This is our healing journey," I thought over and over with mantra-like patience. But visions of an isolated motel room, far removed from home and empty of Susan's immeasurable presence kept interrupting. Tonight will be rough. The first night on the road without Susan.

So here I am, having arrived early, the sun streaming through the undraped window, my head in my hands, tears streaming down my face, dogs watching mournfully, allowing myself to communicate with my pain. My vision is blurred by my tears, the only sounds are from my heart drumming in my ears. My isolation is near perfect. I bathe in my aloneness. I declare an uneasy peace with my desperation. My world clouds over with the fog of things so familiar, yet lost. "It will get better from here," I remind myself.

And from within that cloud that separates me from my reality a remarkable event occurs. Although I am looking straight ahead, focused on nothing, a faint shadow briefly passes the corner of my eye. My attention is suddenly heightened, but I do not shift my soft gaze. The shadow moves closer, I can feel its warmth, I begin to feel a tingle of excitement. Immediately, a delicate swoosh of soft curly hair and a touch of warm breadth on my cheek. My mind reels at the prospect of an other-worldly reunion with my beloved. I can feel her body touching mine. My eyes are closed. I do not want to break this spell. I am overpowered with gratitude for this encounter.

A paw gently places itself on my leg. A soft wet tongue licks my cheek. I decide not to notice, and concentrate on Susan's presence. And Susan responds by pressing her body against mine, her arm now around my shoulders, I am embraced. And I burst forth with gushing tears of joy. Suddenly, with apparent glee,  Susan pulls me flat on my back onto the bed. I feel the warmth of her face above mine, her soft hair mingles with my forehead. She nuzzles my cheek. I am in ecstasy.

Susan fades from my consciousness and is replaced by Orion. Susan instantly reappears, this time she is loving on Orion. She has her arms wrapped around him, passionately kissing his face. I know this because Susan's arms are my arms, her face is my face, her feelings are my feelings, we are one. And Susan and I love on Orion as he has never been loved, and when Orion is satiated and slides off the bed, Susan and I continue our embrace. And as we slip off together into the misty dreamland of road-weary slumber, I know that this will be a very good trip.

Wishing you many memorable journeys,
Stan

On The Road to Casper, WY

Hi Everyone,

I'm in Chicago visiting my daughter Natalie. She's working tonight, Milo's at the baby-sitter's 'till 9, I have a few hours to reminisce and write.

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The road into Casper, Wyoming is very interesting - very interesting indeed. 

I'm at mile 4850 of my 6000 mile odyssey and my Honda Odyssey is sitting perfectly still in the northbound lane of WY-220, a paved two-lane highway that roughly follows the trail blazed by the pioneers. Dale Eckhardt, our loving Curly friend through all the Curly years, has told me to try to stop at Martin's Cove, Devils Gate and Independence Rock on the way to her home in Casper. "Very interesting places," she says. "The pioneers wrote their names on Independence Rock," she says."Very interesting."

Traveling east out of San Francisco you pass through the Sierra Nevada mountains along the Donner Pass.  Talk about creepy places. The terrain is absolutely exquisite. [I relearned that word watching Sesame Street with my grandson Milo this morning - I digress.] Snow capped mountains towering above lush green forests. Signs along the highway are the only man-made objects other than the highway itself. Donner Memorial State Park, Donner Pass Road, etc.. Along this ribbon of exquisitely carved concrete people struggled and died and .... I'm cruising it at 75 mph while imagining - no - not imagining. I'll focus on the highway. I'll play some music. This place is weird. Let me out of here!

Motoring across the Great Salt Lake dessert I think to myself that I haven't seen a single wild animal since leaving California. Here, now, somewhere on a great southeast Wyoming plateau, I'm gazing west across endless prairie in breathless amazement at a band of a dozen or so wild horses streaking across the far horizon in single file, moving ever so slightly closer and closer as I accelerate slowly to 10 mph. I'm syncing the pace of the Odyssey to their pace. 15 mph. They're getting closer, I can see each horse clearly now, long flowing manes and tails flying, wishing I had my camera.  No, bad idea. 20 mph, they're in a stiff trot, perhaps 100 yards away, the light gray lead stallion throws his magnificent head back and suddenly disappears. What! Then the next horse, then the next - gone! Down into a deep, narrow ravine that runs along the other side of the highway. Must be water in it. They're gone. Never got a picture. Wow! I can't believe it!

Down the road is a heard of over 100 Pronghorn Antelope, their fluffy white rear ends fluttering like flowers in the harsh Wyoming wind. I hardly slow down. Oh yes, it's windy, cold and raining, the temperature frequently drops below freezing.  Heavy clouds hang down from the heavens to within a couple hundred  feet of the ground. A cold, hard rain drenches everything. The highway before me clear and wet, the mountains around me have have their tops clipped off by the clouds. Things have a way of disappearing around here. Ahead is the turnoff for Martin's Cove. 

Once again the Odyssey has stopped still on the narrow dirt road leading to Martin's Cove. I'm trying to reconcile what I'm seeing with my mental model of this place. There's a dirt road beneath me, opaque clouds above me, in front of me, perhaps a few miles away is a mountain, its summit concealed by the clouds, extending as far left and right as I can see, an impenetrable barrier blocking my path. Except... Except for a huge vertical V-shaped cut neatly cleaving the impenetrable mountain into two, like the horizontal wedge shaped cut of the lumberjacks axe that fells the tree. "Devil Gate," I mumble. As I inch forward I see cabins and people and signs of civilization from 150 years ago. Martin's Cove. I park in the first spot I see.

After donning my down parka and letting Orion and Rosie out of the Odyssey we are met by Ranger Rick. No, that's not his real name. But he's wearing an olive brown uniform that has a patch that looks official. He offers us the shelter of his ranger cabin to answer questions we might have about this place, which seems a little odd, since I'm the only one capable of asking questions, but I guess he's used to speaking plurally to groups, given the number of log benches in his cabin. Orion and Rosie really like Ranger Rick, they rub against him as he unconsciously strokes  them while delivering his Ranger Rick talk about the handcart people. On one wall of the cabin is a large map titled "Trail of The Martin Handcart Company." 

"It was here that 150 brave Mormon pioneers of the Martin company perished, but 600 were rescued when a violent snowstorm stranded them at this very spot." I ask him if the Mormon trail went through Devils Gate. "Too narrow, can't get wagons through," he replies. I notice the map has a big red "You Are Here Arrow" that immediately confuses me as to where I am and what direction I am pointed and I feel disoriented and confused and now I am in my down parka in a log cabin 150 years ago. Outside, I can hear people crying and moaning, dragging all their earthly possessions in heavy carts, up the mountains and across the river, freezing, starving, exhausted from exhaustion. Then they see it, Devils Gate. It mocks them, for it is too narrow for them to pass through. It is the final blow. They can go no further. They are doomed. My mind swirling, reason strikes. You're doing it again. Don't imagine it, don't imagine it... "Thank you for your very interesting information and allowing us out of the rain," I say to Rick as we scurry out the door. "No dogs in the visitor's center," he replies.

I drive the direction Rick has pointed out. The road follows the pioneer's path along the flank of a the huge monolithic mountain miles across, neatly cleaved by the Devil's Gate, and as we drive up and around the mountain and Devils Gate narrows until it finally disappears we are drawn up and forward as if by an invisible force and there are crosses and grave markers by the side of the dirt road and the Odyssey speeds up all by itself and there are huge rocks hanging threateningly over the road and the Odyssey wants to get out of that place and it drives fast until it sees WY-220 and then it stops. 

And I suddenly remember that this entire time I haven't gotten a single picture. So I make a U-turn on the highway and head back into the inferno and I realize that only now am I traveling the same direction as the handcarters and they would not  have seen Devil's Gate until they had gone past it by several miles.  I had been playing the movie backwards. Such is the power my delusion. I feel relieved. I drive back to Martin's Cove, get out my camera and shoot a few pictures, drive back past monolithic mountain, shoot a few more pictures, than quickly depart to the safety of WY-220.

Just a few miles down the road is Independence Rock, a gigantic round mound of granite bearing the inscribed names of pioneers who endeavored to reach this point of the Oregon Trail by Independence Day in order to safely make it through the mountains before the snowfall. The rock is a half mile from the parking lot. We are wet and freezing as we approach the massive lump of stone. Not a single inscription is visible. We walk all around the rock, over a mile. Nothing. Not a single name. Then I spot a single inscription, high up the stone's steeply sloping face. It's been scratched on the rock, visible only because the stone is somewhat dry here. Elsewhere, the rock's wetness conceals its historic scratched graffiti. Yet another disappearing trick. 

Highway WY-220 runs right into Casper. Keep going straight, turn right at Ash street, and I'm parked in front of Dale's house. She's standing on the front steps, grinning. I hesitate a few moments, making certain that she doesn't disappear.

More Wyoming adventure as soon as time allows.

Stan

On The Road - San Diego

Hi All,

On The Road comes to you today from Dexter, MI even though it describes events near San Diego, CA. Sometimes, depending on traffic conditions, I find it hard to type while driving, so I save a story in my head for later telling. This is one of those stories.

There are two places near San Diego that are holy to Susan and me, Swami Yogananda's Self-Realization Fellowship Garden in Encinitas and Tory Pines State Reserve in La Jolla. Between the two is Del Mar, home of June Gottleib, Susan's beloved friend and Tapestry co-founder. When I meet June she's wearing a tennis skirt and holding a racket, but a bit stooped. "I didn't want to miss a week of tennis just because I hurt my back", she exclaims before hugging me hello. After leaving Ann Arbor to settle in California, June became a successful actress and model, and she has always been a picture of youth and vitality. I remember seeing her on a billboard for senior's once, all radiant and healthy. Now she was in full recovery mode from the ordeal having to place her beloved husband Jerry into assisted living. So today's mission will include visiting Jerry in his new digs. We both look forward to some healing time. We both need it.

The first stop is Lunch in Encinitas, and I'm starved. Luckily, Encinitis is only 10 minutes up the coast, so a quick change and we're off for a wonderfully hippie lunch at Swami's, across the road from the real swami's garden. Orion and Rosie wrap themselves around our feet as we bask in the glow of antique 60's energy while snarfing lentils and burritos. Life is Good, Life will Heal, Wholeness will Return.

Susan, June and I all cut a few of our spiritual teeth on "Autobiography of a Yogi", Yogananda's masterpiece". These gardens are another of his masterpieces. They are set at the summit of towering cliffs falling off sharply into the ocean. June and I stand at the precipice, spread our arms, and fly into the warm and fragrant breadth of the sea. We are filled with gratitude for this healing. We turn our attention to Susan, and immediately realize that the planned scattering her ashes over the edge of the cliff will never happen. I can just see a dozen meditators covered in ash. Instead, we'll sprinkle her into the garden's soil, to be joined with the plant spirits that frolic in this holy place. After a brief meditation on Susan's favorite bench, June scatters and I click.

Now we're off to Tory Pines. What wonderful friends Orion and Rosie are. On this day they will stay in their crates because they're not allowed in the human places, except for their human's lunch at Swami's. I wish I had their trust and patience. 

At Tory Pines you drive along the ocean road before turning off at a parking lot to pay your fee for driving straight up a winding access road to the parking lots where foot trails lead one out to tall bluffs towering over the Pacific. Majestic and Rugged. Swami's garden is far more refined. Here is an energy vortex created by land, sea and sky in equal measure. Here is where Susan, June and Stan came to experience the magic of Gwen Jansma. They each pledged one of their four spiritual elements here. Earth, Water, Air and Fire. It was here that Gwen performed the public miracle of the Raven.

A young man in our group had selected for his spiritual name "Raven", and his spiritual element, air. Gwen's hand rested on his head as they stood at the edge of a canyon, their colorful robes and headdresses flapping in the wind. As Gwen pronounces the start of Raven's three year, three month, and three day long journey in the study of air, a raven swoops down out of the air and hovers motionless a few feet above Raven's head. There is noticeable gasping, but Gwen just grins and goes on with the ceremony. The raven takes his cue and flies off. 

Susan, June and I planted our profusely decorated prayer arrows here, and it is here that we'll plant Susan's ashes. Actually, not plant, because there are people wearing official clothes all around and we are in a California eco-touristic shrine. Rather I'll attempt to release the ashes down into the canyon. A mistake, as I shortly find out.

As I attempt to create a waterfall of ash down the canyon, the ash, having its own will, flies straight up, defying gravity, forming a cloud, enveloping June who tries to snap the evidence as the cloud now climbs the mountainside on its way to nirvana. 

The deed done we hike back to the car, but June gets lost when Stan gets lost when he stops to talk to a Plein Air artist who seeks his advise as to whether the tree shadows in the painting are too dark, which they aren't. And Stan finds June and they have their picture taken and June is definitely standing a lot straighter. Now it's off to see Jerry.

We drive to Carlsbad where I have already been earlier this morning to find Jerry sitting in his private living room inside what looks like a four star hotel surrounded by luxurious gardens. "Not too bad", he says, but I know from June that he's had to adapt his attitude to the inevitability of the situation. "Not shabby at all", I reply gazing out his window at the far away hills.

It's off to the dining room, Jerry's mealtime. An attendant wheels Jerry in a chair, June and I descend a wide spiraling staircase to a formal dining room with smartly dressed seniors dining on tablecloths. I'm glad I wore a shirt with a collar. As we descend the staircase in true Titanic style June confides that Jerry has not walked since he came here and she's worried. We order complementary coffee and converse with Jerry about the importance of walking. I'm suddenly feeling the strength in my legs, the vigor in my body, I can't wait to be On the Road again. A voice calls out over the quiet ambience, "Take off your hat". June points at me, I reach for the offending article and whisk it onto my lap. Now my physical strength is only matched by my extreme youth. "Thank you, God, Thank you".

Lots of youthful exuberance to you all,

Stan

On The Road in Muir Woods

Hi to All,

Yesterday was another emotionally charged day. Muir Woods in northern California, just above the Golden Gate bridge, was the destination. In 1992 Susan and I spent a day here on our honeymoon amongst the majestic towering redwoods. We each felt a peace and fulfillment in this environment that we had never felt in nature before. The magic and majesty of the trees and forest overwhelms one's senses and erases any lingering concerns. It is a paradise.

I traveled here with my brother Ed and sister-in-law Cynthia whom I am staying with in Los Altos.  As soon as we passed through the entrance and stopped at the gift shop I knew this was to be an extraordinary day. Surrounded by attention grabbing merchandise and tourists jabbering in every language, I stood motionless, seized by a tidal wave of emotion. With tears streaming down my face, I felt Susan's presence so strongly that I felt transported into another world. And once again, the closeness I experienced was so very exceptional, Susan's presence being not only imminently close, but within me, our souls joined in everlasting love. Standing in that one spot at that very moment was one of the most satisfying events of my life, and we hadn't even moved beyond the gift shop!

Once we took to the trails we hiked up hill to try to get away from the crowds. After about an hour we were several hundred feet higher and only saw an occasional hiker. We selected a secluded spot off the trail to perform our ceremony.  The small clearing was marked by an impressive redwood, not the biggest or widest, but a tree with such character and presence that it seemed to call out to us. "Here I Am - I Am Here for You". It's bark was covered with the scars of centuries of rigorous life, overcoming adversities and successfully competing for divine sunlight. "I Am Here For Susan" were the words of an inner voice calling us.

Susan's ashes rested on a log. Cynthia placed a monarch butterfly on the log that she had taken from Susan's Memorial To Life. The time had arrived. I asked Cynthia to do the honors. She said she would be honored to.

Cynthia poured some ashes carefully on the roots of the tree and gently covered them with needles and bark. Then she sprinkled ashes on the wild orchids that grew profusely in that spot, on the ferns that nodded their heads gently in the breeze, on the clover that carpeted the ground, and finally, into the air currents that swirled around our heads. She pulled a small glass crystal from her purse that Susan had given her. The crystal contained the figure of an angel. She placed it gently into a crevice at the tree's base, sprinkled it with ashes, and covered it over. Her eyes brimming with tears, she held the empty container to her heart and whispered "thank you".

The hike back down was easy and joyful. We drove to Stinson Beach, a small town, population 446, just up the coast from Muir Woods, where Susan and I had camped after our day in the woods. Then we drove to Sausalito and had lunch at a wonderful restaurant that jutted out into San Francisco Bay. It was just a perfect day, and once again I could feel Susan's gratitude at being able to experience this journey with us. Such are the miracles of life, here and in heaven.

With much love and light,

Praying for peace,

Stan

One Whale of a Day - On the Road

Hi,

Greetings from beyond the road.

The long awaited Memorial Whale Watch took place yesterday, Sunday, May 2, after several days of delay due very high winds. Susan loved to go whale watching, so it was planned that a portion of her ashes would be scattered into the ocean during a whale watch tour. Ari, Kristina, Daisy, and I drove to Santa Barbara on a gorgeous day and boarded the Condor Express bound for Santa Cruz Island in the Channel Islands National Park, a four hour cruise. We brought along our binoculars and telephoto zoom cameras in hopes of getting a good shot of a whale. Little did we suspect that the whales had heard we were coming and had prepared a greeting.

We are not more than thirty minutes out when the captain spots a humpback whale about a mile away, then another, and another still. We pull within 100 yards of three humpbacks feeding together. We watch intently. They announce their arrivals to the surface after a dive with a mighty blast of air and water out their twin blow holes. Sometimes they swim along at the surface, only their dorsal fins showing. When they dive deep for krill, their wing-like tail rises up out of the water. The captain keeps the motor at idle and talks about the whales. The whales are in no hurry to leave that spot and show no shyness of the boat. They mostly keep their distance and continued feeding. I snap off about 60 shots, other tourists fill up their memory cards. After about a half hour we push on towards Santa Cruz, thoroughly amazed at our terrific luck.

After 15 minuets the captain finds four humpbacks feeding together and pulls within 100 yards. The whales start swimming along with the slowly moving boat instead of diving. Swimming as a group, the whales gradually close the distance between us. Then they disappear under the water and emerge on the other side of the boat, blasting their foul smelling spray out their blowholes and drenching the whale watchers in a perfume that smells like a combination of roses, motor oil and baby poo. They do this several times, each time getting closer and closer to the boat as they pass under it. I hang over the side with my zoom set for ultra wide angle and grab this shot just as a humpback emerges from under the boat. His enormous head is covered in bumps and barnacles. 

A split second later his huge back, 15 feet across appears ...

and then his tail, 20 feet across.

As he circles to turn around, my ultra wide angle captures a shot of his whole 50 foot long body.  So much for telephoto. Who needs binoculars when you can reach out and touch the whales - we don't - it's illegal.

While I'm snapping away at whales posing for photographs, amidst sounds of the spray and foul odors arises a new sound, a blast of low frequency vibration that could be the rumble of a Harley Davidson - but it's not - the captain announces that the whales are singing to the people on the boat. Just then, one whale swims along side the boat, flipping over on its side so that its eye is above water he looks directly at all the tourists lined up along the railing. I snap his picture as he passes by and he raises his pectoral fin and salutes. You can see his eye in the lower left corner of the picture. I put my camera away and bask in the sights and sounds and smells of the ocean and its bountiful, beautiful living riches.

We must hurry on now to Santa Cruz Island because we are running late.  We skirt the island and turn back. Ari releases Susan's ashes from the stern of the boat and they disperse instantly  over the water. The event's sadness is in stark contrast with the tumultuous greetings of the whales. By the time we return, over a dozen whales have been sighted. 

Today, still smelling of whale, I visit the Los Angeles County Natural History Museum. Before entering the main attraction, their fabulous mineral and gem exhibit, I pay a visit to their 70 year old 85 foot Fin Whale skeleton. It has a new home in the museum, with a new armature and artistic lighting and a recorded deep rumbling background sound. Alone with this dead whale, I am seized with sadness and grief for my loss. Just then a hoard of school children come running into the room, their faces and gestures alive with their amazement. Suddenly the whole room lights up with their shouts and running and waving and joy. As life floods into me through all my senses I am instantly connected to Susan and tears of joy swell out through my eyes and I stand there with quiet reverence for the dichotomy of yesterday and today - the cycles of people and whales, life and death, confirm a sweetness of being continuous through eternity. Now I feel I understand. 

More from the road shortly.

With love and gratitude,

Stan