neighbors and friends on Lake Groton

These ducks were neighbors at campsite #55, Groton State Forest. Mama duck was persistent in bringing the ducklings over to visit despite our refusal to feed them. Clearly former occupants of #55 had been more generous with their bread and raisins...


We encamped at Lake Groton for a week after Andy got back from his "D-Day" tour. We have learned that the transitions are a difficult part of our nomadic life - particularly the ones when we are just coming back together from drastically different trajectories. He had been traveling intensively for months -in Egypt, Morocco, and France- while I had been in intensive silent meditation and then trying to find my [solo] way back to life "at home." It takes a span of settled time to catch up with each other, reconnect and, hopefully, find ourselves somewhere along the same wavelength. Our two delicious sojourns at the Sierra Hot Springs in a high valley in the Sierra Nevadas (surely you remember those risqué pictures we posted last winter...?) were very successful ...er, wavelength stabilizers for us.

Lake Groton in the distance seen from the top of Owl's Head Mountain. Here's a sobering memory - when I was a kid 50 years ago, I rowed across that lake with my father and 6 siblings. He pointed out the rounded peak in the distance and said its name was "nigger head"...


Groton lake just waking up...

then fully awake.


Lake Groton was another of these reconnecting sojourns. We tucked Magnolia into #55 and explored this part of central Vermont by bike, boots and canoe and in the process found our way back into "normalcy."

Here we are tramping the trails



Friends who have been a constant part of our lives for over 30 years came to share a picnic on the shores of this crystal clear mountain pond.

Nomadic apprenticeship

This summer, we are four years into our apprenticeship to nomadic life. We are mastering this art of parking ourselves quickly, of settling rapidly into a place. The nuances of sun and shade, of bug protection, comfort and beauty; the deployment of books and food and clothes, the un-bungee cording of drawers and moveable items. This we have done quickly here in our friend Renzo’s field. But what takes longer is the settling of our wandering spirits. Are we staying for a while or a week? Can we find a daily rhythm that suits our souls? Finished with the distraction of packing and moving and unpacking, we have to face again those questions that are never far away lately, but are muffled by the noise of Magnolia’s engine and the multiple demands of moving our home: How to live? What to do? Freedom ain’t for the faint of heart.

We are in Essex Center, on top of Brigham Hill. We can see Camel’s Hump and Mt Mansfield from here, so we know we are in Vermont. The bus is parked within sight of Renzo’s childhood home, a 180-year old brick house which she rebuilt with her own hands, brick by brick - not far from her nephew Al’s sugar house. He says it was a bumper year for maple syrup. We share this “space” with lots of sister Ivy (aka poison) ivy crows and cardinals, mosquitoes, deer flies and wasps. Mostly they respect the filmy screens that delineate the boundaries between inside and outside. And at night, there is the sparkling mating dance of a thousand fireflies.

This morning, an Essex police car cruised slowly by, twice, looking for...what? Does the highly esteemed, venerable and elegant Magnolia of our eyes really looks like a mere hippy magic bus?!!!

let the beauty you love be what you do

Rumi a 13th century poet from the region we now know as Afghanistan, understood music's power to transform.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Rumi

the energy of change

Ursula LeGuin said that art and and literature may offer us more of what we need now on this planet than government and religion. Certainly that is where I find my legs and courage when imagination fails.

Here are a couple of links that I hope you'll have time to visit.

The energy of change moves in a slow quiet rhythm in this interview with Eduardo Galeano

Andrew Revkin in his NYT blog has been "exploring whether words alone, without a calamitous kick from nature, can jog humanity to cut short its long love affair with fossil fuels for the sake of limiting the odds of dangerous global warming." He tells us about an art challenge that has just been issued that might shed some interesting light on the public discourse.

Last night I had dinner with friends at a beautiful co-housing community in Burlington (Vermont!). I got to renew my friendship with this little inspiration named Fiona Billy. If you click on the picture, you'll see that she's offering you the keys to life.

Omaha Beach 65 years later

I was wandering yesterday afternoon, June 6, among the 9000 white marble crosses and stars of David at the American Cemetery of Colleville-sur-mer, above Omaha Beach, in Normandy. It’s a powerful, solemn place. On this particular day, there were 7000 other living humans with me, some of them D-Day vets, the real VIPs of the day, sporting uniforms and medals, all of us waiting for the official 65th anniversary ceremony to begin. It could have been complete chaos, but, in fact, the “Official Ceremony” was a well-organized event and the overall spirit was of dignity, gratitude and, of course, celebrity-watching. We were seated a LONG way from the stage but video screens were bringing us close ups of the arrivals by helicopter: Nicolas and Carla Sarkozy, Prince Charles, Gordon Brown and, of course, Barack and Michelle. The Obamas were clearly the superstars of the day, but – a big surprise to me – the best speech of the days was delivered by Sarko. His words, in the context of that solemn place and my lack of sleep, brought tears to my eyes. Happily, the rain held off all day. Unfortunately, in the evening, when the thousands of attendees who weren’t traveling by helicopter were all waiting for shuttle buses back to Caen, it started to pour. That return process was, well, a bit of a mess, but really nothing compared to jumping out of a landing craft at Omaha Beach 65 years ago that same day.

What a rollercoaster the last few days have been. You won’t believe what has happened. I’ll give you the short version, but will be happy to fill out the details later in person, on the phone or by e-mail. When we arrived in Normandy, late on Thursday, we drove to the worst hotel (without a doubt) that I have stayed at in over three years of touring. It’s called the Amirauté on the outskirts of Deauville. I’ll spare you the gruesome details but think under-construction Soviet gulag meets 70s disco palace meets Motel 6. It was truly terrible to the point of being creepy. One of my travelers took to calling it “The Bates Motel”. Creepy or not, it was what we had, so we made the best of it. When I finally got everyone settled (around 1 AM), I wrote an e-mail to HQ in D.C. warning of a “thunderstorm of protest” about the accommodations.

We set off Friday morning for a full day of touring that was to include a wreath laying ceremony at Utah Beach and a visit to the Airborne Museum. At noon, just after we had given the travelers free time in the village of Ste Mère Eglise, we got The Phone Call: the Gendarmerie called our guide to say that an elderly Canadian veteran had died the night before at our so-called hotel and the authorities had some reason to suspect H1N1, aka Swine Flu. The consequence was that we were to drive directly back to Deauville where we would all be quarantined until further notice. We, of course, immediately called for help in D.C. but the State Department advised our supervisors that we had to follow the instructions of the local authorities.

Well, you can just imagine how well this news was received by the travelers, fresh from their night chez Norman Bates. The two buses drove back to the Amirauté under full gendarme escort, blue lights flashing, about a two hour trip. Upon arrival, we were greeted by police and public health doctors who informed me that they should soon have the blood test results from the dead man. We later learned that this D-Day veteran had had leukemia and had returned to Normandy to die. But that’s another story...

We served coffee to the disgruntled travelers, promised stronger drinks to come, tried to update them as we learned anything new. Rebellion was in the air.

Then...everything turned around. Around 5:30 P.M., we got the All Clear from the doctors. Just after that, the most miraculous news arrived: the folks in D.C., responding to my alarm and the latest events, had found a way – on a weekend when Normandy was swamped with visitors -- to upgrade us to rooms in the fanciest hotel on the beach in Deauville. Within the hour, the travelers had packed up, taken a short bus ride and were sipping complementary champagne around the pool at the Hotel Royal Barrière. All the frustration and anger seemed but a bad dream from which we had all emerged. When I arrived late to dinner in the fancy dining room (a Tour Manager’s work, it seems, is never done), I received a hearty ovation. I had become, improbably and somewhat inaccurately, the hero of the day.

Now it’s Sunday, late on the last evening of the tour. We’re at an airport hotel in Paris from which most people are flying back to the USA . By about noon tomorrow, I should have seen everyone off. I plan to spend two nights in Paris, three in Nice, then go back to Ruby and Magnolia in Vermont. It will be very good indeed to be home.

Click on these photos to make them bigger.

On THE Channel

More travels with Andy (Lev)

Not just any channel, mind you, but THE Channel, the English Channel on a ferry from Portsmouth to Ouistreham in Normandy. It's a lovely sunny, despite the bad weather they keep predicting for England and France. It is an ordinary ferry ride in some ways: lots of people drinking, playing ping-pong, sleeping, reading, doing video games. Kids, parents and elders. What makes it really unusual is that there are several groups of D-Day veterans on board, all decked out in medals and service caps, tottering around proudly on their way to the 65th anniversary ceremonies taking place in Normandy this weekend. They're a great bunch, grey-haired and sparkly-eyed men, glowing with pride and glowing even brighter when people come up to them to talk, thank them for their service and listen to their stories.

It would be great to be here with a tape recorder and a microphone. Why didn't I think of it??

My group has a full day of touring planned for tomorrow. We set off from Deauville at 07:45, heading to Pointe du Hoc, the German cemetery at La Cambe, the Airborne Museum at Ste Mere Eglise, wreath-laying at Utah Beach, a reception with French D-Day "witnesses", then a late dinner back at the hotel. Phew! And that's just the prelude. On Saturday, we all have invitations for the official ceremony at the American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-mer, near Omaha Beach. Barack Obama, Nicolas Sarkozy and Prince Charles will all be there, along with lots and lots of Secret Service people from several nations. We will basically sit around for a long time, getting through security and waiting for the muckety-mucks, but everyone is looking forward to it. I am very much hoping for decent weather because it would be a real challenge in a downpour. It's hard to type with fingers crossed, but I'll be working my luck over the next few days.

I have been blessed with a good-natured group. Not many photos yet, but I will certainly have some from June 6 and beyond. More soon. andy

Dies Incognita

A map, rather sensibly, focuses on a particular area with maximum detail. The bordering regions are indicated, but without much detail. These blank areas (like New Hampshire on a Vermont map) have the feel of unknown land, a terra incognita, or maybe terra nullius, “empty land” would be more accurate. I’m with Woody when he sings, “and on the other side, it didn’t say nothing/this land was made for you and me.” My eye is often drawn away from that crowded drawing of full and known lands, with all its roads, towns, elevation changes and local landmarks to wondering, “What’s happening over there on the other side of that boundary?” It has not gotten me into a lot of trouble, though it did once make my crosscountry journey 5,500 miles long. Likewise, I love empty, uncharted, unplanned days – the dies nullius, and dies incognitas, the dies infinitus. There is a pesky voice inside that whines for orderliness and regularity, but so far, to no avail. Vigilance and resistance and maybe a sprinkling of determination are required to safeguard these holes-in-time. The challenge to connect and be present in a busy world is a useful and worthy exercise!

I say all this to give you an idea of the kind of feeling/thinking that accompanies the nomadic life. But as Lev points out (reading over my shoulder),
“ya gotta give them some details too.” So here are some details:

We drove in Magnolia across this grand and voluptuous land in time to be present for my nephew’s wedding to Johanna in North Carolina on April 24. The groom is the beautiful and brilliant bald man who has also looked cancer in the eye and lives to tell about it. This is Magnolia in her NC berth. That brick house across the street is where Zpora and Leighton live.

I am in Vermont having finished 3 weeks at the Vipassana meditation center in western MA with a 3-day break to walk along the Atlantic on Cape Cod. I “served” two back to back 10-day sits, meaning that I cooked and cleaned for those who were “sitting.” It was wonderful, tiring, and truly deepened my meditation/living practice.

Lev spent another 10 days in Morocco and then drove Magnolia to our nieces’ Oberlin graduation (yay Sophie!) and then met me here in Vermont.

We are hanging out in a friend’s apartment while she is traveling and Magnolia is getting inspected and tuned up after her long cross country trip.

Zpora completed the half marathon relay she was running with her friend Megan to commemorate the end of their respective cancer journeys. Zpora is the one on the right. Together they finished 26 miles in under 4 hours. Here they are before the race. Dr. Grant is their oncologist and co-healer extraordinaire.



She will start her last summer at Smith (with an MSW) next week, and Lev will be spending the 65th anniversary of D-Day on Omaha Beach in Normandy, France (along with Obama and invited guests) with a National Geographic tour group.

“Red Diaper Baby” the CD is out!! The 2+year project of recording my friend Danny’s stories and songs is complete (er… ahem, orbis perfectus!?)Here he is during one of our recording sessions.

I am floating in the unscheduled days of dies incognitos here in the Champlain Valley while Zpora completes her thesis and Lev washes his laundry, gets his teeth and eyes checked and calls D-Day participants to advise them on the security requirements.

You too are in this boat, in spirit if not in everyday practice. The result, no doubt, of the changes that are being coaxed, coddled and wrenched out of the planet and its worldlings these days. We do not know what will happen today or tomorrow, really. Yet we are alive, alert and aware of it all, jumping in with both feet, despite the voices counseling caution. We are the fools in the best sense of that word because we don’t know how nor where it will all lead, yet still care, enough to start again, over and over. We are here together, wherever we are, ludificares societas! Will someone pllleeese get this Latin dictionary away from me?