Beach Bum: Essay 3: March 26, 2009

 

A gull flies overhead, arcs back toward the shore and lands.  It stares off to the left. 

 

A small white dog with brown spots pants over to a ceramic bowl, licking up water as if she’s found an oasis in the middle of the desert.  She’d gone missing in our perception – not her’s – disappearing into wetland plants taller than she.  Harmonized whistling from the top of the dunes by me and my new friend, Miranda, we thought was futile.  However; just as Miranda headed down to tromp into the green in pursuit of the dog she’s had since they were both knee high to a grasshopper, out darted Poppy in a dead heat straight toward the shore fifty yards to our left.    Now she sits between us, content, grooming herself.

Miranda & Poppy

My bum is currently a foot off the sand, supported by a blue swath of fabric which is itself supported by an aluminum frame.  Aluminum is useful here on an island constantly bathed in salty, moist air.  My feet are covered in sand, my army green pant legs are wet and sandy – I was surprised by the tide soon after I arrived.  My well worn Chaco sandals almost washed out to sea as the tide continued its move inland.

 

It’s been lovely sharing nature with Miranda.  All kinds of stories were recalled from my childhood.  Memories of oil spills and tar-covered beaches, of being surrounded by cabbage head jellyfish bobbing in the water,  of a friend swimming out to the second sandbar and into a school of eels, of myself swimming parallel to shore and into a school of grouper, fish everywhere flapping against the whole length of my body.  There was the time I crawl-stoked into a Portugese man-of-war that I felt, but never saw, red streaks painting my right arm.  I recall being grateful the tentacles didn’t slap my face instead.

 

I want to tell her everything: about the different beaks birds have specialized to what they eat, the seaweed, the sea anemones.  I want to take her into the salt flats.  I want to share the joy that I find here in my hometown, the one I was so eager to leave.

 

Another cloudy day, yet no rain.  The temperature is perfect:  not too hot, not too cold.  Just right.  No need to spoinl the present  moment with oppressive thoughts of Texas summers.

 

I feel an itch on my left bum cheek and wonder if a sand flea has found me.  I had forgotten about them – images of childhood post beach showers where all kinds of surprises fall out as you peel off your suit:  amazing amounts of sand, shells, and sand fleas.

 

I feel at peace here.  No need to worry about where I will be sleeping tonight, when repairs might start on Mom’s Ike ravaged house, or if she will be able to purchase a new one.  No worries about whether Dave and I are meant to be friends or more.  Just gratitude for what I have and for what I’m glad I don’t have.  So often I forget to be thankful for all of the terrible things that could be happening that aren’t.

 

I used to have a travel alarm clock that had a setting that sounded like this.  Sounds of nature to lull one into sleep.  Yet I don’t feel sleepy.

 

If I took a little piece of the scene before me, it could be seen as a chaotic swirling and churning.  I remember being knocked over by waves as a kid -  my sister Sherry and I would sometimes for fun go farther than we could touch the ground.  I can see Dad far away on the shoreline waving his arms for us to come back – I guess we were confident he would come to get us if we needed him.  From here, fifty yards back, all the motion is contained, held by the shore, supported.  It’s calm here.  I feel my feet firmly on the sand.  And I know that if I got up right now, walked into the ocean and started swimming perpendicular to shore, I’d make my way to the calmness beyond the wavebreak.  It’s calm there.  Floating on my back, eyes closed, I allow the ocean to hold me, to rock me while I listen to the chatter of my dolphin cousins.

 

Poppy’s up  now.  She wandered away, sniffing, and then turned and ran full speed back to us.  Just because.

 

I am amazed at how fast the legs of the shorebirds move as they run across the sand, stop, peck, run some more.  Now the whole flock flies straight up in concert to avoid the approaching tide and again settles on the sand.

 

My exposed right shoulder feels the recent visit of a skeeter and I notice a few have landed on my left arm.  As I look at my arm, I notice that the hair is standing on end.  The temperature must have dropped a few degrees and/or I am feeling the effects of sitting around in wet clothes.

 

I hear an ambulance in the distance.  My bladder is full again.  I scratch a bite on my neck and start feeling antsy.  And itchy.  And ready to go.  Buh-bye, beach.  I know you will be here waiting until the next time I decide to slow down, to notice, to be.  

The Earth Can't Be Saved Without Peace

I have been working on a song I started in college.  My boyfriend-at-the-time, Jason, bought me a T-shirt at the mall.  It was white and had a big blue Earth with the words 'Open Your Eyes.'  Those are the opening words, the opening line of the chorus.  

My understanding has changed a bit since the time I chanted with my friends and fellow activists at Texas A&M's Texas Environmental Action Coalition 'Save the Trees, save the forests, save ourselves, save ourselves...' as we marched up to the capital building in Austin to protect clearcutting of our state's forests.  I have noticed the separation that is created and/or deepened when there is an 'Us' that is called to action, that loves the Earth, that 'knows' who the bad guys are and a 'Them' who we have to bip on the side of the head, so to speak, with our passionate chants and protests so they can wake the hell up and see things our way.  

As a child who was bipped on the head on occasion, I can tell you that it did not make me more likely to hear what the 'bipper' had to say or make me want to join forces.  And so, I've been editing the song a bit to include what I have learned, to reflect my current strategy for I still hear the call of the Earth.  The one I first heard my freshman year, the year I realized life was about more than shopping malls and boyfriends or being popular.  It was the year I realized I was here for a reason, the year I turned into the weird older sister.  It was the year I suddenly started speaking in front of crowds because I had something I wanted to say, had to say.  People I meet today have a hard time believing I was painfully shy in junior high, but I think most will understand how you can do things you couldn't do for yourself for those you love, and, in my case, for a planet I loved, one I realized I was a part of and that needed my help.

Today, I ran across a video of my teacher at San Francisco Zen Center, Eijun Linda Ruth Cutts.  There are many reasons I was drawn to her in particular, of the many choices there.  She embodies many traits I would like to cultivate in myself and she hears the same cries of the Earth.  

It was she who gave my my Dharma name during the Boddhisattva Initiation Ceremony, the one where I vowed to devote my life to the Boddhisattva Way, to the Truth, to peace.  My name is Chirin Eian:  Earth Companion, Song of Peace. In our tradition, the first part of your name is what your teacher sees manifesting in your life in the present and the second part is what she or he sees manifesting as your practice matures.

   

When I first received the name, my youngest sister thought it very fitting for me - she's known me for awhile. However; aside from the fact that it is hard for people to pronounce, it felt too big to me - I felt like I wasn't doing enough to 'wear' the name.  After all, it had been years since I had been in a protest or written a letter to Congress or even been to a beach cleanup.  So I didn't use it. Until last summer.  I was in retreat and instructed to expand my consciousness to include the natural surroundings (we were meditating outside).  After 'being' a tree, birds, the wind and even a passing car, I heard a loud voice come from beneath me, from the Earth itself and it say boldly 'I AM CHIRIN.'  And I said, 'Okay.' I didn't argue.  It is now my joy to not judge myself as unworthy of the name, but to acknowledge the connection I feel and to discover how that will play out in my life.  I notice I am writing songs and singing.  Because it moves me.  It is my heart's greatest joy.  Tell me what you think about this song.  I have not performed it yet.  I'm still working on the lyrics.

Horizons

Copyright (c) 2009 Linda Daline Limbaugh

E

Open our eyes/minds/hearts/arms,

                              G

The Earth is asking us to open our eyes/minds/hearts/arms,

                                 Am

She's begging us to open our eyes/minds/hearts/arms

                                         D C D

(1)  And see what there is to see/ See what’s happening to you and me

(2)  See other points of view/ Without respect for each other, we're through.

(3)  No need to push people away/ We all really want the same thing.  

(4) Embrace with humility/ Close the space that’s between you and me.

    

               G
To you and me and the birds and the insects and fishes,

       C                                      D

the marine mammals and amphibians.

             G

To the sky and the water, the earth and the forest

C                                   D

How can we just let this all be?

              G

For our sons and our daughters will be born tomorrow

                  C                                          D

(Could we look at them straight in the eye?)

            G

It all starts right here, right here in our own hearts.

  C                                                            D

The Earth won’t be saved without peace.

CHORUS 2

And if we all got together, it’d be so much better.

Can you see how good it all could be?

To live in a world so loving and giving

that asks of us only respect.

There’s no man on Earth who is not my brother,

No woman who is not my sis.

I’ll wait for you here with my heart and hands open.

The Earth won’t be saved without peace.

 

CHORUS 3

 

I don’t understand why we all can’t be happy.

Do all of our dreams have to die?

But it’s not essential to step on each other

To run to the front of the line.

Do you know what you’re buying with that product so cheap.

Let’s take our heads out of the sand.

But without blaming and shaming and pointing our fingers.

There’s no reason we have to be mean.

Nobody’s hands are all clean.

CHORUS 4

Repeat Verse 1

Repeat CHORUS 1

Adlib...The Earth can't be saved/won't be saved/can't be saved without peace.  No matter how hard we try/If there's hatred buried deep inside/We'll keep robbing our brothers/Make bombs and not butter/But the Earth can be saved/will be saved/can be saved by peace/Let's join one another and make of butter/The Earth can be saved by peace...

Yeehaw!! Ride 'em cowboys, cowgirls and cowkids!

My sister, Jackie, invited me to the rodeo with box seats!!!  Swank!  

You should have seen how fast everyone ran out when we heard the ice cream cart!  And, of course, it was served in a cowboy hat!

They start 'em young in Texas.  Imagine watching a bunch of kids running after sheep and tryin' to ride them!  One of the most adorable things I've ever seen!  Good thing this kid was wearing a helmet.  They all got up and waved to the crowd with big 'ol smiles no matter what the outcome.

I enjoyed the concert with the revolving circular stage.  He played some inspirational tunes in addition to standard country fare.  I became inspired and asked the waiter for pen and paper and scribbled down some lyrics for a new tune.

To my amusement and surprise, Bevo was there - the mascot of my college rival, T.U. (Texas University - known to the rest of the world as The University of Texas.  We, at Texas A&M, consider our school to be 'THE' University of Texas.)  In reality, I don't really buy into all that school fighting.  It was fun to tease my brother-in-law though who roots for the other side.  ("Was he barbecued? - I asked when he and Sherry told Jackie and I the steer was there.)  I am seen hissing as I recall doing in school.  I actually have a lot of friends who went to T.U. and had I known more where my interests would lead, I might have gone there.

Beach Bum: Essay 2: March 13, 2009

Time to do my nature writing assignment again.

I just spent the last few minutes rummaging through my mobile storage unit, a.k.a. my truck, looking for this journal. With some frustration. With some resistance to the current state of my life. At least I found it in the cab and didn’t have the leave this truck oasis currently under attack by water hurtling down from the sky.

It is really interesting how a view of the world is tinted so dramatically by the lenses one wears. I currently don the ‘this is not what my life should look like’ lens and everything is a hassle and an inconvenience. Yet I recall loving the rain, sitting the in the meditation hall at Green Gulch Farm, allowing the sound to massage my aching knees. It felt like love. Now, I spurn ‘love’ and want it to go away.

Could be worse. I am reminded of a jalopy I drove in high school: a Pontiac J-2000 SE with a hatchback my Dad bought used for $2000. I learned a lot from that car. Rusts runs rampant here on the island. The internal mechanism allowing the driver’s side window to roll up and down corroded. So began a game whereby I would remove the side panel, lift the windowpane up to its highest position and replace the panel. It would slowly make its descent due to the vibrational energy of the car and gravity.  

Now, those who have grown up with little money and a desire to transport one’s self other than with one’s feet or public transit are familiar with the love and care necessary to keep a car performing, albeit at the minimum level. You have to pay attention, watch the gauges, listen. You know how to fix a flat, where to buy retread tires, how to start the car with a wrench and how to put out a carburetor fire. You know to turn on the heater when the engine starts overheating and how to add fluid when all the warnings and manuals say ‘DO NOT OPEN THE RADIATOR CAP WHEN ENGINE IS HOT’. That message is just for novices. You just need a towel and some patience. (Do not attempt to do this at home, please) So, I played the window game. It wasn’t such a big deal unless it rained. I began to hate the rain with a passion.

Comparatively, it’s not that bad in this moment. My truck is reliable and at the least the cab doesn’t leak (though the camper shell does a bit). I am dry although the cold is starting to creep in.

Back to the reason I am here. Nature writing. Which assumes one is in nature. Not sure if cowering in my truck counts. Somewhere in this truck is a pair of rain pants. I know where my umbrella, rain parka and floral garden boots are. All are in the back. Along with my gloves. Might be tricky to write out there and I’m definitely not setting my bum on the sand today!!

I’ve been questioning my decision to return home. What exactly am I doing here? It was more clear what I was doing out on the West Coast. My Mom is happy to have me here and hopes I stay – maybe I will, who knows? I am happy to have the opportunity to be helpful and provide some support as she still puts the pieces of her life back together after Hurricane Ike.  But is there a life for me here?

I see the high rise in the distance. I hear the pitter pat of the rain as it lessens its assault. A car drives through the parking lot and makes its way as close to the beach as it can. I hope it doesn’t get stuck.

Here comes more rain. An increasing crescendo. I find myself listening as I do at the symphony – trying to pick out the different parts of the orchestra as the rain plays different parts of my truck.

The little red car turns around and leaves. No one got out.

It’s hard to distinguish the Gulf from the off-white sky. A low, grayish stripe peeks out above and between the artificial dunes. Flashes of bright white can be seen as the waves curl and break.

A gull and friend fly toward me as a flock of their kin cruises the shoreline. I can make out part of the fence with the red ‘Do Not Enter’ signs I sat by last week and think ‘That’s where I should be!’ I hate it when I 'should' myself. ‘I shouldn’t hate either’ I think as I do it again.

A dark blue Chevy pulls up to my left. I wonder if they’ll get out.

I remember senior night at Astroworld in Houston when it started to rain. We loved it, staying to ride Texas Cyclone again and again, experiencing the added exhilaration of rain pelting us in the face. It was awesome! ‘One more time! One more time!’ we’d chant as we returned to the start. Have I become too old and too comfortable to play in the rain?

I hear a metronome as the rain attempts to keep the pitter-patter in time and is doing a lousy job of it because it keeps speeding up and slowing down. I can’t decipher which part of the truck is providing that backbeat.  

The frequency of sound increases and I lost all motivation for venturing forth. Instead, I study the patterns being made on my windows. I am reminded of wine tasting – swirling the chardonnay in the glass, analyzing the ‘legs’, the vertical patterns made as the wine descends to the bottom of the glass once the centripetal force decreases to zero newtons.

There’s surface tension as the water forms irregular mounds. When the sum of forces no longer equals zero, the water makes its way to the bottom of the window reminiscent of a shooting star, recruiting friends on the way.

I am also reminded of the video game I played as a child – one I loved more than Asteroids or Ms. Pacman – Centipede. I am moved to want to ‘shoot’ these drops before they make it to the ‘ground’. I gaze at the window and experience an old familiar feeling as I think ‘But there are too many – how can I shoot them all?’

The windshield makes a completely different pattern than the window. Due to the slope of the glass and its curvature, the drops of water immediately meld into one another becoming one slow-dripping cascade. A kind of water feature. Relaxing to watch. It looks a bit like dimples – ‘ooh, like cellulite ‘ I think in disgust, definitely not something even on my radar when dropping quarters into video games at the local arcade.

So far, no one has emerged from the Chevy with the tinted windows. I wonder if there are kids in there making out. My mind is all over the place today.

A black bird appears before me, perching on a fencepost. I must sadly admit that my birding skills are horrid and I can’t even say with confidence that this is a crow. Could it be a European starling? A friend joins him or her before they both fly off to my left, joining a group of them pecking on the ground. They pick up pieces of Styrofoam and other trash and I want to scream out ‘No, yucky, spit it out!’ like I would to my one year old nephew Jacob when he picks up pieces of grass or dead bugs from the ground.

The birds are gone now, but there’s still a two-liter bottle on its side with a blue label. The liquid is brown with hints of orange. Maybe next week, I will return with trash bags and clean up this place.

On my dashboard I spy a pile of sand and a thin, white shell. I picked it up last week, meaning to give it to my new friend, Dave, but I keep forgetting. It’s sitting next to a package of dried, pitted California dates, ‘local’ food picked when I was a California local. It’s my favorite kind of shell. I am drawn to the delicate ones, the fragile ones – a reminder of the transiency of life. I look up from my journal at the shell again. I smile and with a surge of adrenaline, put down my pen – quick, before I change my mind…

I leap out of the truck – no garden boots, no jacket, no hat – wearing blue jeans, Dansko clogs and a fleece shirt and I ran. I run over and on top of forbs, grasses and a toothbrush, squishing sand and splashing through puddles to the dunes. I stop, laughing and take off again for the water. I arrive at the edge and notice more patterns of rain in the sandy pools. I hear and see the waves, and wave myself. I spin around, arms extended and laugh out loud. And then I turn and book it back to the truck, rain pelting me in the face.

I rush back into the cab, slam the door, huffing and puffing, looking like the proverbial wet rat.
I am still alive!!! My nose runs, a trickle of water creeps down my neck and my jeans stick to the front of my legs. My hair is plastered to my head and my laugh is more genuine than it has been in days.  Another kiss and a shout out to the creator for reminding who I am.

Texas Two Steppin' on a Girls Night Out

Mom and I (she was born in Japan, but if you hear her twang, you'll know she's really Texan!)

We decided Mom was way overdue for a night out on the town so we got all dolled up and headed over to Big Texas.  It reminded me of a bar I went to a few times in college, Hurricane Harry's.  There was a big dance floor in the middle and the music switched from country to rock.  It had been years and years since I had tried a two step and thought I might just sit back and watch Mom have a good time, but before we knew it, we were both cutting a rug.  I started out stepping on toes, but by the end of the long night, I was not only two-steppin', but jitterbugging, doing the polka and waltzing in addition to some freestyle oldtime rock-n-roll.  

Rockin' my hometown with my new friends!

I saw an ad in the Galveston Daily News for a bar that wasn't around when I used to live here a dozen  years ago.  The name sounded awesome:  The Old Quarter Acoustic Cafe.  I checked out the website and when I saw the comment ' where lyrics still matter,' I knew I had found my place.  It was more awesome than I expected and I made a bunch of new friends, performing and appreciating other performers, at the Wednesday and Thursday night open mics.  This is my new favorite home away from home.

The owner, Wrecks Bell, starts off each show with some rockin' tunes.  He's a funny guy.

Reggie offered to accompany me as I sang some original tunes and some covers of Traci Chapman, the Indigo Girls and Dido.

Dave and Tom from Wisconsin here working to rebuild Galveston and sharing tunes from their fave Minnesota band Wookiefoot.

Lee bartends and belts out some original tunes.

The band, Fiel, will be headlining here soon - the passionate, dual language performance was amazing.

Keith Miller had the audience crackin' up with original tunes like the one about his cat.

I am very excited about my new friend, Dave.  We have an uncanny number of things in common like the same age, the same former profession (science teacher), similar spiritual trainings (Buddhist), same musical instrument, etc.  He's offered to do some guitar harmony with me, adding some needed spice to my strumming (i'm more a vocalist than a guitar player).

Beach Bum: March 6, 2009

Copyright (c) 2009 Linda Daline Limbaugh 

I had been curious where I would stop. I didn’t imagine it like this. Not at all. Bum right on the sand. Where’s my blue-gray, weathered hunk of driftwood with branches and trunk curling up toward the sky? The one that so nicely would have supported me. The one I remember from my late teens and early twenties. When I still lived here. Mom doesn't even live here anymore.  Not since the hurricane.  Now I’m just one of those ones– the visitors, the ones who create all the crazy traffic. Spring break has begun. As I look around, I realize that the new – well, it could have gone up anytime in the last dozen years since I’ve been here – highrise must have eaten my beloved driftwood. The one where I would read when I wasn’t floating past the wavebreak, ears submerged, listening to the chatter of dolphins.

The sun begins to set behind me and to the right. A glowing orb, it casts a few buildings into sepia tone – one is the island hospital which may not reopen here, but move to the mainland instead, taking hundreds of jobs with it. The water may be gone, but the effects of Hurricane Ike still ripple through the community – the ones still here and the ones scattered around like fall leaves in all sorts of small towns and in the big city (Houston). But, back to here and now…

I notice a smile that won’t leave my face. They say that she who amuses herself never ceases to be amused.  This is such a familiar feeling – this dissatisfaction. I had a vision of the perfect spot in nature. Actually drove many miles South to look for it, the pristine, ‘right’ spot where I would be inspired, words spewing forth like popcorn – I’d barely be able to write fast enough. I’d be so empassioned, the force of my grip would break the pen and then I’d be trying to write holding onto the flimsy ink cartridge and I would write until the darkness made it impossible to see the page…

‘This isn’t that place’, I think and I laugh. Of course, I could have kept looking. Right now, I could walk back to my truck, drive to the west end of the island or maybe to the bayside park. I notice that I don’t move and find myself very amused to be here – apparently in the perfect place. I know myself – I have been studious – and I choose to get off the hamster wheel of perfection seeking to discover the perfection of what is all around me: the trash littering the beach; the people approaching to ‘invade’ my spot; the lack of a proper seat for my bum. I catch myself thinking, ‘Next week, I’ll bring my campchair and then it will be perfect.’ How critical the mind is, always searching for that which will keep it from peace.

The gulf breeze helpfully blows the hair from my face so that I can see the page, so I can see the beauty of where I am. While earlier, I saw birds flying by in formation, solitary gulls fish the seas before me now. A family walks by. There are two women, two men, two children, one stroller. I was wrong – two families walk by. A woman in the distace walks two dogs.  

I am sitting on the sand right in the middle of a set of tire tracks that leads straight into the water. I hear the baby express itself vocally without words, but not crying.

I turn to my right, hair flinging itself into my face and notice the orb is gone, replaced by a region of pink, diffuse with yellow hues above. A cloud passes through quickly from west to east.

Looking down, I notice a feather.  I also notice that I would appreciate a restroom, but a civilized one is not present. Will I bare my bum in front of strangers, I wonder. There is a line of artificially created sand dunes behind me. We’ll see…

To my left, I see a line of posts, barring vehicle passage. A tempting gap opens near the middle, posts on each side warning ‘Do Not Enter.’ I know they are not meant for me with my sandals, yet I wonder how I stop myself. How I bar myself from entering fully into my own life with other people’s stories, with the stories told by our culture, stories that are not for me.

I look forward and the first word that comes to mind is ‘ruffles.’ I see the grand dame, Gulf of Mexico, dancing in a large, straight skirt, rimmed with undulating white ruffles. The constant movement looks the same constantly. Does she never get tired?  

A couple in the distance looks also out toward the Gulf. The man raises his arm to point at something.

My attention returns to my body and I thank the earth for supporting my bum so solidly. My bladder says ‘Can we go now?’ And I laugh.

I look up – I don’t know what made me do that – and quickly, audibly take in breath as I notice the moon. A waxing gibbous. ‘Hello moon!’ I am not alone. Not by a longshot. I never am.

The smile is still stuck on my face, lips parted, teeth showing. A man jogs toward me from the left. Wish I had my running shoes. I look up and smile at him as he passes. He doesn’t smile back, yet I keep on smiling. I remember a time when I would have judged him for not being friendly and I would have dropped my smile. Now why would I do that to myself?

Lights begin to emerge from the dusky horizon. The breeze is delightful. I notice a paw print to my left. I wonder if I will be able to find my bumprint so that I can sit in exactly the same spot next week. I laugh as I realize I will sit in the perfect spot wherever it may be. Maybe in a camp chair. I’ll just have to wait and see.

‘Love you, world. See ya around.’ I am moved to bow to and from my spot, as if I am in the zendo of my former community and realize that now, the whole Earth is my zendo. Yay!!

I kiss my hand, raise it to the sky and wiggle my fingers, still smiling, grateful. A shout out to the creator.