Rocky start

Some years back Mo sent me a walking stick inserted through a rock, very cool use of the items always at hand.  I may have mentioned in some old blog that those were our essential toys as kids, a stick and a rock, and Mo has this company, 'Sticks and Stones' that makes 'Walking Sticks That Rock'.  He is at sticksandstones@surfglobal.net.  So, as I said a few posts back, here is a picture of the interactive 'Stones and a Stick' piece I sent to Mo, and which he has placed in a Zen sand garden.  This is simply some driftwood and some polished jade.  Awesome. 

We seek feng shui,
but in our own way

we hope that feng shui

finds us.

For many years Beauch and I have been going up to Plaskett Creek Campground, about 70 miles north, in Big Sur, surfing at Sand Dollar Beach, and hiking down into Jade Cove to collect whatever jade we could find.  This is California jade, nephrite, not nearly as workable as Chinese jade, jadeite, because nephrite is harder.

Google Earth shot of the area, Jade Cove on SW of pic, Sand Dollar beach on NW of pic

Sand Dollar Beach

A pretty big chunk of jade at the Jade Festival

In the early days we found some pretty nice pieces of jade by scrounging around in the coves.  Divers would get the big pieces such as the one above, called 'Blue Angel.'  The increased popularity of this spot (thanks to the internet and word of mouth) has Jade Cove pretty picked over, and the campground has changed from first-come first-served to half reservations, so now we don't go there until right after a big storm in the winter.  It's wet and cold, but the storm will churn up some jade, and we do the dance with the waves and end up wet and little jade.

Jade hunting is just a meditative ritual anyway, and I have a bunch and Mike has even more.  I finally got a decent tumbler and it is tumbling away in my garage right now, and when I have it all done I will give the tumbler to Mike.  He likes his jade in its natural state, so he may not use the tumbler, and then I will sell it.

The annual 'Jade Festival' is this weekend, and we may day trip up there on Saturday, although I am bored with the festival (it's pretty small and nothing new) but it's a nice drive.  A bunch of hippies and kooks and rich Monterey people buying rocks will be there, grooving to the music.

With all the money we are going to make turning this blog into a bestselling book, Mo is going to make us a two-masted sloop, the 'HolyCowKetcher', and all of us will write the sequel to 'Holy Cow', about surviving at sea with a bunch of loonies.  Mac will be blasting my mucositis with down home cooking with Ho-spice, grilled on his converted Dell laptop.  Mo is playing guitar, Pat riding the bow waves and playing with dolphins, and Manitouboo and Jeanne sunning herself, and I will man the poop deck.  I know I have mixed up a slew of nautical terms; can I steer from the poop deck?  Does anyone need to steer?  Where the heck are we going?  We may need a bigger boat.

Obviously I am still in the grips of prednisone.  It's almost 5 am and I've been up since 3.  Every other day doses means every other other day early awakening.  I'm good on 5 hours, I guess.  Maybe a bit rambly and jangly, but I am here. 

The writing prompt at 'Writing Through Cancer' this week was 'Nature offers us many images and metaphors to describe the emotions and experiences of cancer on our lives. Think about your cancer journey, the seasons of survivorship, the seasons of life, of nature. What images or metaphors come to mind? Write about seasons, wherever they take you.'  So, my mind spun out and I wrote this. 

In 2002 I was living in Frigiliana, Spain, an Andalusian hill town. We had rented an old house near the top of the hill where the Moors had made their last stand as the Christians took back their country. In that last stand, the Moors were at the top of the hill, and when it became apparent they would be overrun, the women gathered their children and leapt to their deaths off the cliffs at the back of the hill.

In our yard in Spain there was an old lemon tree, twisted and gnarled but still producing lemons. One day my brother called to tell me that our father was very sick with cancer and probably would not recover. I asked how long, and he replied ‘Weeks.’

Soon after, we had a tremendous windstorm, and when I looked out at the yard in the morning, the old lemon tree had cracked down the middle. I asked the landlady if she would have it mended; half of it was salvageable. I came to think of that old lemon tree as a symbol of my father. The gardener came and cut down the tree. My brother called again and told me to hurry home, time was up. When I arrived I was too late to say goodbye to my father, he had died.

Rocks, sticks, trees, earth, sky.  Makes me think of an e.e. cummings poem I love.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

by e. e. Cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain


children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

On November 7, I will finish that half-marathon that I have been working towards, and I will have given my speech.  Soon, I won't need to see the doctors more than anyone else, and the medications will be done.  This will be a funky period, the end of an era (it better be).

So now I am pondering my next act.  I don't see anyone hiring me, a 54 year-old two-time cancer warrior with big holes in his resume and memory.  I am not looking for advice; I know it's on me to come up with something.  I will start with volunteerism and take some classes (tai chi, Spanish, embroidery for my xx chromosome blood) and ponder yonder.  I can still do the daily jumble in under a minute, sometimes ten seconds, but who cares?  Look what that did for the Rain Man.