A Writer Afoot

Long walk day #2

I am training for the Avon Walk for breast cancer.   I'll be posting weekly updates on my progress.

Last week, total miles: 21

Today's walk:

Miles:  10 and a bit, at the Santa Fe Trail, which is a very long trail that runs from Wyoming to New Mexico. Very pretty. 

On the Ipod:  Exercise mix #1, which consists of some Laura Love and Mellencamp and other things for the first half.  Then switched to Letting God of God, by Julia Sweeney, which is so funny I was praying that none of the runners on the trail thought I was off my meds or something.

Snacks: Peanut butter, apple, Luna bar.

No real aches and pains, though my neck is a little stiff from carrying the heavier pack.  (It's challenging to get the clothing correct for a long walk on a February afternoon in Colorado.)

The pitch: I have committed to raising $2500 by June.  It isn't a sponsorship, but direct donations to each walker's tally.  The money goes to helping provide screening and care for women who are under- or uninsured, a cause about which I am passionate.   If you feel moved to donate, you can do so, here.

New Passport

My passport is going to expire in a couple of months, and I have to mail it away to get a new one. It's been feeling a little like retiring my battered hiking boots.  So many adventures we had together!

When I first applied for this passport, I had never been anywhere out of the country.  I had traveled a fair amount around the US, which is a very big and varied land, but never even as far as Canada.   It seems impossible that was only ten years ago, and slightly astonishing to realize that once I got that passport in my hand, baby, I was gone, gone, gone!   

As a young girl, my only desires were to write books, see the world, and be happy.  It's hard to grasp now how impossible it seemed to say those things--write books! See the world (the world?!) because we're a much more sophisticated population these days.  At the time, at 14 or 15, I didn't know anyone who wrote anything, and the only person I knew who had traveled anywhere was my uncle, who had lived in Spain when I was a child. 

By the time I finally got the passport, I'd sold a lot of books, and was fairly on fire to start travel, but I still had young teens in my house.   So when I won a literary prize and knew I was going to spend it on travel, I took the boys with me.  Ian was 15, I think, and Miles a couple of years younger.  My mother went with us, too, also her first trip abroad, and we traipsed around England and Ireland for two weeks, a trip I planned entirely on my own with the nascent Internet, emailing with the owner of the flat we rented in Ealing, not far from the train which took us into London proper.  We visited Bath and Ightham Mote, site of my beloved Green Darkness, and crossed the Irish sea to visit Cork and Dingle.  Miles, a very picky eater, practically starved to death and lived on pastries, but his innate sense of direction kept us from getting lost countless times.  Ian charmed the old men in Ireland, who spoke to him in Gaelic, and he kissed the Blarney Stone, which might have had something to do with all those debate wins, but maybe he was just born a clever Irish talker.

From there, it was a leap to hike in France with my buddy Sonia, right before 9/11.  A trip that changed my life in profound ways, ways that I'm still uncovering, years later.  It was the trip that turned me into my fully hiking self and shook me loose of my old life and dumped me, unceremoniously, into the new one. 

Which has actually turned out to be quite fine, and full of wanderings.  Scotland and New Zealand one year (the lochs and mists and Wallace's sword, his very, very sword that he held once in his own hand; the Bay of Islands and that long, empty, spectacular beach in NZ, where a gang of wild horses trotted up to a ridge and scornfully looked down upon us, their wild manes blowing in the breeze).  Canada, Vancouver and Victoria.  And then England again, and Scotland, and Normandy's beaches and Paris.   And then, the last one on this passport, Naples and Matera and Bari and Kent again last year.   

So much! Such a blessing to have the freedom to travel. 

What new stamps do I want to see in the new one?  Australia will be there, and New Zealand.   But also, I want to see those India stamps and perhaps Morrocco and Ireland again.  Spain would be very nice, and Mexico. No doubt there will be plenty of England, to see CR's mother.   And...I'll leave some surprises up to the Universe.  It seems to sometimes have the most delightful things up its sleeves!

What stamps do you want to add to your passport?

Soul Mates at RTB

I'm blogging about Soul Mates at Romancing the Blog today.   This should be a little less controversial than my last post there. 

Do you believe in soul mates? Come on over and chat.

A Writer Afoot....for the cure

I've been trying to figure out all week how to set up a little icon for this, but programing is not my strong point, so let me just make my announcement:

I'm walking in the Avon Breast Cancer Walk this year.  It is 39 miles--26 on Saturday, and 13 on Sunday.  I wouldn't be nervous about the first half, since I've walked that far in the past, but the second day is a teeny bit daunting. 

Still.  Walking is what I can do, and I've wanted to participate for several years.   This year, I made the leap and sent in my registration.   Every walker must make a commitment to raise a substantial sum, and that's why I'm announcing it here.  I hope some of you will be game to donate, and maybe together we can raise a really juicy sum, in the name of our friends and siblings and relatives, and most especially, our daughters, granddaughters and all the others in the future who WON'T get this disease if we can figure out a way to get rid of it forever.

Once a week or so, I'll post a note about my progress and the sum we've raised together.   I will be offering some prizes (yet to be decided).  Perhaps you work in an office or have a book group and can take up a one-time collection and I can send a set of autographed books to you to distribute.

I also know that it isn't always possible to donate anything, so cheerleading will be much appreciated, too.

There are walks in many cities around the country.   For more information, go to Avon Walk.

To make a donation to my walk click here

Questions?

PS  If anyone can help me figure out how to make an icon with a link to the donation site, I would be very grateful. 

Writing conference possiblities to consider 2008

For the past few days, I've been hammering out the details of my travels this year.   I'll be teaching at The Santa Barbara Writer's Conference again in June, and Australia in August, and San Diego in October.   I'm also going to play in New Zealand with CR's brother & family, and in NYC with my boy who is (seriously, I'm so not as old as this makes me sound) graduating from law school.   

I promised to post great conference links for you and never got to it, but here are some to think about for this year.  It's not cheap to attend conferences, but once in awhile, it's worth it to splurge.

First up, the Magazine Conference in Boulder, which I attended last fall and enjoyed very much.  This is the least expensive of the lot, and they're going to offer several focused versions this year, from travel writing to the nuts and bolts of magazines.  At $350 and in the stunningly beautiful city of Boulder, it's hard to go wrong with this. 

I love the Santa Barbara Writer's Conference, June 21-26 this year.  I'll be teaching a lot of voice and creativity along with the usual Iowa-style readings that feature so prominently at this conference.  This one is pricier, but it is set right on the beach in a stunning hotel, and Ray Bradbury will be speaking Saturday night.  Enormous variety in faculty and speakers.

The Women's Fiction Festival in Matera, Italy.  One of the most delightful experiences I've had.  The conference is intriguing, the parties delightful (Romeo and Juliet's balcony scene acted out on the square while we drank wine in the soft evening breeze), and the company varied and intriguing.  You will never be sorry you went to this one.  But yes, the price tag is...a teeny bit painful.

And of course, there is the big Romance Writers of America bash in San Francisco this year.  I'm quite torn over whether to attend this year, and doubt very much I can squeeze it in, but I am mourning the possibilities (French Laundry!  Chez Panisse!).  This is one of the most complete, most intense, most vivid writing conference experiences out there, so if you have never attended, even if you are not strictly a romance writer, I guarantee you will learn a lot. 

There are hundreds of others, of course.  I've heard the Surrey Conference is a treat.  There are some retreats in Barcelona I wouldn't mind attending someday, and really, I just think I must find one in Ireland one of these days.  I could visit my friends Tom and Emer and explore Ireland for real.   

What are some of the conferences you know about that we should consider? What's the best conference you've ever attended and why?

Apples and walks

This morning on my walk, in heavy coat and shredding gloves and a hat that always gets too hot, what I thought about was how much I love walking.  It's so simple.  So clean.  So unassuming.  You don't need special equipment. Almost anyone can do it, and over and over and over again, they show that it is one of the single best things you can do for your health.  Walk a half hour a day, eat an apple, and love somebody a lot, and you've got it covered. 

I also bought some very beautiful apples today.  Ambrosias.  Very crisp and sweet and pretty to look at it.

What simple things do you love?

Friday artist date

Fridays, on the new, improved schedule, are for artist dates.   This gloomy, crackling cold morning (it has been well below zero at night), I am going to go to yoga class, even though my muscles are still sore from Tuesday.  Then out to find some new cooking tools: a zester, which I do not have and really want; a heavy, midsize saucepan, which I do have but want a better one; and a new grater.  I gave one away in a fit of generosity, and it was the wrong. 

Then Whole Foods.   There were alluring recipes in Oprah this month--I want to try the clear broth with kaffir lime leaves and chiles, and some gingerbread cookies that look plainly sinful. I had to scrap the developing book (a blog for another day--trust me, it was the right decision) and am puttering around while the right one brews.  Cooking seems to be absolutely required for that process somehow.

I might go see Juno, but honestly, I'm not much in the mood for passive watching. I want to DO something.

Any cooking going on in your world? Cooking up books? Artist date planned any time soon?

The REAL Scent of Hours shop!

While watching television recently with Christopher Robin, we saw a commercial for a Manitou Springs perfume shop called Salus.  It looked clean and elegant, and most surprising of all, it offered patrons the chance to make their own perfumes and add the fragrances to a wide variety of bath and body products. 

CR and I looked at each other with our mouths open.  "It's The Scent of Hours!"

Which is, for those in the know, the name of the perfumery in Madame Mirabou's School of Love (now also available for the Kindle, I just noticed!)  which is the story of a woman who is searching for her place in life after a divorce. Her way of relating to the world has always been through scent, and each chapter begins with a recipe from her perfume journal. The shop she eventually opens is in Manitou Springs called the Scent of Hours. 

Last Saturday, CR and I wandered over to Adam's Cafe for lunch, and I remembered the ad. We stopped in, and it is gorgeous, well appointed and clean.  A lovely place to go play, if you are in the area (or visiting), especially with a friend or sister or mother. I think I could spend a couple of days mixing scents and creating my own signature scent! 

What's funny is that I had never heard of such a shop, and it did not exist when I wrote the book.  Now there is.  You can visit in person, or on the Internet.  Tell her I sent you. 

PS.  I'll be talking about the book with Eloisa James at the Barnes and Noble Review site one week from today, January 24.  Please stop by if you can.  This is a great new thing they're doing, and wouldn't we all love to see it be successful? 

Meeting coyote, or why I live in Colorado

Look at him!

CR and I were hiking in the fresh new snow this morning and saw this coyote walking through the trees.  He wasn't particularly worried about us, though a bit disgruntled that we might have cost him a squirrel for lunch.  He posed very regally for this shot.

(Click on any picture to get a bigger view.)

I'm still fizzing a little from it.  The hike, the coyote, the astonishing pleasure of the crisp, cold air, fresh powder, and views like this one:

And this one, a little later as the sun started to come out.  An old quarry on the ranch now made into a popular hiking area:

Finally, this one, just because the colors are so eye-splitting.

Will have to mull over what the universe has to say, since Fox, Coyote, and Dog have all been right in my face the past couple of weeks.   Loyalty, cleverness,  adaptability?   Hmmm.   

All the routines of home

I spent the weekend at the most mundane of tasks.   Drank wine with my friends on Friday night and hiked a little while on Saturday afternoon and swept long fronds of glittery red dog hair off my sofa.  Sunday was breakfast out with CR and I took my notebook to the new Starbucks to write by hand looking at my home mountain, then shopped for groceries and put them all neatly away, taking comfort in a blue glass bowl of lemons and the crisper full of watercress and lettuces, and a basket of tiny red tomatoes.  I went to a movie (Martian Child--I do so love John Cusak) and remembered that it's more interesting to write about men who are smart than perfectly good-looking.

It's good to travel. It's equally good to come home and take up the threads of ordinary life again. 

A rainy day in Harlem

Thanks to some fortuitous circumstances, I found myself yesterday morning walking through a pouring rain on famous streets in Harlem. We--son, girlfriend, and I--were there to hear Hillary Clinton give a stump speech at the Abyssinian Baptist Church (you would know it if you saw it, from thousands of clips and photos). Thanks to those circumstances, we had a great seat, only a few rows from the front.

But what I loved was walking on Lennox Avenue, looking at the brownstones, thinking about the depth and weight and breadth of history on that neighborhood. I wondered where James Baldwin had grown up. Where the theaters were where so much music was made. We passed the mother church for the AME.

Afterward, we took the subway down to 14th street and found brunch in a little cafe. Eggs florentine and unlimited mimosas and young woman serving briskly and efficiently wearing a stunning yellow scarf over her head and chest and a strong Brooklyn accent.

I'm headed home this afternoon. It's been a lovely series of trips, but I haven't been in the same place for two weeks since the end of August, and I need to go home and download all this mental material and plunge into the new novel, which has strong characters but an elusive secret at the moment.

Meanwhile....I had a blast exploring new neighborhoods in NYC this time. Park Slope and the upper westside and the little sojourn into Harlem. Cool.

Souvenirs and presents

What do you bring back from your travels?    I always bring too many books (as if such a thing existed).  This time, that includes The Reluctant Tuscan, by Phil Doran (autographed, as he was one of the speakers in Matera; he is a gifted speaker and his book sounds very funny); Villa Serena, Falling in love, Italian Style, a novel from the UK by Domenica De Rosa, The Gift, by Lewis Hyde, a book about creativity which looked really great and didn't capture me when I first tried it, and another book about an expat, Remedy, by Anne Marsella, also purchased in the UK, where fantasies of running away to Spain or Italy or Corisca (notice the sunny theme) are very popular.   I started Villa Serena and it's lots of fun, though I had to put it aside until I finish my column for the month. 

My father reminded me before I left that his birthday is coming soon.  So, I found him something really cool (I can't tell you what it is yet, but trust me, it's good).  For my mother, it's always foodstuffs, which this time includes tomato chutney from a roadside stand in Kent.  For my boys, I planned to bring back Italian shirts, but since Boy #2 is nearly 6'5" and CR (runner man, remember) is an Italian size Large, there was no finding a shirt for Miles.  Ian, however, should go to Italy to buy all of his clothing.  He has a hard time finding shirts that fit him properly, but a good visit to Rome or Milan would do the trick. 

For myself, I bought dry-cured olives in Matera, and saved the notepad from the hotel, and Christmas cards for my friends that show Vita's writing tower.  Also at Sissinghurst, I bought lavender stuffs and the beautiful wooden apple and pear in the photo. 

But by far my favorite souvenir is my teaspoons, the very small spoons you find for stirring tea all over the UK, as ordinary as dirt, but do not seem to be readily available here.   I've been wanting some for ages, and it was great fun to go into a department store in Maidstone and pick out a dozen, all in different patterns, to bring home.  CR's mother Gina, bemused and amused at my delight, dug in her kitchen drawer and found six more, all given away with tea or coffee (she couldn't remember) and I brought those home, too.

I also brought back a very touristy thing, a calender with Rome and cats (so sue me--it's really cute), and we bought a handmade clock with dogs on it for our sitting room.   

And here, to document the many, many, many miles we walked: a photo of my very chipped and demolished pedicure the last day while we were waiting for a ride from Sissinghurst.   I wish I'd had a pedometer.  I've walked a lot of miles on holidays in the past, but this one takes the  #1 spot for now. 

What do you bring back? Earrings? Toys?

All of our delicate and precious little passions

Thinking tonight of enthusiasms.  The woman at Paris Breakfasts is back in Paris, shooting deliriously colorful photos of the shop windows and foods she will paint on some future day.  I love her photos even more than her watercolors (which I keep telling myself I'm going to buy, someday).   I'm attending a conference for magazine writers, because I'm interested in the subject and it is being held in Boulder, so I could attend without much effort, and it's been amazing.   I love being a beginner, listening with this entirely different part of my brain.   I love the learning and the possibilities presented and the stories (always stories, stories), but most of all, I love being in the midst of people who are so passionate.  The photo editor of National Geographic is here, leggy and slim and smart, a woman who has dodged bullets and given birth to daughters and loves photojournalism so much it's like sparks come from her when she speaks of it. She made me want to write about her. Two young women next to me were in thrall, nearly speechless with the idea that it would ever be possible to shoot photos for the venerable National Geographic, and on the other side, a woman spoke of beginning her first novel, and a newspaper reporter yearned to leave the paper and write full-time. A writer of story lines for computer games (how cool is that job??) wants to write articles about history.  I felt quiet and lucky. 

It's also always good to be in a college town, where hope and expectation are basic molecules in the daily air, right alongside oxygen.  There is happiness in hope, in believing in the next thing, whatever it might be.  A friend of mine said that people only need two things to be happy--something to look forward to and a dream to believe in.   Here in this hotel this weekend, the air feels quite thick with those two things. 

So, what little gratitudes can you come up with?  And what little (or big) thing are you looking foward to?

Shadows and light and cactus

Matera is visually stunning, and I'll post a more in-depth post about the town in a day or two (I have a conference this weekend--going to study, not teach, for a little change) but here are a few photos to show you what I mean.   (Don't forget, you can click on them to enlarge for best effect.)

Late afternoon. This is my favorite. 

Those walls.  That blue.  Simple.   I wish I could learn to be less baroque in my furnishings sometimes.

This doorway captured me every time we passed it.  So old and so many exquisite details.  The face. The broken spokes, the plant growing at the arch, the fall of light.

Prickly pears.  The hillside below our hotel was filled with them. Giant cactus, as tall as trees, broad as a car.

Come back to hear a tale of pale dogs and another of the English countryside and the ghosts who ambushed me at Dover castle. (I was jittery for two hours afterward.)

Best meals on the tour

---First night in Naples, a margherita pizza.   This is the simplest of things--only dough and tomato sauce, garlic and basil, but I swear to you I have never tasted tomatoes before that, as if all the days of sunlight and a few sea-laden winds and some nights of rising moons were all packed into crushed red sauce.   I am determined to grow tomatoes that taste like that.   It didn't hurt to eat it overlooking the Bay of Naples, buzzing with jet lag, with the moon rising over Mt. Vesuvius and tourists from the cruise ships marching down the promenade in their capri pants and straw hats and motorcycles by the thousands roaring by.

(Photo:  Mt Vesuvius and that show-off moon)

The breakfast at our hotel in Naples, served on a patio four stories above the street.    Jam croissants, coffee with milk ("What is milk in Italian?" I asked CR fuzzily.  Oh, yeah...latte. :)), yogurt and rolls and cheese and butter and a spread of fruits. 

--A fruit at the cocktail party in Matera.  I have no idea what it was, though someone said maybe persimmon.  It was about the size of a Roma Tomato, and it even looked a bit like a skinned tomato, with that red, grainy sort of flesh and lots of little seeds.  The color was a little more purple than most tomatoes, however, and the fruit itself was lightly sweet and enormously refreshing.   Any guesses?

--The breakfasts every morning in Matera, at the Hotel Sant'Angelo, served in the back of the long cave of reception, cool and mysterious and very quiet, lit with lamps and the bold sunlight pouring in through the front door.  Pear juice and more jam croissants, sun-dried tomatoes on little toasts, strong cheese in cubes and fresh cafe, served however you liked--con latte, cappuccino, Americano.  CR drank tea with milk.  I drank the latte, and the girl who served us was part of the great pleasure.  A little dynamo with beautiful eyes and a very pleasant way of speaking English.

--A happy hour feast on the piazza in Matera.  Dry-cured olives, soft red wine, almonds in a crisp, baked dough, and two beautiful creatures playing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.

--Roast rabbit, a swordfish steak, a spinach orchiette with butter that so delicious it made me wish to lick the plate.

--Finally, a Sunday dinner served by Neal's mum.  Mainly the banofee pudding.  I'm still dreaming of it.

Oh, and happy news: after all that pasta and dessert and wine and croissants for breakfast every morning and gelato (oh, gelato! Melon. Peach. Peach and melon), I was terrified to step on the scale, but walking 5000 miles a day must do the trick because I only gained a couple of ounces.  Seriously? I can live with that.

Do you have a favorite holiday meal memory?   

Small journal disaster

Somehow, probably on the train from Bari to Rome, I lost my travel journal.  This is slightly sad because I had many good notes in there about both the trip and the brewing book; it is not a huge disaster because I never carry anything but a fresh notebook on a trip (for just this reason).  Also, I had blogged notes to that point, and (being compulsive) also carry a very small, sturdy notebook in my camera case which is largely the net for my scribbled notes as we wander.

Still, I am hoping someone found it, will read the plea inside the front cover ("This is a private journal and of no use to anyone but the author.  Please return to me at this address and I'll send you $50) and one day I will open my mailbox to find a package from Italy.

Totally jetlagged here today, but home safely and Boy #2 really took great care of cats and dogs and house.

Look for illustrations and more travel notes in the next week.

Twenty-two minutes from a kiosk at Heathrow

In the moment...

I'm typing this from the British Air concourse from Heathrow.  We had a little time to burn and some pound coins that will end up being useless once we board, so here I am, writing a letter home.  It is quite grey outside, and a seagull just went wheeling by the window.  Our terminal is filled with blond Americans with good teeth and short women in vivid saris and plump British men in caps or suit coats over jeans.

A list perhaps, to gather a few thoughts. Our visit to Kent seemed very short.  (I'll leave a post about Rome for later (worth posting about, for my reaction was much what it was elsewhere in southern Italy--I had no idea I would like it so very, very much, though perhaps I should have known it would be my kind of place)). the visit to the UK was very quiet and family oriented, but also, my brain is tired this morning.  I am ready for a quiet stretch of time on the plane, with no one I must speak to (and CR is just as talked out as I am, I think, plus he's still carrying around the cold we both picked up in Indiana).   So, a few notes, scribbled in the boredom of waiting....

Best books read on the trip thus far: Truth and Beauty, Ann Pratchett, a memoir, and the absolutely lovely THE WHOLE WORLD OVER (I think that's the title) by Julia Glass, who wore the gorgeous Three Junes.  Great novel, and that most alluring of things: a page turner of a literary fiction.

Yesterday, we spent the day eating a proper English Sunday dinner.  Roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, gravy and potatoes (roast and mashed), broccoli, carrots, swede (rutabagas), followed by berry crumble smothered in custard and a stunning, unbelievably sweet and amazing thing called banoffee pudding.  Wow. A little break, a walk around the fields, then tea, served with scones and fresh cream and strawberry jam (and my beloved prepared mine for me), follwed by supper (!) which was salmon and salad and yet more puddings and strawberries and cream.   I opted for salad and a teeny bit more of the banofee pudding, feeling as if I might split wide open if I had any more than that.

We visited Sissinghurst on Saturday and had it nearly to ourselves.  I did have the office to myself for a long while, then the walk to the top of the tower.  The weather was crisp, almost cold, the vistas from the top a little hazy and green and the gardens completely different.  I'll post some photos upon my return.  It was a deeply delicious experience and I think I might buy a vase of Bristol glass one of these days (I already have a collection of cobalt glass, but that would be fun, wouldn't it?).   I'd also forgotten that she died on my birthday.  Not my BIRTHday, just the day.

Also visited Dover Castle.  About which I will have to write, since I've just passed the minute mark and must put this up....  Cheers

Matera...the sweet yearnings of travel

Matera, last morning.  In the moment.....

In the moment, I am sitting in the sassi Hotel Sant'Angelo (which I chose because my grandmother used to spend much time in San Angelo, Texas).  Christopher Robin has had a relapse of the cold we both brought home from Indianapolis, and is half-sprawled on the leather couch opposite me, his eyes dull and red as he listens to a book on tape on his Ipod.  We are awaiting out ride to the Bari train station, one day early, because we decided to see about spending a day in Rome.  So, that is where we will go tonight and tomorrow, then fly to England on Tuesday afternoon.  No idea if I can access a computer from there. 

In the moment, there are two young women cleaning up the breakfast dishes, chatting in a low, musical river of Italian.  The bells are ringing again, urgently and energetically--ring ring, ring ring, ring ring, ring ring, ring ring.  Sometimes they ring for hours, but not at every hour.  It seems more to mark medieval day, the names of which I have forgotten, but Matins and Noon and Evening.   I kept worrying that I had no alarm without my cell phone, but the bells woke me at seven each morning. 

Last night, we walked home from the gala and I felt as if it was the last day of camp. I tried to press th e sights and smells and soft crisp air into my memory--the worn slick granite streets beneath our feet which made anything but walking sandals impossible, though I carried nicer shoes to events, the little pack of pale, tan dogs guarding one turn on the road; the beacons of light shining on the hill of sassi.  The creepy cold quiet that spills from the abandoned, empty rooms still quite prevalent alongside the shops and apartments that have been redone.   I will post a little more history of the town when I bring my pictures, but for now, these are simply impressions.

As we walked last night, though the very busy Saturday night streets, I felt that sweet wistfulness of yearning equally for the powerful hug of my big son, and the fluffy feel of my dog's neck and the quiet of my garden, but also that seductive idea of abandoning the career and the life and becoming that earnest ex-pat who stumbles into learning the language and figuring out the new hours and the possibilities that might present for work, for creativity.....

Of course, I am very rooted where I am.  It is just that pleasurable fantasy, the sweet longing of imagination.  I have felt I could live in Scotland and the west of Ireland and now the south of Italy in this small and ancient city with its blue, blue sky and agreeable population and fantastical sassi.

Tomorrow, Rome!

Ambling to Bari and Matera

Ambling because that is what one does here, at least on foot.  Amble through the streets, through meals, through tiny cups of impossibly strong coffee, through lazy glasses of wine.   Not much time, since there is an American man waiting rather pointedly for this computer (and funny how much pressure his tidy shoes makes me feel) , but a few notes to keep you current....

---Bari is a small city on the east coast, decidedly un-touristy, though it appears there is a large port from which ferries and cruise ships sail.  We arrived by train (Eurostar, not the locals, which would have meant changing three times).  I felt quite cheered by navigating the purchase of tickets and accomplishing our transfer and the comfortable ease of the train itself, a chance to read and rest and observe the endless miles of valley through which we traveled, mountains to the north and to the south, and between, vast vineyards and olive orchards, with hilltop towns in the hazy distance like watercolors of wine labels.   

--we spent Tuesday meandering around Bari's old town in the gentle rain.  We had good umbrellas and decent shoes and the clerk at the hotel said there had been no rain for 150 days, to it was hard to mind it.  In truth, it lent the day a certain moody grace.  We ambled around the warren of medieval streets in the walled old city (which was notorious for pick pockets and petty crime until recently, when it has been cleaned up). There is an enormous old castle, remarkably well preserved, which delighted me for the dual wall construction (curtain wall and inner courtyard) plus the Norman keep.  It was not possible to see a lot of the inside, nor climb the tower, but it is remarkable nonetheless, with a now grassy and enormous moat.   

--Tuesday night (the man has left, exasperated that his sighs did not make me type any faster), we went to the book event at Feltrinelli, and that was quite an adventure.   A crowd gathered for the discussion of Il profumo delle Oro (Madame Mirabouàs School of Love here), where I met several gracious and interesting readers.  One in particular, a beautiful woman with a cloud of silvery hair and the elegance of a model, asked most intriguing questions.  An interpreter translated for us.  I signed some books and we drank some coffee, then a driver picked us up in the now pouring rain, and drove us south in the dark and we to Matera.   My first glimpse of the sassi will stay with me, as we rounded a narrow, twisting road and suddenly, there were the tumbles of pale yellow stone studded with lights, as fantastical as something from a half-remembered dream or a book read long ago, and across the ravine, a black darkness, vast and impenetrable. T We lugged our suitcases up a series of steps and across a cobblestone courtyard, getting soaked, and tumbled into bed in our long, churchlike cave....

---In the morning, emerging like children from ensorcellment, we came into the bright blue morning, and the ruined and renewing tumbles of the town of sassis, stairs trailing hither and yon, climbing into dark passages, emerging into dazzling sunlight, and churches upon churche upon churches.   A cathedral whose roof fell down last summer, cave curches carved into the mountains, and across the river rushing through the valley far below, an austere bluff with tiny ant figures on the top, staring back at us. 

I have eaten amazing food.  Orchiette (sp) with spinach and butter and tomatoes.  Rabiit (rabbit! me!) roasted to such savory tenderness it melted on my tongue, served with potatoes cooked to buttery perfection.  CR had lamb and sausages today, while I feasted on mashed fava beans and roasted cheese and drank a big hearty glass of red wine (which we shared) and came back to nap in the hot of the afternoon.

Oh, and one final note: last night, the cocktail party was held at a small cafe on minor piazza, facing a larger piazza (that backs up to another piazza).  Handsome waiters served white wine and proscuitto and two beautiful young creatures enacted the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet in Italian, she curving over the edge of the balcony above, he earnestly looking up to her from the square.  Old men leaned on the walls to watch, and the evening shoppers paused to smile tenderly, and it was piercingly, wildly beautiful, so much so that I had to look away and recite the words under my breath, for I memorized it entirely at the age of thirteen and still can whisper every word....But soft? What light from yonder window breaks?

Ciao!

Tidy Indianapolis

Last weekend, I traveled to Indianapolis to give a talk to the RWA chapter there.  Also, there are people there from my oldest writing group, the former Genie RomEx, which was a brutally difficult place to sign online, way back in the day before you could send email between services.   (It's bizarre to think about that now, that I'd sit on my text-based service, writing emails to only the members of that service, wishing I could send one to someone on AOL, or Prodigy or....well, you get the picture.  It's rather astonishing how far we've come in not very many years.)

Anyway. In Indy, I connected with Alicia Rasley and Brenda Barber and her daughter Bethany (a lovely tall lean girl with an airy grace, who wants to be an opera singer.  How cool is that?).   One of Christopher Robin's friends also lives there.  So I had a writerly meal with Alica and Co at Agio's an Italian restaurant downtown, one I will remember for the incredible Baked Apple and Gorgonzola Empanada, garlic puree, tomato-raisin chutney.  Bethany chose the wine, a great chianti, and I was paying attention to my diet, so ate "only" the vegetable plate for my meal.   Spectacular. If more restaurants cooked vegetables like this, it would be no trouble to be vegetarian.  The surroundings are hip and colorful, and the neighborhood obviously gentrified in the most elegantly funky sort of way.

I was surprised to like the city as much as I did.  I suppose I was expecting a weary post-industrial, post-family-farmland county seat, with grimy streets and lots of poverty. All those cliches.  (Maybe I was imagining St. Louis, now that I think about it.  There are humans I adore in St. Louis, but not so much the city, which always strikes me as slightly hostile and difficult to navigate.)  Indianapolis was not difficult or prickly.  I liked the orderly layout of the downtown, which was clean and tidy for the most part, with whimsical light sculptures at the street crossings.  CR and I walked down to the river, seeing first the tail end of what must have been a 5 or 10K by the look of the not-demolished runners who were finishing and walking away, drinking water.  Then we crossed a bridge and looped around the zoo and ended up going against an enormous wave of walkers engaged in a charity event.  Maybe diabetes.  Walked back to our hotel, skirting the university, had a coffee and showered before my talk.  Where I also heard the news that my eldest landed a position he most desperately wanted for next year.  (Hooray, Ian!)

I liked the graceful stone buildings downtown, the energy of the campuses right on the edge of the river, the old neighborhoods that are still incredibly affordable.   I snapped this photo of a doorway because there were so many attractive doors like this, and the most beautiful Borders store I've ever seen, occupying an old bank. The clerk was tidy middle aged man with a snappy white goatee, a refugee from Colorado, who said he liked Indy because it was like Denver in the mid-sixties.

In the evening, we met CR's longtime friends for a meal at Palomino's, which lasted nearly four hours.  We imbibed and
ate and talked and talked and talked.  Delightful evening, full of laughter and good company.  The next day, we met Alicia's husband, who will be leading a trek to Nepal next month, and I was fascinated by how one could manage walking for days at 24,000 feet.   He said it isn't easy.  CR, who loves altitude, was enchanted by the idea.

In all, a lovely city. I could live there, and I don't say that often. Everyone was outside, riding bikes and running and walking.  It was easy to move around in, and had plenty of universities to provide intriguing humans.   

Now, I'm getting ready for Italy (four days and counting).  I'll try to find some photos of the cocktail dresses I found.  Yummy!

Oh, the exhilaration of running!

My cousin Peggy said, "Why do you want to run?" with great bewilderment.  This morning, I went out for a very mellow jog in my new, heavy duty trail shoes and it was the first time in ages I just jogged along with no purpose but the running.   

And these are some of the things that happened while I jogged, so slowly, taking care with my knee until I could tell if it would bother me.  (It never did.)

All the cobwebs blew out of my brain, the dust washed away by hard sweat.

All the cells in my arms and legs and the marrow of my bones shook off their sloth and started humming.

The vague sense of irritation and impatience I've been feeling drained away.

The tension in my shoulders eased.

CR says he thinks while he runs.  I don't think at all.  It's like yoga in that way, for me--it makes the little girl in the back of my head stop talking and gives me a sense of peace and quiet.  It feels SO GOOD. 

The dark side

I can't promise to be slick or pretty here today.  It's been a very tough, humbling day and I'm both irritated with myself and surprised.   Orienteering is hard, okay?  I just want to say that.  It's a very challenging sport, and today I fell flat on my face.   Literally and figuratively.

It's hard to learn to do something complicated.  Orienteering, writing, learning a language.  There are so many ego things tangled up in it, the ego that wants to always be looking slick, dignified, together, smart, and always, always hip. 

First, that reminds me: this whole week has been about CR running the US Champs and the Colorado Five Day.  He's a serious, long-time orienteer and runner, but he's been very busy the past couple of years and couldn't train as much as he wished.  This year, he did.  He's only been training since March, and he ran very well this week.  Very well.  Numbers aren't all in, but looks like a nice solid top five.  Not just in his class.  Top five overall.   

Now to my struggle, which I hope will give you courage in your writing struggles:

So, two completed orange course in the past couple of weeks. Feeling pretty good for the last event of the season today.  (The Colorado Five Day has been going on this week, in case you're wondering why there've been so many posts about orienteering.)   Today's event was in the mountains, at Saylor Park, which is at about 9000 feet, and very hilly. 

Gorgeous day. I've been feeding CR lots of past all week, running support module around here, and I was glad for this last chance to test myself over what I've learned.   Felt pretty good.  Had my compass and my Gu and my running shoes on.  A hat against the sun.  Hefty CamelBak because one thing I know about myself is that I'm a lot less likely to panic over anything if there is plenty water.   Weird little Colorado girl trait, maybe, but there it is.

CR was off like a rocket.  I watched him head out, then got my map. 

Not. A. Good. Day.

I really got lost.  The first mistake was my own, a silly mistake I shouldn't have made, but I compounded it by insisting in my head that I knew what I was doing.  I recovered, let the first mistake go, then did the next five legs cleanly, making smart decisions that put me right on course.  I navigated forest, marshes, waded through waist high grass with soggy feet and never even thought about what might be in the water (though may I say I would not do this sport anywhere there might be watersnakes).  Twice, I tripped in my haste and scraped my knee, a thigh, jolted my wrist, but both times, I just leapt back up and kept going.  I knew from looking at CR (it's good to have a mentor) that falling is part of the game. 

I took a fall after the sixth control. Tore my shoe and lost the compass for a few minutes, and I think it rattled me.  Or maybe that's just my excuse.  But I did not find the next control.  I was getting tired (the first control took much too long) and hot and sweaty, and sometimes the right answer is to call it day.

But, as often happens, I made another navigation error and really got lost.  I mean, really lost.  There are few trails in this park, and the rain has made a thick carpet of greenery.  I found myself in an impassable ravine, on a boulder, all alone in the utterly silent forest with no idea where I was.  Standing there, I could see where I wanted to go, but could not figure out how I could get there.   The thought of bears was in my mind. It occurred to me that I didn't have a whistle, which I should have had.  The cell phone wasn't getting a signal.  When I looked at the map, it all looked the same.  One reentrant after another.  Boulders and rocks, some marked, some not.  No people around.  No beaten down grass to follow. 

There were two choices.  I could stand there and freak out, or try to see if I could get out of there.  I scraped through to a fairly level spot, looked at the map and made a guess over where I was, and headed south.  It was the only thing I could do at that moment, the only bearing I had: I knew where south was, and I knew that the finish was south of where I was.

Eventually, I managed to climb a steep ridge and found an indistinct path to follow.   It seemed it would lead somewhere.  The distances were not huge, so surely I'd find a road soon. 

I did.

The trouble was, it wasn't the road I thought.   It was empty and featureless (reentrant, trees, boulders, reentrant, minor bend, reentrant, boulder field, trees) and I had no idea where I was, but again, it was heading south.  I knew that I was going south. 

But here was my dark moment.  I had no more GU.  The water was running out.  I had no idea where I was on the map and I'd left half the flags unfound.  I was defeated.   It seemed like everything I'd learned was temporary, that all those disdainful gym teachers and the jocks who looked down on my clumsiness were right:  I was not an athlete, no matter what my friend Mary said, and I was proving the truth with this failure.  Obviously, I'm just not good at this and I should just stop trying.  I'm making a fool of myself and everyone probably thinks I'm pathetic.

I'm sure you know this voice.  It might say slightly different things, but it's always mean.  It's the voice of a nasty green-skinned goblin whose entire job is to make sure you feel really lousy.

The one thing I didn't do was cry.  I absolutely would not allow it.  Whatever happened, I would just keep going. 

I will not lie, my friends.  It took a long time, but after an hour of walking I finally found my way to a fork in the road that was, far, far from where I wanted to be, but at least I knew where it was.  It was downhill, and I  jogged to the finish.  It took awhile, but that was the thing I could do to feel better.  I jogged all the way on a knee that didn't mind, and that felt really good.  I passed a woman in her seventies, who'd run a tough course and wasn't pleased with her performance.  Two girls waved at me.  I kept jogging. 

It was a lousy run for me.  I made mistakes and my inexperience got to me, but in the end, I didn't have to be rescued.  I just kept going and found my way back to where I needed to be, and learned.  A lot.   Covered with grit and sweat and bruises, burrs and scratches, and with torn shoes, I made it home.

Orienteering is hard.  CR said later that this is the hardest terrain I've experienced, but that's to be expected.  This is like speaking another language.  I'm very good with words and it's very difficult for me to risk looking ridiculous in another language, but you have to be bad at something before you can ever be good.  I need to be a bad orienteer before I can be a good one.  A bad speaker of French and Spanish and Italian before I can every be okay at them.   

Writing is hard, too.  It's hard to stay with it, to be terrible at it, to make mistakes and write bad books sometimes and take chances knowing you might fail.  You will fail.  So will I.    But the only way to better is to keep moving, keep reminding yourself of what you DO know and realize that the only way to learn is to be vulnerable and open.

May I say, however, that I'm going to be quite happy to do something tomorrow that is not such a test? I'm going to polish some pages.  Tweak sentences.  Layer in some poetry and a little secret payoff for readers who are paying attention to details.   Those are things that I, after decades of practice, know how to do.

Dashing through the forest.

Another Orange yesterday.   The terrain was quite different--lots of meadows with thigh-high grasses.  I've never wished for gaiters before, but they would have saved a lot of annoyance yesterday.  My socks bristled with seeds by the end of the course.

I finished again.  Very slow, again, but I'm still very happy.  I was actually able to jog most of it, even in those uneven fields, and my knee is fine this morning.  I feel like a million bucks, honestly. 

Orienteering makes me think of my days as a Girl Scout.  I was a fanatic for badges.  The Sign of the Arrow and The Sign of the Star, plus all the little round ones.  I'd get one for orienteering now.   And well, I'd certainly get one for cooking this past winter.  Growing dahlias. 

I'm making fun of myself now because I know some of you must be scratching your heads thinking, "WHY would she DO this?"   But every time I find a control, I feel like I won the lottery.  I come home scratched and tanned and grimy and feel ten feet tall.   My brain loves it, and my body loves it, and it matters not at all to me if I'm faster than someone else or the slowest one of all (which I was last week).

Happy Sunday!

Gently De-Railed

I'm a list maker.  I like making lists and plans, then recording my progress in various colors of ink.  On my walls are two dry erase boards, each with its own purpose, three calendars, and giant post-it notes for brainstorming.   All are written in many colors.   

I have charts for recording my writing progress each day, and charts for how much exercise I've done, of what sorts.  Each evening, I make a plan for the next day, and most days, I stick to it.  This probably goes against the picture a lot of people have about the creative personality--all this planning and listmaking seems very type A, doesn't it?  In truth, it's the only way I've ever found for reigning in both my ability to be absolutely languorous and conversely, mentally racing through 500 tasks at once.  I have trained myself to do One Thing At A Time (breaking the rule for household tasks and talking on the phone--I don't consider that multi-tasking.  Obviously, God designed the phone for women to have someone to talk to while doing chores).   

This week, I had lots of plans.  I meant to finish the hard-copy editing of Cooking for the Dead, and block out the scenes I need to add.  I had planned to go to yoga twice, work with weights twice, walk 30 minutes each day.   

Instead, I've been gently derailed all week.  I say gently because it was nothing dramatic.  No one is ill or upset.  I've had a minor virus that's not doing much of anything except making me really tired, so I drape myself like a cat over this couch, that pile of pillows, yawning and dozing and learning how to flip houses from 700 shows on about the art.  I've been arranging a trip, which seems to be going slowly, too, and we had a very intriguing surprise guest from Argentina, and of course, I had to gently coax her story from her, because that's what I do, collect stories.  Charming woman.  And tomorrow, I'll be orienteering again, another orange. (CR has been training all spring for this week's events, so if you can spare a thought for speed his way, please feel free.)

I have maybe read about six chapters.  Scribbled notes about one scene.  Captured a new character who walked on stage and insisted she be heard for the new, brewing book.   Walked the dogs two or three times, but even that was almost too much.   

As I headed home from one such walk, I felt guilty that I'd missed yoga.  I missed because I was just too weary to imagine it.  I did an ambling walk in the fresh cool morning to ease the kinks, and that took all I had.   (It sounds worse than it is, so don't anyone worry or anything. )   It occurred to me that I'd listened to my body, which is what yoga would tell me to do.  I hadn't the energy for vigorous asanas.  I hadn't the energy to work with weights.   I didn't have the mental acuity to edit my pages. 

What a lovely recognition.  In peacefulness, I slept a lot more in the basement.  I watched three episodes of the Sopranos back to back, and the Kate Winslet move Holiday, and My House in Umbria, with Maggie Smith, which was absolutely charming.   I read two novels.   Today, I was refreshed enough to take a long walk with the visitor from far away, and listen to her story.   

On Sunday evening, I'll make my lists and plan my time, because that makes me more productive.  On those empty blocks of chart I have waiting on my walls, I'm going to draw smiley faces in different colors, because what I did was recharge the batteries, and that needs doing, too.

But this is also something I need to notice, something I tell my students and then forget to practice: I need down time.  A lot of it, actually.   I tend to overextend myself mentally, and then fall to an exhausted heap as I did this week.   I like to order my time, but I need to notice when that little voice is saying, "Um, can we go to the movie? Please."   And go.  Play time needs to go on the schedule.   

Goes back to being present.  Now.  Every day. 

ORANGE!

Orienteering orange, that is.  I completed an orange course at Frisco on Sunday.  It took me three hours, which is hilarious, but I don't care.  I couldn't find control #5 but I was absolutely not going back until I located it, and finally I did.

And what does that have to do with the writing life, you ask (as well you might)?  Plenty.

Orienteering for those who have not been following along, is a sport that teaches map reading.  I know, I know, it sounds dull.  The reality is much more interesting, and highly rewarding.  It's highly empowering to use a map to navigate to a position deep in the woods and locate a particular position at the top of a hill or behind a boulder or at the top of --my favorite orienteering word--a reentrant. I felt ten feet tall when I finished that course.  I have a skinned shin and sunburned shoulders, but it's all mine, that finish.  I was alone in the woods with a map and a compass and I found the flags. All of them.  Every last bloody one.  With no help from anyone.   

CR, naturally, did two courses while I did one and was sitting there, changed into his regular clothes and worrying about me by the time I returned. (I think he took firsts in both courses.)   But he's a master, and a natural endurance athlete.  I am only an enthusiastic participant. 

There is a lot of endurance and patience (stubbornness) required to complete an orienteering course, or a book.  It's all in your head, too, thinking you know something that may or may not be true.  There are always those spots when you could give up, and feel frustrated. 

But mainly, the link to the writing life here is that I love being outdoors in the mountains, or on a beach, hiking and moving and seeing and feeling the air.  I am happier there than almost anywhere, which feeds my love of putting things in words.  It's also a great balancing activity, which all writers must have. We live too much in our heads if we're not careful.  Being outdoors puts me in my body and in the world.   It feeds the well, which is so very, very important if we are to continue to have new details to feed the work. 

You don't have to be an outdoor girl to have passions.  Maybe you like going to the symphony and you're happier there than almost anywhere.  Or on a cruise ship.  Or at Nordstroms.   What do you love to do? What puts you in your body and into the world? 

Great things at RWA

For some reason, I found myself thinking a lot of my first conference.   Not sure why.  That was in San Franscisco, a million years ago.   I met my friend Liz Bevarly for the first time, and we roomed together for the first half of the week, along with Christie Ridgway (who always wins "cutest outfits" category.)  Maybe that's why.  We all talked a lot about what it takes to keep a long career going, and it's not necessarily what you imagine in year one (or year seven).   We've all signed with new publishers this year, and discussed the ups and downs of time and the bone-satisfying pleasure of writing for a living.  For decades!

It was a busy trip, so I'm sure I'll forget some other great moments, but here are a few:

--Meeting with a group of writers who have met through the Girls in the Basement and the voice classes.  Naturally, I had pictured almost everyone in a different way. 

--The Libarian's Day, and lunch.  It's such a delight to talk with librarians and mingle with them and hear what's happening in their worlds.

--A Librarian's Tea, which is an appreciation tea hosted by John Charles and Joanne Hamilton-Selway, who have published a new book, THE ULTIMATE READING GUIDE, a Complete Idiot's Guide.   They passed out copies and we all reverently leafed through it, awash in the pleasure of remembering our favorites in many categories.  Because it was a bunch of writers, we had read entire lists, of course.  My nearly complete lists were popular fiction, romance fiction, literary fiction, and (surprise!) travel books.  There are lists at the back for making lists of your own.  It's just being published, and I highly recommend it, especially for booksellers and librarians and readers.  In other words, everyone.

--The Literacy signing, which was in a much airy than usual location.  I saw lots of readers and friends.

--Dinner with my new/old editor, Shauna Summers, at Craft. The shortribs were divine. 

--But naturally, the best adventure was with Christopher Robin, who took to heart the "ONE WORLD" tag of the Harlequin Party and found himself a sexy kilt.  I leave you to judge the results for yourself.   Photos courtesy of Melissa McClone, who posted a lot of wonderful photos of the conference on her blog.

This is always my favorite event.  Hundreds of women, dressed in their finery, come to dance and dance and dance.  Thanks to the good folks at Harlequin/Silhouette/Mira for hosting the bash year after year.

Christopher Robin, wearing Ancient Gunn.  He's qualified to wear Gordon tartan, but they didn't have that one. This matched my scarf.  Sort of.

My sandals are much cuter than they look in this photo.  Not that anyone wears shoes for more than twenty minutes.  Someone told me she had blisters on the bottom of her feet the next morning from dancing barefoot. 

Enough for now.  It's been a very busy three weeks and I think I've earned the right to lie on the couch in the basement (where it's cool) and read, read, read.

A couple of notes before rushing away

I'm headed out to the annual madness of the National RWA conference tomorrow morning.   I'll bring pictures back.  If anyone is in the Dallas area, the annual literacy signing is Weds night, 5pm, at the Hyatt hotel downtown. 

A couple of notes before I go:
--Yes, I know the main website (barbarasamuel.com) is down.  I'm a space case and have had NO time to fix the issue, but I seriously hated the hosting company and want to change.  Typepad has spoiled me.  I'll get all the material up again when I have time after all these deadlines and travel.  Truth is, much as we try, creative sorts are not always detail oriented.  You want me to write.  You want me to show up prepared to teach.  And I can talk all day.  Details of web stuff---sometimes not so together.

--I saw LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE over the weekend and it's fabulous.  If, like me, you thought it was going to be a total downer filmed in weird color schemes about people you'd avoid if they were your neighbors, well, you're wrong.  Rich and funny and layered and sick, just like real families.  Imagine!   What I loved most is how good I felt about myself at the end of it--there's a sense of tenderness toward our very flawed human selves that made me feel okay, just as I am.  The little girl is worth the price of admission, and I am more and more a fan of Steve Carrell.

--The novella goes in the mail this afternoon.  Luckily, I gathered clothes and shoes for Santa Barbara, so I just have to repeat pack.  Which was really just a repeat pack of the various weekends I've been spending elsewhere.  If you are the kind of person who keeps track of clothes, be warned that I am wearing my favorite black tank and ever-so-packable turquoise skirt.  Again.  And my fragile 40's-style blouse with the chemise with jeans, because I think it looks cool and I really am not a fan of business attire for myself.  Also the beaded shoes I found on a rack for $10 that are so Arabian nights my inner six year old goes nuts every time we put them on.

Hey, if you're going, and you see me, please hello.  Also remember, I'm quite nearsighted, so if I don't have my glasses on, trust me, I cannot see your face.  Come close and say hi. 

Moments in Santa Barbara

---Saturday evening, Ray Bradbury spoke.  Aged but dapper in a blue suit with a red tie, he spoke of how his work had all come out of his passions.  Best words of wisdom: "It's a lark!"   Ah, yes, I remember.

There are few books I loved more than Dandelion Wine, and it's hard not to be starstruck in the presence of such a Master. 

---Sunday morning, perhaps energized by the talk, I awoke very, very early and wandered down to the beach, which was quite deserted.  I took the time to do some yoga, mainly because something in my mind insisted it would be something good to do--stand in the sand and embrace asanas and breathe with the ocean.  The air was damp on my face, bare feet nestled in the sand, sailboats bobbing hard on the