To approach from the sea on a calm night is like space walking. An invisible force holds you and the shore comes out of no where to meet you. From a distance the black horizon first morphs into twinkly baubles, then shapes of churches, shops and streetlights materialize—-floating above a sea of ink. Smells of spice and grilled meat grow more intense as you weightlessly glide in.
“I ruined my life by marrying the same woman twice.” – Wm. Saroyan
There will always be something to ruin our lives, it all depends upon what or which finds us first–we are always ripe and ready to be taken. Ruined lives are normal. It is when our life seems ruined that it truly becomes ours. Ruined lives are as common as the gladiola, the rainbow, the hurricane and nothing left in the fridge.
Buddha teaches that all life is suffering.
Yes, and there are many examples of people overcoming suffering as well. If we substitute “suffering” with “desiring,” maybe a sound path is revealed?
It was about 10.30 when the flat chested hippie in a stained sun dress got tired of playing kill-myself minor chords that nobody listened to. Off stage she got a cigaret into her mouth right away. She made a show of loving on the Keith Richards look-alike we were supposed to know was her dude. The pretense was as wasted as her music. I was only one watching.
Not sure if I believe these Sedona mysteries, but it is beautiful here. After I bought the place, I folded back the sheet and on silent bare feet went to the window, naked. Like a child, I wanted to see. Knew it would be something. A dusting of snow, and a congested southwest sky; the smell of piñon smoke held in the belly of low clouds. The moon floated, silver, a porcelain chip—an ancient goddess. It is stone, but oh God, beautiful anyway.
The breeze off the sea meandered across the vineyards. Buellton is windier, but hotter too. On days when people aren’t around you can steal down the rows of vines where the late afternoon light dapples the gnarled grape wood and broad leaves. A field mouse flicked out from underfoot and disappeared.
The vines rattled from the sea breeze. Sat and drank the wine grown out of the ancient vines flourishing here. The sun, a bloodied egg melting into the Santa Ynez foothills, spread cool warm light over my spontaneous picnic.