When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our

neighborhood.  I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall.  The

shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.  I was too little to reach the

telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

 

 

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an

amazing person.  Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she

did not know.  Information Please could supply anyone's number and the

correct time.

 

 

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my

mother was visiting a neighbor.  Amusing myself at the tool bench in the

basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer.  The pain was terrible, but

here seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give

sympathy.

 

 

I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at

the stairway.  The telephone!  Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the

parlor and dragged it to the landing.  Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver

in the parlor and held it to my ear.  "Information, please" I said into the

mouthpiece just above my head.  A click or two and a small clear voice spoke

into my ear.

 

 

"Information."

 

"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone.  The tears came readily

enough now that I had an audience.

 

"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

 

"Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.

 

"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.

 

"No," I replied.  "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." 

 

"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.

 

I said I could.

 

"Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the

voice.

 

 

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything.  I asked her for

help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was.  She helped

me with my math.  She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park

just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

 

 

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died.  I called "Information

Please" and told her the sad story.  She listened, and then said things

grown-ups say to soothe a child.

 

 

But I was not consoled.  I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so

beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of

feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

 

 

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Wayne, always

remember that there are other worlds to sing in."

 

Somehow I felt better.

 

 

Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please." 

 

"Information," said in the now familiar voice.  "How do I spell fix?" I

asked.

 

 

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest.  When I was

nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston.  I missed my friend

very much.  "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home

and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the

table in the hall.

 

 

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never

really left me.  Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall

the serene sense of security I had then.  I appreciated now how patient,

understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

 

 

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle.

I had about a half-hour or so between planes.  I spent 15 minutes or so on

the phone with my sister, who lived there now.  Then without thinking what I

was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."

 

 

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.  "Information."

 

 

I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me

how to spell fix?"

 

 

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your

finger must have healed by now."

 

 

I laughed, "So it's really you," I said.  "I wonder if you have any idea how

much you meant to me during that time?"

 

 

I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never

had any children and I used to look forward to your calls."

 

 

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I

could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

 

"Please do", she said. "Just ask for Sally."

 

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered,

"Information."   I asked for Sally.

  

"Are you a friend?" she said.

 

"Yes, a very old friend," I answered. 

 

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working

part-time the last few years because she was sick.  She died five weeks

ago."

 

 

Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was

Wayne?"

 

"Yes." I answered.

 

"Well, Sally left a message for you.  She wrote it down in case you called.

Let me read it to you."

 

 

The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in.  He'll know what

I mean." 

 

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

 

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.  Whose life have

you touched today?

 

Life is a journey, NOT a guided tour.

 

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.

Anaïs Nin

 

Once self-awareness dawns in you, the questions you can ask about yourself, about how you think and feel, have no limit. Self-aware questions are the keys that make consciousness expand, and when that happens, the possibilities are infinite.

Deepak Chopra

The Road Not Taken

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both      

And be one traveler, long I stood      

And looked down one as far as I could      

To where it bent in the undergrowth;      

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,      

And having perhaps the better claim,      

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;      

Though as for that the passing there      

Had worn them really about the same,      

 

And both that morning equally lay      

In leaves no step had trodden black.      

Oh, I kept the first for another day!      

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,      

I doubted if I should ever come back.      

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh      

Somewhere ages and ages hence:      

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-      

I took the one less traveled by,      

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

_________________

 

There he was, in his cabin, removed from the world, not to renounce it, but to see it better.

from On Poets and Others 

by Octavio Paz 

on the occasion of his meeting 

with the poet Robert Frost

 

Life rarely unfolds exactly as we want it to. And if we stop and think about it, that makes perfect sense. The scope of life is universal, and the fact that we are not actually in control of life's events should be self-evident. 

The universe has been around for 13.8 billion years, and the processes that determine the flow of life around us did not begin when we were born, nor will they end when we die. What manifests in front of us at any given moment is actually something truly extraordinary - it is the end result of all the forces that have been interacting together for billions of years. 

We are not responsible for even the tiniest fraction of what is manifesting around us. Nonetheless, we walk around constantly trying to control and determine what will happen in our lives. No wonder there's so much tension, anxiety, and fear. Each of us actually believes that things should be the way we want them, instead of being the natural result of all the forces of creation.

Michael Singer, The Surrender Experiment

This eucalyptus,
with its elliptical leaves

dangling, light and dry
as an abandoned chrysalis,

with its modest bunches
of pale pink flowers

and languid pose,
is my unattainable ideal.

Of a piece,
in pieces,

past it all
and in plain view —

nowhere
in the blasted web

of stars

is there any
such beauty.

-- RAE ARMANTROUT

• 
  

On this voyage into the deep communion of solitude
I’ve casually come to know
the old and withered costumes of the sea;

I’ve walked carefully through the colors of copper
when the dusk has already conjured the last prayer of the day;

Through seasonal doorways
I’ve called upon the twilight ghosts
arched in the corners of the narrow cobblestone streets;

I’ve let my lips evade the necessary verses
to find the ending phrase for the afternoon;

I’ve disarmed the elusive equity of the night
to conceive an intimate verse from its fortified mysteries;

I’ve cast aside the grieving songs of my twilight
as the sky envelops the enamored vestments of the night;

I’ve done
        and undone
                so many things
                          in search of you…

-- Oscar Gonzales, 2007

I don’t know what seas
rivers
or secret passages
you have to cross
but I'm waiting for you today
at sunset
so we may listen together
to a Bach fugue.

-- Claribel Alegria, 1995

Several friends are near the completion of the Pacific Crest Trail, an arduous hike the length of the Sierras starting at the Mexican border and ending at the US - Canada border.  Here are some photos of part of their journey.

These past two weeks I spent ten days in Honduras visiting several cities and exploring the coast.  I've contacted a real estate agent, and started looking at properties, specifically single family homes (2+ bedrooms and baths), and condos of the same approximate size.  Homes and condos of this size sell for $50000 to 100000.  Taxes annually are less than $500. Utilities, water and sewer approximately $50 monthly.  Food, there are plenty of open air markets offering all kinds of fruits, vegetables, nuts, seafood and other meats, costs about $25 per week.

Public transportation exists, however it is not reliable nor does it cover all areas of Honduras.  Should I buy property  I will need to import some small used 4X4 SUV or pickup truck for personal use. Something five to ten years of age, with a rebuilt front and rear end, tires, wheels, brakes and rebuilt engine. 

There are large national parks teeming with wildlife; beaches are white and clean, and the ocean is free of debris and contamination.

Politically, Honduras has been relatively quiet, although, recently, accusations of government corruption and links to the drug cartels have surfaced. English is spoken frequently, Spanish remains the primary language. 

Here are photos from my recent stay: