LIFE WITHOUT BRAKES

As I was driving back from town this morning, the trailer truck ahead of me that might have had no brakes because it had no brake lights recalled to me that day in Spain when I was fixing the brakes on the SEAT, had the brake system completely dismantled and found out I'd need a special wrench to finish the job, so without a second thought I jumped in the brakeless car and drove the long narrow winding dirt road out to the local winding paved road, then along that winding upward over the mountain and winding down to and through the village, thence along the faster highway to the narrow roads of the nearest town where there was a hardware store, found a parking spot on the street nearby, pulled over brakeless to the curb and parked, went in and got the wrench, then drove home again and finished fixing the brakes.

From the vantage of 30 years later I couldn't believe I'd been willing and able to do such a thing without a qualm, and survive to recall it.

The past is fuller of miracles the longer it gets.

FROM MY IBIZA JOURNAL-- March 13, 1979

Just took a half-hour walk from Figueral home to Cala Boix -- full sunset at one end, full moonrise at the other.

The valley along was full of a golden mist, and when I had passed through the pines and climbed the hill forest past the old finca, the sea sky was gray tinged with pink over Tagomago, and out of this rose a pale-red ivory moon, from behind the silhouette of the Phoenician tower.

The full-moon night is like a silver day, everything is covered with moon rays. It's more silent than usual, if that's possible, as though everything were holding its breath and staring in amazement at that bright face.

Last night, too, when I went out at moon-noon there was no breeze; nothing stirred but my pulse and the sea. Somewhere within, we each are as clear and peaceful as such a night.

ESTA EN ESPANOL, PERO...

Amigos de Internet, hoy cumplo 95 años. Me llamo María Amelia y nací en Muxía (A Coruña) el 23 de Diciembre de 1911. Hoy es mi cumpleaños y mi nieto como es muy cutre me regalo un blog. -- (My friends on the Internet, today I am 95 years old. My name is Amelia and I was born in Muxía (A Coruña - Spain) on December the 23rd of 1911. Today it's my birthday and my grandson, who is very stingy, gave me a blog.)

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ROSEMARY DOG

When we lived on the island of Ibiza in Spain, in an old finca out on a point of land overlooking Tagomago Island in the Mediterranean, wild rosemary grew everywhere around us - not quite a weed - among the almond, olive and carob trees, and the sheep didn't eat it, which was great. We used it for cooking of course, skewers too; I even made toothpicks, chopsticks and I Ching sticks out of it.

It never grew very large there, though, given the hard soil, heat and general dryness, but it was a constant companion of that place-- an old face, year round. So when we moved here to the mountain, one of the first things I put in the garden was a rosemary plant. It was a mere sprout at the time, but there's lots more water here, and with all that moisture and care the rosemary is now very large, more than twice the height it grew in Spain, and gangly as a result, its long older branches eventually reaching more along the ground than rising toward the sky, the way the new branches do before they too grow lengthy and stretch out along the earth.

About this time of year, when the rosemary is putting out all the new shoots on its branches, and the branches themselves are bouncy with moisture from the generous Spring rains, the entire plant takes on a floppy life of its own in the mountain wind; but whenever I take the hose and use the strong jet to wash away the tangles of spider webs and windblown leaves that about now begin to clog the scented branches, the rosemary reminds me of a big green sheepdog gallumping playfully in and out of the waterstream with its long wet green fur, away and toward what feels so good but is also fun to avoid. The new branchings are not yet woody, and the light silvery tint to their underleaves makes them seem all the more like big furry green sunbleached paws romping in fun with the hose on a warm day.

And when we're done with the hose bath, there's nothing cleaner, greener and loving drying itself in the breezy sun, than the rosemary dog.