Passageways

Less than 24 hours after waking from a dream with the word nacimiento in my mind, I get an email from Big Sur.

The coastal community has been dealing with two landslides, which have cut off access to the north and south.  At least one slide is expected to take a month to clear.  Essentially cut off from the rest of the state, the people of Big Sur are supported with escorted convoys and helicopter drops.

The email update sent to me was to announce that there was one road besides the blocked Highway 1 that offered access to and from the coast.   A notoriously rough and dangerous route, Nacimiento-Fergusson Road is the only alternate available. 

For readers of the Archives, it may be known that part of my heart lives in the stone and sea of Big Sur.  And though I love that land, I never knew about this road.  Not until the 2am, post-dream scribble of nacimiento in my journal and a Google search, did I learn this road existed.

The email update came that same day.  Subject:  Nacimiento-Fergusson Road.  A rugged passage offering the only way in or out.  Travel with care.

Not sure how this thruway factors in.  (Who’s Fergusson?)  And I certainly don’t know the source of all our dreams.

Maybe the flitting words and symbols that seep and slip from sleep are signposts.  Filaments from the web that connects us all.

For now, I’m sending good wishes to the sweet people of Big Sur.  Wishing them smooth and easy connections, with each other and the outer world.  They’ve been at the mercy of Mother Nature’s hand before.  Those coastal dwellers are a solid bunch with lots of heart.  I’m with them in my own way.  Across an ocean and in my dreams.

courtesy of Stan Russell

Current of Words

Gifted a stack of reading material yesterday,  I was up til midnight perusing the contents of my instantaneous reading list.  My neighbor was feeling inspiration, too, twirling the dark, wee hours with the tinkle of piano keys and starlight.

This morning I oversleep and wake to find poetry.  The addition rounds out my reading collection:  “Hope is in the Moment.” Stones and time, Robinson Jeffers and falcons.  The Big Sur coastline threads to me again through the words of my father. (read John Dofflemyer’s “Hope is in the Moment” at Dry Crik Journal).

My writing continues, though sometimes you’ve got to fill the well with the words of others.  And sometimes you have to rest, ever-still, in the waters of your own.

Here’s to words and silence, time, space and the present.

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