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And so yesterday morning I was all lost in the summer heat – dizzy dancing morning – and I left early to catch a walk before 90 degrees. On the back of the one-mile each way out-and back I had this droozy fantasy that some morning – I was thinking this coming Wednesday – every single person on our planet would wake and find themselves capable of speaking only two words for something like a week. The two words? “Good morning.”

It’s funny because the next couple and a solo act and another couple all passed the other way, and they made eye contact, and someone or the other said, “Good morning.”

What a wonderful world it would be/is. A while later I picked my phone from my pocket, dialed up YouTube the way I do on the mountain bench, and played “Good Morning, Good Morning” by The Beatles. That song having come up as a suggestion from me to Jorge on the Y’s front desk Saturday morning when he was wondering about songs to load into his player for the long ride out to Fresno to visit family directly after work.

Then there it was again. Turns out, “I’ve got nothing to say but it’s okay.”

Intimacy as a tangible thing – as a vibrant experience – is wild in my life right now. These days. I suppose it may be greater awareness, slowly encroaching through years of devoted meditation – zazen. Or maybe there’s just more intimacy at 76.

This example:

I have become intimate with the 101. When I lived in Portland, OR, then on to Encinitas and San Diego, CA, I spent time on the 5. It was a route from one place to another. Long while driving, and with sometime serious traffic jams. It was pretty much just the Mexico to Canada highway to take when heading north or south.

It’s different with the 101. Driving it feels more experience than task. I learned it from Ann, hoping off the 405 north of LA on the way to central and north places. She pointed out the ‘El Camino Real’ markers every mile. It has offered an amazing array of scenery, then and today. There’s a friendliness.

But mostly what has brought the 101 into its own revered place in my heart is the way it joins me on every hill and mountain hike I take. I see it from this blog’s mountain bench. I see it on the ups and arounds at the Johnson Ranch. It’s there when I’m sweating up Bishop Peak, and I can see amazingly far both north and south on my newest Lemon Grove Trail, a confidant. The 101 as boundary below, visual and aural, the land and landscape on which I trudge and stroll keeping all my secrets.

Even on the beloved Bob Jones Trail, a growing volume of 101 music urging me on to the turnaround place. I like how it feels.

This morning I could offer dozens of examples of a wild intimacy wrapping its arms around the whole of my late summer ’25 life on the Central Coast. This highway is one of them.

I was going to ask if you might find a few extra minutes this morning to read a longer, story-telling post . But, nah, I’ve decided to simply leave out all the unimportant words. — Which reads:

Save legs, hold mountains, city stroll, ancient bookstore, Shunryu Roshi — San Francisco Zen, Page Street coffee, Bay Bridge videos, so bruised already.

Missed Point Reyes hikes, Old Pine Trail, Douglas Firs, glancing dangling mirror, original face, long-ago stories — “Welcome in.” Staples – “I’ll take you there.” Before, “Sitting cross-legged on the floor.”

Will I ever get better and have I always been so good?

My Friday Morning Pages were an absolute revelation for me. This clear sense of being fetched by a parade of unexpetced decisions.

How have I acted? How have I followed these mini-moments of bliss?

Let me show you:

A subscriber unexpectedly sent me $25 to support the blog;

The clarity, ringing through the morning Friday, that this is the only day I have;

The warmth of childhood memories for lazy endless summer days at Little Harbor Beach;

Getting to talk about joy with someone afraid she’s missing out on it.

The first time I found myself on the ups and downs of the Lemon Loop Trail on San Luis Mountain, switch-backing the easterly lower half, the 101 falling farther below to the right, endless whine of determined vehicle engines muffled, yet still present, I was shuttled down into a small canyon-like space and came upon this:

How could I have thought anything else? – Ladies Choice.

Maybe from the corner of my left eye, maybe gravity’d down to a direct seeing, there was this cactus, anthropomorphic in all its succulent energy, dancing as if there was no one to see. Dancing fool. Forever hearing, above the far-away traffic, Chris Montez – “Keep on Dancing.” And no surprise, upon my arrival, absolutely clear with this boundless offer: “Hey there, big boy, care to take a spin around the planet a time or two?”

How could I say no?

Stepping through the Friday afternoon heat on the Lemon Loop Trail on San Luis Mountain, first time with that particular journey, I came up and round a corner to this:

I’m happy to say that as soon as I saw what was there, there was only one thought – “Take the bench.”

Autoclave afternoon, drenched with sweat, snake slithering across the trail a few moments back. Sitting there, just sitting, a feeling of never being anywhere else. Nowhere better to go.

As John Tarrant Roshi says of meditation – “Nothing is missing.”

I called my younger sister Nancy Wednesday afternoon to wish her a happy birthday. She told me it was raining then, there in our hometown of Wareham, Massachusetts where she now lives again.

Rain.

It has rained here once in San Luis Obispo, CA in the four plus months this place has become my home. Early on, late April, for maybe a bit over half an hour. I miss the rain.

I’m a California kid, now, til death do us part, and know from experience the rains will be coming in the fall, often with a fury and wildness that has kids like me longing for sunny summer days. It’s okay. My teacher endlessly reminds me — It’s dry, it’s like that; it’s a rain storm, it’s like that.

Here today, I’d like to think that when the time of the rain does return I won’t be shy stepping out into it. Dancing this mess around.

“You may be eloquent as a river tipping steadily over into a falls, but what would all your explanations reveal?” – David Hinton, “No-Gate Gateway”

It’s interesting to try and carve out a post – using words – about the value of not saying anything. Which continues to gather as a suggestion – zip it, throw key – in my life these days. Me and Uncle Buck. The following two paragraphs were typed before this one, being typed right now within a morning of worthy activities – some of which involved talking. Hmmm, don’t-know mind. Anyway, this below from the artist Drew Davis here in SLO. Who needs words?:

As my Teacher pointed out to me Wednesday morning – Having a plan to not have a plan is still having a plan.

And like I heard another someone share a while later yesterday – “Like I always say, it’s the limitations that make the artist.” …….talkin’ about mine, surely not Drew’s.

This was posted on Craigslist yesterday:

Hello. I am looking for an empty or somewhat empty garage space where I can store 19 medium size boxes, almost entirely filled with books I’ve gathered through my life. They are currently in a garage in Idaho, but those friends are moving away and I need to find a resting place for the boxes here in San Luis Obispo. They would fit against an empty wall if you have one, the conditions of the garage are not important – lots of your stuff, dirt floor, spider webs, windowless, etc. I cannot pay much but it would be something where there’s now nothing. I would/will never come at strange hours, likely late mornings or earlier afternoons, and rarely at that.

These are books that have been away from me since a divorce in the spring of 2021. It would/will be a thrill to hold them again, and that can only happen if I find a space where they can rest their too-far-away selves here. I’m pretty sure there are a bunch of CD’s tucked in a box or two as well, and that means dancing (out from the garage) will be involved.

I’m responsible, I already have a grateful heart, and I am long-time sober. I’m only interested in this city. They’ve (we’ve) logged enough miles already. Thanks for your consideration.

I became a cow Sunday afternoon. I walked the walk, I talked the talk. I stepped over the patties of others, and danced my slow animal waltz amidst all those strands of golden grass. We was all wary of mountain lions, just like the sign in the eucalyptus grove said to be. We cows can run, but those lions can motorvate.

I followed a brand new path on a now old trail,found my way into being lost on the way back. Then I saw an opening and became a cow. On the ‘Tube I played Van Morrison. I played Freddie Scott. I did not play The Dave Clark Five – “Catch Us If You Can.”

I’ve been walking a lot, more than usual, these past days, and my four-leg sisters travel on and about nearly all those bedouin paths. Right there along with me. And always there’s this fine practice for me – Holding those close no longer close by.

“Well, I’ve been out walking
I don’t do that much talking these days…..” – Jackson Browne