June into July 2006 Summer heat weaves in and out of the marine layer (low clouds and fog) that stretches 20 miles inland from the ocean for several hours most days. I welcome this coastal “June gloom” that didn't used to be such a part of Ojai summer. The cool, gray hours offer respite from the more usual scorching temperatures. They've also kept our mountains still fairly green this late into the summer. Against that green, monkey flower, wild buckwheat and great white plumes of yucca flowers toss in the ocean breezes that drift inland with the fog. My little garden thrives: multi-hued roses, apricot colored day lilies, miniature white iris, red and purple verbena, creamy white New Guinea impatiens and gardenia, orange and yellow lantana and nasturtium, red Gerber and white Shasta daisies-all in quite small portions. Red and green chard, red and black kale and dozens of still-green baby and beefsteak tomatoes are flourishing in the vegetable containers. A few delectable strawberries ripen each day. The bamboo my friend and I set along the property line last year has begun to take off filling in the spaces between the plants and starting to screen my neighbor's driveway. In every direction the trees are in full leaf. As I've done my yoga and free-weight exercises in front of my open French doors, I've watched them grow day by day into this fullness, these endless brilliant shades of green. My little wild meadow is carpeted with morning glory, some delicate pink flower that I still can't name, California poppy, mustard, artichoke thistle and just-blooming bachelor button. Zapped by the almost 100-degree late June heat, Ms. Pretty and I have spent recent days reading and napping in and under my tree-shaded hammock-a singularly comfortable, breezy hideout from the relentless sun. We both come to more active life at dusk as the heat finally relents. In this evening's coolness, I lugged endless pails of fish emulsion to fertilize both my garden in pots and the trees and bushes around the edges of the meadow. Then, I went for a long late night meander on my favorite fire road trail. Still feeling quite awake despite the late hour, I found my way here to reflect on my life these past weeks. The first weekend in June was the third and last of my two-month long siege of travels away from home. This finale was an easy two-day trip to a magically rustic yurt resort (www.treebonesresort.com) overlooking the ocean at Big Sur in celebration of a special friend's birthday. On my way to getting to bed early the night before I was to leave home, I stopped by my desk to shut down the computer. Four and a half hours later I emerged from an intensely engaging journey of yet again re-writing the book introduction. Exhilarated and exhausted, I managed to get about two hours sleep before getting up to begin the road trip north. It amazes me how the muse comes to grab me when I think I'm heading somewhere else entirely. I always follow the call. There's such deep excitement, such profound nourishment in the engagement, in the being taken over by inspiration. I love it. And, I have no say in when it happens. It happened two nights later, once more while I was on my way to bed. This time it was after two delicious days of hiking, dining, inner and outer exploring and glorious top-down sports car mountain road driving followed by after-midnight unpacking and sorting through mail and messages. Before shutting down the computer I stopped to re-read the re-written introduction that had seemed almost right two days earlier. This time, I saw the still visible seams between the parts I'd been trying to meld together. From almost 2 A.M. till the beginning of daylight, I was completely captivated, re-writing, re-configuring and smoothing, making it all seamless. The whole next day I spent sleeping, drifting and recovering; and repeatedly rereading and delighting in this, hopefully final, latest version of the introduction. I emailed it off to Debra, my agent. Three days later, at the close of my two 10-hour day workweek, I got a call I'd been waiting for. Another dear friend's daughter was in labor and heading to the birthing center where she would be delivering her baby. We were all hoping the birth would happen when I was in town so that I could be a part of this special family sharing these extraordinary moments. I was in line to be the videographer if the momma-to-be's brother had had to return home to Portland before the birth happened. I was nervous about the responsibility even though no one else-in this, my adopted and amazingly healthy family-was the least bit worried about my lack of experience or skill with a video camera. In the end, her brother delayed his flight and I got to participate in this astoundingly powerful event without having any stressful responsibilities. I actually helped support one of Ellene's legs while she pushed (for almost 2 hours!) to birth her 9 lb, 21_ inch baby boy. My face was just inches away from Hudson's as emerged from his mom's body in a room filled with 12 laughing, crying, loving family members. I got to stay with just my friend, the new parents, the baby and the midwives for the first two hours of Hudson's life. Watching the miracle of the birth and the bonding between the baby and his parents was probably the most profound experience of my life. Most of the women present moaned and roared and grunted along with Ellene (she loved it and later told us how supported she felt by our sounding with her). It was primal, tribal and awesome. When she first saw and held Hudson as he lay on her body still attached to her, she laughed and cried and told him “ You're sooo beautiful, I'm going to love you forever and all these people are going to love you, too!” Driving home at dawn, having been up for 24 hours, I felt cracked open, tearful, full of wonder at how loving and tender and connected this baby's entry had been. Sad for my baby self and my own mother for what both of us missed way back when. The rest of the day I spent once again sleeping and drifting and recovering after being swept away, this time in a different kind of birthing process. These next three weeks have been a somewhat strange not always comfortable time. I've been in and out of a vague malaise whose origins have mostly eluded me. Some days or parts of days I've felt present in just this moment of my ordinary sweet, gentle and peaceful life. In other moments (and sometimes days) I've felt out of sorts, weighed down, agitated, not able to find a comfortable place for myself. I've been uninterested in trying to figure it out. Instead, as is my way these days, I've been inclined to simply hang out with the feelings as they ebb and flow, waiting for some knowing about them to rise to the surface. It seems likely that the disjointed feelings have been part of the process of settling back into my slow lane, mostly solitary life. After such an extended time of traveling, of being out in the world connecting with so many people so intensively, of moving in the rhythms of the fast lane it's no surprise that it's been challenging to disengage from that pace. Over the years, I notice how much easier it is for me to speed up, to enter the predominant mode than it is for me to find my way back to the slower, less populated world in which I usually live. Inevitably the return to my world is a bumpy ride. This time around, just as other times in the past, there's a sense that some motor is still racing inside of me. It comes up as an edgy inner critical voice that mocks and belittles me for spending my time on “meaningless puttering,” that stirs in me-at least momentarily-the feeling there's something (though I don't know what) “more important” that I should be doing. These days, I'm startled to hear the critical voice that once was my constant companion. I know immediately that some part of me is feeling scared or uneasy, not sure she can get my attention except through this mean voiced intrusion. I stop to talk with the scared part and to remind her that I will listen to her uneasiness without her having to resort to the meanness. Even as I don't anymore get grabbed and taken for the whole ride by the critical commentary, it is upsetting and disorienting to hear that old refrain again. That voice echoes the cultural undertow from which I've had to free myself so that I could live my life in a way that works better for me. It takes a while to re-center in my own reality and to calm myself, to remind myself that my differentness is fine, that it is really okay to do life my own way. This reminding work is tiring when I'm already in recovery from the exhaustion of having been so much more out-there than usual. Another thread in my out-of-sorts-ness surely comes from the aftermath of my April visit with my parents. It's been hard to come to terms with my dad's mental and physical deterioration and my step-mom's fear, frustration and anger in the face of it. Particularly the challenge has been accepting that I have no way to impact what they do or don't do about this situation that is so exhausting and devastating to both of them. I feel such a deep sadness and helplessness about it all. My step-mom has finally taken the steps to arrange for home health care assistance. Though they've been granted four hours a day five days a week from their long-term care insurance, I'm concerned that she'll change her mind once the “strangers” start coming into the house. (“They're doing nothing, why should they get paid for sitting around?”) I feel her fear and wit's end frustration just as I feel my dad's despair, his sadness at “what's become of me.” Then this morning while doing Reiki and breathing meditation in bed in my tent, another piece of knowing about the malaise arrived. Since I completed the original manuscript and sent it to Debra a year ago in May, everything has moved with glacial speed. Long periods before she reads what I send and then again while she waits for her muse to provide us with the angle she'll use to market the project. More long periods while I wait for the inspiration to do the suggested editing and re-write of the introduction each time she gives me more feed back. I get so excited with each new “edition” that I email off to her. This time around I was the most excited yet. I'd finally been able to recast the content that she'd had me incorporate in a way that now kept it in my own voice. In my excitement and exuberant joy, I'd sent it off to her. I remembered to caution myself not to expect to hear back for at least the couple of weeks she usually estimates it will take her (or, more likely, the month or more that it has actually taken in each past go round). Today is the three-week mark. I know that she's quite busy and I encourage and support her working hard on her commitment to take really good care of her overextended self. Still, I'm sad and disappointed. It's hard not to have heard anything back about the revision or about whether we're now ready for the next step (whatever that might turn out to be). As I lay in bed breathing and still, I was flooded by a long parade of memories from my childhood. Endless comings to my mother in excitement and delight with something I'd created or accomplished and wanted to share with her. Inevitably her response was impatient or dismissive, making it clear to me she had neither time nor interest in what I so exuberantly brought to her. Lying in bed I was re-experiencing in my body how crushed and wounded that little girl self would feel each time-no matter how many times she met with the same disinterest. In those moments I understood that the little girl in me has been experiencing the slowness of Debra's responses in the same crushing way that she experienced her biological mother's dismissals. This crushing disappointment in my little one lives side by side with my grown-up understanding that Debra is truly into and excited about my creation even as she's also quite slow to get to read each new installment. I understand a little more today both about my malaise and about my general lack of excitement about the whole book project. I can be completely excited about each little process of birthing/creating. But, excitement about sharing the pieces and excitement about the project as a whole seem to put the little one at risk for too much disappointment. I am lovingly enfolding her today, being excited with her for her accomplishments and comforting her wounds from Debra's slowness that feels but isn't the same as what her mother's reactions used to be. And, the mommy in me reminds her that this slow pace is the Grandmothers' way of making sure we're moving only as fast as the slowest part of us feels safe to go. I remind her that this is so even when she or I would really like things to move a little bit faster-at least with the book project. I remind us both that this is a between-time, a fallow season in which resting is our most important project, our preparation for what lies ahead. A lot, I've been missing the rich intensity of being swept into the creating process. In the middle of waiting for Debra's response, of having the little one's wounds be restimulated and also of recovering from the too muchness of contact these past two months, I've been unable to be available to any other inspiring energies. It feels like there's a crack in the wall today as I finish this bulletin board that I started last night.