of spiny plants and olives

July 27, 2007

I thought I already posted this . . . oh well. And I can't ever repeat myself, so here's another post.

Tootling north from Cheyenne to Casper, I found myself "falling asleep at the wheel," great metaphor for what I DON'T want to do in life, and what I thought I was learning how not to do just yesterday listening to Eckhart Tolle. I'm afraid my ability to "practice presence" flickers in and out.

Stopped in Glendo State Park to walk and wake up and remembered why I love Wyoming so; not the Tetons so much, but the rest of the state--the harsh, spiny plants, the glorious multicolored rocks, the wind-scarred rock faces, what I call the "overthrust angle" of the hills, making some of them look like waves about to break, a vast ocean of earth forms frozen in time . . . If my soul belongs to Indiana (to my little house in Blooomington, Indiana), then my spirit belongs here, with the wild and free.

Then on to my friend George in Casper, where we are to bottle olive oil tonight. His olive oil, produced from his trees in the village of Visari, Crete, where his ancestors lived for one thousand years. We used to fantasize repopulating that village with a bunch of old hippies who want to live out our sunset years around old walls and donkeys. Still do fantasize some, and actually know someone who is doing exactly that with friends in another Cretan village.

My iphone doesn't seem to be working. So if you can't call me, I can still be reached by email.