Greetings dear readers - Leanander is moving to my own website, which you can find here.
Tipsy...at Kalapa Valley
Leanander
Wandering, Wondering
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Sunday, August 25, 2013
A month goes quickly.
Don and Kristine at the Margaree cottage |
Cottage at dawn, Margaree Harbour, Cape Breton |
Margaree Harbour, Cape Breton |
Before that, I visited Gampo Abbey in Pleasant Bay, also on the western coast of Cape Breton. A short stop on the way to Margaree from Kalapa Valley, it was a grounded place within a dramatic landscape of windblown cliffs dropping into the ocean. Before that, I was in Kalapa Valley, Great Space of green and strong thriving poplars and birches echoing winds from the deeper valley crests. A solitude of people but not of spirit. The presence of my teachers and the wild sacredness of mouse scat. Before that an Inn in Baddeck. Before that, far east near Canso in a tent enduring unceasing wind by a steep shore on Chedabouctou Bay. Before that, a cozy campground in Murphy's Cove with a maritime village feel and free mussels at the nightly campfire. Before that, a B&B between two churches in Mahone Bay on the South Shore with a clawfoot tub and a chatty, cynical, despairing european owner and his efficient wife, cheerful gray dog with white moustache and eyebrows. A sailing harbour, as was Baddeck. Margaree is a fishing harbour. Mahone Bay was a ship-building harbour, but not deep enough once the ships were cargoed. Lunenberg down the next cove took on that port business instead. Before that, Windhorse Farm in New Germany for 10 days on solitary retreat in a cabin with solar lights, looking out on a beaver pond and the Wentzell Lake beyond. Gardens with blueberries lining the grassy paths among the perennial beds, plenty of places to wander aimlessly. Before that, Halifax at friends near the Common who were walking companions as we went back and forth downtown to our Shambhala program for 3 days. Before that, St. John New Brunswick, at a B&B for a very late (dark) arrival and quick transition from Eastern to Atlantic time, mist along ancient townhouse Loyalist streets and coffee in hand, a peaceful cematary park, an industrial harbour.
Gampo Abbey pathway |
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Mom's birthday
Rehobeth Beach, 1972 |
She always liked jigsaw puzzles. I was reminded of her a few days ago for another reason. While dining at The Biscuit-eater in Mahone Bay, both a cafe and book shop. On top of a bookcase next to the table was a set of six thick Diana Gabaldon novels. Mom loved these and other history-fantasy-series like them. I think she preferred them because they offered complete escape from her life. She often had three books going at once when I was growing up - one at the kitchen table for reading during dinner, one on the bedtable, and one in her purse for reading during her workweek lunch hours. There was never any gap in her time that she didn't have a book to her face. These last couple of years, reading and her other favorites--puzzles and needlecraft--faded as her eyesight began to succumb. She still liked having books, puzzles and crafts around her, but did not take them off the shelf anymore. A week before she died she asked one of the nurses to take them as a donation...she was letting go.
She would have insisted on seeing the photographs from my travels this summer and hearing about the places I've visited, and the visits with my sisters and what it's like where they live. And she would have also said, "well it's too bad you had to do all that by yourself!" I would have rolled my eyes.
It's true. A lot of the time - especially of late, coming out of solitary retreat at radiant Windhorse Farm and traveling up the jeweled coast of Nova Scotia, the absence of a traveling companion has been there, sometimes sharply. A lot has gone in and through my mind the last three months with the amazing places and people I've encountered, but it's been too soon to process a lot of it to post here; so the sense of you all traveling with me has flickered in and out of focus. Having a partner would have changed the whole trip in innumerable ways - it would simply have been a different trip. The result, perhaps, is a bit too much of a window into Susan's solitary life, which she sometimes wonders how it might change.
The eastern coast of Cape Breton from Cape Smokey (375 meters on the ocean) up to Neil's Harbour is beyond everything I could have imagined in 1988 when I first thought I would come here and hike the highlands. Back then, I was attending Drexel's Hotel Restaurant Management program in Philadelphia and working as a night auditor at a downtown hotel. I lived on Baltimore Pike just outside of West Philly and would eat at a Denny's there before driving in for my shift. Another regular there was a cab driver, I think John, who was from Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia. John was probably in his 40's, had black bushy hair and black square glasses and a round shape. Funny accent. I'm sure we struck up a conversation one night over sourdough turkey melts and another time he began to tell me about this magical place he was from. So in August of 1988 I had a North American Road Atlas and my high school backpacking equipment in my car and two weeks off from the hotel and figured to wing it from there...but it wasn't in the cards then. As was often the occurrence in Philadelphia at that time, my car was broken into and a number of things went missing...I was spooked and did not go.
Canso Causeway, Nova Scotia |
So as I was driving across the causeway to Cape Breton Island and began my Cabot Trail journey around the island, I felt rather odd. I tried to remember the 20-year-old that I once was and what it would have been like for her if she'd come then. And how different my life would have been since if I had.
View from Cape Smokey on the Cabot Trail road. |
What might have happened is I would have not made it back to Philadelphia - for it would take more than two weeks to drive up, hike around, and then drive back...along the way encountering a lot of fiddlers, fishermen, and the powerful mountain and valley spirits that are clearly present. I very likely would have encountered Shambhala buddhism, although I may not have yet had the mind open enough to explore it. Two significant Shambhala pilgrimage sites are on the Cabot Trail - Gampo Abbey, near Pleasant Bay on the western coast, and Kalapa Valley, a sacred landscape, on the east coast. My inquiries into buddhist philosophy emerged a few years later instead - and my first encounters with Shambhala were in New York, in the late 1990's. Shambhala's founder, the Tibetan meditation master and yogi Chogyam Trungpa, had traveled from Boulder to Nova Scotia in 1979 with several of his students and toured extensively, noting several aspects of the land and culture here that would provide a stable and nurturing environment for Shambhala's 10-year-old organization to grow further. Kalapa Valley was discovered at that time and eventually was bought by several practitioners and donated to the organization. Gampo Abbey was formed in 1984 to provide a monastic path for Shambhala practitioners.
Both places have been in my mind to visit since 2004, when I became a more serious meditation student and was looking for inspiration and retreat locations in the Shambhala community. Although the main Shambhala administration, it's "Vatican" if you like, is in Halifax, the heart of Shambhala is in Cape Breton.
The Keltic Lodge |
The Highland Room |
As I continue my practice and pilgrimage here I recognize I'm not alone at all.
Cape Smokey from the Keltic Lodge peninsula, Cape Breton |
Friday, August 2, 2013
Nova Scotia
I'm in Nova Scotia, staying for a few days with friends in Halifax doing a Shambhala retreat with Rinpoche, then off to New Germany for a solitary retreat at Windhorse Farm. The city and weather have been very kind and I'm enjoying all the new food establishments since my last visit in 2009 (Ace Burger, Smiling Goat, Saege, Gingerhaus, Ireland 32, etc...) Halifax also boasts the most pubs per capita of any Canadian city so there's been some of that too. The last two weeks of July I was in a closed group retreat at Karme Choling in Barnet Vermont, my favorite place and where I expect to land later this year to be on staff. Hence the lack of updates...no devices during retreat is a great gift. After the driving schedule of June and July this was a much needed stillness and I was soaking in some very inspiring teaching with 84 fellow retreatants, many old friends.
Later in August I'll be heading up the coast to Ingonish and Gampo Abbey, and touring Cape Breton, a place I've longed to see since a cab driver I met in 1989 at my local Denny's enticed me with descriptions of his homeland. The camera will be out with me so I'll share when I have internet access.
I drove to Halifax from Vermont over 2 days, going through the White Mountains of New Hampshire and cutting across Maine. I stopped for a quick bite at the Eagle's Nest in Brewer, across the river from Bangor, which has an amazing, huge lobster roll. Stayed overnight in the New Brunswick town of St John - one of a string of "Saint" towns along the Bay of Fundy coastline of this province. Established during the American revolutionary war, it became the home for American refugees loyal to the British - "Loyalists" - in the 1770's and had an enormous shipping and shipbuilding economy in the the 19th century. A fire in the 1870's burned down much of the original wood architecture but several blocks remain - the new buildings are brick and various styles. The Bay of Fundy is known for it's world-record tides, a variance daily of some 55 feet. I wasn't around very long so the city is on the list of places to return to.
Today's schedule starts in about an hour and I haven't had breakfast so just a short update for now.
Morning in Vermont |
Foggy morning in the garden at Karme Choling |
I drove to Halifax from Vermont over 2 days, going through the White Mountains of New Hampshire and cutting across Maine. I stopped for a quick bite at the Eagle's Nest in Brewer, across the river from Bangor, which has an amazing, huge lobster roll. Stayed overnight in the New Brunswick town of St John - one of a string of "Saint" towns along the Bay of Fundy coastline of this province. Established during the American revolutionary war, it became the home for American refugees loyal to the British - "Loyalists" - in the 1770's and had an enormous shipping and shipbuilding economy in the the 19th century. A fire in the 1870's burned down much of the original wood architecture but several blocks remain - the new buildings are brick and various styles. The Bay of Fundy is known for it's world-record tides, a variance daily of some 55 feet. I wasn't around very long so the city is on the list of places to return to.
Tanner's B&B in St John, NB |
Today's schedule starts in about an hour and I haven't had breakfast so just a short update for now.
Haligoonians at Steve-o-rino's |
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Minneapolis, by bike
Minneapolis charms - I'm staying on an island in the Mississippi, in an old 1890's hotel, looking over bridges, paris-like boulevards with cafes, and bicyclists everywhere on plentiful bike paths and greenways. I rented a bike and rode down to Anodyne coffeehouse, which had a tasty gluten-free croque monsieur. My visit was too short to get to the many distractions I 've been interested in seeing in this city, such as the Walker art museum, the Shambhala Center, friends. I started getting a cold the day I drove into town, so have been taking it easy here. If you can call a 15-mile bike ride easy.
I did reach Jim Lanning, one of my cousins descended from our great grandparents Edna Bolles and James W Lanning, and he invited me over to his house in the Medicine Lake area of Minneapolis. Jim is the 4th of these James Lannings, but the numbering skipped a generation so he's got a 3rd in the records. I shared the old photos of the original James Lanning and Jim's father and uncle and my grandmother Dorothy, who he met as a baby. We have more to figure out about the family history, such as what happened to the 2nd James Lanning, who apparently died fairly young, since Edna remarried Edgar Bensel and my mother knew Edgar as her grandfather, not James. It gets confusing keeping all the James's sorted!
I'm now on the 7-day trip back east, through the Upper Peninsula tonight, then into Canada. Back to camping, and cooler temps.
(River greenway, Midtown greenway, Nicollet Avenue, Downtown)
I did reach Jim Lanning, one of my cousins descended from our great grandparents Edna Bolles and James W Lanning, and he invited me over to his house in the Medicine Lake area of Minneapolis. Jim is the 4th of these James Lannings, but the numbering skipped a generation so he's got a 3rd in the records. I shared the old photos of the original James Lanning and Jim's father and uncle and my grandmother Dorothy, who he met as a baby. We have more to figure out about the family history, such as what happened to the 2nd James Lanning, who apparently died fairly young, since Edna remarried Edgar Bensel and my mother knew Edgar as her grandfather, not James. It gets confusing keeping all the James's sorted!
I'm now on the 7-day trip back east, through the Upper Peninsula tonight, then into Canada. Back to camping, and cooler temps.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Iowa City
July 6th |
In the Smith's bed and breakfast, nothing could be more charming. Found at the last minute while I ate dinner in Liberty Missouri. I decided arriving at a campground at 11pm without advance reservations or familiarity wouldn't work. I saw a picture of a pleasant victorian house in a row of the same with a porch, and pictured myself on it, writing and thinking deep thoughts. Remarkably they had a room for me.
Smith's B&B. Just what I needed. |
I worked in my room after a pleasantly unexpected breakfast of spinach frittatas and fresh fruit on the screen porch with a couple of women who were old IC High School friends visiting home to celebrate their divorces and a young Arkansas mom who was in town to do a 2-week yoga teacher training with a Baptiste senior student. All of us women in the midst of big transitions.
I've come to the point where the idea of "catching up" the blog entries will require an entire vacation in itself. No long after leaving the Outer Banks I was spending so much time with people there wasn't a place for stealing several hours to go write. I kept notes, but it seems to say anything more interesting than "I went here, then here, then here" in a coherent way requires at least 4-5 uninterrupted hours with a good internet connection, which was also problematic for several days. So I've made notes along the way and have been using the voice recorder while driving and will transcribe and post pieces about the trip as I get to them.
In less than 10 days I'll be interrupting my peripatetic summer for a 12-day group retreat at Karme Choling in Vermont. It should be a great relief and a great joy. When I left June 10th it was with the knowledge that I would eventually return, probably in the fall, as auspicious circumstances would undoubtedly emerge over the time of my travels and retreats this summer. Rather than accept a position that would be perfectly suitable but spiritually frustrating, we left the door open for something else to arise.
As I move from place to place the question in the background is where are the places I could live and flourish? Who would I be if I lived in Lewes, Delaware, or Kansas City? Or Buhler? This is just one theme occurring during these travels, one that has followed me most of my adult life. There are places I have visited that feel like they could be home, and others that don't, no matter how interesting they were to visit.
Buhler had a strong effect on my mind. I imagined opening a retreat center in the farmhouse my sister and her husband are about to sell so midwestern contemplatives could enjoy the extreme peacefulness and wisdom present in the land there. In buddhist language, the term for a well-practiced, settled mind is shinjang - to be "shinjanged" is to not be easily stirred up by external situations, to have equanimity in the face of frustration, passion, heartbreak, lust - whether one's own or another's. Ultimately it comes from the understanding that we have everything we need - we are not faulty or incomplete, but whole and capable of connecting with that completeness. We do not need confirmation from others, from institutions, or our own circumstances to know this wholeness that exists within us, even when we hear that usual voice telling us we need to eat better or get more work done. The sky over Kansas is broad and endless blue, a reflection of all possibilities being available. Looking over the literal field of gold towards the tiny trees and white elevators of Buhler, the yard elms rustling in the wind, swallows tittering on the telephone wire, we know all of it - life, relationships, conflicts - is workable.
Hutchinson, where Ann works, and where she & Dan will be moving in September, is a quaint western town of 36,000 with a main-street /downtown life that is growing after a long period of downturn. The old signs and shops are being "revitalized", the broad streets spruced with cultural events. Hutchinson and a sister city, McPhearson, going the other direction from Buhler and a little busier, had a diversity of ages, backgrounds, and cultural gems, including good coffee bars, which seems to have become one barometer of livability in the places I have visited. There, I would live on a farm but enjoy going into town, rather than the other way around. I would certainly have a horse for crossing the fields and wandering off into the sand hills dotted with sage - riding seems the best way to enjoy the landscape there.
Unfortunately, I couldn't linger in Buhler's equanimity a few days more, as there would be too much road to take back on the return. I left this western-most point of my trip forlorn at the prospect of never seeing it again.
All fantasy aside, now in Iowa City I've put 8 hours of road between me and that aerie. I'm in the home of great writers and artists, the Iowa Writer's Workshop and University of Iowa, 90 miles east of Des Moines. A friend's son recently finished his masters here and just moved back to NYC. Pictures from his Mom's visits were landscapes; but sunrises over fields does not describe the city itself, which is a marriage of college town and frontier town. Old photographs on the walls at Heirloom Salad Company show broad earth streetscapes peopled with town folks and farm folks and their carriages, more western than eastern. The blocks are walkable length, unlike Chicago where they take ten minutes to traverse (or so it seems). Huge churches hold the center; a mix of bungalows and houses; victorian through arts & crafts mostly, form the neighborhoods. The university to the west is knitted to the downtown on it's eastern edge, crossing the river in the process. I happened upon the Iowa City Jazz Festival, as well as the Iowa Summer Writers Workshop, so town was full of visitors and families enjoying the midway foods and all-day music on the main thoroughfare, in the 90 degree humid sun. I spent the day indoors once I walked downtown, first in the salad place, then in Prairie Lights bookstore - the inimitable writer's bookstore of the midwest; and finally in one of the upscale venues serving locally-sourced fare that makes up the trio of 128, Hearth, and Moonrakers restaurants.
St Mary's Church, Iowa City |
College town midsummer: bicycles, 20-somethings, wiskers, pubs, sports bars, "halls", delis, bookstores, houses for rent, campus green, coffee shops, short shorts, sundresses, men in flip-flops, law enforcement officers carrying a globe made out of twigs and sporting baseball caps. Middle-aged single women moving from coffee shop to coffee shop with their laptops. Hondas and Toyotas and Subarus. A reporter from La Prensa news visiting the Jazz fest with his wife and child , press pass dangling from the jacket tied at his waist. Girls' hair twisted into topknots and ponytails. A loner tomboy wearing a black and yellow luau lei and a red backpack over black clothes. A summer ice rink made of soap like tiles…for real ice skating in the 90 degree heat.
"ice" skating at the Jazz Festival |
Smith's screened porch. |
Monday, July 1, 2013
Dante, VA
Breaks and Rusty Fork to Dante and Norton - June 26 |
Dante as it looked in 1940, showing the grand hotel, theater (in white). The scale model is on permanent display in the museum. |
Topography of 'Turkey Foot' |
The old bank building, now a museum |
Downtown Dante today, missing it's hotel, theater, and Hospital |
Bobbie and me |
Dante museum display |
Map in hand, I began to walk to Roanoke Hill Road. The sun had returned and it was a pleasant day. Not many people were about. The walk to the top of the road by the old pedestrain walkway was completely overgrown, so I took the road which looped around a few times, a good bit of exercise. At the top, I found a bug-screen-enclosed pool with three kids splashing about, all around 9 years old. The Two boys were boistrous and jocular; the girl sharp and wiley, all curious about this friendly stranger with a camera.
Roanoke Hill kids |
Robert and daughter Haley, future gymnast |
Chris grew up in the house and still lives here with his father, who was out. He didn't know who had been there before them, and felt a bit sheepish about the shape of it now. Work is hard to come by in this part of the world, so money to fix a house's back wall or put on a new roof isn't available. Still, he was interested in the story so offered to tidy up inside a little and let me take a few pictures.
Grandpa Tyler's old residence. |
Chris Sutherlin and Robert Fraser on the porch at 762. |
We chatted for quite a while on topics of family, community, and the Obama administration's energy policy, which is not popular here. Coal mining is still the main job source, and there are no alternatives for many of the people as the country moves away from this fuel.
Robert's father Robbie came over after a while, but his recollections of old neighbors didn't reach back to my great grandfather's time. At the end of the long day, I got motel suggestions from Robbie and left them all hanging out on the porch in the fading light.
Robert and father Robbie Fraser on Roanoke Hill. |
Chris chillaxin' on the porch. |
Grateful hat return |
At the bottom I found my Dad's fishing hat tucked into the mirror on the car, I'd left it in the museum during my visit. A great day all around.
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