Monday, December 31, 2007

Twice this month I've had the good fortune to be spotted by hawks even before I saw them. Both times the hawks slowed their circling directly over me and glided lower and lower until they were within camera range. It was as if they were allowing me to photograph them. In both instances the hawks were probably looking for mice or squirrels, but I like to think they stopped what they were doing to acknowledge my presence. It was obvious that we had seen each other. I must confess that the hawk today in Tecolote Canyon was less obviously friendly than the one I saw earlier in the month when I was tramping around the bluffs at Cabrillo Point. That first hawk, the one in the photograph above, had been circling the bluff above the pounding surf near the lighthouse at the entrance to San Diego Bay; and when I appeared on the hillside, he flew directly over me, slowed into a glide, and circled around not more than twenty or thirty feet above me. Today as I walked the trail through Tecolote Canyon, I had the sense that the magnificent hawk in the other photos was following me. He was close enough for me to catch the fierce look on his face.

Of course, “tecolote” is the Spanish word for owl; but I have never seen an owl in Tecolote Canyon.


Be still
my anxious heart.
I thought
the headline read

I did a double-take when I glanced at the big headline on the first page of our local newspaper. Alas, it was simply a remedy for home owners in fire-prone areas of San Diego. We see what we want to see!

For some reason I was reminded of a a sign I saw when I was going through the customs queue at Beijing Airport a couple of years ago. The messages out of Washington these days make just about as much sense.

Monday, December 17, 2007


The red tail hawk circling
found me...
lonely, both of us, on the hill
above the sea.

His slow circling was sign
we knew the other was there
in space and time.

He knew what he wanted,
I had come with nothing to do
but watch the sea.

I stood stone still watching his circles
and then he signaled with a shallow dive
and flew away.

Thursday, December 13, 2007


Going through some of my journal entries from 1990, I came across something I wrote when Pete Wilson was the Republican candidate for governor of California. I wrote it after I had heard Wilson address the the downtown Rotary Club. I am reminded as I read it of some of the people who want to take George Bush's place in the White House.

Wilson got his indoctrination into politics at the age of 27 by serving as an advance man for Richard Nixon during the 1960 presidential campaign. He served as State Assemblyman, Mayor of San Diego, and U.S. Senator prior to becoming Governor in 1991.


Gray heads tilted and nodded approval
as the man who wanted to be Governor
and then undoubtedly President with a big “P”
explained to Rotary Club number thirty-three
how he wanted to make the world safe
by building two hundred billion dollars worth of deadly weapons,
and by securing every citizen’s right to buy and keep automatic assault rifles,
and by building an impossible-to-scale wall along the border,
and by protecting marriage from desecration by gays and lesbians.

The old warriors seated around their lunch tables
seemed determined to help him keep the world
just as full of terror as they had found it
when they were young soldiers in Normandy and Iwo Jima.

The dove of peace has had little time for rest
during the watch of these old men for the past fifty years
and is likely to find no safe place for a nest during the next...

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

I TOOK MY BIG CAMERA out beyond Point Loma and Ocean Beach to see if I could meet up with a red-tail hawk I know. After I left my car and walked along the bluffs below Point Loma Nazarene University, I came upon a patch of nude earth that made me stop and listen and half expect to hear breathing. Perhaps it was the lingering euphoria I had experienced as I listened the night before to Al Gore's Nobel Prize acceptance speech. Maybe it was just the way the morning light slanted into the rain and wind carved gullies and the softly rounded sandstone knolls or the gentle rise and fall of ocean swells below the cliffs, but I could have sworn I felt the earth alive beneath my feet.

One of E.E. Cummings' poems came to mind, and I wanted to speak it softly to the earth; but I could only remember parts of it. So I said out loud what I rememberedt. I thought I was alone with the earth; but when I looked up, I saw a man watching me from the top of one of the hills. He probably thought I was just a crazy old man mumbling to himself, a man who shouldn't be out wandering alone on bluffs above the sea.

When I got home, I went immediately to find the Cummings poem. It's even better and more apt than I had remembered.

Pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
--electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange,lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.

A world of made
is not a world of born--pity poor flesh.

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if--listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go

E.E. Cummings

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Walking through Grossmont Center in La Mesa this afternoon, I came face to face with the large red iconic target on the wall of the Target department store and immediately saw more than was there. My camera captured it, and I took it home to my computer where the fun began. Jasper Johns, Kenneth Noland, or Josef Albers couldn't have been more excited than I was to see shapes and colors gather themselves into abstract expressions.

Monday, October 29, 2007


The man I saw today with no arm,
talking and smiling and gesturing,
was obviously all there.
It was the look on his face
that made me know.

When I was alone again,
I looked at my right arm
swinging from my shoulder
and wondered if it’s something
that belongs to me, that I wear,
but isn’t who I am at all.

If I lost it would I be less whole,
would I still be all there?
What would my face show
when someone looked
and saw me with an empty sleeve?

Tuesday, October 16, 2007


Being home again after showing my passport to officials in European airports and after wandering for weeks in cities, villages, and highways of several countries, I find myself once again actively wondering what it means to be a citizen of the United States and of the world... to what national/political entity do I owe unqualified allegiance. When I ask myself if I love my country and if I am glad to be an American, the answer is definitely “yes,” but it’s a “yes” followed by a period as end punctuation, not by an exclamation mark. We Americans are expected by our fellow countrymen to subscribe to a motto that includes a commitment to “my country, right or wrong.” I can’t do that.

Last month my neighbor (I should say neighbour) across the narrow lane from the Dairy Cottage where I was staying in Masham, Yorkshire, England, called me “Mr. America,” and I began to wonder what my being American implies to people who don’t carry, and don’t want to carry, American passports. When he addressed a note to me with that salutation, I thought he had forgotten my name, but later it was clear that he had not forgotten. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t call him “Mr. England.” He obviously feels no animosity toward me; as a matter of fact, he makes it clear that he likes my company. He is saying something about his idea of what it means to be an American. But what does it mean to him? And what does it mean to me?

I confess to being incurably fickle. This week my favorite American hero is Al Gore. Next week it may be Bill Gates or Bill Richardson or Bono. Oh, I forgot. Bono is Irish. So there it is. I don’t choose the people whom I most admire from a list of exclusively Americans. Some in my family and some of my neighbors and the governor of my state have actually chosen to be Americans. They began life as citizens of another country. Remember, I stated at the beginning of this writing that I am glad to be an American, but I don’t allow myself to forget that it was an accident of birth that made me an American. I didn’t choose it; I had the good fortune to be born into it. I also don’t allow myself to forget that the person who picked the strawberries I had for breakfast probably was not as fortunate as I and was born somewhere south of the Border, border with a capital B, the border that many of my fellow Americans would like to seal with an impregnable fence.

Borders, like fences between neighbors, are important. In the best of times borders are more symbolic than they are barriers. The border between Canada and the United States, for example, has long been acknowledged by Canadians and Americans to be a political demarcation, not a barrier to separate citizens of one country from those of the other. The border between Mexico and the United States is another matter. Californians identify themselves as Americans, but they don’t think of our neighbors on the other side of our southern border as anything but Mexican, although Mexico is as much a part of North America as is the United States. As a matter of fact, the Canadian part of North America is much larger than the part that is the United States, yet we don’t speak of Canadians as “Americans.”

We Americans move around the world wearing our presumptions on our sleeves. We clearly presume to have better ways of doing all things than other people can do them. We presume our language to be better in every way than other languages, so we expect people in other countries to make the effort to learn English. When we visit Italy, we expect shopkeepers and innkeepers to speak to us in English. We don’t reciprocate. When Italians visit us in California, we expect them to speak to us in English. Any citizen of the U.S. who wants to spend a day or a week in Mexico can simply walk across the border at Tijuana and find that there are two languages of commerce and recreation there: Spanish and English. We don’t reciprocate by allowing Mexicans to walk freely across the border from Tijuana into San Ysidro. A Mexican entering the U.S. is required to present appropriate papers at the border, and appropriate papers are not easy to acquire. Getting appropriate papers is next to impossible for most Mexicans; but when one does come across with visa in hand, we expect our common language to be English.

It comes down to this. I am one of the more than six billion people who live on planet earth. I have no more inherent right to the resources on the planet than a person born in Siberia or Sumatra or Santiago. Closer to home, setting aside my thinking about the other six billion people in the world who are not U.S. citizens, George Bush and I have no more right to opportunity for “a good life” than anyone else in America. One of the most important ideas that shaped American democracy is that nobility in the old European sense is not inherited; we say we believe all of us are born “noble.” Ignoring for a moment the fact that the American nation was created on rich land that was unfairly and cruelly taken away from indigenous people, and setting aside for a moment the fact that the colonies that were pulled together to form the United States had enriched themselves by using slaves kidnapped from their African homeland, and forgetting also for the moment that all women and people of any race other than caucasian were excluded from consideration in the founding documents, the Founding Fathers made an effort to form an egalitarian government. The American idea was that a peanut farmer’s son or a blacksmith’s son could have as much access to opportunity for riches and political influence as the son of a rich merchant or plantation owner. The drafters of the Constitution made the clear distinction between the English system and the new American system. Inequality was hereditary in England. In 1776 a man born in London inherited nobility or lacked nobility depending on who his legitimate father was. In the new American world, inherited nobility was such a distasteful idea to the new nation’s first president that he rejected outright any talk of making him a king. On the other hand, I read recently that when George Washington met with Congress, he insisted on being seated in a special chair with a crimson canopy and that when he addressed the assembly, they should not “talk back” to him. I don’t recall seeing the red canopy in any of the paintings of those occasions. I’ll have to do some research to learn if his regal posture is just another myth like the cherry tree story or if it is true. There are verifiable accounts of Jefferson slopping around the White House in common, casual clothes even on working days. There are no accounts of his having said casually or officially that he was the decider.

We Americans continue to like the idea that we are all created equal; but in spite of our tacit commitment to the idea, the Founding Fathers’ goal of equality may not survive. It won’t survive unless we face honestly the fact that social and economic advancement is keyed to education, and public education is usually woefully inadequate outside the enclaves of wealthier Americans. The American president who steadfastly refuses to sign legislation that would provide health care for poor children touts his “No Child Left Behind” education program as the highlight of his term of office. The title of Bush’s program promises what it cannot deliver and probably was never intended to deliver. The title was composed for maximum political advantage. The actual design of the program is built on the notion that punishing failing schools, like punishing failing children, will cause them to be better. A punishing approach doesn’t address the causes of failure. Nowhere in the program, for example, is there a plan to raise teacher’s salaries to a level that will attract sufficient numbers of good teachers and keep them in schools until retirement. Under the program, good teachers must routinely set aside good teaching practice for days at a time in order to test to see if they and their schools should be punished.

Congress has hoodwinked the American public by promising, and delivering significant tax cuts; but as a matter of fact the tax cuts benefit only the richest citizens. If the trend continues, Congress will do away with federal estate taxes, a move that will guarantee more wealth for those who are already wealthy and will do nothing for average Americans, much less for the poorest Americans. The tax benefit given by Congress and the Bush Administration to people who are wealthy represents real money that cannot be used for the public good, including education. It’s the Robin Hood effect in reverse: take from the poor and give to the rich.

I don’t dispute the argument that people who work hard should be rewarded for their work. I can’t ignore, however, the difference between the earnings of executives and the wages of workers. I can’t ignore the obscene payments by pharmaceutical companies and health care companies to their top executives when I remember the millions of Americans who cannot afford health insurance. The American idea is at risk.

Thursday, October 04, 2007


Wordsworth and Daffodils. In October there are no daffodils by Grasmere Lake where Dorothy pointed out to her brother William that the flowers seem to dance. In the early morning when the winds are still, heather on the mountains above Rydel Water and Grasmere are almost as beautiful as daffodils. Clouds and high hills reflect in the perfect lake mirrors as they did when Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Byron walked beside them. This is timeless country that belongs to the ages, not just to Britain but to the world.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007


A visitor to Leeds who hasn’t been there for the past twenty years will be pleasantly surprised to find that the dark, old Victorian city has disappeared and in its place a generally bright, charming urban center has taken its place. People who haven’t seen Leeds transformed are often discouraged from going there even by the English themselves, who seem to drive around it because it’s still thought of as a grimy industrial city.

The arcades in the center of Leeds are visually perhaps the most satisfying malls anywhere in England, perhaps in the world. These shopping cathedrals are even laid out like churches with vaulting ceilings and often with stained glass. We were fortunate to have Gerald and Jose (Josie) Smith to guide us even to a flatiron building that is at least twenty years older than the one in New York.

Monday, October 01, 2007


Climbing up Sutton Bank into the North York Moors National Park begins from a tiny village with an absolutely appropriate name. Sutton-under-Whitestonecliffe nestles in gently rolling patchwork quilt farmland not far from some of England’s most starkly beautiful high country. Of course, with it’s tallest peak reaching a height of only 3200 feet, England doesn’t have any very high country; but on the moors under threatening skies the land seems remote, wild, and distant. The heather isn’t purple in September, but burnt umber and maroon swatches cover the landscape. Clouds seem to rise up out of the land.

In Whitby the North Sea slips into the harbor and at Robin Hood’s Bay seven or eight miles to the south, smashing waves crash against stone houses build at the end of the single narrow street that slips down to the water’s edge. It’s easy to see why the Leed’s photographer Thomas Sutcliffe chose to do most of his work in the Whitby area.

Friday, September 28, 2007

A few miles south of Ripon the River Skell meanders around and through some of the most stately ruins in England. The Abbey was founded by Benedictine monks in 1132 but was taken over by Cistercians a couple of years later. I don’t know if the take-over was amicable; but whatever the case, they created something beautiful and peaceful on earth that even Henry VIII couldn’t destroy completely in the time of Dissolution.

The Chapel of Nine Altars is as awesome in ruins as most churches and cathedrals are the year they are built. An vaulting of the undercroft, the place where the monks stored their wool before it was cleaned and sold mostly to Venetian and Florentine merchants, is like an underground cathedral. THE UNDERCROFT