Golf Gypsy: His Magnificence

Three of us stopped suddenly as we neared the par three.  The talking stopped and we stood in awe and delight of a magnificent Desert Bighorn Sheep nonchalantly chewing the neatly trimmed and fertilized lush green grasses of the desert homes near the foothills of the mountains where he roams.  I slowly crept back to the golf cart and quietly retrieved my camera.  Par suddenly wasn't on my mind, but watching him eat, meander, and drift around the green fascinated me. He walked across the bridge right into our way, seeming to nod, "Oh, a camera I see.  Let me strut for you and show you who's King here at the Palmer!" 

 "I'm watching," I told him.  He stood and stared for a long time then ignored us completely and slowly climbed right up the ragged mountain side, disappearing in the rocks. 

Those of us who are fortunate to enjoy the outdoors, whether in golf, hiking, biking, exploring, or simply being in tuned to nature, are so often blessed with a glimpse of the magnificents. 

The Healing Years

Our country home on 10 acres

Twenty years ago we packed our belongings and moved to Hutchinson, Ks.  We left behind our youngest son and daughter, friends, family, and friends. Even though I fell in love with new friends, country fields, and sand dunes during those eighteen years we lived in Kansas, I could not revisit our land east of Norman where the healing took place.  We came home often for family events and football, but never once drove east on highway 9 to 108th street.  We never turned down Baltic avenue to see what changes the new owners of our ten acres might have made; we never once drove to the parks to walk through the trails lined with black jack oaks, sumac bushes, and worn down rose rocks. We never once set foot on the land that Washington Irving called the "crosstimbers."  It simply hurt too much.

Retirement offered us the time to return to Oklahoma, but not to our land. A home in town, close to family is where we need to be at this time in life. Last spring, I drove my mother-in-law out to see the historic flooding around Thunderbird Dam, and then with a deep breath I turned north on 108th, west on Lindsey, and north on Baltic. A gate stood at the entrance to their winding drive down the sumac lined hill to the tri-level native stone home. A tear trickled down my cheek. What were they keeping out, I wondered? Still I couldn't write about it.

I found this picture two weeks ago while helping my sister clean out the clutter.  Seeing the happiness on our faces must have been touch magic, my heart opened, and I felt refreshed with the memories, the sharing could begin. 


It was the openness of the land that created the healing energy I needed when we moved to the country in 1990. In 1988 our daughter, left home angrily creating her own path; Jack's father died on Land Run day, and gaps and voids began to

fill my heart. A year later in 1989 my mother died suddenly in August; my father died of a broken heart eight weeks later.  Everyone, from family and friends to children at school, stepped in to help; to love; to hug; to hold; but broken hearts take time to heal.

In time our daughter found her way home, and back to the land where she felt secure. Our boys began the explore their life journeys. Jack and I found solace in the land, in the

colors of nature, during the seasons of change, alongside the deer, bobcats, birds, and snakes. Walking paths created by the animals widened as two people walked them daily searching for answers. 


The animals, the trees, the grasses shared their space with us, and likewise we shared our space with others.  Friends often came out in late evenings and weekends to sit on the back deck or walk serenely down the hill, through the ravine, across the rocks where waters ran in the spring, or up the hill to a patch of wild flowers growing in the sunlight.

One day we discovered a pile of left over

native stones hidden at the top of the hill near the water well. One by one Jack and I carried the stones down the hill to the back yard where he built a garden around a tree.In time grasses grew where once red clay soil baked in the sun.  A soft cushioned swing hung from a tree, and a hammock floated between two trees giving a starlit view of the summer meteorite showers. 

Like the stones carried down the hill, one by one, our hearts began to heal. Color came back into our lives filling us with laughter and creating flowing peaceful moments. When my mind closed down and depression set in, nature rose to my rescue. She showed me a washed out area of land that held the remains of worn but recognizable rose rocks. Often I sat on a the land and picked up rose rocks,

admired their beauty and forgot why I was sad. One evening at sunset, I came face to face with buck on the same path as I. My heart raced, he held firm and then like a flash of lightning leaped down the ravine. Tears of awe and joy ran down my face and filled my heart with peace.

Late one night, when my mother might have said, It's too late, don't go walking out there, I went walking out there. Led by the dog who adopted us, Black Bart, I started up the hill through scrub oaks and fallen logs. Suddenly, Bart stood sideways on the path and stopped my advance. I heard the growl and scream from the bushes nearby. The dog and I turned running. He beat me to the driveway and once again stood sideways like a

motionless shadow on a moonless night with his nearly invisible long black hair. I never saw him until I plowed into him, flew into the air, and rolled down the incline into the drive way. Startled and dirty, I lay on the driveway while the dog licked me, and assured me we were safe from the mother bobcat and her kit.

Though sometimes bruised from trips and falls, I healed in those five comforting country years. Now each day the birds outside remind me to be mindful of the healing powers of nature.

The Seven Sisters.
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Desert Palms

Hello 
From Sunny Southern California ,  

Where the Palms are silhouetted against a rugged mountain border;
Where the Bougainvillea blooms in sharp contrast to the desert turf;
Where the Rainbows of flowers creep along the garden borders.
They call this the desert.

The weatherman calls for sunny skies
Day after day the temperatures rise.
Then clouds appear at the mountain tips
And rains cascades while the wild wind whips
Filling the valley with chilly temps
Running the tourist to the nearest fire pits.
They call this the desert.

The color changes from shades of brown to patches of crayons.
The cactus gains its stature with glamour and drama.
The desert lives in full glory of nature's beauty.
The sun returns to post guard on its kingdom below.
And they call this the desert.

The Natural Calendar

Since the day I was born in sunny Arcadia, California the sun has been an indicator, not a dictator, of how I felt. Although there are days my kids and husband may disagree. I am most content and adaptable when I have the sun on my face. When it's gray and cloudy I retreat and pray more deeply for goodness and grace in my life and for my family. I know without grace those gray days take their toll on the soul.



Now I've entered a time of life when and where I can gloriously relax and track the sun's arch. Moving to Kansas fifteen years ago was a lonely cold time in my life. We'd bought an older home and upon arriving late the night of December 28 with two dogs, bedding, suitcases, and green plants realized that our bedroom furniture, arriving the next day, would not fit into the designated master bedroom.



Late that night weary from two days of packing, a long drive, and the sorrow of leaving friends and family, we toasted to our new life, explored our new old home, and then sank down on the greenish brown shag carpeted floor of an add on room that was lined with windows. Before long we noticed the moon and then our two minds converged to toast, "Let's sleep here tonight." The sun greeted us the next morning rising over the trees and beaming into our windows and bleary eyes. It's glow lifted our hearts and the add on room became our master bedroom. With a few fixes over the next two months we soon had new carpet and a closet.



Our sun/bedroom faces true northeast. The three nearly floor to ceiling windows on the south face a true southeast as do my two half-sized windows in the pink playroom. On December 21 the sun barely touches the left corner of the middle southeast windows. As winter wonders fall the sun begins it's return slowly, window by window. It rounds the corner of the northeast wall of windows by late January. Those two windows face not only the sun but a giant old cedar tree filled with birds and music. By now (mid February) the sun has nearly passed through those two windows. Before long it will touch our full glass door. When it reaches the door I should have bulbs pushing up through the dark Kansas soil. Finally, spring will return and the sun will travel a few more windows till June 21st, giving us light and hope for renewal.



Now, having been writing for three months, I've discovered the sun's playful sometimes glaring arch in my pink room. During the dead of winter it tracks low across the sky glancing in at me through the bottom half of one window, then rising upward through the top half of the second window and the lace curtains. Many of these days the glare is so bright I can't see the computer screen. My problem was solved when I found an old cardboard loom with an uncompleted weave on it left my daughter, Katy's, childhood hobby. Like a picture on the wall, I place it on the window ledge. It fits perfectly giving me the suns glow not glare.



Then yesterday I noticed the sun's dramatic change. As I look out my small windows in the playful room, I realized that the sun has started it's ascent from the top half of my window. By early afternoon its direct light is on the roof not in my room. I've moved the loom upward and only need it now in the first window. Before long I'll be able to look out and see green tips forming on the bushes outside. Splendidly, the birds enjoy the window shelf outside and the food trays below, so I have music and flutter year round. Yes, I know the paper calendar year is January to December, but some of us feel a different calendar and respond naturally to nature.