Mono Lake - Greg

Jumpstart 6/30/07 - Lee Vining Creek, Mono Lake California

There are a number of wonderful benefits to this writing group, but an extraordinary one is the occasional opportunity to share in the passions and callings of it’s members. Maya and her husband, Barry, have a passion for spoken art–poetry and storytelling–and once or twice a year they put on an Oral traditions Salon where friends come for “An evening of ritual, poetry and storytelling . . . LEARNED BY HEART!” Wonderful!

Last week we had the privilege of being invited into share in Anna Mill’s passion for nature (http://onnaturewriting.blogspot.com/ ). Anna organized an incredible writers and families trip to Mono Lake/Yosemite. It’s hard to say what was the best part, maybe sleeping under the stars, which always puts life into context for me. Learning about eh simply, yet powerfully compelling ecology of Mono Lake. Maybe it was Santiago taking us on a tour of the lake by canoe and watching a thousand Phalaropes perform an amazing synchronized aerial show over the sapphire blue waters, or late night poetry readings on the grassy campground, or maybe just hanging around my people (writers). There was a good amount of warmth, creativity and fun out there. It was great. Thank you very much, Anna. Thanks also to our new friend Santiago, who is doing heroic work educating the youth about our environment through the Mono Lake Committee.

(Oh, Bryn took some terrific pictures: )

The Prompt:

Dutifully we did our writing on Saturday or Sunday morning--I forget which. Anna sat us under a poplar tree next to Lee Vining creek which empties into Mono Lake. She did a Mary Oliver reading, then told us about an nature writing class where the teacher said that everything had a consciousness. She then asked us to walk about the creek area and see if something around there opened up to us, spoke to us, and then to write about it. Here is my offering:

= = =

A stone calls to me as Mary Oliver speaks her New England nature wisdom through the voice of our Mono Lake hostess, Anna Mills. Black and smooth, it begs to be touched, and so I do, rubbing its smooth surface until it shines with the oils of my hands, my heart, my spirit.

Anna speaks of a teacher who taught that all things have consciousness, and while she doesn’t know if she believes it, she tells us it is an interesting idea.

My black stone pebble hears this and I hope he is not offended by Anna’s lack of faith. But I rub harder until his annoyance is assuaged. Sometimes, I think, some times it only takes a little attention to bring someone or some thing alive.

The poet David Wagner speaks next through Anna, about being found. Another pebble calls to me. I pick her up. She is mottled and flesh-colored with smoke-black markings. The other stone has scurried away. One of her facets displays a set of symbols--subtle displays of her profound beauty. I admire and rub her smooth curves and lines, falling into her art and beauty. She does not say it, but she has worked on this for 70,000 years, then waiting another ten for someone to admire and appreciate it. Her. I can almost see her tears of joy, of relief, of gratefulness that her art, her stone life has been witnessed and touched by another.

I attend to her a bit longer until a third stone, passed to me by my daughter, Bryn, comes into my hand. Larger, and unapologetically phallic and baroque, he slips into my hand with the panache and confidence of a flamenco dancer. His art is slashes, swirls, and striations–black contrails frozen in white stone. Dark entrances, fissures to universal mysteries.

“Don’t even think about rubbing me,” he says. “I care not a whit of that, but just . . . “ He stops, silent, can say no more.

I say to him: “No need for words, my friend. You are as us all. You need me and I you. Together, today, we complete each other.”


Sometimes I think that love is nothing but to pay attention. Me to thee, thee to me. In the Orient they have an Indian word that means the Godliness in me bows the Godliness in you. Namaste’, they say, bowing to each other in greeting and parting.

I put the stones in my pocket where they touch and see each other for the first time. They say stones cannot weep, but I have seen them do so.