20060730

Twilight


“The summer night is like a perfection of thought.”
Wallace Stevens (1879 - 1955)

Life is returning to the world after spending the afternoon hiding from the searing summer sun which is retreating over the horizon in triumph. The baked earth is striped with long thin shadows that stretch like ribbons revealing the rich texture of the ground. The afternoon has punished any movement with the only sounds in the scorched grass are the screams of crickets enduring the sweltering temperatures which effortlessly drift past the century mark. So brutal is the relentless assault of the summer heat that every cloud is consumed leaving a featureless pale blue sky void of white. The colors of the sky are rapidly changing as the ebbing light washes the top limbs of a majestic oak tree that is sheltering me with its shade. Laying close to the ground the view is blurred by heat waves dancing with seductive pirouettes on the submissive dry withered plain.

Squirrels in a slow deliberate lumber, limb down a tree trunk to the ground in a cautious retreat from the heat. They immediately prostrate themselves flat on the ground with their small limbs extended to the four cardinal points of the compass as if they were skydiving. The afternoon temperature has risen to a point where the squirrels can no longer keep cool and they lay in contact with the ground in the shade of the oak trees to dissipate body heat.

A nose emerges from the cool water as I rise to breathe the sultry air. The water embraces me as my body floats effortlessly allowing my thoughts to escape the confines of the subconscious radiating into the silence of the moment. Ever since I can remember I’ve been connected and drawn to water. Water restores tranquility and makes me whole. Water nurtures and quenches my soul as I seek solace between heartbeats. I find myself seeking water at twilight when the day disappears into night. Tao teaching believes that there is a lake of eternity within each of us and if we are still and pure without thought we can travel to a place within ourselves. When inner thoughts are calmed the ripples on the surface of the lake begin to clear and disappear revealing a reflection. When we have mastered silence we can peer into this reflection of ourselves and discover the essence of our soul. In the silence of the water we become whole and connected with all things living. It is only in this connected state of silence do we really begin to understand the complexity and interdependency of life on earth. As a society we have lost this connection with the world and it is our greatest failure.

Songbirds are the first to arise from hiding as a hint of coolness returns to the shadows, emerging from the deep recesses of the trees to trumpet the retreat of the sun darting across the sky in celebration. Music fills the air as dozens of voices are heard signaling a final opportunity to seek nourishment before darkness. Light is painting soft warm stokes against the ground with each moment as the sky regains its crystal blue hue. Dappled sunlight jumps across leaves briefly showcasing the margins as if they have been embroidered with golden thread.

In a sweeping motion my arms extend down into the cool depths pulling me deep below the surface as my back arches gently guiding me to the bottom. Weightless I drift allowing my limbs to trail behind me like the tail on a kite. Water caresses my face washing away sadness and toil, washing away disappointment and loss, washing away loneliness and longing, leaving a tranquil contentment that fills my torso then soothes my mind. Resisting the urge to stay submerged a forehead delicately breaks the surface, extending my hands I face the sky with my eyes closed to inhale the fragrant smell air once again.

During the heat of the day the mighty oak trees have yielded thousands of gallons of water to the dry air traveling through hundreds of feet of roots and limbs. Water that resides deep in soil and limestone fissures was deposited by the cool spring rains months earlier. Resisting the loss of this life force, the oak tree has fought the day with stomata clenched tightly conserving every drop of precious sustenance. Every tree celebrates the retreat of the sun with a deep exalted sigh as the stomata open expelling a rich perfume of oxygen which silently drifts to the ground bathing the air in a delightful organic breathe. You can almost hear the trees breathe as subtle trace of humidity returns the scent of nature to the air.

The sun is long gone but the sky maintains a slight orange glow of a hot iron removed from a smoldering fire. A single green flicker of light briefly illuminates the air as the first firefly awakes. Slowly the sky comes alive with fleeting spots of twinkling green light as more and more fireflies take to flight. The North Star appears low in the horizon as if a single firefly was frozen in time. Slowly each firefly is transformed into a star as the heavens paint the blue stillness. The last of the birds in flight are now featureless silhouettes against an open sky as they race back to the nest for the evening, as new series of silhouettes dart from between the trees with a frantic erratic spinning movement. In zigzag bursts they head toward the water appearing to dive into its depth at greater speed, but at the surface turn and retreat to the stars leaving a single ripple radiating from the water. Few people take the time at twilight to stare at the sky in complete stillness in order to see the local bats as drink water preparing for the long night of flight. Remaining motionless in the water facing the sky the bats touches the surface so close that I almost hear their inaudible voice. These silhouettes are typically the last living objects discernable in the evening sky as the crickets begin to sing the summer chorus.

Twilight is a brief moment of grace that holds spiritual wonder with the power to restore the soul. It’s a bridge to a place of mysticism and enlightenment where humans can begin to understand the beauty of delicate balance of life. Twilight mourns the death of the day and celebrates the birth of the mysteries of the night. It’s a time of solicitude and reverence that has marked the passing of millions of days but each time it’s an original masterpiece in motion.


"O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams."

Caroline Norton (1808–1877)

20060727

Washington Still Life


Night is washing away the city as I shut the industrial blinds over the single small window in my hotel room. At that moment I am unaware of which city I’m in since they all meld into one after awhile, when my eyes are drawn to the brightly lit Washington Memorial standing as a gleaming sentinel in the distance of an otherwise unfamiliar skyline. The sponsor of tomorrow’s seminar, Graham has just left allowing me to remove my shoes and loosen my tie. I am unable to focus my eyes as I squint at the small print on the placard that instructs me on how to connect to the internet. It’s amusing that internet access is provided for free but there is never a network cable in the room that allows you to utilize the connection. The idea of me walking to the front desk while a well dressed night manager, who speaks broken English searches the back room for another cable is insurmountable and beyond my physical comprehension. At this point in the evening the news is never good, plus the ability to resolve any issue of concern is limited. I dismiss the thought of accessing my email as the light from the overhead lamp all of a sudden seems exceedingly harsh accentuating the dull pounding above my temples.

This is the part of the day where a few moments of comfort are rationed out in thimble sized portions as I stare at a blank wall with my feet propped up on the edge on the bed. The relaxed posture is more a sign of numbing exhaustion than restorative rest as it requires too great an effort to move into another position. The day has been uneventful as I traveled a familiar route in an undersized regional jet next to an oversized governmental employee, who assumed I was a security threat the second she laid eyes on me. It was a day that I have repeated many times over the years, a day that requires no thought as it has become a reflex. Exiting the jetway, I smile to myself as I pasted gate 23 looking for the distraught faces of the broken toys, all the while knowing that my return flight tomorrow will place me in harms way as I attempt to depart gate 23. We will cross that bridge when we get to it, carefully tucking that future experience into a waiting to be filed portion of my tired brain.

Travel is full of surprises that are uncontrollable and unpredictable. It becomes an exercise in insanity to manage or hope to control the unplanned events. One must act as water would, take the path of least resistance; take the shape of the vessel that confines you. Today the taxi ride to the hotel in beltway traffic and the check in process took longer than flying half way across the country. It requires great mental conditioning to maintain an appearance of calm when all your thoughts are focused on pimp slapping the daylights out of the lady at the desk arguing with the manager over not getting her fifty cent portion of cheap instant coffee replenished in her room. Some troubling days, people cross over into the realm of hideous ugly insects that need to be extinguished or crushed under foot. I am concerned that I am finding it much easier to despise the average individual than ever before.

A powerful click in the corner startles me as the ancient hotel air conditioner roars to life making the drapes wave and part open in response. The air is immediately filled with a faint musty smell of mold as my skin senses the rise in humidity. The distracting loud sound temporarily makes me forget what I’m thinking about as my thoughts shift to tomorrow’s seminar. Graham mentioned that registration was much higher than expected and he had been told to expect almost a hundred people. The event organizers were nervous that they may run out of space and need to move the seminar to another location in the morning, which is always a recipe for disaster.

Why do I have no apprehension or uneasiness in tomorrow’s activities? Is it that I’m so trained that the routine has become second nature or have I desensitized my emotions so that it is of no real importance to me? Life will go on regardless of tomorrow’s outcome. My detachment peaks my interest as I delve into its origin. I will travel to a University in the morning I have never visited before and lecture for two hours to a hundred professionals none of which I have ever met before. I took the opportunity to completely rewrite and contemporize my presentation which usually keeps the adrenaline pumping and keeps my delivery fresh. My subject matter will be contrary to what the group wants to hear and the message will not be received well by many in attendance. In the past this level of uncertainty would keep me awake the night before, but not anymore. The more I ignore the audience’s feelings, the more I track mud all over their beliefs, the more I insult their intellect about not seeing the truth, the more I am respected as an authority. I have become immune from their laws of civility and social order. I have become their grin reaper, their black raven of change, their ghost of Christmas future, having little responsibility to heal or restore the path of destruction I create in their tenets and beliefs. Why are we so complaisant of the status quo requiring a sharp slap up the side of the head to start us challenging our everyday approach to life?

A small bead of sweat rolls down my temple as I notice that the hot air in the room is thick and dead waiting for the air conditioner to roar back to life again. I smile at the mess in the corner of the room from dinner. Graham was kind enough to bring me a rare treat for dinner from Jerry’s Seafood, its house specialty “crab bomb” with all the fixings including a cup of fresh Maryland crab soup. Since my flight was late and the seminar starts early he drove across town to pick up dinner. It was quite a scene, the two of us eating a three course gourmet take-out seafood dinner on the embarrassingly small table in the corner of the hotel room. Travel is always the ultimate contradiction of experiences.

Once again a loud click echoes in the room signaling the return to life of the air conditioner. The air fills with musty humidity as the drapes again parts open. Finding a momentary surplus of energy I get up from the chair and walk over to the window to insert my face into the cool breeze. Wondering if the Washington Memorial remains lit all night or does it disappear leaving only another dark unfamiliar skyline, I pull open the drapes. I am relieved to see the memorial’s bright white shape against the warm gray horizon. I stare a long time into its pure glowing form aimlessly drifting in thought about its symbolic power. Another click resonates from the window foretelling the hot still silence to follow. Walking to the bed I look back at the corner of the room and pull out the camera. Snapping a photo I turn the camera over and preview the image. Quietly I whisper to myself “just another Washington still life.”

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded.”

W. Somerset Maugham (1874 - 1965)
'Of Human Bondage', 1915

20060723

Then There Was Silence



The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.
Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)

For the last couple weeks I’m been distracted having located a distant cousin which has forwarded me some family memoirs and manuscripts. They are well documented with letters and signed photographs of European royalty and business leaders. They describe personal experiences with heads of state and business negotiations throughout Europe, Middle East, Mediterranean and Africa. I have been consumed with researching the manuscripts some of which are 250 pages. I am considering writing a book on the subject. In the mean time I continue to post photographs. Click the sidebar to see the new photos.

20060708

Life on the Vine



"In the hearts and minds of the people, the grapes of wrath were growing heavy for the vintage."

John Steinbeck (1902 - 1968)
The Grapes of Wrath

The sun peaks through the soft white clouds drifting in a crystal blue sky, highlighting the lush green slopes of the Blue Mountains providing a stunning backdrop to the morning. The rolling foothills frame the waving green fields of alfalfa hugging the bottomland. The views are expansive extending miles as white tail deer and wild turkey dot the foothills out of reach. Vines precisely trussed along thin galvanized wires secured to weathered fence posts dance over the slopes providing a delightful visual harmony.

Standing next to me is a tall thin man with a proud Marlboro jaw and piercing eyes the color of a clear blue sky. He is dressed in jeans and a simple western style shirt with pearl snaps as he leans on the hood of a big new Ford pickup truck. Facing the morning sun the salt of age glitters in his black pepper hair as he shades his eyes looking over the land that has been in his family for generations. His love of the land is apparent as he describes the history of every small feature of the field below while his other hand gently points out the landscape as if caressing the nude back of a beautiful woman.

According to the historical society, “the Walla Walla Valley was one of the first areas between the Rockies and Cascades to be permanently settled. Lewis and Clark traveled through the county in 1805 and 1806, making friends with the Walla Walla Indians on their way to the Pacific Ocean. Fur traders carved out early settlements and trading posts and the early 1800's. Missionaries Marcus and Narcissa Whitman settled here in 1836”.

With the lure of nearby gold in 1860, Walla Walla quickly became a commercial, banking and manufacturing center, and soon became the largest city in Washington Territory. The City of Walla Walla was incorporated in 1862. After the gold rush ended, farming anchored the community. It remains vital to the current economy. As a group, Walla Walla County's farms are the oldest in the state. More than half of the County's 47 centennial farms were established before 1875”.

Years ago, many Native American tribes inhabited the region, including the Walla Walla, Nez Perce, Cayuse and Umatilla. Walla Walla is a Native American name that means "many waters" or "small, rapid streams." Standing on the slopes of the rolling hills, his strong baritone voice softens as he describes how the emerging wine industry has changed the value of land which has risen tenfold in less than a decade. Even this dramatic increase in land value still represents about one tenth the cost per acre compared to Napa Valley, so the development pressure will remain unabated for years. This increase in value in the family property has created a tax inheritance burden which can not be carried by his children and grandchildren, so after considerable soul searching the family has decided to develop the property into environmentally sensitive single family estates. The property is surrounded on all sides by some of the finest vineyards of the state and quite possibly the nation.

Climbing back into the truck for a view from the far ridge, he begins to tell me about how he began growing grapes for the local wine industry almost 17 years ago. Providing a stunning backdrop, the Blue Mountains frame the valley that is home to more than 60 wineries and as many vineyards, all of whom work hand in hand to produce world class wines of exceptional character. Excellent examples of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Syrah have earned the Walla Walla Valley national and international acclaim in recent years. Other grape varieties such as Chardonnay, Semillon, Cabernet Franc and Sangiovese also produce wines of subtlety, balance, and complexity. In the fertile ground between the vineyards are massive orchards growing hundreds of acres of cherries, apples and plums as well as onions and potatoes. We pass a large round promontory called Mount Fuji which is a single orchard of a hundred acres of Fuji apples most of which are exported to Japan.

Passing weathered basalt outcroppings as we climb a bumpy gravel road the conversation quiets giving me the perfect opportunity to indulge my lifelong fascination with wine and grapes. Speaking with great passion, he patiently answers my continuous stream of questions. Selecting the right location for growing grapes is a combination of art and science. The grapes are located on the slopes when they received an optimum balance of exposure to the sun and shelter from the heat. The vineyards occupy slopes to cool the grapes in the evening when cool air flows down from the hilltops. The bottomland valley stores heat during the hot summer nights providing the grapes little relief, so it is rare to see any vines on flat bottomland. Most of the vineyards are laid out so that the rows run north and south providing foliage maximum exposure to the sun during each day. Each vineyard has a yen garden like appearance as if sculpted by a giant rake.

Walla Walla has developed a soft sustainable viticulture practice called “Vinea”. Attempting to establish Walla Walla as a leader in sustainable viticulture, the growers and vintners formed The Winegrowers’ Sustainable Trust which is a voluntary group that have embraced a covenant with environmental, economic and social sustainability concurrent with their production of grapes and wine. The Trust defines sustainable viticulture as “ecologically sound, economically viable, and socially supportive. Because it is more a philosophical approach to viticulture than a set of farming practices, the specific practices vary depending on the specific environmental and social issues important to an appellation.”

The Trust describes how Vinea’s sustainable viticulture practices compare to organic and biodynamic farming practices. “Viticulture can be “sustainable” without being “organic” or “biodynamic”. Also, some organic or biodynamic operations may not be sustainable. Organic farming certifies that the grower has excluded the use of any synthetic agricultural chemicals. Biodynamic farming combines the tenants of organic farming with practices that are intended to influence the metaphysical aspects of the farm (such as increasing vital life force), or to adapt the farm to natural rhythms (such as planting seeds during certain lunar phases) as well. However, approaches to management of healthy soils can be similar between the different farming systems.”

Unlike Napa Valley these vineyards are not cultivated accommodating a cover crop that builds soil fertility and biology, but also provides habitat for beneficial insects which control pest populations. An important consideration in grape production is frost protection with many of the vineyards being equipped with large fans and misting systems. Growers will spray the grapes with water when temperature approach freezing generates heat when the water turns to ice protecting from grape from damage. In “Vinea” leaving a cover crop provides more surface area for the water to cling to enhancing frost protection. Many of the vineyards include the tradition of planting a single rose bush at the end of the row of vines. Historically the rose was planted as an early indicator of frost damage and before the advent of modern technology a grower would know that actions to protect the vineyard from frost were necessary if the rose petals started suffering.

Some of the wineries grow their own grapes but most purchase each season’s grapes from growers. Wineries will contract with the growers to produce grapes on long term leases from a specific acreage of in a vineyard. Quality-oriented wineries now negotiate grape purchase contracts based on acres, rather than sugar level and tonnage. This allows the winemaker, rather than the vineyard owner, to decide how much fruit the vines will carry and when the grapes are ready to begin harvesting. The average cost for grapes in the valley at about $7500 per acre and the yields can range from two to twelve tons per acre. For quality wines from the Walla Walla valley the yield per acre will be managed at between one and three tons.

Vineyards vary in the spacing between the rows and between the individual vines. Depending upon the age and variety, some are more productive per vine than others, some produce larger clusters of fruit and some yield more juice per pound of fruit. Wine makers and their facilities also vary in the amount of juice they are willing or able to squeeze from the grapes. In rough averages when considering grape production one pound of grapes equal about 4.5 clusters with between 40 and 60 grapes per cluster. In other words it takes 9000 clusters to equal a ton of grapes. One ton of grapes will produce 60 cases or 720 bottles of wine. So a single bottle requires between 440 and 660 grapes. On average in the Walla Walla valley one acre of vineyard produces from 2250 to 4500 bottles of wine.


The vines are a very aggressive crop that must be prepared early each year and merit special attention. Each stage requires meticulous work, and traditional skills primarily focused on manual labor. The first element for controlling production to come: winter pruning, followed by trimming that suppresses excess shoots in the spring. Each different grape variety undergoes a maturity test which defines optimum maturity according to the quality of wine desired.

After the roots and stalk have developed, the untended vine would grow wildly, spending most of its energy on spreading its shoots and tendrils. If left to nature, a single vine could cover as much as an acre of ground, with the roots developing wherever the branches touched earth. In ancient times, this was allowed, a practice called layering. Normal practice of the time was to prop up the vines to prevent the fruit from rotting or rodents from eating it. The Romans even planted elms in the vineyards, simply to support the vines. These ancient viticulturists came to realize that, instead of allowing the vines to grow outward in all directions, training the vines in rows with canes pointing upward produced better, more even-ripening grapes.

Jim LaMar an expert in wine production notes, “in 1860, Dr. Jules Guyot published the first of three treatises describing regional traditional vinicultural and viticultural practices which documented the cultivation practices of vineyards which had gone unwritten for the previous five thousand years. It wasn't until the recommendations of Guyot, however, and the massive replanting due to phylloxera that vineyards typically had an orderly, row by row appearance”.

In describing the care of the vines he writes, “it was discovered that better-quality fruit will grow on vines that are pruned back to distribute the bearing wood evenly over the vine. So, in the winter months, when the leaves have dropped and the vines are empty of sap, they are pruned back almost to the main stem. Pruning is an art of delicate balance. Pruning also facilitates cultivation, disease control and harvesting, when the vines are trained to grow in a particular shape. It is a skill that requires experience and judgment which is only done by hand. There are only two basic pruning methods: cane-pruning and spur-pruning, also known as head-pruning. Spur-pruned (head-pruned) vines are usually found in older vineyards. Spurs are the canes (branches) trimmed back to only a pair of buds. Each bud will become a shoot which grows to a cane that bears the crop. In the winter after the harvest, the top cane is removed and the bottom cane trimmed back to a two-bud spur. Spurs are often distributed around the head of the vine, like spokes around a wheel. The top is left open for sun-exposure and this method often leaves the vine in somewhat of a "goblet" shape. These vineyards can only be hand-harvested. Some head-pruned vines are converted after a time to grow on trellis wires. Head pruning is used only in warm growing regions, because it encourages massive vegetation that slows ripening. It also makes harvesting more difficult.

In the cane-pruning method, from one to four, one-year-old canes, each with six to fourteen fruit buds, are trained along trellis wires. This is also referred to as "cordon" (French for "arm") pruning, since the vine looks as if it is stretching out it arms. Because one-year-old canes must be used to bear the fruit each year, the cane-pruners therefore must train the current fruiting canes and at the same time consider which spurs to train for next season's fruiting canes. In France, a single cane with a single spur is known as Guyot simple pruning and two canes and spurs as the Double Guyot, because Dr. Guyot was so influential in promoting these methods. Modern trellising methods vary by variety, geography, geology, harvesting methods and winemaking style! Two, three or four-wire, vertical, lateral, cordon and other configurations of trellis may exist in neighboring vineyards. There are stakes made of wood, metal and those combining the two materials. The different patterns primarily affect exposure to sun and wind and accessibility of fruit for hand or machine harvesting.



Vines respond to early pruning and the reduction of leaf foliage by producing flower sets. Grapevines produce fruit only from one-year-old wood, called a cane; thus, long or short canes should be retained during pruning. Although 60 or more buds can easily be left on a grapevine, a crop of 3 tons per acre cannot be expected unless the vine has sufficient vigor to support such a fruit load. To determine the potential fruit capacity of a vine at pruning time, growers can use the concept of balanced pruning. The principle is valid for all grapes in general, but varies in magnitude from one cultivar to another. Growers control the grape yield and quality per acre by systematically dropping fruit or selectively pruning the grape clusters whereby concentrating the flavor and intensity into fewer grapes. Depending on climate, temperature and rainfall the grower may drop fruit up to three times before harvesting. The key to flavor and intensity is stressing the vine so that it works hard and struggles. This requires precise control of soil moisture levels through automated irrigation systems. The worst thing that can happen to a crop of grapes is to endure a wet rainy period just before harvest, which will wash away or dilute the intense flavors of the maturing grape. Varieties differ in the amount of heat required to mature their fruit. One-hundred to 120 days after flowering, the grapes should be ripe. The harvest may start mid-August in warm areas, to late-September in the coolest ones.

An important indicator of grape maturity is the sugar level. Sugar (more exactly sucrose) is measured in the United States using the Brix scale, which uses specific gravity to determine the percentage of sugar, by weight. A 25 °Brix solution has 25 grams of sucrose sugar per 100 grams of liquid. Or, to put it another way, there are 25 grams of sucrose sugar and 75 grams of water in the 100 grams of solution. In Walla Walla wine grapes are normally harvested between 21° and 25° Brix. From the 1960s through the 1980s, wineries often paid growers based on sugar content and the tonnage. Fruit maturity is not, however a simple matter of sugar content. Acid content is every bit as important to quality and flavor and even more so to aroma constituents. Grapes will respire acid (especially malic acid) as they ripen and this loss is greater in warmer vineyard locations.

As grapes ripen, sugar, color and pH increase as total acidity decreases. For the highest quality wine, grapes need to develop aroma and taste characteristics that only result from physiological maturity and sugar-acid balance. Some signs of this maturity are the browning of the grape seeds (pips) and lignation, which is the browning and drying of the berry stems. But by far the most important indicator of maturity is the taste of the grapes.

The sun had started to sneak behind the Blue Mountains staining the sky with pastel hues when I finally realized I have been peppering my guide with questions for almost eight hours. In an understanding and mentoring manner he endured my barrage of inquires because we were two kindred spirits sharing a deep love of the land with all its abundance and wonder. He had recognized in me, like himself a primal need to be grounded to the land, to breathe in every summer breeze, to dig my hands deep in the soil just to smell its rich perfume, to find purpose and sustenance in caring for the abundance of the land. In the process we have walked between the rows of vines examining the clusters in great detail as if they were masterpieces of art hung in a gallery while local laborers set about the first dropping of fruit. We passed each new winery in an old barn or convert shed while he explained the type of wine being produced, the production volume in cases and more other often than not with a humble voice and cheerful glee in his eye he would whisper that he supplied those grapes.

Rounding a small hill the town is visible as my guide makes the suggestion that we meet his wife in town for dinner at one of the local restaurants. Embarrassed he qualifies his invitation with a comment that the town needs more quality dining establishments. Arriving at the small restaurant we are escorted to a small table outside on the terrace facing the Blue Mountains where his wife is already seated waiting for us. Quickly we polish off the bottle of chilled Chenin Blanc which his wife has been drinking. I’ve never been able to identify all the subtle flavors and aromas, although my thirst and the long day gave the wine a delightful sweet flavor of honeysuckle. You will never confuse me with a wine snob, because I drink wine not as status symbol, but because I enjoy it so immensely. Unfortunately the only flaw in my thinking is the fact that the better the wine is the more I like it.

In a short few minutes the Chenin Blanc was gone. My guide immediately reaches for the wine list and asked me what I would like to drink with dinner. The question is absurd to me because the answer is so obvious. “What I want to taste some of the grapes you have grown.” Slightly embarrassed again he admits that the wine list contains over twenty vintages that he was produced grapes for. His wife offers her thoughts and sits back in her seat smiling knowing the answer. After scanning the list for a moment he calls the waiter over and tells me “I think you might like this one.

The dinner conversation is pleasant and comfortable while the waiter brings the bottle back and opens it pouring the claret nectar into each of our glasses. Without pretense I swirl the wine around in the glass to open the bouquet slightly and take a sip. In order to savor all the richness I close my eyes. There is no need to break the silence of the moment as a smile clings to my face. No word can better express my contentment than sitting in silence in the presence of kindred spirits with the fading light coloring the mountains in the distance soft purple hues. I pick up my camera a take a picture of the sunset and recall the old saying “If only you could capture time in a bottle”, at least for the moment I believe they did.




Wine is bottled poetry.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

20060703

A Small Sanctuary



"True silence is the rest of the mind; it is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment."

William Penn (1644 - 1718)


The still water turns into a mirror reflecting the ever changing colors of the sky as the sunset fades exposing the secrets of the evening. Bird calls fill the air with a multitude of sweet sounds as they signal the waning daylight. Cormorants that once stood along the water’s edge with long coal black wing capturing the sun are long gone, replaced with a silhouette of the lone sentinel standing on a small rise, a tall sand hill crane. The glass like surface of the water is broken by the head of a small snapping turtle as small circles radiate out proclaiming his presence like a target on a radar screen. Slowly without purpose the turtle drifts past the in a silent parade chasing the clouds. Across the other shore bull frog calls bounce and skip along the water’s surface competing with a chorus of crickets as the symphony of sounds reach a summer crescendo.

Deeply I inhale the heavy dense humid air into my expanding lungs as my skin glistens with the moisture that fills every pore. The heat of the day is ebbing, but the evening air is still warm, slowing activity to a quiet deliberate crawl. Each deep breath strips away my concerns of the past couple of days falling like petals of a faded blossom. For the first time in many days tension flows grounding me like electricity seeking the earth. The rich laden moist air is a long lost friend that has returned to reminisce. Sitting silent draped in a moist blanket of mist my comforted mind begins to drift, wandering about looking for hidden points of connection like a blind man fumbling to read braille with thick pudgy fingers. I seek to find the latch to open the door allowing me to enter a room filled with the joys of life and childhood insight.

With my eyes closed I become immersed with the sounds of the water on this summer night. I am no longer an object removed and apart from my surroundings peering from the edge of a balcony seat, but totally enveloped and connected. As the line between my inner self and the natural world melts away, my senses become boundless stretching through the dark trees and over the horizon. I can taste the earth for a considerable distance as if it was placed in my mouth to savior. Carefully I drink in each bird song as the rolling dialogue allows me to understand a call and response from another bird across the water, eavesdropping on the conversation between two hopeful lovers.

This isolated sanctuary provides me great solace as a retreat from the realities of the moment. It is such a shame that I take few opportunities to visit, always deciding that there is something more important to do, an event more critical to attend or a client more demanding that needs attention. This house has been a part of the family for more than a decade and my constant efforts to return result in one or two visits each year. The environment is so nurturing and serene that much of my time in residence, I’m in a deep blissful slumber as my mind restores the structural foundation of my sanity. I have never found a place that so completely shifts my mind to quiet surrender.

Solitude is infinite and the world cannot intrude. No one has this phone number, the cell phone is turned off, there is no internet connection, there is no email, the television has not been turned on in days and I can see no reason to pick up a newspaper to read the depressing news of the day. Entering this sanctuary immediately negates the relevance of all the pressing issues of all that surround me, allowing me to cultivate a connection with my inner voice. For that brief moment my mind drifts and dreams fills me eyes as I listen to sounds of the world so far removed.


TO SOLITUDE

O SOLITUDE! If I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; - climb with me the steep,
Nature's Observatory - whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes - its rivers crystal swell,
May seem a span: let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilioned; where the Deer's swift leap
Startles the wild Bee from the Fox-glove bell.
Ah! fain would I frequent such scenes with thee;
But the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

John Keats (1795-1821)