peace | Chi Varnado

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #33. Go As A River (February 22, 2015)

Why must we spend the majority of our precious, limited time doing things that really don’t matter in the big scheme of life? Things like repeated phone conversations to various companies or agencies that don’t seem to be familiar with the information that we had just called about the day before. Sometimes a business might have been bought out by a larger one or a merge has occurred or the entity grows to take on more than it is effectively capable of handling. For whatever reason, more and more of my time appears to be eaten up by these fruitless, frustrating endeavors. For me, these repeated conversations to the same person, or someone new, are extremely irritating and should, by all rights, be completely unnecessary.
For instance, one of the local propane companies can’t seem to get their paperwork and billing straight no matter how many times they reluctantly try. No one person is held accountable anymore. The big picture is somehow out of their reach and inaccessible.
“It’s not my fault…”
“Well, what can you do about it?” I ask.
Nothing really, is the underlying response. The maddening, circular conversation continues.
“Go as a river,” says Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh.
I’m trying, but it’s downright hard.
Two weeks ago Kent and I went to Deer Park for a “tune-up” as we like to call it. This beautiful, peaceful Buddhist monastery lies in the hills above Escondido. After gathering into a circle and singing some songs together we embarked on the walking meditation. Consciously lifting one foot and placing it in front of the other we become aware of the earth below the soles of our feet and how our movements affect everything around us. It’s wonderful to experience the silence that a group of a few hundred fellow brothers and sisters are capable of when everyone is practicing mindfulness. I love coming here and not having to talk much or listen to unsolicited, endless banter. We’re all working on being more conscious, compassionate individuals.
As we begin our ascent up the mountain trail the familiar fragrance of lilac filled my olfactory senses. I closed my mouth and inhaled deeply. Coming around a bend I saw the source: a Lakeside Lilac loaded with vibrant, dark blue blossoms. I nodded my grateful, appreciation to my fellow earth dweller. Gazing across the valley I began wondering about where the dirt road in the distance went. Was it heading to a new development? Was it a fire road? And then I noticed that I had slipped back into that ‘thinking habit.’ I returned to my breathing again. In, out, deep, slow, calm, ease, smile, release, present moment, wonderful moment. I redirected my attention to each step and paid attention to my feet landing on the outside of my instep.
Somehow I’d merged to the inside of the group and found myself bothered that others had closed in around me. I side passed my way toward the outside edge of the moving river – back to my natural comfort zone. Again, I realized my slippage into ‘thinking’, but continued anyway.
This walking meditation seemed a parallel to life. We go along happy and secure and then along comes an illness or event that damages the peace we’d been experiencing. And then, perhaps, we’re content again until we get yet another incorrect bill from the propane company. I mostly wish this wouldn’t happen, but I also wish that I didn’t let it get to me so much and permeate any other peace that I may have been enjoying. But it does. My attempt at this point is to watch my irritation and notice what it does within my body and little by little let it go – until the time comes when I, once again, must do my best to rectify the details with the propane company and sincerely hope that THIS TIME the matter at hand will be settled once and for all. At least for these current invoices.
Kent and I ate the delicious vegan lunch prepared at the monastery, in relative silence, up in the garden by the lily pond. A small sign with Peace is Every Step, written in beautiful calligraphy, peeks out from behind some foliage and I hear a distant bell ring. I stop, close my eyes, and take a deep, appreciative breath.
At a little before 2:00 PM we wandered back down to the meditation hall to take part in the “Deep Relaxation.” The monk speaks softly, off and on, calmly guiding our attention to various organs in our body, to send each one our loving kindness and appreciation for the job they do. Lying on our backs we heard a Native American flute, a didgeridoo, a soft beating drum. Without turning my head and opening my eyes I would have never guessed that all this music came from his expertise playing a long segment of PVC pipe! I closed my eyes and returned to my breathing. In, out, deep, slow, calm, ease, smile, release, present moment, wonderful moment…

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are available on www.amazon.com. Chi directs the Ramona Dance Centre. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #25. Origins of Quail Mutterings (December 13, 2013)

I have been fascinated and intrigued by quail my whole life. As a young child one of my first memories was of the quail living around us. I remember hearing them rustling under the bushes talking to each other and watching them glide over the rocks in single file. They were always part of ‘Being Home’ for me. A sense of ‘All is well with the world’ fills me still when I hear their distinctive call echoing through the canyon. When a flock of them takes flight amongst the sage brush the sound of their wing-beat is unique. One can tell without seeing that it’s quail. I think their muted, staccato-like voices sound like they’re muttering to each other as they peck around on the ground under the buckwheat. They don’t sound insistent or particularly forceful in their opinions – just having an open dialogue. So I coined Quail Mutterings for my essays since I mostly just ramble about my experiences meandering through the canyon. Perhaps similar to the way the quail communicate. I only hope my mutterings provide a little entertainment.

I remember a ‘little happy,’ as I like to call them, that I shared with my dad. It was during the year following the fire that he motioned for me and said, “Come on, Chi. Get on the back here and let’s go for a ride.”

More for him than for me, I climbed onto the back of his quad and we putted down the dirt lane. Usually I’d much rather walk than drive a noisy, smelly, gas-guzzling machine, but that wasn’t an option for him at eighty-three years old. We toodled on down the dirt road going five miles-per-hour, turning northward at the T, halfway to the main road. At the top of the hill we stopped and shut off the engine. He pointed out landmarks in the adjacent valley.

Dad straddled the seat on the quad while I leaned against the rack on the back enjoying the warm spring evening. Suddenly, a male quail, with his beautiful top feather, walked over the small boulder we were parked beside and jumped off the edge into the bushes. A plump, gray female followed, over the rock and then jumped into the brush. And then a baby quail, with its quick little running steps, ran across the granite. Both of us held our breath wondering what might happen when it got to the edge. It jumped off the end! Then it scurried through the leaves below, catching up with the parents. We smiled at each other as another wee one appeared on the rock and did just what the first had done. And then another and another and another. We kept very still, breathing lightly, so as not to disturb the family’s journey. I felt lucky to be there, so close to them and to my dad.

Just this week we broke ground, beginning my grandmother’s (Bamoo’s) rebuild, ten years after the Cedar Fire. Designating corners and marking boundaries for the new house – a simple rectangle built into the hill, only three-square-feet larger than what was previously here, is exciting and at the same time a little scary. Building small, just over nine-hundred square-feet, enables us to have the potential to make this project financially feasible. I sure hope this proves to be the case.

Our two old horses, which normally get to roam free in the canyon, have been unhappily corralled more often, in order to protect them from the open trenches and stretched-string boundaries on the house site. Our feed bill goes up too since they usually supplement their diet on the various grasses growing in the creekbed and up toward the saddle. For every action there is a reaction, as we learned in physics. Even though we are only replacing what was already here before, it will be different. And also, time has passed and things (wildlife and plants…) have changed. But then again, even if we don’t consciously change anything, nothing ever really stays the same. Change is inevitable.

Sometimes I find this extremely sad, like when I can’t help dwelling on how things used to be when my parents were still around. I miss them both terribly. I know that things will never be the same again. At this point, if I’m lucky, I start to live in the present. Be grateful for what is. Right now. Because that too will be gone shortly. So I’m trying to remember to stop and smell the flowers.

As the holidays approach let’s take the time to appreciate each other and fill those memory banks with good, quality experiences. I have so many fond memories of growing up here. These are probably the main reasons I’ve chosen to stay and embrace this lifestyle. There’s a timeless peace that permeates the canyon which works for the quail and for me. Rebuilding and preserving a legacy that my family began generations ago feels right and fulfilling to me. So, may each of us find that inner compass that helps steer us not due north, but allows us to meander just enough to happen upon those ‘little happies,’ wherever and whenever they might present themselves. Let’s just make sure that we’re awake enough to recognize them when they appear.

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire; and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.