June 8, 2012 . . .

This morning at 3:50 am, the world changed for me. Rachel’s labor began yesterday with steady contractions. Rachel and Nick stayed home until those contractions were about four minutes apart. Nick kept us informed with text updates; they were at the hospital by midnight. We followed and spent the next four hours sitting in the hall outside their room, while inside Rachel labored, Nick assisted, and the doula encouraged. Nurses came and went. We overheard snatches of conversation. Allen read. I sewed. Labor began in earnest. We heard one nurse say, “Don’t push. I’d really like you to wait for Dr. Grimm,” and we knew Leda Rose was on her way.

I would rather Rachel have a visit from a stork or find this dearly wished for baby under a cabbage leaf. I heard her groan and yes, curse, without being able to comfort her. Allen and I held hands. And then we heard that unforgettable sound – Leda Rose’s first cry, robust, demanding, definitely herself. Our little granddaughter was here.  After a while, we heard Nick say, “She looks like my father.” Since Oral is tall, gangly, and with the most amazing pointy head, we were not reassured. Then Rachel cried out with a hint of amazement, “She’s doing it!” (We guessed she was breastfeeding.)

After a time, we entered the sanctum and saw our little grand-daughter for the very first time, so tiny, rosy pink, nestled lovingly in my daughter’s arms, Nick’s face filled with joy. Seven pounds 11 ounces. One perfect ear peeking out from a jaunty yellow hat. Happily grubbing away at both hands stuffed in her little mouth. At that moment, the world truly changed for me. I am already thankful for every moment I will share with this new little person, Leda Rose.

My daughter's child . . .

There's something mysterious, fearful, and lovely about a new baby in the nine months before he or she is born. The reality is that my dear daughter's tummy has grown over the last eight months. Now there's just about four weeks left, and yesterday, in the waxing of the full moon, her doula painted that tummy with henna in a very old ritual of blessing this new life.

I've seen henna body paintings before -- at hippie fairs, in a Turkish bath, but I'd never thought about how old the tradition is (since the late Bronze age! -- or how classic the design that Rachel selected.

Rachel, the Lotus, and the little one

The image itself of a lotus flower seems to suggest the purity and beauty of the new life that will emerge. In Egyptian culture, the blue lotus in ancient art suggests the power of rebirth. In Buddhist culture, the lotus symbolizes purity, and just as the lotus flower itself rises from the water each morning, the reaching up of spiritual enlightenment. In Hinduism, the gods sit upon an opened lotus, source of all good things that somehow come unspoiled from the murk below. Jewish, Christian and Islamic traditions also use henna to mark protective symbols on hands and feet for transformative events, most popularly weddings.

A beautiful art form, intimate and spiritual, welcomes this new life.

Just for fun, read more about henna at Wiki or about Lotus Flower meanings.

Morning walk in Tucson . . .

We've been in Tucson about a month now and still haven't adjusted to the temperatures, though it's wonderful to be close to my sis. Yesterday morning we strolled out for our morning walk (you have to go early, otherwise it's truly just too hot, a high of 106, and in the upper 90s by 9-ish). There before us on the sidewalk, we spied this tarantula. He was out and about as well, and he was huge. It turns out he was a unique variety. A Blonde Tarantula. Too bad the females tend to eat after mating, that is, they eat the male. But still, both Allen and I broke out in a sweat. Just a few moments later, a couple warned us of a rattler up ahead.

We've been playing around with how to feed a hummingbird and finally have a family (I think) of cactus wrens dropping in throughout the day for bread crumbs (upgraded to bird seed today). The hummingbirds zoom and hover; the cactus wrens hop around and peek in the window, their little beaks open for water.

Our apartment is close to the Santa Catalina mountains, so we go down the hill to my sister's and are treated to views of these magnificent peaks. Monsoon rains bring thunderheads in the late afternoon. Que vista, baby! We're birding a little at local parks. Here's a view of Agua Caliente, a nearby desert oasis. We left the house at 6 am to meet up with local birders and beat the heat. I'm hoping for cooler weather in October. May the rest of your summer be reasonably free of wild weather.

We're in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the home of Georgia O'Keefe's museum, a small brown adobe building near the central Plaza. We spent 2-1/2 hours here in this little museum, admiring once again the purity of her lines, the vibrant colors, the passionate love of nature in her paintings. Wikipedia has images and an overview of her life well worth pursuing as her images remain copywritten. Then we walked down to Shohko Cafe for exquisite Japanese salmon, miso soup, and green tea. Allen still hasn't mastered chopsticks.

Santa Fe requires all buildings to follow a code: adobe. Everywhere you look, it's a glimpse to the past. We sat in the Central Plaza and watched the division of spaces: Native American traders wrapped in Southwest blankets sat in the sun along the President's Palace, their turquoise jewelry glinting in the sun. The homeless had pretty much commandeered the central park, their dogs companionably napping beside them. Everyone seemed to have a cell phone. Santa Fe is definitely upscale: Young women passed by wearing knee-high leather boots, very tight dark blue jeans, layers of turquoise jewelry, make-up, perfume, cowboy hats with long blonde or brown hair streaming behind.

I don't know what Georgia O'Keefe would have thought of Santa Fe today. We're staying at the rustic Sage Inn, with lovely native blankets on the walls, red, and black and white crosses and trees of life, sacred colors for peace and sleep.

Of pinnacles and dunes . . .

Pictures do not do justice to the Chiricahua National Monument in Arizona. Apaches called this the "land of standing up rocks". We hiked 4.5 miles through this "sky island," meandering trails down into Echo Canyon, and appreciated the vista at every turn. Towering pinnacles and crevices reminded us both of the movie "127 Hours." We were not so adventurous in this land once dominated by fierce Apache fighters Cochise and Geronimo.


We next drove north to the White Sands National Monument in New Mexico on our way to Albuquerque. This beautiful national park is at the tip of the Chihuahuan Desert where we could explore white gypsum sand dunes, the largest in the world. Since we are so far from snow (for now), we were fascinated by the purity of the sand, pure white.

The sand dunes continually move and yet a few desert plants have adapted with deep root systems that actually grow deep into the dune. We might be looking at just the top of a desert cottonwood that may have three-quarters of the tree buried in the dune. My favorite was the soaptree yucca with its delicate blossoms and spiky base. These pictures may give you a flavor of our hike. Without very clear trail markers, we would have been lost quickly!



White Sands National Monument

We're resting up in Albuquerque tonight and tomorrow to avoid the snow that seems to be everywhere. May the sun shine where you are!

South to Buenos Aires . . .

How close to the Mexican border is the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge? Our hike into this wildlife refuge was shaped by politics as the refuge (about 118,000 acres) actually runs adjacent to the US-Mexican border. Roughly three miles of the refuge closest to the border is closed to the public.

In our early morning drive down to park headquarters and then on to Arivaca, we could not avoid the issue of illegal immigration. Easily 150 Border patrol vans (white with a broad green stripe on their side) passed us and we went through two checkpoints, set up at random along the road.


I kept expecting a band of ragged immigrants or gun-waving drug runners to emerge from any of the numerous washes populated this morning by scruffy mesquite and cactus. According to U.S. Fish and Wildlife reports, the number of immigrants has declined (300,000 crossed here in 2007, down to 20,700 in 2009). Humanitarian groups have (with fed approval) put in three 55-gallon tanks to minimize deaths from summer over-exposure. Over the last 8 years, some 25 people have died, but the number has dropped to 2 in 2009.

We walked the nature trail at Arivaca Cienega (meaning 100 waters), honing our beginnng birding skills to spot this Pyrrhuloxia and a Northern Flicker. Then on to Benson for the next day's hike along the San Pedro River.

I come away from this part of the trip with a sense of the desolation of the desert, a formidable natural barrier to those seeking a better life in the states, and an appreciation for the tenacity and courage of these immigrants. My family is a mix of English, Scots, and Native American, divisions too fine to be counted, but we have traveled in too many Spanish-speaking countries not to feel a sense of kinship.

On the road again . . .

Last night in the shower, I reached for the soap and screamed. There, nibbling on the soap was the biggest dark brown blob I have ever seen. I got out of the shower, put on my glasses, and looked at him. He looked at me. This American cockroach was so big, about 2 inches, he should have had a name.

But all is well. We're packed and ready to drive south to the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Preserve, hopefully leaving Bubba behind.

Meanwhile, this week's grand accomplishment: we hiked 5 miles along the Bear Creek Trail in Sabino Canyon and were rewarded not only by actually reaching the seven falls (where water still flowed), but we saw this incredibly beautiful Northern Cardinal, perched on an ocotillo. May your week go well.