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I am happy to share an excerpt from the Introduction of my book, Bowing to the Wisdom of Song, A Threshold Choir Singer’s Journey, that is currently in the editing phase:

I marvel at the timing of my journey. I traveled when we were healthy, when we were meeting regularly, and when Threshold Choir members I hadn’t yet met greeted me with hugs. I joined Threshold Choir chapters as they came together to practice in private homes, care facilities, and churches, and sang with them at bedsides in hospitals, assisted living and in hospice facilities. Had the journey started a year, or even six months later, meeting with Threshold Choirs as I did, would not have been possible. 

Singing together in choirs, concerts and at bedsides is on hold now that we have become aware that with the deep breathing and projection that is employed in singing, infectious saliva droplets that spread the virus are dispersed. When nearly all of the singers in a choir in Washington State were infected by one virus positive singer in March, 2020, it became clear that singing together in community will not soon return, and that a vaccine may need to be available before choirs can meet in person again. The irony that singing spreads the virus, when we know it to be such powerful medicine for the suffering and the dying, intensifies the grief we are feeling. Losing our elders to the virus, the keepers of wisdom and history, is heartbreaking. The weight of each COVID-19 related death is a growing burden that we all feel, and knowing that so many are dying in isolation, without the support of friends and family is a wounding that brings up our own worst fears about dying alone.

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Often alone on this journey, I had the opportunity to dive deeply into what my friend, Marj Davis, calls, ”Days without words”, followed by days filled with song and companionship. With the onset of COVID-19, writing about solitude, connection and belonging take on new meaning. The pandemic has forced all of us to face the unique challenges, and joys, of spending time alone, while our need for connection and community swells. As I bring death and dying into the conversation, mortality, too, is on our minds, with the tally of virus infections and deaths around the world a heartbreaking reminder of our vulnerability. As I write of songs as medicine to lift the spirit and bring harmony to our world, this resource is needed more than ever in these troubled times. 

Our inherent trust in human ingenuity and science keeps us moving forward through this difficult time. As those who find joy and solace in singing invent new ways to continue singing together and to others, I hope these precious memories of Threshold Choir and community singing activities prior to COVID-19, can be reminders of what we have done and guide us in the process of reimagining the future. 

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My book, “Bowing to the Wisdom of Song, A Threshold Choir Singer’s Journey” is nearing completion. Sheltering in place in Big Sur, and, as of May 4, in Pacific Grove, has given me time to focus on writing about hospice singing, death and dying, service, community singing, belonging and traveling the country. I’m anxious to share the beautiful stories I have gathered. I am posting an excerpt from the Chapter, Bonding Through Singing Together, and will post other excerpts in coming weeks. I hope to complete the book and publish before the end of summer. Stay tuned.

At this time, when singing together is off limits, I have become aware how important it is to share these memories of how it was before COVID 19, and why we sing together, as we reimagine the future.

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Bonding through Singing Together

In Anam Cara, John O’Donohue writes that being born into a human body creates a separation from others that drives us to spend our lifetimes seeking connection. Connection and community are conscious pursuits for me, even more so at this time in my life, with no romantic love interest, and grown kids no longer in need of my mothering. My plan to travel the country visiting Threshold Choirs promised community in places where I have never been, balanced with long days, and sometimes weeks, of solitude. The knowledge that almost anywhere I would travel in the country I would be no more than a two day drive from a Threshold Choir, gave me room to stretch my wings. There were times when I intentionally pushed solitude to the limit to feel the full force of that brilliant human ache for connection with “my people”. Time alone, fully engrossed in the wonders of the natural world, was followed by time filled with song and belonging. Glorious. 

I have long known the deep and meaningful connection that occurs when singing with others. Singing together builds community in a way that doesn’t often manifest in other aspects of life. My first experience with this type of heartfelt connection was in folk singing circles in the 1960s. The bonding I have experienced in choirs and singing groups over the years varied according to my connection with the music, the size of the group, the amount of time we sang together, the leadership and the intention of the effort. Singing in service at bedsides with Threshold Choir, my heart has found a home. 

The bonding of human spirits that occurs through the act of singing together is a beautiful and ancient human mystery. Driven by the desire to explore that connection, I asked Threshold Choir members, choir directors, and leaders in the community singing movement to share their thoughts on connection. I offer these ideas as validation for those who know the joy of singing together, and as an invitation to those who have not yet stepped into the sphere of singing in community. 

In her dedication to the spread of community singing circles, Lisa G. Littlebird has empowered hundreds of song leaders through her Song Leader Flight School, generously providing all that they need to go forth and create singing circles in their communities. She describes singing in community as, “Socially acceptable intimacy”,  saying that singing together helps us comprehend that “We are all one, we are all an expression of the Divine”. On her website, thebirdsings.com, she has written, “Community singing is a powerful and joyful way to reconnect us to our courage, joy and humanity. It’s also the quickest way I’ve ever found to create a ‘we’ out of a group of ‘mes’.” 

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The “I Fell Better” Connection

In the book, “Why Do People Sing?”, Paddy Scannell puts forth a theory that people sing for no other reason than to express feelings. Song, he explains, touches our hearts and opens us in a way that speaking cannot. Even when singing songs that communicate despair and heartbreak, the recognition that others share these emotions allows our own feelings of anxiety and sadness to fall away. Songs allow us to dive into the depth of human experience together, lifted by the knowledge that we are not alone.

There is now scientific proof that the release of endorphins when we sing produces a feeling of happiness and well-being. Lisa G. describes the irrepressible joy of singing together as “Vitamin Sing”. Spontaneous exclamations of “I feel better”, with arms uplifted as in praise, may erupt at any time in her singing circles. The Wholehearted Chorus concerts that Lisa G. directs are community celebrations, with the audience invited to join the singing and become part of the joyful circle.   

Maya Angelou addresses the happiness factor of singing together in her book, “Singin’ and Swingin’ and Gettin’ Merry Like Christmas”.  Writing about the struggles of her youth, she said that the people in her life would recharge by coming together on weekends to, “Sing and swing and get merry like Christmas so one would have some fuel with which to live the rest of the week”.

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I moved to my new home in the trees on January 1. There is no phone, no text and no internet at my Camp Host site in Pheiffer Big Sur State Park. The good news; I am in the Redwoods, embraced by the magic of the ancient ones. The bad news; I am in the Redwoods, adjusting to the cool, damp microclimate created by the forest. A spattering of sunlight filters down onto my campsite in the mornings, and at 2:00 P.M. each day, pre-night arrives when the sun dips behind the mountain which its shadow on the forest. It is a good location for singing, deep breathing, warm camp fires and writing. Work on the book is progressing.  

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Know that living in the Redwoods is more mystical than bleak. There is sun in some locations in the State Park, and it is a short walk to warmer, dryer openings in the trees. The woods are a magnificent mix of Redwoods, Bay, Sycamore and Big Leaf Maple and the ground is carpeted with golden leaves, some twice the size of my outstretched hand. I am also close to the Big Sur River, which dances with white water at this time of the year. Seeing the full moon shining on the moving water last week was a dreamlike vision so stunning, it brought tears to my eyes. It is also a short drive to the coast, where condor and whale sightings are common.

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As my body acclimates to a climate that is more conducive to Redwood trees than to humans, I’m settling in and finding my rhythm. A hooting owl is the signal for the coming of night, when I begin preparing the evening meal. I celebrated being plugged into electricity by purchasing an “Instant Pot” steamer, rice cooker and pressure cooker combo, and have made some hearty winter soups and stews in it. Night is my wind-down time, and after dinner, I often enjoy a glass of wine while watching a movie on the disc player that I plug into my computer. 

Nighttime in the forest is deep, dark and nurturing, and my dreams are productive. Sometimes I get ideas for my book. Two nights ago I received a solution for the perplexing leak that had saturated my carpeting two times during the week. Twice, wet carpet forced me to pull up the rug and pad and spend many hours with them spread out in the van drying with the aid of an electric heater. This is a challenging task in my limited living space. I temporarily replaced the carpet in that section of the van with a rubber yoga mat that I have carried onboard for over a year and used only once. I was pleased to find that the waterproof mat fits perfectly and, almost more important, it matches my color scheme. Before I went to sleep that night, I checked the leak and found the mat dry near the refrigerator, which I thought was the problem, and wet underneath where there is a drain in the floor. That night, when I awoke sometime around 3:00 A.M., my mind was busy offering up ways to plug the drain to the grey water tank that I now knew was splashing when I drove. I was guided to get out of bed, and in the darkness, touch the filter screen that sits inside the drain, and turn it to the closed position. Problem solved! Now I’m working on house battery replacements and getting a new rubber seal installed around the rear door. Like a house, there is always something that needs attention. 

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It has been a delight to share the magic of Pheiffer State Park with visitors. Pacia and Gary brought their shiny new camper van down for their first overnight. We took walks together, ate, and sang around the campfire. Pauline came for lunch last week, and we got a good view of a bobcat walking past the campsite while we lunched in the warmth of the van.

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Sending you blessings from the sacred forest.

With disproportionately long orange beaks, black feathers and taxi cab yellow legs, a pair of clown like oystercatchers gleefully announce their arrival as they land on mussel encrusted rocks at the tide line. Sitting in my van with doors open to the bay, I sip from my strong morning coffee while pelicans glide in silent formation overhead, cormorants stream southward in long undulating lines just above the breaking waves, a hungry otter is busy diving and surfacing and gulls are uncharacteristically quiet where they perch on rocks just offshore. On this gentle morning at the shore in Pacific Grove, I am present, my soul has caught up with me. 

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The past six weeks have been filled with joyous reunions with the dear friends and family, people and places that are intricately woven into the tapestry of my life. I have been welcomed with loving kindness, been privileged to sing in community with four Threshold Choirs, and attended singing performances by talented friends in the area, including Lisa Littlebird’s jubilant Wholehearted Chorus. Surrounded by so much love, it has been hard to reckon with the feeling of being out of synch. Like a sailor who has been at sea, it has taken some time for me to find my land legs.

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It feels strange to be back in Pacific Grove without a place to call home. Until January 1, I will continue driveway camping, arranging for places to park each night and spending days parked at the water’s edge. Even without a physical address, but I do not consider myself homeless. The practice of being present, allows me to feel that anywhere I am is home.

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As the wheel of the seasons turn, I celebrate solstice by gathering with friends around a fire under the blanket of night sky at Asilomar Beach, as I have for so many years. The ritual of letting go of the past year and setting intentions for the new one is especially meaningful for me at this time. My passion for traveling, for chasing wonder and for connection with new people and places has been divinely nourished by this journey around the country and by the Threshold Choirs I have been introduced to. I am ecstatic that that my dream to see the country, seek out heartfelt connections fed by song and service, and experiencing the depth of solitude, has been realized and was all that I hoped it would be, and more. It is not easy to let go of the excitement of discovering the next stop on the map, and the freedom to choose when and where that next top will be, but it is time for me to stay put for awhile to focus on writing the book that is percolating. With a lifelong compulsion to write, I have long recognized the irony that writing about my experiences requires that I stop doing to write about what I have done. How I envy plein air painters who paint as they experience. 

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Blogs will come infrequently now, as I turn my focus to the book and settle into my winter camp host position at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park, where there is no internet or phone service. It has meant so much to me to be able to share my experiences on the road. I’m so very grateful for those who have followed my travels, and to those who made the journey possible by welcoming me to Threshold Choir rehearsals, opening their homes to me, providing meals, showers and driveways, and supporting my journey in so many ways, including making contributions to my gas fund. It is my wish to carry forward the gifts of kindness and acceptance that I have received from those I have met along the way.

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And now, the adventure that we call life is steering me to the sacred redwood forests of Big Sur, where friends and singing opportunities are nearby. When my camp host job ends on April 30 , these words from Rumi will guide me, “As you start to walk the way, the way appears”.

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Wishing you solstice blessings, and holiday joy.

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Traveling down the Sonoma Coast, the morning fog slowly dissipated to reveal golden hills and rocky promontories pouring into the sea in an endless procession With no opportunities for pirate camping, I spent two nights at Gerstle Cove in Salt Point State Park, just north of Fort Ross. Driving a self-contained camper entitled me to stay in the overflow parking lot in a clearing that offers unobstructed views of the water. Remarkably, I had not stopped here on previous sojourns along this coastline, finding this hidden wonderland of otherworldly rock formations was a complete surprise. The sight of sea palms bobbing in the breaking waves was an affirmation that I was back on home turf where giant kelp, powerful waves shaping the shore, and the plucky sea palms the cling to the rocks are familiar sights. New to me was the Tofoni, sandstone hardened by salt spray, that creeps in a dark web of honeycomb like cells over the pale sandstone. For three days, I was riveted by the symphony of complex patterns and colors in the rocks here, and I worked to capture this weird impermanent world in permanent photos.

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The next stop was Jenner, the estuary at the mouth the Russian River, where I took some time to honor the many years spent kayaking with osprey, herons and harbor seals in these waters, and my participation in annual river blessings on this site. Crossing the Jenner Bridge to continue south along the coast, I stopped at Goat Rock to take in the view and throw together a satisfying brunch of chilaquiles with the food I had onboard. It was so delicious, I am sharing the recipe here: 

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Easy Chilaquiles Brunch for One at Goat Rock

I Tbls refried bean; Corn chips (I used large blue corn chips); Mild or medium red salsa; 1 or 2 eggs (poached or fried); 2 Tbls grated cheese (or mild Mexican cheese like Queso Fresco or Cotija); ½ avocado, sliced (optional).

Fry or poach egg(s). While egg is cooking, cover the bottom of an 8” frying pan with red salsa about ½ inch deep, heat. When salsa is hot, add chips and beans, stir and turn off heat. The idea is to heat and moisten the chips, but not drown them. If there is no crunch in the saucy chips, crumble more chips over the top when serving. When the egg is done, pour the chip mixture into a bowl, sprinkle with cheese, place the egg on top and cover with sliced avocado. 

Continuing south to Bodega Bay, I walked the cliffs of the headlands for the first time in 20 years. When I lived in Glen Ellen, that yearning I feel for the ocean compelled me to make the 60 minute drive to Bodega Bay frequently. In the winter, Bodega Head is a popular look-out for migrating whales, and on this fine sunny day, dedicated cetacean fans equipped with binoculars pointed out breeching humpbacks splashing far from shore. Walking the headlands trail at the edge of the great cliffs, a stream of bubbles led me to Lindsey, the young woman whose playful interaction with the updrafts produced the iridescent orbs.  

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I made a stop at the base of the headlands to view the fenced 120 foot deep pond that now has a sign identifying the water filled hole as “Hole in the Head”. Environmental activists stopped the completion of a nuclear power plant at this site after construction had begun in 1960. During the years I was a member of Earth Elders of Sonoma County, I had the opportunity to meet the aged professor whose brilliant idea to release weather balloons from this location halted the construction. The proposed power plant at Bodega Head would have been built along the San Andreas Fault, and the balloons demonstrated just how far nuclear contamination would be carried on the wind, if, or should I say, when, an earthquake occurred along the West Coast’s most massive fault line. Balloons traveling as far as Sacramento turned public opinion and stopped the power plant. It was a relief to see that there is now a sign recognizing the folly of building a nuclear power plant in this location.  

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Even well into November, it was beach weather in Northern California, and the campground at the mouth of Bodega Bay was calling to me. It was check-in time, 2:00 PM, on a Sunday afternoon, the only time I was likely to find a vacancy in this popular year-round campground. I forked out $35.00 for a campsite on Doran Beach, where I walked barefoot in the sand, played in the water, and fell asleep to the rhythm of gentle waves. Phone reception at the campground allowed me to retrieve messages from my good friends and former neighbors, Ritch and Margie, who graciously invited me to park on their Glen Ellen property for as many days, weeks or months as I needed. I am humbled by their kindness.

Leaving the beach, I was aware that a shift was taking place. The time has come to ease out of my wanderlust to return to the gift of family, friends who feel like family, singing with choirs where I have an established place in the circle, and places where time connects me to the land and the sea. The circle in which I sing, play and love is not closing, it grows as my heart opens to each new day. 

Temperatures in the upper 80s in Redding were not pleasing to me. This was not the crisp autumn air I had enjoyed in Oregon. I prefer traveling the Coast Highway in Oregon and California, that wild and demanding drive where mountains and forests meet the sea. I drove south on I-5 for the first time in many years to visit the Threshold Choir in Medford Oregon, and to stop in Redding, where I had business to take care of and a friend to visit. 

The camp host gig in Big Sur would not be mine until the Park Service received a Live Scan background check. The ranger in Big Sur sent some emails stating her concern that she needed the results before my start date, January 1, and that processing was taking over a month. It has been challenging to communicate with the rangers in Big Sur, where phone and internet access is as limited as mine. I was driving a country road in the luscious green countryside of the New York Catskill Mountains when I first received a call back from Big Sur regarding the online inquiry I had submitted for the camp host position. That was followed by an application that had to be printed at a library and mailed with a packet of documents. It took weeks, and many phone calls, emails and unsuccessful attempts to open and print the application packet using library printers before I was finally able to get the needed documents to the park service. Fingerprinting was the last hurdle to my camp host job application, and with that completed, I headed to a park on the Sacramento River in Redding where I would spend a couple of hours before meeting Keith for dinner. 

Redding is another California community that has been traumatized by fire. The Carr fire in August of 2018 raged for weeks, took 7 lives and burned 230,000 acres. Keith’s was one of 1,100 homes lost in the fast moving fire. The loss, and subsequent interactions with insurance, have been crushing for him. He is currently dealing with the heartbreak and expense of removing massive fire damaged oaks from his property, trees that didn’t come back to life with the winter rains, as he had hoped. At dinner, he told me of his plan to leave the area for a two year bicycle trip to South America. Go Keith! Anxious to leave Redding myself, I drove 40 minutes south to Red Bluff after our visit, where I spent a comfortable night at a rest stop. 

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The next morning, I would follow scenic Highway 20 west along Clear Lake before winding through the redwoods of the coastal range. Mendocino was shrouded in a cool fog when I arrived. A shopkeeper expressed her relief that the fog had rolled in after “suffering” a week of sun and temperatures in the upper 70s. Having lived on the foggy Central California Coast for 13 years, I get it. We coastal folk function better in cool weather, and we appreciate the nurturing quality of moisture rich fog. I camped at Van Damme State Park, just south of historic Mendocino, where a welcoming redwood grove opens to a stunning beach that attracts divers and kayakers to its protected cove. I have spent many weekends kayaking the magnificent cave riddled Mendocino shoreline, and paddling up the Big River where the river otters play, during the 16 years that I lived in Glen Ellen in the Sonoma Valley. The State Park has since opened beach parking to self-contained RVs, and although the price at California State Parks is higher than anywhere else in the nation, it would be foolish to complain about the nightly fee of $40, given the cost of oceanfront accommodations along this picturesque coastline. I’m in California now, the cost of gas is $1.00 more per gallon, and camping at state parks is $10.00 more per night than I have paid anywhere in the nation. 

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I stayed three glorious nights at Van Damme with my curtains open to the night sea, a morning a walk on the beach before breakfast and stunning views from the trails on the Mendocino Headlands after breakfast. As is my tradition when I visit this town, I perused the Mendocino Art Center, visited the museum, spent time at the tiny volunteer run Mendocino Library, eyed beautiful clothing and art in the shops, watched the sunset with a glass of wine at the Historic Mendocino Hotel  and indulged in my ritual hot tub soak at the Sweetwater Inn. A vibrant music and art scene in Mendocino, combined with the breathtaking beauty of the redwood forests and rugged coast, continue to draw me to this place. This stretch of California Coast calls to me in summer fog, clear bright Autumn, and in Spring, when the redwood forests are ablaze with Rhododendron blossoms.  

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Enjoying the freedom of no deadlines and no commitments, I chose to linger on the coast, stretching the three hour drive south from Mendocino to Bodega Bay to three days. It was my plan to spend most of November visiting friends and Threshold Choirs in Glen Ellen, Napa and Santa Rosa, but I would need a place to park the van that didn’t require paying California campground prices. I waited until I was ready to leave the town of Mendocino before I started leaving phone messages and sending email inquiries about a place to park to friends and choir directors in the Sonoma area. Then I headed south on Highway 1, where there is no phone or internet reception. This may not have been the best planning, as I had no way of knowing if anyone had responded to my requests. The sun was out, and I was in no hurry to leave the shining waters of the Pacific, so I settled into vacation mode for a few days. After this year of traveling, I have either become lazier about making advance arrangements, or more adventurous, but the stress of not knowing where I will sleep each night has lifted a bit. The tedious tasks that are required of the logistics of arranging nightly stops can get in the way of feeling like I’m on holiday, but the 6 days I spent deep breathing on the coast, I surrendered to the grandeur of grandmother ocean.

I’ve been carrying two cans of smoked oysters onboard for over a year now. They were a gift. I don’t like canned oysters, but kept them in case of emergency. The cans have been in the way the entire time, and no matter where I put them, they frequently fall out of the pantry when I open it. Months ago, I decided I would give them to the next hungry looking person I saw, but, because I did not walk around with the tins, the opportunity to give them away had not yet presented itself. At a Rest Stop off Highway 5 somewhere between Portland and Medford, I found worthy recipients for the oysters. Seeing a woman with a baby who held a sign asking for help, I returned to the van to fetch the oysters. Actually, I never did see or hear the baby, but can only assume that the adoring looks she gave to the bundled blanket in her arms were directed at a baby. Another woman stood 100 feet away from the mom, or possible mom poser, a sad disheveled looking woman with wildly knotted black hair and dirty clothes. I approached the mom, first, explaining loud enough for both to hear, that I couldn’t help financially, but I would like to give her a can of oysters packed in olive oil. I don’t know why I mentioned the olive oil, but at the time, it seemed like oysters packed in olive oil would be something special, where oysters packed in a lesser fluid might not be much of a gift. Both women graciously accepted my donation. I can only hope those olive oil soaked oysters give those struggling women a moment’s pleasure, and provide a little protein. For my part, I’m relieved to be traveling a little lighter now.  

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Southern Oregon was awash in fall colors when I arrived in Medford, the home of Harry and David pears. I first learned about Medford’s Harry and David living on Maui when my mother-in-law enrolled us in the “Fruit of the Month Club” each Christmas. The luscious north country fruits that arrived ripe and ready to eat every month where a welcome change from the early harvest of apples, oranges, pears and stone fruits available on Maui at the time. Joe, who remembers what a treat it was to receive the packages, has continued the tradition by sending his mom lovely holiday treats from Harry and David each Christmas. With my downsized life, consumable gifts are much appreciated (except for canned oysters, that is).

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Amrita, who was part of the Aromas TC, which I consider my “mother choir”, helped me learn the repertoire so I could start a choir in Pacific Grove. For a full year, I drove 45 minutes from Monterey to Aromas after work every Tuesday to learn enough songs to start a Threshold Choir in Pacific Grove. Amrita now lives with her husband, Dennis, in the hills above Medford with views of a patchwork of pear orchards, and more recently, fields of hemp, in the valleys below. The popularity and high price of CBD oil has motivated local farmers to tear out orchards to grow this cash crop. The hemp farms near Amrita utilize overhead chemical spraying and acres of plastic to cover the soil, like California strawberry growers. For those seeking CBD as a healthy alternative to pharmaceuticals, organic CBD would be a better option. 

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Singing with Amrita and the Southern Oregon Threshold Choir was inspiring. Most of the 25 members at the practice I attended have been singing with Threshold for 14 -15 years. I’lana Cotton, who has composed some of my favorite songs in the repertoire, is a member of this choir. It had been more than three weeks since I sang with the Hood River Threshold Singers, and I was glad to be with my people, singing songs that engage the heart. Most of the music at the practices I attend are familiar to me, but, as each choir builds on the Threshold Choir repertoire, I also enjoy learning songs that are new to me. We ended this practice singing “So Many Angels All Around Me”, a song that aptly describes the way I feel when I join a Threshold Choir circle. Following the call of Threshold Choirs around the country, there is no doubt that I travel in the company of angels.

With the California border not far from Medford, I was soon in home territory again feeling the circle complete. The golden lion hills of California are thirsty this time of year, causing the two legged, four legged, crawling and winged residents to be on high alert for fire. Where patches of forest grow in shaded folds in the hills, trees scared by past wildfires are visible. I camped halfway up a slope of the 10,000 foot high Mt. Shasta, where the parched soil supports a sparse forest of pines and firs, interspersed with oaks, manzanita and grasses. Whenever I return to California, it is the native vegetation that reminds me I’m home. I have not seen the twisted wine red branches of the manzanita in any of the other 34 states where I have traveled. Seeing it reminds me of walking the arid hills and valleys of my Southern California childhood, where the thick waxy leaves of the hearty Manzanita defy the relentless sun, to remain green throughout long dry summers. On this return to California, the manzanita welcomed me home. 

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With five days before the Medford Choir meeting, I reached out to old friends who moved from Glen Ellen, CA, to Portland three years ago. With an enthusiastic response from the Crawfords, I left the coast the next afternoon and headed for Portland, two hundred miles in the opposite direction from Medford. My plan to spend a night at the Highway 20 rest stop in the golden Willamette Valley was fouled by “Day Use Only” signs that were posted there. Continuing east, I spotted vineyard and wine tasting room signs, and decided to take a chance. Turning off the highway, I followed the signs a few miles to the Harris Bridge Winery, tucked away in a stunning little valley next to an historic covered bridge. I arrived at 5:00 PM, which was posted as closing time, but it was Saturday night, there were customers drinking, and the tasting room was in no hurry to close. I made a proposition to the young woman pouring wine, letting her know I would like to participate in a wine tasting, but only if I could park my van overnight. I don’t drink and drive. She agreed. The desert wines wines were too sweet for my taste, but they offered a great snack tray with the tasting, and the company was charming. The three other “tasters” at the bar were musicians, and one of them played honkytonk piano for us. As it turned out, the winery is also a music venue, and Kate, behind the bar, played recordings of local musicians who have performed there. I returned to my cozy van to make dinner and pass the night under a blanket of starlight.

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Well rested the next morning, I resumed the trip to Portland and arrived in the late afternoon for a joyous reunion with my friends. I was Sylvia and Bill’s youngest son’s Cub Scout Leader for years (of course, this was 30 years ago), and like so many of my Glen Ellen friends, the Crawfords feel like family. I am so grateful for those scouting years and the opportunity to spend quality time with my youngest son and so many Glen Ellen boys and their families in the great outdoors. I will never forget their sleepless first campout in a clearing on my property on Sonoma Creek, where the first graders were overcome by fits of giggles all night long. 

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The Crawfords and I shared memories, caught up on common friends, and took in some Portland culture, riding the downtown gondolas, dining in interesting restaurants, attending a writing class, walking the Chinese Garden and visiting the art museum. Sky, the oldest son, lives nearby, and we spent Halloween with the grandkids. Their block is closed to cars for Trick-or-Treat, and the neighbors go all out with wild decorations. Adults and kids don elaborate costumes and neighbors set up bars in their front yards for adult treats. One family in the neighborhood hires a Las Vegas style Elvis impersonator each year. It is a grand party that requires enough candy to hand out to at least 1,000 Trick-or-Treaters each year. We all dressed up and took turns staffing the candy distribution, charged with the responsibility of limiting the take to one piece of candy to assure the generous supply would make it to the end of the night. Sky told me that when he and his wife, Amy, purchased the house, they had to sign a Halloween Disclosure warning them of the crowds. 

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The following night, Sky joined Sylvia, Bill and I to celebrate Dia de los Muertos with a story night. This joyous observance honoring the ancestors shifts the macabre, fear driven energy of Halloween to a heartfelt offering to the dead. We decorated with papeles picado, the cut paper banners that allow spirits to pass between the worlds, and assembled an altar with photos, to invite into our circle loved ones who have crossed over. Opening with a reading on death from John Donohue’s Anam Cara, after hours of sharing stories, we closed the circle with the Robison Jeffers’ poem, Vultures. I have celebrated the holiday with an altar and poetry and story circles for more than 20 years. The Dia de los Muertos that I spend in a cemetery in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, was a jubilant flower filled festival with strolling musicians, lots of spicy food and families happy to dedicate time to remembering loved ones who have passed. Rather than fear the dead, I choose to celebrate them, like they do in Mexico. 

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Before leaving Portland, I stopped for a walk with Maria, the Portland TC member who had heart surgery just over a week ago. We walked her eclectic neighborhood slowly, rustling through fallen leaves and chatting with her friendly neighbors. She is a miracle. I left her with some movies (I buy used DVDs to watch when I have no internet, and give them away after I watch them), including Monsoon Wedding, a lush marvel of a film that is sure to be good medicine for the heart. 

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After returning to Lincoln City for three more days with Joe and Gretchen on the farm, I booked a night at the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport. In its latest incarnation, each of the twenty rooms in the historic beachfront B & B have been furnished to represent an author. The owners named the hotel for one of the great patrons of literature, Sylvia Beach, whose Shakespeare & Co. Bookstore in 1920s and 1930s Paris is a legendary literary landmark. My Gertrude Stein room was modest in comparison with the oceanfront suites designed for authors like Mark Twain and Colette, but spending time in the attic library and oceanfront reading room was spectacular. As I wrap up my Threshold Choir journey up with a handful of choirs yet to visit in Oregon and California, it is time to turn my focus to fashioning a book that chronicles the experience. At the Sylvia Beach, it was my plan to begin the process of prioritizing and organizing my writing, but I was seduced by the vast book collection instead. I spent the afternoon in a comfortable chair with a stack of books and a glass of champagne, reading, with sun streaming in the French Doors and a view of the miles of beach that stretched out before me. My son drove down from Lincoln City to take me to dinner the night, and following our dinner date, we walked the beach at sunset to say our sad goodbyes. 

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I get teary now when I saw goodbye to my sons. In the last few years, goodbyes have become emotional. I assume this is because as we age, the future becomes more uncertain. I don’t know when I will have sweet time with Joe again, and that thought is painful. This journey has produced many sad goodbyes. I am grateful for the profound connections made with choir members along the way, the discovery of kindred spirits, the new friends, the rekindled relationships with old friends, and the outpouring of kindness I have received. Returning to the Pacific Northwest gave me a chance to visit some of friends I made the last time around, for which I’m very grateful, but my travels have spawned new yearnings. I want to see the new friends I have made from Texas to Florida, in Georgia, from the Carolinas to Maine, in the Great Lakes area, Canada, Montana, Idaho and the Pacific Northwest. So many are dear to me now, my heart is full. 

After a night at the hotel, I hung around the Newport/Waldport area of the Oregon coast seeking free overnight parking after the extravagance of a hotel night. I walked the beaches, explored the ports, went to movies, spent time in the libraries and took in a French Opera, Manon, at the Newport Performing Arts Center. The Chamber of Commerce Director in Waldport gave me permission to park overnight in the Interpretive Center parking lot, a spot with an unbeatable bayfront view. The next 2 nights were spent at a rest stop on the beach, not knowing if I would be awakened in the middle of the night by the Sheriff and asked to move. I had to make a decision where to go next. Traveling to the Southern Oregon Threshold Choir, and visiting a friend who lives in Medford would mean leaving the beach, and the past five days had been brilliant on the coast. The sun was shinning, , the crisp autumn air was delicious , and the sea danced in the radiance. Without a secure place to overnight, I knew it was time to move on, but I was avoiding making that decision. The logistics of the trip have become more tiresome and I find myself procrastinating, which often results in making last minute requests to those I wish to visit. Apologies to all I have inconvenienced in this way. 

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Many years ago, a friend told me about her journey to Japan to study with an acupuncturist of great renown. Without an invitation or introduction, she knocked on his door, and when the surprised acupuncturists asked who she was, she answered, “A traveler”. That declaration was the key that got her in the door and secured her apprenticeship.  I consider traveling to be an honorable calling.

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Last week, I met a traveler who is a walker. He had walked from Michigan to the coast of Oregon where we met in the Waldport Bridge Interpretive Center. Coincidently, we discovered that we where both born in the St. Joseph hospital in Detroit in 1951. He told me that he has Leukemia and plans to walk until he can’t. He was a truck driver before he retired, another type of traveler. 

Heading north the following day, I picked up a young woman hitchhiking with a backpack. She was on her way back to the Olympic Peninsula after a couple of months camping, hitchhiking, and what she called “research”, which included workshops and interviews with alternative preschools in California and Oregon. She has big plans that include opening an alternative “play based” preschool, and offering assistance to home-schoolers and to parents of Autistic and Down’s Syndrome kids. She said she slept at Triangle Lake, Oregon, the previous night, and managed to stay dry in the pouring rain by securing a tarp over her sleeping bag at just the just right angle. All went well until she started out in the morning and was drenched by a downpour. It was around 5:00 PM when she requested I drop her at a busy intersection on the Coast Highway. She didn’t know where she would sleep, she was more concerned with seeing the sunset. 

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I met Claudia, a park volunteer, at Yaquina Lighthouse SP. A full time RVer for 14 years, she has volunteered or worked at parks around the country, and, now, exclusively on the Oregon and Washington coastline. By the time her remote online job ended, she was 62, eligible for Social Security and hooked on the RV lifestyle. She manages financially with park jobs providing a free parking space with utilities, and sometimes, a few hours of paid employment each week.

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A return to the Waldport Library, where I had hoped to have a conversation with the impressive elderly librarian, yielded a conversation with another traveler, instead. With a voluminous white beard that lifted and fell as he spoke, Scott excitedly told the librarians about his travels. When I asked if he knew of any free overnight parking in the Waldport area, he explained that he stays in campgrounds, where, as a disabled veteran, he pays discounted fees. This “Adventure Gypsy”, as his family calls him, told me that he has traveled for 50 years, having no taste for staying put. He spends winters on BLM land in Arizona and summers in Mendocino County and Oregon in his custom built-out van no bigger than mine. The traveling lifestyle certainly agrees with Scott, despite having lost both his wife of 26 years. and his service dog in June, his joy for life lit up the gray morning. 

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I identify with the adventure gypsies I have met, and I sometimes wonder if I will ever want to end this journey. Already, I’ve extended my 12 month travel plan by six months, with the rationalization that selling Wanda in California in spring will maximize my return. But will I be able to let go of my cozy home that has been my bedroom, kitchen, and office while providing the ability to travel so freely? After spending no more than 6 consecutive days in one spot since August 15, 2018, the four month park host stint in Big Sur will be telling.