Several years ago a man who broke my heart told me that somewhere in the Casteneda books, the wise man told the seeker that if you’re in love with the world you’re never lonely. This man said he thought that I was one of these special people, that I was in love with the world. He didn’t think he was, though he was trying to be. He told me this before he broke my heart, and probably because he knew he would break my heart and didn’t want to, and that I might not be listening. But I was listening.

And he was right. I am a person who is in love with the world. It doesn’t keep my heart from breaking, or save me from feeling lonely, but it lets me know I am never alone. Not in the sense of always having someone beside me or somewhere to go or something to do, or others telling me I am important, but in the sense that I have an infinite number of connection points available to me if I am willing to recognize them.

In the last 3 moves of the last 3 years I have learned to recognize my adjustment process has changed from when I was young. When I was young, the center of feeling grounded anywhere I moved was my desk. If that was set up, with its pencils and paper and markers, journals, typewriter or computer, I was set to go. It was like magic.

But after staying in the house on Asbury Street for two decades and raising my son there, when it was time to go, it was also time to lighten up the accumulation that had occurred. But it was also a process of slowing coaxing out long tap roots of being grounded on that spot that had held me and helped me heal. One night, before I found the house on Van Buren Street or even knew I would, I just had a feeling I was leaving, and there was nothing to do but go. I sat at my desk, made out of a big oak door, and tears of gratitude ran down my face for this old house that had sheltered and healed me so well.

So adjusting to a new house entailed way more than simply setting up my desk. I noticed that once my books were in place on the shelf with the salt lamp that I felt comforted, comfortable even.  I noticed I felt at home the first night I saw the crescent moon setting over the evergreens beyond the bathroom window. But often, too, all of a sudden, I would feel lost, disoriented. I would wait quietly for it to pass. I’d also experience moments of settling in, feeling grounded, content. I learned the disorientation came in like fog, and left like fog, and the moments of contentment were like sun breaking through clouds, lighting and warming everything up. They were part of the same cycle. A dear friend told me there would be a shift in 3 months, and then in six, and I trusted that. Gradually I felt more at home, and the shifts from one end of the cycle to another were less frequent, and less extreme.

In Portland, when it came, that disoriented feeling  felt like being tossed about, like a leaf in the wind. I even said that late one afternoon staring out the passenger window, watching brown leaves scuttle on the sidewalk, as Mike drove  me home from some errands. Another time, I saw all these leaves in the small park outside the Fred Meyer in Hollywood, and it made the leaf-blown aspect of myself feel less alone, and even splendid, and ever so grateful for the company and support of my son through my time of adjustment.

When I moved to my little mobile home at the beach, I still had the condo to return to. Though I fled willingly to the beach for the quiet, the fresh air and the sound of ocean, I also felt somewhat adrift at the wild edge of the continent. And yet it was this very wild edge that also was healing. In a sense, the disorientation had become a kind of reorientation. One day in early October before Cotton came, Romeo and I made our way to the top of Fishing Rock. It turned out to be the last longest walk in mild weather we would take on the beach in that direction for the rest of the year. Here’s what I had to say about it:

“Saturday morning at the beach, Oct 8, low tide, in one of the most beautiful places I can think of:

Overcast, but warm. No rain, very light wind.

Walked: 3 miles, round trip. On the spur of the moment, Romeo and I transformed into badass seniors and climbed up the trail at the end of the beach to Fishing Rock to enjoy the spectacular view: made it back down, too, without incident. Nice gnarled tree roots to hang onto along the way. Beautiful grassy plateau, red dirt and black rock opening out from maze of wind-sculptured trees. Rested on a big earth mother lava claw down below afterwards. Met an interior designer from Corvallis. Encouraged her to go up and see it, too.

On the way there found many treasures, including an intact half of a razor clam shell. Also met Nora the great dane, and Romeo got a treat. He also romped from seaweed clump to seaweed clump.

On the way back, saw friends Jane and Fred. Got a big hug and high fives for climbing the trail up to Fishing Rock.

Saw: a surfer ride a wave

Saw: a whale spouting a few times before diving deep, very close to shore (thanks to Fred)

Saw: a golden retriever digging a hole like mad in the sand, and sitting in it.

Found: 2 more smaller clam shells.

Lost and found: my funny rain hat from Next Adventure Bargain Basement.

Can’t think of a better way to have earned my afternoon nap.”

The significance of this day may have been gestated way back when I was just 13. It was a time when collages were “in” and I was  assigned to make one to express myself. The only photo I remember in it is one that moved me so much I have never forgotten it, to this day: a young woman, in a headband with long braids, standing on a huge rock, overlooking the ocean. The sun sparkles on the water like diamonds. In her stance as she gazed out at the water, I felt the power and possibility, the clarity, the freedom– in solitude–though I couldn’t have said that out loud to anyone at the time. It might have been the first time I felt personally connected  to a largely archetypal and abstract image. When I looked at it, it was where I wanted to be and how I wanted to live, though I could not have put that into words, either. Most likely, I couldn’t have even known what that meant, or what it would look like in “real” life. But I knew the feeling.

Nearly 50 years later, on that day in October with Romeo, without remembering it like a set of instructions, I was living that picture. No one knew we were up there. I had not remembered to bring my phone. I had not planned to climb up there, but when we got to the end of the beach, it seemed like the thing to do and that we had the strength and buoyant energy to do it–and the cooperation of the elements in the land, sea and sky. So we did. I didn’t know what  a rainy hard stormy winter we would have, or that I would get slapped down by the ocean in another 6 weeks, and move to buy a more permanent home in just another month from that. But it certainly was a day when I knew I was in love with the world. I knew, for that time, it would hold me, and it would not matter we did not have a phone “in case something happened,” because nothing would.  It would not be something we would be able to do all the time; this day was a special opening. And within that embrace of the moment, a profound sense of wonder and discovery took root and helped me settle in for the winter.

I’ll admit it, I do not like all the rain we’ve endured this winter. It takes a lot of dressing and undressing and drying of rain gear for one human and two dogs to go out twice a day. But we do it. I was comforted recently when a new neighbor said he was tired of the rain–and he loves the rain!! My real estate agent in Portland, originally from Los Angeles, has told me she loves the rain, too, because it makes the city clean, and that as a result, Portland is a much cleaner big city than most. So I tried to get on that wave length as best I could.

Meanwhile the disorientation fog of adjustment rolls in and out like the coastal storm fronts. Some folks use very conscious positive affirmation techniques offered by others to help navigate or clear that fog. But I find, however counterintuitive it may seem, that if I am just willing to “fog around” in it a while, the perfect way to clarity finds me.

One afternoon last week Romeo and Cotton and I ran into our best friends here in our new neighborhood, also out on a walk between rainstorms. One of them mentioned this region, with all its forests, is considered “the lungs of the earth,” surprisingly emitting more oxygen back into the air than even the equatorial rain forests. In the instant I grasped this idea, the “fog” shifted.

One of the things I love about my new  house is the mini forest of hemlock and cedar and shore pine it sits in. I love feeling nestled in it, and looking out through it, which reminded me that once, when I struggled to move through a creative visualization exercise, dutifully closing my eyes in a class with others, the first place I found myself was on the beach. But then I was instructed to open a secret door in the sand and enter a place that felt totally safe. . .that was hard to conjure at first. Sitting beside a warm fire came, but ultimately I left the room and walked through the forest to a clearing covered in pine needles and soft, fallen leaves. All around me were huge trees arching their branches and speaking with the breeze. One huge tree had an alcove in its huge root system, like the sleeping alcoves my Italian ancestors on the Adriatic coast carved into their unique homes called trulli. I made myself a bed among the leaves in that alcove and slept peacefully, knowing the trees kept watch. Also some kind of angel-fairy-forest lady, with long red hair, the color of the changing leaves, watched over me.

Because of the little forest growing around hummingbird house, I remembered this scrap of visualization effort. But more importantly, I just slipped into attunement with all the trees. I did not have to decide to. It was much more like these wonderful lines from a Wendell Barry poem (# VII in Sabbaths 1998):

There is a place you can go
where you are quiet,
a place of water and the light

on the water. Trees are there,
leaves, and the light
on leaves moved by air.

Birds, singing, move
among leaves, in leaf shadow.
After many years you have come

to no thought of these,
but they are themselves
your thoughts. There seems to be

little to say, less and less.
Here they are. Here you are.

It occurs to me that “living in the lungs of the earth” may require just this kind of matter of fact reverence. It may lift me out of the fog of frustration about how wet everything gets and how tired I get of it. As I walk every day among those beings who help the whole planet breathe, I know they must be working VERY hard right now, and at the very least, need my solidarity and steadfast company in these trying times. It seems to have provided me with a larger context, an even greater sense of shelter, and within that, a sense of purpose. Perhaps my connection to the trees wherever I go has led me here. That maybe just knowing I might be dwelling in the lungs of the earth,  and if I keep appreciating and loving that and living in harmony with it, I’m somehow, beyond my ability to understand it, helping Mother Earth to breathe.

It’s a blessing I can’t put into words that my love affair with the world allows me such spontaneous feelings of connection, in things so tenuous as a phrase or a thought or a line from a poem, or the sound of a hummingbird rushing the feeder, the quiet company of my beautiful dogs. It also helps me trust such mysteries as why I chose a house that is darker inside than either my trailer or my condo, and the odd feeling that even so, it is just perfect, just where I need to be, and that everything else will follow from trusting that.


This evening was calm and dry, the temperature milder. Neighbors I am getting to know were at the beach access, watching the sky change or getting down on the sand with their dogs. We were all happy to be out, and to see each other out. I walked home with a new friend who lives down the street from me. She and her golden retriever came in to see my house all set up with my things. She had kindly loaned me a lawn chair and a blanket the day before my furniture came and my kids made my new house look like my home, so I wanted to show her the end result. She was delighted, which, in turn, delighted me. And she helped me figure out how to open my windows, another delight. Now all I need to do is order some screens. This evening it’s been clear that milder days are coming.

The moon rose, shining like a fuzzy angora pearl in the evening sky. We were all happy to be able to see it. Back at hummingbird house, after my neighbor left, I opened the sliding glass door to the sound of frogs. Later, I went out on the front porch to gaze at the moon and listen to them, singing in the cradle of the periwinkle evening. Connected to the moon, the trees and that sound, I felt, again, at home in the world, breathing with the lungs of it. And, at last, it seems, I am also home.

Maria (moonwatcher)





Living Room Imagined by Maria Theresa Maggi

Favorite couch given to me by a friend 20 years ago, favorite chimney cupboard with fire sculpture on top my my daughter-in-law, a favorite basket, thrift store lamp from son and daughter-in-law, and my dearly loved “Infinity” poster. Drawn at the coast, from memory.

When I first began to teach myself how to draw again, I focused a lot on objects from life or from photographs that captured my eye. It took me a long time to attempt to draw something from memory. When I do draw from memory, I learn a lot about what was most prominent to me when I was looking at an object or a scene. I learn what I emphasize because I love it, or because it’s what stands in my mind or heart for the whole.

In each effort there is an emphasis on certain details that define the “thisness” of whatever it is I’m trying to represent–or maybe a better word even is “capture.” And often what I’m trying to capture is one of my “things,” which is funny, in a way, because we don’t think of physical things as ephemeral. But they can be: like this pin cushion lit up by the sun one afternoon.

Or sometimes it’s an object from a photograph that I interpret, like this God’s Eye:

There’s a lot of emphasis these days on minimal living, decluttering, simplifying, not having so many things. In each of my moves up until now, I have endeavored to downsize in this spirit. When I loved to my little  mobile home at the beach, I took very little with me. There was already a bed and a dresser, a small butcher block table, chairs, and even dishes and pots and pans. I brought a table to draw on, my rocking chair, clothes, art supplies and a book or two.  Later I brought a couple of pieces of art to put on the wall.

At first I didn’t miss my book shelves filled with what became favorite teachers  over my childhood years and adult life, or the art that hangs on my walls back in Portland. There were big windows to let the light in and to glimpse the ocean from; I didn’t think I would need anything more. I knew I wanted to make the coast my permanent home, and for a time, I thought it would be in that little park model trailer. But in the end I wanted to have more room for my things.

It isn’t that I buy every book I want to read or save every book I happen to buy. Unlike many of my other bookish friends, most of the time I prefer to take books out of the library and literally share in the experience of reading a book with strangers, across time and space, passing it back so that chain of invisible can grow. In Portland I loved all the free libraries in my neighborhood as well. I would “take out” a book that looked good to me, read it, and then deposit it in yet another free library, keeping the cycle going. The books I own are ones that speak to me from my past about what I’ve learned, how I’ve changed, or what is beautiful to me. Ones that change me by also being physical objects I hold in my hands. They are the ones I take off the shelf from time to time to call those selves into the present. They include many of the journals I’ve kept over the years. Together these books and journals are a congregation inspiring gratitude and continuity, even if their numbers have slowly dwindled over the years, or remain roughly constant, as I add a new one, and let one or two others go.  So at first, I was so enamored by my tiny house situation, I didn’t see this desire to keep more than I could display in my trailer take root.

Embracing this desire started out with wondering what I could fit and what I’d have to give up. My son suggested I draw a map of my condo to help me remember what was in it when I was back at the coast. This morphed into drawing objects and furniture I wanted to bring. Instead of just measurements, I thought it would help me to also have a sketch of what I was trying to place. It turned out I was fascinated by this and started a binder full of sketches of various “things” I might try to fit into the trailer.

When I was led to the opportunity to purchase the home I’m now buying I realized that despite my love for tiny houses and tiny house lore, I am not a particularly good minimalist. I like the history my things provide me. I like their colors, their stories, the memories that come alive when I look at them, the presence of loved ones now gone or far away they convey to me.

It isn’t about their monetary value, having the oldest or the newest or the most. It’s about the portal to memory and connection to ideas and loved ones they represent. A dear friend of mine who is a talented clairvoyant would say that time is an illusion, that it’s a way of stretching everything simultaneously out into a sequence we can make sense of in human form. She says we have the ability to dial into a channel on this frequency that goes beyond time, thus bringing events and people seemingly disparate in time together once again, even across death. In some small way, my objects, and my representations of them accentuate connections I feel that have nothing to do with whether an object is the best pin cushion, dog food container or hamper ever. They may be small in the vastness of the universe, but they open me up to memories and experience of delight, surprise and connection that seem to have no end, and that can lift me into a higher state of awareness in the residence of each present moment.

Take, for example, this sketch of my hamper:

Besides the fact that it’s lightweight and well, pink, this collapsible hamper always reminds me that when I first opened it up I became the perfect cartoon character. I was  reading the instructions at the same time I was trying to open it, and just as I was beginning to read the warning that it could expand quickly, it popped open right into my face, as if springing to life on its own, startling me and making me laugh out loud. Apparently I wasn’t a fast enough reader, warned though I was. I felt a little like Buster  Keaton trying to read a newspaper that never stops opening, until it takes over the whole park bench he’s trying to read it on.

Somehow, every time I put dirty clothes in it or take them out of it as I load my washing machine, the fact that this hamper made me laugh so much when it first sprang to life as my hamper is embedded in its hamper-ness, always a part of my laundry experience. As I sketched it I thought about this and also how much silly fun to was to elevate it into something worthy of depicting in this way.

So maybe it’s not the things I love, but what they represent. But maybe it IS the things, because of what invisible portals they open. Perhaps it’s both–and in this way there is a poetry inherent in my things. And even though it’s wise to live simply, and I’ve downsized a lot in the last few years and am still letting stuff go, I’m feeling a sense of anticipation about the new house where there’s room on the high walls for the large paintings and prints I’ve loved for decades, some rendered by my very first art teacher, some by me under her guidance, old friends that remind me how I learned to appreciate what is beautiful.

And yet, despite its lack of wall space for bookshelves and large art, I’ll miss my little park model trailer. The “art” in it is the wide windows that open out to the afternoon sun and show a dab of ocean through the blinds and the neighbor’s porch. I love that view and the objects that frame it enough to draw it. It’s less a realistic representation than it is what it feels like to me to look at it. It’s my way of “taking it with me.”


And that’s the way it should be when I leave a place: a little sad, my love and gratitude a kind of tribute to all it gave me, making the colors, the light, the way the days and nights felt when I lived there just that much more special and not to be duplicated anywhere else in the world. And then, too, there’s the pleasure of passing it on to the next person to enjoy.

Now it’s time for a new place–but with my old things. Things from many years ago, and things I’ve come to love in the last few months. Things I made or wrote a long time ago. Things loved ones have gifted me. I may have flunked as a minimalist, but I’m grateful for the life my things remind me of. I hold them lightly as I can, and treasure how they help me travel through time, back to people and places it was time to leave, and yet they remain, embodied, in my things. Some pretty and little, some extraordinarily ordinary, all unique because of the loving and delightful stories they hold. In this paradoxical way, I am able and willing to move forward, the ever present ocean reminding me each day, that even with my things,  life is “always never the same.”


Maria (moonwatcher)







A Hummingbird And A Seagull Made Me Do It

January 26, 2017

As Christmas approached, and we were to spend the bulk of it at the trailer, I began to regret that with all the moving, I had no clear idea of where my Christmas decoration box actually was. It wasn’t in my condo in Portland, and I didn’t remember seeing it in the basement storage room […]

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Wrapping The World in Light

December 21, 2016

Happy Solstice Dear Readers! I have performed a little pastel magic to wrap our beautiful blue ball of earth in light. Wherever you live on it, we are all on a threshold through the longest night, or reveling in the longest day. It seems to me to hold such opposites in our hearts is exactly […]

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Blood Oranges and Slow Miracles in Poetry

December 6, 2016

On December 1st, Blood Orange Review, an online literary journal at Washington State University, announced its newest edition, volume 8.2, was now live. That edition includes a poem of mine called “As If We Were Solid and Did Not Go On Forever.” This poem is about an experience I had over 20 years ago that […]

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It’s Just A Tea Bag

November 19, 2016

I am a creature of the deep force of habit. As so many of you might be able to relate to, my morning bowl of oats is at the hub that drives that wheel. The way I prepare them hardly changes through an entire season, and the arc of change is usually gradual, like the […]

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Close Calls

November 15, 2016

Is a wave still a wave after it throws itself onto the shore, and then recedes, flattened, back into the surf? The water is but a few inches deep, and on this particular day, filled with foam. It’s early November, almost noon. We are walking on a state beach at low tide. The sun has […]

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Lunch Is Served: Easy Oil Free Kale Chips and Smashed Chickpea Spread

November 3, 2016

Halloween has never been one of my favorite holidays, but there IS one thing I like about it: the carving of Jack O Lanterns. And as you may recall from way back near the beginning of my blog in my photo essay The Reincarnation of My Jack O Lantern, I am not above cooking it […]

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My Favorite Weird Oatmeal

October 25, 2016

When I was little, the term OCD wasn’t in common parlance. At age 4 or 5, though, I’m pretty sure my bedtime requirements would have met such criteria. They were, not in exact order, as follows:  I needed to be covered with my kitty and doggy blanket; I needed to have Mozart’s Symphony in G […]

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I Have Gone To The Beach

October 6, 2016

  I thought I would only be here at the beach for 3 weeks before returning to Portland, but over time I began to see how strongly the forces of the universe conspired to keep me here until I catch my breath. This seems to have involved finding ways, all of a sudden, to jump […]

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