WHOM CAN YOU TRUST?

Somewhere along the way, child psychologists chime in here, when younger we make a choice: to take the road to do what's correct or the road to conscientious freedom. Often this choice involves whether to tell the truth or lie. Later, adults hear the oft-times quoted, "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,"which  has become such a cliché that I can hear a groan from my readers. We're all taught, as kids, to distrust strangers, easy money, overtly charming people who may be hiding terrible secrets, easy deals, etc.; and yet, we're encouraged to believe that with love--shaped over time but not worn down by the outside or broken by the inside (our spirits)--we should be less cynical and more trusting. In contrast, this isn't true in a violent environment within the family and outside the home which has a direct correlation with lacking trust. That's a sadder story many have seen too often.

What gets my gut twisting is those "loved ones" who lie allegedly to protect their family or partner. I'd rather be inundated with clichés than to hear one more time: "I did it to protect you." Or, "Why burden you with such mundane details?" Or, the worst, "I've got the situation under control." A tired assertion if there ever was one. When I hear that word, "control," I want to let out a primal scream because few, and I mean few, people actually are in control. We hope our rescue workers, for example, are exemptions, yet even they have their moments. Wiki-How, not a serious source I admit, summarizes the controlling person:

Those who try to control other people are, simply put, neither nice nor respectful. While a controlling personality belongs to someone who probably has deeper issues, such as codependency, narcissism, sociopathic tendencies or just sheer stubbornness, none of these negative traits should be shouldered by you. Controlling people are selfish at the core, immature at heart and likely to put the brakes on your leading a fulfilling life if you're in constant close proximity to them. 

I couldn't agree more with the last sentence. Now, that I've exorcised my anger by sharing my thoughts on controlling people, I'll take a step back and make this blog less of a personal diatribe and more about recognizing someone who is distrustful. We've all seen or read multiple discussions about that "how to detect a liar," scenario, but if someone lies are they always distrustful?

Trust and honesty within relationships of any kind aren't necessarily comparable. How many people have implicit trust? (Or are genuinely, consistently honest?) Young children, maybe, and those who follow various theologies have a semblance of certainty. However, I would argue no matter what your background, unless you're a  hard-wired psychopath or sociopath, i.e. destined by genetics to be amoral, there is no excuse to be dishonest, hide the truth, especially with those you love, for it leads to mistrust. I'll focus on personal then later familial relationships.

After several episodes with romance, I've begun to compile my own warning signs to not trust someone:

1.  First, when a man (or a  woman) bares his soul to you, focusing on his negative traits and attachment limitations, take the hint.
2. When the person states: "It's only a temporary situation." Be wary.
3. "We will have more time together in the future," "I'll take care of the problem someday," (As a child,I loathed hearing the word, "Someday."),"Or, "I don't like to make plans." These assertions are more than procrastination. The person is commitment-phobic.
4. "It's not just lust." Warning! Warning!
5. "I've never been really in love." Often a more subtle sign that your partner hasn't a clue about relationships. That's like Prince Charles stating in his interview with his fiancée, Diana Spencer, "Whatever love means." If I'd heard my soon-to-be husband say that, I would have run for the Highlands! However, I give his Royal Highness credit for being honest and direct. He warned her.
6. When you hear "Wouldn't it be wonderful to. . ?" A tell-tale sign of a dreamer, especially if the person does or doesn't follow through on what you both agree would be a wonderful plan or idea. The first time you're disappointed. . .

Some portents listed above also apply to parents, siblings and friends. I've seen enough of the world, studied people, experienced setbacks, listened, watched disastrous events to become hardened but more open-minded. That isn't to say I was always prepared for ensuing crises. When my parents dreams disappeared into ashes (literally and figuratively) because they chose to "protect" me from the truth, for a long time, I lost my trust.

Parents' belief that they are sheltering their child from harsh realities actually makes the child's future more unbearable. Case in point finances: bailing out children over and over again, leaving themselves (the parents) with nothing; breeding co-dependency and entitlement that destroy not only the "rescued" child's sense of ethics and purpose, but affects the extended family not involved in these actions. As a bystander or observer within the family unit, you may try helplessly to fix the breakdown, the dysfunction, only to be left with a sense of innate distrust of those who have hurt you. And yet, some of us don't learn to be more questioning, leery, observant, of the very person or people who can break your heart.

Returning to romantic love, the public is swept away by stories, television, movies, media, reinforced by family and/or friends, that once trust is earned, then true love can begin. My response to that proposition? Trust isn't a goal achieved. It's an evolving emotion or belief. Listen to the cues, process the warnings, and like a smart ship's captain, be aware of the fog, the blindness that can hurt you if you're not on alert. Merriam-Websters' dictionary defines 'trust' as:  "firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something."

I only wish I had read this meaning a year ago. I suppose Trust deceives us all.

WILTING HIBISCUS

Dorothy Lamour places a flower behind her ear and a tropical film dynasty is born. Along with my parents I loved to watch oldies, from light, slapstick with Bing Crosby, Lamour, and Bob Hope to more sophisticated fare, e.g. My Man Godfrey to film noir, foreign films and classic drama, lots of drama. Television series on PBS were also a  mainstay, as with Paul Scott's Jewel in the Crown otherwise known as The Raj Quartet. I have vague memories of the "Road" movies but strong impressions from The Jewel in the Crown mini-series. Complete scenes from that story continue to haunt me. Part IV of the quartet, A Division of Spoils, chronicles the partition of Pakistan. The extraction and death of  the Muslim, Ahmed Kasim, from a train by rioters seems as new to me as if I'd seen the moment yesterday. Kasim's resignation, self-sacrifice and his friends' shock, awe underscore what can be seen in world news today--that same fight over territory in the name of religion, entitlement, overpopulation or greed.

The strife that elicits a groaning pit in my stomach, pulls me back to center, goes back to the basics. Aboriginals believe the land doesn't belong to man.We, as part of Mother Earth, have been given this gift for which we should revere and feel blessed, not pollute or destroy. What's worse is these land grabs, never-ending throughout history, continue; those caught in the crossfire are sacrificed or forced to sacrifice themselves to shield their loved ones from the conflicts. Politicos, zealots and modern robber barons see land as a commodity that warrants any means to take it or defend it. Like looking down from the highest skyscrapers, human beings'  and the environment's needs are unimportant to these so-called leaders for they see humans as dispensable dwellers among valuable properties and resources.

Animals are even more expendable. Putin may have his private zoo, but I'd bet he would be deafened to cries to save wildlife obliterated by oil exploration in Russia or Russia's role in the succession of Crimea and the Ukraine. To be "fair," this position would be true of most world leaders, including the U.S. Four years ago, you may remember an oil rig explosion in the Gulf of Mexico which killed platform workers. The resulting oil spill had a far-reaching, ecological impact which oddly has been second stage to the economic consequences. No, I'm not saying we should put wildlife above people's livelihoods, only that the environment should be on the same plane. For without open, unpolluted land, breathable air, clean water, a link to our food chain, we, humans, will have lost our souls, our connection to our Mother.

Then there are the flowers. I've never paid much attention to certain varieties such as the hibiscus though I live among a floral tapestry. Yesterday, at work, I was asked to water the plants and shrubs that are sold along with farm produce to locals. I went about my business when a hibiscus blossom, almost in full bloom yet tired, dropped in my path from a shrub I was about to replenish. My first thought: I could put the lovely pink "beauty" behind my ear, like Dorothy Lamour before my boyfriend's visit later. Funny, I'd forgotten that hibiscus were often used in leis or put behind one's ear in Hawaii and the Pacific islands to symbolize if taken or available (right or left). I brought home the "delicate" treasure and put the flower in a glass of water.

My boyfriend got delayed and didn't arrive until much later. I ditched my plan to greet him dressed in a floral blouse and white, cotton, flowing skirt, the bold hibiscus behind my ear--for those curious romantics, I would have chosen my right ear. We went to an outdoor spot and had pizza. By the time we returned to my apartment, the hibiscus had begun to droop.

The next day, the shrub or plant--grown throughout the world--has meant more than just romantic decoration. For me, it also symbolizes what nature has given us and how we should treasure it. However, my pink hibiscus fooled me, lured me into a paradise that began disappearing long ago. Realities, not only of love but of life have tumbled in my head. Like a movie stage set with Dorothy Lamour standing in her sarong, her hair up and the flower behind her right ear (the wrong one), the fantasy has begun to dissipate into a distant memory.

As with a wilting hibiscus, I'm afraid our fragile world, our Mother Earth is tired, too spent to provide even our basic needs or to tolerate much more. My wish for our global community is that our leaders stop playing partisan politics, "taking sides," until they are at least well-informed about the facts and the long term effects they have on every natural strata of our planet. Those who have dominion over our precious earth, please read and digest this plea: like the fragile hibiscus, living things, from the smallest plants and creatures to the largest animals, including human families, have and continue to wither, wilt and die because of war and neglect. They need your protection, your reverence, not your destruction.

STOP THE WORLD. . !

Many moons ago my family used to go to the neighborhood summer stock theater, spurred on by my brother's playing clarinet in the orchestra, to watch various musicals. One show they mounted, now rarely performed, was Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley's Stop the World--I Want to Get Off, with the circus as a backdrop.The title says everything, which may be why the musical didn't flourish.The central character, Littlechap, portrayed in the original show by Anthony Newley, bemoans life's complexities by literally stopping the show to give a monologue about his anxieties. Some memorable songs do move the plot along, including the climatic "What Kind of Fool Am I?", describing how Littlechap learns, too late, that his wife's love had been his raison d'etre and financial success couldn't fill the void.

Produced for the Queen's Theatre, London's West End, in 1961 and later filmed (as a staged production by Warner Bros. in 1966), Stop the World had limited box office success but revitalized Anthony Newley's career. Newley co-starred in the film, Dr. Doolittle, and along with Bricusse wrote the songs and lyrics to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, still a popular favorite. (Moreover another multi-talented performer, Sammy Davis, Jr., benefited from starring in a later production, boosting his television, movie and recording popularity.)

Substantiated by theatre critics, one reason Stop the World-- floundered is that the show opened during the last vestiges of musical popularity. On Broadway, few productions in the 1960's drew in audiences, and even fewer had serious overtones such as West Side Story. Then, why do I remember Stop the World--I Want to Get Off  since I was six or seven when I saw it? Because the show was ahead of its time for the book or story encapsulated the sentiment many feel today.

Let me state that the musical does not advocate suicide only wanting to step away from the madness, to take a moment to vent then see what's truly important. Littlechap also recognizes that having a passion to succeed shouldn't overwhelm your life to the point where you omit your loved ones.

I'd like to see a re-staging of Stop the World--, maybe tweaking some songs and re-inventing the production for our times. Sadly, Anthony Newley has since passed away, and whether Bricusse would endorse a re-staging is unknown; even so their messages in the show remain contemporary: What's the point of "making it" if we ignore those we love? How can we commit to any career or artistic endeavor and sacrifice those who have been there for us during our struggle?

Increasing numbers of workers have been spread thin. Also, ADD/ADHD diagnoses, stemming from genetics, over-stimulation in our technical age and other environmental pressures, keeps many from juggling the stressors of the third millennium. Writers often need isolation to create whereas others need isolation to decompress. Whether you are a taxi driver, firefighter, environmentalist, scientist, musician, manager, working parent or mayor; whether you have ADD, anxiety issues or you're mentally "fit," I'm sure all of us have wanted to slow down this maddening world we live in. If only we could snap our fingers and stop-motion the action, but that power would be abused like an episode from The Twilight Zone.

Quiet time to daydream, to invent, to create, to find direction, to visualize the future as a result of our actions, helps us focus and rejuvenate. It certainly would improve our world though not solve all its problems. Littlechap, the hero of Stop the World--I Want to Get Off realizes there will always be struggles; men (and women) will aspire to achieve, keeping the world running. Nevertheless, he reminds his audience that the brass ring, the ultimate success, shouldn't be dictated by society, individual insecurities/neuroses or an innate need to "show" the world he's a winner (our hero rises through the ranks of factory work to become rich and a politician). Simplifying one's life, not obsessing over material gain, not envying what others' have or resenting what we don't only helps us achieve an inner peace: these are universal truths. Littlechap recalls, in his old age, about his overlooking those life lessons. He has forfeited love for the  false admiration of his peers and the ennui of the bourgeois. To regain his moral center, Littlechap must make a startling sacrifice.

In my view as our world has changed so much since the musical debuted, and trying to save our planet with constructive solutions, not angry tirades that solve little and only antagonize without changing others minds, is a noble cause (Hair, another rare success during the sixties, has a similar theme). We must find a link that unites all that are oppressed by the greed of the few. I believe that the best intentions must start within our own community, within our families, and within ourselves. Because if we get to the edge of this world's madness and want to shout, Stop the World--I Want to Get Off, do so as we remember to love ourselves, partners, children, friends and community. Then you can strive to make an impact on others. Barack Obama has done this on a macro level, arguably with substantial success, but so have the woman who works two jobs at Stop & Shop and the farmer who tends his cranberry bogs.

Yes, there are many who rightfully feel angry about the state of our global community, corporate greed, and social injustice. Still, when they come home at night, I hope they remember that channeling that criticism into useful actions, staying with their platform and forging ahead will make significant change. Never forget, though, that love within our lives will keep that energy moving forward. We may want to get off this world, find refuge in doing so; however, it should never be at the expense of love. For when we reach our later years, do we want to say to ourselves, or sing in Littlechap's case: "What Kind of Fool Am I?"

What Can Repulse Can Also Be Beautiful

The voice of my education said to me

He must be killed. . .

But must I confess how I liked him,

How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough. . .?

D. H. Lawrence, SNAKE, 1923 

Herpetologists who follow me on Twitter have discovered my long kept secret: I love the common garter snake, Thamnophis sirtalis. I rescued the reptile from imminent lawn-mower decapitation, twice; observed its behavior at a local nature museum in the Hudson Valley where I worked as a volunteer, and sat in the grass as the striped, green snake slithered its way alongside me.

Either because of natural fear or being forever warned about venomous snakes killing people within nanoseconds by "reality" programs, some men and women crumple when they see the cold-blooded intruders. Like any phobias, facing your fear is half the battle. Nonetheless, many can't get past the appearance of snakes; their sinewy movements. And, Harry Potter movies certainly didn't help the much-abhorred reptiles.

Certainly, articles have been written about saving species that most people find disgusting. We've learned that genetics and environment often dictate how humans perceive color, terrain, designate favorites or repulsions. Humans, however, can train their eyes, their minds to see beauty in what is ugly. At least, we can try.

When I lived in Singapore signs across the MRT (subway) stations warned riders would be fined if found carrying a durian on the train. "The King of Fruits," is comparable to Limburger cheese in smell, only worse. Hold your nose, taste the fruit and it isn't bad. I, on the other hand, have an aversion to apricots. My mother for years couldn't understand why I didn't like the innocent fruit. But let's take a step back. If you were an architect and had the choice to build your multi-million dollar, performing arts venue in the shape of a durian, along with the thorn-like protrusions resembling the prickly husk of the durian fruit strategically placed along the roof or a design similar to a smooth, unprotruding apricot, which would you prefer? Funny, isn't it, how our perceptions change based on utility. Singapore did erect their Esplanade Theatre in the shape of durians. Today, though, if I had an opportunity to see the theatre in person, I may have a more positive opinion of the architects' choice.

Speaking of utility, the British Museum has been posting on Twitter World Cup opposing teams' artifacts or works of art in pairs. Yes, I've favorited pieces: either one of two or both teams' artifacts which caught my eye. Two pins from Argentina and Switzerland, the Argentine entry, a man with a top hat sitting on his horse, and the second Swiss pin, a horse in stride; free to roam though caught in the moment, were posted before the upcoming World Cup match between those countries. I appreciated the details and craftsmanship of the Argentine pin, but adored the sleek beauty of the ivory pin from Switzerland. Had I seen the two pins separately I may have been less quick to select one over the other. With more background I may not be so quick to admire either. Who made them? What were the source materials (the sale and import of ivory hadn't been banned in 1840, but I wouldn't want to own the piece now), etc.?

When younger and more impulsive, we often choose based on immediate response. During my college days in Northampton, MA, I did buy a silver coated lapel pin which the shopkeeper assured me was a seahorse dipped in liquid silver, made locally. No, I didn't feel any remorse, only fascination. I wear it occasionally these days. What's changed? I'm more sensitive to protecting sea life. I wish I knew, then, more background about how the jeweler made the pin.

Sea urchins, the corpse flower, a termite-infested tree, fire ants, nature produces many creatures that terrify or repulse; however, as D.H. Lawrence alluded in the stanzas above, it's how you are educated either by society or your elders. True for art, landscapes, and even other worlds: I prefer the blue aqua of the planet Neptune when others may believe Saturn and it's ethereal rings more aesthetically attractive. Cultural differences, big feet among women are still considered uninviting in Asian culture though foot binding has been outlawed. Where you have been raised: I may understand why many admire the desert yet I would never grow to love its environs having lived by a river and the sea. Many components amass to influence how we perceive.

To end, I'd like to leave subjectivity behind and ask: readers, wouldn't the world be more accepting if we all tried to understand what repulses us? We may not grow to love the ugly, as we see it, but we may at least comprehend why others see the beauty.





Photo: SudburyValleyTrustees.org (Massachusetts)

FISHING REDUX

We borrowed my friends' canoe this morning. Tattered but not battered the old, forest-green vessel with faded wood trim withstood  its passengers as my boyfriend shoved off.  I sat in the bow. The clear, blue lake had become hidden--the closer we got to the shoreline--by trees. Thrust onto the rippled water and the open sky, I began to breathe, genuinely breathe, like Mother Nature had slapped me on the back after being born. The mostly sunny day welcomed us until a cool ocean wind reminded me that although summer had officially begun, we were on Cape Cod. My boyfriend spoke first: "What a gift, living here. Smell that air." We've known each other long enough that we are as in sync as the wind and the water.

The temperature rose enough to tempt painted turtles from the shallows to the top of a smooth rock: two were already sunbathing when another began to make the arduous climb to join the others. Paddling (sporadically on my end to save energy) to find a strategic fishing hole, I spotted above me a large raptor. My boyfriend identified the hovering bird as an osprey which had decided to scan the lake for fish, encouraging for we had hoped to find our share. Then, in the midst of the sunless sky I saw scant then multiple numbers of smaller birds racing toward the osprey to keep it away from their nests. My body may be challenged, but my eyesight has never been sharper.

Myles and I had agreed to "catch and release" and my excitement increased as I remembered why I love the sport. I hadn't been rod/reel fishing in fresh water since I childhood. Handling the live worms or minnows had become as easy as using chopsticks. I used to go down to a nearby stream to catch trout, not much luck when using a bobber in a raging brook, and a stocked pond where I did catch some legal-sized rainbows. Later that year, I learned I'd been fishing in a pond on unmarked, private property, owned by a renowned art museum across the valley. Undaunted, I discovered other fishing holes.

Adulthood brought with it saltwater ventures across the Great Pond, or the Atlantic Ocean, which included ice-fishing in the Gulf of Finland on the Baltic Sea--common dace were the catch and release that day. Almost a decade into the future, across an even bigger "pond," the Pacific Ocean, I successfully attempted deep sea fishing, off a kelong in Malaysia. Our fishing group ate what we caught. But that's another story.

Funny how I lived as a grad student in Missoula, Montana, also renowned for the now classic book (and film), A River Runs Through It, written by Norman Maclean, and I never went fishing! Rafting, yes, and sojourns to nearby lakes to swim; however, not a nibble, other than to eat store-bought trout, cheap then, and fresh--really, genuinely fresh.

So decades later, here, on a pristine body of fresh water, I sat with a high-quality reel and fiber-glass rod, a shiny lure dangling from the tip, ready to resume my once passionate pastime. Only problem, aside from an in-grown belief--fanned by family and classmates--that I had little hand to eye coordination for most sports and casting, chronic medical issues and being slightly intimidated by the master caster sitting behind me, I literally got tangled up in knots. Myles kept saying, "feel the load of the lure," inwardly I wanted to take my oar. . .no, I refrained from launching an attack on my teacher/boyfriend and after dozens of tries, and Myles' loving encouragement, I began to find my rhythm, the "feel."  Around the same time, Myles heard deep-throated "ribbits," bull frogs, sounding for a mate. He paddled closer yet we never saw the bulbous amphibians, as if they wanted to taunt us to find them. Stay tuned for a much bigger discovery later in this blog.

We darted from spot to spot, searching for still waters as we avoided the strengthening wind and ripples, to cast for bass, large- and small-mouthed. Myles has the eyes and nose, "you can smell the bass." No catches for either one of us, though the master fisherman had a few strikes. I had hoped to have re-beginners luck. And yet, I didn't have an inner sense of justice that the experienced sportsmen at the stern hadn't caught anything. Our day had been so wondrous. I refused to let my first lesson be spoiled by the capricious nature of the elusive bass.

One of my friends who had lent us the canoe, met us in the garden as Myles and I clambered up the winding path. I asked if we could change into our swimsuits for a leisurely dip down the road. Larry suggested we swim where we fished, the lake behind us, but I vocalized what I rightly believed Myles had thought: "We'd love to, except we saw a large [common] snapping turtle swimming up from the depths to the shallows." My boyfriend then provided the weight and measures, around twenty pounds of the reptile. Larry laughed as he said he and his wife, Beth, swam regularly in the lake. Still, I was deterred. I rationalized in my head, Of course, the lake down the road had snappers, too. However, even with the practical knowledge I had of the creatures, snappers are nocturnal reptiles which are usually lethargic during the day except when their nests are threatened, having seen large holes dug in my friends' garden where female snapping turtles had attempted to lay their eggs, I stood firm.

I changed into my suit; then Myles and I left the oasis we had shared. I can't speak for my boyfriend's inner thoughts. For me, our decision had been correct not only because of that prehistoric turtle's sudden appearance. No, re-capturing the magic, the unspoken moments that morning would have been a mistake.

Déjà vu had struck me. Years trying to get my parents or friends to go fishing or picnic by a stream--with limited success--had left me spent. I had let others spoil my pastime. Today, I regained hope. Having a close one with me to share the joy helped. I had to decide, nonetheless, whether to be thwarted or encouraged by the cumbersome process of re-learning. Absorbing another memorable day on Cape Cod, returning to a simple pleasure from childhood. . .well, you can guess my choice.

A VACATION OF THE MIND

Princeton mathematician Andrew Wiles was asked during an interview in a PBS/BBC airing of "The Proof" about his process for proving Fermat's Last Theorem. Dr. Wiles replied he took long walks through the woods where he could clear the clutter from his mind, leading to remarkable revelations. Naturally, practitioners of yoga and mediation, and many therapists prescribe long walks or places to escape the noise in your head. My rebellious nature didn't immediately take to this often-made suggestion. And then after a low period, I discovered where I feel most at ease; where the non-stop, left-brain neural processing would seem to go into stasis, and my imagination, right-brain, would be given free rein. Those who have read my book or have followed my blogs may already know where I find inspiration: beaches on Cape Cod.

Even in the middle of throngs of visitors during this late spring, I set up my chair, as I wear my beach hat at Nauset Beach and decompress. No, I don't clear all the clutter from my noisy mind. Instead, I watch what I want to see and listen to what I want to hear. No day is like another. As with the crystalline sand which sifts through your fingers, each handful contains individual grains; only unique when observed closely.

The tide is out, this afternoon, at Nauset, but the harbor seals look more relaxed as they swim 200 feet from shore, as if the shallower water will provide a buffer from a roaming Great White shark. The seals swim in waves, up to six or more at a time, parallel to shore. There are more this year--repelling and aggravating ocean fishermen--and yet the rascals never cease to amuse. One line of seals travels as if it were a train, with a young seal carrying the rear, the caboose.

Farther out the flat, curved horizon--the aperture of the earth--gives me a chill. Why? Maybe because seeing the roundness of our planet reminds me how close to the edge human beings have come. As the eighty degree sun begins to increase my body temperature, a cool wind picks up and then I spot a kite. One multi-color, trapezoid, inflated drifter moves quickly along the shoreline, high in the clear, blue sky with its long tail acting as a rudder. I strain my neck to peek over other beach-goers to find the expert flier, no luck.

Zigzagging ruts carved by the outgoing tide and sand breaks have produced tidal pools. Unlike Skaket Beach's flora and fauna, Nauset's shallow waters hold stones--some ordinary and others colorful, buffed by the ocean's power. The pools are warm, the ocean colder. Brave, early seasonal swimmers are in the surf, but not too far from the shoreline. Strange seeing so few near the sun-kissed sea. Shark sightings have scared even the curious from wading in or splashing their feet.

The break is shallow, at least from where I'm sitting. Mini-pipelines shut down as fast as they start. Peering south, toward Chatham, the breakers are bigger--surfers try to catch a wave but the surf bottoms out. Only a lone skimmer, a tall, lanky teen looking for the best spot to launch his board, has my vote for a successful afternoon.

Then, I turn my attention to the voices. Spurts of conversation: "Sharks have been around for thousands. . ," "I love spinning," to "Did anyone get the Red Sox score?" I am delighted that the inquisitor doesn't have his cell phone to get the answer. A woman in the party holds a pink-cased I-phone, yet her effort produces: "No service, here." I'm thinking, Ah, Nauset, a nature lovers' paradise.

After seconds of smug glee and watching ubiquitous football tossers who almost always pick a spot where they are in danger of hitting a lounging beach-goer, I notice a couple playing paddle ball on the flat sands down the slope from my location. The two are wearing nondescript shorts and t-shirts. This picture begins my next journey. A fashion reconnoiter, you might call it.

Most men, thankfully, are in the retro-trendy long swim trunks, a relief for if I wanted to see their package I'd go to the ballet! (Balletomanes don't despair as I love the performing art and rarely pay attention to the often-padded "spectacle.") Women are wearing a variety of bikinis, a rare string here and there, along with bandeaus; whereas others have chosen tankinis and one-pieces like I have. I've decided to classify these ladies even further as: sun-worshipers and sun-avoiders. The latter numbers greatly increasing with the sun cancer burst.

The swimsuit colors don't impress me this season. Fashion designers should observe towel trends for more eye-catching designs and colors, bad and good. From faux leopard to neon pink stripes; a cobalt blue blanket with stringy fringe to understated solids. Not a repeat among the multitude. I start to believe that towel selection is like numerology or astrology, providing signs about the owner's personality. {Sorry readers I won't describe my towel.}

Quietly and suddenly, on the flats a beach buggy captures my line of vision. The U.S. Park Service driver, most likely a retired vet (the Park Service/National Seashore gives vets dibs on summer jobs) rides along with a wide smile. Unlike the original "buggies," this vehicle has a jeep-like, boxed shape, with a permanent roof, screened rear window and even a yellow siren. At least, the intrusion is peaceful.

A tell-tale sign that I'm at the right place. For, there are hundreds of visitors around me yet very little noise. Whether residents, summer snow birds or tourists, those who come to Nauset share a desire to absorb nature's canvas; to listen, to see, to feel the blessings of the sea.

LAVENDER FIELDS, FOREVER.

Meters away I spot the purplish, tight-knit wildflowers; then across the arid fields we get closer to perfect rows with imperfect sprigs, lighter in color with tinge of silver-gray supported by lime green spikes, standing strong. Like the famous Rosé wines from Provence, the lavender plant or herb gathers its unique aroma the the sun-dried earth. Its scent often found in over-perfumed soaps or lotions, very few of which approximate their source. The genus, lavandula angustifolia or English Lavender is the most prevalent, but the Provençal plant's genus species I refer to in this blog is pyrenaica. Taken from the Pyrenees, I'm assuming. I didn't realize until I researched this article that there are thirty-nine species of the genus found across the globe in mostly Mediterranean-like environs, making the herb even more enticing. 

When I decorated my bedroom, the first color I pulled from Renoir's painting, The Swing, a framed print, formerly my mother's, was lavender. Mother had grown lavender in her terrace garden, not requiring much fuss but stopping my mother in her tracks when she inhale the herbs' genuine perfume. So, I went to a nearby Home and Garden and asked for lavender. After a while they found some sprigs that were younger, fresher, and another bunch of older, aged lavender. I tied them together with a yellow ribbon and hung them on my wall, parallel to the poster but on the other side, upside down of course. Just as dried-flower enthusiasts do during a hot, dry summer.

You see I live in an apartment, so I don't have an outside door or a window that isn't bombarded by delivery truck smog. And I'm not an indoor plant fan, so the Old World sprigs give me a taste of the past, Provence, and nature's beauty. Yes, I've been to Provence, as part of a solo trip around France more than a decade ago. I stayed in Aix-en-Provence and during a tour around Cézanne country I spotted a field. The driver stopped so I could take a picture of lavender in its most famous setting. 

Later, I saw a little known film by Ridley Scott, based on the novel by (A Year in Provence) Peter Mayle called "A Good Year." (To provide context, "A Good Year," in wine parlance, refers to robust bounty producing a great wine that year.) The movie features a tongue-hanging, sexy portrayal by Russell Crowe. Okay, he looks great but his character is an ass for one third of the film until Marion Cotillard--who gives a break-out performance as a smart-mouthed waitress--tames the beast. One of the funnier, recurring moments in the story comprises newly-arriving characters finding dried lavender in flower boxes and dumping the worn purple sprigs into the trash. Unbeknown to these visitors, lavender wards off scorpions, arachnoid family fixtures in the desert-like heat of the South of France. I relay this story because it supplies a thread, albeit a tenuous one, between that member of the mint family and me. Yes, I'm a Scorpio. No, lavender hasn't scared me away. Some days I wonder, however, if the dried flowers on my wall don't complete with the Dream Catcher above my bed, peaceful dreams one night, toss and turn nightmares the next.

Next, lavender's multiple direct uses of lavender have been discussed ad infinitum. An indirect contribution, one I now bemoan, is the flower's infusion into red wine via the terroir or terrain particularly Rosé. Actually, the word-origin of lavender comes from the French, lavandre, meaning "to wash" as in permeating the soil (Thank you, Wikipedia.) And with the onset of spring, I had looked forward to indulging. Alas, between medical issues, including a newly acquired allergy to the histamines in red wine, I've had to forsake drinking the aromatic elixir, for now. Still, I have my lavender.

So when I gaze at those tied, slightly aromatic sprigs that bring a little Provence into my small bedroom, I reflect on the beginnings of lavandula; the charming movie that taught me a lesson and the lavender-infused earth that produce great wines. And, of course, my days visiting Aix-en-Provence: taking in a Renoiresque, picture-window view of a terrace garden at Le Clos Violette; drinking a superb, local red; eating langoustines and picturing those lavender fields that would help produce such a sensuous memory.

[If you'd like to travel with me to France and other places, watch my narrated, scored video at http://youtu.be/RaYwJm9Cz5I , Part One, which includes a story about my serendipitous experience with the earthy driver.]