on growing up in the mountains

I grew up in the mountains. High altitude or high enough. In front of my house was a huge granite formation that we climbed. The Sierra was not really talked about because no one needed to say it, it was always there. Was the pass open? When could we swim in the lakes again? The sparkle of frozen asphalt. The migration of the sandhill crane.

The character of California has always been a huge one for me. I am from here and when I had children, I thought a lot about where they are from, what landscapes, what  plants, what bodies of water will also raise them.

As I sit here the oak outside my window is turning a lush green. It is close to letting loose big clouds of pollen, gold, thick. The lupine persistently survived the mower and nod their cheerful heads as the wind picks up. I live in the Petaluma gap, where the wind gets inhaled each day from the Pacific Ocean through the valleys all the way to San Pablo Bay where it nearly meets the Sacramento River delta.

It’s rare that a day goes by where I don’t think about how home is navigated, who gets to call it that, what other than humans are also singing there songs, how we call each other home? What happens when we don’t?

So I’m always looking for an excuse to explore. This month I was lucky to participate in the California Poet Laureate call for poems about Our California. Here is that poem to share with you today.

the original home

our tongues thick and thirsty, itching for a fight
and smelling like yesterday.

the sweet smell of butter melting
first home, original home. the home of milk.

looking for the right granite bowl
a home where the acoustics are perfect

and lightning spreads across the rock,
following the cracks

the home of pine trees. reflective, sharp,
cold stars.

—

Listening to:

Radio Ambulante

Reading:

The Land in Our Bones

Ceremony

Paying attention to:

Nettles, lupines, and how the deer jump the fence