It's been a while since I've crafted a poem. It is a difficult subject and I chose a dificult style. This is the actual first draft; I've only corrected spelling at this point. I'm posting it now to show the crafting process. In a week of so, I'll post revisions.

The saints are no more; the saints are no more

Perhaps squinted at

a paragraph read

eyes darting up and again at the icon on display

No more

no more meaning than that

and on to the next museum piece

The saints are no more

the saints are no more

perhaps grabbed on instinct, rubbed, the features gone

from a passed Aunt’s  saint’s medallion

a namesake, a keepsake, meaning no more than that

There are no more saints,

or icons, in no smoked corners

in drafty cathedra

the saints are no more than footnotes

none now kneel at the feet of chipped statuary

ribbed by gloom from barred-over stained windows

Great Dante had his Virgil at hand

and the far light of his Beatrice

that touched his highest mind when the slope aligned

along his upward arcing path

none now know Her as he

The saints are no more, grim grit underfoot grinds

No light from a loved hero shines

The saints are no more

the dark within wins daily

Icons were de-faced, un-handed

Lyons’ old St Jean’s church front

saw determined

riotous rebels

hack off face and hand

blinding the saints carved there, making

them disempowered

the saints are no more

Curie, Tesla, Einstein, Pasteur, Goodall,

any you choose to name

all too, too human

They are no more saint that any other

human secular wonder, hero and heroine

great in deeds

Cold comfort against the dark within

the saints are no more

are no more comfort

or guide

‘great in deeds’

is cold comfort

the saints are no more

than that, ever

a comfort and guide

Ill at ease, lost at sea

that too

is all too, too human

with no lights to shine

the way up and out

Fear does

that, then

fear does that, then

nudges and numbs

blinds and dumbs

Odd to hear of fear

as comfort,

as guide

Fear wraps, warps, sense and sight

fear does that

The saints are no more perhaps never were more

than a comfort and guide

the need for comfort

is eternal

the saints never were

the need is ever more

and more

Fear blinds sight and sense

fear is the norm

the warm udder of apathy

and shackle of shame

that binds us

blinds us

the saints are no more, the saints are no more

the need that made them

that bade them ‘guide us’

seems ever more

weighty

we prayed at altars

for a slim taper to lead the way

we prayed in halters

for a bolt to cleave the dark

we reached for icon and charm

small comforts

that roused us

enough

enough for a week

until the next holy rest day

we prayed

the saints are no more

the fear that made them

bade them

“guide us!”

is all the more weighty

now we know

we made them

we bade them

we unmade them

and greyed our sight

at each defacing

the saints are no more, no more

perfected human, exemplary ideal person

at hand to guide and comfort

as we bade

“Guide Us!”

against the dark of our own making

we made the dark of our fears

we bade the dark, “hide us!”

from what we fear to see, sense

we fear

we fear

we fear

The saints are no more

the fear we know more

dead saints guide no one

dread fear rides

dread fear writes

terrible outcomes

terrible lies

fear writes lies

that blinds the eyes

fear of loss

fear of want

these are the heart and spine

of the hydra beast: Fear

fear of not being loved...is just

one head of the hydra

fear of death

fear of shame

fear of halt

fear of pain

each one

just one

one head among many

cut off one: fear of halt

a new head sprouts

now two new

and two new

each cut at the faces of fear

only make new

the heart and spine

cut those out

fear of loss

fear of want

the saints are no more

no lights shine from afar

the tinny flashes that never last

the shiny fool’s gold

is cold

cold comfort

lay in the grave with your dead saints and fear

what gives pause

what gives rise is this:

whether saint or not

whether One True God lights the faces of the saints

whether we made them all

the fear is real and we are bound to it

what gives pause

what gives rise from this

morass

is

this:

we can.

The reaching up and out

the act of imagining

greater, better, brighter

not fear-less

but while fearing

we can

we can

while fearing

do, in spite

of fearing

do more

we can do no more

than rise to our fear

our fear of loss

our fear of want

we can do no more

than do more

than fear

I turned fifty on September 26th, 2015. I took a trip to celebrate. I had wished to travel with good friends; all invited needed to cancel going. I went alone. It was, unintentionally, a pilgrimage of sorts. There was uncertainty and small hitches but I finally got on the road on Friday in the afternoon. The Portland Amtrak Station is a nice starting point.

En route, on the train, I found space to write, to reflect on the novel I'm crafting...and take some surprisingly good photos with my cell phone's camera. This is crossing the Ballard WA bridge at sunset. I wrestled with and pinned down five pages of fresh text. The novel is continuing to challenge me. I spent a good 40 minutes staring out the window...deeply contemplative...I checked some (emotional) baggage during this period. I was sadly lonely. I was hurt that friends couldn't accompany me on this trip. I found some peace by shifting my focus...how could I make this trip...artful? Meaningful?
I recalled my lessons from Burning Man...and chose to see the world thru an artist's eye...thru a poet's mind...thru a lover's heart....as we rolled into King Station, Seattle I was confronted with that perspective in the form of a building:

I was moved by its artistry and non-conformity: it was the only building in its area...it was the only building like that...and it reflected all that went on around it...funny how we see ourselves when we look at the world.

I was very lucky. One of my favorite, bright, funny loving friends was in Bellingham WA for the night and day. He and a friend picked me up at the train station. The met me with smiles and laughter. And gifts of socks. And an owl.

They get me...They were in Washington, down from Vancouver BC to race bicycles in a cyclocross race, something I'd never watched. His family was there too...the races were fun and exciting. There were cowbells to ring...and cheering. Here we are, post race, all smiles and hugs. 

Kellen fell during his race, managed to come in 5th...and needed eleven stitches! Juliette won her race. They are both beasts on their bikes!

On a break between races I wondered off...for some quiet. The races were held on a State Park...that was once a dairy farm associated with a mental hospital...really. The abandoned buildings were beautiful. 

I felt...accepted by their emptiness...the wind at times was the only noise. 

I made viewing them...an artful moment. I did not draw any conclusions...just observed and recorded.

I took more photos of this one locale, than of anything ever before in my life. 

I have a good eye for art. I am grateful for that. I was able to carry that feeling on the next leg of my trip.

The ferry dock to Lummi Island; marking passages from one place to the next is important to me...I like doorways, gates, bridges...as my friends dropped me off with warm laughter, I looked ahead to where I was going, what I was bringing with me. I chatted on the phone, long-distance with my mother. She was confused at my excitement to travel. I set that aside. I set a lot aside as I waited for the ferry. The ride was short, the shuttle was quiet. I had arrived.

At The Willows Inn, I was met by one of my best friends, Robert. He works at the Inn is one Chef de Partie among several. He gifted me with dinner. We chatted for a few minutes, he was pulled away to return to prepare for dinner service. In the lower level reception area, I cleaned up and relaxed for a few minutes. 

The writing on the wall? Italian "Dolce far niente"..which means idleness....at this point, as I prepared for the meal of a lifetime...much of my worry, worldliness, loneliness were idle...like an engine used to racing...I was at idle. The view of Bellingham Bay was just across the road.

As I sat down to dinner, it was 6:30. I was alone, but not lonely. I was celebrating but not expressively. I was meditatively awaiting to participate with all of my faculties and sensibilities. I held that intent and demeanor for the next three hours.

Dinner began outdoors on the deck with a chamomile sparkler. The notes of apple and honey, the tiny hint of alkaline from the seltzer were clean, and recalled the sunset.

The first few courses, seafood for the most part, were perfected. This was the theme for the dinner: well-practiced mastery of ingredient. The oysters were so good, I ate them before I remembered to take their picture.

Brined in pickled turnips with freshly grated horseradish; they were fresh that morning frm the Bay nearby. Yes, the serving box is local shore stones and driftwood. 

I fell in love with the beignet...I wanted a bucketful of them...sadly I got just one...but it provided four satisfying bites....I can say...now I've had an Indian Summer fling...with a beignet!

Smoked-saltcod beignet with red seaweed and sea salt on top. I was feeling a bit tired (all that race-side cheering was catching up to me.) I tentatively asked one of the servers...if I could have a cup of tea. I stated I didn't wish to stray from Chef Blaine's menu and pairing, but was chilly and tired. My server asked the Chef for a recommendation....our interests met and the server provider her own personal stash of Bai Ji Guan oolong for me. 

It was a comfort and a reminder of home. I drink oolong daily. Finding home while on the road is a good thing. I felt at home at the table then too. I was aware that I was the only solo diner. Quiet conversations from other tables remained muted...worshipful, really. Each server carried themselves as a model of reverence. They would pause at the doorways into the dining areas...and place themselves into peacefulness...this was evident in the set of their hands and smiles. There was no rush...no hassle...no hustle. 

Like the service each dish was a focus on itself. 

These little rolls...crispy crepe rolls they named them, were deceptively simple: Char roe, tangy cream, chives and crisped crepes. The roe was the star, but not the sole performer. The assertive fishiness of char roe was well mellowed by the cream. I finished them in two bites....and admired the grass under the plate. It was warm and smelled of the sun.

I was moved indoors as it was cooling off noticeably. I was given a table next to the kitchen entrance. I could have chosen to look out over the view of Bellingham Bay. I chose to look into the kitchen. I was there to experience a Master at their craft. Chef Blaine Wetzel and crew were frankly amazing to watch. I doubt most people would sit, alone, on their fiftieth birthday to dine while watching a chef and crew serve dinner. I am glad I am that person. 

In all there were 21 courses. Each was a simple dish, a few bites, a few ingredients. I had more servers than I could recall. Each was reverential, warm, receptive. For full disclosure's sake, as a friend of one of the chefs, I was granted VIP respect. I saw Chef Blaine be attentive to my plates. From his vantage point, his back to the door that was open to the dining area, he oversaw each service. His smiles, his simple nods and gestures silently conducted the ceremony of dining. 

I am not current with culinary nomenclature. I don't know if or what Chef Blaine's style is named. If I could coin a phrase? It would be nouveau zen. Here's why:

The photo is deceptively unassuming. The description is too...soup of summer squash. Paper thin summer squash blanched in its own stock...yeah...summer squash pieces in summer squash broth. A drizzle of oil. Classic, simple presentation, a mindful focus. Nouveau zen. Like zen ink painting, the merest effort isolates the subject, elevating it. 

Heirloom beets, brined, paired with juniper berry infused yogurt...the tiny buds are from dill and fennel plants almost gone to seed. The Continental base for this dish, borscht, elevated by simple mindfulness. 

Dungeoness crab...with pine nuts. Huh. Not an intuitive pairing. Crab lack unctuousness. It can be stringy and bland, to my tastes. Making a puree of seawater from cooking the crab and pine nuts gave the crab a fatty depth...and a toasty warmth. I started skeptical...but was convinced by the end of the dish, that this worked well. In the experience of the dish, which was puzzling in its introduction, I found an understanding of the dish. Like a zen riddle, a koan, by meditating during the tasting I passed thru to understanding. 

This was the theme for me. It was how I embraced the dinner. One pause in the service was birch branch tea. Birch bark resin is a common ingredient in Japanese incense. I laughingly told my server of the serendipity of being served an ingredient of the culture I was referencing as I meditated on dining. I was served seconds of this tea. 

The well-practiced attention, the artful mindfulness, the reference to culinary tradition, the respect for simple ingredients, all were orchestrated by Chef and crew. 

Nootka rose goes to seed, makes rose hips only a few weeks a season. Nootka rose hips are high in pectin. Smashing them, setting them to chill, they make themselves into a pudding. Dripping rose oil made from the same plant provided the balance of unctuousness with the tartness. 

I do not intend this journal entry to be a restaurant review; it is a reminder of my experience, of a meal of a lifetime. I leave out most of the courses; I leave out the charm of my servers. Some of the experience was not to my preferences; I like more variety in temperatures across my meal for example. That is not a criticism, this is not a critique, it is a journalling. 

I am transformed by the meal, the trip. I am grateful I could watch a Master inspire his crew to reverence. I am thankful for those who shared this incredible weekend with me. 

This little stone was the napkin holder at my table. I took it. It sits on my small altar at home. A relic from my pilgrimage. 

In the end, the next morning...this is me: