Little stories piling up in my head, in two parts:

I. Do you know what to do in the event of an anaconda attack? I do. Do you know about Hogzilla? You're about to. One afternoon Thomas and I were passing the time by talking about crazy things, I guess, because these were the two foci of our conversation. He knew how to handle anacondas, but I didn't believe him, so we had to turn to the source of ultimate truth, google, and sure enough. There it was, written in clear steps reading something like this:
1. When you see an anaconda coming, don't run, you cannot outrun it. Lie on the ground, feet facing the approaching anaconda's head and be sure to have your knife(!) out and at the ready. Apparently you will always have a knife on your person if you are in anaconda territory.
2. Don't panic!
3. Allow the anaconda to begin swallowing you feet first.
4. But seriously, don't panic!
5. Once the anaconda has swallowed you to above your waist, stab upwards with your knife and cut off its head from the inside out.
6. Crawl out of the snake.
7. Have a great day.No joke. These are (basically) the steps. The only thing crazier might be.....HOGZILLA. (image from http://thegreatwhitehunter.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/hogzilla3.jpg, not me!) This pig actually lived and was actually killed by hunters in actually Georgia. GEORGIA. The South. My home state. Maybe we even crossed paths in the woods once upon a time. Imagine being out on a hunt and realizing that the movement you see is this pig. I mean, since Hogzilla exists, I probably believe in Sasquatch.
II. One day Dad and I paid a visit to Gilly's brother, Doug. Or Dug, rather, since that's what he has officially changed his name to. Dug lives to die, which for him is dying to live, since it is all about decomposition and the cycling of life to death to life again. He makes his living on compost. Fish compost. He lives near a seaside town and gets fish scraps delivered daily from the fish and chips shops nearby, which means that he has a sky high mound of the richest, most nutritious, most odiferous compost in the land. Gilly and her sister Billie, who Dad and I stayed with during our visit to the Bay of Islands, warned us about Dug with phrases like, "He is pretty out there," and, "A visit to Dug's would certainly be....an experience." Well, any of you who know Dad can imagine how eagerly he jumped at the opportunity to visit with a self-proclaimed hermit and compost master of the Kiwi boonies. By "self-proclaimed" I mean Dad-proclaimed. Dad called him a hermit the whole time, but no one else does. Dug was certainly full of radical rants and "interesting" life style choices, but he turned out to be such a gracious host. He immediately offered us a brew of kawakawa tea from the leaves on the tree outside, with honey from the hives outside. It was delicious. His house is built around trees with mud floors and old posts and pieces of paper covering every inch of wall space. Much like Dad's house would look if he, too, were left to his own devices for 20 years. Dug only eats what he can grow, so if it isn't growing, he's not eating, which I think is a remarkable commitment. I'm not sure how much of it is due to the fact that he is preparing for the imminent collapse of civilization on December 23, 2012, and how much is due to the fact that growing your own food is a healthy, good thing to do. My favorite part was a visit to Dug's favorite tree, an ancient puriri tree with branches the size of old trees themselves that hold up a hut he built as though they were pillars of stone. I definitely learned things from my visit to Dug's and came away grateful for his hospitality. In some ways, Dug and I are fairly similar. We both appreciate the beauty in the way our earth recycles energy, and we both see comfort in the fact that life is born again and again through death. But I wondered if in focusing so steadily on the death part of the cycle, Dug relinquishes some of his appreciation for the glorious life side of the equation. The visit reminded me how grateful I am for my own fleeting, yet rich, energetic time on the life cycle.

III. Dad keeps referring to my ipod as "those tapes." Not just "the tape," because it is clearly too many hours of music to fit on a tape, so instead it is many tapes. I made a playlist while he drove the other day and he couldn't believe how quickly I could churn out dozens of mixed tapes tailored to his musical tastes. He says I'll have to make him copies of "those tapes" when I get home. I will focus on his praise of my music selection, instead of my frustration about my dad being elderly. He also keeps pronouncing Mauri "may-or-ee" and referring to any house that a Mauri person might live in as a "village," even though they are just normal houses on a street. I think at this point he is just doing this to vex me because it can't still be happening for real.

IV. One day in logging world we'd been torn up by a few rough batches of logs, leaving our hands cut and bleeding. While we were standing there catching our breath and waiting for the chains to head back down the hill I noticed that Katy was drawing a big smiley face on her hand using her own blood. It was terrifying and badass and funny, all rolled into one.

V. Two encounters, both with giant trees: One night Dad and I were driving to our destination in the dark, but saw a little dot on our map labeled, "Giant Fig Tree." The dot was at the very tip of a small peninsula that we would otherwise drive past and we decided that it was worth the stop. We'd just be in its presence and maybe shine our headlights on it. We got to the fig and, sure enough, it was giant. This is a massive tree. And it has amazing snaky roots and strong, thick limbs perfect for climbing. Sort of like a magnolia on steroids. We pulled up the car to shine our headlights on it and see what we could see and while we were walking around it, another car pulled up, situated its headlights beside ours, and a family equipped with headlamps got out to look at the tree as well. I just couldn't believe that more than one car load of people would think it worthwhile to go see a tree, in the middle of winter, in the dark, by the lights of their headlights. It was beautiful surrounded by stars, but I've got to try to get back to it in sunlight. The other old tree was also an unplanned stop for a dot on the map, this time labeled, "2,000 year old Puriri tree." This time, we found the tree in a forest park that was a patch of old, native forest surrounded by farm land. This little patch of forest turned out to be one of the most beautiful pieces of forest I've ever seen. Think Avatar, but without the glowing and without a single thing that can hurt you. Not so much as a tick. The highlight of the forest is, in fact, a 2,000 year old Puriri tree with a huge hollow at its base that used to be a sacred burial place, and while it is still sacred, the bones have been relocated. It was amazing. Definitely makes one feel small. Dad and I were the only people there, standing in the presence of this life that has lived as a contemporary to everyone from Jesus to Shakespeare and Colombus to Cook, and now my dad and me. And it will probably outlive us all. Just as we were about to walk away, two Tui birds flitting around in the branches above us began their mating routine, letting us watch as the male danced away, unable to secure the female's affection. Tui birds sing the best song of all the birds. It makes a walk through a forest like that all the more magical. That recording hardly explains it, but it's a start. I'm so glad Dad is finally here to witness this place.

VI. We got to watch this sunset over the East Cape a few nights ago:











VII. One day at Gilly and Greg's, Dad went out on a boating adventure with Greg and Gilly and I spent the entire afternoon walking to the tip top ridge of a farm near the beach and then down a trail along those glorious west coast beaches. The farm was vivid green because rain has come back for winter. Along the way we were surprised to see a flock of peacocks, and then at the top of the hill all of the farm's horses were grazing and quickly surrounded us in hopes of treats. Standing on that hill, surrounded by beach and green grass and friendly horses felt like floating through a drugged, dream world. Couldn't possibly be real. It was dark and freezing by the time we got home, and we rushed over to Margaret's to watch the All Blacks play South Africa in rugby. Great game, they won. Watching with Margaret was awesome because you don't expect such a sweet looking 83 year old to be so into rugby, but she was feeling it. Then we went back to Gilly's for lamb stew and bedtime. I thank you God for most this amazing day!!!!!

VIII. Today dad and I were on a hike and he was looking at a big tree and said, "Could you handle that? Being a tree? Stuck in one place for the entirety of your life?" "If I were a tree, I don't think I'd see it that way," I said. "Infinite patience," he said. "That's what trees have." I thought that was lovely, infinite patience. He went on to tell me that if ever I'm in prison and know I'll be there for a long, long time, I must think of myself as a tree, at peace with being rooted in my one place. Though I wonder why he thinks I need prison advice and though I have a tendency toward wanderlust, I feel weirdly relieved to have a meditation to get me through prison, if ever I need one.