Our favorite place…

Oak 

I suppose you could have guessed that our favorite place is nature, if you can call it a place. Maybe it’s more of a consciousness? A way of being. Anyway, Santa Barbara is such a unique place geographically, which is why it’s home to so many a nature lover. We have the ocean on one side and mountains on the other, all in close proximity. It makes it so simple to get away and be intimate with nature. Whether it’s fiercely exciting waves you seek or somewhere calm and meditative, you don’t have to go far. A very short distance may feel like you’re a thousand miles away. Suddenly time stands still and with very little effort you are glancing down at the ocean from high on a mountaintop or traipsing through the woods with your awareness of natural beauty becoming cloudless and acute as all else slips away. Nature, whether it’s a place or a way of being within this chaotic world, it’s where we love to be.

Abstract nature

Lake lopez

Shoreline

Fly away

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5 Comments

Filed under Adventure, Hitchhiking, Landscapes, Nature, Photo Blog, Photography, Travel, Vagabonds

5 responses to “Our favorite place…

  1. Nature is definitely a place! I went to University in Santa Barbara, and I miss it every day.

  2. During high school years we used to cut classes and jump on a fence from our house and into a reservation area that looks pretty much like your shots above. Lazing under the shades, watching the day go by. It felt so divine! We were hopeless romantics influenced by the Dead Poets Society, Thoreau etc. Now the place, once a haven for nature lovers, has become a settlement for the elites. They have bulldozed everything away. That is why I envy you S&S and those who are in a close proximity to places like these. But you know there are those who take nature for granted. Hope you don’t mind but I would like to leave this beautiful poem crafted by a Filipino that fairly imparts what I’m trying to express:

    Letter To Pedro, U.S. Citizen, Also Called Pete
    by Rene Estella Amper

    Pete, old friend;
    there isn’t really much change
    in our hometown since you left.

    This morning I couldn’t find anymore
    the grave of Simeona, the cat we buried
    at the foot of Miguel’s mango tree,
    when we were in grade four,
    after she was hit by a truck while crossing
    the street. The bulldozer has messed it up
    while making the feeder road into the mountains
    to reach the hearts of the farmers.
    The farmers come down every Sunday
    to sell their agony and their sweat for
    a few pesos, lose in the cockpit or get
    drunk on the way home.

    A steel bridge named after the congressman’s wife
    now spans the gray river where Tasyo, the old
    goat, had split the skin of our young lizards
    to make us a man many years ago.

    The long blue hills where we
    used to shoot birds with slingshot or spend
    the summer afternoons we loved so much doing
    nothing in the tall grass have been bought
    by the mayor’s son. Now there’s a barbed wire
    fence about them; the birds have gone away.

    The mayor owns a big sugar plantation, three
    new cars, and a mansion with the gate overhung
    with sampaguita. Inside the gate
    are guys who carry a rifle and a pistol.

    We still go to Konga’s store for rice
    and sardines and sugar and nails for the coffin.

    Still only a handful go to mass on Sundays.
    In the church the men talk, sleep; the children play.
    The priest is sad.

    Last night the storm came and blew away
    the cornflowers. The cornfields are full of cries.

    Your cousin, Julia, has just become a whore.
    She liked good clothes, good food, big money.
    That’s why she became a whore.
    Now our hometown has seven whores.

    Pete, old friend,
    every time we have good reason to get drunk
    and be carried home in a wheelbarrow
    we always remember you. Oh, we miss
    both Pete and Pedro.

    Remember us to your American wife,
    you lucky bastard. Islaw, your cock-eyed
    uncle, now calls himself Stanley
    after he began wearing the clothes you sent
    him last Christmas.

    P.S. Tasyo, the old goat,
    Sends your lizard his warmest congratulations.
    Posted by Kenny McKetty at 4:29 AM

  3. Northern Narratives

    I think that Nature is definitely a place. Nice blog :)

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