Sunday Secrets

I have developed a bit of an obsession with Post Secret. Have you heard of it? A friend of mine, Sarah, loves it and I found out about it from her girlfriend telling me about her love of it a few years back. In any event, what I think started out as an art project by one man, Frank somebody-rather, has turned into this world-wide phenomenon whereby people write their secrets on postcards and mail them to Frank. Each Sunday Frank chooses a few, because he gets thousands each week,  and displays them on Postsecret.com. He also has several books which are filled with the postcards, I have a few.

I love Post Secret for three reasons:

1.Each postcard is like a piece of art and is completely unique. Besides whatever words may be held there, some of the cards are absolutely beautiful.

2. Perhaps the reason why Post Secret has become the phenomenon that it has, reading other people secrets makes me realize I'm not alone. Some of them are silly and I think, why the hell did someone even go to the trouble, and some of them are graphic and shocking and horribly sad, and some of them, well some of them feel like they could have been written by me. Frank tours around college campuses and talks about his journey with Post Secret and audience members are invited to get up and speak their secrets into microphones for the entire audience to see. And from what I hear, it's quite the cathartic experience for many to say aloud the thing that they have been hiding about their lives or about themselves for years in some deep dark crevice of their soul.

3. The third reason that I love Post Secret is because of this; because it inspires courage and bravery within people to be strong in who they are and tell the world the things which may plague them or make them feel alone. It functions as a guise that says even though I may have done this or that, even though these things may have happened to me, I am still here and valuable and worthy of life and of the world. In sharing their secrets or hearing others do so, people are often brought into communion with the world of broken and wounded souls around them. In the act of speaking their truth, salvation is found.

Each week Frank includes emails from people with the postcards and there are always several that say something about how they were inspired or felt not alone when reading someone else's postcard or hearing someone else speak their secret at a live event. And this last reason is why I think Frank and Post Secret are doing God's work really. For those who are not religious, who don't go to church on Sundays or who have very little hope and faith in their life, or for those who do but who are carrying around horrible feelings of guilt or shame or sadness within themselves, Post Secret is a place to go each Sunday that has the ability to help one feel not as alone in the world as they may have all of the days before that Sunday. Should you find yourself with some time to spare this Sunday, check out Post Secret and discover a community of people who are stepping outside of the things that have happened to them or that they have done into a new, more honest, open and courage space. It just may inspire you to in your own way, do the same.


For my Sunday offering, I give you a few choice secrets of my own...

I know my dad loves me, but am afraid he will never get over the disappointment of having a gay daughter and an autistic son. I feel a horrible sense of guilt sometimes that we both unwillingly fucked it up for him.

Nobody in my family knows about my blog... or is allowed to be my friend on Facebook. Seems trivial I know, but for some reason I insist on keeping them at a distance... and not knowing at all who I really am or what I want to do with my life. I think this is some twisted form of self protection so that when I lose them, or they me, it won't hurt so bad this time.

I sucked my thumb WELL into childhood. Ouch.

I worry endlessly that I will never ever be able to get over this crippling fear I have of just jumping into my life's dreams and making them and this happen. That I will die having done nothing of significance, having not managed to make the world any better of a place while I'm here. This is perhaps my biggest fear.

I think if my mom was still alive my life would be completely different. I think I would be a lot more adept at going after what I want in life and would perhaps be much happier in my career. I also think I would have an entirely different career than the one that I currently fantasize about... because her death is I think, what unwillingly pushed me full force onto the path I now walk on in life, the direction I am heading.

I miss laying in the grass, sitting outside in a garden at sunset, and sleeping in a hammock desperately.

I worry sometimes I don't have a very good sense of myself. Because the me I feel like I am and the me people see and react to sometimes feel worlds apart.

Some of the things that secretly bring me momentary joy and utter bliss: the swing ride at the carnival where you feel like you're floating for a few minutes (my superhero power would be to fly, hands down); when small anonymous children chat me up; being on roller skates (but then, that's not really a secret at this point now is it?!); when I know Shumbi is happy as a clam and has had a good day; when Erica or Perry (my Starbucks crushes) smile at me, because they both just have the best damn smiles; when I know some little thing I have said made a difference in somebody's day (is that really obnoxious to say? Probably); and last but not least, writing. Little else in the world brings me more joy than writing because it is here on the blank page, on the glowing computer screen, where my fingers are able to finally say all the things my mouth is too afraid to.

May you find some time on this Sunday to share a hidden piece of yourself with the world or to witness somebody else as they do so and give thanks. Namaste.

Maybe

It's Saturday night. 7:27pm. I'm sitting in my bed, in my pajamas. My work day started at eight this morning and I finally dragged my poor old tired legs to my car around 645 this evening. Needless to say, it was a long day. And a hard one. Our busiest of the year in fact. We did over four thousand dollars in sales, that's a lot of lattes, and we sold over 275 Frappuccinos. That's the name of our blended beverages for those of you who don't 'speak Starbucks. Long story short, today was chaos from the word go and my body is literally aching; most especially my feet and my back.

I came home to an empty house and it's too quite in here. Shumba was seemingly happy to see me but really he just wanted his dinner. After I fed him he went and laid in the other room with his favorite teddy bear toy and ignored me when I called his name. My last interaction with the roommate yesterday morning ended in quite an ugly manner and she's at work tonight but I'm sure will either still be mad at me or won't want to speak to me at all next time our paths cross. All day long I took care of other people. I served hundreds of customers. I picked their garbage up off the floor that they couldn't seem to throw in the trash can. I wiped up their messes. I made their drinks, I gave stickers to their children, I smiled and was friendly even when they were rude to me because it's important to me that my interactions with others leave them feeling happy even if they treat me like dirt. I gave my amazing, hard working partners breaks before myself and I stopped on the way in an bought doughnuts and fruit and juice for breakfast for everyone. Not a single person said thank you. Last weekend I spent 11 hours on my day off preparing and serving coffee to rich Oregonians at an art auction benefitting Cascade Aids Project and this week I will be trying to help plan Starbucks participation in the Oregon Humane Society Doggie Dash next weekend. In what little spare time I've had this week I surfed the web endlessly, and to no avail, to try to find my brother a cheap place to live in North Portland by the end of the month. I also need to find a storage unit and go over to his house to help him sort through and pack up the spare bedroom full of what remains of my mom and grandparents belongings before we actually get him moved in the next few weeks. I haven't been grocery shopping in over two weeks and today I ate the following: two doughnuts, a bag of dried apples, a bag of popcorn, a turkey bacon breakfast sandwich minus the turkey bacon, some strawberries, and for dinner I had two stale chocolate chip cookies and about a gallon of water. The dirty laundry is piling up in the corner of my bedroom and my dog is getting fat because he doesn't get walked enough and today... well, today I feel like I am starting to fray from the inside out. I'm starting to feel hopeless... and even on a bad day, I still usually can find hope that tomorrow will be better.

   Lately in my life I feel like all I do is give of myself to other people and other causes and I never get to spend much time doing anything for myself. Don't get me wrong, I like doing things for other people. It makes me feel useful, worthwhile and happy to know that I was able to make someone's day happier or brighter or easier. But when you do this day in and day out and with very little thanks, it can sometimes, as today, grow tiring and lead to the ignoring of one's own needs. Truth be told, I did buy myself a new outfit earlier this week and some new shoes too. That was pretty exciting... until I paid all of my bills the other night and realized that shopping trip to try to cheer myself up maybe wasn't the best idea I ever had. I know my life is blessed beyond belief; that I'm more fortunate and wealthy and privileged than most of the world in fact, but lately life still just feels too damn hard and awful damn lonely. It sucks coming home from work on horrible days like today to a dirty kitchen, an empty refrigerator, an achy body, and sad soul, and not having anyone who gives a damn. Friends are barbecuing  on this warm night with their family or going out to do something fun with their partners or friends because they have some semblance of a weekend and social life and balance between their work and personal lives and tomorrow most of them will celebrate or recognize mothers day in some way. And I will go to church alone, and I will listen to a sermon about how important and wonderful moms are, and I will be sad as sad can be and then and I will come home to a quiet, empty house and be sad some more. I will do my laundry and clean the bathroom, because I always clean the bathroom on Sundays and maybe just maybe I will go to the grocery store and by eight I will be in bed reading because I have to get up for work at three on Mondays. And then the whole cycle starts all over again.

  But Monday is a new day. It is not a tired today and not a sad tomorrow. Maybe it will rain and I will be happy that its cool out again. Maybe, just maybe one of the hundreds of people I serve every day and people I manage will thank me for how hard I work and how much of my life I give to my stupid job. Maybe I will drive across the St. Johns bridge, three mountains in view, and exhale a little bit into the beauty of the world. Maybe I will cook myself a healthy, balanced, filling meal and feel fortunate to be so lucky. Maybe my roomate will decide I'm not such an asshole after all and by some miraculous twist of fate, we will find my brother a place that he can afford and get him packed up and moved in the next three weeks. Maybe I will find time to get my laundry done and feel happy and good about myself as I step out into the world smelling of fabric softener. Maybe I will read something fantastic and inspiring and be reconnected with the dreams I have for my life that on many days I'm too busy and tired to remember about. Maybe a friend I miss dearly will want to get together. Maybe and actually probably, many of these things will happen in the next week and my soul will be a little bit restored and I will see the light again and I will remember what an unspeakable blessing this one life is and remember how fortunate and lucky a girl I am and I will be able again to recognize everything positive and grace-filled and lovely that makes my life and the world and the people around me what they are. And I will be happy again.

About Redemption

There are eight definitions for the word redemption in the dictionary. Four out of the eight involve some sort of monetary definition and the others, the ones that this story are about, are as follows:

1. an act of redeeming or the state of being redeemed
2. deliverance; rescue
3. Theology. Deliverance from sin; salvation
4. atonement for guilt


In theology, soteriology is the study of salvation. And of all of the aspects of theological and religious studies, this is one of the things I am most interested in. In Christianity, Judaism and Islam, the three major monotheistic religions of the world, in very general terms, salvation refers to being saved from sin and eternal damnation by accepting one's relationship with God. I am not a member of any of these three monotheistic religions and in fact consider myself a panentheist... but that is really beside the point. The point here is that if someone were to ask me if I was saved, I would reply without blinking, that yes, I most certainly am. That in fact, in my life, I find myself saved over and over again. Some of my brothers and sisters from other faiths may take offense at this; that I claim to be saved and relate none of this to a relationship with Jesus Christ. But I am not concerned with that. It is a difference of religious perspectives while to me, the Gods and spirits and divine ones of all the world's religions have validity and meaning and truth in them. I have my own feelings about who and what and where God is, but I don't claim that my opinion or viewpoint is any more valid or important than my next door neighbor or my evangelical relatives or anyone else I may come into contact with. To me, if I had to define God in one word or phrase, it would be love; redemptive, salvific love.

Growing up there was a family on the next street over who went to First Church as well. They had a son the same age as me and we went to school together for many years. I played soccer from elementary school with his high school sweetheart and although we didn't ever hang out, we were always friendly with each other at school. Our senior year he got tangled up in some criminal trouble with a few friends and in the end, they all ended up going to prison. Some for a few months and some for several years, this classmate being one of the latter. The crimes they committed and the reasons why are really irrelevant at this point other to stay that although nobody was ever hurt, weapons were involved and victims of these crimes feared for their lives. This classmate of mine was the only one of the group who committed these crimes who did not come from a wealthy family, the only one who was not white, the only one who was not in honors classes at school; the only one who suffered from terrible dyslexia. He didn't get to graduate high school and I remember seeing his mom at the neighborhood grocery store after he was sent to prison looking tired and sad and vacant in the eyes. And so the years went by and I moved away to college and I had a partner and I found passions and hobbies and made new friends. I grew and changed and graduated and bought a home and got a dog and my life went on and all the while... this classmate sat in a cell somewhere far away from his family and friends and freedom; and I wondered about him. Although we were never close, for some reason I though about him a lot. So much so that out of curiosity of what a prison is actually like, I visited the Coffee Creek Correctional center, Oregon's state women's prison, in college and have since studied our country's penal system quite a bit. My conclusions have led me to so many frustrations with the way we treat criminals and prisoners in this country that I'm sure I could write an entire book about my findings and feelings on the subject.

In any event, a few months ago I was making drinks at work and I looked up and who should be before me but the classmate whom I spoke about above. The one who I had spent the past decade thinking and wondering about; worrying if he finished school, if he was functioning in society in a happy and healthy way; how his family was. I spoke to him immediately and although he was shy at first and I think not sure about what I wanted out of him, he opened up quickly and we had an amazing conversation. We talked about our lives and what we are up to these days and for some reason I shared with him a dream of mine that few people know about. When he left I went in the back room at work and I just cried and cried. I tried to explain to my coworkers why I was crying but they didn't really understand and I'm not so sure I did either. In our conversation this classmate told me that he now works with troubled teenage boys who are on the verge of engaging in criminal activity. In his work with these kids I'm sure he helps inspire hope inside of them, helps them find some sort of salvation from their lives. And I suppose in this way, he is redeeming himself from his own past wrongs and I'm sure in many other ways he has and will continue to atone for the crimes he committed. But he is still a person of inherent worth and dignity despite his poor choices and stupid actions in the past. A person worthy of love and respect and most of all, compassion.

This exchange moved me so much that I still can't really find words to explain my feelings about seeing this old friendly aquaintence. I think this is because it wasn't really about the words we said at all. It was about something non-verbal, non-physical... something indescribable that happened between us that day. An energy, a force, a grace and a gratitude. A love. And I think when we have these moments in our lives where we are moved to tears, where we can't describe in mortal words the feelings of our heart, this is God, this is love.

For me, I found peace knowing that my classmate was, despite his wrongdoings, despite years of hardship that surely followed his conviction over a decade ago, living a life where he has found meaning and truth and worth and joy and love. A life where his salvific actions are redemptive for others. What a blessing this is for him and for those whom he mentors and for me to know this of him after years and years of wondering. I think about this exchange between he and I and about the unspoken, indescribable grace that I felt hanging in the air between us that day often and for me, to know that he is okay, was enough. My soul and wondering were put at ease; I now knew that despite the events of his life over the past decade, despite what the world may think or have previously thought of him or he of himself; despite whether he had or has a relationship with a personal God or not, his is a story of redemption... as is so many of ours.  Imagine then my surprise today when I walked into church and there this classmate was; over twenty years since he and I had been at First Church together! He gave me a hug, twice, and few words were exchanged between us except for when he left, he said how good it was to see me and I told him I hoped to see him again soon. And I do. And I know for some reason that I will see him again; hopefully I will see him many agains. Hopefully the circular paths of our lives will continue to intersect and I am excited for these overlaps; excited for the deep, thoughtful and grace filled exchanges that I know he and I may someday have for it is here, in the indescribable space between ourselves and others, in the communion of our souls, where the wide-eyed and joyful redemption of our lives can be found.

I think above all else, my classmate's story gives witness to the fact that redemption is possible for all of us each and every day whether we have accepted a personal God into our lives or not. Salvation is not only about sin, about the recognition and atonement of our wrongdoings, it is about becoming who we were put on this planet to be in spite of whatever may be against us in this life. It is sometimes about taking small baby steps towards wholeness rather than giant, one-time superficial leaps. It is about overcoming obstacles and odds and about getting back up again when we trip in life. It is about chosing to take the extended hand of another when we need some help along the way. It is about doing all of these things in spite of our own self doubts and worries; in spite of the labels the world may have posted upon us. Salvation and redemption are waiting for us everyday with the rising of the sun. It is never, ever too late.

To paraphrase many a glorious benediction, may you go through your week in peace and chose to spread love.

Namaste.

Easter Blessing

Yesterday, as you know, was Easter. While some hunted for eggs and ate waffles, I spent the better part of the morning at church and the afternoon in mostly quiet solitude. The later part of the day was spent doing laundry, watching one of my favorite 80s movies, Romancing the Stone with Ro, and picking up the house a bit.

While getting ready to leave the house early yesterday morning, and even Saturday night for that matter, I had been listening to some Bach and Beethoven, my favorites and my fingers were left itching to play Moonlight Sonata, Pachelbel's Canon in D; but my piano has been in storage for several years and on very random occasions, such as this past weekend, I miss it tremendously. I have a keyboard, but mostly it just collects dust under my bed because playing it seems to just leave me disappointed that it doesn't sound like my grand piano.  In any event, I got a wild hair up my rear this weekend that I absolutely needed to play the dang thing. And when I went to pull it out from under my bed it rolled over a little silver speck of something on the carpet. After completely yanking the keyboard out I reached my hand under the bed groping and pulled out a small chunk of metal; my mom's one and only ring I thought I had lost several months ago!  I've been trying not to think about losing the ring because it is probably one, of if not my most important possession and having not had it on my finger these past few months has made not only my finger feel bare, but my soul just a wee bit emptier too. In consolation I told myself repeatadly that the ring was just a material item; that the real joy and connection is in the memories. But I wear it on most days and especially at times when I would like my mom to be with me; when something big or glorious or difficult is happening in my life, I like to be able to look down and see that blue stone shining back at me.

My mom never wore any jewelry, except for this little ring on the middle finger of her left hand, and it's been through a lot. Several years ago I wrote a poem about it, the first thing I ever wrote about her or her death as a matter of fact. So you could say I suppose, it was this little ring on my finger that started the healing process, which continues to this day. In any event, my finger is smiling to have it's companion back and my soul was filled up just a little bit more yesterday too; what an amazing Easter gift. Sadly, I never did get around to playing the stupid keyboard. It seems instead that finding the ring filled up whatever empty spot my heart was trying to fill with music, with a mother's long-lost love.

I have attached the original poem below and am hopeful this week brings you many blessings of your own...

Namaste.




Bound
You were never one to wear jewelry
only in the last few years did you begin sporting a silver ring
three small bands connected at the seam by a little turquoise gem
delicate and pretty on your middle finger it sat.
After your soul left its mortal body
floating peacefully away towards your next life
the ring was found and saved by the medical examiner.

Later at the funeral home
I was told the contents of your backpack had to be discarded
and all the salvageable items from your car
stored in and pulled one by one from a wrinkled brown paper bag.
Passed across the table in shame and sorrow
were torn road maps, shredded credit cards, warped keys
and in a zip lock bag with your name scrawled on it
lay a small chunk of metal
the silver ring your wore, inside.
How inconsiderate i thought
discovering bits of your flesh and blood dried between the bands
smashed together, stoneless and bent in funny directions.

It will never fit a finger again i was sure
but in desperation i took it to a jeweler
begged them to fix it
and picked out a new stone.
A sapphire as blue as your eyes
mined by the bare hands of an Montanan woman in her fifties
a creative and independent art teacher like you.
And so i knew then it was fate
that stone in this ring
passed from one daring woman to another.


 I didn't take it off for a few years
and today it only fits my left ring finger
claimed now by another band
but even without it pressing cold against my skin
i feel our souls intertwined.
Mother and daughter we are
bound by blood, heart
and the small silver token of love you left me.

The Whole Soul

Last night we sat in a circle.
I and this room full of older women (and one man).
The chit chat of the early evening rolled
around in big blue waves,
menopause
and the AARP and for a moment,
I, feeling quite alien
looked down at the floor
in nervousness, in shame.
I hurried to catch my breath,
having run late once again.
In the car I inhaled a grocery store sandwich
 picked up on the way and my
pulse having long since quickened with the thought of tardiness.
I studied my green and blue plaid
ballet flats,
the veins poking out of the tops of my feet indicating
a deep need for rest and then
Marcia lit the chalice
and I was sucked back into the room
and my breath slowed,
my pulse paced itself,
and the weight of my life dissipated.
In my exhale, the quick of a match,
the burst of flame, the space became, officially anyways,
sacred.

What in the hell am I doing here? I thought at first,
just as I do every week
but deep in the end of my pinkie toe,
I that knew besides with you,
resting here in this circle of women,
in the arms of all that is sacred and holy,
is where I belong.

Process theology was the talk of the evening
and buddhism, hinduism, and sufism.
Emerson, modernism and postmodernism too.
The Oversoul.
The Whole Soul.
The Whole world.
Everything in it including
you and I
wrapped up together into one giant,
sparkling,
web of life.

I don't get it, one woman kept saying and inside,
Inside I shook my head a little
Because I always seem get it,  deep in my bones.
For me it's easy,
in that circle we speak my favorite language and
if you listen close enough,
God is there.

I drove home in silence,
the smell of truck exhuast on the freeway unable
to dirty my thoughts and
up over the hills there to the West
the moon hung high in the sky like a small silvery white
eyelash
falling on some cheek of the world
holding us safe
and I felt God then
and thought of you.

Iris

Blue is the color of you.

Like water, the Puget Sound

all crystalline and endless shimmer. 

I remember driving up Highway 101 with you

the Sound to our left, east-like

a giant never-ending plate of glass

as cobalt and honorable as your eyes.

Funny sounding Native names 

like Chimicum

dotted the roadside and old pine 

firework stands sat rotting away in April's rain.

Almost to Port Townsend

a lake on the right, to the East where

hundreds of Canadian geese flocked 

and flew 

and lived,

and here a place

you found joy.

I remember when you made this discovery

how excited you were

and we drove there together

and we watched them fly in

great aerial waves of white and silver and cerulean,

swarming above, a great
silent blessing.

I never cared much about birds before,

let alone Canadian geese. But you had learned 

to love them then,

to see the beauty in their winged dance.
So too then, did I.

And then,
then you died...

and there they were.

Everywhere above me,

all of sudden it seemed the geese,

and the pidgeons, and

the seagulls and 

the blackbirds.

All of them

flew by me, in front of me,

around me and above me in large swoops and 

V formations and I wondered then what I know now,

was it a sign?

Maybe you were still nearby. 

Tonight I sat in the bathtub 

thinking about what a hard winter it's been.

Feeling slightly lost, confused

and alone.

I wasn't thinking about you right then,

not really. I was reading 

one of my many dozen poetry anthologies

and I came across this poem

and then I thought of those Canadian geese

and of birds

and of you

and I felt again like I do whenever I see 

them flying above me, that 
maybe you are here somewhere after all, 

taking away my breath
and guiding me home...

Not Swans

by Susan Ludvigson

I drive toward distant clouds and my mother's dying.

The quickened sky is mercury, it slithers

across the horizon. Against the liquid silence,

a V of birds crosses-sudden and silver.

They tilt, becoming white light as they turn, glitter

like shooting stars arcing slow motion out of the abyss,

not falling.

Now they look like chips of flint,

the arrow broken.

I think. This isn't myth-

they are not sings, not souls.

Reaching blue 

again, they're ordinary ducks or maybe

Canadian geese. Veering away they shoot 

into the west, too far for my eyes, aching

as they do.

Never mind what I said

before. Those birds took my breath. I new what it meant.

February 18th...

is, or should I say, was, my great aunt Larry's birthday. She was my grandmother's sister and died at least a decade ago; I can't really remember now. She lived in Chicago all of her adult life in an apartment with her brother, who has also long since passed, and waited tables almost until the day she died. She was in her late seventies when she passed, I think due to complications from a stroke. I can't remember what year this was' all I can seem to recall how sad my mom was. She and Aunt Larry had always been close as my mom didn't always get along with her mother very well. At the time of Aunt Larry's death, my grandmother had recently lost her husband of many decades to a heart attack and was suffering from early-stage Alzheimer's. After Aunt Larry died, a few years later, my mom too. And then, three years after the death of her second daughter, both of her children having died in automobile accidents, my grandmother, then sufferning from late stage Altziemers, exhaled her last raspy breath and let death come too.


Today all that remains of this side of my family is my brother and I. Neither my Aunt Larry or her and my grandmother's brother had children or families of their own. My mom's birthday is the day after Aunt Larry's and i twas only after both of them had died that I could remember who's birthday was the eighteenth and who's was the nineteenth. In any event, tomorrow is Aunt Larry's birthday and Friday would have been my mom's 57th birthday. It's strange to think that it's been several years now since she died, and that I've almost gotten used to her being gone most of the time. It's strange to think about those months and years where thoughts of what I imagined in my mind the accident to have been like and of her last living thoughts were all that invade my mind most every waking minute. It's strange to think that I have gotten used to seeing little things ten thousand times a day that remind me of her and it's strange that when one of my regular customers who has hair that looks just like my mom's did comes in, that I do a double take to this day and stare at her from behind when she's not facing my directions for minutes on end.


At church there is always a big bouquet of flowers at the front of the sanctuary that differs from week to week. Congregants donate these flowers in memory or celebration of loved ones and a note is put in the order of service sharing who the flowers are for. This Sunday I will be bringing a giant bouquet of tulips in memory of my mom. I wasn't sure of what sort of flowers to bring, only thinking that I wanted them to be colorful because my mom was vibrant and lived life to it's outermost edges on most days her body existed. A friend suggested tulips, reminding me of how in high school my mom ordered 500 tulip bulbs and planted them in our front yard, creating a floral sea people from all over the neighborhood would walk by at dusk to stand for several minutes and admire the beauty before them.


My mom had a way about things; beautiful things. She loved and appreciated beauty in all it's forms... and I like to think I inherited this from her.  She saw the beauty in everyday things, big and small, and was beyond gifted at being thankful for these things and for being in the moment and forcing those around her to be as well (I'm still working on mastering this). In the last five or so years of her life, just like the tulips she so loved, she bloomed so beautifully that to those of us who knew or came in contact with her, it was blinding at times. She continued doing the things she had always done to make the world a more beautiful place such as gardening and volunteering and baking for friends and painting and singing in the community choir and teaching art to children and sailing to troubled teenage boys... but she did even more. She moved to a new town, in a new state. And she made new friends; a lot of them. She danced took up folk dancing and started soup dinners and play readings with her neighbors. She had boyfriends! She discovered after more than two decades of trying, how to love her autistic son in the ways that he needed and after years of strife, she became his best friend. While always having been a lover of learning and people, she became adventurous and courageous in a new way and it was here in this place of wild abandon and courage, that she found herself.


When I think about my mom being taken so suddenly and so violently from the life she so loved, and from us, the people who so loved her, I truly do believe that she was at peace with the world. Yes she had her frustrations, things she was unhappy about or annoyed with, but she had found that place that so many of us spend our lives searching for; that place off deep inner peace and solace and happiness that cannot be budged or eroded but unhappy occurances or circumstances. She had become that woman who walked into a room and people gravitated towards. She had become the person she was put on the planet to be after years in an unhappy marriage and a career which brought her more frustration than joy. I tell myself that because of this, because of the fact that she had become so self-actualized, it was okay in some respects for her to go. She had succeeded in making the world a better place and she had found inner peace and joy in doing so.


My mom had one sibling. A sister named Gail. When Gail was twenty one she was killed in a car accident; just like my mom was at fifty. A lot of times I worry this will be my fate too.  My mom never talked of Gail and when she died, I remember telling someone that I would always talk of my mom and never let her memory die like she had with Gail. But I don't talk about her really. There are only a few souls on the planet but with whom I broach the subject of my mother, probably because it is the most precious subject in the world for me. I have this fear I think that when I talk about her, little pieces of her that I have held onto so tightly with all my being, might escape my grip and I will lose her. 


On Friday Ro is taking me out to dinner. I think I will have a piece of cake for desert in celebration of my mom and maybe toast to her and all the many gifts, in addition to life, that she has given me. I will think about her wearing that sweatshirt she loved dearly that embarrassed me endlessly as a teenager; a sweatshirt that said, "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty." I hope that if you are lucky enough to still have your mom nearby, or a phone call or email away, for my mom's birthday and for me, you will tell them how much you love and appreciate them or at some point in your day Friday, practice a random act of kindness in memory of my dear old mom. 


Namaste.

February 16th, 2000 and ten.

Just another Tuesday morning at Richmond Manner...

Breakfast...

Yoga Pants...

A dog and his friend...

Jewelry, perfume, chocolate...

My favorite green bowl. 

It's February already, and almost halfway through this funny month of differing days. I'm sitting at a coffee shop in the hills far from home thinking about spring coming. Last week we saw a few days of sun and as much as I expound to hate the heat, the warmth on my skin felt good. It felt fresh and new and exciting. It felt like something thick and heavy had been lifted and it brought a sense of hope, a sense of faith in the goodness and the transformative power of a season's change. One of my customers who's garden is the stuff Better Homes and Gardens magazine spreads are made of told me of some sort of bulbs coming up in his garden. Around town, little spots of green can be seen poking out through the soil, ready to brave another year. I have retired my wool jackets for the season mostly and purchase a lovely lightweight grey number than just might be one of my favorite jackets ever a few weeks back. So I will try to relish this time. These few months when every day's weather is a suprise sometimes even from hour to hour, and not try to think about the depression that is sure to follow when the weather goes from cool and sunny to just plain hot. Hot and sticky. Last summer had some hot, most miserable days and I spent several nights sitting in a bathtub of cold water trying like hell, and in vein, to cool off even just a bit.


The thought of days like these make me want to move north somewhere, anywhere. I don't remember Portland ever being humid before and last year it just seemed to feel sticky most of the time. Gone were the 75 degree days of my childhood, to be replaced by temperatures over ninety on many days, humidity dripping heavily in the air. In any event, here I sit in my new grey jacket enjoying a hot americano and looking out the window at little bursts of pink popping up on the tips  of tree branches across the street. Yes, today, I will just try to look out the window at today and not worry about last year or the coming summer or anything of the sort. Instead I will focus on this exact moment as it happens, on the dogs walking by outside, the folky Natalie Merchant song I've never heard creeping from the speaker above me, the heat radiating from the fireplace next to me, and the quiet, calm company of a room full of strangers. May you take some time to do the same.


Namaste.

Cool Blue Her

Sometime after you lost your best friend

and I mine

I tried to step in but

my feet were never able to come close to being

big enough

to fill your mamma's shoes.

Sometimes

after she died

we'd go out and eat pizza

I'd buy

you'd eat

and I'm fairy certain our thoughts

floated along the same stream together

silently.

Sometimes

on barren holidays

we'd drive out to Dad's house

I'd read

you'd eat

and I'm farily certain our thoughts

would fly then too

along an even purple skyline together

silently.

Sometimes

on your birthday

I'd bake cookies

and bring you Captain Crunch

knowing all the while,

these thing never tasted so good

as when they were passed

from her weathered hands

to yours.

Now I work mornings

and you nights

the times we commune

few and far between

and the strained, sometimes phone calls

scream silently of a

shared loneliness on either end.

So I don't call much

I don't write often

I visit rarely

and if it's true what they say,

if actions speak louder than words

then

I don't love you.

Hear me when I beg with

this written whisper,

don't be fooled by

my cowardly inability to jump

deeply

into loving anymore.

In truth, I lay alone in the dark often

my thoughts

wondering about

you.

And so I just want to say

that I love you,

love you deeply and

that unfortunately

I also love quite 

quietly.

When we lost our cheerleader

I grew scared

to love

even you,

to love especially you,

the only other one left

the one who reminds me most

of that cool blue her.

By Mary Oliver...

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
to save the only life you could save.

Today...


I went to breakfast with a fairly new, albeit very good friend of mine. We told each other funny stories and talked of our self-doubts over coffee (me) and diet Coke (her)... and then as good friends do, reassured each other of our good-enough-ness. I ate runny poached eggs with potatoes and lots of salt and toast with jam, she an egg white omelet, hold the cheese, with veggies and dry toast. This probably helps explain why at almost the same height, I am carrying several dozen more pounds than she. Truth be told, while I sometimes lament the fact that I'm not thinner, I kind of like the curve of my hips the slim of my waist and the fullness of my breasts.



I sat next to another woman named Emily at church this morning after breakfast. We have just very recently befriended each other and I learned today that this Emily has, I think, two sons and grew up Unitarian as well. Emily cries most weeks at church. Sometimes she cries during the music, sometimes during the readings, sometimes during the sermons. It seems to me that she must be carrying around a lot of pain and hopefully, joy too around inside of her to have so many emotions so very close to the surface. Or maybe she is just so courageous that she is able to let her emotions be what they will instead of hiding them away from the world like I so often do. Whenever I go to the antique mall, one of my favorite places to get lost in, I see little fancy embroidered handkerchiefs and I think of Emily. I think next time I go, I will buy a few for her.



After church I went to a coffee shop and did the Sunday crossword puzzle. I almost completed the whole thing! There's an equal level of satisfaction and frustration that comes with doing well on a crossword puzzle but not completing it entirely. Sadly, I can count on one hand the number of times I have completed one. However, I have faith that if I continue to do them, someday I will be as good at them as my mom was, and as good at them as her mom was.



After coffee I went to Target. While there to buy toilet paper and face wash, I came out with a few more items than were on my list. I purchased Boots Bergamot bubble bath which came in a glass jar and a lovely gray nightgown and matching robe. I'm lounging in them as we speak. After Target, I went to New Seasons and got lots of fruit, apple-cabbage salad, and of course, for those days when my job makes me want to throw in life's towel, chocolate hazelnut gelato.



When I got home, I put away the groceries, did some dishes and cleaned up the kitchen a bit. I will do a few loads of laundry, and maybe if I'm feeling really ambitious, brush little Shumbi's teeth tonight before bed. I would give him a bath too, but I just scrubbed the shower walls and well, I don't feel like doing it all over again today.



Surprisingly, today has been the first day in weeks when being home alone feels more like solitude than loneliness. Slowly but surely, I'm trying to get a hold of this being-on-my-own thing and I'm hopeful that as time goes by, I will get more used to the silence that constantly surrounds me, the extra responsibilities that come with being the sole person in a household, the sole owner of a pet, and that this hollow, endless aching to be near another person will diminish a bit. I'm trying my damnedest to stay focused on those great conversations with friends like those I had at breakfast this morning, those connections I make with new people like Emily at church that spawn the web of my life just a little bit broader, and better recognize the quiet, silent times as opportunities for appreciating all the blessing I do have and meditating on the things that I would like for my life in the future. I hope that some point in your day today, or sometime this week... that sometime on a regular basis, you too are able to find time to be in silent solitude and quiet, peaceful reflectiveness, letting if even for a few moments, what will be, be.

Namaste.

I was sitting at my desk today, trying to write something, anything, and coming up with what seemed like ten thousand starts and ten thousands pieces that went nowhere. If I had been writing by hand, the garbage can would have been full of crinkled up paper balls of frustration. At some point, my fingers slowed to a halt and rested themselves gently on top of the smooth, worn keys. It's insanely cold out today and for some reason, the world seems a little quieter on days like this and for a few moments I sat listening to the silence, and then you came to me. I settled into this place for a while and tried to let other thoughts come to me, tried to let ideas spring to my fingertips so that I could produce something, anything of remote value but just like the many other times I sit down to write about the world, my mind insisted on racing wildly in thoughts of the past, thoughts of you.

Sometimes I think about the last Thanksgiving we shared together, the one where you made salmon for yourself and a turkey for Oliver and I even though you had recently decided to become a vegetarian. I found myself thinking about this today. I loved that little carriage house you were renting with it's exposed wood beams and wall to wall, waist to ceiling height windows in the kitchen looking out over your glorious garden. Isn't it funny how I can remember sitting at that old dining room table of grandpas with you and Oliver like it was yesterday yet can't even seem to remember my own name half the time these days. God that house was so cosy and warm and I remember I would always pick one end of the couch and curl up with that blue and purple striped fleece blanket of yours. I would sit snuggled up for what would seem like hours doing absolutely nothing and not be bored. Occasionally we would chat about this or that, and occasionally I would rouse myself up for a game of scrabble or some of your homemade apple pie, but I would also spend a lot of my time visiting you settling in to silence. I miss this. I miss your company and your voice and your words and your wisdom and your love more than I've ever missed anything in my life, but I also miss your silent presence; the way I could be with you for hours and days and not have to say a single word if I didn't feel like it. I miss you telling me from a small age that I saw the world in a way that was quite different from a lot of people and that I had an artist's eye. I miss you understanding that my vision is one of peace and love for the world and not of simple naivete like so people have and continue to accuse me of. I miss your shared belief in the universal salvation of all souls; the belief in the goodness and godliness of people.



And so these are the things I was thinking earlier today as my fingers came to a slow stop and I sat quitely listening, looking at the things in the room around me. On the shelf to my left, your father's record collection. And on the floor beside me, family photo albums chronicling a family intact, years of happiness and wholeness; time's long since gone now. I looked up onto the shelves in front of me and saw the birdhouse you painted and used as a mailbox at the house on Tillamook street. I saw the linoleum block print of of your face that you made when you did a sort of Andy-Wharhol-eske art project with your students. And I saw your old phone book, the black one that looks like an old rotary dail on the front.

It's so cold here today that they, whoever they are, are saying that it's supposed to get down to fifteen degrees tonight. Fifteen degrees! I can't ever remember it being this cold here. It reminds me the stories you told me once about when you and dad lived in an apartment in college with no furniture and no heat. How you went to a wood shop class at the local community college where other students where making mailboxes and bird feeders and how you and dad made a couch! How Grandma Lau came to visit you and being unable to snuggle up on the blanket that you guys studied under to keep warm, bought you a space heater. I remember you telling me how your one luxury during those years was buying a newspaper and a coffee and doughnut to share every Sunday. I've never known a life like this and so in this way, my life and yours were/are quite different... except for the fact that you saw the world in the same way I do, with an artist's eye. Save for the fact that we shared a belief that the purpose of our existence was to leave the planet a better place than it was when we arrived on it. Save for the fact that life needn't be spoken of between us most of the time because their was always a common underlying set of shared beliefs and viewpoints and understandings. Save for the fact that you loved me more than I will probably ever comprehend and for the fact that I loved and adored and admired and respected you and still do. Save for the fact that you and I, we were family in every single sense of the word.

I know it's silly that I have this dumb little blog that nobody reads and that nine times out of ten, when I try to write something about the world, it always turns into something about you, something for you, something to you. I suppose this means I refuse to be done with you yet. You left me and this world quite suddently many years ago now, and I still can't seem to let you go completely. I'm sure I never will. So I sit at my desk swaddled in silence on cold winter days and write letters to you even though I know you aren't there and won't ever be there to read them... but yet and still, you are the one that my fingers always seem to end up typing about. You. You, you, you. For me, it will always and forever be a most blessed life thanks to a most amazing you.

A few things...

Apple pie. Copper sink. Curly hair. Flowers. Grapes on the vine. Swing sets. Green gate. Beagle. Piano. Grandma. Pottery. Stencil. Fingernails. Wood floors. Fireplace. Chocolate cake. Tea parties. Hats. Roller skating. Camping. Ocean. Sand. Rain. Fall. Painting. Kitchen cabinets. Driving. Friends. Soup dinner. Play readings. Wooden boats. Twirling. Compost. Quiet. Pesto. Salad dressing. Bagels. Salmon. Knitting. Drawing. Charcoal. Pen & ink. Mixed media. Watercolor. Washing machine. Bug. Waving. Scarves & hats. Kayak. Bridges. Mountains. Views. Snow. Sledding. Corn dog nuggets. Dusk. Crossword puzzle. Scrabble. Kosh. Arguments. Glass door. Wall of art. Sketching. Doodle. Cordless phone. Vaseline lotion. Vegetarianism. Small towns. Birdbath. Christmas lights. Rocking chairs. Front porch. Ice cream bowls. Books. Mystery. Masterpiece Theatre. Clue. Sorry. The Un-Game. Pistachio pudding. Old people. Grandpas. Choir. Claw foot bathtub. Volkswagen van. Road trip. Tijuana. Florida. California. Oaxaca. Beaverton. Grand Canyon. Four Corners. Seattle. Port Townsend. Fireworks. Christmas carols. Ocean. Mothers. Daughters. Families.

...that remind me of you...

Namaste

The sun has risen for the day and even though it's cloudy and the skies are gray, I'm sure it's out there somewhere. It's still dark in my house. I've made a French press of Ethiopian coffee, the are curtains drawn, and am sitting by lamplight. Shumbi is curled up near by taking a rest after the past hour or so of chasing a fly around the living room. Last night I went for a long walk around North Portland with a friend and I discovered soon into our stroll that a light sweatshirt and rain jacket were not enough to keep the cold and the wind out. A few miles into our trek, the muscles in my legs began to cramp up in protests, yelling at me for being so foolish. It was at this moment that I realized we are really in this cold, dark, damp quiet for many months now, that fall and that Oregon, have indeed re-arrived.

Autumn has always been my favorite season and I have my favorite trees around the neighborhood that are almost exploding with colors bursting from their branches out into their leaves and finally floating down gently into piles on the sidewalk and parking strips. I love that I get to wear wool socks again, big cozy sweaters, and eat soup for dinner any time I am so pleased. And even though it is a season of dying, if feels every year for some reason, like coming home again. It is when I think about my family most and feel most domestic. It is when I want to cook on Sundays and bake on Mondays and smother Shumbi with endless hugs and kisses on every other day. I would give just about any worldly possession I own, or the whole lot of them, to have a fireplace to sit and read by. This, in my book, would be really living.

In a few weeks the leaves that haven't already withered up and died will have done so, and the trees will stand stark and thin, ready to bravely face the storms that will come. The skies will be eternally gray and the rain will be coming down more often than it will not. And it seems that every year at this time, no matter how much I try to fight it, the gratitude and joy I feel with the coming of fall, melts too easily away at the realization that painful anniversaries and the holiday season is quickly approaching and my heart will begin to ache a little harder than normal for awhile. It's the time of year I relieve many horrible moments including getting the worst phone call of my life, when I can hear myself over and over again in my head screaming like I have never screamed before, "what are you talking about, what are you talking about?!" It's the time of year when I think about going through my mom's sock drawer and throwing those without mates away, putting nice ones in a box for goodwill, and keeping a few pairs for myself. It's the time of year I think about my brother suddenly losing his only true friend in the world and my father sobbing uncontrollably when he saw pictures of his first love at her friends house a few days after my her death. It's also the time of year I feel most connected to nature and the time of year I want to take care of people most and give them love in whatever way I can, and yet, the time of year when I feel painfully abandoned by all that I once knew as good and safe and home.; the time of year when I most want someone to take care of me. This year, in an attempt to counteract the sad thoughts and empty feelings of longing that always seem to wade into my heart during moments I least expect them, I've decided rather than spend November and December quietly and miserably mourning, I'm going to make every effort to expend any extra energy I have left after work to doing things for other people and not being as self-involved as is apparently in my nature. My church is hosting a day shelter for homeless families and if I can swing it with my work schedule, I hope to be a homework helper to some of the kids from these families and one Sunday soon, hope to be able to pull out my mom's scone recipe and serving platters and make a giant brunch for these families.

Fall signifies not only a season of dying, but also a time of reflection and of change. It is the time of year when many of us think back over the previous year and ponder what we have or have not accomplished, what we have learned, and most especially, what we would like to change about our lives in the future. This year, I find myself feeling changed inside quite significantly. This was the year that I after many years of hopeless searching and frustration as to what path to take in life, have found my passion and my purpose. It has been thrilling and heart warming and comforting and feels like coming home to the place I was always supposed to be. And yet, having made this discovery, it is terrifying as well because now that I know what it is I'm supposed to be doing with my life, I have to actually do it and this is going to take a giant, actually many giant, dollops of courage and willpower on my part. To be honest, I'm scared in a way that I've never been scared before. I feel as if I'm about to put any potential I think I might have to the test; that I'm about to jump headfirst into the ocean and don' t even know if I can swim. I'm curious as to next fall, what I will have learned on my journey and where I will be finding myself if I do indeed follow the advice of Emerson and obey thyself.

Often we find ourselves having to deal with unexpected change, unwelcome change and fall signals a time of year when some of us try to make peace with these changes. I have several friends right now in the midst of unexpected life changes from new living situations, the breakup or sudden growth of relationships with a partner, friendships that are painfully withering away, to loss of income. What I have learned in this past year the most, is the one thing that I find myself continuing to learn year after year and that is that we aren't really every completely alone in our struggles and our joys. Chances are, someone we know, or someone they know, may be going through life changes and circumstances that relate quite well to our own. It is only in honesty and frankness and a willingness to connect with other people and desire find blessings in the good and bad parts of our lives, that we can find peace. If there is one phrase that rings truer than all others in my life, it is that one cannot change the past. What is done is done. What will be will be. Change is indeed inevitable and bad things do indeed happen to good people. Life is a journey and a struggle and less often a joyride. If this then is true, the only opportunity we have at finding happiness, is to understand that there is something to be learned from everything in life, that there are indeed blessings amid sorrow, that we are all in this together, and that if we follow what our innermost voice tells us to do, we will usually come out on top. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "Trust thyself. Every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place that the divine Providence has found for you; the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events." Trust thyself. Trust thyself. Trust thyself, and accept your place in the world. It is only when we stray from these things, when we cannot accept and be who we are amid what feel a world of critics, and when we are angry or bitter about our place in the world, that life becomes a endless, miserable chore instead of a joy and a blessing.

I have decided I am going to try to spend this next year working towards the place I feel the Divine Providence has found for me, no matter how scary it may seem, and be thankful for it. Yes, I am mostly miserable in my job as it is, but there are many many blessing to be found there and these things are what I must stay focused on. I know that many who know me think this sudden surge of religion and faith in my life signals insanity or don't understand who I am becoming, but I will continue to do and speak about and focus on all that concerns me, and not worry about what other people may think. As Emerson said, every true man is indeed a cause and I will be mine. And I hope that you who are reading this spend this season of change and reflection thinking about how you will do the same and not forget that to which your life is committed.

Namaste.

And another thing...

It's four 4:51am...
...I like it this time of day; it makes me feel like I have a secret place I go to while the rest of the world sleeps. I like that it's quiet and calm and there is enough space to be in the world, and think about being in the world at the same time without having to just go, go go. I like to walk the dog just before dusk when the world is coming alive and drink coffee out of a mug while I stroll.

...One of my employees texted me a stupid question at 4:10am this morning. I would like to fire her for having this little consideration for me and my work-life balance.

... Fall is my favorite season. It feels the most like home and makes me want to sit in front of a fire all bundled up and eat tomato soup and grilled cheese all day. It also makes me miss home and important people most dearly and makes me want to go back in time.

...I've been reading an exceptional amount lately. I think my brain is craving some sort of intellectual activity other than that I partake in at work. I count the days until payday each week so that I can buy a new book. Two more days...

...My friend is a stay at home mom. She has a blog about her life with the kid and husband and dog and it bursts at the seams with love and happiness and contentment. Growing up, I always thought my life at 29 would be exactly what hers is and today, it seems a world away. I can't begin to understand what it must be like live in her shoes and I often feel like we are living on completely different planets. I think she is really living... and I am just surviving.

...My life's secret dreams: to paint a mural on the side of a building; to be a documentary filmmaker; to have a giant tree surrounded by birds tattooed up my side; to ride a tandem bicycle from Canada to Mexico or from Portland, OR to Portland, ME; to own a bakery or cafe called Quaint with my best pal; to be in the roller derby and wear fishnets; to be a published author; to wake up and know how to play the guitar without having to actually have to learn how to do this; to have my own line of stationary; to live in a fully restored craftsman bungalow; to be able to finish the Times crossword puzzle on Sunday; to not be so thoroughly exhausted all of the time that I can do something about making even one of these dreams a reality...

...Sometimes I think I need to get my head out of the clouds and face reality. Often times I think I would be happier if I let my head spend more time in the clouds.

...I know that I am better than my job. That I am not entirely capable of all it entails, and yet entirely capable of so much more. I wish my customers, employees... and the rest of the world did too.

...I just bought the most delicious loose-leaf earl grey tea from New Seasons. Last night for dinner I had two mug-fulls with honey and I'm craving more right now.

...It's 5:06am... on my day off... and I've been up for several hours now. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to not live with constant, sleep-denying anxiety.

... I am coveting a fancy pair of ladies outdoor roller skates. I desperately want to be that crazy lady in St. Johns who people see cruising around town on her flashy skates and laugh at. I think in a few months, you would be able to bounce a coin off my ass if I made this dream into a reality.

...but then again, let's be honest; I was never one who was too concerned about the state of my glutes.

...Shumba is snoring loudly right now. Sometimes when he is curled up in his little bed I wish it were bigger and I could crawl in with him. Sometimes I just lay on the floor next to him and rub his belly and he purrs like a cat.

...If I could go away to seminary tomorrow and be ordained in not too many years from now, I would do it in a heartbeat. I am excited beyond belief to get this chapter of my life started, and saddened beyond words because it means not knowing if or when I might ever return to Oregon again. I don't think any place will ever feel truly like home to me. I love it here.

...I don't dream about fancy clothes or red-soled heels; I dream about having a pair of Jack Purcells' in every color of the rainbow. This would equal happy happy, joy joy.

...I'm a much better friend than I am family member. This keeps me up at night.

...Golf is a game, not a sport and mushrooms are a fungi, not a food.

...I'm actually feeling like visitng with that big gray box in the living room now. I wonder if Project Runway is on...

Words to live by...

"I must be myself. I can not break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I must be myself. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. I will so trust that what is deep is holy, that I will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever inly rejoices me, and the heart appoints. If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritial attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions: I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and have dwelt in lies, to live in truth... if we follow the truth, it will bring us out safe at last."

" When good is near you, when you have life in yourself- it is not by any known or appointed way; you shall not see the face of man; you shall not hear any name- the way, the thought, the good shall be wholly strange and new. It shall exclude all other being... We are then in vision... The soul is raised over passion. It seeth identity and eternal causation. It is percieving that Truth and Right are. Hence it becomes a tranquility out of the knowing that all things go well. Vast spaces of nature; the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea; vast intervals of time, years, centuries, are of no account. This which I think and feel, underlay that former state of life and circumstances, as it does underlie my present, and will always all circumstance, and what is called life, and what is called death."
"God is here within."

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Message to Mom

When I think of you, you look just like you do in this picture; curly gray hairs flying about in every direction, tanned skin, and small wrinkles around your eyes. Your teeth were perfectly straight, your nose thinner than my own, and your lips, full and shaped like mine. Your fingertips were slightly pointed (I got Dad's), legs any woman would die for, and a slight droop of the chin that had come with age. All together, you really were quite beautiful I think. You were one of those who aged gracefully and looked lovely with your halo of silver curls. I couldn't wait to see you as an old woman because you wanted to be rebellious and grow your hair long; wear it in a bun you said. Remember when you came to visit me in college and I flat ironed your hair?! Your head looked like a gumdrop. The next day you took my friends and I ultimate sledding on Mt. Hood and on the way home we stopped at A&W an ate corn-dog nuggets and root beer floats. They thought you were so cool.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm throwing myself a party this weekend and will be spending the day tomorrow with my two favorite women on this earth. It's supposed to be a happy day, and it will be I'm sure, but really I'm sure I will spend this birthday, just like every other, wading around in thoughts of you.

Tomorrow is my birthday and there's nobody to bake me a cake these days; not one made with as much love as you used in any event. Friends of mine; amazing, close friends you have never met but would love, tease me endlessly about my sweet-tooth. They don't know that just like my entire being, this love of sugar is a creation of your own doing. The pies aren't as fun to bake anymore and the candies aren't as sweet to eat without you to enjoy them with.

Tomorrow is my birthday and all I really want in the whole entire world, is to spend it with you. Instead I will try to distract myself with the amazing people in my life who love and care for me incredibly, but I will be thinking about that little white house in NE you took me home from the hospital to. About how I was born during my favorite season and was almost two weeks late; about the breakdown you had at a restaurant a few weeks before I was born when you couldn't fit into the booth they tried to seat you at. About how I was born just before dusk, my favorite time of day. About the checkerboard cakes you used to make me every year with M&Ms on top. About birthday parties at Grant Swimming Pool or Oaks Park. About that birthday sleepover in the fifth grade that went horribly wrong. About the pictures of me as a baby in your arms shortly after I was born. About you helping me move away to college on my 18th birthday and about how surprised I was when you had tears in your eyes as we said goodbye.

Really what I'm feeling, is that I wish it was Thursday and that my birthday didn't really happen at all because all I can think about is how I wish I was spending tomorrow with you. Thank you for birthing me and for having been my mom. Thank you for allowing me to be here and be so blessed and for helping me to become the person I am. Thank you for leading by example and in your last years here, showing me what true courage looks like by jumping right out of your own unhappiness into a future that at the time, was unknown. Thank you for showing me the importance of following one's heart and inner voice before all else and for being so creative, and generous, and nurturing to those around you. Thank you for always siding with the underdog, for fighting for what you believed in and for learning to love yourself first. I hope to someday be half the woman you were. And I suppose last but not least, on the eve of yet another birthday, I just want to say thank you for this glorious life and for having been you.