Soggy-Footed and Full-Bellied

Shrooms.

This is the time of year I love the most. I love the leaves, the arrival of the rains, pumpkins, and the excuse to drink hot tea all day long. But mostly, I love the mushrooms. I like the secrecy of mushroom hunting, that it gives me an excuse to go out by myself, at odd times of day, and in the middle of the week. I love the excitement of finding a blooming cluster, knowing that my hiking hasn't been in vain. I love the necessary days of cooking, mushroom tacos, soups, and delicate sauces, the small of drying fungi permeating the kitchen. This part of the season appeals to the child in me, the little girl that likes surprises, scavenger hunts, and still believes in the magic of the forest. Each year I take the arrival of the mushrooms as proof that simple pleasures, small rewards, and things beyond my understanding and control are still alive and well in the world. 

You've gotta get it somewhere.

Of Standing In One's Pot

Unfurl.

There is no amount of pushing, cajoling, denial, or even hard work that can release us from life's inevitable periods of waiting. Regardless of our drives, passions, ambitions or even needs, the world seems bent upon a period of patience. Gratification, recognition, success, healing, justice, always require a pregnant pause in their unfurling. The stuff of life seems to me not so different from my tomatoes. It would be easy for me to discount them, point out how little sun they get, how small they still seem even this early in the season, how one leans dangerously to one side in spite of its staking. I could declare, already, their foreseeable failure.

But I would be wrong. In spite of my insistence on their stationary stature, they are undeniably on the move. There is no ignoring their new stems or the sudden appearance of flowers, a sure sign of fruit to come. It is my impatience that sees their flaws. I want to make it happen sooner. I want to conjure tomato. But it is no longer in my hands. In the beginning, I had influence. I placed them carefully in their pots, fed them, and staked them up as they began to droop under heavy spring rains. Now though, I have, for a period, done all I can do. It is up to me now to stand in my pot, and wait.

  

Magic and Fairy Tales

Fairies.

I remember unicorns and flying dogs and Hobbits and dancing tin men.

I remember aliens on flying bicycles, tiny green gurus, and David Bowie,

I remember Tinkerbell, dancing brooms, and psychedelic elephants.

I remember downtrodden princesses, knights in shining armor and evil stepmothers.

I remember Easter Bunnies, workshop elves, and teeth turned into silver dollars.

I remember sly foxes, cross-dressing wolves, and billy goats gruff.

I remember talking owls, roller skating bears, and crime fighting ninja turtles.

I remember sparkling lights, beautiful gowns, and ethereal singing.

I remember that flying is possible, transformation probable, and true love always winning.

I remember believing.

Photograph from the Lane Community College performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream April 2014

Fresh Starts

Seeds.

The garden starts are in. Even though the fog still wraps around the house and and the sun is still too low in the sky to quite reach through the trees, what little sun there is, the starts are in the ground. They stand at weary attention in their too-large pots, waiting for the sun, for rain, for the long light of summer days. I too, stand rooted in my pot, waiting to break through.

Do not be fooled by our apparent stillness. From the inside there is great movement occurring, a minute and constant dance. Roots reach, stalks thicken, leaves inexorably unfurl. With time, there will be a bloom and a harvest. Just wait.

And this, from Girl Gone Wild, the proposal for which is going out this week. So please, if you read, share, repost, or retweet. Be a root.

Weight.

It is 6 am and I am sitting on the front stoop of my apartment with my hiking boots on waiting for a a guy I met at a bicycle event in a local brewery two days earlier. I am newly single, in my late twenties, and living in Portland, This means that I am accustomed to brew pubs, bicycle boys, and first dates that involve hiking. The six am is new. But this man seems nice, and has a long history of mountaineering and rock climbing, and wants to get an early start. In my mind I have chalked this up to being “hard core”. I also want to be “hard core” and also prove to my ex that I can still have outdoor adventures without him. Especially with men more hard core than himself. I figured that mountain climber beat kayaker and hiker any day. Besides, its going to be a beautiful sunny Saturday in late summer, the trails will be packed if we don’t get an early start, I quietly reason with myself, he’s just being practical.

We have chosen a hike called Angels Rest, aptly named for the spectacular view of the Columbia River Gorge from the rocky crag at the top of the trail. It is a moderate day hike, five miles with a steep climb over the loose rock of a crumbling basalt flow. When we arrive at the trail head we grab our mostly empty backpacks, containing little more than water and a light lunch and head out of the parking area. At the trail head he stops saying, “Hold on, I need to grab some weight.” And he reaches down and starts loading softball sized chunks of basalt into his pack. “I really want to stay in shape for my next ascent.” He says, barely looking up as he continues to shove rocks into his pack. Great, I think. This guy is nuts.

A Long Moment

Slide.

More than a week after the massive landslide in Oso, Washington relatives and search crews are still digging. They are no longer looking for survivors, though you can see the pain of not-yet-faded hope on their faces and hear the words "rescue and recovery" still lingering on their lips. Even so, they keep digging. For lost relatives, pets, pieces of home, or just to have something to do, a kind of agency in the face of natural happenstance. There is little being found in the big dig. Instead, events like these remind us of just how very small we are in comparison to the larger natural world, that no amount of engineering will ever really purchase us the control of nature.

What is emerging though, is a picture of the last moments, an elderly couple reading the paper on the couch before having their home swept 100 feet towards the river, the husband digging out to safety, but unable to reach his wife, contractors out of Seattle, just working for a day, that never returned home. And a landslide with its own character, with it's own story to tell. As data is compiles and evaluated the slide itself takes shape. An example; seismic data shows ground movement occurring in two distinct phases occurring within minutes of each other, two failures and two distinct deposits that are visible in the aerial photographs occurring within five minutes of one another. 

Five minutes between the first event and the second. I wonder about those minutes, the things that may have transpired. In time, we will get a picture of those minutes too, for whatever it is worth. For now, they dig.

Picture:

  http://www.pnsn.org/blog/2014/03/26/seismic-signals-generated-by-the-march-22nd-oso-landslide

To read more about the two-phase seismic signal from the landslide:

http://blogs.agu.org/landslideblog/2014/03/28/oso-mechanisms-1/

New Begininnings

Starts.

This week marks the convergence of the end of my winter projects and the beginning of my spring work. There are culminations, long rehearsed shows to perform and the end of classes. And there are new, hopeful steps forward like fresh paint on the walls and the annual turning of the garden beds. This year I find myself putting in more flowers, more early starts. Perhaps I am hopeful or in need of early signs of sun. These small steps though, these bright spots of color, they seem to fortify me. They give me grace on tired days and keep me looking forward, into new territory. I am glad for the putting in of roots and the pushing up of thin green shoots, reminders of my own possibilities.

Plant something and wait.

Picture:
www.rubygonewild.com

Unexpected Graces

Hope.

The last two weeks have been a blur of Kickstarter. Constant emails, updates, social media postings, readings, postering, thank you's, and worry have made for restless nights and the odd sensation of standing at the side of the internet with a sign reading "will write for food". Asking for backing, especially from friends and family has made me uneasy. I believe in this book and I believe that crowd funding is the future of publishing, but I really struggled with the idea of asking for money, especially at the beginning of the project.

Now though, now that I am past the 50% mark, now that backing is starting to come in from people other than those I know, people that just want to see the book be finished and published, or who support women writers, or that are avid outdoors people, I feel less dependent on people I know, and more likely to be successful.  I want to make the people in my life that have helped me proud.

That said, having the support from those people has also, to some extent, released me from the shadow of failure.  Their endorsements, and the overall support that has come in for both me and the project are quite humbling, and a true example of grace. Consider, for example, receiving backing from a young woman for whom you once nannied, with a note telling you how exciting the project is, or going to a ballet class to find that everyone in the room, instructor included is a backer, or having old high school friends surface with backing and expert advice.  It goes on.

The lesson here, for me, is that success comes in many forms. Now, regardless of the success or failure of the Kickstarter, I have the broad support from all corners of my life. I will be able to take all of this and use it to fuel the publication of Girl Gone Wild and my own passion for the project. What I have been given, is hope.

To Back the Project:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1731666363/girl-gone-wild-a-guide-to-being-a-woman-outside

Like the video's music? It's Black Magdalene, you can check them out here:
http://www.blackmagdalene.com/

Wait and Watch (III)

Feeder.

I love the simple act of hope that is the filling of a new bird feeder.  I love the idea of this modern ritual of offering, with no expectation of ownership or relationship.  There is something exciting about the anticipation of a new feeder.  I remember over the years the feeders at my parents house changing, morphing over time in accordance with their waxes and wanes of time, energy, and interest.  There were seeds for finches and sparrows, suet for nuthatches, chickadees and woodpeckers, and sweet nectar for hummingbirds.  Each feeder was carefully placed away from harm and visible from a window.  On sunny spring days my parents would finish their cup of coffee in silence, watching together the gathering of the neighborhood flock.  Now I too, sit and wait, watching for the world to notice my simple gift.

Photograph:

http://www.houzz.com/photos/1061657/Victorian-Birdhouse-Collection-eclectic-birdhouses-

Wait and Watch

Baleen.

Once a year, usually during the spring migration, my parents would take us to a high cliff edge on the Oregon coast to stand in the wind and rain of late winter and squint into the horizon looking for migrating Gray Whales.  This is a task not unlike to searching for a needle in a haystack.  The ocean is big, the whales comparatively small, and it is hard to picture what exactly it is that you are looking for.  Whale watching from shore generally consists of setting up on a bench with a blanket, a thermos of hot tea, and a pair of binoculars, and waiting.  Like other kinds of fishing, this can go on for some time.  Until someone sees a spout.  Then there is an eruption of activity, a bustling.  Pairs and family groups all gather and point themselves in the direction of the sighter and beginning the difficult task of explaining where something was, just a moment ago, in the ocean. If you are luck they are traveling in a tight pod, breathing often, and swimming fairly close to shore, if you are unlucky, you may always be looking someplace else the moment they rise up, always turning your gaze just a moment too late.

In recent years I have taken this pilgrimage upon myself, finding secluded perches where I can watch and wait in solitude.  That I would see the whales was something I took for granted, sure that enough waiting and the right intentions would always produce them.  This year, I brought a friend that had never been out to see the whales.  I had not seen her in some time, she has been struggling with sadness.  On the drive I was animated, describing how they travel along shore, in groups, sending up long streams of water, their backs and tails rising up out of the water.  I told her stories about whale watching as a kid, as an adult, folding it into a personal lore, wanting her to be excited, as though seeing the whales would be some kind of hope, a symbols of something good and powerful to come.

And then, nothing.  For hours, all we watched was the glassy blue of the ocean on a calm and sunny day.  Eventually, we turned and headed home, deflated.  Life does not always give us what we want and sometimes we have to look inside ourselves for our totems, our signs of hope.  Maybe next year.

Resources/References:

National Geographic Website on Gray Whales

http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/gray-whale/

Photo Courtesy of:

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/outposts/2009/12/gray-whalewatching-season.html

Neap Tide

Rain.

The rain drives.  The wind howls.  Inside fevers rage against a final flu, the last of the season arriving in the early days of spring.  Outside, an ambulance arrives to take away an elderly neighbor.  The mail stands in tall stacks, sorted and ignored.  There are probably bills in there, important, time dependent things that should be addressed.  A good friend calls to say her life is on fire, there is no help to offer her, only an ear, a nod, a gentle cooing.  

Life has a way of pressing itself upon us, flattening us down, stretching our time, patience, and good humor.  It is important in these times to remember that like the rain, they come in bands, great stretches of gray.  This is not the new state of things, there is no permanence in this malaise.  Like the rain, this too shall pass.

Listen:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tul8_l0eAHc

Photo Courtesy of:

www.rubygonewild.com

Musical Interlude

Weary.

Some days wear.  Sometimes we are rough around the edges and dusty-booted.  I think we feel this mostly acutely at the beginning and ends of cycles.  Time changes, seasonal shifts, new holidays; sometimes we look for something new and inspiring; sometimes we just need a break.  But often, every day just seems ordinary. I try to embrace these times, and find sweetness in the ordinary, the small daily things we do that in the end make up the real stuff of life.  We are all a long time traveling.

Do not trudge through the day.  Fill the morning with music.  Step out into the afternoon sun.  Dance.

Listen to the Wailing Jenny's Sing:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RobjISh1m4A

Post Secret

Shhhhhhh.

There is a hugely popular bog called PostSecret that is an ongoing public art project in which people submit secrets written on one side of a postcard.  A lot of the posts are funny, and most of them are visually interesting; until they aren't.  There are posts about abortions, rape, infidelity, and addiction, there are the kinds of awful things you cannot make up in the first place and then cannot get rid of after you see them.  Sometimes it is hard to tell if the post is from a true confessor in need of anonymous catharsis, or a thrill seeker pushing their fantasy onto a voyeuristic audience.  Every time I go to this blog I come away feeling a little dirty and depressed.  

I understand the compulsion towards confession, especially anonymous confession.  I think we all need the weight of our secrets, the actions of our past selves or the actions of others that we have suffered or witnessed, to be lifted, even momentarily.  But it is difficult to face the enormity of our collective hidden lives. The part of me that wants for people to be healthy and well reels from just how unhappy, dysfunctional, and cruel we really are.  I'm not sure that it makes me feel better to know that people feel badly about it.  

Candy Chang, a New Orleans-based public artist has taken a similar  but more positive and inspiring approach to confession as public art in several of her installations.  In Confessions, she prompted people to write confessions on posted slips of paper in a contemplative space inspired by Shinto shrines.  Her acknowledgement of the influence of both Shinto and Catholic concepts of confession in her work are what distinguishes it from PostSecret.  Confessions has none of the sensationalism, no feeling of desperation or attention grabbing that you find on Post Secret.  The result is far more profound and simple, and the tone of the confessions decidedly more positive.  It turns out that in a contemplative space people confess love in addition to loss.

Secrets are like anything else, to keep them carries a price and a weight.  There are lots of ways to unburden yourself and there are lots of people with secrets.  Consider letting go of one of yours.

References/Links:

Post Secret:

http://www.postsecret.com/

Confessions:

http://candychang.com/confessions/

Before I Die:

http://candychang.com/before-i-die-in-nola/

The Re-education of Little Miss

release.

In the art of trapeze, during a release, there is a moment in which the performer has to let go of the bar behind them and reach out to the thing in front of them. They float, suspended for a moment, before reaching out to grasp their new anchor. It’s the moment that the audience comes to see, to witness someone put themselves into that space of vulnerability and risk to emerge, whole and strong, on the other side. It’s an art based on the concept of looking forward, fearless, and letting go of what’s behind you. This is the moment in which I find myself. I think, I hope, that it’s a moment that will be embraced by increasingly more of us, as we struggle to redefine ourselves in this new climate, economy, and global community.

Real change, whether we seek it out or have it thrust upon us, requires us to embrace this moment of release, with all its fear, uncertainty, and aloneness, trust that we will be alright, and reach out for the things that make us whole.

Fly.

Raise Your Hand

faith.

A moment of prayer, joy, and hope, captured at the inaguration. A good reminder that now is the time for us to stand up and be counted. A reminder that we are all one voice, one helping hand, one foot soldier pushing towards a new way of being in the world. It is the actions of individuals that will steer the path of the masses.