Day 14:

Last year, while standing in the poetry aisle at the library seeking a new treasure to take home, I slid a book by William Stafford off the shelf and opened it to a random page, as is my habit.  I instantly fell in love with the first poem I saw. The book came home with me that day and has since been added to my own bookshelf.

The Way it Is
There's a thread you follow.  It goes among
things that change.  But it doesn't change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can't get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding.
You don't ever let go of the thread.

On Friday, I spent the afternoon with my friend John, who also happens to be my colleague and the best writing and tennis partner one could ever wish for.  And he makes me laugh. We had a lively adventure wandering through bank lobbies, exploring the Portland Police Museum, and enjoying a cocktail at the Lotus Cardroom and Cafe.  It definitely rivaled the fun of our last ramble through a cemetery. We talked a lot, because that's what we do. Half the time we know what the other will say next.  On the subject of this blog, as predicted, his first comment was, "I really wanted to edit it."  I just laughed.

There will always be a piece of me that wishes the writing here was perfect, because it's in my character to reshape the things I create until they become flawless. But that's not what this has been about. This has been about daring myself not to be perfect. About letting myself just be me no matter how silly it looks. And about giving myself the time, the adventure and the space to find my thread that somehow got buried under the weight of those who wanted me to be someone else.

And now it's time to don my sassy boots and head off to the theatre.  A perfect finale.

The end.

Day 13:

To earn my right to have a bacon maple Voodoo Donut for breakfast, I started the day with a longer than usual run through the woods along the river and under the train trestle.  I'm ever hopeful that a train will come. Because when it materializes from across the river, it's so strikingly dramatic to stand right underneath that mass of power as it passes overhead. It's almost as if it becomes a part of you. Unfortunately, I'm rarely indulged. The best timing I ever had was on my bike when I got to race the train for about a quarter of a mile before it veered off. It was exhilarating. And if nothing else, the engineer and I were both highly entertained.

Today's excitement was provided by the changing woods.  For the first time this year, spring was just asking to be noticed with hopeful buds of pink and yellow on the Oregon grape and new iridescent leaves sprouting out of the undergrowth, beginning to hide the dark cover of last fall's leaves. Even the moss seemed somehow brighter. The woods inspired me to check out the happenings in my yard, and I was pleased to find masses of snowdrops, crocuses starting up here and there, and a few flowers finally popping on my fragrant winter daphne which seems very reluctant to bloom this year. I refuse to think about the weeds I saw.

My favorite garden plants are always from friends because I love thinking about the gardener who shared them with me as I watch them grow.  My snowdrops started as one tiny clump almost 20 years ago, shared by a lovely volunteer at the Portland Opera who hand-wrote thank you letters to our donors. Each week when she came in, we would spend time talking about flowers and gardens. It's a happy memory. And the really fun part of the snowdrop chain is that she received them from a friend who originally dug them from the garden of John McLoughlin, of Hudson's Bay Company fame, also known as the Father of Oregon. 

Now I'm under no illusions that McLoughlin actually planted and cared for these flowers himself -- especially since the house was moved from its original location up onto a bluff in Oregon City in the early 1900s -- but I do love the coincidental connections and intriguing stories about how things come to be under our care, at least for a time.

Day 12:

For Heidi (and the other believers):

I love wildly imaginative people and how their ideas and creations bring an extraordinary kind of magic to the world -- a necessary kind of magic that makes things brighter and more daring. Children's books are always a fruitful place to find such wonder. So I decided to take a spin through the kids section of my bookshelves today in celebration of Dr. Seuss' birthday.

I found a book called The Fish that my dad gave me in 1971.  And Put Me in the Zoo, a favorite book from my grandma's house. Make Way for Ducklings of course.  And Where the Wild Things Are.  And the Story about Ping, the beautiful young duck who lived with his mother and his father and two sisters and three brothers and eleven aunts and forty-two cousins on the wise-eyed boat on the Yangtze river. All well-loved books that have been read and enjoyed many, many times over.

But the Dr. Seuss books shine the brightest of all.  They always did. Growing up, we made a beeline for the "S" shelf at the library, crossing our fingers that they wouldn't all be checked out. You could spot them from way across the room because the books were big and the spines were more radiant than the others. And it wasn't until years later that my mom announced that she never truly appreciated reading all of those Seuss books filled with constant tongue twisters and nonsense words.  But she was the kind of mom who did it because it was a "mom" thing to do.

I remember how these books made me feel. How the Cat in the Hat shocked me with his spectacularly unruly messes. And how the Lorax made me sad as he tried in vain to save the wonderful truffula trees.  How I always wanted to know why the Grinch became so mean in the first place. And how giddy all of the preposterous creatures, places and situations made me... the Gacks and the Zeeps and the Zeds and the Zans... and the upside down inside out fishes and fans.

From today's vantage point, I can see why.  So much of Dr. Seuss' work is about believing in the fantastical.  It's about the wise children and creatures who seek it and want to experience it and the grownups who simply can't.  The sensational hullabaloo on Mulberry Street... the wondrous world deep down in McElligot's pool... the astonishing miniature community on Horton's speck of dust... and the stupendous appearance of hat after hat on Bartholomew Cubbins' head....

So splendidly bizarre.  So worth believing in.

Day 11:

Zen. I've always thought it would be fun to build a labyrinth in our backyard. But the swings, slides and sandboxes have held sway over those property rights in recent years.  The other day I was searching for an email address for a cool guy I know named Jelly. I ran across his blog, which he calls a "blawg." As it turns out, his latest post is a heartfelt celebration of the labyrinth, which made me realize that while I had always been intrigued by the idea, I had never actually walked one. This being a perfect "14 days" activity, I got a recommendation and headed out.

The first thing I learned is that I apparently suffer from a crazy romantic notion that the perfect labyrinth is set in stones and pavers amidst a lovely Shakespearean garden.  Needless to say, I was a bit puzzled as I arrived at an empty parking lot in southeast Portland, with noisy traffic and people passing by to find a labyrinth made of parking stripe paint applied on cracked and mossy pavement. This was the favored recommendation? Yet, with a trusting mind, I took a breath and a step. Here's what I discovered:

1) It's an awesome metaphor. As you survey the scene from the outside, you believe you know where the path will take you, but the minute you step inside, it doesn't go at all where you thought it would. But you just have to keep following in order to get to the center.

2) As an experience, it was similar to my sometimes ill-fated yoga efforts. It was extremely difficult to concentrate on where I was in the moment and I wanted so badly to look ahead to see where the next turn would take me.  I actually did look a few times and am thankful there was not some sort of biblical punishment applied.

3) In the end, the cracking paint and surroundings didn't matter at all. The traffic and people faded to complete unimportance. It was just me, alone in my head having a few big, clear thoughts which will remain unshared.

4) I think I'm a fan.

Day 10:

Stormy and quiet.  An uncommon in-between day.  The perfect day to make a leap.

I lit the candles and spent the day curled up on the couch with books, paper and a pen (OK, my IPad too), watching the giant wet snowflakes as they tumbled occasionally from the sky.

It's getting a little too close to the end of my rare 14 days, which brings up all sorts of crazy thoughts. About things like enthusiasm and inspiration and joy and happiness.  All wonderfully demonstrative words that appear on my rainbow-colored word list I use to write stuff to convince people to part with their money.  One esteemed colleague calls it "words women like."

Well, I like the list. But today I'm thinking about how we get these things in the first place, what it takes to keep them, and what it takes to find them again when they get misplaced. It seems that so much of it comes from unexpected places when you're not really looking. And there is the proof that I neglected to take philosophy in college.

So I traded the pen and big thoughts for the simpler task of sipping wine and making the girl-requested Leap Day dinner, an enthusiastic and inspiring affair filled with the joy of macaroni and cheese, a summer strawberry & kiwi salad, and Henry Weinhard's Orange & Cream Soda for a special bonus. What could be happier than that? It all depends on the conversation that ensues at the table.

P.S.  Just after I posted last night's story, I went to the back door to call Lily in, and there she was in the dark, in the rain, in the middle of the ferns and snowdrops, tormenting a little mouse.  The occasion elicited a screech from Ali and a facebook post from Emily announcing that her cat killed a mouse and was tossing it up in the air and catching it with her mouth and it was weird and gross. I found it hilarious and simply divine to see the next generation experiencing the same joy that we did.

Day 9:

Waiting. I took my trail weary legs on a quick run before accompanying Frank to the hospital to get a magic screw put in his head so he'll be able to hear out of both of his ears once again. All is well on that front.  The patient is groggy, but doesn't think he is.  We're enjoying answering the same questions over and over, and the girls are pretty sure we should remove his facebook posting capabilities for the near future.

To keep me company while I waited, I took my favorite edition of Robert Frost poems, which used to belong to someone named Smith, which also happens to be the name of our childhood cat, a stately Siamese who had the misfortune of living with two little girls who loved to dress her up in doll clothes.  Smith no doubt returned the favor every time she proudly dropped still-living snakes at our feet, eliciting squeals of terror, which brought forth David Campbell the savior, who swooped in to hook the snake on his stick and carry it off to the greener pastures of the storm drain. 

For the past year or so I've been writing uncomplicated little starts of poems in a notebook, beginnings of ideas that I'm not quite sure what to do with.  About our neighbors' beloved hawthorn tree and whether anyone remembers how important it was to him since he died and his wife moved away... about middle-aged women from work making crafts on a Saturday night... about our cat acting as our sentry and protector from the tall balance beam of the fence... about a special fall leaf slipping from the pages of a book weeks after I found it.... Some of it's kind of sad.

Some poetry I love.  Some poetry I could do without.  I've never really studied it, so I have no idea what I'm doing, which makes it difficult to determine what has possibility and what's sentimental baloney best suited for the shredder.  Just to be daring, here's the last one I wrote.  Most definitely not a masterpiece.  But I kind of like it. Maybe that's all that really matters.

NEW YEAR'S DAY

The china languishes
in a stack
on the sideboard
reminding those who pass
of glowing
winter evenings.

In the garden
I pull out the remains
of last year's glory
making room
for fresh dreams
of beauty to come.

Day 8:

Crystal clear. It started with a beautiful drive down the old Gorge highway set to my favorite opera playlist, perfectly made for wistful thoughts.  The wide fir-covered hills were silver with a dusting of late winter snow and Mt. Hood was elusive, wrapped with a wide ring of clouds slowly giving themselves up to the sun. My goal was my favorite waterfall loop with my prized forest up top. But it was not to be. 

I made it up past the drudgery of the Multnomah Falls switchbacks, and started up the creek trail just in time to see the sun peek over the ridge to illuminate a towering stand of trees far above. The gentle wind was whistling through the trees with that desolate yet peaceful sound that I just love. And the little birds were all a twitter. It was a beautiful sight until the ice on the trail got a little too slick for my taste. 

Sadly, I turned around and headed back down.  Now, keep in mind that the goal of this loop is to ascend on one side, cross up and over the ridge, and descend on the other side, enjoying the wonder of Wakheena Falls on the way down.  I can never get enough of the water above Wakheena Falls.  It is absolutely pure white and tumbles with such confidence over the rocks. And the trail literally tracks right against the rushing water all the way to the prize, the ethereal Fairy Falls. 

So I bottomed out at Multnomah, then trekked the half mile over to the base of Wakheena and started climbing again. All in all, I think I hiked three and a half miles straight up and three and a half miles straight down.  But the water was marvelous.  And the winter storm destruction was stunning.  It was fascinating to see how precariously set these giant trees are in what amounts to very little soil on top of the solid volcanic rock.  Many trees and rocks had tumbled off high cliffs and hills to break up near the trail.
  
I'm never ready for days like this to end. So I took a quick detour to the nature preserve on my way home.  A walk down the flat gravel path to my favorite bench let me soak in the filtered light of the late winter sun while the ducks fed in the shallow marsh and the geese made a ruckus.  If not for the practicalities of the hungry people at home, I could have stayed outside until the last speck of sun fell beneath the hills.  Instead, I settled for watching it disappear from the kitchen window.