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.

Day 7:

Haircut. Groceries. Laundry. Museum redux. Dinner with friends. Manhattans with the good cherries.

More often than not, within days of getting a haircut, someone makes note of the fact that my hair is getting really long.  I choose to be amused.

In other amusing news of the day --

My cute blue-haired, tattooed, 24-year old hair cutter with the slightly contrived accent announced that the format of the 70s/80s station playing on the radio must be the oldies...

My 16-year old advised me on safe and proper driving technique when faced with a yellow light...and then thought that we should really purchase her prom dress today because of a concern they might be out of size one by next weekend...

The gas station guy gave me two bags of fruit snacks for my "riders."  Maybe in recognition of the fact that I'd just paid $3.89 per gallon?...

Three random 40-something men earnestly conferred, "Well, you know, the real difference between women and men, is that women want ______." (Of course that was the one word I couldn't catch.)

A funny friend surprised me with a whimsical twin bracelet, and then we wore them to dinner...

It actually snowed for about a minute...

And I found out that all of those giant monkey puzzle trees in the old front yards of Portland were originally tiny seedlings given away at the 1905 World's Fair.

I only wish I knew what women want.

Day 6:

Grey and rainy.  I had a dream last night that I was with this giant snake and I had to command it to hold together some boards so I could cross the water.  The snake was slithering wildly around the boards and then it slid up through my jacket and out by my collar. I was coming unhinged until I realized that the snake wouldn't listen to me until I got control of myself.

Unfortunately, I can not recall if I was successful. I'm not sure if I was supposed to make my command in English or Parseltongue.  And I'm still very much in alignment with Indiana Jones on everything that has to do with this subject.

I guess that's why I woke up thinking about China. Because it's a very snakey place... snakes in the wine... snakes at the food stands... snakes in cages at restaurants... snakes writhing in trees at creepy tourist attractions....

It just so happens that I was all set for a virtual trip back since I'd retrieved my travel journal from the depths of the closet a few weeks ago. At that time, Ali was interested in reading about how she found the condoms and "sex joy oil" on the nightstand in our hotel in Yangshuo and her uncle told her they were playing cards that would have to be paid for if we opened them.

I'm not a particularly easy traveler, especially when it involves children and a large group of relatives, which is pretty much how the Chinn side of the family does it. As evidence, I found a note in miniscule handwriting up the side of my journal on Day 7 that says that I had called work that morning with the excuse that I needed to check in, but I really just needed to hear a voice that would somehow acknowledge that one day I would get back home.  China was not an easy trip.

But without some of the difficulty that's easily forgotten, the moments of pure splendor probably wouldn't shine like they still do in my mind. Standing in the garrison on the great wall high above the other tourists wondering what it was like...  watching the back streets of Guilin come alive on a solo early morning ride on my pink rental bike... picking tea leaves on the slopes of the stunning mountains above Hangzhou... and a striking and irreplaceable day of ceremony and unspoken connections in the family village.

China was a continuous riot of enthralling sensations that tested me to think and see in new ways. And it tested my patience too. Today it was nice to remember the tiny moments that made us all smile and laugh at the time.  And to smile again.

Day 5:

Lazy and bookish.  Finished reading Gatsby in bed before noticing we'd been granted a stolen morning of sunshine.  A surprise that precipitated a search for dry shoes... a run in the woods... a frolic with the cat in the backyard... and a sneaky pruning of the low hanging pussy willows in the park, which I tied with yellow ribbons and placed on the girls' pillows while they were away at school.  Fun stuff I don't do often enough.

Then I continued to enjoy my books. Recently a neighbor told me that they never go to the library because her daughter thinks the books are dirty and smelly. I think old books and libraries and overflowing bookshelves and quirky used book stores are some of the best things invented.  Most of the books I own belonged to someone before me and the idea of people sharing the same stories and thoughts held within a simple physical object completely captivates me.  I love that our library is not a quiet zone, but is always full of buzzing people, young and old, seeking out the special things contained within those walls.  And the smell of old books to me, is the smell of magic.

Because book magic also includes the way books have the power to make you grab them off the shelf, I spent some time today trying to divine why The Great Gatsby became my most recent choice.  Thinking I might find part of the answer inside For Whom the Bell Tolls (don't bother asking for an explanation), I stumbled on this inscription in my mother's handwriting that says "Recycled to Becky Carver -- 20th birthday -- Dec. 20, 1985."

That's all it took to entertain me all afternoon in thinking that my 20-year-old self actually fancied a used copy of Hemingway, that my 46-year old self still has it (and has read it several times), and that I imagine my 72-year old self will still be thrilled by it. If you haven't read it yet, you know where to come to borrow an old, smelly copy.

Day 4:

Wet feet.  Today was the only non-rainy day of the week.  The day I planned a return to the dark and secret hemlock forest far above Multnomah Falls.  Except that I injured my back.  And it hurts.  I'm trying to blame it on yoga -- all those downward dogs and all.  Yet despite my limited exposure to that elusively zenlike world, I know enough to realize that it's just my own fault.  In any case, with 2,400 vertical feet of trails between me and said enchantment, I opted for something with a bit less of an incline.

When on a hike, I'm a big fan of the payoff -- the breathtaking waterfall, the devastating vista, the top of the mountain. The Eagle Creek trail did not disappoint.  The canyon walls were virtually dripping with moss and water. The raging creek was so green it practically glowed.  Fairy-like waterfalls appeared out of nowhere amidst the densely treed forest and their giant cousins plunged from the dramatic volcanic cliffs.

The day was not without its adventure.  Here and there as you traverse along the steep cliff face that plummets to the churn below, hand rails have been drilled into the rock to keep you from joining the ranks of the dramatically deceased.  Your bonus, however, is that the overhanging canyon walls are now dripping directly on you in a manner somewhat like those big lawn sprinklers of our childhood. And then the path magically turns into a ten foot wide creek where the jumping stones are conveniently covered with high water making it simply necessary to roll up your jeans and trudge on through. Keep in mind that it's 42 degrees out and your hair and feet are now decidedly wet.

But it doesn't matter. I could have walked forever.  And for about a half mile, sensible me and outdoorsy me had a bit of a spat about when to turn back. Outdoorsy me momentarily won out when I turned a corner to be stopped in my tracks just as the sun lit up a massive lava flow cliff where thousands of basalt columns had been fantastically twisted by a force that is impossible to imagine.  Sensible me eventually prevailed and four miles in, I turned to enjoy all the views in reverse with no unfortunate mishaps beyond the re-crossing of the still-wet creek and the re-sprinkling of the still-dripping walls. It was a hike unlike any other.

Day 3:

Stand and stare.  Last year in DC, I rushed up the narrow steps of the National Gallery tower to see my beloved Matisse cutouts, only to discover that they had been replaced by six giant black canvasses.  Stark white walls.  Giant black canvasses. You can't get much further away from the exuberance of Matisse's larger-than-life scissored scenes than Mark Rothko. But on giving it a chance, I discovered that inside the subtle blackness of the art was a surprisingly transformational experience.

Today I understand why.  A lifetime of Rothko paintings are being shown at the Portland Art Museum including some of his signature "rectangle" works.  What completed the picture for me is the comparison of these masterworks with his equally intriguing, but turmoil-laden earlier abstracts.  When juxtaposed, you can practically feel him come to a place of total confidence and clarity of purpose that give these paintings a dramatic finality. They are no longer about thinking, but only about feeling.  It's as though he simply had to create them and in doing so, they became his world. And if you stand and stare and let the painting become your world too, it does have the power to transform you. Remarkable.

As amazing as that was, the most stunning and strangely disturbing experience of the day was a John Frame exhibit.  (You'll have to google him.)  His current life work is creating these intricately designed miniature sculptures and scenes of otherworldly semi-human creatures that he's fashioning into a stop-motion animated film.  Devastatingly inventive, there is something absolutely elemental about his creations that becomes both thrilling and frightening at the same time.  It almost feels as if you're bearing witness to an obsession and self-revelation gone too far. Yet at the same time, it's as though the multitude of tiny glassy eyes are revealing the depths your own soul. Scary.

I'm not sure if any of this says more about the artists or more about myself.  I guess that's what makes art so surprising, enchanting and mystifying. I hope I'm not haunted by the rabbit man in my dreams tonight.

DAY 2: 

Country drive. If I were in charge, I'd order two weeks of crystal clear skies so I could leap out of bed each morning to choose mountain, gorge or coast.  I'm not in charge.  But fresh air was on order, so it became a rain coat and muddy shoes at Silver Falls kind of day.

There was a lot to love.  The curvy country road itself, always made better with a stick shift. The stunning power of the water that demanded you pay attention to it.  The fantastically moss-covered trees whose unlikely curves gave the forest an utterly Seussian feel. And the orange-attired gentlemen of the prison work gang refurbishing the storm-damaged trails.

But the filbert orchard transcended it all.  I've always loved the idea of wandering into the middle of a filbert orchard where the only thing visible from every angle is trees.  (Yes, it is decidedly a summer kind of dream, the mystery of the dark leaves and all....) Yet there it was. This fantastic old, empty orchard just waiting for an adventurer.  (An adventurer who asked permission first.)

It was marvelous, the way you feel like you've entered another world, but a world that has decidedly been crafted by a hand that has a very specific idea of how it should be formed. And how after all those years of tending and pruning, each tree was so different and yet so much the same. All waiting patiently to come alive again.

As predicted on the book front, things went south for Maggie.  Like Hazel and Augustus, she ended up navigating an adult world of troubles brought on by her father's inability to reconcile with life's trials.  But all was not lost.  She got her moment of magic when the heron allowed her to touch it.  And Tucker got himself reformed and is no longer a threat to the waterfowl of the marsh. Now "The Great Gatsby" calls from the shelf.  I'm not sure why.  Maybe it's my comfort food of literature.

DAY 1:

New boots.  If I'm going to spend the next two weeks figuring out who the "me" of the future is, it's important to have some sassy attire. This will do.  Plus new toenail polish. A sparkly violet-mauve, something you might have seen on bridesmaids dresses in the 90s, yet somehow just perfect today. Plus a new hot pink notebook to write things down in.  Things that will not be posted here.

Next, I started in on my "books assigned by my children" list.  First, it was "The Fault in our Stars" by John Green (assigned by Emily.)  It's about two teenagers with cancer -- Hazel and Augustus.  Brainy and witty, it's a coming-of-age-too-soon kind of story in which H & A navigate traditional teenage stuff while also facing real existential life and death issues. Fascinating characters.  Great lines. But of course, one of them dies in the end.  Yep, it's sad. 

Presently, I'm about 2/3 of the way through "Blue Heron" by Avi (chosen for me by Ali at the Tigard Public Library book sale because it's my favorite bird.)  It's about a girl named Maggie who thinks everything should be magical (yes!), a summer by a lake, a blue heron she falls in love with, and a boy named Tucker who thinks he should shoot the blue heron with his bow and arrow set. I think there's heartbreak of one kind or another ahead.

My morning run through the woods with the popping pussy willow tree was springy and fun. Yoga tonight after two weeks away was distinctly un-fun. Yoga is not easy when you are a) exhausted, b) a perfectionist and c) stubborn.  But that's why it's good for me, I'm told.  Maybe it will make me less a, b, and c-like in the future.