Gondola Parking Only

This is Culture

2010-11-03T11:24:00.000-07:00

Did I mention that every single one of the Wheeler County Cultural Coalition members has a Cultural Trust license plate. So when I rolled up to RJs last night the street outside was full of culture. But there is more than just that in Wheeler County, this morning, in front of the mercantile in Fossil, I saw another Trust plate; with a low number - an early Cultural Trust supporter.

Culture all around me here. From the murals on the local cafe wall, to the local museum on main street to a sign that points to Kinzua, an old mining town that no longer exists, that's our heritage people. Next time I drive by I'm going to that detour, take that seven miles up the road and check it out.

It's 9:21am

2010-09-01T09:21:00.000-07:00

...and on 9/21/10 I will turn 40. The countdown has begun.

Introducing Tim DuRoche as Kimberly Howard...

2010-06-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

As heard at the 2010 Portland Drammy Awards on Monday, June 14

I’d like to take a moment and talk a little history at you. Writes Alice Henson Ernst, in the Oregon Historical Quarterly way back in 1941 :

“The wresting of land from the wilderness…the building of sturdy cities, by no means absorbed the entire life of pioneers of this region. .. there was need of vivid hours given over to laughter or tears; of all that saving release of mind and spirit which the stage knows so well how to achieve. hidden somewhere among the family samplers, held down by grandfather’s clock. . ..[ the founders of the state] carried over their pleasure in a good book, in a well-turned tune, a very human satisfaction in good entertainment”

You, brave theater folk, thus represent the pioneering spirit of this great state. Before Portland proper was even mapped out, this area was home to the artists, because everyone knows that we’re the first ones to move in. . . before the property values get jacked up. Following on the tails of the artists, naturally, were the critics…The Oregon Spectator, whose motto was “Westward the Star of Empire takes its way”—how do you like that Oregonian???—logged in the first review of live theater here in 1846. . .a performance by sailors on the Hudson Bay Company’s ship Modest—probably cross-dressing sailors, considering one of their scenes of mirth and merriment was called “Love in a Village.” So. . ..

Live art, storytelling, the grand campfire of theater are a deeply held part of our citizenship in this region. And you, bringers of mirth and merriment, are its founding muthas and daddies. Which brings with it certain duties.

-- Things have changed a lot since then, the arts is still a central part of the life of our region but needs to be nurtured differently, hence a statewide cultural plan Like the Oregon Cultural Trust.

-- As unique to our state as our visionary land-use laws, the Cultural Trust allows me and you to direct part of our state taxes for cultural funding. That’s right you get to decide how your taxes are spent: raised fist!

-- Why is this cool? A tax credit is a much more powerful savings than a deduction: it reduces the bottom line of what you owe the state of Oregon.

-- Anyone, of any means, can give to the Trust and claim the cultural credit. You don’t have to list deductions and you can use the short form. Trust gifts typically begin at $10.

-- Your $30 membership in PATA? Match it with a gift to the Trust and earn a $30 tax credit. Throw 10 bucks in the bucket at a Free Night of Theater? That’s a donation that can be matched with a gift to the Trust to claim a $10 tax credit.

-- Authorized in 1999 to increase public and private support for Oregon's arts, heritage and humanities. Oregonians have since 2002 contributed over $17 million to the Trust. The Trust has awarded over $8 million in grants to every corner of the state.

-- Cultural Trust Grants are made possible entirely by donations and cultural license plate sales. Investing in arts and culture and education upfront means you’re not investing in it on the other end where the license plates are made (which is far more costly to us all) .It’s grant season at the Cultural Trust; any gifts received by June 30 increase the pool of money available for 2010-2011.

-- You can give now, or give later. Just give by December 31 and you’ll be golden with the cultural credit on your 2010 taxes…It’s online, it’s easy to donate, it’s 24/7 at www.culturaltrust.org

-- If you’re involved in Oregon theater in any way, giving to the Cultural Trust is an investment in your future.

And if you don’t, I guarantee that theater as we know it will return to its original 1846 state: on the deck of a boat populated by low-production values, and cross-dressing ruffians off of I-205 in Vancouver.

2010-06-10T07:41:00.000-07:00

...a quiet morning.
...a perfect cup of coffee.
...a well-organized desk.
...a balanced checkbook.
...a plan for the future.
...a peace in the present.

...a project completed without interruption.

winter

2010-02-01T18:45:00.000-08:00

The nights seem longer in winter.
Of course there is the falling into bed at the end of a long day:

Didn't I just wake up?
Is dinner so close to bed time?
When do I read?
When do I hang with my partner?
Where'd the day go?

And then today...3 more minutes of daylight:

Didn't I just see crocus starting to grow?
Aren't there tulips for sale in the QFC?
Tomorrow, as I end my run, will sunlight break the morning sky?

Love

2009-11-12T05:30:00.000-08:00

letter to friends

2009-10-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

I pulled out of my driveway this morning, into a misty, leafy fall morning, looking at my home through the windshield, as the state mini-van I had on loan, took the slight decline of our driveway, gently. I thought about the creatures tucked warmly inside; they who have been my companions these past six and four years. They, who, when I was selling my second house, I would bundle up into the car, to remove them from the potential buyers view, and cart off to the park - my creatures, my family - thinking on those summer days two years ago, that if I wanted I could simply drive away, for these creatures were all I had and all I needed, and therefore content.

And as I pulled out of the driveway this morning, fall always bringing thoughts of goodbyes, hellos and great change, I was reminded that the home I was looking back at, through the rain splattered windshield was a home filled, at once with the new makeup of my family - my creatures and my love. And I smiled.

We, four, have journeyed far from that New Orleans weekend that first solidified our foursome, though the second of our ESFests, it was the one that marks, always, a turning point - the streets of that place, its ghosts, its life. Because it was from that trip that we drifted into life or rather, ran full force into it, with all of the major life changes, the major life griefs and the major life blessings. It was 2003 and it was hot and it was sticky and from there we begin to truly take shape - this friendship, this growing into our power as women, this life we now live.

Remembering that we once wrote Oprah, through a contest portal, that we needed to be together to survive the lives that we were losing, to pull our collective energy to get through the MASSIVE grief we were living with day in and day out. And Oprah's contest reviewers simply didn't understand, simply missed the all important aspect that it is our togetherness that gets us through.

It is once again fall. Five years ago, Jackie lost her mother. Soon after, Ruby lost her mother. Then Jackie lost her brother. And then, glory of all glories ... Ruby got pregnant. And Jackie and Liam got engaged. And there were weddings and funerals and births and love, always love and in the love some kind of redemption. And always the four of us, feeding off our collective energy to do more than merely survive. We come together to LIVE.

Missy, when I think of your pain, I cry. Ruby, when I think of your loss, I cry. And Inga missing her grandmother and I my cousin. And here we are! Here we are! Loved and admired. Nurtured and befriend. The sparkling energy of our worlds. Here we are. And thank God that it is so. Thank God that we are here and will soon be together, there, in November. Because we have much to celebrate. Much to mourn. Much to laugh about. Much to share.

so this is fall

2009-09-01T07:07:00.000-07:00

A flock of geese flew over our new home this morning. At seven o'seven am. Their flight Southeast into the rising sun was filled with all the promise of a new day, a new home, a new life built together. Learning new personal modifiers - we and our; mixing and matching our individual treasures to build a shared one. Sharing hopes and dreams, along with fears and anxieties - loving, always loving, and hoping, always hoping and living, always living and being most truly ourselves when we are together.

And This is Oregon

2009-08-13T14:12:00.000-07:00

There are some days that roll out like a promise. Other days you turn the corner to unexpected joys. And still others where the people you meet along the way, surprise you into believing in humanity, again.

This trip. This time in Eastern Oregon, has re-awakened my belief that preserving where we came from, charting where we're going and creating innovative ways to see the journey along the way, are the essence of being human.

I've witnessed volunteers who wear more hats than should be allowed on one person's head, and who still smile at the end of the day and raise a glass to the dream of tomorrow when a child can witness live performances in a performance space designed for the purpose. And another volunteer working for the preservation of an old parsonage. And before that, was a house made of stone, filled with the artifacts of a people; generations and generations later, lovingly preserved and displayed upon the passing of the loved ones. And a center dedicated to the traditions of the past, the stories of our future and the conversations that join the two.

And this is the cultural fabric of Oregon. This is the place I've chosen to call home. This place filled with the wonder of a sky rolled out for hundreds of miles. Of a people who once roamed the land to the tune of millions of acres, now relegated to a mere seven hundred acres to call their lands. And the vacaros who brought the horses and cows that now dot the land, and the black pioneers that logged the forests. The Chinese doctor who brought the apothocary to heal the sick, and the Japanese farmer who planted the vast onion fields.

And this is the heritage of Oregon. This is the place I've chosen to call home. Where a school sitting across the road from what used to be a bustling railway station, now looks out on an open field. Where the students of that school learn the history of their town by painting the panels of their stories. And who gather articfacts from the field, lost remmnants of the mill long gone and the pieces of their ancestors past.

And this is the art of Oregon. This is the place I've chosen to call home. Where a town is dedicated to painting a mural in their library, where 2/3 of the town come monthly to check out books, make copies and work on the small bank of computers by the wall. This mural to document the diverse workforce that created their community out of sage brush and rock -- the Indian, the Basque, the Latino, the Japanese -- a story in pictures for the next generation to not forget this is who we are, this is what we've been, this is who we will be.

And this is Oregon. This is the place I've chosen to call home.

morning

2009-06-02T07:32:00.000-07:00

When morning dawns on the river everything seems possible.

minutia 2

2009-05-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

from Charles

2009-04-30T23:03:00.000-07:00

"But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident." - Marge Piercy

Something to remember when I fall into my home after 16 hours at commute, work, commute, work. I am blessed to be doing that which, at this time in my life, is the thing worth doing. And like the Grecian Urn, and the Hopi Vase, is of great use to someone, though I may not see it at this time.

musings on an opening

2009-04-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about this concept of time. Why we have so little of it? Why it moves so quickly? Why it seems to not move at all? Why it is that after a day of doing next to nothing I'm more prepared to open a show, than a day filled with everything pertinent and useful.

I've taken the day off. I don't do well in this environment - the lazy day of relaxing. I've already paid several bills, made a list of things to pick up from the store, and planned a time to review my script.

I've decided to arrive early to the theatre, and walk through the entire play - speeding my lines. Putting it in my body. It's there, but last night felt so out to sea without a paddle in some places. Grasping at my acting partners for support, forgetting my driving action - to find a solution to help my son enjoy his childhood.

I've meditated this morning, seeking respite for my soul.

I've engaged the creatures in affectionate play.

I've also picked up the camera and found no inspiration. Touched the key board and wished that my impulse to write would rise up.

And of course, none of these things are necessary today, of all days. The only thing I must do is prepare. Focus. Cleanse. And feel confident - as my nine year old, played by a thirteen going on fourteen year old would say. In fact, has said, "Be Confident. This is your best show ever."

He's the reason I'm sitting here today -- having taken the day off. He said I should and I thought, if it means I can be a better mother tonight, on stage, I'll do it.

But I think, I'll just sneak in delivering the mailing for work, buying face cloths and litter and picking up my new bra from Oh Baby! and getting 2 dozen 'dots' cupcakes from Saint Cupcake to celebrate the birthday of the actor who plays my son, who turns fourteen today.

And while I'm at it, maybe I'll get in a little nap.

it's the most wonderful time of the year

2009-04-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

selling handbags to tourists

2009-02-27T21:16:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I come to my blog site just to stare at the picture of Venice. I long to be far away; there. Anywhere but where I am. Or maybe more fully here, where I am; enjoying this moment. Who can tell, after the week . . .no, month. . . better yet, two months, that I've had.

I, like most people, can be dragged down into the mire with one small disappointment. That's all it takes; a simple mistake, a short-sited comment or expectations not met and I spiral into a blue funk the color of the darkest blue of the deepest part of the ocean.

Or maybe it's just the lead weighted full body cape of x-ray protection gear that my mood feels like once a month - sorry guys - that makes everything that much more poignant; that much more an elaborate scheme against me.

Because isn't that it -- when life deals you a bunch of poop pooh -- one big conspiracy to get you to give up and go live on an island with some tropic port of call, and sell handbags to tourists? And why not?

When I was ten or eleven or so, and dreaming of becoming a novelist, I had a notebook full of titles - Kiki and Anson, Squeezing Nectar from a Cucumber, and still my all time favorite, Surly from the Get Go, Buddha from the Mountaintop. The last one may have actually ended up as a chapter title for my first attempt at a collection of short stories packaged together in novel format and actually sent to a literary agent - a future sister-in-law of a friend of mine - who sent it back, kindly, with a note, "Strong writing style but make it more compelling from chapter to chapter; make me want to turn the next page."

I took that with a grain of salt, tried to do a major rewrite and left it sitting in the bottom basket of my credenza waiting for that odd moment of inspiration that catapults semi-decent writers into world class novelists [I had to take a moment there and decide if I wanted to be world-class or award-winning; can you be one without the other?]

And then again, I could become neither world-class or award-winning; I could simply run away to Tuscany, shack up with an Italian land owner, in an old dilapidated villa, make my own olive oil and eat fresh homemade pasta. And maybe, if I'm feeling surly, I might go into to town once a week, on market day, and sell a handbag or two to tourists.

having arrived on the wrong night

2009-02-14T22:05:00.000-08:00

I just had one of those evenings that I can't remember having in, oh, say, nine years. Standing on the street corner, talking a little too loudly, after nine p.m., some of the group smoking, me not; laughing at something too silly and inane to deserve repeating. And just feeling alive, in the cold, in the dead of winter.

I can say that after a very rocky start, I've hit a groove in 2009, that feels a bit like then, a decade ago, only in reverse. Because then I was falling apart, separating at the seams and now I am coming together, gathering the bits and pieces of me that have felt scattered and apart, for far too long, and watching - observing really - them being put back together. Or maybe the more appropriate wording is that they are coming back together.

Last weekend, a mediation retreat. Who among you, who know me, would ever imagine me sitting in stillness for 48 hours? And who among you would imagine that this would be soothing, like the blessed sleep that Mommy always calls forth when one of us is having a bad day with the simple ode, "Go to sleep."? But not sleep. Conscious sleep perhaps; way more restful because the mind stills, or rather, the thoughts come and go until there is just a deep dark darkness that you can see, because it's light. And it doesn't matter because your body is pulsating gently and you feel, at last, at rest after too long, perhaps a lifetime, or at least the last twelve years, of being awake.

Because in graduate school you felt this; this kind of awareness in stillness and you cherished it, and sought to define it. And perhaps the attempt at defining it was the very thing that sent it away. And I'd forgotten the stillness. I'd forgotten the simplicity of the soft focus (the third eye) and instead I forced peaceful awakeness with alcohol and lovers and a tireless search for meaning. Always after the meaning in the work; work, work, work until you find what you're looking for and tired from too much working.

And last month, another terrible month full of disappointments, lead me to finally ask, what can I control? What is in my power to do? To change? To be? And the answer is resoundingly clear: it is in my power to be me. And to go after the things I want - to act, to write, to be a mother.

But tonight, standing on the street corner, slightly warmed by a glass of wine, and cheered by friendly faces, and my own embarrassment at having arrived on the wrong night, I laughed at my self. And joyed in my self. And felt, at once alive and at once overjoyed for having been so. And then I realized that I was simply happy because I got the part. And because I dined with a man. And because tomorrow I will run in the woods with the dog. And tonight, because I arrived on the wrong night, I can now take myself home and put on my pajamas and watch The West Wing and imagine that I too might one day work/live in the White House. And it seems simple and complicated and preposterous all at once and that too makes me smile.

minutia

2009-02-14T09:44:00.000-08:00

adrienne at 40

2009-01-24T16:00:00.000-08:00

lighting makes the image

2009-01-15T14:00:00.000-08:00

SW Yamhill: a winter night

2009-01-13T21:00:00.000-08:00

the view from the landing

2009-01-11T14:48:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here on a overcast, cold, Portland afternoon. Like many folks finding themselves in a similar place and time, both in the macro and micro sense, I'm asking myself:

What happens now?

And because it's the new year, there is that age old question of purpose and meaning. We make resolutions. We change directions. We affirm our course.

My 2009 wall-calendar is about "simplicity". The photo for January is of a staircase in what looks like an old building - plaster walls, wooden stairs. The photographer must have stood on the landing, facing the stairs, so he/she captured both the stairs that have been climbed and the stairs the are yet to be climbed. The quote is from Hans Hofmann and it reads, "The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak."

As I read that, I thought, that quote has nothing to do with the photo. The photo, to me, is about standing in the middle - seeing where you've been and looking toward where you're going. And being unable to see where you began or see where you will end; there's that curve of the stair blocking your view of both.

I suppose the point of it all is this. I don't know what to do. And I'm standing on the landing of my life, just a little less than half-way from the bottom, having no idea how many more stairs are left, and being unable to see what's at the top. And the big question is, What do I do, now?

And maybe Hans Hofman is the right choice for this photo caption. The unnecessary is what came before. The unnecessary is what is ahead. The necessary is the here and now. The necessary is the view from the landing.

my entry hall

2008-11-11T09:44:00.000-08:00

and then, 'breaking news'!

2008-11-05T07:41:00.000-08:00

Were you at the DougFir? Or the Convention Center? Were, you, like me, just sitting down with your dinner, switching between CNN and NBC.

It was so fast and so wonderful. One minute it was 207 and then, the polls closed in the Western States and bam, just like that,'breaking news'. And we made history.

People round here in North Portland, honking horns, setting off firecrackers.

Down at the Huddle, a local bar on N. Killingsworth, the owner giving away free champagne all night long.

Good morning America! My Nana, my parents, are so happy to have seen the day. Forty years, Bobby Kennedy said. My Uncle Harold was there. Uncle Harold, I'm sorry you missed it. Cousin Jan, we did it. Grandmother Tina, did you ever think? This is for you all, for your struggles, for your walks, and your talks, and your hard work. We did this for our country, because we can.

And I'm proud, again.

slowly you fall back in love with what really mattered

2008-10-26T22:58:00.000-07:00

It's like that. I don't think you wake up one day and it's all over. You just wake up each day and feel more like yourself. And you look at the people, places and creatures you love, and begin to feel less fragmented, less alone, more alive.

I breathe it in, those things that really matter; I breathe them in when I forget for a moment that it's going to be alright. And I exhale all that feels ugly and scary and unreal. The breath is grounding. The exhale is a mediation. And life goes on.

You remember that you love roses - though it seems like a cliche. And tulips and hydrangeas. You look at each creature - the dog, the cat - as if you are seeing them for the first time. Wondering that you were so lucky to have each of them standing there looking to you for food and water and shelter, and remember the first moment you felt the overwhelming love for them that most resembles the love you have for family.

You remember that you love reading. And quiet nights at home. You believe in happy endings and romantic notions of right and wrong. And the changing colors of fall. And the night sky just before dusk, or the morning sky just before dawn. Life is in the transitions.

There is the crystal clear feeling of being strong, and centered, and grumpy and tired. But not blue. The sadness has subsided along with it the irritability and the discomfort. Left behind is the sense of everything that exists out side myself. The world is made up of moments of seeing the world freely, not through the eyes of a soul locked inside herself, trapped in her own pain.

And slowly you fall back in love with whatever really mattered in the first place.

It Is Finished

2008-10-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

Today I woke up with one singular thought, "It's going to be a shitty day." I had a dream about this man - the one I've been writing to in these ramblings - and last night, in my dream, I found him on a street. In a old part of town made new. And I was driving by, so I didn't get out of my car. But I called to him. And he came over with that blank look on his face that he sometimes gets, when he doesn't want to or can't bring himself to engage with the person sitting or standing across from him. And I said nothing. And he shrugged his shoulders.

He shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I know I owe you an explanation, or a phone call or something . . ." and his voice trailed off.

And I said, "Yes."

And he said, "Well I was just done with this relationship."

And I asked, "Is that all you're going to say?"

And he shrugged again and turned away, back to the crowd that had gathered on the street, for what reason, I can't tell you because at that moment I was shocked by his callousness and disregard. My face took on the mask of indignation. And so I drove away, realizing I was out of gas.

I was on the street by my old house, the one I sold last August before the mortgage crisis started - literally accepted an offer the day the first banks began to deny mortgage seekers loans of any kind. And on that street by this old house I went to the gas station there on the corner because the gas was always cheaper. And they were tearing the place apart. So I got back on the street to go about a mile down the road to the next gas station that I remembered being there and the road was closed down to one lane, and on the passenger side of the road, they were putting up condos or something but the contractor was hanging off the building so close to the road I thought I'd hit him. And then I woke up.

So you can imagine that waking up this morning felt pretty shitty. But in a conversation a few hours later someone said to me, "Make it a good day." And it wasn't flippant, or smug. There was a truth about it that resonated with me. I didn't immediately go out and 'make' it a good day, but I did go to acupuncture. And there I wept out of anger, out of insolence and out of pain. That someone else's awful behavior was causing me so much pain. That someone else's ill-thoughtout decision would mean that I had to put myself back together. I had to find my center again. That I had to be fixed. I wept because I wanted, in that moment, so badly to be myself again.

And then I had my session. And there were songs for each chakra. And sage for cleansing. And rake for searching my energy. And when my session was over and I sat up and looked out on the world, I was outside myself. All of my energy was about two feet outside me. I could see where I ended and the world began. It was amazing and odd and wonderfully freeing.

My acupuncturist said, "Let's put you back in." And I took several deep breaths, and put myself back in. So I could go out into the world and function properly.

But I left the parts of me that had been wounded. I left him. I left that pain. I left that episode. That time in my life I left there in the acupuncture session room. Or perhaps it floated through the vent with the smoke of the sage, going back to the universe. My fractured pieces got put back together tonight. And I walked to the bus stop in the rain. And I ate a cracker and some cheese. And I stood at my transfer stop, as rain pelted the bus shelter, and I smelled the cleansing power of rain, after too much dryness. And the parts of me that were still outside myself, were there now because my pain had been separated from me. There is really no other way for me to describe it.

And it had, indeed, been made a good day.

Morning

2008-09-27T11:13:00.001-07:00

I woke up aching to yell at you. Really take the time and energy to yell. And then I remembered, in the shower, that you don't give a shit, so why should I bother.

That's exactly what I thought. He doesn't give a shit. And I wanted you to know that, what? What do I need you to know? What do I need to say, for me? To heal.

You broke my heart. I think we've established that.

You disappointed me. That goes without saying.

I took a huge risk. No. I risked it all for you. For us. I wish you would acknowledge that. I wish that you would acknowledge, that I trusted you. I stepped out into a void - the space between two people where the energy to love, trust, understand and acknowledge lives - I stepped into that place in between and it was void. And it was me stepping toward you. Full of faith in you, in us, in me. And you stood paralyzed in fear of what comes next. Giving yourself to the delight of being loved. Giving nothing to the space in between. And so you turned and ran. I want you to acknowledge this, and say, I'm sorry.

You risked nothing. Yep. You stepped toward a sure thing. For you. I wish you would acknowledge that. I wish you would acknowledge that you walked into that place filled with guilt and selfish need and confusion and fear. You stepped into that place and for you it was warm and cozy and a distraction from the daily discomfort of your living situation and your school situation and your life situation. It was a distraction from, not an inclusion into your life. And having already stepped toward me you waited for me to step to you. And when I did, you accused me of not knowing you, of not understanding you, of being someone you didn't know. Lies. Accusations. Mis-truths. Attempts to what, make me turn and run? I didn't. Perhaps I should have and this would be a different story.

Say you are sorry. Say you were wrong. Say that you should never have tried to get me back. Say that you lied. Say that you will be alone the rest of your life, because you cannot change. And say that I am the closes you've come to real love in your life. Say that you wrapped yourself in my kindness, my openness, my faith, because you had none of your own. Say that you don't know why I love you.

Because I love you. Though I am no longer in love with you. And yes, that is how I put it. I want to no longer like or dislike you. I want the indifference of freedom - the equation, where you plus me equals nothing. And have that be okay.

For My Birthday

2008-09-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

This the time of year when the air becomes crisp, the sun hits the earth at just the right angle to produce an early evening glow, and we all long for new school clothes. This is the time of year I think of Mommy bringing cupcakes to my classroom and teachers annoucing the September birthdays along with our first assignment of the school year.

It is the time of year, when Jackie makes her pilgrimage to Portland, and old friends gather round. And the time of year when I celebrate my anniversary of first becoming a part of Sojourn. It is the time of year that I first stepped foot into a classroom in Eastern Washington and began that journey that ultimately brought me here.

So it seems fitting that we all gather round a table, with glass in hand and good food abounding to say happy birthday, happy homecoming, happy anniversary and happy blessings. You are some of my favorite chefs. Your gift is your presence and your dish.

On Writing 'About Me'

2008-09-13T13:16:00.000-07:00

I'm a non-profit arts administrator, so I think this should be my mission and values statement, yes? Why is it so much easier - strategic planning and all - to come up with a mission statement for an organization, but when asked about ourselves, what is our mission in life? What do we value? We either hesitate to share for fear of sounding foolish, or we simply do not know; have never gone through the strategic planning process - stale sandwiches, lukewarm coffee, sticky wall and all - to come up with a conclusive mission statement for our life.

Saturday Afternoon

2008-09-13T12:16:00.001-07:00

I'm thinking about getting a taco, or two with a pomegranate margarita from Por Que No. Today is my day. Nothing scheduled. Haven't even showered. Of course, I'm using the time to catch up on bills and reconnect cable - even though I'm in a philosophical debate with myself about whether or not I want to be a cable user to begin with; except there's the internet. And in and out of my thoughts - rearrange the bathroom cupboard. Roast tomatoes for freezing. Do break up homework.

That's a good one. In and among the plethora of things that weigh on my soul at the moment I must take it upon myself to do break up homework. I, the one who was left, need to process this, work through the whys and wherefores, while you go on as if nothing at all has happened to change your world inexplicatively; yeah, that's fair.

You loved me because I loved you; lazy to the end. And I guess, and here is where I'll be honest with myself, at last; I loved you because you let me. You let me work hard to understand you, accept you, have patience with you, give you encouragement, support, the best parts of me. And in the end, that isn't love. We both know that. Maybe, and I'll give you some credit here; maybe you simply came to it sooner, the realization that I was working too hard, and it was making you feel bad, because you didn't or wouldn't work even hard enough to say, simply, in the end, goodbye.

And then I think of an Alan Ball quote from Six Feet Under, "Isn't it comforting to know that being miserable is still better than being an idiot." And I realize I win. I may be sad, but lessening each day. I may be lonely, but isn't everyone? I may be alone, but not for long. And you, my dear, old lover, are an idiot. And when that might cease to be the case, only God knows and you don't even believe in him, so I guess you'll never know.

A Letter to Andrew

2008-09-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

I just paused in my reading of Confessions of Max Tivoli to write an email to Andrew Sean Greer. I've never been compelled to write such a thing to an author about their work, so I'm putting it here, in the off chance that in some internet search he might stumble upon it.

Dear Andrew,

I am sure that you receive emails and letters, all the time, from people, like me, who think that because they've read your writing, they somehow know you. Even though fiction is, by its very nature a unreality wrapped in truths wrapped in falsehoods, cloaked in inspiration. We, the reader, will sometimes feel so deeply connected to the author that it is as if we are reading through and beyond the words themselves to the very soul of the author, the very depths of their struggles, their worries and their cares.

While reading The Story of A Marriage, I kept turning to your picture, perhaps to see in your eyes a vague, yet indeterminable glimmer of recognition that you were, indeed, Pearlie. And why not, you so completely captured the spirit of a time, of a place and indescribably of a woman - a black one, at that - trapped within herself. You - or rather my imagined you, the author of this book, became interchangeable, in my mind, with this character. And how like a dream, where it is said we play all the parts, to see your picture and think, 'he, too, is Buzz.' and then on the next page, to realize, 'no, he is Holland.' And all the time to believe myself to be Pearlie, always Pearlie. In that way of good writing, where the narrator's voice takes on the timber and cadence of your own, so much so, you feel yourself inside her skin.

So. I wanted to say that. Knowing you hear praise all the time. And letters and email are aplenty. But I just wanted to write because.

Because I've been an avid reader all my life, and sometimes aspiring writer. Because I have never felt compelled to lay a book down (the second one I was reading by an author who so enthralled me), and write a response. Because it feels as if The Story of A Marriage was written especially for me. And because buying the book (and then buying The Confessions of Max Tivoli) didn't seem to be quite enough of a thank you.

Friday Afternoon

2008-08-29T19:52:00.001-07:00

Because in the woods, each breath that smells like sunshine, brings you more fully back to you. Because you hike as a meditation. With each step, you are three, seven, nineteen, twenty-seven and thirty-seven, all at once. You are the daughter of Claude and Carolyn and Jackie, the granddaughter of Toni and Betty and Claude and William, the sister of Kristen and Kevin, the best friend of Missy, the godmother of Conor. The person of the dog. The wife of no one. The past lover to some, and former acquaintance to others.

Because in the woods, each breath that smells like rain brings you more fully back to you. And you are an athlete and a dancer, a creator and a decider. You are fully conscious and aware and profoundly absent; at your core, always connected.

Because in the woods, each breath that smells like life, brings you more fully back to you. And you remember something you read once that said, "Grieving the end of a relationship is a gradual process of extracting the 'I' from a vanishing 'we'. . .[And] is like casting a line into dark waters and trying to reel in those parts of yourself that you surrendered to the relationship, before they too, disappear."

I am searching within the infinite beauty of the trees, and ferns and earth, for that which I have lost. The very center of myself, I wish to make whole. And so I go again and again and again. Each time I exit from the dewy canopy of this sanctuary, I leave with a little something more.

Esther & David - August 17, 2008

2008-08-24T16:04:00.000-07:00

And then there was Betten's wedding.

There were friends from Brooklyn, New York and from Seattle. Asking each other, "How do you know Betten? Esther?" And the answer, more often than not, "Oh we met in a bar." Me, answering the same question with, "I know David through Jackie Ravine (now Anderson); they knew each other in Walla Walla. And later in Ohio"

"Oh did they act together?", invariably was the question. "I think maybe once." I may have said. I made no mention of a bar.

We walked through the Japanese Gardens, at our hosts invite. I thought about how two people fall in love, how they come to like each other, and finally how they choose, in front of family and friends to be on each other's side. To accept. And by doing so to say, "This person, standing beside me, in front of you; this person understands. This person is understood."

Then we signed that we would stand in guard of this union. Each of us bearing witness. And we put on funny hats, showering the couple with ridiculous poses, and endearing smiles. All because they said, I do.

Friday

2008-08-15T20:39:00.000-07:00

And then, one day, you step out of Safeway. And look up into the early evening sky. Your whole being opens up. Like it's been hiding from just such beauty. And you breathe. Because it's the most natural thing to do. You breathe in the color of late summer. And exhale streaks of clouds into the night air. And though it's almost nine o'clock, the sun is hanging on to this late northwest summer night. So that "I can let go," you think. And you do. You let go. You remember who you are. You are not this thing that is happening to you. And you step into the night.

Sunday Afternoon

2008-08-15T00:15:00.000-07:00

I decide that I'm going to marry a farmer. That's it. A youngish, mid to late thirties farmer who owns a 4 acre family farm. And we'll have lots of hard, physical labor ahead of us but it'll be like crawling under the avocado trees when I was seven, harvesting our own two and a half acre grove;taking the freshest one, cutting it in half and spooning the green inside directly into my baby brother's two year old mouth.

And we'll fall asleep early and wake with the sun. And work hard from spring till fall and then we'll rest through the winter, eating the fruits of our labor and reading long, slow, Russian novels and filling the house with truly grateful children; or maybe only two.

And I'll write. Long days spent alone, while my farmer is out seeding or weeding or writing his own column about farming. Until late afternoon or early evening, we'll gather together and cook our food and have good conversation, around the big wooden table in our kitchen. We'll put the children to bed, crawl into bed talking of the seeds we'll plan come spring and the squash we thawed for supper or the vacation we'll plan to Spain and fall asleep dreaming of bicycling through the countryside. And when the sun breaks the sky, we'll start another day, on our family farm.

Saturday Night

2008-08-10T10:13:00.000-07:00

I waited.
I waited for you to say, 'I'm sorry.' or 'I changed my mind.' or 'In fact, I don't love you.'
But nothing came.
Not a word.
Not an email.
Not a call.
Nothing.
Like you are dead.
No goodbye.
No see you around.
No good luck with your life.
No wish it could have worked, but it didn't.
No respect for the time we did try.
No thought to what we attempted.
Not even a nod to my courage in giving us a second chance [last time].
Not a word.

I could/am trying to get through the grief.
On my own.
In your absence.
Like you are dead.
Because I WILL NOT call you.
Period.
And that is that.
You are gone.
You left me.
You betrayed me.
You abandoned me.

I am alone.

July 19

2008-08-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

It is not because you didn't invite me to go camping, when you know I love camping.
It is not because you decided to stay at a hostel, and the Hilton and in an old church, instead of staying with the woman you were talking about spending the rest of your life with.
It is not because you waited three days before calling to say you were in town.
It is not even because you waited until someone you know saw you in town, before you called.

It is because you've been lying to get what you want.
It is because abandonment is as good as abuse. And neglect is up there too.

It is because when you begin to drown [in your own self-destructive way] you push everyone away, and in effect try to drown them too. And when you find yourself on dry land again, four weeks/three months later, you have no recollection that you were drowning, or why those around you might be upset. And if you do remember, you lie and pretend it's all okay, for the sake of what, exactly, is anyone's guess.

It is because you do not understand anyone, not even yourself.
It is because even at 48 you've acted like you are 12.
It is because in the end, you haven't even thought to give some modicum of respect for the last two and a half years by making a simple, yes painful, but necessary, phone call.

It is because you know that it is over, and haven't the courage to say it. You just disappear.

I want to say that I am sorry for you. But I am still too shocked at how I've been treated in all of this. And surprised. And angry. Yes, I'll use that word.

Exeter Cathedral

2008-05-29T16:32:00.000-07:00

I took that. It's not a postcard. It's not a stock photo. I pointed the camera to the ceiling and saw what I wanted to capture. And I took this photo.

Saturday Afternoon

2008-04-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

I mowed the lawn this morning. It was eight-thirty. It's a rather unruly patch of grass. About ten square feet. I mowed using a manual mower, which gives new meaning to the phrase, "put your back into it". I'd been told that you are not supposed to use a manual mower on tall, spring grass, because it doesn't get a nice, close cut. Still, it's eight-thirty in the morning, so what do I care. I just want to take out the garbage, let Lily play in the yard and maybe, when it's stopped snowing, raining, and wind-blowing in alternative fits, and actually warms up to a spring-like temperature, I'd like to sit on an Adirondack, in the back yard, on that unruly patch of grass, and actually enjoy the coming of spring.

Sunday Afternoon

2008-03-16T16:57:00.000-07:00

I found, unexpectedly, an extra hour and half in my day. Rehearsal got out early. After turning around in circles for about five minutes, I set to tasks I thought I wouldn't get to, until the following day. Like taking out the trash and making appointments to interview performers for that project I've been working on with David. The one where he explores ancestral pain through the act of storytelling. And looks at how we carry emotional memories of transgression around with us, even if we did not experience the thing itself. Like slavery or the holocaust.

There was a strange short-legged, long-jowled dog in the back yard, when I went to take out the trash. He seemed nonplussed about having been found there. He even followed me to the next door neighbhor's yard when I opened the gate. Simple commands, "here" and "come" meant nothing to him. So I herded him out of the one yard, back into the other, still not his own yard, one hand under his collar, the other closing the gate behind me. Lily, with front paws on the bench I've strategically placed under the window in the breakfast nook, stared at us, with curiosity.

Have I told you that this place has a breakfast nook? I've turned it into a den, of sorts. There is this window. So, that's where I placed the bench; the one that used to be in the faux entry hall. The entry hall I created, in the old house, by placing a bench next to the front door. Now the bench functions as a front row seat for both creatures. Cleo sitting on the back, and Lily as I described, both paws squarely in the center, chin up, peering over the sill. This place, that I've painted green, is still a nook, for all its den like qualities, of desk and chair and lamp. It is nestled in the corner of the kitchen, making the 530 square foot condo, that I rent, feel like a mansion with all this creative functionality.

The short-legged, long-jowled dog wasn't there when I got back from emptying the trash and depositing each recyclable item in it's proper place. He had disappeared and Lily was no longer at her sentry post at the window. There was no sign of forced entry or even a hint of an open gate, so the question of the mystery dog will have to go unanswered as this Sunday afternoon with its added hour and a half becomes time for dinner.

Saturday Night

2008-03-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

I'm having my first real moment of missing you. Can that be true? That in the seven months that we've been a part, I am just now missing you? Yes. I thought of you in August; we had just broken up. I wished you farewell in November, after watching that ship sail away - in Miami. But since December, since coming back to us, I've been more excited than sad. More connected than apart. A few times downright frustrated and once even mad enough to, apparently, break the French press. But when people ask, and they often do, I can honestly say that this - our separate-ness - is okay, for now. This year will go by quickly. And that we talk everyday. Except today, we spoke while you strolled the Lido deck, and I sat in my pajamas on a bleek, then sunny, then downright cold Portland day. And our conversation was brief and disjointed, and forced, because it was our only time. And what I really wanted was to see you sitting here, at the computer, surfing the internet, while I lazying perused a magazine. Instead we are on opposite coasts, in different time zones . . . you get the point. Hurray for being on the same continent this time. And pondering how this is, may be, similar to long ago days of writing letters across time, when months would pass in between and lifetimes go by without word.

kTa

2007-05-25T19:00:00.000-07:00