taking the long way

word of the day

gift crack:  the gap in wrapping paper or the uncovered portion of a gift found on the bottom or sides of the box. this may result from the gift wrapper running out of paper or underestimating the amount of gift wrap needed to cover the entire box.

gesture

Traveling is not as glamorous as it once was. You have to practically strip down to your knickers and empty everything out of your bag before passing through security. Delays are common place. Planes have become huge petrie dishes that pass illnesses around like hot potatoes. The seats are often uncomfortable and cramped, and those that provide a little more comfort are expensive. But even amongst all this chaos there is beauty.

A gentleman who wished to remain anonymous gave up his seat in first class to an American soldier flying back from Iraq on my flight from Minneapolis to Portland last week. He made this gesture quietly. He wanted no recognition, but the soldier wouldn't give up until he found the root of this generosity. Once he did, the soldier walked back to thank the gentleman who humbly accepted his thanks. And in turn, the gentleman thanked the soldier for his contribution to our country. It was a simple and thoughtful exchange that I was honored to witness.

i ' m always good

I heard something very powerful today - not on the news and not from someone wearing wisdom on their sleeve, but from someone I encountered at the grocery store. He's from Africa. I know this because the little girl in line with her mom had asked. He's singing as he weighs my fruits and vegetables and has a wide smile on his face. And when the woman behind me asked how he was he answered, "I'm always good." Although it shouldn't have, it caught me by surprise. And it wasn't what he said, but how he said it. He wasn't saying it for affect or to be cute or trite. He was sincere and he meant it and kept on singing. "I'm always good," he had said - what empowerment, what peace.

custodian of the desert

The morning chill still hung in the air, but it didn't matter since I was taking an early morning soak in the hot springs and the temperature was perfectly steamy. The sun was rising over the desert and light was inching over the east face of the Steens. Part of me had wished that the hot springs would be empty when I drove up so I could enjoy the morning alone. But the conversation was nice, not what we talked about necessarily, but just talking with people who all wanted to be in this special place far away from towns and cities and weekday life.

The conversation flowed from one thing to another, nothing too revealing, but after a while I could tell that in other places, under other circumstances we might all find ourselves on opposite sides of issues. That doesn't matter in the Alvord Desert. What matters is that we all care about this place and are brought together by that one simple fact. When I mentioned that a warning light popped up in my car about low tire pressure this one man said he'd check and fill up my tires. When I talked about wanting to drive north and explore a new path home, but would have to backtrack to Fields to fill up my tank he offered to sell me gas. That is the way things work in the desert.

So it was fitting that the conversation centered on Carl Thomas who died last spring. Carl had the one ranch situated right at the edge of the desert and throughout the decades he lived there helped more people than anyone can count - stuck in the mud and he'd pull you out, need a phone he'd offer his up, the main entrance too bumpy and you could use his road to access the Alvord. Carl will be missed.

anybody want a watermelon?

It’s not often you see a large truck parked in Pioneer Courthouse Square, but that was the case last Friday when I was walking around downtown during the lunch hour. I don’t do that often enough, but it was a lovely day and I had a few errands to run.

The truck was surrounded by a large group of people that was growing ever larger as a line started forming on one side. Curiosity got the best of me so I walked over to investigate the commotion. It turns out farmers from Hermiston, Oregon were in Portland to promote their produce and were handing out watermelons, potatoes and cantaloupes.

Everyone was so happy and city councilors were being interviewed and people were skipping away with bags of goodies. It was incredibly inspiring in its joyousness so I started snapping a couple photos, particularly of this older gentleman farmer whose personality was infectious. He just made you smile watching him and I was grinning from ear to ear.

No sooner did I lower my camera that he looked at me and said… “here you need a watermelon.” A bit surreal, but made even more surreal when a photographer asked to take a picture of me and my watermelon followed by a reporter asking me a few questions. That was nothing to the scene that occurred just a few minutes later when I started walking through downtown holding a watermelon. It was so large I had to cradle it like a baby, causing people who hadn’t witnessed the impromptu farmer’s market in the Square to look at me like I had two heads. But I didn’t care. I was still smiling and thinking how great a place Portland is to be in the summer.

some people the city remembers

Something struck me last week as I was riding the bus to work and reading Colson Whitehead’s “The Colossus of New York”. In his collection of vignettes about New York City he writes, “everybody remembers the city. Some people the city remembers.” For some reason his words struck me and got me thinking - Which cities remember me? I remember all the cities I’ve lived in, but I’m guessing that only a choice few remember me.

Obviously Portland remembers me and is now getting to know me again. I mean how could it forget the girl who danced (sans a respectable amount of clothing) in its Salmon Street Fountain on her 21st birthday after consuming one too many jello shots at the Lotus.

But I know I haven’t left an impression like that everywhere I’ve lived. I know Pebble Beach doesn’t remember me. That’s where I learned the art of being present, but not seen. And I’d be surprised if Bridgeport even recognized my face. I slipped in and out of that town like I was Keyser Soze.

Boston will never forget me. I may not have had a fountainesque moment on its streets, but let’s just say I got around. No not in that way, but living without a car really forces you to get to know a city and for the city to get to know you. But if I had to choose one moment when I knew for sure that the city, in this story represented by the T conductor, took notice it would have to be one warm morning last summer. I knew I was running late, but when I heard the train rumble into the station as I was standing on the other side of a four-lane street and at the top of dozens of stairs I knew I was pushing it. After a split-second thought-process I went for it. As I rounded the bottom of the stairs (the first chance I would get to see if the train was still there) I was excited to see it was, but that it was already lurching forward. Ah, but the door was still open so I just kept on running.

Now these doors are kind of tricky. There’s a gap between the platform and the stairs that lead up to the ground floor of the train, which has this trap door kind of thing that the conductor closes when the train starts moving. So as I leapt on to the moving train (in heels no less), hoping I wouldn’t miss and fall under the train and onto the tracks, I looked up to see the conductor closing the trap door. Fortunately I startled him enough that he froze and didn’t drop the steel plate on my head. Instead he grabbed my arm and pulled me up. At that moment the city’s rhythm merged with mine and though we’d been dancing around each other for years, we truly took notice of each other.

one can only hope

I often wonder why certain world events stand out to me, why some strike me deeper than others. Benazir Bhutto’s assassination yesterday is one of those events. On the surface my interest has piqued alongside the recent pop culture focus on the region including Khaled Hosseini’s heart wrenching book A Thousand Splendid Suns and the surprisingly comedic yet ultimately tragic storyline of the film Charlie Wilson’s War. Though both focus on Afghanistan’s tumultuous past, that country’s link to Pakistan then and now is undeniable.

But Bhutto’s assassination takes me back more than twenty years when she was the first democratically elected woman of an Islamic country. For a young politically active woman I was enchanted by her poise, her courage, and her place in history. Watching her fall from grace through years of political corruption and exile mirrored my own disenchantment with American politics and election fraud, most notably following the 2000 election. Although I know Bhutto’s return to Pakistan was not hailed by all of its citizens, she still represents what democracy could mean in a country now ruled by a general who took power by military coup. Her return mirrored my own hope, paired with the upcoming election for a new American president, that either a woman or a minority could legitimately be elected to lead our country.

One can only hope. I can only hope.

(photo - New York Times)

halloween

None of us could remember an Oregon halloween with better weather. The joke around here is that it's always beautiful right up until the holiday and then that day a huge storm with torrential downpours and high winds rolls in and all the kids have to wear rain gear over their costumes. Well not this year, it was a warm night with starry skies when I went over to Lee and Guido's house to go trick or treating with their three kids and neighbors. All the kids donned their Star Wars outfits, including Henrik dressed up as Yoda. And the best part was that even the adults got treats - thanks to one of Lee's neighbors who handed out dixie cups with shots of baileys! Now that's an idea I'm going to borrow someday.

be the change that you want to see in the world

During the last twenty-four hours I've been dually reminded of Mahatma Gandhi's inspiring quote, "Be the change that you want to see in the world." On some days it seems a bit too theoretical, but last night when I ran into an old friend it was refreshingly real. Truth be told I only went to school with Gunnar for one year, but we ran into each other amidst a flurry of excitement at a restaurant in Portland that was generously holding a fundraiser, and he recognized me after all these years. It would have been so easy for him to ignore me, but he stepped out of his way to say hello. He was so warm and charming - not just with an old friend like me, but with Lee and her three kids. And I was thinking later I wish everyone could follow his lead and be that open with the people around them, friends or enemies, in a truly genuine way. He probably doesn't even know it, but he's being the change I want to see in the world.

Gunnar is in the middle in the blue shirt. (photo by Rich Holland)