portland is paris

It's downright gorgeous here today and nobody appreciates 78 degrees with sunshine like a Portlander. We wait so long for it. It makes me love, love, love this city. My romance for Portland inspired me to read an article last night in Edible Portland Magazine [http://www.edibleportland.com/] interviewing one of my favorite local chefs, Cheryl Wakerhauser. She owns a delicious patisserie called Pix. I feel like I'm in France everytime I step inside--soda shoppe chairs with red cushions, paintings of bug-eyed lap dogs in gilded frames, cases filled with petite pastries. I go there when I feel like my life needs a little frosting. I wear a skirt and order the pear rosemary tart. It's the most incredible thing--flaky, tender pastry, delicate poached pear, earthy rosemary, and chocolate ganache. Mon dieu! I am always so thankful that Cheryl created that place and brought our city a little bit of Paris; a place where I can go all alone, wear that skirt that makes me feel like the girl who used to have tea parties with her dolls, and be renewed in my joie de vivre. Cheryl talked about how Portland is the Paris of the U.S. I think I believe it, even though I've never been to Paris. Our city is rich in moments of art, simple exchanges of neighborliness, and a nice tinge of hendonism. It's lovely.

I talked to a friend yesterday who is planning to leave Portland. As much as I love it here, I confessed I'd been thinking about it too--maybe for graduate school, maybe for adventure. I was just imagining possibilities. It's hard for me to think about leaving this city, but I realized as I was talking to her that in a way Portland's taught me what it takes to be happy anywhere I am. It sounds cliche, but it's the little things that do it--having the newspaper delivered and reading it with espresso from the stovetop pot, growing tomatoes on the windowsill, riding a bicycle to the store. The scenery can change; even the people can change. I've learned how much happiness it brings me to simply live my art, doing everyday things with beauty. It was here that I discovered my joie de vivre, so I think Cheryl is right--for me, Portland is Paris. I had no idea how important frosting can be.

dance, dance, dance

My younger sister, Meghan, is a dancer. Sometimes I like to think I had something to do with it, not because I dance, but because when she was a young I dressed her in pink tu-tus and encouraged her to spin and arabesque. Even with chubby toddler feet, she was remarkably graceful. Now she's twenty-one and a beauty. She dances with the university company and will be performing tonight. It'll be one of those nights where I feel how far apart we are (she lives in Pennsylvania). Her company was featured in the local paper and Meghan's quote sung out. "I've learned how I feel when I dance. I've moved past the idea that I have to do it this way. Now it's more about the art and how it comes together. Every choreographer is different and will want different things from you. But you can bring yourself in. You don't have to lose yourself as a dancer." She's not a toddler anymore. (By the way, she's on the far right in the photo.)

This morning I've been thinking about dancing and how it's such a part of being human, maybe for exactly the reason my sister describes--you bring yourself into the art, or perhaps bring the art into yourself. Either way, it's a profound experience that has existed since before we could even speak to one another. It's certainly something I would see in Meghan if I were there tonight.

Last night I talked to my mother on the phone (she's also far away in Pennsylvania). She says she's "at that age where they test you for everything." I have mixed feelings about the exhaustive medical measuring that "they" tend to put us all through. My reactions swing from gratefulness, to annoyance, to resent. So, amidst some recent medical rigmarole my mother had her bones scanned. She is thin and fit, but the numbers have dictated some treatment is recommended for fragile bones--grateful, annoyed, resentful. Now a women who gave birth to four children, has hiked the Rockies, and rides a Harley on sunny weekends is afraid she's "frail." Last night on the phone I tried to push aside my anger at the "they" who gave her this diagnosis to say something to help her see her full self--the strong woman she is. Then she said, "They say dancing is really good for this." This morning as I read my sister's quote it came together for me. Because no matter what "they" say to my mother, she can do things (and see things) her own way. We all have that power and maybe dancing reminds us of that. She can dance and "bring herself in" because "you don't have to lose yourself as a dancer." Perhaps dancing connects us to a bigger thing--history, humanity, and a deeper knowledge of our own limitlessness. It's something "they" can't measure. Lean muscles and strong bones aren't the most important outcome and maybe that's why it helps.

Tonight my sister will dance. Soon, I know my mother will too. And this morning I also got a string of emails from some chattering girlfriends, making plans for Saturday. We're going dancing.

the belly thing

I keep thinking about Alaska. It was my second trip there and a confirmation of what I described as a "belly thing" the first time around. No, not the same "belly thing" that Mexican border town lunches do to me. Alaska gets me in the gut. I feel a pull before the plane touches down. And even in Bethel, a town that could easily (and appropriately) be described as desolate, I felt hopeful and curious.

The people who live there describe Bethel as "off the road system" which means the only way anywhere is by airplane. Sure you can take sled dogs or a snowmobile certain places, but really it's all about bush planes. I like that feeling of remoteness. It focuses you on the details of living life. Sometimes not in the greatest way--there's a lot of talk about how to deal with sewage, garbage, and the high price of neccessities. But there's also a reverence for the seasons and the welcomed resources they bring--salmon, berries, grasses, and hydroponic tomatoes. Everything takes care to survive there, so people have developed a delicate touch. But I think there's more to its appeal than the thrill of survival.

My travel partner, Marcie, was obsessed with photographing churches during our first few days in Bethel. For a small town there seemed to be so many. In general, the population is very religious, which most people will credit to the strong influence of missionaries who arrived early in the 20th century. There are stories of priests--including one notorious Father Fox--who would forceably pull people from their homes if they were absent from daily morning mass. Christianity bulldozed Yup'ik spiritual traditions to the point where people are still reluctant to practice (or even talk about) the dancing, feasting, and gathering that was part of the old ways. But the churches didn't really call all this history to mind for me. It seemed more connected to a general feeling of faith that the people in the tundra appear to possess. Being so disconnected makes it easier to believe in the unseen, I think. For many families, there's not much difference in believing in heaven than believing in Los Angeles.

I can't help but bring all these thoughts inside myself and reflect on how the world I have lived in has shaped me. I tend to dart from thing to thing with an enthusiastic fever. It's the breeze of activity and expectation that keeps me going. Patience, faith, and delicacy are harder for me. Maybe that's why this place pulls at me so much; maybe it's those things I'm most hungry for. Afterall, I did feel it first in my belly.

tundra

Correspondence from Bethel, Alaska sent
April 19:

"bethel is so different from anything i've seen. it's pure tundra. the small wood houses don't seem warm enough to keep out the cold. the people must be tucked inside, though, because the only folks i see are those darting by on snowmobiles (which they call "snowmachines" here) or riding in enormous truckes laden with icicles. everything has icicles, actually. the dogs are outside, though, howling to eachother from house to house. there are 16 mushing huskies at our place. they're beauties and seem to withstand the frigid temperatures well-enough. i had to double up on hats, wearing them in layers against the wind, and longjohns are a complete necessity. i'm staying in an old log cabin built 30 years ago by my host, fran. he chopped each log to build the place himself, then floated them 50 miles downriver to bethel. he was a real pioneer back when he was in his twenties, it seems. he keeps it cozy with a wood burning stove and layers of quilts on the beds. fran's a 50-something hearty soul with nordic red hair and long legs that make him seem younger than his years. he wears carharts and clearly works hard at several jobs which he only vaguely describes to us. "work" is a slightly different term here, i think. he greeted us with long explainations of the town (laced with our first hints of bethel gossip) and how it's grown since he arrived in the 70s, his eyebrows dancing with inflection under his furry ear-flap cap. what a talker he is! i find that's the most interesting thing about this place--the stories. everyone shares them, taking the time to create the mood and include the details. it seems to be the main form of entertainment around here and it feels right to me."

morning flight, six degrees farenheit

I am leaving tomorrow for Bethel, Alaska--the SW interior and everything unknown. Despite my best research efforts, I have little idea of what to expect--something between snowmobile taxis, seal blood soup, and wifi. It's treeless tundra with twenty hours of daylight and, I'm told, exceptional latte stands in town.

I sent out an email to some friends today saying I'd be leaving I got a reply from a woman who knows me from wilder, younger days--back when I was twenty and riding through the tip of South Africa on a motorbike. As I wrote back to her I heard my own words and knew I'd written the truth, even before I totally understood it. And the words were exciting:

"i'd love to catch up, too. let's talk when i get back. i'll call you.

i'm recently single again (after an amazing love affair) which means lots of fire in the belly. i am done crying and ready for adventure! so, here goes nothing..."

And just like that everything is fresh. Spring is pushing through and I can remember the smells and sounds of who I have always been. I packed the rubber boots; I am expecting mud but for the first time in a while, I don't feel stuck at all.

safety chutes

All I want to do is write and yet I’m not. I haven’t. I’ve put it off with the belabored process of trying to buy a used ibook. I decided it was the key to getting my writing done (um, yeah, kind of like starting this blog--don't remind me). It would be the place, the thing that would hold all my writing--my years of blue spiral bounds replaced by Macintosh. They say I can pick it up tonight, then I’ll start to write—for real. I know it’s all a big stall. I guess I am afraid to start because I know there is something coming. I feel my characteristic courage pushing through, even as I write shit (or, as is more common these day, don’t write shit). I do other things and think about the dozen stories started in my mind. Other things like last night.

Last night I had beers with three guys—a friend and his two roommates I’d never met before. I like meeting new people. I have confidence in my first impression. I know how to pepper the conversation with the right bits to make my life sound interesting. I can juice it down. (Life can be so much banal routine; it’s easy to know what to leave out.) But, we talked about boy things, since I was outnumbered and amenable. Skydiving, bungee jumping—to me it’s all falling and unappealing. I have no desire to fall. Flying sounds fantastic, but falling sounds like a silly adrenalin gimmick. “It’s about facing that fear,” said guy number two. “It’s about pushing beyond my limits and overcoming them.” Why, though? “Then when I want to drop into a killer line, or jump off a 30-foot cliff, I won’t have that fear standing in the way.” He responded. “Plus, it’s totally safe.” Riiight, now I see. It was the cliché boy response, but it got me thinking about why anyone would want to do this. The notion of fighting fears and disconnecting the neurological wiring that was genetically developed to keep us safe seems counterintuitive, yet we seek it out. Though I can't ever imagine myself jumping out of a plane, I do it too, in my own ways. Why should overcoming fear give us such a rush? I glanced across the table at my friend—the one who has struggled with relationships since I met him. He gets afraid and runs. There are lots of details and circumstances that make up the different ex-stories, but the juiced-down version is always the same story (very banal, because it’s life). I felt exposed as the only girl, so I had to wait until number two and three went to bed to ask guy number one, my old friend, my real questions about facing, fighting, overcoming fears.

Guys will hurl themselves from planes, leap with faith in a long elastic band, and sail off cliff baying with glee “why not face fear of commitment, fear of intimacy, and the other real male fears with the same gusto?” I asked. He smiled awkwardly and scoffed some reply “because skydiving is just about me. With relationships there’s a whole other person.” Hm. Unsatisfying. Perhaps this man will put more faith in a packed chute or an elastic chord than a woman. I guess it makes sense if you’ve hit the ground before. Maybe falling in love isn’t much different. We go in for the rush and thrill and when we hit that critical elevation we hold our breath and go for the pull chord. Then maybe, I thought, skydiving is not about facing fears at all, but putting yourself in the most frightening moment and discovering you are actually totally safe.