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.

decision

I started boxing several years ago. I just walked into a class one day looking for something that would make me sweat. It was a 5:30 class; it was really just opportune timing. I’ve always gotten a rush from boldly walking into something new. “You mean you just moved out there, not knowing anyone?” It’s a courage/pride thing, I guess. My dad used to compliment us as kids for ordering adventurous things on a menu—“good order, Melly,” he’d say with a wink. Even in small ways boldness was rewarded. I responded by insisting on sleep-away camp at age eight, alligator appetizers on vacation in Florida, and getting on my first overseas flight at age 20—headed for India.

I had no idea when I walked into that gym, but boxing fits me. In fact, that gym changed my life, in more ways than I would have anticipated and probably more than I realize, still. Boxing is contradictions—developing new instincts that overpower fear. You move in for the pain, but can never fail to protect yourself. But, when a punch lands you realize that’s exactly what you’ve done—dropped that left hand. And although those hands get all the attention—powdered, wrapped, and gloved in bright red—the successful fighter knows it’s all about the feet. If you can find balance in those contradictions, boxing becomes an exercise in respect. Not unlike any relationship, it’s about getting it, giving it, losing it, and, often, fighting for it.

Maybe that’s why in relationships we often focus on our fights; or why in boxing victory is called a “decision.” Things are decided, changes are made, dominance changes hands. My first relationship—my marriage—had no fighting. I thought that was a good sign. My second relationship was an affair. I met him at the boxing gym. For longer than I would like to admit I struggled with him. Struggle, I learned during those weeks we’d see each other, is the definition of passion. I had never had either before and then I was thrown into the ring. So intoxicated by sweat, and blur, and even the sting of a jab, I never bothered to keep my left up. But there’s nothing better to remind you that you have that left then getting a good night hook to the jaw. Although that relationship seemed negative in every way, that boxer helped me discover my left.

Sometimes I get exhausted to see that so often my life needs gloves. Accounts are past due, senior colleagues are skeptical, boyfriends become indifferent. I feel overwhelmed, alone in the ring with a crowd (if only in my mind) watching. I go looking for a towel—anything to throw down to stop the struggle. But recently I’ve been trying to remember that sometimes if I just listen for better music and remember to breathe, I can get past the contradictions and the stings I can keep my left up until the bell. And there is a decision.

happy endings

I decided 20 minutes before the movie time that I needed to see Pride and Prejudice last Sunday. Going to movies alone is my thing recently. Except I had the time wrong, so I ended up at the theater after the usher closed the door--20 minutes late. I went in anyway. My timing was off, but I refused to change my plan. It was okay, though, because I know the story. Even if I didn't I would've been fine. I don't need all the edge pieces to put a puzzle together--I've got a gift for filling in what's missing, sniffing out foreshadowing, and ruining the punchline. Somehow figuring out the ending is the only way to keep myself happy. I would have never survived in Austen's world. I'm nowhere near patient enough. My hunch is, she wasn't either, that's why she created heriones who could calmly needlepoint for years waiting for fickle suitors to come to their senses. I think writers often write what they wished they would have said and done for the someone-reading-along who might be braver than she was. But does it work? As I read along, I admire the herione for her faith and perseverance in struggle, but when it's my turn I fumble for corner pieces and rush for resolution. I know there's a happy ending waiting, so why not run toward it?

Last week I heard someone say that true peacefulness can be found even in the most unclear moments. Ever since he said it, I've wanted it--the ability to sit quietly and let the script unfold, trusting that truth is slow. Maybe that's why it seems so scarce in our instant-messaged world. We move too fast for truth, virtue, and peacefulness to settle into our waiting laps. Afterall, these days, who has time to needlepoint?

afternoon

Both times we broke up I ended up at the airport. It was around 4:00. They make time in the afternoon for these sorts of things, they told me. It was quiet and the gate agents casually gossiped, three of them helping me at once like formal waiters. That part felt right; I felt like I needed all three. Manicured, nails clicked against the outdated keys to make new plans. Somewhere between waking alone and trying to fall asleep again, things get done and a new life tries to assert itself. It’s when we make time for those sorts of things. It was when I gave up the flight I wanted to take to go someplace safer. And when it was done, both times, I cried, with tears that were just waiting for things to be done.

I called you yesterday afternoon as I drove back to work. I wanted to stop and tell you the things I had meant to say the night we talked but couldn’t look each other in the eyes. I wanted to say the things that require eye contact. And it was the afternoon, so the timing felt right. Except when I was done I left without a plan, no new ticket, no safe destination. And this time I didn’t cry.

urban decay

The city made me sad--the struggles and impossible refuse of life unswept and those who toil late to make neat piles. They stopped only briefly to read titles of books in shop windows that describe their direction-less gaze, tossed again by educated minds. Find Your True Purpose. They run in embarrassed suits paired with white tennis shoes because they can't breathe without that breeze. But, we are still alive.

St. Valentine

Yesterday was Valentines Day. My sister, in an attempt to make it better, sent me a history lesson of how the day began—the story of St. Valentine. This is what she wrote:

so...i did some research to find out if valentines days is actually a hallmark holiday like all the gripers like to proclaim-- here's what i found-- the origin of the day began when claudius II (leader of Rome) could not get enough men to join his army and thought it was because they did not want to leave their loved ones so he cancelled all marriages and engagements. St Valentine (a bishop) continued to perform secret weddings for lovers and was caught and sentenced to be clubbed to death. Story goes, he fell in love with Claudius' daughter while in jail and just before he was killed, left her a note "love your valentine"-- he died on Feb 14th! and there you have it...just thought you'd like to know we are celebrating the violent death by clubbing of a roman bishop! bring on the chocolates!

I guess we celebrate the note, not the clubbing. Well, some might go for the clubbing (with a pre-established safety word, of course). Brutal love. This year it feels that way.

I met him last year at a Valentines Day party. I always thought that part was kind of cheesy. But it was love, right from then—swan dive, roll around, gorging without forethought. I remember his red shirt with the metal snaps on the front pockets and his wild curls. He had the feel of worn-in passion like dusty jeans and the slightly crooked teeth of a man who would always do things his way. We talked closely, afraid to touch, which we did just once. The back of his hand brushed my forearm and a thrill like opening a love letter or walking through foreign city streets leap through me. It was undertow. My kind of love definitely has no safety word.

This year we are not. There are words to describe it, I guess—broke, breaking, broken. None of them describe the twisted tendons I can still feel between us and the tremendous, powerful love that still lives there. He had paths to travel and those damn crooked teeth didn’t lie. In my tenderness, I couldn’t feel anything except "in the way." I couldn’t stop saying things to him that I desperately wanted to hear back. Why couldn’t I just wait? I’ve given up warm arms and a mind that could calm and nourish mine to my impatience.

Last week I came to work in rubber work boots and no bra after a frantic night of “breaking” with him. Despite how good it felt to make love, it was the night it our break felt real—like it just might stick this time. The comfortable people I know--the ones who manage relationships and fashionable shoes while I spin around myself like revolving door--tilt their heads in empathy. They can reserve and temper themselves; they follow rules and suggest books so I might do the same; they see my unwashed hair, sagging breasts, and red face and graciously pretend not to notice it much. Afterall, I may one day evolve and get the secure love I "deserve." But time after time, I’ve taken the club for love. My kind of love. I can’t help but wonder how many times I could hurl myself at a brick wall, especially when it’s painted with an alluring, red heart with a scrolling, “love your valentine.”

unpublished material

Proust once wrote that all writing was crap and all anyone needed was 3 or 4 books for a lifetime. (Well, he said it with flourish and multi-lined, unpunctuated sentences, but that's the gist.) Maybe he's right. I always had certain "wise" friends in my youth who kept a pulpy copy of a carefully-chosen novel in their backpocket, as if it contained everything they ever wanted to know or read. But, maybe it was just intellectual accessorizing.

I don't know why I wanted this blog. Maybe I felt it was my turn to pollute some public space with my own unnecessary words. Something about blogging reminds me of those concert posters in urban spaces--poles and temporary walls along constructions sidewalks plastered with the same redundant words and images. The weird thing is, each one is designed to catch your attention. The message is written to grab the reader, but wallpapered to the city, they have the impact of background noise. To me, at least. I honestly don't care if anyone reads this. I hope that posting to this blog will feel different to me than those redundant advertisements. I just want a space that makes me accountable to get something written. Everyday. Ok, maybe I want something else.

It's been a long time since I read it, but around sixth grade To Kill A Mockingbird was one of my favorite books. I loved the part where Scout and her brother found the treasures Boo Radley had been hiding in the tree. But far more exciting than that discovery was the notion that he had been putting things there all along. The act of putting something simple out into the world for someone to find (or never find) was thrilling. To me, the finding wasn't nearly as important as the possibility or meaning that is added when something is left behind. It's opening a path for fate to step in. It's faith. My hunch is, it could inspire something even bigger. I don't expect my writing to become one of those backpocket books. I titled my blog "unpublished material" to keep myself honest about it. It's not about anyone reading what I write. I just love the energy that comes from knowing it's out there.