I'm feeling a little wild right now and figured writing for a second could help me burn off some of this energy. It's been a very compact last year. This time last year I was struggling thorough what, in retrospect, had to be a pretty decent bout of depression. After I got off probation (Sept 2nd last year) I was left with a pretty weird void in my life. The previous 12 months had been filled with such stress and daily demands that I'd acclimated to a scary sort of lifestyle, always living in the shadow of losing a job I'd left my home, family and friends for. Once the dust settled I had a hard time adjusting to my new freedom, security and place. I had a blank slate to draw on but forgot how to draw. I had (have) a wonderful home, but one that needs constant attention unless I want to invest in blue tarps and duct tape and maybe a nice set of blocks for the front yard. Now it's a year later and when I think about the past year it was stressful and transforming in ways the previous year hadn't been. I had to learn how to be myself again and the biggest challenge has been learning how to relax and find humor in a life that was sucked dry of fun for a solid year. I'm playing rugby again, just for fun and to reconnect with a wild type of friend you can only find on the rugby pitch. I have a relationship back that has always made me want to be the best version of myself possible and now is no exception. My home is filled with critters and friends, not to mention my twin and best friend. I still have not learned how to reunite with my family and my strained relationships with my folks and my sister are something I hope I can become better at mending. The house has been a bit of a handful lately. All year we worked on transforming an old, scary shed into a chicken coop. That is its own saga but now that it's up and running it is filled with geriatric and ill chickens and ducks and puts out an egg or two a day, no where near what is needed to break even with the sky high cost of chicken feed, cinder blocks, OSB board, electric wire, and, now, vet bills and medication. But, that seems to be how it goes with critters. The Christmas trees were supposed to be a boost, once harvested. But, turns out they are afflicted with a disease that makes their needles drop. Charlie Brown tree anyone? Aaannd of course the garage roof is something that a museum may be interested in. Last day off I was under the house waiting for the monster from Arachnaphobia to wrap me up while I tried to connect a loose dryer vent to the exhaust outside the crawl space. I found a leak under there that may explain why the well pump feels the need to prime every minute or so. This is sort of turning into one long complaint and I don't mean for it to. But, my biggest fear is to become a stressed out shadow of myself. I don't want chores or finances to determine my mood or how I spend my precious time here in this damn beautiful place. I have always been a bit of a worry wort but the pace and demands of the past year or two have made it a hard habit to quit. I understand that life is always going to throw you a curve ball or two and it's best to learn how to hit those rather than always be surprised they arrive. So, I am writing this just to get it off my chest. I am happy every day I wake up on this flea-bitten little farm. I love the people I get to see and I deeply love those I don't get to see enough. I hope that I develop the patience to glean wisdom from a life that sidewinds and back tracks. I hope to see the humor in the pitfalls. There will always be too much to do and money will always throw a hitch into your giddyup. I'm tempted to focus on the negative sometimes. But a cloudless day that smells like distant wildfires and sounds like lonely crickets sure makes it hard to be stressed out too long. Maybe the past week or two have been a mini avalanche of repairs and stricken critters. But, I'm here to care for this place and those that call it home, buddies, humans or the feathered and furred. No place has ever made me feel more at peace than this place does, no matter its demands. And this year is the best time of the year. The pumpkins are gettin' big and it's time for soups, burning, and sweaters at night. This time of year has always been magical to me and that magic was dulled these past two years. I can feel how this year is different. I have to go run a couple ducks to the vet who cannot walk (and a chicken who has a butt that looks like the antagonist in a horror movie) but I feel it was good to get this out.

Coming home

I'm back home for the first time in six months. It's been a couple of cold and grey June days. It feels about right. I drove up the west side of the Canal to get to Port Townsend. Then down the west wide of the Puget Sound to get to a family wedding yesterday. One thing I miss about being home is tracing water as a means of getting from point A to B. It smells salty and the breeze is damp. I always need to come home for that. I do miss the water. Being home this time is simpler than the last. It's been getting easier the more settled I start to feel in Oregon. That, and I almost never come home so missing it is put off with each postponement of a chance to return home. But, now when I am home in washington, there are things I miss about Oregon. That balance helps me appreciate what I have hear that I will never have there and enjoy my time away from my new home because, now, it's one I want to return to.

One Goal

The beans got put into the ground yesterday. After working a double and going south for Jackie's graduation the beans were floppy and leggy in their egg cartons. Rather than another guilt-laden drawn-out planting session I grabbed a pickaxe and made them a home just off the edge of the Christmas trees. I had to mow down 3' tall grass before I could chop away the top layer of turf. Surrounded by Christmas trees and with sweat dropping off my nose it felt a bit more like a homestead than kneeling in front of a raised bed. And it looked pretty rustic once it was done too. Not in a quaint downtown Portland kinda way, but in a I hope these things can get a purchase in the ground before critters eat them kinda way. Petty and Sonny came over as I was finishing planting the last bean plant. It was kinda cute watching them chirp around the fresh dirt. Cute until Sonny started Godzilla stomping all over the beans before stretching his neck out and delicately snapping the top off one of the healthier looking ones. Their chirps were a little more high-pitched as I waved shovels and rakes at them to scare them out of the newest little garden. But, they never stay gone for long. After I'd finished planting, I eased into the Adirondack chair on the porch. There was an instant feathery flurry and Petty was standing on the arm of the chair, scuttling up my arm onto my shoulder. He needs to live it up now because he's growing fast and won't fit on shoulders for long.

Spring Cleaning

The past six months have by far been the most transformative ever. All the big events happened prior; starting a new relationship, getting my job, moving to Oregon, training, the loss of my uncle, buying my first house, losing my relationship. It was an 18 month whirlwind. And, I couldn't point out one huge event that happened between November 18th 2011 and May 14th 2012. It was down time. And I guess that's why I finally had the time and distance to start to understand all that'd happened prior. It was an exciting time but filled with so much stress and uncertainty that I couldn't see the forest for the trees. I don't want to recap the mental/emotional process of the last six months. Some was ugly, some was amazing. Most was confusing. I'm not the biggest sharer (says the person writing a public blog) so it's tough to put to words how I felt before and how I feel now. Suffice it to say, I feel better. I feel different. I guess I feel more complete and put together than I did two years ago. But, for a large part of that time I felt like I'd lost a part of myself, something I'd left back in Washington. I can't explain the sense of relief in rediscovering what I'd lost but, even more important, I feel I gained something I never had. I'm not being vague on purpose but I feel it's easier to show than tell what's new. June feels like the perfect time to spring clean. Not just my house and property but the cobwebs you can't see too. I'm looking forward to something simpler than the past two years. It seems real necessary to have my physical existence display the changes less tangible. Yesterday I got home from work, almost a straight four-day stretch with one afternoon off between Monday and Friday morning. A storm cloud hunched over the treeline, pelting rain in between bouts of muggy grey sunshine. I "accidentally" brought home a duckling a turkey chick when I stopped at the feedstore for dogfood. Much of my day involved chatting with those two, holding them until they slept, making them a home they're hellbent on outgrowing. The potatoes were mulched and covered with last fall's raked leaves. I noticed that Buster has been crapping in one of my raised beds. That problem remains to be solved but between cat paws/butts and slugs, the celery are all but gone. I think that's a dumb, high-maintenance crop anyway. The garage workout was simple and satisfying. Dinner was a turkey burger that I felt a little guilty about, considering the sleeping featherball in the next room. And Jackie came up last minute to make the day a much-needed chill recharge after a busy busy May. It felt like a great way to kick off the end of spring/beginning of summer. I'm grateful for the changes that have happened. It's a perspective I don't know I could have gained any other way. I look forward to turning this house into a home. I think it's finally happening.

it's always the last place you look

A man came today about shearing the Christmas trees. Maybe I made a mistake but I hired him on the spot. He is much more expensive than the herds of folks who just hacked my neighbor's trees. But, I liked him. I liked that we stood on the back porch, postponing heading into the rain, and he talked about down the road where he grew up and asked about my dogs. I guess you learn as you go out here. Seems to be the case. When I asked if he had a way to take credit cards he said yeah, any form of payment worked as long as it was good. Cash... check... you know. I had to ask three times if I could charge this service and finally had to explain that he needed a credit card reader for that to happen and he said, "Oh no I don't have anything like that." I don't know why I asked in the first place. He had called me earlier in the day to clarify the directions so he "didn't need to pull out his Thomas Guide." I think that's really why I hired him. But, this put me in a bit of bind, having to come up with quite a bit of cash quite soon. It sort of stressed me out actually but I wanted him to do the work, especially since it would involve time when I would not be home and the house would likely be vacant. At the end of long hours of planning and fretting I always go with my gut and see where it gets me. We'll see where this goes but it did lead me to thinking. I realized I'd have to really tighten my belt financially to get this done. And, why? Because Christmas trees sprout in the spring and if I wanted to harvest these this fall I'd have to really batten down the hatches and invest some cash up front for the hopes of getting more back than I put in come November. Seems like a gamble when you don't exactly have the cash in hand when you sign on the dotted line. But, this is what I bargained for when I moved out here and money.... mouth.... you know the rest. Anyway, this caused me to reflect on the things I'd be giving up for the next few months while I summoned up the capitol for this here little project. I was more impressed by the growing list of things I could do without having to spend a dime. Like, walk my dogs in the woods off the back of the house, or workout in my garage, sit on the wood swing and watch all the birds coming with the springtime, clear brush around the place, talk to my family on the phone, start the dozens of packets of seedlings eager for water and ground, play rugby with my friends, finally spring clean like I keep saying I'm gonna do. In a way it was a relief to know I wouldn't be able to do any of the larger projects that were on the docket for this spring or I'd have to be really creative and figure out how to do them with materials on-hand. I have a nasty habit of picking up things and leaving a bunch of just started or half-finished projects in my wake as I try to keep up with an over-active and ambitious agenda. These trees are truly the first thing to take care of around here and I realized I was probably biting off more than I could chew in trying to tackle so many projects this spring. I am embarrassed at how intensely I try to charge forward. I create mammoth obstacles to scale. Which, when you're creating your own path, why would you do that? It's dumb. Talking to Al last night I realized how blind I have been to simple, lasting and important threads that make up our time here. I focus on the details, on those things you check off, rather than those things that you nurture and watch and just sit with. I've felt so temporary where I've been before and so frantic to carve out some sort of meaning in whatever place I inhabited. It sort of took over all else in my life. Now that I have some sort of permanence I am still neglecting those same things, ironically. It's not projects or accomplishments that make memories or permanence. It's the people you surround yourself with, the spur-of-the-moment decision (and ability) to go somewhere or to go nowhere and do nothing that makes life heavy and satisfying. I am surrounded by so many good people, both here and back home. And I've stubbornly assumed I had to do this all on my own. This life, this house, this whole wild journey. I don't remember wanting to go it alone, it just happened that way that I pushed away those people who offered assistance or support. It's a sad realization but a necessary one if I can hope to end such a bad habit. It's not all as complicated as I first thought. We're here for such a brief, exciting moment that to not share it with those you love may be the biggest sin you can commit. I've neglected good friends and my family, a family I'm proud and grateful to be a part of. I've lived in this shadow that accomplishment is finite and that time for others would filter in as things were finished. It's truly embarrassing to put this to words at this point because I can now see how hurtful that mindset has been to those around me. This whole time I've been doing what I do, looking for something that's right in front of my eyes. I've always been the person who asks who's seen their sunglasses as they sit perched on my head. Or who has a pen when there is one behind my ear. I never thought I'd spend so much time looking for a home when it's been under the soles of my feet the whole time. It's the memories and the constant devotion of good souls. It's simple and it's beautiful and it's overwhelmingly present if you just stop looking.

Funny How Fallin' Feels Like Flyin'

I really have been single-minded in my pursuit of some higher sense of place. I thought I could learn my way to understanding what it means to belong somewhere. And, since I moved to Oregon, I turned my back on that idea. I had to focus on the present and immediate. I was putting out fires, literally and figuratively. It was a short summer and a belly flop of a landing on September 2nd, the day I completed my probation. I felt hollowed out, something the wind could whistle through, something that looked heavier than it felt. I put my faith in believing that everything happens for a reason. Even after my time opened up, I still kept myself closed off from the place that was becoming home. When my crutch finally collapsed I found out I could stand on my own. And I finally looked around and realized I was becoming intimate with a place I told myself I hated. I found myself vulnerable and the thing that stepped forward to offer comfort was a sturdy place. It snuck into my heart with a gentle December, days of clear sky and soft night rains. I never expected you to be the one, Oregon. I didn't think I'd love you and I am the first to admit that this is a clumsy, new love. I only just recently learned what it means to give yourself to another. I don't know how I earned your trust but your patience has earned mine. Maybe we don't find a place. Maybe it finds us.

Timothy Lake

12-8-11

Yesterday Sally and I hiked around Lake Timothy. The trail that circumnavigates the lake is 13 miles total but it wanders away from the lake often. In September when I’d been out fishing by myself on the lake shore I’d welcomed the mile or two I tromped outside sight of the lake, away from the hot rocks and reflecting water. My right arm was already a deep red and hummed with warmth even in the shade of the forest. But, on December 7th it is a little less of a Godsend. The evergreen canopy shades the trail, leaving a few inches, sometimes over a foot of snow that has melted just enough to form an ice crust that you punch through with only the mildest resistance. 13 miles seemed manageable when we arrived at 11am with the sun not yet overhead. As we slipped and crunched our way down the trail the idea of walking 3 miles per hour seemed more and more grandeur. I thought of the two brand new pairs of snowshoes sitting on a shelf in my garage, still in their plastic. I thought of how light and portable they were and wondered why I’d put a pair of binoculars in my backpack instead of throwing those snowshoes in the trunk. Incidentally, when I saw my first Bald Eagle since I’d moved to Oregon it was a tiny speck in the top of a Doug Fir. I forgot about my binoculars and squinted and shielded my eyes for a better look. But, back to the beginning of the hike. As soon as we saw the sign for a detour to a Meditation Area we pulled out the small bottle of Jamison and wandered to the water’s edge, never reaching the designated meditation spot but impatiently creating our own on a sawed-off stump resting on craggy and dried out roots a few feet from the lapping lakeshore. I couldn’t imagine what other area on the lake would be more well-suited for abandoning yourself for a few seconds or a few hours to some greater good. I didn’t know how to meditate but I knew how to let the winter sun warm my face and let the whiskey warm my gut. The dogs polar bear plunged, Sally’s Boston Terrier, Murphy, out-swimming my Charlie. He ripped sticks from Charlie’s mouth the few times Charlie would beat him to a root we’d thrown a dozen feet from shore. Charlie cried, as he always done, when the pursuit of a hunk of wood leads him from wading to swimming depth. He’s always been a wader, not a swimmer. And watching him bound along the shore and take big bites of lake water made me love every flea-ridden inch of that old hairy dog. Sitka slapped my legs with a root she’d ripped out of the rocks, not wanting to hand it over but preferring a game of tug of war that would have ripped the skin off my palms. And Suzy just darted from woods to shore, a solar-powered dog charging her mammoth battery bank.
We eventually mosied onward, but chose to follow the shoreline rather than the ice snow trail in the woods. Layers came off as we walked in the sun and the daylight felt endless at high noon. Any parts of the trail that were sheltered from the sun became crunching and stomping. We were perplexed how a firm layer of rock and sand would collapse under our sneakers (yep, sneakers), revealed a few inches of ice that held up the frozen shore. We tried snow (punched through), tried the rocky lake side (punched through or slipped on frozen rock) and tried sandy beach (punched through to a muddy underbelly). Shoes became muddy clod-hoppers and the dogs frolicked in filthy exuberance (except Murph who whimpered and tiptoed his way through the landscape). Eventually we found ourselves pacing down a spidery northern finger of the lake. Five months ago we would have dropped the backpacks and dove off the sandy bank into dark green water, letting the last 9 miles of the hike dry our clothes. But, this time of the year it was just jokes (I think, Sally’s from Minnesota so maybe she was serious) about polar bear plunges. The finger was endless. Eventually a man in reflective orange vest emerged from the woods, watching us intently. I whistled for the dogs, excepting to hear a shotgun blast, until I saw his tripod. A surveyor from Portland General Electric, deep in the woods midweek. Neat job. At least as long as December offered up sun instead of snow or rain. We wandered back onto the trail, regretting it almost instantly as the snow deepened and thoughts of homemade snowshoes entered our minds. The trail led us away from the lake, and knowing we were lengthening the distance of our hike, we stayed keenly focused on the glimmer of blue that would lead us back to the lake and sun. The dogs kept frolicking, except Suzy, who hated her pointy claws punching through the snow. She hurky jerked down the trail, seeming to think that moving quickly would end the experience sooner. If she hadn’t kept running back to us she may have been right in that assumption.
Eventually we found our way to whatever the lake equivalent is tidelands is. Stumps rose out of the snow and flocks of birds scattered into the blue. We found a snowy log to cross a stream, only realizing a few hundred feet further that we needed to cross again to undo that mistake and to keep the lake on our right as one must do when completing a circle. That fording didn’t go quite as dryly. We slapped down frozen, rotten logs to tightrope across. The Jamison ensuring that our feet missed the mark and sunk our sneakers into the mountain stream. Sloshing down the lake, we forgave our frozen feet as the sun melted closer to the treeline. The shoreline turned from frozen sand to boulders, more stable but required a bit more focus to traverse. And the sun ticked as it eased closer and closer to the trees. Looking across the lake, waves and blue yawned between us and the gap on the far shore where Sally’s car sat. I glanced at my watch and two hours of sunlight didn’t seem sufficient to reach vehicular warmth by sunset. But by now we were over halfway and the only option was onward. Scrambling to the treeline, a shrill and proud chirping overhead opened my heart to this place. I had not seen a Bald Eagle in Oregon even though I’ve lived here for fifteen months now. We couldn’t see it yet but then a small black speck deep in the sky gave away it’s flight. Then another, maybe it’s mate, dipped low by the trees, briefly close before it caught a thermal and soared upward. Now we weaved through the scraggly trees still living on the bank above the beach. Passing fire rings and wooden camp benches we switched from shore to bank as we paralleled the far side of the lake where we’d arrived.
Finally we caught the main trail and followed yet another finger to a wooden bridge to cross what we hoped would be one of the last inlets that lengthened our trip as we were forced to follow a winding shore rather than any sort of efficient linear path that may spare us a moonlit hike. That’s when we realized Charlie was missing. We stopped and waited. Then started whistling. Then hollering. Then searching. Sally went off-trail as I walked back the way we came. Charlie is not the most savvy dog out there and has been found in the bottom of a well after one of his adventures. He’s Timmy, not Lassie. With less than an hour of daylight and miles left before us, anger and worry started creeping in as Charlie maintained his absence. As I imagined life without that furry bear of a numbskull dog he came bounding down the trail, obviously deep behind us in pursuit of whatever joy he’d seen off-trail. His happiness turned to concern as he saw the look on my face and he slowed to a plod, tail down. I told him he was an asshole an clipped his leash onto his collar, punishing myself as much as him as I hooked up my ball and chain for the rest of the walk. With a sense of purpose to beat the tick of the sun we kept on, following the trail, crossing the bridge, and then beating our way back off-trail to the lakeshore. This last stretch was the most silent. Hats were donned and layering resumed. The grey and violet of dusk settled around us like a shawl. Except a shawl that had been left in the freezer instead of the closet. Eventually Murphy ended up in Sally’s backpack. He put up zero fight as she lowered him into the bag, simply shivering as he was zipped into the pack. He never attempted escape for the remaining miles. Looking back, Mount Hood surprised us, rising up beyond the lake as proud as those eagles, content in the fading light. The lights of a ski slope twinkled on it’s northern slope. It grew larger and larger as we walked southward. The moon rose out of the east, offering a gentle warning in lieu of the departed sun. Twilight allowed visibility that crept away, but never fully left us as our eyes adjusted and the moon twinkled off the snow-bitten slopes of the lake. We tripped more and talked less. I felt to blame for the lack of planning on how long it takes to walk 13 miles when it’s mostly in snow and over rock, even if it is pancake flat. But, an hour into dark we stumbled onto pavement and a quarter mile from Sally’s car. Murphy was released from his pack, Charlie kept on his leash and chatter resumed. Hamstrings tight as bent saplings we eased into the car, eager for heated seats and no more steps. The conversation was slow and easy as wine on the forty five minute drive back to town. The icy road proved no challenge for Sally’s Midwestern driving skills. And it was with much anticipation that we parked in front of Fearless Brewing, eager to make good on talks of double bacon cheeseburgers and multiple beers. The food was subpar and the service cool, as it usually is there, in spite of the vacant tables. But, we wolfed down a basket of fries and our overcooked burgers without complaint. The beer was cheap and delicious, even the winter ale that I’d usually avoid but felt compelled to order because “warmth” was in the description.
We parted ways in the parking lot of Estacada’s only grocery store. I had to lift Charlie into the Subaru and realized he’ll feel worse than me in the morning, taking into account his dog years. I got home to the gremlin cats and a cold house but the heat was soon blowing and the dogs, bellies full, curled into their beds. I thought of you last night as I do most nights (and days). I watched Moonshiners for the first time and most of The Jerk for the third or fourth. Eyes and heart heavy I crawled into bed, Lily soon digging under the covers and nestling into the crook of my arm as she does almost every night. I lay there in that empty tideland between sleep and wakefulness. I realized I’d forgotten to write to you today, as I’ve done every day since we last spoke. So, I thought of you instead. I thought to you that I love you. It occurred to me that even though I think that many times every day, I haven’t heard it spoken for three weeks. It’s probably over between you and I. That thought settled deep into my chest as sleep closed in. Your pictures still surround me in this house. They rest on every surface. The cards you gave me hang in their place. Your childhood memories stay scattered across the fridge. Your clothes still hang in the closet and your shoes are mixed with mine at the door. But, things don’t make people and I figure someday soon even those things won’t be here to keep me wishing things had ended differently. I wrote to you this morning to make up for yesterday and added it to the folder of love letters that you will probably never read. But, that’s the point I suppose. This isn’t for you. It’s more me. This journey is not planned. It’s off-trail and the footing is poor. But, when you travel in a circle your only option to keep walking to where you began.