Gelato, Palio, and Groupon

    Last year I went to Italy with my 79 year old mother.   The outlook for this vacation was grim the moment we arrived in Lucca,  because traipsing up and down the cobblestone streets it was clear to me that she really couldn’t walk too well anymore.  I guess this is a moment that happens to any daughter confronting an aging parent, but at first it really angered me.
    “Why did you let yourself gain so much weight, why haven’t you kept up with exercise?,” I said to myself, and to her, in slightly less direct language.  But what I really meant was, “When did you get old?”
    But once I resigned myself to the limits of her impaired mobility, I was able to concentrate on where we actually were, instead of all the possible places we could have gotten to, had we the infinite energy I always imagine I have.  I still forced her up  third floor walk-up hotel rooms, and through the long halled museums and into each nave of every cathedral, but she got to lie down when I perambulated the streets of Sienna and take the train rather than the hike at Cinque Terre.

    I know my mom was mostly miserable on this trip and she swears she will never travel to Europe again, but we did have at least one pleasure in common, our daily gelato.  I know you can get gelato in the US, but in Italy there seems to be a gelato stand on every corner and they all seemed to offer a wonderful product.  This was the only moment each day for which Mom found a smile that wasn’t a grimace.  Sorry Mom!  I should say that when she went home, months later she actually visited a doctor and got a diagnosis that wasn’t the fault of her sloth, and could be mitigated with the right stretching exercises.
    Meanwhile, I looked at the art and architecture, especially taken with the splendor of the churches and the towns, and art so devoted to religion.  What amazes me about Europe is how much of the structure of the Renaissance and Baroque era is still there and how unified society seemed to be in the old, old days.  Surely, the pervasiveness of religion must have been stultifying in some ways, but compared to the cacophony of modern civilization, the symmetry of society seems retrospectively attractive.

    We spent several days in Siena, and I witnessed one of the pep rallies for the Palio, the horse race that would take place in the bricked square later in the summer.  Hundreds of townspeople gathered in the square to take part in and witness a ceremony of trumpets and flag tossing and singing of songs was both stirring and touching.  Of course, many Oregonians engaged in similar behavior for the recent Ducks football championship. But the fact that in Siena the tradition stretches back to the Middle Ages, gave the scene a little more majesty.

    Our society today, seems to find very little to agree upon and yet as we engage in conflict we fear its incendiary nature.  The shooting of Arizona Congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords, is the most shocking evidence of the animosity hanging in the air.  The fact is,  we are united more by the products we share, than by any central truth.  Is it possible that while commercial speech aims to join us together in pursuit of a common expenditure, such as Groupon does, political speech is focused on splitting us down the middle?  An old friend called me to talk to someone she was sure would share her views on recent political events, but we ended up disagreeing on taxes and government, differences I never knew were there.  Sometimes, I wonder if it would have been better in Siena in the 1500's.   Then I remember the Montagues and Capulets and realize it has always been this way.

Stopping By The Woods

    One of the evils of city living is that it is hard to leave.  Even when traffic and time are not impediments, everything beyond the borders of streets and houses seems far away.  Thus, I go to the country much less than I mean to.
    But Sunday was sunny and cold and I knew there was snow galore in the mountains, so Rob and I went to the Wind River area of hills in Washington to cross country ski for me, and snowshoe for him.

Although the traffic tie ups around Mt. Hood had been making the news, there were very few visitors to this land of gentle hills that border the Indian Heaven wilderness area.  Perhaps that was because the road was icy and curvy the last ten miles.

    Skiing in the sun through the woods is about as close to bliss as I can get.

Maybe it is because I get so light starved in the winter, or go through the day, tense with the damp chill of this rainy climate, but the chance to synchronize my arms and legs in big graceful strides and the soft shush of each step almost puts me to sleep with calm.  The right music on the Ipod didn’t hurt my mood either

New Year And Its Discontents

    Raised Catholic as a child, I made many promises to be good.  Each time I went to the confessional to unload my petty sins, I promised to do better next time.  A few Hail Marys were all I needed to send me on my way to a better life.  And any time I faced  fear, I bargained hard with my goodness in order to avert disaster.
“ Oh please God, I promise I will always believe in you if you just don’t let Mom and Dad die in a car accident.”
   This prayer was invoked  when I babysat my brothers and sisters, and thought  my parents were overdue from whatever journey they were on.   Staring out the window, I willed their car to appear and implored the deity to keep them safe.
    Praying is the primary attraction of Christianity, the idea that by asking an invisible entity for help you can improve your chances for a positive outcome.  It was a good tool, right up until I realized I was just talking to myself.  Then I was left with resolutions, backed up with only my good intentions, which are not easily able to surmount the ever heavier burden of past behavior.  We are repetitive creatures!
    So to prove this point I offer a poem from ten years ago, which reiterates some nearly  identical concerns of myself today.  The only solace is that my failure to keep these resolutions has not seemed to interfere with my general enjoyment of life as it is, even as I miss that perfection of what I imagine I should be.

2001 (or 2011) Resolutions

The year electricity gave out, stopped answering our call,
petered out before it ever got to the switch.  Finally in the dark
we see light as a treasure instead of a given.

The year coffee turned from medicine to poison, addicted,
overly devoted to dosage, technique, bitterness, I give it up
turn to milky tea, and sky becomes the first thing in the morning.

The year the newspaper stops landing on the front step,
cigar of wasted tree, smeared with words I am greedy for
redundant, trivial, disturbing, using up the free spaces of morning brain.

The year I see the commuting miles piling up, slowing me down
I-205, Powell Bvd to Oregon City, etched forever behind my eyeballs
even the hawk hunting the median strip can’t relieve my boredom. 

The year I hear the hammer hit the head of the cow
minced into hamburger, see the chicken on the guillotine
feel the loneliness of the fish as it takes the hook, and back away.

The year I read less, stop looking for answers, imagining
what might happen, and do what I can, find a candle,
make a fire, start living life and writing down as I go.

Dark Thoughts For Solstice

A Different Twist on Yeats

When he mentions the widening gyre
did he have my slackening belly in mind
circling the umbilical dimple, spreading
beyond the natural buttress of the pelvis,
toward a curve ever further.

Did he mean to invoke the slouching
of each cell, leaning with gravitational
tide, threatening at all times to body slam
my whole raison d’etre from whence
I derive and eventually succumb.

When birds express their harsh indignation
by ripping into my flaccid flesh
will there be a line of ants assembled
to receive communion and transport tiny parts
of me into the mouths of babes?

12/21/10

Plants and People United

Today I went out to play my role as crew leader for Friends of Trees, the group in Portland whose mission is spreading woody vegetation throughout the city.  There are so many reasons why this is a good idea, but today rain was constant for the entire time, testing our resolve and waterproof clothing.  With excessive precipitation in the northwest and blizzards in the midwest and Europe, I wonder if this is the increased intensity of weather that is promised by global warming.  If so, it seems like it will be tough to adjust to, but buying shares of GoreTex, or at least plenty of articles of clothing of that miracle fabric might be a first step.

A neighborhood treeplanting appears to operate on the exact opposite premise of the old movie, Field of Dreams.  In the movie the catch phrase was “If you build it, they will come,” referring to a magical baseball game that would happen when a baseball field is created.  For a treeplanting, it seems like the adage should be “If they come, we will build it,” because the trees just can’t get planted unless the volunteers show up with their trucks and muscles and willingness. Every time it comes together, and every time it is a magical thing.
In reality of course, volunteers and the paid staff have spent months getting all the parts together so that  we can’t help but rise early, don our raincoats and go out to get very wet and dirty and put some trees in the ground.   Today, two dozen crews planted 250 trees.

My crew were all homeowners who had signed up to get a tree in their planting strip by the curb.  City inspectors had previously inspected for the placement and size of tree, probationers had come and dug the holes, utilities had marked the placement of their lines, and neighborhood association volunteers had solicited donations from local eateries so that the planters could be fed both breakfast and lunch.  Other volunteers had coordinated the ordering of the trees, the operation of the food preparation, and the all important sign-up of trucks and truck drivers.  In the city, people who own pickups are always beseeched by their neighbors, and this is one of those times.

Because of the torrents of rain I didn’t expect a lot of manpower, but we had what we needed, including a chef, two teachers and a social service provider.  There was also the nine year old son of the chef, who assisted at the site of the first tree, but rather wisely retreated to the truck and his book for the remainder of the exercise.

Maybe because we were all skilled at working with others, after I gave the demonstration on planting, everyone literally dug in and worked great together.   I’m sure it also helped that we were all quickly sopping wet and on the verge of being cold if we didn’t keep moving, but we got the work done and were back for lunch by 12:30 PM.  After stripping off at least one layer of wetness, we were spooning into homemade soup and bread and exchanging business cards and email addresses.  Each and every time I plant trees, in the perhaps vain hope of making a dent in carbon dioxide levels of the world, I coincidentally  gain a palpable sense of goodwill towards my fellow humans.   For whatever reason, it always works!

Trying To Keep Up With Myself

 The challenge of my life has always been how to schedule enough doing to feel busy, healthy, creative and effective, and still have time to recollect the meaning of it all along the way.  Here we are at the end of November and I never finished my California trip in October.  I never mentioned walking in the redwoods which felt more like a cemetery than a refuge.  So many trees were chopped down for so little and now only a token is left.  The one part I appreciated were the plaques commemorating the selfless effort of a few conservationists to save each  grove from the chainsaw.  Even with the underlying sorrow, each tree is amazing.

That night we stayed at a little campground on the Klamath River and met the only other campers, a couple from Eugene.  We bonded over Robert’s interest in their teardrop camper, and the fact that the other woman was another tall Ellen.  It’s the little things that bring us together.

The next day we drove up the coast through a very foggy tip of California into sunny Oregon, right after Gold Beach.  We hiked out to Blacklock’s Point, and then up to the Oregon Dunes, staying in Eel Creek Campground.

Then we are back and life resumes, and now I am trying to write a novel in thirty days which is impossible, just in case you wondered.  But I am up to 27,000 words and I have to persevere simply because I said I would.  I am also helping to put together my neighborhood’s annual street tree planting next weekend and getting ready for several Christmas recorder gigs.  Going to work is mercifully nonthreatening for the moment.  No killer custody trials are looming.

I just returned from the place known as The Swamp for Thanksgiving.  A cabin set on the very northern edge of the Klamath Marsh, it is owned by Robert’s sister and husband, and is isolated and beautiful.

We had to leave early for fear of getting snowed in.  This didn’t seem like a bad fate, but I was overruled.  Goodby herd of chickadees, hello Willamette Valley skies.

Under the Sea Wind

I am writing a novel this month, with all the crazy folks of NaNoWri Mo, or National Novel Writing Month.   This little endeavor is getting in the way of my blog.  But I want to finish telling of my trip in California, before I forget it all.

From Point Reyes to Harbin Hot Springs we followed twisty roads through golden hills and then miles and miles of grape vines, in regimented lines.  Although you see a lot of wine in the grocery store, I didn’t have a mental picture of how many grapes it takes.  And we were only passing the elite wineries.   Finding Harbin was a little tricky, as it is tucked into the hills, but once there we entered a world of body and mind consciousness raising planted in the ‘60's and flourishing ever since.  Centered around several pools of various temperatures, visitors strip off their clothes in a unisex changing room, shower and partake of the waters in a hushed reverence.  We were hungry so we had to cut short the power of hot water to eat various heathy options in the restaurant.  Because it was the one night a week staff were served free, there was a big crowd in a great mood.  They were especially excited because the founder, was on the premises.

We stayed in a geodesic tent cabin with one side of clear plastic so we could look out on the woods.  It was a peaceful place.  Rob woke up in the night and went to the hot pools but I slept on.  In the morning I did a session of yoga in the temple which was hard and great.  Then we were on out way, to a place we really knew little about, Sinkyone Park.  This  is adjacent to the Lost Coast, a part of the coast that has no road next to it and is undeveloped.  Following directions both on the internet and by the person manning the nearest post office, we turned onto a dirt road so steep and narrow, we doubted it could be the right way.  I turned around after about a quarter mile and went back to the pavement and then saw that someone had actually drawn an arrow with the name of the campground, Usal, on the road.  So this was right.

 After about six miles of a very primitive road, where we were singing the Subaru song the whole way, we came to the campground, which was next to the beach.  There were a couple of people on the beach when we arrived and two vehicles parked in the campground, but we didn’t make contact with anyone once we got there.  Only a couple of elk.

 Up the coast the land fell straight into the sea.  The waves roared up the pebble beach.  It was beautiful and empty.  Back at the campground, we set up out tent in a grove of alder.  The moon rose as we cooked dinner.  We slept well.

In the morning the tide was lower and gave us room to walk down the beach less than a mile.  We slowly ambled, picking up souvenirs and listening to the restless sea.  Then we were gone, back on the scary road and heading north to the redwoods.