A blur of activity, a brain that never stops, a trickster, a climber, a jumper, exuberance that makes me stop and watch, stop and breathe in her 8 year old essence.
The First One
It snowed on Saturday, as the first person in our city died. It was a milestone that brought everything into relief. No going back, only forward. The first one - so much in that short phrase. Until now, no one in our city died of Coronavirus. Until now, and it won't be the last. The … Continue reading The First One
Calculated Risk
So many ways to die, I think, as I walk out my door The proverbial bus A stroke, a heart attack, cancer, acute appendicitis You have your own favorites I'm sure. If not death, then discomfort and suffering At the grandkids' school Pinworms, head lice, chicken pox, norovirus We went to get our shingles vaccine. … Continue reading Calculated Risk
Walk Look See Write
This week I'm looking to see or hear what the trees are trying to tell me, They are stark and dramatic now, and their personalities revealed without the extravagance of leaves. The trees' rain-darkened bones stand out clearly, accentuated against the skies' lighter backdrop.
Eastside Westside
Eastsider? Westsider? These terms are new to me, but it makes sense. The Oregon Cascades Mountains create a great divide running along the length of the state with two different climates, economies, lifestyles, and politics - all the things that make a life.
Blogiversary is a Word
When you do something outside your comfort zone, it opens doors to doing other new, hard things. You're brave in one way, why not be brave in others? Creating a blog informed the way I write, the way I play music, how I try new things.
The Equinox Blues Turns Yellow and Red
It's one of those sparkly days between rains as the sun came out again (note to self: AS IT DOES) .... The mid-October gift of sunshine makes me feel like the Grinch as his heart grows three sizes bigger.
Equinox Part I
Usually my feelings about Fall here in the Pacific Northwest are more mixed; excited about cooler mornings, rain in the garden, digging out warm clothes while mourning the end of languid days, sleeveless shirts, warm skin, and thriving gardens. Instead, I was fighting inevitable change, a losing battle.
It’s All a Dream We Dreamed
Robert Hunter, the lyricist for the Grateful Dead, was also the lyricist for my life. His words threaded through my life since I was 21, when I met some new friends, Harold and Alan, and a community of people that became my tribe. Would I be who I am without Hunter?
Death Don’t Have No Mercy
My mind lingers on death more often these days. I tell Alan that if I become too demented and disabled he should smother me with a pillow, but he hasn't agreed. How about a commemorative plaque on a bench instead?
