A change in the weather, a wetlands, birds and beasts and walking on clouds, as well as writing and writers, songwriting, and death. I think I covered it all...
It's soggy, and has been for a while, and will be for a while more. Not California soggy, which seems strange to say; they have their own troubles. Here in the PNW we have the slow slog kind of soggy, weeks and months of it, seemingly endless. I might be getting used to it, or maybe just resigned. I guess it's what I signed up for when I moved.
If 2022 was our pandemic junior year, then I've moved on to senioritis; I'm restless and ready to bid goodbye to 2022. I nosed through the layers of my life like a mole. I paged through calendars, notebooks, my blog... Maybe it's death's hot breath, or maybe I just like spreadsheets and lists. But here are 100 things that made my year, in no particular order or ranking.
It's been a good week. Or a mostly good week. A pretty gosh darn fairly good week. I pause and take notice because of how I moped as the season turned, along with covid and politics and blah blah blah. But sometimes you just get a break, and things look pretty good, so I'll take some time to feel the joy. And write this quickly, in case.
mid-autumn the carelessness of leaves -- Gregory Longnecker, tinywords.com Most front yards in my Portland neighborhood are a sea of leaves scattered helter skelter; mosaics in shades of ochres, browns, yellows and burgundies, arrayed in various sizes, shapes, and arrangements.
It's only early November, I remind myself. Not winter, not February, not Iceland, I'm not homeless, the election will be over soon, and the only stuck thing about me is my mind. Get a grip. Time for a retreat.
It was a day for sunlight, one of few in a streak of cool rainy days. I went looking for an infusion - of yellow sun and leaves, of warm, blue skies, optimism, breath, whatever the forest had to offer, I needed it and would gladly gather it up.
Our hazy 80 degree Augtober days are coming to an end. The rains march inexorably closer, and will put out fires, clear the air, and bring… what, I don't know. Naomi Shihab Nye says, “You are living in a poem.”
The neighborhood smells good these days, of green, of dust, of dying flowers, of cooler air and lower clouds. I walked into the woods on Rosh Hashanah to smell it even closer, to get that scent along with calls of birds, a few falling leaves, and filtered sunlight through the trees.
Alan's birthday is as good an excuse as any to gather family at the beach. We've been together forty odd years (both meanings, yes). It all worked out somehow, and here we are, with a family we love, in a new state we've learned to love, and a coastline we've loved since childhood. Now I've discovered my new favorite Oregon beach town. Manzanita is the perfect ratio of beach to town - seven broad miles of soft pale sand, flat and firm, and a short few blocks of town.