It's an in-between time around here. Red, yellow, and orange leaves cover the ground and linger in the tree branches, hanging on til the next big winds. Rain alternates between torrents and sprinkles. I've just been in a "should I stay or should I go" sort of mood.
Anyone can become a writer. It hasn't been a straight path or an easy journey for me. But here are 52 steps that will get you on your way.
Here I go walking in circles again. If it's not one direction out my front door, it's the other, always in circles, round and round the neighborhood, looping past the same houses, same yards, same trees.
Adaptation comes little by little, accepting what I must, embracing what I can, trying to not tip over. I can do this, I can do this. I have no choice.
What will be my Quarantine Story, what tales will I tell in five years, or 10 or 20? Will it be a story of victory or sadness, revelation or survival, entertainment or boredom, or even joy? Which stories will last, and which will be of the moment?
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.
I like Portland weather partly because I have no choice. I repeatedly re-embrace it in a cognitively dissonant way, forcing myself to think: It's exciting! It's variety! It's opportunity! instead of: Oh this sucks!
Retirement isn't about stopping living; for me it was about choosing how I wanted to live my life, and where I wanted to live it.
Four years in Portland, and I'm no longer feeling quite Californian, and almost but not quite an Oregonian. I celebrated quietly and took note of how it feels now.
...recently, driving 1900 miles through California and back, feeling the pull in both directions, I realize that I've become polyamorous, very much a two state woman.