I spent April chasing Oregon's elusive wildflower bounty, hoping to catch the brief moment in time when tight little buds transform into fields of color.
When we first arrived in Portland our son warned us that spring was actually several seasons in one - fake spring, late winter, early spring, summer, real spring, winter again, and so on.
But what a difference a day makes. Last Friday most everything melted. The skies cleared and views of the Cascades showed gleaming snow-capped peaks. Clouds of the white and fluffy sort drifted lazily in a dazzling blue sky. The temperature climbed to 50, which we haven't seen in a while. Or at least I don't remember; perhaps it's frozen out of recollection.
Winter teases with a promise of renewal as new growth pops up, often subtle but sometimes shouting out loud. There really is reason to go outside.
A place where we're reminded that once upon a time no humans walked, where human strife didn't exist, where none of this, none of us, mattered.
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!
Looking for color in the Dog Days of summer.
Learning the challenges of a new music festival, but this year the fun-meter was on high.
A Walk In a Park and a Hanging - you just never know what you're going to get when you step out your door.
...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.