What Me, a Theatre History Instructor?

I love the atmosphere of the University of Oregon campus.  I love that amongst the towering ancient pines and the lush quadrangles and old red brick and grey gothic buildings you can sense the buzz of curiosity, research, critical thinking, community, imagination, creativity, and history.  The trees have seen it all and they stand guard, offering their steady oxygen and gracious presence to many a seeker of enlightenment and life.

I had the priviledge of teaching one term there in 2024 -- an acting class of 15 students.  What a joy, what a priviledge, what a blessing.

Since then I have longed to return.  When I'm there, a part of things, part of that community, I love to take advantage of the opportunities provided for faculty on campus: guest speakers, storytellers, celebrations, problem solving forum theatre sessions, playback theatre, museum exhibitions, faculty social gatherings, etc.  I love the dialogue, the opportunity to meet new people, and the inspiration I can receive in talking to others who are actively learning.

And I love the place.  Hayward Field and all its intention and history.  Gehrlinger Hall and all its grandeur and history.  The hidden waterfall, the rhodedendrons, the squirrels, the roses, the gardens, the ampitheatre, the connection places, the newly renovated Villard and Deady Halls, the Pioneer Cemetery, the old Mac Court, the EMU and courtyard... so many invitations to see and hear and open and learn.

When I was teaching my acting class, I was tickled to find that I was competent, not only to assert what I was reading in the text we were following, but to know that with my experience, I could speak into how it was done, and if there were blocks, offer alternatives to try.  I helped the students see the moments when they were truly present and encourage them to step into that kind of vulnerability themselves; to trust truth in response, as opposed to overplanning and control.  It was wonderful. 

So, in 2025, and again in 2026, I have updated my application whenever there is an open call for pro-tem faculty in Theatre Arts.

In 2025 I learned there was no funding to bring someone on, so I assumed that might be the case this year as well, nonetheless,  in August I reached out to learn more.  The word I received was that the only position available was for theatre history.  Dang.  No teaching acting or directing opportunities were still available.  Oh well, I thought, and went back to envisioning what I should do with my calling.  I have several ideas for producing theatre, but strangely, some of them are on hold in ways that feel out of my control.

As I was listening for direction, I tried considering theatre history.  Could I?  It's so much more acedemic than my approach to theatre has ever been.  In the past I would thrill to learning about each genre when trying on the plays or teaching the acting style -- embodying the characters and their supposed mannerisms, unique costumes, masks, language, cultural values, and context were all interesting, but they were all toward a purpose of rendering the plays, and not an end to themselves.

Suddenly I found myself not very certain about huge swaths of human history and how and why theatre actually happened.  I learned that the class would easily have 50 students, and that a large portion of their workload would be research papers and lecture based teaching.  I went silent.

Days later I came back to the idea.  Could I?  I read up about the course online and saw that even though it was now already September, the instructor was still TBA. I asked about it again and shared some concerns.  The supervising professor affirmed my concerns and also offered their materials to teach should I be hired, reminding me that of course a due process would have to proceed for all applicants.    

I thought again about the environment of UO and the Theatre Arts department and all the glorious resources and opportunities and the structure that teaching a class would provide in my life,

and asked that my name go into the hat for theatre history.

A week or so later I saw that the instructor of the course was changed from TBA to the supervising professor who has taught it for 15 years and that made so much sense.  I'm an actor, director, playwright, producer, designer... not really a theatre historian.

So I went to Ashland and stayed with family and saw plays, and thrilled to the atmosphere of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in pear country.

One night after a poignantly relevant play, I got a notice from UO saying that my application was moving to the "check my references" stage.  What?  Was that just a formality, or an anticipation for the possible opening for the spring module?  I mean, surely it couldn't be for this term, with it being Sept. 10 and classes starting on Sept. 28... could it?

I put it out of mind, mostly.  Then David and I got gifted some opening night tickets to a musical in Eugene, the day we were driving home, which was also our 33rd anniversary: Sept. 12.  We had just seen a jubilant "Come From Away" to a packed house on Sept. 11 and attended a lovely community gathering on the bricks afterward and all our theatre/human/joyous/hopeful senses were buzzing.

After the Eugene musical there was a time of celebration in the lobby and I was chatting with a friend from the theatre department.  I didn't bring it up at first, but then I mentioned that after putting my name in the hat to teach, I had seen that the instructor was now listed as the head of the department.  She said something like, "yes, I know, congratulations." --?  What?  "I haven't heard anything." I said.  And then she looked scared for a moment.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  Maybe I wasn't supposed to say anything."  "Well, no.  Thank you."  "At least, that was my understanding a week and half ago..." "Would it be for this term?"  "I'm not sure now, I'm sorry I said anything."  

So... was I going to be made an offer?

On Sept. 16 an email arrived with a contingent offer to teach fall 2026 of theatre history, looking at the origins of theatre up until 1660, my start date that day.

At the U of O (I still call it that even though it seems to have changed to UO), there is something called CANVAS and it is an online hub for all things regarding your course where you have your syllabus and students send in their assignments and you share readings and do your grading and attendance... everything.  It took me awhile to get the hang of it the first time, but this time... I wasn't allowed access to it until my hiring process was complete and my UO email was activated, and they had done my background check, and all the forms and procedures filled out and followed.

I was panicking.  Thankfully the supervising professor had been working to create a syllabus for the class, arrange for some guest speakers and field trips, and uploaded several of his lecture slides, and other media.

He also asserted the assignments and the course outline.

Unfortunately the class went from meeting three days a week to just two, for slightly longer times, but overall there was less time and some topics got cut.  But he was helping in some really substantial ways.

Also, even though I was told not to expect it, I was awarded a teaching assistant -- a GTF to help with the class.  My wonderful assistant is good with tech (which is an important tool in a modern lecture class) and he will also help with some grading.  Thank the Lord.

Late Friday night before Monday's class I got on to Canvas.  Saturday I met with the professor and teaching assistant, and then tweaked and rewrote and published the course.

I have tried to cram so much into my brain the last few weeks.  Theatre History, of course, but also, getting reaquainted with Canvas, getting settled into my office (which is so lovely), learning codes and picking up keys, asserting passwords and databases and meeting new people who can help with resources and books and videos and information in libraries and several online sites, even if some of them are tricky to access or navigate.

What a whirlwind.

I'm so grateful.  I'm grateful for the students I get to come to know.  I'm grateful for the beautiful new classroom I get to teach in a brand new state of the art building on the beautiful campus I know and love and am still coming to know.  I'm grateful for the staff of the theatre arts who are stepping up to help me get adjusted and support me.

And

I am so scared.  Sometimes I think, "why did I think this was for me?"  

Waves of insecurity keep crashing over me as I try to prepare and come to own the course of the course and gradually try to make it my own.

It is humbling.  But I also have some strengths.

I am creative and tuned to the dynamics in the room.  I can get us up on our feet trying things on for size and voicing some text.  I am playful and courageous.  I have a genuine care and curiosity for the students and am quickly learning their names and pronouns.  But I am still unsure of how best to proceed.

A lot of my time outside of class is trying to prepare for class.  I'm finding the first few readings long and challenging.  If I could get ahead, I could find ways to modify or bring some alternatives alongside.  And although I'm grateful for all the online resources, there are so, so many options, that exploring and deciding on which ones to use can be overwhelming.  And even though I have access to use the previous instructor's slides, I don't always know what is behind them, and I can't edit them (which makes sense, respectfully) so I find that if I want to teach in my own voice, I need to start creating my own slides -- which I have -- and which again is a skill I am having to go on a quick learning curve because there are so many design options and so many images (some available, some not) and so, so, much to share that I don't already know, and it takes a lot of time.

Sheesh.

Grateful and daunted.

And wanting to bring myself and be a good conduit for the information, but even more to facilitate growth, affirmation, and learning in my students.  And for that, I need to be courageously me.  Gracious me.  Healthy me.  Paying attention me.  Trusting me.  Humble me and Confident me.

I need to discern where I am ready and where I need help.

I am also keeping up with several other commitments that made to groups before I got hired, as well as a trip to Austin, TX to visit my kids for Thanksgiving... this last holdout has necessitated some adjusting to my course, but I have support.

I am daring.  May I also be a good servant and come to trust what I know, and ask for help when I don't.

Thank you for listening as I needed to record this part of my adventure to honor what I am processing,

Grace; it's not just for me

 Oddly enough, 

I have two similar situations facing me right now.

Two humans that are witholding opportunity from me that I am overqualified for and ready to engage in.  And yet, I don't have their approval.  They have their reasons, but unfortunately they are not curious about me and I feel quite misunderstood.

And then, there is an old friend who has offered two opportunities out of the blue.  Creative projects that I can participate in, be on a team, and not have to self produce the project.  Wow.

The Lord takes and the Lord gives.  (I know it's supposed to be the other way around, but I prefer this order.)

I want to see my opportunities and provision alongside the injustice, both big and small.  I seek balance of positivity and the wonder of nature to help me breathe and calm my anxiety.  It's not just an unconscious accident, but has become a willful intention and call to health and wonder... letting the girl in me take me by the hand and lead me to the grass and show me the yellow spotted "man bugs" and the sweet smell of the moist earth and the ever changing clouds.

The basics.  

Now if I can just get to bed earlier...

I'm grateful for the moment where I remember to look for and recognize grace.  God's grace.  It is generous and forgiving, and deep.

What I have to remind myself is -- that grace can then be extended from me to others.  While I'm wanting Justice to role down like a river, sometimes God's answer is not another's humiliation, but my humility.  I can register the injustice and then choose to lay it down, if I'm able.  God gives grace, so that I can dole it out to others.  Maybe it will spread like a good disease, like the fragrance from a sweet tree, like a cool breeze on a hot day, like a song that swells your heart, like a fresh peach pie, a firm banana, frothed milk with honey, or cool clean sheets.

As is spoken in our play, the cries of all my selves, past and future call to me 

Slow down

Stay healthy

And listen, when you pray.

It's not easy, but it is palpably better for my mental health and wellness.

I have a rose bush in my backyard that has three different colors all at once.  Thank you Lord.

...

More grace please.

Over the Hump of 2026, The Bear, Scared, and Resource Rich

 I made it through the fourth of July relatively unscathed.  The boom-boom, pop-pop, crackle of the fireworks across the street and the slough of patriotic propaganda did not hit direct target.  Instead, my husband and I dodged most of the bullets by holing up on the couch and watching the dark, hilarious, brilliant, intense until it's beautiful The Bear.  Thank you Christopher Storer for sharing humans who are fighting for family and survival and find redemption in teamwork.  I cant get over episode 7.  They payoff from season 4 and 5 put together.  Such good story.  I resound with the innovation and resourcefulness.

There is so little that I can trust from anything the current administration offers.  It is thick with masking, show, white-washing, and manipulation.  It is.  And critical thinkers hungry for trustworthy honesty and truth and are not the problem and we are not Communists and we are not the enemy.  Calling us that is not fair and is cruel, divisive, and irresponsible, once again.  Communism was responding to an imbalance in power, and that is understandable.  Did they take it too far?  Yes.  Did they leave out accountability?  Yes.  That is where Democracy is built to sustain order over corruption -- through three branches hoding each other to account.  But when the rule of law is ignored and congress people are swayed through power and financial gain, they lose their ethical moorings.  That is all I am willing to say about it now; it scares me so.

...

So, on another note, the weather this spring and summer has been absolutely stunning.  No complaints.  No frightening surges.  Just beautiful.  The cherry tree was abundant, the sunflowers are in full bloom, the warmth, the brightness, the breeze.. all amazing.  Even when traveling in Europe in April and May -- gorgeous.  And not too hot, like I hear they experienced after we left.  I am so fortunate and privileged in many ways.

...

Back to The Bear.  I resound with the challenge, the rush of needing to be "on" and keeping everyone happy while navigating unforseen challenges.  The original theatre show that David and I are currently producing "Women of an Uncertain Age" goes up August 14 - 16 and we are still scrambling to find rehearsal time when all of us can be there and stage this thing that is still being modified and cut and tested and eventually memorized.  And we're not sure of the best way to end it either.  That mystery is hanging over us and we have to trust that it will come clear at the right time.

I'm grateful to come to know and work with such interesting individuals.  That has been an enlivening opportunity.

Time moves fast now.  I have friends who are dealing with their own frailty and mortality, and others who have loved ones fading.  How can I best help?  Listen.  Give.  Offering a specific help that I am happy and ready to give must be easier to receive than the generic "let me know if there's anything I can do".  That leaves all the thinking to the one needing help, so of course it's easier to decline.  Hmm.

I made my signature soft peanutbutter chocolate chip cookies last week.  They are so delectable that I wonder if they might be received by anybody anytime, even if they say they don't need anything.  Sometimes we don't know what we need until we taste it.  And "we don't know what we've got til it's gone" -- thanks Joni.

I'm in a strange limbo because although there is a lot of responsibility and work to be done on producing our play, but there are very few specific deadlines, so I have to (get to) determine the schedule for each day pretty much by the hour, and try to remember what needs to get rolling before it's too late.

Last January and February I was so excited to be putting together an adventurous Passion Play.  Writing and creating and editing and fleshing out the visions in my head and the instincts in my gut.  Only to learn that those I sent it to did not want to pursue my vision.  What a loss.  I realize that there may be other irrertations or other venues for the the piece, but I had crafted it with that exact venue in mind.  I feel like they were not ready to be as bold as their call led me to believe.  I think about it now because this is the time I would have had to send them a full first draft, had they chosen me.  I wonder what my life would have looked like for these past two months if they had.

I've been trying to pay attention to whatever is around me.  Birds, flowers, bugs, snakes, trees, sounds, sights, light, moon, sky, and people.  I have to be aware of cars and bikes and scooters when we're driving -- and I find myself easily resentful of others who seem insensitive or unaware, so defensive driving is a must these days.  But when I'm home, I appreciate getting to sing loudly if I want without disturbing anyone, and being able to step outside for a gander at my garden or a quick lie down on the shady grass.

I am actually resource-rich, as my friend Antionette says.  I have so much.  Please, please, can I learn to rest in it, and not fret, but respond with gratitude and follow-through with the things I have in mind, and be open to those that will come upon me today.  And tomorrow.

Walking Forward

 Ask about the good way and walk in it.

I feel strong compulsions to create.  To foster dialogue and shed light on truths that are not usually shared.  To retell familiar stories and assert connections.  To bring things to life theatrically, whether that is in a church, a theatre, online, or at my dining room table. 

This unction from God does not mesh with the prevailing winds of fear, depression, rage, disappointment, political deceit or righteousness, safety, capitalism, submissiveness, or self care -- although the latter could be debated in the long run.

I slip into booth 12 at the Eugene Public Library to borrow a computer because I left the house not remembering that I had an afternoon appointment after my morning rehearsal and forgot to bring my laptop so I could chip away at my play.  The big one.  There is also a little one, and a collaborative one, and several medium ones, but , yeah, the BIG one.  The one that I have no promise of reception or production, but the one that keeps taking over my imagination and feeding me impulses and new thoughts.  Unorthodox thoughts.  Brilliant thoughts.  Simple thoughts.  Mischievous thoughts.  Beautiful thoughts.

God help me to know if I'm mis-stepping... otherwise I will continue to follow follow follow my delight and my burning questions.

I'm downtown Eugene as well, and there has been several opportunities to encounter others outside of my routine.  There has already been marvelous truthtelling and movement and imagination at my devised theatre rehearsal this morning -- thank God for these courageous women lending their hearts in the midst of their fiercely busy lives and care-giving, service, responsibilities and occupations.  And thank God for the courageous and kind husband who has stepped up to hold the reins while I play in the pool, honoring the stories of women -- those who have gone before, those who are struggling and surviving now, and those who will stride into the future.  Honoring me and my story.

Then off to amazing food from Zandos, including a tip, and wondering where and how to garner the means to continue buying meals when out and about.  If I were a morning person, would it be different?  Would I get up early and set to organizing my day and packing a lunch from food already in my refrigerator?  Or would I simply write longer on my play than I did this morning?

The library computer has headphones and I decide to use them instead of listening to a man speak too loudly all the way over at the desk.  And what do I find to listen to as background?  Arvo Part.  Yes, the achingly familiar and stunning artist of sparcity and longing.  Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you God for the blue, blue sky.  For the many tulip tree and cherry and apple and pear blossoms.  Spring is encroaching and taking over with delicate profusity, and I can not ignore it.  I want to skip and sing with the birds.  I want to bake and revel in warm sidewalks with moss and cut grass.  And in the midst of this idylic reverie and flow, a commercial rudelly interrupts the master composer on the free youtube account and a woman in a sliver of a bikini is trying to sell me things off on the sidebar.  No. Push Skip. Back to the music.  But now, someone has put two recordings of Spiegel im Spiegel on this collection, and I am not fooled and I can only take 9 minutes a day of that one, so please...

So much for being in a state of gratitude.  That didn't last long.

And yet I am so privileged.  So provided for in ways that I want to see and remember.  I want to make art, but I don't want to be unwise.  But I do feel a bit like Gideon being asked to trust that less is more and that earnest, childlike hope and loving actions can really win the battle against the 10,000 Philistines.

His grace is sufficient.

Do I really believe that?

Help thou my unbelief.

Walking forward in trust.

Hmm... Abraham walked forward onto the promised land after leaving all he knew (Okay, except his wife and nephew and extended family and several herd of cattle and ....) but nonetheless, the image comes upon me.  Each step he took he could claim that new land as his.  Now without getting into colonialization or greed.... What if that metaphor worked for me in responding to my own calling to create and then boldly assert SHARING what I faciliate and create, even amidst great uncertainty?  Each step I am claiming the audacious vision I have received and the ground does not give way beneath my feet.  (As the descanting strings fly over the walking melody of Tabla Rasa II Silentium)  resounding with the Spiritual resonance of my courage and obedience... the promise of freedom by telling the truth, and telling it sensitively, boldly, artfully, and in community.

Walking forward. Asserting.  Praying.  Learning.  Loving.  Wishing.  Longing.  Hoping.  

And 

with just enough mana each day.

(final squeals of high pitched humming bird like resonance and I am undone)

Proctecting or Venturing

 There are a couple wasps up in the corner of one of our living room windows.  Too high up to reach, but close enough to make out their stripey abdomens.  I'm puzzled.  They were creating a marvelous nest out at the end of our walkway, but it stopped growing.  It was full of perfectly sized compartments, and I kept my eye on it because I was waiting for it to become a danger. Somehow they made their way inside.  Now those winged creatures do not fly or even crawl, but have snuggled together to protect against the inevitable.  What are they protecting?  A small new nest with one egg?  Why don't they try to escape to the outdoors?  Is glass really that deceiving to almost all creatures, that they would rather keep trying to get near the light through something inpenetrable than consider another, roundabout way?

I am like the mother wasp.  I am displaced, yet safe.  I can see possibility for thriving, but instead am spooning with what is familiar and still trying to protect my young, rather than risk.  Okay, not exactly, but I do resound.  Both my boys and Kate are moving to Austin, Texas.  How did this come about?  Well, that's another story -- one of the myteries and signs of life.  I have never been to Texas except to stop at the airport in Dallas, and I have never had a desire to go to a place that doesn't seem curious about me, the PNW, Canada, or anything but itself.  And yet.  I will go.  To visit them and see it through their eyes.

I am like the wasp who is tempted to curl up in the corner with my spouse rather than venture out and be subjected to the elements and certain death.  But the slow careful stillness inside is a prolonged certain death -- a death of possibility and adventure.  And yet.  We only have so much aptitude for the unkown when the rug feels like it's being pulled out from under our feet all around us.

I do venture out, of course.  Often right into my back yard.  There is a rat back there that is thrilled with  my low lying tomatoes and scarlet beans, but leaves the jalepenos.  It scampers away when we draw near, and I haven't brought myself to use poison yet.  My neighbors use a live trap and I need to talk to them about that possibility, but until I do... the rat feasts and is happy.  No conserving of energy and curling up to protect for Ratty -- instead taste everything in sight by taking one bite of each new possibility.

Why do the trees and bushes in my yard keep blooming into October?  Amazing.  That is something I don't remember and never considered.  Don't they know the frost is coming before they can bear fruit?  Or will it?

Things grow differently here -- longer, fuller, and prolific.  Even my compost surprises me.  Was not prepared for the soldier fly larvae that cover the apple peels en mass and make the whole surface pulse with their chomping.  When I first saw them upon opening the lid to add new rose stems I froze and was torn between fascination, curiosity and repulsion.  At first I thought the whole bin was a failure, until I did some research and learned that they are helpful, not hurtful, morbid as they appear.  Okay.  I never had those in Alberta.  My compost was frozen half the year.  Supposedly these larvae break down the bio matter way faster than the heat and I should be grateful. 

Life, teaming.  And life, not knowing where to get out of the house, shrinking and protecting.  

We often find outselves up in the corner, but when we venture out and allow ourselves and others to do what comes naturally, we can be a part of the process of nuturing good soil for the future.

I'm just not sure which pile I'm supposed to be on.

I have the dreams, the great ideas, the stories... just not wanting to scare those near me by venturing out too soon, and not wanting to do it alone.

Wanting to trust.

Listening.

Watching for the open door.

And grateful for the sound of rain on my roof.

The Immigrant, the Baby and the Hawk

(New resident photo by Donovan)
After moving from Canada in 2023, we have been fortunate to find and acquire a new home.  It's been almost four months now, but I still feel in limbo.  Mostly because I don't have a regular job that can provide routine.  And yet I love, love, the quiet, the peace, the permission to sing OUT LOUD, and the light.  Our previous place of residence did not have enough light.  It had tall trees and squirrels and a community pool (which was awesome), but I would find myself frequently venturing outside to find a place to sun my back, breathe fresh air, and notice things outside.

In our new home, we have SO MUCH LIGHT pouring in through the high windows --and even a skylight in the washroom!  We are gifted with light.  And yard.  I have more than enough to do with pulling up blackberries, weeding, planting, mowing, and watering-watering- watering.

    The first month I must have dug out 400 weeds from the front lawn, and then we reseeded and added dirt and peat moss and then,

more

watering.

We also had an aborist come look at our trees.  The house was built in 1990, so these trees have had quite the time of settling and growing and surveying the neighborhood before we came along.

We called him out to look at the dead birch trees.  Two white craggly spires that provide ample landing pads for tiny bird feet.  They rest and chitter away.  Sometimes crows, sometimes humming birds, sometimes a bluebird, but most often -- finches.

A couple of finches found a birdhouse that came with the tree that came with the house we acquired.

And they made a nest inside.  They, too, were setting up a new home in a newly acquired house that someone else built and lived in before them.

And they had a baby.

And that baby broke out of its shell, got hungry and started squawking.

Once we knew there was a family using the birdhouse, we took care to water the garden around it to avoid getting water in the hole.  Meaning, we didn't just put the sprinkler on and let it douse the house -- we positioned it carefully, or just held it and directed where the water should go until everything thirsty had gotten a good drink. 

I did this. 

It was very calming.  It's one of the best things I get to do.  Because when I scroll through my phone, I see devasting travesty and anger producing injustice and neglect from Those who promised Greatness.  Their approach is to tear down existing attempts at fairness and kindness and goodness and helpfulness -- everyting the Bible tells us to do and that the wealthy pay others to do, but that the churches don't do so well unless you subscribe to their Weekly -- and we are left with broken systems and vanishing people and huge heartache and a constant wonder of what to do and how to start over and a loss of faith in justice and truth and human decency.

When I feel helpless, which was is often, I step outside.  Go out, feel the sun and breathe the air and listen to the birds and smell the grass and the bark and the blackberries and the river and dig -- or lie down -- and breathe slower.

I had a wonderful time anticipating the several rose bushes we inherited with the house (along with the trees).   We moved in April, and it wasn't until mid May that I learned the color and breed of these bushes.  Yellow! -- no, orange -- wait -- pink!  Irridescent pink-- like a highlighter.  They were a wonderful coat of many colors combo of luminescence and velvety joy.  

And the next one? -- RED.  Oh my goodness.  Not water-downed everyday red, not classy acceptable burgundy or deep romantic red, 

no

flashy, audacious, lipstick-come-and-get-me red.  And prolific!  And oh, so thorny -- ouch!

But so exciting.

And the third bush that looks like it's over 20 years old (as opposed to the new springers that you could bend like a rubber band) is also a pink/orange/gold combination that goes through a cycle of life with each color.  Lovely.  Just a delight. 

Well, until a pincher bug waddles out with it segmented body and little hooks -- ew!  What good do they do I'd like to know?  They terrify me.  And yet they remind me of my Oregon childhood.  Pincher bugs -- or earwigs -- whatever you want to call them, like shadows and they crawl out long and quick once you disturb them and waddle to the next shady spot like a snake and they wait there ready to pounce.

For a while I wasn't sure if they could really hurt the adult me, until the other day, INSIDE my lovely light house...  my son yelped and hopped up from the piano bench dusting something out of his shorts because he had just been BIT! -- Or... pinched.  Or whatever.  And this humdinger came out from biting his thigh.  How DARE it do that?!  

...(bird song)

Back to the birdhouse.  And the aborist.

He came out and analyzed the birch trees that had been decimated by a beetle and then a notorious ice storm in January of 2024, and  confirmed they were deceased and needed to be taken down before they take down someone or something else.  But then he noticed the massive maples filling up the side yard, providing shade and privacy and homes to squirrels and thousands of leaves, which were candelevering over our roof and in need of massive haircut.

I hadn't thought of pruning them.  In all of our furniture and house need acquisitions and spending, spending, spending, fixing, adding, losing, thanking, and planning, I had not budgeted time or cash for pruning the maples.

But we did it anyway.  And they look great.  No more widow-maker dangling branches and much more air and light.

But the birch with the little bird in the little house, we asked him to leave.

For now.

Let's wait until it flies away, and then we'll take down it's whole world.

So I continued to water around it, and as it grew it got hungrier and the birds cried louder and louder and it seemed like both parents were feeding it every 40 seconds.

And then.  The hawk appeared on my fence.  Three times I saw it.  Massive and quiet with its gnarly wheat-colored claws, blinking and turning it's head.  My son got it on tape.  And now that I look back, I can see it tilting its head when it hears the little bird in the house chirping for its snack.

Oh my goodness...  --Did the hawk eat the tiny bird the moment it flew out of the nest?  We never saw it go and wonder what happened to it.

The birdhouse is empty now and not even the adults have returned to clean it out for the next tenant.

Is the little finch soaring or did a pouncing Predator take advantage of the weak who can't defend themselves and swoop down in silence like an ICE agent at opportunity?  Little Bird is now Vanished.

Roses have thorns.  So do blackberries.  Two of my favorite Oregon summer things come with glory and pain.  I love blackberries ripe in the wild.  I make amazing ice cream and cobbler and all kinds of goodness out of them.  But not in my yard.  Their pricles and suckers can ruin a new garmet faster than spaghetti sauce.  And their invasive roots seem to have been under our backyard for generations.  I fight with them almost everyday.  Like a good colonialist I pounce on them like a hawk and say they are not welcome here.

The roses are soft and beautiful and I clip them and bring them inside and then some of them I deadhead right back to the y, so they can venture forth again, and again, just like the blackberries.  They bring joy and goodness that quickly fades, and sometimes wriggling pincher bugs scurry over my sun-bathed counter and there is no rest and there is new adventure and there is privilege and scarcity and fear and competence and celebration and despair.

And then there are surprising hawks that swoop down and take your precious baby and you 

keep

going.

A Place to Lay One's Head

There is a woman residing under a bridge near me.  Not a secluded little cozy bridge either, -- a major intersection with travelers passing by from 8 different lanes and traffic thundering overhead.

She has a shopping cart, a sleeping bag, a blanket, and a cigarette.

And she is often looking away, spouting angrily, or trying to rest on the cement sidewalk with only her sleeping bag as insulator from the cold, hard pavement.

I don't know her.  I don't talk to her.  But I am called to love her.  I am told to help those who can't help themselves (as well as everybody else.)

I wonder if she is the same woman who walked past me a couple weeks ago at the First Christian Church after making sandwiches.  The one who was very animated and loud and spouting angrily and smelled of poo.  She was notable and I was too because we were the only ones in the parking lot other than my husband in our car turning round to take me home.

I have a home.

I have a home and a husband and a fridge and small kitchen that I complain about.

I have a bed and clothes and food and friends and family nearby.

I have vocation and opportunity.  I have struggle and faith.  I have adventure and creative outlets.  And I have a place to lie my aching head.

I don't know what to do for this woman.  

I know the Eugene Mission will take people in when they have room, but they need to be clean and sober, or willing to be off drugs and alcohol while they are there.  And if they're willing to abide by the guidelines, they are given opportunities to work and serve and create and learn, and have a community to support them.  They have a place to lay their head.

Why did Jesus say, "the foxes have rest and the birds their nest, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head"?  

And why would he remain in this vulnerable position, depending on the kindness of strangers, or at least the purses of generous women to support his ministry just like every other not for profit.

(Stock photo; not the woman I am referring to.)

"When you give to the least of these, you do it for me."  I guess he did know what it was like.

"Get out of my sight you goats.  For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat.  I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink.  I was naked and did not clothe me."

Okay, what do we really do with that?

These thoughts come to me often as I have unhoused living here in my mild-climate town.  I don't know what to do, and the ideas I do have sometimes backfire, or I get scared about doing it wrong, inviting danger, or not having enough support or follow through.

"Sell everything you have and give the money to the poor, then come and follow me." --Not one of the more common fridge magnets, as my friend Ray Wall would say.  Now granted, that response was to the rich young ruler who needed to be cured of his envy, right?  Not to some middle aged woman struggling to make ends meet with three jobs and no guarenteed insurance sitting on a pile of dreams and longing for friends in her old home town.  Surely not me.

Is it I Lord?

Here am I.

Help.