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.

Feeling Torn Apart or a Bird in Migration?

I have friends in two places.

I have dear beloveds on both extremes who are convinced they are right.

They will not speak to each other, but to me they both speak of "standing up for what is right."

They are done searching and have settled into Certainty.

And it is tearing me apart.

...

I have two homes.

The one I grew up in and the one I came to know.

Neither has a real sense of the other, yet they speak with certain judgement.

They are disperate and quirky, small and proud.

Once I left, I could never show enough loyalty to be trusted again.

...

I have two sons.

They are best friends.

But when they are together they lean out to reveal differences.

They are moving in together.

I love them so.

...

I am 55 and I am still menstruating.

An empty nester with eggs.

I'm waiting for opportunities to come my way 

after all my schooling and experience

But now I'm told all those credentials

No longer hold sway.

I go to two different churches.

I swim and grieve and eat and wonder how to hang on to joy.

I volunteer and try new groups and learn of different causes

Then others tell me what is wrong with the group, which is why they can not offer help.

I eat more sugar because it takes away the bad taste in my mouth

For a time

The child in me is scared and wants me to stop and just take care of her.

I get a call from the University about a possible job, and cry with hope.

I can't get back on to Unemployment Insurance because I made $10 too much one week.

But the system won't let me restart; there is a glitch that takes too long to explain.

But I would have to wait 9 hours on hold with the same 20 second melody to talk to a specialist

So they can try to check the same boxes without perjury

Then ask me the same questions

Only to realize 

there is no box for me.

Why has everything become so depersonalized?

It's deflating to say the least.

...But then,

I walk through the city and it is so lush... and ignored. 

The Oregon grape, the canopy of leaves over the sidewalk, the day lilies, the lavender, the baby's breath, the purple, the red, the white, the fragrant and the tender, the shiny and the bold, the mysterious knot in the tree, the sun and shadows dance on the path.  Even the exposed roots make a braid of beauty and wonder.

And now, my troubles are small.

What if I lived each day following my happiness and delight?  I don't mean falling into dissipation or out of reality, but rather, stepping farther into it. Not just noticing my surroundings, but steeping in them.

Lately, when the air is cool, but the sun is shining, I like to find a spot near vegetation and turn my back to the light and let it heat me through.  And just breathe.

Instantly the child in me takes my hand and I am quieted.  My feet are solid, but my mind floats on receding waves back in time to every other day like this.

I realize there have not been many days like this in the last 30 years, so these conditions evoke childhood memories rich with sweet possibility and a sense of lingering... listening for the call, to tend to the heart and follow the body into peace and safety, beauty and connection with nature, with the wind, the bird song, the leaves, the grass, the ants, the wood, the blackberry, the stone, the water, the duck and goose, the sky, the osprey... none of this is common or sentimental while I'm paying attention.

My shoulders slide down my back and my wings fall into their favorite resting place.

At the Crossroads between Old and New

I have been flooded.  Thoughts.  Feelings.  Opportunities.  Disappointments.  Blessings.  Starting over.  Missing friends.  Out of sorts.  Out of energy.  Out of temper.  Out of underwear.  Out of grace.  Out of sync.  Out of pencils.  Out of milk.  Out of patience.  And out of depth.

There is so much new and frustrating in trying to assert myself into a world that doesn't remember my name.

And then there is the wide open church that I stumbled into that welcomed me.  They tend to be artful.  They tend to be honest.  They tend to gloss over differences and invite me to participate in the human stumble-through of life.

There is another church that I have loyalties to that dissects the scripture like a curious cat and welcomes questions and doubt and admits suffering and meets infrequently.

Then there is the first church.  The one that I explored as a child and is now a grand thing that is earnest but exclusive and sure.  They have a new building from the one I remember best, but I happen to be spending time these days in the old building where I used to run all over the place.  Everywhere I turn memories come springing upon me.  The changes the new owners have made seem strange to me and I still see the walls as green and the carpet as red and want to slide down the bannisters and sneak into the adult Sunday School class and steal sugar cubes from the coffee table.  

Ah, there is the old nursery where I'm told I rolled off the counter as a babe.  --That door used to lead to the organ pipes that I climbed up and crawled out over the sanctuary in the ceiling slot.  That tunnel has been covered up -- whatever for?  All the old windows are getting replaced, but they have no character.  And the old corners and pillars are showing age and neglect.  The drinking fountatins are still there and all the intention for worship and gathering.  Only now we worship virtuosity of music and dance... hopefully in service of story.

I am a chorus member, bowing first in a flight of 8 tiers, representing a mama of Anatevka, being reminded keenly of how much it truly takes a village... while missing my old village in Alberta.  The throat swells at moments of recognition of the immensity and universality of a wedding, a loss, a son, a stick of wood, an old forgotten church, a community of people, and feeling compelled to leave a home.

If I were to list my opportunities you would think I have nothing to complain about.  An opportunity to write narrative scenes for a professional ballet, coordinating community engagement in the arts, singing in a choir, joining a small group for weekly truth telling, reading a screenplay, announcing at track and field events, producing a play this Christmas...

Yes.  I am scared and grateful and tired.  And I still feel unsure at times or misunderstood, or simply invisible in places where I am used to being a leader.  There are groups and histories and connections that I don't share a kinship with... at least not yet.  And then there are new friends and aquaintances who take me at face value -- or at least heart value.

And I am aging and realizing that my children are becoming independent and watching my husband try on new hats of vocation and meaning.  And my couch is so large in my apartment that I can't fit all 6 chairs around the dining table.  First world problems; I know.

But these adjustments affect how I relate to my home, my family, my daily routine and myself.

I now have to drive in a car to connect.  I hadn't realized what a change that would be and how good I used to have it.  In Rosebud, I could step outside my door and wander and find communion with people and nature within minutes.  I only drove about twice a week.  Here I drive 6 days a week and find it hard to trust others outside my windows or see any evidence of kindness.  Here I have to pay to park.  Here I have to drive through rain, sometimes for several days... and yet it is lush and beautiful and familiar and sometimes downright balmy.  Priviledged Pacific Northwest problems, I know.

And yet world-wide there are similar problems post-mid pandemic: we're all scared and feel like we've been robbed.

So, how do I embrace the new and hold on to the old?

The old church is now a concert hall and theater, the old concert hall and theater often hosts tours from out of town.

The old furniture doesn't quite fit and may need to go.

The old ways are not always followed.

The old me is still inside -- sliding down the bannister when no one is looking.

The new building for the old church is a more impressive theater than the theater in the old building.

The new opportunities are fraught with the same old human problems of fear, control and habit.

The new apartment is older than floor heating but full of large growth trees and wildlife.

The new me is smaller in some ways, but honest.

At the confulence of past and present, it can feel quite unsettling for the future.

A brilliant woman in my small group is dying.  Her brain is sharp, her grace and humor intact, but her muscles no longer let her speak freely or hold up her head.  I can't handle seeing her deteriorate so rapidly, and yet... I have no clue what she is really going through.  My problems seem so small in comparison.

I have the opportunity to learn.  I get to remember what it's like to be in the chorus.  I get to watch others lead, shine and make the decisions, while I pay attention and acknowledge my instincts, even if I'm the only one who knows.

What better training for the future than to start over, try new paths, carry pieces of the history, and listen; waiting for an opportunity to lead?

Through a Veil... Lightly.

I am sitting on my couch.  The couch that we almost didn't bring down from Canada because we weren't sure if it would fit inside our townhouse in Oregon, let alone fit inside our moving truck along with all our other belongings we weren't prepared to give away yet.

We moved.

We did it.

We had a lot of help, and we needed it.  Folks in Rosebud came out to help us pack, tetris the truck, clean up the empty house, deal with things we were not taking with us, providing a place to sleep, food to eat, lovely send-offs and farewells and good wishes... and we arrived after two days of travel...

and our new place was not ready for us.

So disappointing.

But we had a ready crew of helpers to unload so....

We cleaned a spot on the living room floor from all the dust of painting and plastering and new flooring and other turn over tasks that were not yet done, and brought everying inside.

The place was worse than we thought.  Granted, they were trying to get it ready for us, and having to work extra hard (the horror story of the tenant evicted before us was pieced together over the next several days), but it was especially disappointing because we had just worked so hard trying to make our old place so welcoming, and the prospect of doing that all again, only with even more history of grime, was a heavy thought.

But when I looked out from the tiny kitchen and saw Gutenberg College students on their hands and knees mopping the floor with my dish towels, I was moved by their humble generosity.  Once again, we were aided by helpful humans to nudge us forward into uncertainty but also community.

So yes, I am sitting on my couch -- the only part of it that is accessible that is, because our flat screeen tv which is still wrapped in mattress eggshell foam which used to line the wall of our small voice studio in Rosebud, Alberta, is protecting said tv of any damage, but also from any viewing for the past month, is also sitting on the couch.  That's okay.  I really haven't missed it much, yet.  But the point here is that we are still unpacked... for the most part.

That is because even though we have planted flowers in the entry (after bringing in soil and mulch to give the roots a place to breath), we have given notice.

We move again July 12.  The thought is overwhelming if I don't take a deep breath right after.  We will move closer to Eugene, closer to potential work, closer to family, closer to familiarity... closer to neighborhoods that resemble what we value, generally... we think.  

The privilege and possible entitlement of this last paragraph is not lost on me.  It is offering much food for thought these days as the marijuana drafts in again with the heat and argument from outside the back sliding glass door.  They don't allow a screen so we bought a fabric magnetic thingy that kept falling down but now is secured with extra packing tape.  I don't mean to complain as much as be curious.  The "screen curtain" is actually a lovely lacelike white and even thought it's not made to stand up to wind or ants, it veils the outside just a bit.

Our tiny concrete patio was the work station for the local turn around crew and cluttered high with supplies, old doors, old appliances, trash, tools and debris when we first arrived, and now much of that has been removed.  I'm told there were several truckloads that they pulled out of our townhouse and took to the dump.  Like... 13.

As you can imagine, the doily barrier doesn't actually shield me from much, but I'm struck with the image as it gives the illusion of separation -- a flimsy white line of privacy.

But,

I had wanted to be more free to connect and know more diverse people and foster goodwill when I came here.

Why am I shying away?

When David and I go on walks, people seemed surprised and almost suspicious when we greet them.  Drivers do not yield to us.  One woman hissed at me.  Others ignore us and don't mean anything by it.  And some are kind, some are bossy, some are inebriated and some are just tired.  I'm tired too.

Some ditches are full of trash and others have huge grasses.  The land is teaming with life -- it's almost a jungle.  Springfield and Eugene are so rich in velvety roses, you can smell the fragrance when the wind is south.  Glorious.  Broken roads, and then painted bike lanes, and then evergreens everywhere, and then angry shouts, and then silence, and then birds and squirrels and more and more flowers.

Over where my folks live it's a very different vibe.  Immaculate lawns and beautiful spacious homes and water and grass and wildlife... where the biggest concern is the poop the Canadian geese leave behind.

I feel sometimes that I have failed here in this first neighborhood.  Even though I am still friendly, I have not ventured out too much when David is away in Eugene at night at rehearsals, I have stayed inside, among the boxes, remaining in trasition/limbo/liminal uncertainty experiencing life through the sieve of my white flimsy curtain.  Last night I was sure I heard gunshots and someone getting beat up.  I wasn't sure what to do... and then I realized it was a neighbor playing a video game quite loudly with an open window.  My romantic of vision of diversity has not been granted, in fact there is little diversity in this neck of the woods.  I would have to apply myself to look and learn closer between the layers of what most might call "white trash."

My goodwill and patience are in need of tanking up and I don't yet have purposive work that feeds us.

Do I not have a thick enough skin to tough it out in a poor neighborhood?  Am I so used to comfort and quiet and small town hospitality that I can't weather a night walk without fear?  Well, maybe.  Maybe not.

I keep putting out feelers and resumes and dreaming up hopes and visions for theatre and it's hard to find a place for those dustballs to stick on the velcro of possibility and mutual interest.  

Everyone seems busy and holdiing their place.  Some are interested in collaboration but are slow to respond, and some are demanding to start something new since and draft me into their resentful charge because what is already in place is supposedly too narrow.  I am open to connecting to whoever responds at this point, but one thing is clear -- it's all volunteer.

Sigh.

However, we are asserting a show at the local Springfield theatre this Christmas and we have some wonderful souls joining us and that is something to be grateful and excited for.  Heck, there are actually many wonderful things and possibilities coming up, it's just that the foundation of provision is cloudy.

I could go on and on.  And I should for my own clarity because this is tough and fine and strange and scary and sad and good and true.  And I am in one neighborhood while preparing for another while trying to get settled and then feeling stuck -- not sure which good thing to work on first.  I still feel like I'm visiting and on vacation -- taking advantage of family nearby, old haunts, great food and local entertainment for the first time in 28 years.

I still hope to continue to connect to a few more of my neighbors and leave graciously, without them worrying too much about the Canadian poop we might leave behind.

Where we're going to has a small pool.

I can't tell you how much that makes me weep with joy.

I hope I can find work to afford to live there long, if need be.

And I hope to keep learning, from everyone and everything around me.

Thanks for listening to my part of my story.