Paper/Rock Today, the back walls of my lungs went sticky with sadness. I cried/breathed through the dead hours of the morning then woke up to a sky that felt … Continue reading
This is not the thing. This is not the story of the thing. This is the story of the story of the thing. This is one whole year of new … Continue reading
There have been plenty of challenges over the past year that have made me uncomfortable. That’s largely the point. The nausea and nerves I get before stepping into the unknown … Continue reading
After last week’s torrent of anxiety which was conveniently followed up with a mini rollercoaster of hormones, I wasn’t up for too much of a challenge this week. That meant … Continue reading
I have written about my relationship to dance before (here) – from dancing to Martin Denny as a child to longing for the grace of dance in my body as … Continue reading
Clay is good. So is cheap gold paint. So is a tarp spread over the coffee table and some Always Sunny in Philadelphia on in the background. So is the … Continue reading
“This is a humming, buzzing world; we live in the midst of the ceaseless murmur of lives, a world of strange things whispering the poems of old Buddhas.” –Sallie Tisdale … Continue reading
I’ve committed to several different physical challenges over the years ostensibly for the sake of health, strength and not wanting to buy new pants. That said, I’m not sure how … Continue reading
I have tried to be a daily writer. I have tried to be a sporadic, do-it-when-I-feel-like-it writer. I have paid lots of money to study the art/craft of writing and … Continue reading
If my last trip was about sky, space and love, then the trip I just finished was about water, light and love. This week I turned south instead of east … Continue reading
Three nights and four days in the wide eastern stretches of Oregon is too big for one post. Because I’ve never been east of Bend, let alone 250 miles east and south of it. Because I’ve never spent that amount of uninterrupted time
I was in elementary school the last time I went to a parade, the tiniest July 4th event in Boulder City, Nevada where my grandmother lived. I think there were clowns and Shriners. I think it was July 4th. I think it was a parade.
Many years ago, Sean and I binge-watched Jeeves and Wooster, the British tv-show based on P.G. Wodehouse’s stories about an aristocrat and his butler. It’s charming. No more, no less. Ever since, we have referred to this kind of show as “extremely mild entertainment.”
This particular story is the one about the girl who hates sports and hates to sweat, the one where gyms smell like humiliation and playing fields smell like dread. This is about the mediocre swimmer, the same one who gets out of breath…
Everywhere in this city. The suicide of a man I didn’t know, but was loved by someone I love. The stabbing of three men, two of whom died, on public transport not far from my neighborhood.
The morning we drove to Seattle the sun was not only up and out but strong, warming the air in a way that seemed impossible just a week or two ago. As we approached the city, my friend and I both dropped our jaws at the sight
What a strange process: The light and shade of a cheekbone, a book spine, a shoelace taken in by the eye to spark the brain. One spark then another, like a game of telephone down to the wrist and index finger.
Outside the Oregon State Hospital is a small brick building filled with shelves of old copper canisters. They contain the cremains of the hospital patients who were never collected. Some have labels. Some have splashes of bright green patina. All once contained ashy bits of bone.
What if this was bigger? What if I was bigger? And if not bigger, then gorgeous. Not lips, hips and hair gorgeous. But grand gorgeous. Splendid gorgeous.
I love gardens, but I’m not a gardener and I don’t want to become one. It’s taken me the full 15+ years I’ve owned this house to get around to tending to the patch of weedy lawn
I was going to take a picture of the old-school yoga space tucked nearly anonymously into the corner of an ungentrified building on lower NE Broadway. But, apparently, gongs make me forget.
If you added up all the time I spent driving in SW Portland and it’s neighboring suburbs over the last couple decades it wouldn’t come close to all the time I spent out there this week.
I swear I’m not feigning indifference or forgetfulness when I say I don’t remember when we got married. It was nice out so we biked down to the county office in the late afternoon to pick up our license.
I’m very lucky to have parents that were both willing and able to make art museums part of my education as a little kid. My first visits were probably to the Art Institute in Chicago
Sit in a well-lit room, eat homemade brownies and talk about death with strangers. This is the Death Cafe and how I spent my Sunday afternoon.
I grew up as neither a lover nor a fighter. I was a hider. I mostly wanted to be left alone and if not alone, then moving peacefully, peacefully, peacefully through the dynamics of friends and family.
For many months, Elaine and I talked about going on a little vacation. Other than overnight trips to the coast here and there over the last couple of decades,
On a morning when the air was barely warm enough to keep the rain as rain, I drove to an unassuming building on a busy commercial street near I-205.
My body remembers this kind of water: a steaming hot spring on a hill that brings a flush to my skin and surprises all my tiny hairs as soon as I slip into it.
In a matter of minutes, my body went from happy and healthy to curled and wretching on the bathroom floor.
We chose not to march with our feet this weekend, the twenty or so strong women and three thoughtful men. Instead we sat in a hotel conference room and listened
One of the first people I met in college was my beloved friend, Elaine. She arrived on campus as an animal rights activist. She was the first activist of any sort that I had met
We are having a very wintery winter here in Portland. As I write this, a sheet of ice covers everything while the wind rattles the frozen branches and the gas heat rattles the grates of my house.
Could it be that in the twenty plus years I’ve lived in Portland I’ve never driven through the gorge when there’s been snow in the mountains and sun in the sky? It’s possible.
Sometimes taking a deep breath and jumping in is the best way. The shock is part of the fun: the way the body grabs itself from the inside as the cold hits.
Funny how I’ve become a much bigger proponent of state’s rights than I ever was before. Not that the country’s bigger, broader and increasingly frightening problems don’t need to be addressed
I can’t remember ever having a well-defined role model, one of those people you look up to and write grade school essays about.
I was seven when Saturday Night Fever was released. Of course, at that age, I was a good decade away from being old enough to actually watch the movie
It seemed, at first, too small to matter and too small to write about. What new thing had I done this week besides make a few phone calls to the White House
Ever since I was little kid, I’ve struggled with feeling like I don’t belong (that’s me on the far right with the dumbfounded expression hiding behind her bangs).
I stand in the corner, squeezed in next to the recliner where the patient spends most of his days. I stare at the top of his purple fleece cap
It’s so easy to pretend to take someone’s advice, or even mean to take someone’s advice and then fail completely on the follow through.
Hold space. Sure. I hold all I can. I’ll hold it if you sidle up close, hip to hip, and whisper something true.
Making a reservation at Kah-Nee-Ta, a resort on the Warm Springs Reservation, might have been new, but it wasn’t a challenge.
I’ve had a driver’s license since I was 16, but I didn’t own a car or really drive on a regular basis until I was 40.