wonder · 1 : something or someone that is very surprising, beautiful, amazing, etc.

New Year’s Eve, 2021.

Chance took me across the Astoria Megler Bridge today -

a route rarely taken.

I reacquainted myself with wonder.

How often are the mountains to the north covered in snow?

How often does the sea actually splash onto the highway in Washington?

How often does an eagle soar right across my path?

Cranberry bogs? A first for me! 

Soaring geese . . .

their V-formations always catch my breath.

I used to notice these things . . .

capture the wonder in word.

How long has it been since I felt 

wonder?

A treacherous election . . .

a pandemic . . .

the death of a close friend . . .

My wonder was nearly exterminated.

But today as I crossed that bridge

I thought to myself -

to all the bad things -

‘God dammit, you can’t have my wonder. I’m taking it back.’

Happy New Year, 2022.

Let there be wonder.

PS. Not my photo. Sourced from google with no credit to original photographer.

One Moment In Time

It was innocent enough. I clicked on ‘a video you might like’ and soon I was spiraling down the rabbit hole of golden buzzer moments on America’s Got Talent. At some point, a nine year old girl performed a moving rendition of Michael Bolton’s 1989 ‘How Am I Supposed to Live Without You’ and then I’m feeling sentimental and googling Michael Bolton and realizing he’s 67 years old . . . wtf?. . . and then the next video of the same little girl performing Whitney Houston’s ‘One Moment In Time’, released in 1988. And then I’m watching the video of Whitney performing that same song at the 1989 Grammy Awards. It featured footage from the 1988 summer Olympics with victorious, smiling, American champions receiving medals, and baseball players leaping into the air with joy . . . swimmers and boxers, and Flo-Jo spinning in her husband’s arms. And there’s Whitney in that iconic, form fitting, white dress; singing her heart out. From my 2020 perspective, knowing how things ended, I wonder what pain she was going through that night that nobody saw. . .and then I’m googling the date of Whitney’s death . . . and the death of her daughter . . . so much tragedy . . . and I'm reading all this to the background of the news on Covid and racism, and the economy, and the election. Right now, footage is playing of a Trump supporter caravan harassing a Biden bus on the highway while Trump cheers them on . . . and I’m thinking about the world I’ve brought 3 babies into and it all seems horrible and hopeless and for the first time since the start of Covid - 8 fucking months in - I’m finally crying - like really ugly crying. Crying for the loss of safety. Crying for the loss of kindness and dignity. Crying for the loss of pride in being an American. Crying for the loss of a president who can string together a sentence. Crying for the loss of Whitney Houston and the 230,000 we didn't need to lose. Tonight the music of the 80’s takes me back to a time when the worst thing that ever happened to me was the death of my father. I want so badly for that to be the worst thing ever, but I am terrified that we aren’t even close to the worst thing ever. One moment in time, America. This is it. Don't fuck it up.

1/8/22  Addendum: make that 800,000 we didn't need to lose.  

3/11/23 Addendum: make that 1,115,637 we didn't need to lose.  

'Give me one moment in time, when I'm racing with destiny.

Then in that one moment in time, I will feel - I will feel - eternity.' 

Motherfucker, You Made My Daughter Cry

Five years ago my youngest daughter was a freshman in high school. One week into a doomed romance her pimple-faced boyfriend kissed another girl.  My daughter was heartbroken. At home that night, after keeping a brave face in the halls at school, she cried her eyes out and we, her family, rallied around her. The next day, in the common courtyard between classes, her brother found the guy. The first words out of his mouth were, and I quote, "Motherfucker, you made my sister cry."  No one got punched but the boy did have to get on his knees and apologize to my daughter, using her full name - which he didn't even know.  My son was called to the principal's office and had to write a letter of apology for bullying.  He was cool with that.  And my daughter? She felt like a rock star for days. Why? For this simple reason: she had been seen, heard, listened to and stood up for in a most remarkable way.  Watching her blossom under that light was beautiful.

Last night she was visiting from Gresham where she now lives. She's 19, working, figuring out life in the city - a long way from the first-boyfriend-freshman she had been. We were catching up, laughing, enjoying sandwiches at the local pub when I casually asked what she thought about everything going on in the world. In an instant her eyes welled up with tears and she started crying. She's bewildered. She grew up in a small community that, while not perfect,  generally demonstrated respect among its citizens regardless of gender, nationality and religion.  She and, I would imagine many others her age - our daughters (and our sons as well) - are worried about what will become of them in a country that allows a pussy-grabber to run for office AND win.  They are watching as wealthy old cronies with outrageously conflicted interests are nominated for positions they have no business holding. They see people reveling in the presumed freedom to be politically incorrect and say horrible things to their fellow humans. They are stunned as a wall is being proposed, actions are taken to register Muslims and the "tired and weary" are refused a crossing to safety. Our daughters are calculating just how terrified they need to be, and their worry is justified. They are crying.

MOTHERFUCKER, YOU MADE MY DAUGHTER CRY.  

I say that directly to you, Donald Trump. And if you would shut your mouth long enough to listen you would hear the voices of women all over the world saying it. And if you listen just a little bit harder you'll hear the ghostly voices of Thomas Jefferson,  John Hancock and their comrades echoing from wherever they are now . . .

MOTHERFUCKER, YOU MADE OUR DAUGHTER CRY.  

But by then it will be too late, Donald.
For we, and our daughters, will have moved on to *the last thing any women ever says before taking action:
"I've had enough of this shit."

*Elizabeth Gilbert's 'The Divine Feminine Is Rising" https://www.facebook.com/GilbertLiz/posts/1259130484169064:0

Gone To the Birds

It's 8:46 on a very rainy Thursday - a day off work and a day with absolutely nothing scheduled. I ate a perfectly soft boiled egg on buttered toast and am contemplating a second cup of coffee.

I was going to go fishing with my best guy
but it was raining.

Apparently salmon are fussy about such things. Go figure, since they LIVE in water.  Being up early anyway, I sneaked outside to conduct an experiment. I've been feeding gulls for years now.

You already know that.

In the last month or so I've taken a fancy to crows. 

There is something deeply satisfying to my inner witch, 

seeing dozens of crows in my back yard. 

The problem is my gullies assume anything I throw on the ground is for them. They are spoiled. When I throw peanuts out for the crows, the gulls, being gulls, swoop in and take over.  Since I spend about $50/week on cheap cat food for the gulls, I feel entitled to try to manage this situation.  On any given day you can catch me out in the yard with an empty, crackly plastic Audubon Raw Peanuts bag chasing the gulls away.  'Come on guys! You get yours every evening. This is for the crows! Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!"  I am now the proud owner of a Primos Old Crow crow call, so in between reasoning with the gulls, I follow the instructions on the back of the kazoo-like device and perform the eight 'Caw-Cawww' repetitions the package assures me is the feeding call.  Their response?  The crows do seem to congregate, look at me very curiously and chatter excitedly amongst themselves.

I really hope I'm not accidentally swearing in crow.

I'm not guessing, nor am I worried about what the neighbors think.  

Back to this morning's experiment . . . I thought if I was out before the gulls and scattered peanuts on the sidewalk the crows would discover them first and have a peaceful feast. Nope. Gull radar is so finely tuned I only have to open my back door before the first scout raises the alarm.  While a crow was first on the scene, caution held him back. Shortly the few gathered crows were outnumbered twenty to four.  In view of the drenching rain I left them to their own devices. You can lead a crow to peanuts . . . so to speak.

Are there life lessons here? I don't know.  Go after what you want?  The early bird gets the worm? Don't take peanuts from a white haired lady talking crow smack?  At a time when this country is torn apart by the ick of politics I simply take comfort in watching crows and gulls eating peanuts in my back yard.  One thing I have noticed:

They don't fight.  

The crows and the gulls. 

They don't fight.

The end.

Angry Raccoons and Mama Bears

I was only generally aware of the Angry Birds phenomenon. It was a phone game and spawned a lot of hats and t-shirts if I remember correctly. I do see live angry birds pretty regularly. I would be angry too if my wing were shattered in multiple places and a human, however well intended, was poking and prodding me. Mostly I see very nice birds. What I'm thinking about today, however, is angry raccoons. 

I have both bird and hummingbird feeders in my yard. Some mornings I would wake, totally baffled as to how the bird feeders, staked in large planters, were tipped over. I hadn't been aware of wind strong enough to rearrange my landscaping. And then there were the hummingbird feeders - sometimes drained of nectar right where they hung, sometimes knocked onto the deck in a sticky puddle. Usually the yellow centers of the feeder flowers were popped out and scattered. Then one night as I was about to let my dog out the mystery was solved. Just feet away from me a raccoon was on the deck railing, standing on his hind legs with his paws wrapped around the hummingbird feeder guzzling the nectar. 

Apparently I'm not the only one to discover this. A quick google search didn't even have to be finished before 'raccoon drinking from hummingbird feeder' popped up. Meanwhile in the yard three more raccoons were clamoring around the planter with the bird feeders and I watched it tumble, crashing the feeders on the ground, strewing seeds everywhere. As I opened the door they scattered leaving Mr. Nectar Chugger behind. I smiled and told him he was quite handsome as he casually sauntered away. 

They truly are beautiful creatures.

A couple nights later, knowing raccoons were in the neighborhood, I should have looked before letting Alex out for a bedtime potty break. Before I knew what was happening my nine year old, seven pound Papillon with a single tooth charged four racoons. They did what raccoons do. They defended themselves violently against the very dangerous aggressor. And I did what mama bears do. Without thinking it through I was in the middle of the mass of snarling raccoons kicking them, quite sincerely. I wish I had been swearing like a real bad ass but I think all I kept saying was, 'Git! Git! Git!' Talking later with my wildlife rehabber friends I realized I was pretty lucky I wasn't attacked as well. I give credit to my Xtra-Tuf boots (and maybe a little badassness). Alex ended up with three modest lacerations and a visit to the vet but no stitches.  All told, no serious injuries and a pretty cool story. I still think raccoons are beautiful. I'm just a little more cautious around them now. 

Photos from Google images.

When I Wasn't Looking

It has been a week of landmarks.

I really intended to catch the moment my odometer turned over to 100,000 on the only new car I've ever owned. It blew right past me on a quick trip to Astoria last week. Thank you, sweet lil' Subaru, for 100,000 miles of adventure.  (Please ignore the fact that I snapped this shot while traveling 40 mph. My bad.)

I have also been watching my blog counter as it closed in on 9,000 views. Missed that one too. Thank you to all of you who tune in and share your support. It means a lot.

I did not miss today's landmark.  One year ago today I piled the final load into above mentioned Subaru and made the final move to my beloved Seaside. I miss my people in Hood River but feel like Seaside is the place I've spent a lifetime finding.

Here in Seaside I've carved out a life. It is full of the local coffee shop where I work; the birds at the Wildlife Center of the North Coast; a sweet dog; a new cat; a very fine gentleman named Bart and the wild and salty sea I love so much. My oldest daughter is graduating from the Seattle Film Institute next month; my boy is immersed in the final year of a degree in Computer Engineering at UW and my youngest daughter is traveling, at this moment, from San Francisco to Portland to set up her first apartment with a couple girlfriends.

I'm wallowing in gratitude for a full life in which I, and those I love most, are happy and moving forward with what we all love. Can't ask for much more than that.

Much love to you from me and my blue spot on the map.

Ocean Time

I am revisiting Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift From the Sea.  A fine read for anyone but a must read if you love the sea.  It feeds that desire within me to immerse myself wholly into sea life . . . to live by the tides and, in the words of Joan Anderson, A Year By the Sea, to live a wild and salty life.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh says, "To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea."

I have been that person who goes out to find as many sand dollars as I could carry; to urgently grab the treasures I found on the beach. That is changing.  Now that I have the luxury of living, full time, in this place I love so much, I am becoming more patient. I don't need to pick up every bone I find.  I don't need to grab all the sand dollars - although I was super excited to find handfulls of sand dollars in Manzanita last weekend to share with some of my most favorite people ever.  I don't have to be present for every high tide. The reality of living here is that, along with everyone else, I have a job and laundry and floors to mop and a dog to walk and sometimes I'd rather sleep in than wake up for the 4 am clamming. But don't think for a moment I take any of it for granted. I am learning patience.  I am learning trust. I am learning faith.

And now that I'm closing in on nearly a year by the sea, I'm feeling a little wild and salty (I'll see you in March, Joan Anderson!).

Here is today, on  the beach, in Seaside. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Today.

Subtle Differences

Today

the ocean smells unusually fishy.

A subtle difference to

a student of the sea.

Odd gull behavior too.

A couple dozen instead

of the couple hundred

who nip cat food

from my hands.

Perhaps better pickings elsewhere and

while unable to identify

the source of the smell

I am sure I will.

In time.

The ocean’s time which

I would argue

is different from
beach time.