Unseen Magic

As I start my 54th trek around the sun I find myself in an odd place. . .  mostly moved out of my home of nearly 6 years, finishing some shifts at my beloved coffee shop, days away from the final car load to Seaside and crashing in the home of my ex - a home we shared in the  midst of a pear orchard.

I had a holy spot on the western end of the orchard. It was edged by Indian Creek and a small wood. My daughter and I rolled ottoman sized stones into place to form a circle. There were many full moon gatherings, both solo or with my sacred circle of friends. It was, and as I just discovered, still is, a magical place. 

I am grateful to the Universe (and to Kelvin) for letting me land here for a few last days before leaving for my new home. 

The pull of the invisible new moon

stirs me from slumber . . .

insists on my participation . . .

calls me.

I know the way,

even in the moonless darkness.

My feet have walked this path

more times than I remember.

Of this I am sure -

I have been here before.

I mean really before.

I follow the wide path through the pear trees.

West - South - West again.

The stand of woods rises out of the mist.

Yes, there really is mist.

Oh, I've missed this place.

My sacred place of stone and trees.

Much has happened here - 

 women have gathered

     stories have been told

    tears shed

      strength reclaimed.

     The magic runs deep.

The stones are long since scattered . . .

The graceful cottonwood,
strewn with beribboned offerings,
is gone.

But

the space is here.

The Guardians, the spirit, the magic . . .

all here.

And, as with the new moon,

that unseen, but remembered,

is all the more powerful.

The Long Way Home

Well, it has happened. 

I will never visit the coast again. 

That's it. I'm done!  

On February 4 I will take 84 west to 5 south, hop on 405 in whichever direction it jogs to 26 and then cruise west to Hwy 101 and north to my beloved Seaside. 

Not as a visitor but as a resident. 

I'll be home!  

It's taken 52 years. 

Talk about the long way home! 

No, there won't be kippers for breakfast, 

but do stop in for a mean scrambled clam hash. 

Any time. 

Please. 

My door will be open.  

The following poems happened on my last visit.  

Thanks for sharing this journey with me. 

Now, I have a garage to clear out. 

See you at the beach!!

Chiffon With a Side of Hail

Today is the kind of day that can't make up her mind. 

Being a total beach

she can be as fickle as she pleases. 

Who is going to argue with her? 

Like an excited teenager before a date, 

this day is flouncing from one frock to the next 

as fast as she can bat her eyelashes. 

Sunny lemon chiffon . . .

Iridescent grey silk with a sheer ribbon of rainbow . . .

Misty grey satin studded with hail rhinestones . . .

She twirls around until she catches a glimpse of herself 

in the mirror of the sea

and in an instant she's on to the next.

When she wearies 
she will wrap herself in black velvet 
and sleep. 

Gullible

Guilty as charged.

I bribed you with a twenty pound bag of

cheap cat food.

It was the only way to get close to you.

You were one among many. 

At a quick glance you and your flock

(yes, that’s what we call you)

all look alike.

But I am getting to know you.

Yes, you with one leg.

Yes, you with a tear 

in the pink webbing of your foot.

And yes, I remember and miss you, Cap’n,

with the hook in your wing.

And yes, you, Mr. Grumpy, who won’t let anyone else near

yet won’t eat from my hand yourself.

I know, when you are dirty and un-preened,

you are having a bad time.

I throw extra food your way then.

I know, when you try to eat my fingers,

you are a first-timer. 

Eventually, when you are less afraid, 

you will nip the food from my hand

with precision.

I stop breathing when you flutter around me,

your wings brushing my back and face.

Like angels, I imagine.

I thrill when you snag bites on the wing.

I go without expectations

and have quit bringing my camera

to just be with you.

So there is no way to capture,

other than with my feeble words,

that moment when the sun

lit your translucent tail feathers

illuminating the impossibly perfect details 

and grey peacock swirls 

as you hovered mid-air

and looked into my eyes.

This is my humble thank you.

Really Big Deal Things

It's a recent thought . . . the really big deal things in life don't start out seeming like a big deal. No one sets out on a given day to 'meet their soul mate'.  No, you simply decide to take in a nice art show and start chatting with the one other person in the room admiring the abstract bowl of fruit and fifty years and seventeen great-grandchildren later you recognize it for the big deal it was.  Or maybe you go water-skiing with the summer day camp kids in 1981 and meet the cute guy driving the boat and end up with a twenty year marriage, three beautiful kids and a great life in Oregon. Or you randomly decide to adopt an abandoned puppy and end up with the dog of a lifetime. You just never know.

That twenty year marriage . . . millions of little things happen, words are spoken . . . most drifting off into the atmosphere never to be thought of again. For your consideration . . . how many times would you guess three children can ask for a pet over the course of their childhoods?  Lots. And somewhere in the vicinity of 99.5 percent of the time we smiled,  said maybe, ignored them or flat out said no. Sometimes it was, 'Hell no."   So what was different the day Nicole came home from school and said, "I saw a really nice dog today"?  

It was just after the big snowstorm of  2004. Nicole's sixth grade class was visited by a representative from an animal shelter in The Dalles. She brought a dog with her and shared his story. He was part of a litter abandoned in the snow storm after the owner had been arrested and taken to jail. The dog was four months old, black, of unknown heritage  . . . and just as cute as he could be.  We were moving to a rural orchard within the month and it seemed like the right time to get a dog. So he became ours.

It took a few days to come up with a name. His shelter name was Dakota but didn't fit him. The world was at the height of Harry Potter mania but Sirius seemed too sinister (and obvious).  I campaigned for Uther (father of King Arthur) but nothing resonated until someone suggested Skipper. We all agreed and it was settled. Skipper it was. 

We would eventually claim Skipper to be a nearly perfect dog but there were a few kinks to work out. Early on he had a desperate separation anxiety and nearly destroyed our front door with his frantic clawing. On the farm he would chase us down the driveway and barrel out into the road without looking, forcing us, very reluctantly, to resort to a remote shock collar.  It took only a handful of shocks and he seldom left the property again. 

Skipper was born old. Even as a puppy he was always most content lying around, just being close to his people. He would lie down to eat with his paws wrapped around his food bowl. He was not a fetcher. If you threw a ball he would retrieve it once. If you threw it again he would look at you as if to say, "I got it for you once. You're on your own now." He never was a running dog; he didn't even walk briskly. Skipper ambled. Slowly.  A group of us were visiting on a side street in Seaside years ago. A car came along as Skipper plodded across the street. I remember the driver kindly stopping and saying something about the 'poor old guy'. We were a little embarrassed to admit he was only three. There is a photo somewhere, from Mexico, featuring Skipper with a dead bird in his mouth. I have not been convinced by anyone that he actually killed the bird. . . but he sure was proud to have found it.  The middle school would hold an annual event called "Veloci-doggy".  It was a fun day in spring in which kids would bring their dogs from home to participate in various competitions to calculate the velocity of moving objects.  Skipper only went once. He was very slow.

Skipper had the unusual talent of - how shall I say this? - leaving no trace. He would disappear into the orchard to relieve himself.  No yard patrol needed. We laughed and marveled at his exceptional (deliberate?) timing at the beach once when the next incoming wave rendered the poop bag unnecessary. 

Skipper liked to eat and he didn't like to move.  We tried to enforce good eating habits but he still closed in on one hundred pounds. He was such a gentle giant - with one exception. His self assigned duty was to protect the territory under the table any time food was present. He was fine with human adults around the table but dogs and rug rats (perceived threats to falling scraps) fielded vicious growls from him.  Once the food was cleared he was back to his gentle self. 

Skipper became a ridiculously beloved member of our family.  While it was clear he loved us all in return, his special bond with Kelvin was indisputable. As our marriage dissolved I was surprised by Kelvin's sudden, uncharacteristic desire to get a Newfoundland puppy - a breed I had long admired. Six years later it finally occurred to me it was his way of ensuring custody of Skipper - something I would never have considered fighting. But it's a cute part of the story. 

The stories could go on forever . . . like how Skipper became the best faux service dog ever.  He had documentation and a vest and an ID card which allowed him to travel anywhere.  We made jokes about mumbling quickly that he was a "Caesar" dog (adept at sniffing out Caesar salad), but he was so well behaved no one ever questioned it.  Or the stories of how he howled at the fire department sirens - sometimes without lifting his head off the ground where he was lying. You get the idea.

Sunday, January 4, 2015 Skipper became fatigued and short of breath while in Mexico with Kelvin.   Within an hour he died with his head in Kelvin's lap. It was warm and sunny, eleven years and a million miles away from that snow storm of 2004. 

I have been most touched by an observation the kids made.  They said the thing Skipper was best at was receiving love. Sometimes it's easier to give love than to receive love and Skipper showed us how to unconditionally receive love. 

We had no way of knowing it then, because you never do, but that innocent comment, "I saw a really nice dog today" was one of those big deal things.  Rest in peace, dear sweet Skipper. We are better humans for having had you in our lives.

Despair and Hope

First and foremost, this post is written with the permission of my daughter. Thank you, Taylor, for being brave enough to let me share your story.

It is Thanksgiving eve.  Tomorrow a good portion of our nation will feast on turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. Where we can, we will be gathering with family, friends, and neighbors to give thanks for our many blessings.  This year I am brought to my knees with gratitude that my family - my three kids, their father and myself - will be together. Eleven days ago we were nearly planning a funeral.

I had a day full of plans on November 15th.  A friend was soon to turn fifty. I was going to meet the girlfriends, road-trip to Bonneville Hot Springs for a celebratory lunch, indulge in soaks and wraps, then head back to Hood River for the birthday party. Most likely I wouldn't have been home till eleven pm.  I composed a quick text to my presumably sleeping seventeen year-old daughter - "Heading out. See you later tonight."  I was just about to hit send when something told me to go upstairs and say goodbye in person. I knocked on the door. No response. I heard a weird clattering noise that sounded like a manual typewriter. I knocked again. Still no response. So I opened the door. The noise I was hearing was the body of my precious baby seizing so violently the bed was rattling. She was completely unresponsive, choking and hypoxic. Holding her head in a position to maintain an open airway with one hand, my phone was, thank god, still in my other hand.  I dialed 911 and in no time Hood River's finest EMT's were on the scene. She was transported to the local emergency room, stabilized and the next day we transferred to Providence Portland Medical Center and the day after that transferred to the Adolescent Psychiatry in-patient unit at Providence Willamette Falls Medical Center.  Yes - the reality we had to face was that our daughter had attempted suicide. She took a nearly lethal dose of Benadryl. Cost: $1.97.  She spent a week receiving caring, skilled in-patient treatment in Oregon City. As a family we are circling the wagons and exploring how to ensure a healthy recovery . . . how to ensure this doesn't happen again.  There are many resources and we are committed. We are optimistic. We are lucky.

I write this because I don't believe we are the only ones. Not for a minute. If this can happen in our family it can happen to anyone.  Within days of our near miss another dear member of our community successfully hanged himself. The holidays are upon us.  Surrounded by friends and loved ones it can be a joyous time but it can also be the loneliest of times.

Please . . . in this season and beyond, listen to your hearts.  Let those you love know how much you care. Reach out if you sense someone is in trouble.  The briefest kindness may be the one thing that gives a struggling friend the moment or two to decide to stick around a little longer.  Know about our resources.  Click here for the local Hood River Suicide hotline.  Click here  for the Mid-Columbia Center for Living.

I'm sharing the poem I wrote the morning after.  It's personal and painful but I am sure it's not my story alone.  Talk about this stuff - let's get it out from under the carpet.

Much love to you all.

Despair and Hope

I heard you get in around midnight.
The dogs did their due diligence then scrambled back in bed.
I dozily called out and you said, "Goodnight. I love you, mama."
"I love you too, Tay."
Always let those be the last words you say to the ones you love
for they may, indeed, be the last words.
I did not see the despair.
How did I miss that?
But I felt it today.
Despair when I found your body trying to die.
Despair as I held your seizing body and could only think, "Airway. Airway. Airway."
Despair as I fumbled the phone with one hand thinking, 
"911 - goddammit, that's all you have to manage."
Despair as the line rang while I repeated my address 
over and over in my head 
so I wouldn't forget it.
Despair at uttering the words, "Possible overdose".
And when you stopped seizing and fell silent in my arms . . .
eternal, breath-stopping seconds of despair.
And then you took a breath . . .
And the flashing red lights arrived . . .
And this morning as I stare at you sleeping peacefully,
thanking God you're still here,
the sunrise view from ICU 220
harbors hope.

Kali's Bones

It's been a while. I'm not dragging Stained into this time. It's just been a long time. Period.

It was a busy summer. 

According to the tide table on the desk in Seaside, I have been away since July. 

That's just unacceptable. 

That's the bad news. 

The good news is that I am moving to Seaside in January. 

For reals. 

Forever. 

In the meantime, this happened right around Equinox - September 20, to be exact.

It rained. I found bones. I made plans.  

Thank you, Jerry, for holding space for the holy in all it's forms.
I'm including images from the month(ish).
They just are. 

Kali's Bones

Kali showed up yesterday and she isn’t pretty.

Gorgeous and rich and wild and vehement, yes.

But not pretty.

Her eyes were bulging, her face purple and her tongue dangling in rage.

She is gonna level this place.

And when she’s done

there will be bones to gather

amidst the chattering, dead dune grass.

Another century’s cape will billow in the October wind.

My four-legged will hover closely.

He knows.

I’ll raise my arms and face to the scourging rain

and be washed clean

and I will know. 

Because I have always known - 

And I will always know.

The Last Thing I Want To Eat (As In, 'Before I Die')

I've been working my way to this slowly and you have to cut me some slack . . . I grew up in a Seventh-day Adventist home, vegetarian with a particular emphasis on the uncleanliness of seafood. I couldn't bear the smell of my elementary school friends' tuna sandwiches. I was in college before I tasted my first shrimp. My gateway seafood was the Lobster Pie at the Hilltop Restaurant in Saugus, MA circa 1986-1990 while Kelvin was studying at MIT. Such good memories. We usually shared food but when it came to the Lobster Pie - big hunks of lobster, butter, bread crumbs, more butter and, I think, cheese - I shared with no one. Kelvin got a fork in the back of the hand when he tried to steal some once. True story. True Gateway Drug.

Oysters? I still struggle with them. As a nurse I suctioned stuff out of patient lungs which bore way too much resemblance to the tubs of oysters sold in the seafood department. No thanks. A date once bought a tub of those oysters here in Seaside. We sat out on the beach to eat them. I tried. Really, I did. But I was so focused on not dry-heaving that I totally missed the aphrodisiac effect. Since then I have braved  oyster shooters with salsa,  grilled oysters and can claim to love the ponzu oyster shooters at Sushi Okalani. This is progress!

Clams?  They were things in a shell that surely had to be as snotty as oysters. If hidden in chowder they were okay; otherwise I avoided them. I remember a hospice patient who expressed a last-meal desire for fresh fried razor clams. I totally did not get it.

This past March I was at my favorite seafood shop, Bell Bouy in Seaside, eyeballing my usual crab. I noticed razor clams still in the shell AND I could see they were moving.  They were still alive!  I was immediately intrigued and confessed to the woman behind the counter I had never worked with live clams - but wanted to. She told me the easiest thing was to YouTube clam cleaning videos. I bought 3 clams and went home optimistically. Indeed, there were a number of videos and I cleaned my clams successfully. Okay, I did squeal and drop that first clam in the sink when it squirmed as I snipped off the siphon tip. I thought, mistakenly, it had died with the boiling water dunk.  But I picked him back up, finished the job and then went HERE to the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife for recipes. Triumph!  Fried clams with a squeeze of lemon. I was hooked.

I spent a couple months buying clams and cooking them.  I got live in the shell when I could; cleaned when I couldn't. I ate them fried; in clam pasta sauce;  in chowder - and fell in love with them. And then I started thinking about catching my own clams.  The tide schedule and my beach schedule were out of sync until this weekend (cue the angel choir and divine sunburst breaking through the clouds) which turned out to be the Holy Grail weekend of clamming on the Oregon Coast. I remember these conditions last year quite vividly:  I woke up, looked out my bedroom window and saw what seemed to be all of Seaside out on the beach.  I sleepily wondered if there had been a disaster. A tsunami maybe  . . . but of course people would not have been HANGING OUT ON THE BEACH for a tsunami. Why were they out there?! It's probably safe to say there were thousands, all pursuing, as I learned, the razor clam. The same clam my hospice patient had longed for on his death bed. This year I get it. People love their clams. People want clams for their last meal. I now loved clams. And I was gonna catch some.

I purchased a clamming license at Fred Meyer and a clam gun at Costco. I read a few books on clamming. I had a plastic Safeway bag to stash what was sure to be a bountiful harvest and a mop handle to bang on the sand. (this, in spite of the fact I had no idea why people banged sticks and shovels on the sand when clamming.)  I sorta knew what to do . . . sorta had some gear but was thoroughly intimidated by all those people out there who actually knew what they were doing.

Thursday morning the conditions were perfect.  I self-consciously walked out to the beach, pretty sure I looked as ridiculous as I felt. I shouldn't have worried. Within 5 minutes I ran into  'Clammie Annie' - the clamming zealot mother of my friend Michelle, owner of Seaside Coffee House. In no time she introduced me to her friends who took me under their very accomplished wings and taught me the basics of clamming. My first day out, with a little help from my friends, I dug a full limit of 15 clams.

That night I fried 4 of them for dinner. 

I don't know when anything tasted better. I was eating clams I caught with my own hands and sipping a lovely pinot gris while looking at the ocean they had been in that morning. There is some sort of poetic perfectness there. For the clams, maybe not so much. I did thank them.

That first day I was a tourist clammer, graciously tolerated by the locals. I had Bog boots and a decent clam gun, but the Safeway bag totally pegged me as a newbie . . . as did the wimpy mop handle with no leash, forcing me to juggle it with each dig so it didn't wash away. I took mental notes as my clam guru, Walt, gave me gentle suggestions. Let me introduce Walt by saying he has a sweet, black lab-mix dog. When you ask his name, as mostly women do, he replies, "His name is CM - Chick Magnet. He caught you, didn't he?!"  The dog's real name is Gizmo and he digs clams. No shit. And he bites the tip off the siphon. Honestly. I saw him do it. All jokes aside, Walt has been clamming forever and was very generous in sharing his knowledge.  I needed to lose the Safeway bag and get a square Costco milk jug, cut just so, to store my freshly caught clams. I needed to attach that milk jug and my leashed tamper of choice (turned out to be a Louisville Slugger baseball bat) to a belt. Preferably a belt that came with a pair of fishing waders. Waders weren't required, but would make everything easier, drier and warmer. Gardening gloves were recommended and I needed to lose the jewelry. This was no  time to look cute. Walt told me of one women who tangled an earring in her clam net when she was up to her shoulder in the sand reaching for a clam. I was NOT going to be that woman.

This morning I strolled out to the freshly exposed clam bed and found Walt and Gizmo. "Well, look at you!' he said with a big smile.  I was earring-less and ring-less; had my waders, belt, milk jug, baseball bat and my clam gun. I think I passed. Especially when he learned that my waders were half price because I got a Youth XL instead of a Men's Small. Score one for the newbie!!!

We spent a little time together and then went our separate ways. I didn't want him to have to babysit me again. I struggled, as did everyone, today.  The conditions just weren't the same. 3 hours later I had 13 clams - 2 short of the limit. But I found them all by myself and one of them was a sexy 5.5 inches long. I measured. (I'm reminded here of Walt's terrible joke about why women can't be carpenters. It's because they've been told all their lives that this {indicating a measurement of about 3 inches with his fingers} is 6 inches. Oh, Walt . . .)

This afternoon I cleaned 28 clams. I thanked each one before I dunked it in boiling water to pop it's shell open.

I know when the next clam-worthy negative tide will occur and have it marked on my calendar. I know the thrill of seeing a clam 'show'; the  feel of a clam gun hitting a shell and what it feels like to be up to my shoulder in the sand with a clam at my finger tips and a wave coming in. I know what it feels like to lose that clam - and what it feels like to just barely snag it, feel it trying to dig down and manage to pull it out while the water is swirling around me. I own waders with neoprene booties. I am a clammer. Not a great one, but a clammer all the same. I suspect someday I'll request fresh fried razor clams for dinner one last time before I die - and I will move heaven and earth to honor the request if I ever hear of another dying man who wants clams for dinner. Why the passion? Are the clams we catch technically any different from the ones we buy? Nahh. But the experience!  My guess is that dying man was longing for the coast, the smell of salt air and the sound of the waves;  a return to his youth; the thrill of the hunt, camaraderie with clamming buddies, bringing abundance home to his family . . . and, certainly, delicious dinners. Perhaps he was longing for a place and time that held goodness for him in this life before moving on to the next. I get it now. It's part of this place I love so much.  I love every new experience here.  My soul has found its home - and its people.  Even when alone, I am never lonely. Today I am content.  Happy as a clam, one might say.  No one ever mentions the qualifier of that phrase. I never heard it until yesterday. It really goes like this: "Happy as a clam at high water."   Today the water is high.

Mother's Day Ramble

It's 8:47 am Sunday morning. Mother's Day 2014. The morning after Taylor and her date sat on the couch in tux and prom dress watching movies because she hurled after their pre-prom dinner.

                 

It's also the morning after the monumental trouncing of Vancouver's Storm City Roller Girls by Hood River's very own Gorge Roller Girls. The score was something like 384 to 68. At some point, knowing the exact score ceased to be important.

I woke up in a rush thinking it was 8:30-something, only to discover my 52 year-old eyes had lied to me, yet again. It was actually 6:30-something. But I was up and a cup of home-made chai was calling to me. So I fed the dogs, emptied the dishwasher (and instantly filled it from the mound of dishes in the sink), finished making the chai and sat down for a moment in the backyard . . . in a skimpy yoga top . . . in the sun. If you're not from Oregon you need to understand  that last part should not be breezily passed over.  Let me repeat: a skimpy yoga top . . . in the sun . . . mid-May . . . Oregon. And I was comfortable!  It's already a gorgeous day in the Gorge (you do know that's where the word gorgeous comes from, right?).

I closed my eyes and took a moment to hear the birds, both the chirping variety and the humming ones. The dogs were rolling deliriously in the grass, bringing me slimy bits of stick as love gifts and demonstrating down dog and up dog better than any yoga instructor I've ever had. I admired my freshly cut lawn and was not the least bit distressed about all the dandelions. Life's too short for that, I've decided.

Two of my real pleasures of the day are sleeping the sleep of late-night teenagers upstairs in their beds and the third is a short 3 miles away in her own bed. I am happy to have them all in one place, more or less, for a couple days. Our plans are to convene on Riverdaze for sourdough bacon waffles and coffee and I'll get to look in their eyes and marvel at the lovely human beings they have become.

I may be a little biased, but I honestly like them. I kinda have to love them, but I don't have to like them. I take great pleasure in liking my kids.

I spent time with my own mom this week. She moved on to the next big thing in 1995. Thursday she would have been 92. Our tradition is to catch up over a box of Russell Stover chocolates. I am always willing to share but usually end up eating the whole thing. Thanks, Mom.

Before the day takes off I hope for you a few quiet moments to soak up some wonderfulness. If you have offspring, if you've been like a parent to someone special who needed you, if you've made difficult choices,  if you have lost a child . . . I honor you and send much love. I hope your day includes something fabulous like bacon waffles with your favorite people.

And where is Matris Oceanus in all of this? Why, she IS all of it, of course. Happy Mother's Day to the Mother of all mothers. I'll see you Wednesday.

Addendum: After a wonderful breakfast at Riverdaze we strolled to the newly opened 'The Chocolate Lab'. We found it necessary to sample Lavender/Chocolate Caramels, Habanero/Lime Caramels, Cherry/Balsamic Vinegar Chocolates and (drum roll here . . .) Bleu Cheese/Almond Chocolates.

                   

Bleu Cheese and Chocolate? Amazing. Who knew?!

And thank you, Sunde, for sending us home with the fancy bottle of  Cherry Balsamic drinking vinegar without charge and trusting us to come back when you know the price. You have 4 loyal customers now.

Cheers!