Right Off Main Street

In the heart of Oregon's Willamette Valley is a time capsule located along the 45th parallel, half way between the North Pole and the equator. The bustling three and half square mile City of Silverton was built around the banks of Silver Creek and was incorporated in 1854. Although the area has been inhabited for 6,000 years, it seems as though Silverton came into its own during the 1950s and has never let go. When you are here, you are sure you are still there.

Our favorite coffee house in town.

Steve and I happened into Silverton in May on our way to Silver Falls State Park for an afternoon hike. After a magnificent lunch at Gather, we walked around and were captivated by its innocence and charm. There was something very special about Silverton; it was a small town that did not seem small-minded. 

Overlooking Silver Creek

Three months later almost to the day, Steve and I returned to Silverton to stay, permanently. We bought a house––site unseen with the help of a trusted realtor and friend––and saw it in person for the first time on the afternoon of 6 August. It was a risk well worth taking. I was overwhelmed with emotion the moment we walked inside. It was better and more impressive than we had expected. The photographs online were stunning to be sure, but they could not convey the sheer openness, the positive vibes or magnificent surroundings in which we had landed. I was speechless. This is ours? I thought. How is this even possible? It was like a dream. Every day since has been like a dream that I cannot wake up from, cannot fully absorb or understand, and yet I feel awake. It is as though I have lived a lifetime during the past three weeks as every moment of every day has been so intense that I collapse with exhaustion at the end of it.

Home

Steve and I both are restless spirits so it may seem a bit strange that we have made such an enormous commitment to a place that we know virtually nothing about. But then, maybe it doesn't seem that strange at all. We understood that something was missing from our lives––that there was a disconnect between us and the people and things that were the most important. We needed to reconnect with ourselves, our families, our community, and Mother Earth if we were going to be happy. Living in an ultra urbanized environment felt like we had been forgotten and that we were forgetting what it meant to be one with the earth, our community, and our fellow man.

Hood

We sold most of our things and arrived with little. Our new home was a blank canvas for us to create and reinvent how we do life; a place that we could share with those who we love, an experience we could give to others who want to explore Oregon, and an opportunity to be a part of community with a tenderness almost as soft as the tip of a dog's ear. It is here, right off Main Street, that we've found a place called Home.

Here's to new beginnings, hopes and dreams, love and peace.

Chasing the Sun

The only regrets in life are the risks we don’t take. 

The rain this morning was different somehow. Perhaps because I knew it was temporary. Not that it was going to pass, but that I was sure to escape from it. The sky over Hagerstown was filled with intense energy; white clouds billowed like steam plumes from a locomotive against a backdrop of steel blue-grey. Pockets of rain doused the wildflowers and cleansed the earth as we drove west, through Pennsylvania and West Virginia. Eventually, we found the sun beating down on Ohio's farmland. Indiana and Illinois were a blur. We zipped passed fields and prairies and watched the the blood orange sun melt into rolling hills of corn. We made it to Iowa. A 1,000 miles down, 2,000 more or less to go. 

Sunset in Ohio

We rose with the sun in Iowa City on Saturday. A little orange tabby sat next to the pet washing station and watched over us as we filled our gas tank and dislodged the insects that were slathered all over the windshield. We climbed into Subie Doo and headed west on I-80 in search for good coffee. We pulled off in middle-of-nowhere-Williamsburg, Iowa and purchased coffee and doughnuts to go—a forgivable sin on a 3,000 mile road trip—at Casey’s General Store. Half the town had the same idea because they all seemed to be there. Or maybe it was because it was the only thing open. At any rate, I snapped a few pics to send to my three-year-old nephew, Casey. 

Bath Anyone?

Steve at Casey's General Store in Williamsburg, Iowa

We turned right at Des Moines and headed north to Minnesota. I couldn’t wait to see Minnesota—state number 49 of 50 (only Wisconsin left to see). As soon as we crossed the border, we were nearly run off the road by an old woman who pulled into our lane at 80 miles an hour. Steve swerved, slammed on the horn, and crushed the breaks. She proceeded as though we were invisible, passed the truck on our right, and returned to her lane as though nothing had happened. She didn’t even look at us when we passed her. Not long after that incident, it started pouring, and we passed a dude on his motorcycle donned in full rain gear, goggles, and no helmet going 70 miles an hour. Wicked. That guy was either the most brutally hard core person I had ever seen in my life or the stupidest one. (Those two things may not be mutually exclusive.) Alas, he wasn’t the only motorcyclist slogging it out in the rain. The entire stretch of I-90 was peppered with motorcycle riders battling the relentless precipitation, though most wore enclosed brain buckets. We passed by Blue Earth and found blue sky again.

Wind Turbines in Minnesota

Apparently there is a huge pirate convention this week in Sturgis, South Dakota, where mateys dress up, posture, and assert false jocularity amongst like-minded road warriors. I’m amused by the costumes and decorations they flaunt with pride, but find myself embarrassed for them, much like I do today’s teens who have revived high-wasted shorts and crop tops that were best left in the 80's. They travel in packs—all of these pirates on motorcycles—it’s the weirdest thing. What exactly do they do at Sturgis? I think many must be trained professional DickyDo contestants. You know, the contest where they measure men’s bellies to see whose sticks out further than their dicky do. Seems like that contest would be overflowing with participants. Beyond that, I imagine a lot grunting, beer drinking, and saggy boob flashing similar to that of Mardi Gras but with much less class. I digress … South Dakota seemed to have a lot of other things to offer. 

This image is a little fuzzy because I took it surreptitiously out the back window, which is tented, just in case this guy was a real Hells Angel. 
Bad ass or pirate clown?

Steve has kindly shared with me that he thinks I’m a dooms-dayer, that I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, that I need to learn to let things go and do my part to make the world a better place in my own little way and leave it at that. So I will work on that and refrain from talking about how the white man stole all this land in South Dakota and beyond (the entire US) from the natives, nearly wiped them out in their quest for greed, and then "gave them reservations" and named areas after tribes to make themselves feel better about the horrors they inflicted upon these peoples, so that these pirates could one day invade it as if they own the place. Oops, sorry. There I go again, thinking about injustice.

Sunset in Wyoming

Honeysuckle

The breeze carries the soft taste of honeysuckle to my lips

Ahead of the thunderous shutter and crackle of warring winds

This summer’s Sunday afternoon.

The observer contemplates the city’s triste,

Between nature’s choir of restless leaves and chickadees that bend

In the urban kaleidoscope of mechanical tunes.

The sky opens and beats relentless upon the pavement

The rains; aromas of man and earth undone,

Washed clean the scents

Severed suddenly by the unbridled sun.

Everything as before;

And the honeysuckle returns once more.

From Finisterre To Silverton, and Three Years In Between

At the end of the earth in Finisterre three years ago, I sat in a small bar overlooking the ocean. During those cafe-con-leche-sipping moments, I knew exactly three things: I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be single, and I wanted to live in Oregon.

Within a week of returning to Virginia from Spain, I accepted a writing job that would prove to be one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my professional career. Under the leadership of a phenomenal writer and talented communications director, I learned how to write and was mentored by one of the best—and toughest—managers I have ever known, and for her I always will be grateful.

In a moment of serendipity just a few months after I had started my new endeavor, I met someone—something that I had deliberately tried to avoid—and within a matter of weeks, we were in it. I often have described our relationship as being as smooth as a dirt road in Costa Rica, but somehow we have hit pavement and now only the occasional pothole. He may be my greatest challenge yet and I am quite sure that I have been his. But however we are—we are in it together. And together we are embarking on our next great adventure.

I have felt deeply every growing pain this county has endured during the past 18 months and sadly, I do care. Perhaps too much. And where I am going next, I will need a rain coat because it rains a lot in Oregon.

The greatest wisdom that I have received along The Way has been this: follow your bliss; life is not a dress rehearsal. The only regrets in life are the risks you don't take. Cliches, I know, but they are because they are true.

The world feels like an upside-down-kind-of-place right now. As the country takes stock, so too have I, and I have determined that it is time to return to my family, my people, my tribe. It is time to go home.

Steve and I are pulling chalks in August and will drive westward into the sunset, toward the great Pacific Ocean, and will settle in our new home in a small, progressive community just south of Portland called Silverton.

Hope to see you all there someday.

The Next Adventure

The recent death of Anthony Bourdain—renowned chef, author, and world traveler who touched the lives of countless many through his intellectual, cultural escapades—has reminded me how fragile life is—that in just a moment, it can all end. Shocked and saddened, I reflected upon the words of Henry David Thoreau,

"The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face? 

We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor."

Death is sobering and grief brings moments of reflection—a pause that we otherwise would not take—and it reminds us that even in our noblest pursuits, life can be missed. Over the years, I've lost a handful of friends and acquaintances to suicide, and it never gets easier to understand. But what I have also learned is that life is far too precious to miss out on, our time here on Earth is finite, and I want to be awake for it. Thoreau's realization of this moved him into action.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swatch and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion."

Thoreau's actions and his very existence are a guide for those who wish to live with zeal and keep perspective on what truly matters—family, friends, community, love. Living simply allows us to stay focused on these matters and to suck the marrow out of life. While economy is a necessity, it is not an end, and it can distract from mindful living.

A few days ago, I walked through a park with a small swing set. As a child I had spent countless hours swinging, listening to birds, meditating—just being. I walked to the swing, climbed on, and repeated this ancient ritual. The earth moved up and down and the birds sang relentlessly. The sun warmed my skin and my hair swept through the air then flopped against my back at the apex of each pass. My mind fluttered away and I began daydreaming; it was 1920 and I could hear the music of the day playing in the recesses of my mind. I imagined being in my backyard, getting ready for tea, listening to music. The minutes passed, then a few more. My adventure lasted for what felt like hours, but was only a cat-nap's worth of time. When my feet returned to the ground, it occurred to me that I had spent so little of my time doing this extremely important act and that I had neglected for years what was once the most important daily ritual of my life. Saddened by this thought, I turned, walked away, and carried on with my "important" adult business. Ironically, here it is a few days later, and whatever else happened that day has been forgotten and the only thing that I can remember is my unforgettable, unexpected excursion on the swing.

When was the last time you played on the swings?

Homeless in Seattle

Homelessness in Seattle is startling and brutal. It's evident and obvious. It's in your face at every turn downtown. I've heard people say when speaking of Seattle that it has a big homeless problem. It's not true. Not at all. It's not a "homeless" problem. It's a What-the-Fuck-Is-Wrong-With-Us problem?

I am not an expert on homelessness, but I am an expert on the human heart. And what I feel when I walk through the streets of Seattle is incredible pain; a wretched, plaguing ache in my soul. People are sleeping on the cold cement between magnificent buildings inhabited by multi-billion dollar companies, amplifying the harsh cruelty of the society we have become. Our most vulnerable citizens juxtaposed between spires of capitalist gluttony. Young men, old women, children ... all of them asking for help, not knowing where to turn. Some cannot speak English. Others are embarrassed and ashamed. Still others incapable altogether because of metal health or addiction. Some are even US military veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan. 

I do not judge a person for the cruel situation for which they find themselves. For many, homelessness is circumstantial, caused by situations beyond their control. For others, it may be a choice, though you cannot know this unless you take the time to ask. But no matter what the reason, it is just flat out wrong that anyone—and I mean ANYONE—in this country should suffer so tragically.

Nor should I judge those who bounce in and out of Starbucks to get their $5 coffees who don't want to get involved. It's an uncomfortable circumstance for the "Haves" to deal with the "Have Nots." Surely eye contact will commit you into giving something of yourself. Perhaps you will feel guilt merely for being in a different set of circumstances. I know that I do. 

Relating in

I think back to times in my life that were not so good as they are now. I had a rough go at it at times, having even lived out of my car for a few days once. It's not quite comparable, but I know what it is to have nothing but a cup of change to my name with nowhere to go and only the charity of others to get me through. And I was rescued by those with charitable hearts who had love and compassion for the circumstance I found myself in at the time. It wouldn't be impossible for me to end up there again.  I am but one tip of the sauce away from finding myself back in an impossible circumstance. Any of us can end up in the same place as those already there. 

Making a different starts at home

The first thing any of us can do when faced with someone who is homeless, if face them. I mean really face them. Look them in the eyes. They are Human Beings with souls. They have spirits. They feel pain and they feel love. So look at them. Acknowledge them. Give them the dignity they deserve as a member of the human race, even if you cannot or choose not to give them money or food or even a hot cup of coffee. Give them your acknowledgement. 

If your heart urges you to do more, DO MORE. Whatever that looks like. Avoiding, disregarding or pretending does not help anyone, including yourself. Allow yourself to give. Allow yourself to feel. Allow yourself to help.