Pastel light in hues of marigold and lupine lull my eyelids, seducing slumber.

With a shiver at the nape of my neck, I feel dusk tiptoe in, and I welcome her. She is a wrinkle-eyed crone wearing a hoop skirt full of pockets. Pick one, she dares me. I close my eyes, slip my hand into teal corduroy and touch something oblong and worn on the surface, like driftwood (*). I can hear the tongue of the ocean shushing against the sand and frothing into peaks and crests, valleys and planes. The smell of salt spray drifts in through the open window.

I’d like her to stay a while and paint the sky inky-indigo blue but it’s a fading slate instead. I watch as dusk swirls her skirt and out of the folds soar stars and planets. Black velvet lands gently atop trees and hills, rooftops and sidewalks; a backdrop for jewels.

Before long, she kisses my forehead and just like that, she is gone.

*a note about the symbolism of Driftwood from Chris Maser:

“Driftwood” is a vision from beyond language, beyond any possible embodiment of meaning in a word. It symbolizes the Eternal relationship between wood and water, between forest and sea, between life and death. It symbolizes the ever-present moment, which is at once the past, present, and future–here, now, in this nanosecond contained. “Driftwood” is but an infinitesimal glimpse into the wonder and mystery infused in the human psyche from the outer reaches of Infinite Creation that we call “the Universe.”


Spare Change

His words came out strung together like they were separated by dashes instead of spaces. Spare-any-change-thank-you. Spare-any-change-thank-you. Spare-any-change-thank-you.

It took me a block’s walk to decipher what he was saying. The hurried rhythm of his chant tap-danced in my ears as I turned the corner toward Pioneer Square in downtown Portland.

A young man in a tan leather jacket leaned against the black iron gate of the Pioneer Courthouse and casually thumbed through his phone. A few feet away, a woman wearing an oversized pink sweatshirt rummaged through a shiny, silver garbage can.

Was it the moodiness of a gray, winter day luring me to further analyze, or were the man’s words about more than just pocket money? Instead of asking for coins, what if he were asking for real change? As in: Can you spare to make a change? Thank you.

Three blocks later, while waiting for the crosswalk to turn, a man sitting in a wheelchair suddenly burst into song.

“I’m so tired of this world, I feel like I could bust!” he crooned to a surprisingly cheerful melody. His weathered, tan skin stood out beneath a white baseball cap.

We made eye contact and his lips parted into a sheepish smile; a beige, unlit cigarette hung from his bottom lip. It was like a confession, and I was his witness. I returned his smile, and then crossed the street, feeling both humbled by this tiny moment of connection and weighed down by my own sadness about the way things are.

And so on my bus ride home, I wondered what it would take to shift our culture of  individualism to one that truly cared about the well-being of the collective. As long as we keep failing to recognize how simply another’s position could have been ours, we deny our shared vulnerability in an uncertain world. (A flurry of bad luck and our lot could be quite different.)

Maybe things will change in 2019, maybe they won’t; but today I was reminded how a simple walk through the city can prompt us to consider whether or not we can, collectively, spare any change.

Georgia’s Hands

I want all the people I love to be healthy and protected and to stay with me forever.

Because life is about the people. The people I (we) love.

Tonight is achy, like old bones. It’s tinged with a kind of sadness that balls up in the back of my throat until the corners of my eyes sting. It’s a bad-news-just-received night with a full, blue moon on the horizon.

As an antidote, my mind sifts gently through all the sweet, majestic experiences I’ve just had on a trip to New Mexico, landing on one in particular: when my friends and I hiked to the top of Chimney Rock near Georgia O’Keeffe’s home at Ghost Ranch. Along the sunny trail, I periodically stopped to study splotchy, lime-green lichen on the stone wall, spiky pom pom plants and off-white crystals nestled in caramel-colored dust, and to smell the fragrant juniper berries. I’m soothed by the thought of Georgia’s steady, weathered hands picking up intriguing objects like these to study closer on one of her many desert walks.

My admiration for her has only multiplied after seeing this special place and the paintings she made to capture it. Her artwork’s themes of life and death especially resonate with me. She has a way of capturing the continuous, spiritual thread; how the two are inseparable. And she seems to accept this easefully – perhaps even with a spirit of celebration and reverie! Witnessing New Mexico through Georgia’s eyes and hands – a framed image of bleached bones crested with a blooming, white rose, for example – have offered me yet another touchstone along this path of learning.

Similarly, but in a less enjoyable manner, the achy feeling I have tonight is also a touchstone…a reminder of impermanence, of preciousness, and of the most humbling duty we have to live our lives meaningfully.

Before bed, as the big moon rises, I’ll picture Georgia’s hands cradling stones and bones and wondrous, desert treasures with loving curiosity. And as my eyes grow heavy with sleep, I’ll watch her traipse down the dusty trail towards the mesa on the horizon, pockets full of ideas for her next great creation.