Stand

Being a Person

Be a person here.

Stand by the river, invoke the owls.

Invoke winter, then spring.

Let any season that wants to come here make its own call.

After that sound goes away, wait.

A slow bubble rises through the earth and begins to include sky, stars, all space, even the outracing expanding thought.

Come back and hear the little sound again.

Suddenly this dream you are having matches everyone’s dream, and the result is the world.

If a different call came, there wouldn’t be any world, or you, or the river, or the owls calling.

How you stand here is important.

How you listen for the next things to happen.

How you breathe.

William Stafford

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I sit on the back porch, feet up, nibbling cheese. Guilty pleasure that, any variety but goat, the miserable, ever-present tang clinging to my throat, no matter what they say.

It is heavy with heat and this scramble on the keyboard a break from lying prostrate with a book propped on my chest. Though the reading could be better. I vacillate between two lesser books that also happen to be the favorites of people dear to me. I hate that, hate that I see their earnest faces and kind eyes in the midst of my dislike. And now, an invocation of whatever spirit will make my next read so wholly captivating that I read until my eyes ache and pulse quickens.

A trio of hummingbirds competes for our garden, and I marvel at the fierceness, the fantastic fluttered wing spirals and wild chirps of battle.

A crow breaks a cracker in the bird bath, some snack gleaned elsewhere and slowly savored here. She is quiet and delicate in her work, and I marvel at the fact that she does it all without hands. Her onyx feathers gleam, and she watches me, coyly perhaps. We are friends but not that kind, not yet, her penetrating eyes intent on me as I speak to her, of her beauty, mucky messes, and occasional early wake-up calls. She’s finished eating and scratches her head with her left foot, even considers a bath, lightly splashing with her beak, no matter the diminutive size of the vessel in relation to her body.

A squirrel is five feet away from her, hoovering every last remnant the finches and sparrows and jays messily toss out of the feeder, some silent agreement, perhaps. Another claws madly in a wild dash up the neighbor’s sequoia.

Paris is stretched on the concrete of the patio, five feet from me, wholly unaware of the life that surrounds her, pretending she is some Egyptian, I think, so regal is her posture.

I hear the bushtits flit about and a robin chirp in the distance. Children rough house nearby and the steady thrum of traffic drones in the distance, though sometimes I cannot hear it and am elsewhere, some fine elysian field, where all that I love lasts and there is no rush to capture it for another hour.

Happy Birthday, Allison!

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Peony season is upon us a little early, thanks be to a long stint of dry and warm weather.

I am wishing for rain and dreaming about horseback riding.

The strawberries are ripening, but some little creature is beating us to the punch when it comes to actually eating them. We may have to start getting up earlier.

My palms are sweaty.

I hurt my wrist, gardening, of all things, so rather than practice yoga and re-injure myself, I have been walking, complete with wide-brimmed hat or parasol. Though this morning, I danced, a wild thunder of stomps and shakes.

Listening to the Black Angels and Devendra Banhart. Happiness.

My favorite little boy visited on Wednesday, and as we were eating lunch, he moved quite close and said, “You aren’t old, but you have a lot of old hairs on your head.”

That same day, in related not-old news, I flew a kite!

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Say

When the words stop

And you can endure the silence

That reveals your heart’s pain

Of emptiness

Or that great wrenching-sweet longing

That is the time to try and listen

To what the Beloved’s

Eyes

Most want to say.

Hafiz

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My baby brother visited us this past week. We drove and walked and ate practically ad infinitum.

From Mt. Hood

to Cannon Beach

where we saw barnacles, star fish, sea anemones, a jellyfish, TWO Bald Eagles,

a silent sea captain,

old buildings

and bouys hanging from trees.

We ate seafood, salt water taffy, and fudge.

We saw Ferraris!

They drank beer.

We saw Mt. Adams

and tall trees on Sauvie Island.

And an old advertisement on Fremont.

And chatted late in the evening and early in the morning. And napped and sat under an azure canopy in the back yard.

Life is grand

 

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Slowly

Life is short. Break the rules.
Forgive quickly. Kiss slowly.
Love truly. Laugh uncontrollably.
And never regret anything
That makes you smile.

Mark Twain

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Hello Everyone! Are you ready for a looong one? Portland’s had truly Spring-like weather, the absolute best I can recall in my fifteen years as a citizen, excellent for gardening, with more digging, planting, and walking. This time we actually went beyond the city limits to where John McLoughlin, also known as the “Father of Oregon,” first laid claim to the territory in the name of the British.

In the back yard at the McLoughlin House, which was moved from its original location near the river. The cannon dates from 1789!

The tunnel under Singer Hill Road,

named for Singer Creek, which exits on the other side.

I love Art Deco, and the Clackamas County Courthouse is a dandy example.

A spectacularly fine roadster, a ’32-’34 Ford, I think. Hef?

Crossing the Oregon City Bridge to West Linn.

Apparently it was a great day for fishing, too. Dontigny, were you out there?

Yellow Awning

Red Ball

Tiny Vesicles

Cat Walk

Peeling Rust

Climbing the steps to Mt. Seleya.

Stopping for a lunch break at Mi Famiglia. We had a delicious spinach salad and mighty fine wood fired pizza, cremini and peperoncini, to be exact.

I spy…

The poor hubster, the one time he really wants to shop, the place is closed. He missed out on a slice of our childhood, with metal lunch boxes, Matchbox cars, Tonka trucks, action figures, McDonald’s glasses, and much, much more…

The tunnel to the Oregon City Municipal Elevator, the only one of its kind in the United States, and pretty darn cool, if you ask me.

It looks a bit like a space ship from the exterior.

The new Oregon City Bridge, boy is it a looker.

Oregon City is filled with charming houses. This one dates to 1877.

Willamette Falls

West Linn paper and vestiges of businesses past.

Nap interrupted.

My second favorite mural ever! The first is in this post.

The gorgeous Atkinson Memorial Church, circa 1924.

Waterboard Park bridges the second and third tiers of Oregon City. Hushed, save for the songs of robins, towhees, and one giggling human.

This is asphalt, slowly being consumed by earth and landslides. We felt as though we’d entered a portal into Logan’s Run, wondering if around the next bend we’d hear the howl and screech of cats and the moaning of “Sanctuary!”

Downtown Portland from the bluff. The hubster’s building is the tall one on the right. Hi Buddy!

Wisteria in full bloom.

This is considered to be the oldest working fire station west of the Rockies. But who cares about that; the sign is neon!

Inside the 100 year-old Carnegie Library.

Treats at Mike’s Drive-In, a banana and a Mayan shake.

Thanks for another great walk, Laura O. Foster!

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It Felt Love

How did the rose

Ever open its heart

And give to this world

All its beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light

Against its being.

Otherwise

We all remain too frightened.

Hafiz

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Hello sunshine! Hello dear readers! I am celebrating two weekends worth of digging, mulching, squatting, and shoveling with photos.

The little sprouts are peas. The big leaves are rhubarb. Cross your fingers that the slugs don’t devour them all!

A brave gnome protects the boysenberries. The mulched area in the foreground is our new blueberry patch.

The herb garden and cherry tree.

The flower garden, with one fat squirrel going to town on bird seed. Everyone needs to eat!

The new strawberry patch. There’s a terracotta hedgehog, too.

From the gate.

Red roof with scrub jay and our apple tree in full boom.

The Indian plum hedge is slowly looking like one!

Woodland path with pink azalea.

Last weekend’s labor – mulch, mulch, mulch!

Dogwood and tulip blooming.

Happy Earth Day!

 

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Hi peeps! I’ve got restaurants galore for you today. Interestingly enough, all the photos of actual food are of sweets (or their remains), which I can explain. I am the type who arrives at eating establishments hungry. I might order a cocktail to pass the time but not drink too much of it because I am one cheap date and generally enjoy an upright position. So I snap a photo of said cocktail or the general surroundings, also to pass the time, before the main event. When the food arrives, the camera is pushed aside, and I boogie down. Once happily sated, I take more photos, especially if I order dessert, because, damn it, it’s usually the prettiest course anyway.

Getting to the task at hand, this is Blue Star Donuts. “Donuts for Grownups,” is their slogan. Indeedy. You will not find a single speck of grape dust or Cap’n Crunch, but a well curated selection like lemon poppy seed, cream filled, blueberry bourbon glazed, and our choices: chocolate almond ganache, a hard cider apple fritter, and a divine original glazed. You will not be disappointed, either. The fritter and glazed are the best I’ve ever had, and the hubster, resident chocoholic, thought his was delicious, too. The coffee is top notch, staff friendly, and the view, early on a Saturday morning, entertaining. We saw lost tourists and dog walkers galore and a middle-aged man cuddling a teddy bear swaddled in baby blue. Keeping it weird in Portland.

Luce, billed as an Italian restaurant, always grabs us with their fish and seafood; the stuffed trout, seafood stew, and anchovies with mozzarella so snazzy, I have yet to try a morsel of pasta. It is the sweetest postage stamp of a place with fabulous service and shelves full of specialty wares like fine kitchen towels, scrub brushes, salt, and beautifully wrapped caramels. Try the buckwheat! As for our desserts, the hubster is eating their crazy-good eponymous chocolate cake, while I am about to devour a badass panna cotta with grapefruit syrup. Oh, Luce!

When we are old, the hubster and our canes will have a reserved table at Higgins Bar. Not solely for the food, mind you, but a resounding sense of place. We’ve been eating there for more than thirteen years, and in that time, the familiar comforts of dark wood, brass, and gleaming glass have yet to change, even our server is the same. He works mostly on his own, so there is no chance for chit-chat or the exchange of names, but to watch him zip about is extraordinary, all efficiency, knowledge, and grace.

Then there’s the food, from house made pickles and smoked meats to fresh from the sea oysters, perfect pitch soups, and, of course, stellar desserts. You really can’t go wrong. As usual, the hubster goes for chocolate cake, like a ding-dong of childhood elevated to exquisite heights, with, quite literally, the best chocolate malt ice cream known to man or woman. I had a scoop of cherry sorbet and pistachio ice cream, almost like spumoni when eaten together – have I ever told you that is my favorite ice cream, ever? A close second is the lemon coconut at the Walrus which I first tried way back when the hubster and I were dating. I would show you a picture of me eating it, were it not for the fact that I am intoxicated and really look it. Ah, youth! Back to Higgins, my frozen treats came with assorted yummy cookies: dark chocolate chip with orange, oatmeal raisin, almond, oh, and a fantastic cherry pate.

Welcome to Kir Wine Bar, another tiny place with food that is big on flavor, made in the most diminutive kitchen outside a food cart. But, as the saying goes, it’s not the size but what you do with it that counts. Delectable sausage pasta, gnocchi, smoked paprika pistachios, chicken pate, smoked trout on toast, I could go on. The lemon cake, pudding-like in consistency was just perfect. Oh, and the not-so-small matter of wine and their related spirits, Russell, the man pouring our pink Kir Royales, is encyclopedic in his knowledge, and ever so witty and fun, too. Everything he recommends dazzles, with the stand-out being the vermouth we had with our cake. Light years from your garden variety, the hubster and I thought it was citrus-y with a hint of cedar. Fantastic!

Are you still with me? We’re halfway there! This is Park Kitchen, an oasis on the North Park blocks. The cocktails are ambrosial (such a precious word, but true), with my favorite, not pictured, the PKNY, with rye, egg, lemon, orange, sugar, and ruby port. It really works! Like all of our favorite places, the staff is fantastic, and the flavors heavenly. Some stand-outs are the perogi, green apple and cheddar soup (like nothing I’ve ever tasted), flank steak with blue cheese, and my personal favorite: house cured anchovies, fingerling potatoes, coddled egg, and radish. Yowza!

The hubster and I are revisiting Twin Peaks, one of the wackiest and best gems television has ever known, in my humble opinion. If you don’t know it, Agent Dale Cooper, the dapper FBI agent sent to solve a heinous crime, is a pie and coffee man (he won’t say no to a donut, either), taking such pleasure in their consumption that this viewer can’t help but want some herself. To put it mildly, Dale would love the Pie Spot. We have yet to try their savory varieties, but if they are anything like the lemon vanilla bean, brown butter pecan, or chocolate hazelnut, we are in real trouble, peeps. The coffee is just right, too!

Cacao…chocolate, everything chocolate. Sip it, crunch it, read or talk about it, let it melt on the tip of your tongue. Not surprisingly, this is one of the hubster’s favorite places. He always orders a large drinking chocolate, usually the spicy one, and is blissfully happy. I have a sip or two and enjoy a piece or two, my favorites are the candied lemon peels, or, when they have them, a burnt sugar salted caramel, all enrobed in chocolate, of course.

This is it! We finally made it to our final destination, The Takahashi, probably the most oddly located restaurant with the creepiest exterior we frequent, but do not let that deter you. My table mates always tell me that the sushi is some of the best around. For me, however, not being of the sushi-loving persuasion, the tempura is the real stand-out, always that perfect crunch and impeccable flavor. Even better, their tempura menu is the most extensive I’ve ever seen and ordered in the same manner as the sushi. Shrimp, mushrooms, lotus, sweet potatoes, carrots, peas, asparagus, oh, and the scallops, like butter melting in your mouth. Tempura heaven! I’m also a big fan of their udon noodles, so simple and delicious.

Oh my goodness, I’m so tired now, and hungry, too!

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