This Time Last Year

This time last year, it was a lot more like spring, remember?

There was a barely warm breeze on the loose, causing me to browse the nursery for seeds for my future veggie garden (all the while caught up in a kind of frenzy dreaming about the fresh salsas and salads I’d make when the warm months returned).

There was a quick trip to Astoria to shake off the cobwebs. Despite my my longstanding grudge against the Oregon coast (too crowded in the summer, too gloomy in the winter, altogether too many windsock shops), I really liked the city's ancient crumbling victorians and colossal freighters anchored in the inlet. I liked the melancholy place names—like Cape Disappointment, where all the ships crashed, even the one carrying supplies to build a new lighthouse. It's all exceptionally Northwest!

There was also a life-affirming first-ever backcountry trip to a fire lookout in Central Oregon. I’ve almost never felt happier than I did on that first night spent rolled up inside a sleeping bag on a tiny bed atop a towering mountain. This is because I was incredibly warm and comfortable, I was tired from wallowing 4 miles uphill in the deep snow with a heavy pack (an act that I would call mountaineering, but I know if I did real mountaineers would pat my head and say, “Hush”), I was among several people that I liked very much, and I was there in the cozy dark surrounded by 360 degrees of windows that held nothing but stars.

Anyhow, in keeping with the New Year Vibrations of early Feb, I support getting 100% back to basics, getting 100% serious about clearing out clutter both mental and physical. This year, though, I don't have the energy for renewal. With the short days and darkness of weather—and with death all around—I feel like I'm only now coming out of a deep, dark hole. My current energy stores are reserved, it seems, for just keepin' on.

So hey, winter of 2017, I apologize. I'll do better next year.

Lately

Lately, I've been under the weather, in weather that's awful. These things go together. There's something very right about sneezing and shivering while walking through the soaking-ass rain (so icy it could almost be snow—but it didn't want to give you the satisfaction).

My ailment—it's nothing serious, don't worry. A common sinus-ey thing. I'm just sick enough to feel bad, but not sick enough to give up on life. The thing to do in this condition is execute the bare daily minimum—and then come home and lay around. And as part of this plan's rollout, I've been watching The Young Pope on HBO. Crikey! It's really great. The characters are offbeat and complex, flawed, funny and strange. And the scenery. The reds are deeply saturated, the whites glow with an unearthly light. I mean every clip is perfect, like its own baroque painting. If you haven't watched it, do. And give it a couple episodes for the story and characters to air out. That's my opinion anyway—you can do whatever you want, of course.

So that's what's been going on around here. I'm starting to feel better, although Mark (who built me the above raised veggie beds for spring if/when it ever comes) ominously, epicly sneezed  this morning. Maybe he's next? At any rate, a full moon lunar eclipse is on the way tomorrow—how lucky! I reckon we could all use some cosmic assistance during a dark time such as this.

Ice World

A snowstorm blew into town at around 12:18 p.m. on Thursday. The weather persons had predicted it, so when the sky went from hard gray to feathery white, no one was surprised, and we were all delighted to run out into the office parking lot and turn circles amidst the billowing flakes—each of us inwardly pretending that we were the very center of the snow globe. Mark came to pick me up from work around 2, as I refuse to drive in the snow. We put his truck into 4 wheel drive and rolled Northeast-ward from Belmont through the peaceful streets. Inside a Chinese restaurant in Hollywood, I ate hot noodles and felt happy.

Everyone in Portland (as no one in Portland is from Portland) laughs about how the schools close and the city grinds to a halt at the first hint of snow. We all come from heartier, colder places, it seems. In truth, there was only one snow day ever that I can remember growing up in Colorado. And yet, I get it. Things are different here. Portland doesn't have snow plows. We don't have salt or sand. Snow shovels? Naw. Also, the temperature hovers right around freezing, turning snowy streets into stone-cold ice rinks. Even with 4-wheel drive, hills you didn't realize existed, like the one on 47th and Broadway, become insurmountable Everests in these conditions. Momentum is your friend—every intersection, a total hail mary.

Anyway, I like the mythos of the storm. Storms create stories. They're rememberable, they're romantic. Even in a place like where I grew up, where it snows professionally, we had our storms. I'll forever remember this one Christmas eve—I was young. 7? 8? It snowed nearly two feet. Our power went out in the night, and my sister and I laid awake staring at the digital clock blinking 12:00, feeling like the only people on the planet, wondering, desperately, if Santa had come?! When we couldn't resist any longer, we snuck out to look under the Christmas tree. You couldn't even see the tree there were so many presents! A mountain of them. Dark shapes in the dark. We didn't peak under any wrapping papers, or shake any box to determine its contents. We just just stood there and soaked up the potential energy of all those unopened presents. Minutes later, we slipped back into our beds and fell asleep softly, deeply—as softly and deeply as the snow falling down outside.

Cabinspiration

This time of year more than others, I find it worth remembering that I have enough, I am enough.

Still, I've often pondered a world where a small woodsy cabin, forever in evergreens, was part of my life. I'd imagined it to be a humble, utilitarian place, built simply out of natural materials, and I'd go there to quiet my mind, live honestly, be outside.

In fairly breaking news, I'm here to report that I'm in the process of purchasing a small plot of land in the woods of Central Oregon. This modest half acre, shaded by Ponderosas, will in all hopes be the site of said future cabin.

I'm spending all my money on it—my retirement, and any and all savings. Fear-inducing? Yes. There is no safety net. But what's our money doing there, in the bank, anyway? Why do we work, if not to bring daydreams to right here, right now? And banks, well they don't always do the best things with our money, do they? So this is a plan to sort of take that money back. It's a retirement plan I can actually use until I retire (which, let's face it, will prob be never!).

This year, more than any I can remember, has an on-the-cusp energy. I turned 39 in September. It's very tipping-point-y. I feel an awful lot like I better start making that ideal life happen right now. If not now, WHEN?

So—I'm on the hunt for tips and cabin-spiration. I was thinking A frame. But now I'm not so sure. Maybe something more modern? I dunno. What do you think?

3 Things

The pup not being a baby puppy anymore. Seemingly overnight, but really over the span of 5 weeks, Durango hath transformed from a shy little fur piglet into a lanky teenager with too-big ears and paws. His fear of road noise? Gone, and he now walks along on the leash just fine. A V-like-1000 engine Fedex truck revved past us as loud as could be, and he didn't even care. Just looked the other way and sniffed the wind. Battles, won! But new struggles arise daily. We are currently fighting the Battle Of The Couch. I will keep you posted on the latest developments from this disputed territory.

Thursday happened. Thanksgiving came and went, and all it meant to me was a four-day weekend (yay!). In observance, I promptly turned my brain off. Besides that though, I never have much planned for these eating holidays. For starters, I'm just whatever about Thanksgiving food. As a bonafide non-carnivore, I haven't chomped on turkey in years. And I'm risking work-place discrimination here to proclaim that my aversion to mashed potatoes persists. Still! My lovely friends came over, and the kitchen filled up with people, and a lot laughter happened, much of it at the puppy, who boinged around in a fugue state—completely high on the smells of the feast.

Captain Fantastic. A film worth your time. Despite watching the entire thing, I never did figure out what "type" of movie this is. I like that—a refusal to be predictable. Plus, peep out those clips of Portland!