3 Things

Mini ramping revival: Years from now, we'll tell tales about this winter. The "crazy winter of ’17"! Right now, though, we're livin' it, and I am not understating things by saying this is the least amount I have ever skated in any season, ever. But that's okay. We have to live in time and the realities of our world. It was awfully nice, though, last week, to session the garage mini again—sustained by friends and beers—and feel warm, and, heck, feel happy.

Durango's ashes: Over the weekend, a few of us hiked a very long way into Mt. Hood National Forest. We kept climbing the steep switchbacks until we broke free from the trees and found what we were looking for—a bold, rocky precipice. Here, several months ago, we'd come with Durango—my wonderful first-pup-after-Lefty. And here, we scattered his ashes. When Lefty died, we buried him in the garden and I can still feel him there. I don't know where Durango is—I can't feel him anywhere. Maybe he wasn't even with us long enough to linger. Still, scattering his ashes made me happy. Watching that dust fly away wild on the wind. Earth dust, to become, at some point, start dust, I hope?

Moonlight: I don't know if the trailer does this movie justice. It makes it seem overly serious, misses the tender moments of light. However, I didn't go see Moonlight (the early show on a winter evening of no particular import) because of the trailer. I went because I heard it was good—nay, great, and had the Oscar noms to prove it, and also because I listened to an interview with the film's creators and found their perspective compelling. LONG STORY SHORT, I loved this movie. See it—even if you think it might look depressing. Like all real-world stories, with sadness, there is redemption.

Compassion Is Radical

Saturday was a big day in Portland. A big day everywhere. Even on our morning dog walk, we saw the hustle—the whole city getting ready to march. Families piling into cars, the kids carrying their very own homemade signs.

Katie showed up to my house right as a hard, cold rain began to fall. We walked to the train, joining a steady stream of people, and barely squeezed on the blue line headed downtown. Again, the whole city was here. The train had to blow through all the subsequent stops, its cars already packed to the gills.

Once downtown, you felt it. A swelling crowd, a swelling energy. It was palpable—it vibrated right through your rib cage. The masses were full of good will, but in general, the mood was somber.

As part of the event, there was a rally and a march, but we couldn't get anywhere near the "rally" and so just stood around, and walked around, and couldn't find our friends, and talked to people, and brushed shoulders with all walks of life, all ages. Before the march started, nobody knew what to do with themselves. What are we doing here? Shouldn't we be DOING SOMETHING? You had to remind yourself, we are here to be here. Our presence is enough—it is, in fact, everything.

The rain fell harder, colder. We live in Portland. That's what it does. My hair was soaked. I had full body goosebumps. My cardboard sign was disintegrating. All of it was just fine. Perfect even. Because why should it be easy? Baby, a little rain must fall.

Personally, I took the idea of "women's march" very literally, and my signs reflect that. But I imagine people were there for a wild range of reasons, from fighting systemic racism to defending gay rights. One of my favorite signs addressed the new prez and simply said, "Grab a constitution."

As an employed white women, I come from a place of privilege. And although the massive turnout for this march also, in its way, emphasized how we ("we" as liberal society) have NOT shown up when other minority issues where at stake in the past—we are here now.

Speaking strictly for myself, I was standing there in downtown Portland, Oregon, USA, to leverage my power and privilege in order to help people who are underserved in this country and to challenge the systemic mechanisms that infringe on the rights of people without power. Because it's the right thing to do. (And because just complaining doesn't do any damn good.)

I've heard/seen some arguments against marching, recently, online and from friends and frenemies. "Those people probably didn't even vote, and now they're out their protesting to be cool." ????? A strange argument. I only know a few people who didn't vote—they're def not the ones protesting. I think this is a way of trying to take power away from the thing, so that one does not have to feel bad about oneself for not participating?

The "crybaby" argument. I reject this reasoning, because it's the quickest route to taking the spotlight away from the issues, making it an us vs. them thing instead of an advocating for a little kind, calm thinking.

"Protesting doesn't work." As spoken by a generation that's wayyyy too used to instant gratification. Sure, there is no direct route from A) protesting to B) change. You won't see it on a road map. More like, it's ripples in the pond. Get enough of them, and you make a wave.

Again, speaking only for myself, I can say that the more I did nothing, the more helpless I felt, like nothing you could ever do would ever make a difference because it's all so depressingly, frustratingly, steam-coming-out-of-yer-ears fucked. However, when I started doing things, walking in the streets, sending emails, making a phone call, sending a postcard, I felt more hope, not less. Taking a little power back, it felt like. Sure, I don't expect my actions to affect change. But OUR actions, well they might attract the kind of climate and universe in which kindness/compassion/common decency COULD HAPPEN. And wouldn't that be radical?

Burning The Old Year

For certain reasons, as well as no reason at all, I didn't go out on New Year's Eve. The trick here is to plan your no plans in advance. Don't do any "we'll see what happens," or "maybe we'll check out that one party for a little while." Decide ahead of time. Put your sweatpants on early. Then when the light falls, you're already settled in and cozy.

Anyway, as holidays go, this one was a bit sad—a night full of memories. However, we were warm inside by the fire and our plates were pleasantly full, which, despite anything, is a life affirming way to spend a winter's eve. At one point, a tidy package was discovered outside our front door. We unwrapped it to reveal a candle smelling of cedar, along with the loveliest note. "Can't help but feel the emptiness. I hope this warms your heart and home." I lit the candle and cried ... for him ... for both of them.

Early the next morning, we drove up a volcano through the blizzarding snow. Tony and Ryan were awaiting us at the ticket line. We hopped the lift and rode hip deep powder until our faces froze off. It was smooth and creamy. It was largely untracked. We whistled and hollered. We went fast. We were happy.

And just like that, a cycle starts anew. Happy 2017, everyone!

2016 By The Numbers

1 mini ramp. What happened was, it rained a lot, and I started missing my old mini ramp this spring. I didn’t tell anyone, though. Within a week, the universe, along with Colin, Johnny, Niki and Deva, had delivered a lovely used ramp to my residence. Some things just work like that.

2 border crossings. I've taken to making a list of places I wanted to go. A "to-go" list. For years, the little surf/hippy town of Tofino, B.C. and the medieval ocean-faring country of Portugal have been on that list. Now they're not. Because I went there, to both places, THIS YEAR! On the making-shit-happen scale, 2016 was a level 10, I'd say.

5 months living with Mark. My steady boo moved in on August 1. After what amounts to years of living alone, the struggle to not become curmudgeonly was real. But turns out, having someone at the house when you get home is quite lovely, because then that someone is around to open stuck jars of jam, and there’s someone to drink wine with as the light falls, and when that someone happens to be someone you love, well isn't that just a little bit of life magic?

6 nights sleeping out under the stars. I thought it was more. Surely it was 15 or 20? It's one of those mysteries of memory, how all those nights sleeping in my old bed, the shades closed just so, one just like the next, they all blend together, and so 1 or 2—or 6—nights passed bathing in starlight, an owl crying over there, the tallest of the trees rustling and creaking, or if in the desert, a coyote howling in the nearby dark ... Nights like these are so full of sensory experience that they just take up more room in your mind.

2 broken hearts. Twice in 3 months, I held the head of the dog I love while the life passed right out of him. Lefty? I think about him all the time. I dream of him often. And now, with a little perspective, I can look back and be proud that I didn't cling, that I was afraid but didn't let the fear rule me, and that I was able to walk with him into the best death possible.

For Durango, our lil pup, barely 5 months old, Mark and I are still struggling and struck dumb, with no understanding and no peace. Durango departed us one week ago today. Christmas, Twin Falls, Idaho. 10 p.m. We left him in the car. He was alive. We came back, he was dead. I shook him, pressed his little ribs cage and blew into his little lungs, we panicked, we yelled, we called every vet in town, we didn't know what to do, our hands froze, we cursed the cold, we drove too fast up the dark highway to an emergency vet hospital, we got pulled over in their parking lot, the cop saw Durango and said "Go!", we rushed him in, they stuck a tube down his throat, they stuck a needle in his heart, but it was all ... too late. We had to leave him there, on the table. Just leave him and walk out. Get back in the car. Drive home to Portland, 12 hours through a cataclysmic snowstorm, staring out the windows, pits in our stomach, suffocated by the stillness in the car, feeling like everything was the same but impossibly, irreconcilably different.

My dear friend Genna said to me recently, "Sometimes there's no lesson to learn, no 'takeaway.'" I shall choose to believe that. Or maybe the lesson is just how we get to know our own capacity for love when faced with its sudden absence? Anyway, for now I'm staying in, living a sparrow-brown existence, avoiding my phone with it's many megabytes of puppy photos, and pretending everything is alright—because eventually, it will be.

Joseph, Oregon Population 1052

In the past weeks, I've found myself equal parts angry/depressed. I've found myself giving my money away to charitable civil-rights-oriented institutions. I've found myself writing letters to my senator like they taught you to do in grade school—but you never, ever thought you'd have to, because you thought that while, sure, there were differences amongst folks' beliefs and experiences, that humans as a whole were generally sane enough to do the right and good thing.

ANYWAY, when it seems like the world has gone bat shit crazy, I would argue that a road trip to a very quiet place in the mountains is just the thing. This is why we journeyed many hours into Eastern Oregon on Friday afternoon, where we found, among the rolling farm lands and rugged cliffs, little cabins strung up with colored lights. We slept deeply, although the puppy was restless, and woke up on Saturday morning to hike up high into the steep hills.

We climbed till our faces and fingers were freezing, and our legs dragged. We didn't talk at all, just listened to the wild wind in the trees. Gusts of cold air, well they can scrape your mind clean, can't they? Hours later, dog tired and hungry, we loaded the pup in the truck and drove into town in search of warmth. The streets were quiet—not dead, just peaceful, and we wandered into a wood-fire pizza joint to thaw ourselves with the heat from the oven, with the pizza, with the pints of beer. Outside the window, swirls of snow rolled like tumbleweeds down the street, as the darkness of a late-November afternoon descended, and I'm not overstating this when I say that it was quite possibly the coziest couple hours I've ever spent in my life.

The world, yes, it's crazy. Scary, even! But mark my words, turn off your phone/Facebook. Get away! Navigate on nothing but intuition for a while. Move yer feet, meditate. You see new stuff. You drive. You eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You watch the setting sun break though the rain clouds over the open road, and you come home tired, and you are glad. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!