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!

To Leonard

Today, I’m having a Leonard Cohen day kinda, shuffling my feet under my desk and letting his ole tattered ribbon of tune take me where it may.

I remember the first time I heard a Leonard Cohen song, on a road trip into the High Sierras with one miss Annie Fast. She had that compilation I'm Your Fan, all of our favorite indie bands doing cool Cohen covers. The Pixies playing "I Can't Forget"—well I never do forget how good it is. Anyway, this moment, on this trip, was a tiny pinhole turning point. When I got home, I started unraveling his discography like a thread—like you did back then, buying records, one by one until you had a big stack. His songs are like paintings, they capture the light. The more I listened, the more I got the witchy sense that this old gypsy poet was my spirit guide. More accurately, I (a lost and lonesome little girl)—well I wished he was my spirit guide.

Here's to Leonard. To Mr. Cohen. What an amazing mind. Thank you for always illuminating the biggest mysteries, which are really just the simplest mysteries—the ones we're faced with every single day.

Rosemary's Puppy

Daylight Savings drooped over us on Saturday night. I'm bad at math, but an extra hour on Sunday morning was fine by me. These last few evenings after work, though ... DARK. The puppy sleeps through the night now. He's moved on from cowering under the bed at the sound of silverware drawers and doors slamming to creating total household havoc. Rosemary's Puppy, I call him, from the hours of 7-11 p.m.

But Durango is a cool dude. I like watching the process of his personality becoming. He's a loving guy that hates loud noises. He's curious. He's bouncey. He has one tall white sock. His brindle coat changes color with the changing light. And like most puppies, he sees with his mouth, not his eyes.

Derek asked me on Sunday, "How many people have called him Lefty?" Honest answer: only me. It happened a few times, accidentally, of course. Calling your new dog your old dog's name is not as much accident as habit. But I think about Lefty all the time. I dreamt about him last night, even—that I'd given him a bath and he had the most luscious, soft and shiny curly black mane. He always did have good hair, didn't he? Anyway, the garden where we buried him is growing up fine in all this rain, and I can't wait to see the tulips and daffodils go crazy there in the spring. Lefty, you are with us.

November To-Do List

1) Teach the puppy to come when he's called, and to walk on a leash without resembling a kite caught in a windstorm, and to not be dead-scared of the trash truck on Fridays, and to let the cat walk through the room quietly with little-to-no accosting, bouncing, or otherwise carrying on, and, and, and ...

2) Unlock the mysteries of the Aeropresse coffee maker. I got one for my birthday. It seems like it should be simple—but it isn't. Beakers. Tabulations. Temperature gauges. It's overwhelming to someone who hasn't had their morning coffee yet.

3) Strip the various linoleums and other ancient subfloors off the stairs leading down into my basement, and then paint them crisp, shiny black. OCD-wise, I get loads of anticipatory satisfaction when thinking about this project.

4 ) Locate, as well as purchase, a new automobile. You see, Volkswagen's buying back my lemon of a diesel Jetta (within the month, one hopes—as several sensor lights have blinked on in the last couple days and money-pit orientated service appointments loom). Wherefore art though, fuel-efficient wagon of my dreams?

5) Pursue enlightenment through brisk outings in the cold.

Puppy Days

Hello to you. Have you met this new puppy? His name is Durango, and he resides, cutely—and with sharp teeth, at my house on 57th Street.

What happened was, I couldn't stand the quiet. I'd come home to the most awful stillness, a house full of nothing but air molecules, of lonesome mental tumbleweeds rolling across the hardwood floors. Life, in the end, is just more life-y with a dog in it.

And so squarely one month after Lefty died, Mark and I took a little trip out to the Yakama Nation in Eastern Washington, where stray dogs are everywhere, anywhere. There, we picked up a little dude, a mystery mutt straight off the rez—part border collie, part boxer, part ???? Maybe panda? Or raccoon? It's all possible.

A note about baby dogs. I'd forgotten that you have to teach them everything. They don't know how to go on walks. They don't know how to climb up or down stairs. They don't know how to fetch a ball. We think that stuff comes naturally, instinctually, but in fact, every last thing is brand new to a wild animal who spent his first weeks living all feral on a concrete slab.

Anyway, here's to a house full of paw patter, here's to wagging tails and wiping pee, here's to slow morning walks holding fast to the leash like it's the end of a kite string in a tornado. I love it all.