Weott, California – I am a little bit paranoid camping under these redwood trees because on the way in I saw a large branch, the entirety being twice the size in length and girth as I, randomly fall from the sky, landing with a startling, crackling, “KA-POW!” But not paranoid enough to not want to be here. I wouldn’t leave if you paid me. These ancient redwood trees are wise old sages — if i am still enough perhaps I will hear them whisper divinities.

I am wearing my lesbian Birkenstock sandals with mismatching blue socks–tell no one. My tent is sandwiched between a cluster of young redwoods and one large redwood truck, which is toppled on its side like a coffin. It looks like it has been sitting there for a while because there are no rings to be read. The exposed trunk looks weathered and more like a knot of guts then a time line of age.

There is a slight breeze, causing a slight chill to the otherwise perfect temperature. It probably doesn’t help that my hair is soaking wet from a five minute shower I purchased with two shiny quarters.

Right now is heaven, I feel mystical and still. The trees are silently drumming words, telling fables and tales and stories. I am listening. I am aware.

Intersected

My old friend from college, Jamie, has become quite a celebrity blogger as of late. She posted this contest, to write a short blurb in response to her blog tagline. I decided to take up the challenge because of the interesting question it posed (and for the prize—a blog make-over!).

“That place where work, love, and life all meet and you wonder, “where the hell do I go from here?”

The journey is the destination.

I keep reminding myself this when things seem tough, when the road gets windy and the wind stings my eyes. I am 23, and at the beginning stages of all possibilities. I have no attachments, no boundaries—my youth, my age, my bright attitude is at its peek and it’s now or never.

It seems that my work is my life, and my life is my work, and surrounded by this pattern is all encompassing love. I do not see work, love, and life as separate entities, which can become intersected in a jumbled mess. They are three faces of the same coin, all interconnected by my own life-energy.

The beginning of my journey, and the destination all live in this very present moment. I have nowhere to go from here, because I have already arrived.

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Day in day out

even
in the repetition
there is poetry
to be found

Reason 3,462,017 I Love Portland

Tonight with my naked helmet-less skull, and my un-illuminated rear wheel, I went for my nightly bike ride through the neighborhoods on Clinton Street. These rides are the best; I love the peaceful neighborhoods, the dozens of people who pass me by on their bikes, and the chance to smell dinner cooking as I ride by each unique house.

As I passed the intersection of 21^st and Clinton Street, I came upon a gaggle of gentlemen surrounded by flashing red lights; they were brandishing bike tools, framed by big signs which read “FREE BIKE LIGHTS.” They flagged me over. They said, “You want a free light for your bike?”

This shocked and amazed me. After spending a ridiculous amount of money on my used bike, a front light, rear saddlebag basket, and lock, I had not yet got around to purchasing a rear flashing light, which is a crucial necessity for night riding. I exclaimed, “Yes! I would love one!”

A pale boy displaying a feather topped fedora came over to me with a blinking light in hand, and proceeded to hook my bike up. But before he was able to bend down to begin working on the attachment process, he politely said, “One second. I gatta take this avocado out of my pocket.”

This young man, I soon learned, was not even part of the Community Bike Shop who was sponsoring this glorious event. He had just been riding by as well, and pulled over to get his own free light and decided to help out.

Tonight my personal belief was supported; at the core, people are good. There is such thing as kindness in the world.

And to top it all off, as I rode home, blinking safely away, a pint-sized 3-wheeled vehicle passed me (like the one in that “Mr. Bean” episode that flips over because Bean cuts him off).

Oh, Portland. How I love you!

Roots

I.

At the humid southern diner:

“You want some hash browns or grits or biscuits

with yo‘ eegs?“

asked the beautiful voluptuous woman

with the cherry chocolate skin and

round olive eyes

 

II.

They got roots, deep deep roots

grabbing ahold of the moist fertile soil,

a town by the water, a town with

a history, three-hundred years written,

a town with family found in neighbors,

and shop owners who say, “good‘mornin‘”

to the visitors, to the foreigners,

while sweeping their store front,

there are no strangers here

 

 

III.      

And the storm waters erased it all:

floating photographs of swirls of color,

a dresser, a bible, a pillow

encased in grandma‘s cotton,

a memory, the pearl-white wedding china,

a mistake, a glazed gold wedding band,

floating, floating, drowning, falling, decaying

crumbling, tearing, screaming–

a cat, thirteen years old,

pumping its paws in the salty liquid filth,

a 75-year old man, white hair and chocolate skin,

a cane floating out the door, no car, no money, no

escape—

a gun, two guns, soldiers in army fatigues,

the poor are refuges, not citizens,

they pillage because they are starving,

they wail and punch because they are hopeless,

30,000 crammed inside a dome,

sleeping bags, torn wet blankets, misery misery

violence and rape in the crowded bathrooms,

there is no safety here where humanity has been

stripped away, it drowned back in the house

with the pets, with the history, with the normalcy 

 

 

IV.

“All right hun, here‘s yo‘ coffee and eegs,“

her whole being curved into a smile

and she meandered back to the kitchen,

laughing and swaying her arms—

the storm obliterated her home, she never

got to say goodbye to her neighbors—

the little girl with the pink barrettes, her young mother,

the aging couple who would sit on the porch fanning themselves with love—

she prayed every day for them,

she thanked God for her brown-pin-stripped uniform,

for the air in her lungs,

and for the will to keep her chin above the rising water of

     poverty racism failed government gentrification

the storm took away the houses, the infrastructure, the culture,

it stole the lives of children, of elderly—

but underneath the wreckage and decay,

underneath the ominous spray-painted

circle-slash on building walls,

lived the ancient trees of its people,

the spirit of generations of new-orleaners, grounded,

rooted deep into the earth,

in wisdom and faith,

in openness, open open openness,

with love and prayers

and music and song—

this little light of mine,

I‘m gonna let it shine,

This little light of mine,

I‘m gonna let it shine,

This little light of mine,

I‘m gonna let it shine,

Let it shine let it shine let it shine 

 

 

 

We are all copies–embrace it.

Arrogance disappears when one realizes they are merely a copy, of a copy, of a copy, of a copy, of a copy…..