hpim0283.jpgFor six years I tended this rose bush and she was a beauty. I thought of her heard of the summer scents of Houston: roses and jasmine, orange blossoms and water lilies. That was before the floods drowned the flowers, robbed the city of fragrance and left people, their belongings, and their very souls inundated. Later the receding waters will leave another scent, a toxic smell of mold and gas that burns the spirit and the lungs.

Long ago in a place and at a time I cannot recall, a young woman led me through her flood-damaged home. She grieved for lost photos and her wood floors, now rotting and buckled. My keenest memory was the pungent smell of mildew. It crept from the ruined carpets, sneaked through cracks in the wall. “We can’t live here anymore,” she said. “It’s so hard to breathe.”

The cities and towns of Texas will need resources and time to purify the deluged land and rid it of poisons. Yet the scent of new wood won’t erase the memory of rot. One of these days, though, a flower will lift its head from the ground. A dining room table will be graced with a bouquet of roses, the fragrance filling the air with the scent of a new summer. But not yet.


My heart goes out to the people of Houston. I ache for the flooding they have suffered. Yet here, in Hillsboro, Oregon, I long for rain. I long for water soaking into dead grass. I want the sun hidden, not behind smoke and dust from wildfires, but behind moisture-drenched clouds.


the-worst-hard-timeMaybe my desire for rain comes also from entering into Timothy Egan’s rendering of the 1930’s Dust Bowl. Before grassland in the High Plains was plowed into dust, apple trees and wheat scented the air. The car and tractor brought smells of metal and gasoline and fresh dollar bills. The aroma of cigarettes, prostitute perfume, and booze were signs of progress. Then, like the deluge of flood waters, dust storms arrived. The sky blackened, the crops died, and the lungs of children and animals bloated with sediment. Sunshine and no rain, and the dust rolled in, miles and miles of it, years and years of it.

Dust. I grew up in Pendleton, Oregon, land of wheat fields. My mother believed in living positively. “Put your best foot forward.” But she hated, with a passion, the dust storms that swept through the town. “Close the windows,” she called out. Dust rolled up to the house and left its gritty remains on the sill outside, table tops inside, under the door, through the windows we could not close in time. Dust had its own smell—a static, mealy buzz in the nostrils. A nuisance for some, a hindrance to breathing for others.

Hurricane Harvey and the Dust Bowl threw nature off balance and left us with extremes—the worst storm and the worst hard time. Too much. I wonder what a world of just enough would resemble? A different way for us to live: enough rain to make the flowers grow; enough dust to make sunset spectacular.



In the early morning of August 21st, nature showed how blue a sky can be before a solar eclipse. What I wanted to do first was read again Annie Dillard’s classic essay. Her words, written thirty-five years ago, seemed to me the best preparation for my own eclipse event.

21w56ZraclL._BO1,204,203,200_In Teaching a Stone to Talk, Dillard shares her experience of the 1979 solar eclipse. Although the essay’s images stretch and sting my mind, the one that stays with me is that of falling: the avalanche that slowed traffic, the loss of altitude in the drop into Washington’s Yakima Valley, the hotel lobby devoid of air, the reference to gold mines dug so deep the rock walls burn the miners hands, the trek up a slope that offers a view down, down to a thin river below. She falls into indigo as the moon’s lens snaps over the sun. She writes of the hatch that slams down on the brain. Her husband’s presence is “down the wrong end of the telescope.”

I was not in Washington State, but Hillsboro, Oregon, and I did not climb a 500 foot slope for my view. I sat near an open window with a view of the sun and listened to children and adults gathered outside. I tried to ground myself, as Dillard had done. What was happening to the landscape? I walked outside.  Minute by minute the air cooled. A bush outside my window, once lime and emerald, shaded deeper until green-black slithered upward, leaf to leaf.

The eclipse took hold of the sky, but also the ground. Miniature replicas clustered on concrete and bark dust. They climbed the tree trunk. If I turned my back to the sun, my shadow, once elongated, grew bulky and squat. All the while, the moon took its sweet time to amble across the light.

Night took me by surprise. I knew it was coming, but still. . . the indigo of Dillard’s eclipse happened. In what should have been mid-morning light, the pathway’s lamps flicked on. What a reality check: given a natural wonder, even technology loses its equilibrium.

My eclipse experience lacked the drama and poetic sensitivity of Annie Dillard’s. Yet I watched the world descend into night—and right before my eyes. I could not help but fall into wonder. I’m glad I read the essay first. Falling is what great writing does for us. We tumble into another’s experience and then we ascend, better prepared to appreciate our own.


Five years ago my niece Andrea Bigcraft transformed my apartment terrace in downtown Portland into a magnificent garden. Besides creating beauty in every corner, she made possible the arrival of hummingbirds. 

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One at a time they came with iridescent wings, designing, as the poet Mary Oliver writes, “a perfect wheel.” How that wheel turns—eighty times per minute—is an eighth wonder of the world. The visiting birds hummed and sipped and my frenetic core stopped to watch.

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After one little fellow settled in, life was not so sweet. He refused to welcome the hummingbirds who swooped in for a visit. That metallic four-inch bully became plump and sedentary all the way through winter. My opinion of the hummingbird changed. Not so calming after all. Music on the wing this tiny guy was not.

Hummingbirds offer a reality check for me. Every day holds a combination of harmony and dissonance. Maybe that’s one reason why Puccini’s Madame Butterfly is a favorite of mine. Years ago, I sat with a friend in a convent music room and listened to the opera. The English-Italian script in front of me, I listened as Maria Callas sang her way into my heart. “Un bel di” rang of the anxious hope that one fine day, all will be well. “Humming Chorus,” though, had a different effect on me—a final respite before the sorrow. Puccini must have known that the audience needed this—not comic relief, but heart-rest.


“Humming Chorus” is, like my terrace scene, a lull before death and regret. At times, my terrace creature was a miniature spokesperson for the world’s mercy, peace, and life. At other times, the bird was a rascal and a herald of rancor in the realm. Both dimensions are part of my human condition. That is why the space in-between, the lull, is essential.

One morning, after listening once again to the song, I saw Angel, eyes wide open, paws up, woof silenced, breathing into calm. I chuckled. She looks so peaceful, the little turkey. Maybe this is one way to inhabit the world’s garden terrace: alert, welcome mat out, weapons down, and heart-at-rest.


Color Me

Green is my favorite color, so why are my only green possessions a tote bag, earrings, and a striped hoodie? Years ago, I got my “colors done.” After draping me in scarves and fabrics, the lady said, “You are definitely a summer.” My closet then is a combination of soft, cool shades of pink, blue, and purple. The color to avoid? Most shades of green.

I still love green best. This past week, another color test appeared. What color is my unconscious self? Good, I thought, now is my chance to prove I am a person of serenity, intelligence, and independence. The results? I am Gold. I should have been tickled that my psyche is gold–magnetic and charismatic. In fact, I am a Lioness. Purrrr. But Gold. Gold? I want to be Green.

hailstones-and-halibut-bonesBesides memories, a book encouraged my affinity with the color green. While teaching primary school in the 1960’s I first read Mary O’Neill’s delightful Hailstones and Halibut Bones. Of all the book’s color poems, I liked green best: green is lettuce and shade, moss and grasshopper, peppermint and jade, and the “fuzz that covers up where winter was.”

So, I cannot be green either in my wardrobe or my unconscious, but I can write about green treasures. Here is my take on the color, with a grateful nod to Mary O’Neill.


CliffsGreen is March, April, and May,
And earrings I wear on St. Patrick’s Day.
Green is Moher and moss-fringed cliffs,
View of the Blaskets from our tourist skiff.

Green is spinach, cilantro, and thyme,
Peppers and scallions, water with lime.
Green is Christmas, velvet, candy cane,
Rain running down my window pane.

Green 1Green is the park where I go for a walk:
Grasses and yarrow, and no human talk.
Green is the hum of a tranquil path
Bending around where birch leaves laugh.

Green are my pencils, shades light to deep
I use to color on nights I can’t sleep.
Green is the color of dresses not bought.
Green is my passion for what I am not.

Alma Mater

Two statues depict different versions of Alma Mater, learning’s nourishing, bountiful mother. The bronze sculpture at Columbia University is a dominant goddess, garbed in voluminous robes and a laurel leaf crown. She holds a book on her lap and a scepter in her hand. My favorite is the bronze statue of Alma Mater, a humbler version, at the University of Havana in Cuba. The sculptor formed her as young, beautiful, simply dressed, head bare, and hands open in welcome.

Sister Theona (whose name meant “The Good God”) taught me from 1961-1964. My Alma Mater, she was neither dominant nor laurel-crowned, although I cannot remember her without a book. Neither was she young or beautiful, although her hands were graceful and open. Sister did not necessarily occupy a favored space for every student at Our Lady of Angels Convent in Portland, Oregon. For me, though, her influence was, and remains, unmatched.

As an eighteen year-old, I had cemented my learning domain by taking shortcuts and spending quality time with the mirror, American Bandstand, and the telephone. I learned from Sister Theona that study walls are simply threads. A snip here, a snip there and what do you know? An academic world opens wide.

I remember the phrases she wrote on the blackboard:

It is not the event that makes us happy or sad, but the thoughts we build around it.
Live the questions (Rilke).
Husband the moments.
Correlations, anyone?

The last phrase was at the heart of Sister’s belief about learning. Correlations assume each academic discipline connects with another. One truth nourishes the next. Correlations promise entrance into a Wisdom that is intelligent and agile, unstained and secure, just and prudent.

Sister Theona (the Good Goddess) probably continues to ask, “Correlations, anyone?” Undoubtedly she expects a deluge of related ideas, even from God.


When three-year-old Ava came to visit, her eye lighted immediately on the Russian nesting doll sitting happily on the bookshelf. Together we twisted the top of the doll, and then the next and the next. How I wish I had filmed Ava. Puzzlement at first, then surprise, and that glorious child-like determination to twist again. From then on, she filled my living room with delight as wooden doll after wooden doll appeared, each tinier than the last. And then the wonder of going in reverse, until the many objects became one smiling babushka.

e8e6ac9815cbc069c5a5a53357183ff0Ava, beautiful child, reminded me of the fascination I have for objects within objects within objects. Droste art has the same effect on me—the loop of smaller and smaller versions appearing as long as the resolution allows. Mirror images in tinier replications seem magical to me, their revelations renewing themselves endlessly.

I need these memories to live well in this present time. Delight, laughter, and surprise—that “Aha” moment—are not newspaper or internet headlines. Instead, suspicion, expletives, and fury take my attention. The placard reads, “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.” Ava was paying attention: engrossed, happy, and full of wonder. What if I added a political button that read, “If I’m not surprised, I’m not paying attention.” Surprise means I am caught off guard, the way a joke’s punch line unexpectedly tickles my funny bone. Surprise (it lasts as long as a blown bubble) refuses to rage against another.

Little wonder that the scripture story tells of Jesus welcoming children. I imagine he found it more fun to be with creatures of wonder than jaded intellectuals or clueless disciples. How do I become a child again? I will never erase my angry self, yet I want a reprieve. In my best moments I would like to bring a different kind of alertness to the world: that of the child—face alight with surprise—who holds a doll who holds a doll who holds a doll, every face of flesh and wood fully alive.


Children, you are very little
And your bones are very brittle
If you would grow great and stately
You must try to walk sedately.
— Robert Louis Stevenson

Even though I received, in 2012, a diagnosis of dangerous osteoporosis of the spine, I was skeptical. What’s a little wing-bone pain anyway? Once home, I stripped to the waist, picked up my hand mirror, and took a critical look at my spine. I saw a hump—a hump, for God’s sake—where my right wing bone should have been. Clothed once more, I saw how my purple T-shirt folded between my clavicle and right shoulder. And to think I’d blamed poor factory seamstresses for how my clothes hung. The mirror did not lie. Neither did the test.

My internet use quadrupled as I squinted over photos of crooked spines, dowager’s humps, Fosamax studies, and bones porous as Swiss cheese. Click, click. Osteoporosis causes over a million fractures every year. Click. Nearly half of women over 50 will have a fracture due to osteoporosis. Click. Fosamax, the most common osteoporosis drug has side effects. My fear turned to anger. All those jogging and walking miles I’ve put in, all those calcium and vitamin D pills? My spine could snap like the Thanksgiving wishbone we fought over as children.

While the diagnosis, at first, had caused me little concern, deformity terrified me. What if I turned out like that lady, the one with the huge hump on her right side, the one who shuffles along with her grubby Shih-Tzu? One morning I stopped to watch her. Does she see that driver turning? How does she wash her dog or sleep at night? Osteoporosis was at work in both of us, snapping bones, curling them, slyly healing them in place.

yoga-for-osteoporosisI turned to Yoga for Osteoporosis by Loren Fishman and Ellen Saltonstall. Under the authors’ specific directions, (always use the support of a wall or chair) I began an hour-long daily regimen of isometric lifts, turns, and stretches meant to strengthen muscle, bone, and balance. Days have blend into months and months into five years. The hump is gone. I have regained the inch and a half of height loss. My blouses no longer bunch near my clavicle. At times the accomplishment makes me proud, even smug, but other times I wonder why I fear my body’s inevitable decay.

I don’t plan to schedule another bone density test. At seventy-four years of age, cracking up isn’t worth the worry. Each day I lift and stretch, push and pull my old bones. True, my spine could curl me in half.  My thin shell could crack wide open. Who knows, though, maybe a soft, winged creature will emerge.

Fur Tales

The first day of July mourning doves lamented and a slight breeze made the trees glimmer with shadow and light. A perfect time to sit with a cup of foamed coffee and Moriarity’s Big Little Lies. Instead, I stood in a small windowless room of the vet clinic, stroking the black fur of a small Shih-Tzu, and crying over his unexpected death. I fostered him briefly until a family took him home and loved him for six of his twelve years. In that enclosed room, I found no comfort in envisioning him on the “Rainbow Bridge.” Mortality–that lurking, inevitable reality—was my meditation.

Why is it that so many dog books end in death? The blubs may preach companionship, but sooner or later the dog dies. Where the Red Fern Grows, Rawls 1961 classic, tells us in the first pages that this story is one of “wonderful love, unselfish devotion and death in its saddest form.” I relished every splendid chapter of Rick Bass’ Coulter: The Best Dog I Ever Had, a paean to his German short-hair pointer, but one of his last sentences pains me: “We tend—despite our best protestations—not to want a happy ending.”  C’mon, I want to plead, let the dog live. I still read these books. I hooked a wondrous, heart-breaking ride on Gizelle’s Bucket List with Lauren Fern Watt and her brindled mastiff. Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain kept my reading light on past midnight and Kleenex in my lap, so in love was I with the old soul Enzo.

That recent July day, though, one more beloved dead dog lay wrapped in a blanket, large eyes fixed and sleepy. The technician entered, gently inquired if the family or I needed more time. We shook our heads.  She picked up the small body and carried it out.

Once home, I thought about all the dogs who have entered and exited my community: Hershey, Buck, Gabriel, Josie, Cappy, and Jacques. I know too well the smells of veterinary offices and the click of a door opening, the almost imperceptible whoosh of the syringe and the soft escape of air, that last heartbeat, and the words, “I’m so sorry. Take all the time you need.” Yes, the familiar memory is not always the welcome one.

I thought, too, about authors who let the dog live. I smiled to think of Gordon Korman’s No More Dead Dogs. Oh, how I love Wallace Wallace, tired of books where the dog dies, who refuses to write a class essay on (get ready) Old Shep, My Pal. Two other gems perch on my bookshelf—Jack London’s The Call of the Wild and John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. On a July day of grief I needed to imagine magnificent Buck running with his wolf brother, side by side and to delight in that fine old French gentleman, Charles le Chien, Poodle extraordinaire. Let’s hear it for dogs who have not been shot or cancer-ridden or too hobbled to last through the final pages.

On a day weary with sadness, I did not sit on the patio with foamed coffee, but I did turn to books. Hail to the truth-tellers about mortality, but blessed are those books when, by the end, good dogs don’t die. And what do you know? Safe in their living room bed, Angel and Sugar, the remaining two of my eight-dog pack, watch me. My inimitable owners and guardians were there, fully alive. For now.

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This magnificent tree towered above me, and I could not figure out how to capture its power. I slipped close to the trunk and looked up. Seeing those branches made me smile. This must have been the beanstalk view for Jack. Then, out of nowhere came another thought. What if Jacob’s “ladder” was really a tree? It is fun to think of the two story characters—one originating in 18thcentury England and the other having roots in Genesis. The two are heroes in their stories—flawed, ingenious, and strangely similar.

Jack and Jacob are much alike. Both possess a hovering mother and questionable deal-making. Jack hands over a cow for beans, Jacob trades his identity for a blessing. Jack needs to escape his ne’er-do-well status. Jacob, having betrayed both his brother and his father, needs to get away from home. To watch them at work is to watch the trickster and con-artist.

Both enter upon a quest that takes them up toward the sky. Jack’s beans sprout into a pathway climb toward a castle. Jacob’s dream is a stairway leading him high to a temple. Jack’s quest involves a giant, a harp, and the undying gratitude of a golden-egg-laying hen. Jacob’s journey will bring him land, descendants, and a contract with a faithful, powerful God.

I look again at the photos from Los Gatos–one a fruit tree and the other an evergreen. Where has my own climbing taken me in this drama called life? Certainly I have played both heroine and adventurer, but I also have portrayed thief and manipulator. There remain trees and stairways to climb and the question: What will I find at that point where branches intersect the clouds and an apricot tree meets the light shaft?

A Toast

Father’s Day is like Christmas–a celebration that is often far sweeter in anticipation than it can ever be in reality. Once in a while we need festivals free of our preoccupation with the imperfect or with what might have been. Certainly we need a time not to say, “He did the best he could, given what he knew.”

What would my life have been like with a different father? Less melancholic, less chaotic, but think of all I would have missed. I lift my coffee mug—caffeine, chocolate, hot milk foam—in a toast to my father. Because of him I know for certain that:

  • Tennyson, Shakespeare, and Longfellow wrote words worth memorizing.
  • Even when snow covers the ground, you can still go out and play nine holes–just as long as you use red golf balls.
  • The best friend you’ll ever have is a dog–preferably a spaniel.
  • No one sings “Ol’ Man River” like Paul Robson.
  • Anyone can be a magnanimous winner. It takes maturity to be a gracious loser.
  • Measuring IQ is like measuring beauty with a yardstick.
  • A joke exists for every occasion, like the epitaph that read “I expected this, but not so soon.”
  • In death, say the honest thing: “I’ve suffered enough. I’m getting out of here.”

Happy Father’s Day, Charles Kennedy. See you, “by Jove,” before you know it.

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