The Republic of Portland

The other day, after a full evening of peach-picking over at Sauvie Island Farms, my sweet little family decided that we wanted to stop and get a bite to eat in our neighboring 'hood, St. Johns. First, we thought that we'd zip through the drive-through of Burgerville -- which, despite its name, is "Local. Organic. Sustainable.", and serves up a number of adventurous veggie burgers. (If such a thing exists.) Just take a look at my receipt from last month. Yeah. It's a drive-through. They also serve freshly picked blackberries. Oh, and everything is packaged up neatly in compost-able boxes and bags.

Anyhow, upon my request and because I had a buy-one-get-one coupon burning a hole in my wallet, we opted instead to try Proper Eats. We had never been to Proper Eats before, but upon entering we got the vibe pretty quickly about what the place was all about. First of all, it's full name is as follows: "PROPER EATS: You look like shi*t because you eat sh*t." Everything within Proper Eats politically correct walls is not only organic, but ultra-vegan. (Ultra-vegan being that the swiss chard you just ate was kept at at least a 1000 feet minimum from any moo-ing that a cow might make.) The bulk-food bins have warning labels that blast out to its clear-skinned and bright-eyed patrons things like "WARNING!!! This granola contains chocolate chips made with *MILK POWDER!*" Shudder!

The menu, however, looked scrumptious. And all of the people there were super quiet and super healthy and slightly stinky. We placed our order with a girl wearing a long skirt and braids and began wandering through the aisles, waiting for our dinner. It was then that Chad called me over to where he was standing, staring at a wall. On it was tacked up a "DIY Manifesto." DIY are the 3 letters that make up the heart of our neighborhood. DO. IT. YOURSELF. And here it is:

As much of a Do-It-Yourself-ers as Chad and I are - and I do think we are - I think that there is a key ingredient that is sadly amiss in this manifesto and even present in the general Portland population. It's the same thing that was missing from my drill sargeant yoga instructor that called me out and criticized me the other day in front of everyone. Its a gentleness, a tolerance, a kindness for people that DON'T do it themselves, that are NOT super-yogis, that do flip on the boob-tube now and then to watch a Saints game, and that sometimes like their pizza without quinoa flour, thank you very much.  Is that bad? I understand the Manifesto. I do. And I understand the importance of "spreading their cause" of not living lives that abuse our natural resources and of not plugging ourselves into mass media that tells you how to think, dress, and be. I know its important to grow our own food. To support our local economy. To walk or bike or take the Max. To never, ever, ever accept a grocery bag for the rest of my life. I get it, I do it, and I try to live this way. But if to live this way is at the price of being intolerant, angry and cruel to others that are not "on board", well then, I'm not so much on-board. Because even a DIY Manifesto is, in its own way, also a cultural move that requires people to assimilate, which is the very thing that they preach against.

I guess it makes me just want to say, "Chilled out Portland hippies, will you please just RELAX?"

Last night, Tate and I stopped by Green Bean Books to pick up a gift for our neighbor's birthday party. Inside, we learned that families on the block were planning a mass lemonade stand revolt. Yes, a lemonade stand revolt. Apparently, the other day some kids had their lemonade stand out and a public health officer told them that it was not allowed by the Health Department, and they would need to pack up their tin cans and go.  Lesson 1: You just don't tell a North Portland kid to move their lemonade stand without expecting serious repurcucssions from their parents. The mamas and papas on the block all set out their tables and chairs in protest last night, selling gallons of lemonade, to express their opinion that this was, of course, ridiculous.

But, I happen to like law enforcement. And, I like public health. And I'm wondering why there wasn't dialog about where this edict was written? And what could they do to work around it? Could the kids sell iced tea (herbal, of course) instead? Or are their certain hours or places that it is OK? But instead, it was a stand-off between the people and the law.  Maybe it's because there is virtually NO crime here that people have forgotten the value of law enforcement. To them, I say: Go to New Orleans, where coffee is served FREE at any coffee shop to an officer. Because there, they are always glad to see them protecting their block, watching their back. Portland is just so far removed from that reality that most of the world lives in.

People here drive with a bumper sticker plastered to the back of their car that reads, "THE REPUBLIC OF PORTLAND." And it is so true. It is an amazing, beautiful, pioneering type of place where healthy, smart children run free and wild in the streets in their handmade garb and mom and dad till their front lawn to ready it for planting chard and tomatoes. It is truly its own culture, and its beautiful and amazing. It is also super intense, and people seem to be so preoccupied with creating a perfect society that they don't seem to be enjoying life very much. Maybe I really have been in New Orleans too long. At any rate, I am thankful to live here, and I will leave it at that. And I will try to never impose my Portlandness on others.

(And by the way, the fare at Proper Eats is OUT. OF. THIS. WORLD. Tate had black beans, rice, and greens, and licked up every bit.)

Gratitude

There are these little moments that happen each day. When play turns into giggles, which turns into hugs, then sighs, then love, then comfort, and then incredible gratitude. For this moment. 

A Story Requested by Mom

Chad and I have been prioritizing exercising lately, and yesterday morning it was my turn to go while he watched Tate. So, I thought I'd try this special $29 unlimited month pass at the Bikram Yoga studio down the street. Did I know what Bikram was? Oh, no. Nor did I care. I imagined it would be similar to my lovely yoga class in New Orleans where we chanted, gonged, read nice poems, meditated on love and forgiveness, and then kick our own butts in unison with Sean the yogi for an hour. That's what I planned for, that's what I wanted. That's not what I got.

I arrived 15 minutes early as directed on their website and entered the building. It was a bit warm and muggy inside, but I didn't pay much mind to that. The guy at the counter happily took my $29 and pointed me to the mat, towel, and water that I would be needing. Before making my way into the studio, I haphazardly mentioned that I would have to leave a bit early from the 90 minute class, and would that be alright? Silence. Crickets chirping. Glares. A red-headed lady sitting by the window stopped her conversation and  answered, "It's really not OK to leave early. It's looked down upon." The guy at the counter just smiled and directed me to the locker room.

On the way to the locker room, I encountered what I can only describe as a rare and exotic creature. She was more gazelle than human. Over six feet tall, and absolutely no more than 100 lbs. And wearing approximately four square inches of clothing. She had sort of a vacant or perhaps enlightened look in her eyes as she sauntered past me, hip bones leading the way. I looked at my paint-stained yoga pants (yes, mom, the same ones) and stood up a little taller. I had made time for this class. My health is a priority. I would go on.

I entered the yoga studio from the back door, giving me a full view of all fifty-some odd students. Standing tall. Breathing. Staring. Lying down. Almost naked. And just wasting away. Gazelle stood in the front. The temperature of the studio was exactly 104 degrees with 40 percent humidity. Did you hear me? The temperature of the studio was exactly 104 degrees with 40 percent humidity. I laid down and waited for my punishment for making this asinine decision.

The red-headed drill sergeant entered the room and marched to the front, then leaped up on a glass podium and looked down upon her followers, a group of which I was now numbered among. "New rules in class," she announced. "First, no one leaves for 90 minutes." Gulp. Chad had to leave for an appointment in approximately 75 minutes, and I was still 15 minutes from home. "And no one takes a drink of water until Eagle Pose. Let's go." Folks, there was no gong. There was no Enya. There was no smile. Gazelle stood up and a full 12 inches stood between her two thighs. The drill sergeant looked at me and said, "You're going to want to put that towel down over your mat to catch your sweat."

We began our series of 26 poses that is apparently the hallmark of Bikram. With each inhale and exhale, the room contracted and expanded like it was occupied by a herd of dragons. Sweat dripped. Gazelle bent in half. The drill sergeant marched around the room, seething, correcting our poor attempts at executing these ancient postures. No one drank a sip. I started to feel the effects of my early coffee consumption and lack of quality hydration. Dizziness, nausea, and NO I WILL NOT SIP. Nearly naked bodies around the room stank and glistened and breathed fire through their nostrils. Deep inside my own imagination, I rolled my eyes.

Finally, about 20 minutes into this bliss, the blessed Eagle Pose arrived and I chugged my Fiji. I think I may have even let out an AHH, because the drill sergeant glared at me from atop her glass podium. Gazelle stood tall and refused water, instead staring Buddha-like at her own reflection while she awaited for the rest of us peons to finish. She probably wanted to know if I needed some animal cookies and a nap to go with that.

Sixty minutes later, while staring high into the ceiling fans while balancing on my pelvis in a mean Cobra Pose, I realized the time. I had to go. "My commitment is not to this lady, my commitment is to Chad", I vowed as I plotted my escape. "She cannot hurt me. I can leave when I choose. Just pick up your mat, Leslie. Just go." So, when everyone else was making their way into Wind Removing Pose, I scooped up my belongings and skipped towards the door. As my hand reached the doorknob, I heard "Excuse me, but won't you be able to finish the class?" All fifty starving yogis turned and stared at me. "I'm sorry," I stammered, "but I told you that I had to leave early." "I made a rule that no one could leave for 90 minutes," she said flatly. "And I told you before class that I had to leave early." "I thought that you meant like two minutes, not twenty" she snapped back. I was horrified. The 26 poses had stopped suddenly with the Watch The New Girl Squirm intermission at 65 minutes in to the class. I had nothing else to say. So, I just walked out and shut the door quietly behind me. Within seconds, the guy who used to be manning the front desk but who now was mostly naked, sweating profusely, and following me, tapped me on the shoulder. "Please exit through the back door and make sure that you close the studio door and the gate tightly so that none of the air escapes." "You got it."

I sort of obsessed about this whole experience all day yesterday. I got called out by a yoga teacher. Publicly. And I thought that I was going to yoga for peace and serenity and unconditional positive regard. It turns out that Bikram Yoga is a serious discipline that is actually copyrighted by Mr. Bikram himself. And he is quite the stickler on the length of class, the exact temperature and humidity of the room, and the poses. And each studio follows his dictates to the letter. So, for me to leave 60 minutes into would be akin to leaving in the middle of someone's poetry reading and then going "WHAT? Dude, I heard what I wanted to hear and I have to go now..." It was rude.

Tomorrow is my day to exercise again. I might join the drill sergeant and Gazelle and see if I can begin to reap the benefits of Bikram. Or, I may sleep in and then wake up to pancakes and hot coffee. We shall see.

Weekend Happenings

I bought a new Wendell Berry book that I'm super excited about. 

My tomato forest ate our neighbor's cat.

Taters refused to wear his shoes and ate his weight in blueberries at Sauvie Island. 

The salmon ran right past Chad (and waved) on the Upper Clackamus. (That is NOT Chad. I think that's a woman.)

Oh, he knows.

Tate has got my heart wrapped around his little pinky these days. 

Example 1: This afternoon he was sprinting through the house, limbs flying, drool dangling, feet slapping, hands flapping...when suddenly, mid-stride, he STOPPED. A small, single rectangle of sunlight lit up the hallway floor. He bent down, kissed it, and kept running.

Example 2: Lately, we will be in the middle of playing in our tunnel or wrestling on the floor or reading, and he will turn to me and gently put a hand around each of my dangly flower earrings. Please understand that when a toddler whose favorite hobby is throwing rocks puts his hands around your favorite dangly earrings, you are at your utmost vulnerable. You could be VanGogh in a moment's flash. But, no. He holds them sweetly and puts his little cheek next to mine and quietly whispers in my ear, "mama...mama....mama...."

And for extra credit: The Anthropologie catalog came in the mail yesterday. And upon seeing it, Tate exclaimed, "Mama!" To which I agreed, in my running pants streaked with house paint, "Yes, she looks just like mama!" Oh, he knows. He knows quite well. 

So now he can turn on the sugar and I in turn will melt, perfectly content wrapped around his little pinky.