A change

I am not sure when the change occurred, but it did and now I find myself being hyper productive. Not hyper-productive in a compulsive or neurotic way, full of shoulds which have troubled me in the past, but of true joy and excitement. I have so many ideas to write out, so much to plant, so much to pick, so much to can, so many people to write letters to, so many lovely photos to frame, I feel like I'm busting and sometimes I can't fall asleep til midnight, tossing and turning as I dream about my beets and how Harriet Fasenfest told me to cover up their shoulders a little longer to encourage sweetness, or about the sun-veil I'm going to rig by sewing together some sheets that will protect my lettuce starts from the July heat.

Oh, that Harriet. I love her. I love that she dedicated her gem of a book, The Householder's Guide to the Universe, to Wendell Berry. And I love Wendell, too. He is certainly my favorite author these days and I feel like the two of them are busy at work stirring up something inside me, a thing that has always been there, and it is sprouting and growing into something that resonates with my core. These are some wise old souls, Harriet and Wendell.

I think it all started with another book, a book that I didn't care for so much -- The Happiness Project. This was a book assigned for book club, and I read it with the same joy that I read Faulkner in high school: none. But I found it curious that reading a happiness book, of all things, would be so painful to me. And I realized something quite substantial in my distaste. The author, Gretchen Rubin, sets aside a year to do all of the things that one is supposed to do to be happy. She organized her closet, joined a gym, decluttered, forced herself to smile more -- and I just found it all so self-serving and silly. Why, why, why was it so hard for this woman to be happy? She even said that she was happy, but not as happy as she could be. It wasn't enough for the glass to be full, it had to runneth over -- and that gap between full and runneth over was so annoying that she had to devote a year to remedy it.

But Gretchen approached happiness in a way that I never have. I have always looked at my circumstances, whatever they are, and learned to be happy within their parameters. I am completely passive about my happiness -- I take what comes and if it doesn’t fit just right, I attempt to modify myself, my perception, to deal with it. I have never really tried to change the circumstance itself – to be more active about my happiness. That alternative way of looking at things really rocked my world. Isn’t that silly? To realize that I can change things, do things – really, whatever I want – without feeling like I have to ask permission? That it’s okay to be more proactive about my life? And that no one else is responsible for my life but me? I have heard it all before. But now it has my name on it.

So, I started getting up at 5:45 each morning and doing vinyasa yoga at a wonderful, soulful place downtown. I am amazed to see how the body follows the mind – and that where the body resists, the mind resists. I am unconventionally good at twisting my body, particularly my waist and back, in to whatever direction the teacher asks. And in my person too, I can contort according to another’s wishes. No problem there – I love pleasing, love accommodating. But – to hold a position, particularly those involving an open heart, and to allow myself to relax in the openness, wow. To breathe while being open. Now, that’s a challenge. It’s fascinating.

There are so many other things to share, so much that I have discovered I can do to be more proactive about my life, so many lessons I am suddenly seeing through yoga, in the garden, in cooking, and in raising Tate, but I think I will resist the urge to spill it all out here at once. I am writing a lot – in fact, I don’t have enough time in the day to write enough – and feel like the ideas are coming at me in a flood.

More soon.

Anticipating Strawberries

Anticipating Strawberries

After college, I decided to join the Peace Corps and was whisked away with twenty-some-odd other young idealists to a magical land called Georgia. (No, not the state.) This is the famed land of Jason and the Argonauts, a place known to locals as “God’s land” that is as abundant in fruits and vegetables as it is to towering mountains, sunflowered fields and roaring rivers. It’s part Hawaii and part Montana, and its lovely beyond words.

As I settled into my new home there and began to make friends, curious townspeople would invariably ask me questions about my hobbies and interests, and I always proudly announced that I liked to cook. So, of course they wanted me to cook them up something “American”. But I had a problem. First of all, what was “American” food? I couldn’t make Italian dishes because canned tomato sauce – or even tomato paste - wasn’t available. I couldn’t make Mexican dishes because they didn’t have that little yellow spice packet for which to make taco meat. They didn’t have cream of mushroom soup for my mom’s famous chicken dish, and they didn’t have the cans of pinto and black beans I needed for my favorite tortilla soup. They didn’t even have hamburger buns – or ketchup – for a good old fashioned barbeque. All they had was a market, in the center of town, open every day of the year, that sold seasonal, local, organic produce at ridiculously low prices. And I had no idea how to use it.

Apparently, the American food that I knew how to “cook” required someone else (in a factory, far away) to do all the heavy lifting for me. They put the Alfredo sauce in the jar, and my job as the “cook” was to open that jar, heat it up, and dump it on some noodles – also premade. So, I wasn’t so much a cook as a jar opener. But now, being faced with the raw ingredients alone, I had to learn an ancient art that the people of most non-western societies had learned from childhood: how to cook good, healthful, simple food using time tested techniques. Hands were used for measuring, pinching, pulling, testing, knocking and kneading, and they held a vast amount of wisdom in them. There were no cookbooks – just a visceral knowledge of how to cook good – really, really good – food with what was available at the market on that particular day. The two years I spent there were a lesson not only in culture and fortitude, but also in fruits and vegetables, nuts and cheeses, flours and herbs. I had to learn how to use them by making daily use of the beloved market that was the heartbeat of our town, and I had to use what was available during each passing season.

And so slowly, my friends and colleagues began to teach me, as though I were a child, the very basics. “Bread dough feels like this – but dumpling dough feels like that.” I stuck my hand in and tried to come up with words to describe the difference, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t a cerebral exercise. When I got out my tattered notebook to write out the steps to their recipes, they would give me instructions like this: “Add enough water to the beans.” But how much was “enough?” I finally got out my ruler and determined that two inches above the beans was “enough,” which has been my rule of thumb since. To try to learn what they just felt and knew intrinsically – was a challenge that I’m still trying to overcome by figuring out how to cook with my eyes, ears, nose, mouth and hands instead of tuning out and dutifully following package instructions. Try it sometime. Listen to how a mushroom sounds when it’s sautéed over high heat, compared to an onion. They are vastly different.

In America, we have become so accustomed to getting what we want, when we want it. Which, at first glance, sounds amazing. But there is a great loss in not having to wait for something – like strawberries, for instance. Strawberries, all over the world, are a huge reason to celebrate. They are the first fruit of the summer season (no, rhubarb, you don’t count), the harbingers of all of the bounty that is to come. When they first show their cheery faces on a spring day, amidst all of the potatoes and onions and cabbage, its enough to make a girl cry. Eating seasonal produce grown at a local market brings an unexpected joy – the joy of anticipating the turn of each season and the food that comes with it. Each season is ushered in with a specific fruit or vegetable at its side, appearing in every recipe in one great big flurry, and then vanishing again until the following year.  Strawberries are eaten in juicy handfuls for dinner after a long, meat-laden winter. Figs, sitting with a friend behind a fence, juice dripping from your chin in the heat of August. A shiny gold persimmon is for the first day of school. And mandarins, sitting around a fire and throwing the peels in as you read a book. To eat watermelon in February, just because you can, is missing the point.

Each daily or weekly visit to your local farmers market is showing up to witness this miracle.

Market Kids

I'm currently blogging for the Portland Farmer's Market and writing a weekly newsletter the Hollygrove Market in New Orleans. Here is a little snippet:

Market Kids

If you happened to stop by the Ancient Heritage Dairy booth last Saturday and found the wonderfully talented cheese maker, Paul Obringer, fighting a losing battle to keep his sample plates filled, I apologize.

It was my son. He’s two and just barely tall enough to reach his chubby little hands over the top of the table — and yet with a ninja-like accuracy he is able to obliterate the samples in the blink of an eye. And there I stand, dumbfounded, as he smiles up at me with scio feta oozing through his widely spaced incisors.





Every variety pleases him – soft and mild, hard and sharp, or creamy and smooth. On one hand, I’m a little embarrassed by his voracious appetite and complete disregard of social convention but on the other hand, I’m insanely proud. While most toddlers wander around with goldfish clenched in their sweaty little fists, he has pecorino romano in his.

But that’s typical for my son, a kid raised with farmers markets central to his understanding of food, its origins, and its celebration. That’s not to say that we don’t go to the supermarket – we do, and he sits passively in his little plastic car/shopping-cart, watching the parade of rain boots, high heels and shopping cart wheels pass before his 18” high perspective. If we make it to the checkout counter without a meltdown – and then over that final hurdle of resisting the barrage of toys and candy offered right before you hand over your credit card – it is a successful trip.

Our outings to the farmer’s market are on the far other end of the spectrum. When our train makes its final stop at PSU and we disembark, his little legs start kicking with wild enthusiasm, knowing what lies just up the hill. As soon as we reach the market he leaps from my arms and walks amongst the crowd, a proud member of the group, rubbing shoulders with other toddlers, fingering the leafy kale that hangs over the table’s edge, and staring into the eyes of banjo-strumming musicians that recline on the grassy knoll.

The market for a toddler isn’t just a place where food is sold; it’s a place where food is celebrated. It’s where wooden coins and broad smiles are readily exchanged, where shouts about the health benefits of local wild honey mingle with the hiss of coffee brewing, oil popping and tote bags bristling against each other, filled with seasonal bounty. It’s a sensory rich carnival of colors, sounds, people and products that he only finds here, in this great cultural gumbo where food and people collide. I couldn’t find a playground or a prescribed “enriching toddler experience” that offers him as much as this reality.

And to me, this experience is as nourishing to him as the food itself.

One year later

A year ago, Chad and I planted two apple trees in our front yard and I snapped a photo of Tate standing next to the taller of the two. It was just a twig, and so was he. If he looks a little sullen in the photo, it's because about an hour later he began retching...and didn't stop for nearly three days. (More disgusting details could follow here, but won't.)

I can't get over how teeny he is here. 

A year later, here they are again. The tree looks like a teenager -- spindly and gawky, but it has its first wee apple buds starting to grow, which thrills me to no end. And Tate is still holding on tightly to his toddler belly but is getting longer and leaner everyday. 

Who knows how long we'll stay in Portland and how long I'll be able to document my son's growth versus the growth of a certain Pacific Rose apple tree. I have visions of him coming home from college or even high school -- this strapping lad that rests his arm on the sturdy girth of our blossoming apple tree -- we snap a picture, post it on our blog, and all go inside to eat homemade apple pie. Because of course, in dreams like this where boys come home from college to see mom, apple harvest is in springtime.

Flora, Fauna, Taters

In the two years of Tate's little life, I have made it a priority to get him out in nature as much as possible, to teach him to appreciate all of the different flowers and critters and trees of the great Pacific Northwest. Ever since we moved to Portland, we have gone on weekly hikes in the spectacular Forest Park and the whole time I prattle on about flora and fauna, greeting all that we see. "Hello, moss. How are you, slug? Hi there, yellow finch." For the first year, he bounced along silently in my trusty (and indispensable) Ergo, seemingly more interested in pulling my braid than anything else. But lately, he is looking outwards more. And apparently, he has been listening. Here is his current list of correctly identified living things that he himself can point out in the wild. Domesticated and zoo animals have not been included but for the record, he is bananas about otters. 

Finches, blue-jays, crows, chickadees, seagulls, and twice now, bald eagles. Spiders, bumblebees, ladybugs, slugs, squirrels, moss, ferns, tulips, daffodils, crocuses, dandelions, and his favorite -- lavender. He will spot lavender from a mile away and run towards it, full tilt. Okay, a block. He loves the stuff. My mom used to take me on walks as a child and point out the names of flowers (as her father did) and I have always appreciated that.

He can only learn as much as I can teach him and sadly, I am reaching my limit. My list is sort of similar to the one above....I know my flowers, a handful of birds, some plants, and hardly any trees. It's kind of embarrassing. Oak tree, maple tree, cypress tree......uh, big tree, little tree. I'll have to get a guidebook of sorts to help me keep learning as this kid is gaining on me fast. I love it, though. I hope to teach him to hear a bird song and know what it is, to take a hike through the woods and to truly appreciate the company of the trees he is among, and to learn all of the sweet lessons that non-humans have to teach. 

Motherhood: The Great Humbler

Ah, it's Mother's Day. I never considered Mother's Day to be a day for me until one day it happened, and there was Tate, gripping a little box in his three month old hands as a hand over from his papa. It sort of floored me - that I was suddenly a member of this group of women that I had always honored. Since then, it's been one of my favorite days of the year -- maybe after Thanksgiving and the Christmas-Tree-Cut-Down-Day. 

I have pondering Mother's Day all month this year. Reflecting on all of the women in my life who have shaped me and who continue to be enormous, inspirational influences in my life. Today as I was running in a park and wished another woman a Happy Mother's Day, I realized that somewhere along this journey of female-hood, all competition between me and other women melted away and they truly became sisters, teachers to me. I am pretty sure that it was the same time that I became a mother myself, although some of the women in my life that are my teachers are not necessarily mothers themselves. Perhaps this is because motherhood is the great equalizer, the great humbler, and I opened myself up to their lessons. 

It's a time in life when you are so sleep deprived that you are sure it should be illegal for you to share the road and when you find yourself sleeping on a carpet next to a crib, straining to recall the last refrains of Michael Row the Boat Ashore because your toddler is mumbling "more, more." Women go through the weird wonders of pregnancy and the barriers begin to break down as you laugh about how you can't sneeze without peeing your pants and how this-weird-thing-happened-today-and-is-that-okay.  And then when the baby is born, you find yourselves leaning over cups of steaming tea with wide eyes, whispering about chaffed nipples or the time that you lost your patience with your toddler or how terrified you were when your child had a febrile seizure or the horror you faced when you had a miscarriage or the time that you were so overwhelmed with the love of your child that when he took your face in his sweaty little hands and said, "Hi, angel", your heart burst into a million pieces. 

There was a time in my life when I cared if Girl A made a 98 on an English paper when I made a 93. I actually used my elbows against girls when running the 1600 back in high school, and yes -- they were pointy. When you are a child, none of that competition exists -- if they are on the playground and so are you, well then it's a good match. It creeps up when you are in high school, college, and then a bit after. But then when the gravity of things so much bigger than yourself creep onto your lap, you find yourself looking across the table and asking each other for help, for understanding, and for grace. This has been one of the biggest gifts of motherhood to me: genuine sisterhood with other women. 

My mom has taught me that she has such an abundance of love to give me when I open up to her. 

My sister has taught me that when I am in trouble, she is the first person to have my back. And she will call incessantly until I am better. 

My sister-in-law, Erin, has taught me about the strength of being gentle.

My dear Molly has reminded me to stay true to myself, to the Leslie that hung upside down with her on the monkey bars in my backyard for most of my childhood.

My lifelong friend and mentor Lynne has shown me an incredible example of happy individuality, happy motherhood, and a happy marriage. She has been both a rock and a soft place to land on when I'm exhausted. 

My grandmother has shown me strength in her ability to be more vulnerable, more seen, even as she gets older.

My friend Bekah has shown me what courage there is in admitting that you need help when you do, and what freedom and joy comes as a result of that.

My friend Erin has taught me about the joy of providing a wholesome, warm, peaceful environment.

These are just a few that I wanted to share. Tonight, in addition to the wonderful blessing I have in my sweet Tate, I am thankful for these women that have taught me so much about being a woman, about being a mother. 

Everything Shows

On Saturday night, Chad and I watched the wonderful classic Frank Capra film - You Can't Take It with You - and turned it off feeling re-aligned, having had the two life choices about preparing for happiness or simply being happy now  - placed squarely in front of us. We were going to be the ones in the film playing the harmonica when chaos abounds, taking the elevator down from an unsatisfying job and not coming back up. If you haven't seen the movie, do -- it resonates with a struggle that has been going on in America for nearly a century. Plus, I don't think you can have too much Jimmy Stewart in your life.

We turned it off, ready for bed, when amazing footage flashed across the screen. Pristine squares of carefully tended farmland and rows of neat little homes were being ungulfed by silent, calm waters. Like toys in a bathtub, cars and trucks and silos and airplanes swirled in tidal pools. It was so different from watching the destruction of a hurricane, which shakes its fists and curses and kicks the door at you. The tsunami didn't seem to have anything against the land or people. It was simply following the rules of nature, simply doing what water is supposed to do. As we watched this spectacle on live television, we realized that this gently flowing mass of water was taking lives as we watched from our living room. There was silence from the television, but somewhere in that mass of destruction, someone was crying, screaming, gasping. What a helpless feeling to sit and watch from your couch with a bowl of popcorn next to you.

Yesterday on NPR, I listened to a first responder talk about the calmness of the Japanese people during this tragedy. "Is there still mass chaos?" the interviewer asked. "Oh, chaos isn't how I would describe it" the responder replied. "People are orderly, calm, patient, obviously devastated - but following rules and order and being just - well, very patient." I recalled the words of my Georgian mentor in Peace Corps after her own country was torn apart by civil war and the country had shut down its banks, lost its power, its water source, its gas lines -- and mass poverty and hysteria resulted. "In a disaster, everything shows" she said. People who, until that time, had been normal and good citizens - began stealing earrings right out of the ears of women if they looked valuable enough to take, while others began opening their doors to others, even if they had very little to give. Everything that is inside a person comes to light. If you are a hero, it will emerge. If you are selfish, that will come out too.

Then, I remembered Hurricane Katrina. I think that that disaster gave me an opportunity to see both sides of my own soul. I evacuated first to College Station and crawled into bed at my dear friends' home, considering my situation. In the morning, my friend Ginger tapped on the door and said, "Leslie, the levees have breached." I turned on the television and saw those now iconic images of New Orleaneans slogging down Canal Street, belongings on their back, and was aghast. My heart broke at the sight of the Superdome. But as the day wore on and the coverage turned to the looting and violence that was taking place, I am embarrassed to admit that my compassion turned into shame and disgust. I had recently had some incidents in New Orleans that had hardened my heart to some of the people  in New Orleans, and let's be honest - this was the poor, black population. (I had been chased down the street by a crazy woman who had taken her shoes off and was threatening to hit me with them for no apparent reason, I had been harrassed by a masturbating man in his car near my house, and a car of teenagers had thrown stuff at me while running.) And here they were looting. And then here they were, on their rooftops with their misspelled signs. I was sorry for them, but I also felt a sense of justice that the very people who had terrified me, were now terrified. My heart hurts now, remembering the ugliness of my reaction. But, I'd like to be honest. My sense of entitlement reigned supreme.

By the end of the day, it was apparent that my work and schooling at Tulane University would be cancelled indefinitely, so I hatched out three plans for what to do with myself:

1. Go to Colorado and run the Boulder marathon, which I had trained for, then find work and play and just wait it out.
2. Go to the Harvard School of Public Health, who had extended an offer for me to attend, and get a head start on my schooling.
3. Work for Emergency Corps, a branch of Peace Corps that had set up in New Orleans to respond to the disaster. They too had offered me a place within their organization.

I considered each carefully. And I chose option #2. I attended Harvard for one semester of my life and had an incredible experience living in Jamaica Plain, spending my days studying at Harvard and my evenings sipping cappuccinos in the Italian north end. I got a boyfriend, ran the New Hampshire marathon, and just had a jolly good time. Everything shows. I still regret that I did not choose option #3.

When I say that "everything shows" -- I don't mean that because the people in Japan are calm and orderly and the people in New Orleans were hysterical, this means that one population is superior to another and we should cathect one and and despise the other. What is inside -- your internal resources -- are not something you should be praised for having or blamed for not having. Maybe the Japanese patience and order comes from the confidence in their government to take care of them, which the New Orleaneans lost when the  government failed to respond, day after day. And maybe the looting and violence that took in New Orleans was out of a lifetime of desperation of not-having, or maybe it was because that internal voice of what's wrong and what's right had not been sufficiently developed. I'm not going to judge. When we are given the opportunity to view our internal resources, the state of our souls, we can note if we feel that we have an abundance from which we can give to others, or whether we feel a dearth, a need to take from others.

To have the former, I believe, is to have true wealth. And those without it should not be blamed, but provided for with compassion and grace.

Sweet Taters

Tate is two years old today. It is unbelievable to look back at the changes that have happened to him (and to all of us) in the past year. Every day, slowly, slowly, he comes more into the world. On his first birthday, it seemed that he was just "waking up" to all that was around him, and he has been sinking his hands into it ever since. Here are a few of my favorite photos of him over the past year that remind me of the aspects of his character that never seem to change, like his palpable joy, curiosity and affection -- and others that seem to never stop changing, like his belly. Enjoy.

 

 

 

  

Costuming

After a great vegan dinner last night at Blossoming Lotus (how nice of Chad to tolerate my ever-changing dietary experiments), we drove down to Mississippi Studios to hear live music. We walked into the Bar Bar (no, I didn't stutter - that's its name) that serves as its entrance, shut the door behind us, and gasped at the alternative universe that surrounded us. Willowy, pale-faced hipsters slunk around us exhibiting an enormous range of facial hair styles. "Is he wearing fishing lures on his lapel? See there, on his leisure suit?" Scarves, hats and leg warmers abounded. "Did they all walk here?" Chad asked, concerned. (Probably.) Cousin It sat at the bar, quietly drinking her flaming coffee. We wondered if we had unknowingly stumbled into a costume party and decided to pull up a seat.

I dug through my purse for a pen and paper and began scribbling notes. This place was unbelievable. At a nearby table, two guys in identical outfits (red wool beanie, flannel shirt, long beard) sat drinking Pabst, and I held my breath for them to burst out in laughter and turn to me and say "WE FOOLED YOU! Haha, it's really Lumber Jack Day!" But, they didn't. One the two guys, the clearly better looking of the duo, seemed to be at a disadvantage with the ladies. I suspected that they were actually turned off by his handsome face and wondered if they snickered about it in private: "He's nice, but he looks like such a frat guy underneath that beard!! I'm just so not into that." His poor genetic blessing had turned into a curse. And a guy that was truly NOT at disadvantage was sitting behind me, facing Chad. In any other city, he would have been labeled homely. But, here, truly, he was captivating. Coiffed, gelled curly hair. Handle bar mustache. Brown rimmed glasses that were so large, they extended half-way down his cheek. Bright green vest, almost life-vest-like. Chad was entranced by him and his initial laughter melted into admiration. "Wow, mustaches are really making a comeback," he whispered, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. "That green vest is actually pretty cool."

What was so fascinating to me was that it seemed like everyone was in costume and that we didn't get the invite. We were still wearing the costumes from our last party, which was at a decidedly less funky place, but required costumes nonetheless. At Texas A&M, I thought it was a hoot that all of the girls there wore bobby socks, white shoes, silver and leather belts, lots of jewelry, denim, and big hair while I wore tie-dye and Doc Martens, still in Maryland mode. And in Georgia, we laughed that men were ubiquitously in black leather when apparently the American multi-colored look was far superior. Every place has its dress code, its way of delineating tribe members from non-tribe members. And here, in my circa 2004 Banana Republic pants, I am clearly still an outsider. Sometimes being an outsider is a wonderful blessing, an opportunity to look at all of human nature and ask why it is that we behave in these adorable and hysterical ways. Beneath the big bangs and handle bar mustaches, peeking out at me through thick layers of scarves, my eyes met those exactly like mine at that age.Searching, shy, nervous, hopeful, and exhilarated with this life. And it was just so sweet.

Getting Ready to Celebrate

Ah, so much to be excited for in the next few weeks. First, Chad comes home from a long work trip, then it's Tate's best friend's birthday party, then Valentine's Day, and then Taters himself turns TWO. Nuts.

However, before any celebrating can be done, this little turtle needs to get a whole lot better.

He has been fighting a nasty cold for about a week, but it seems to be turning for the worse. It's 11:30 here and he has woken up nearly every hour since 8, hacking and crying and refusing water. It's so sad. Tomorrow we may be paying a trip to the doctor. Send him good healing vibes.

Tate perspective

I have been in a Tate-marveling mood lately. Not so much by his newfound abilities to clap in time with the rhythm of music or run full-tilt around corners without a) wiping out, or b) slowing down, but more at his ability to constantly be open and present, with no expectation nor motive. The magic of children can be taken for granted because they behave in ways that we expect children to behave. No one says, "Yep, Timmy's just acting magical again today." But really, they are. If we stop and truly watch, we can see how different their reactions are to this mysterious world.

"The Thinker, With Yogurt."

Every time I put Tate in the car, he wants two things: a car (preferably green, shiny) in one hand, and his pacifier in his mouth. That is all he asks for. He has absolutely no idea what we are doing or why, and he doesn't really care. Sometimes, I put him in the car and we go to the grocery store. Or to the park. Other times, we go to the airport and he spends the next twelve hours on my lap, soaring six miles above the earth and lands in a completely different climate with strange new people. Then there are times when I put him in the car and he ends up getting poked and prodded by a woman in white who and ultimately draws a needle needle out and injects it into his flabby little tender arm. There are times when we drive for awhile and suddenly, the whole world has turned white, quiet and very cold. Or we emerge from the car and see a vast stretch of sand and sea. He has no idea which one it's going to be any given time I strap him into his car seat. He doesn't protest, he doesn't get anxious: is it going to be the needle or the beach?? He just smiles, sticks his paci in his mouth, grips his Hot Wheels, and hopes for the best.

I know that on an intellectual level, he is not at the stage yet where we can have discussions about why we do these strange things every day, but I am not marveling at the fact that he doesn't attempt to ask. It's the openness, the joy he expresses in welcoming all (well, most) new experiences, and the serenity he has about the fact that he truly has no control over his life at this point. He just takes it all in stride, happily, peacefully, trusting that whatever it is and wherever we go, it will be okay. I find that amazing. We do so much to plan and prepare for our own happiness, and then here this child is, happier than all, with no plan, control, or knowledge of what's coming next. I want to learn that from him.

And here is another thought: I don't know if Tate has the mental capacity to know that he will grow up one day. Like, he may very well think that he hangs out with mom and dad and his friends and their parents, and that some of us are short, others are tall, some speak in words, others speak in grunts. In essence, he may think that this sort of handicapped-state of being a toddler -- not being able to say most things or reach most things -- could be his lot in life. Again, his joyfulness of being fully in the present with whatever physical, mental and emotional limitations he has at this stage, is humbling. 

I have been thinking of this verse in Matthew: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven," and it makes sense. And I think of Le Petit Prince, and the innate wisdom that children have, and how we might spend our whole lives trying to remember that dreamy time when we didn't try, but just were. 

Back from the dead..

Is anyone still out there? Crickets have been chirping on this blog for a long time.

The reason I haven't blogged lately is that I simply haven't had anything to say. And when I don't have anything to say, then I just sit quietly and wait until I have something to say again. 

There are many reasons for my lack of interest in communicating with THE WORLD WIDE WEB, but the main one is that I have a bit felt self-indulgent rattling on about myself and my little world on this thing. Which is strange because I love peering through the windows of my friends' secret lives through their blogs. But for me it feels a bit affected. Maybe because when I attempt to convey my personal life in a short and pithy little blurb, some authenticity is sacrificed.

Another reason is that I am feeling stagnant in my personal growth lately, like I am not sufficiently contributing to the greater outside world in any significant way, and writing about my little inside world further emphasizes that divide. I want to DO SOMETHING. Not that I don't DO a ton, because in addition to being with Taters full-time I am hyper-productive with all of the cooking, sewing, cleaning, gardening, and knitting projects that I have lined up around the house. I mean DO, a la Meryl Streep channeling Julia Child: (Click on the image below twice so that you can see the full picture)

"

But Julia Child didn't have a child.

What a tug-of-war on your soul it is to be a mother to a beautiful child. There is nothing I'd rather do than watch him grow in nuances that most people don't have the opportunity to witness. His joyful expressions, his groovy dance moves, his secret language, his limbs slowly evolving from rigid and flailing to graceful and coordinated -- these are things that we have forged out together, one second at a time. I saw his face the first time he saw a shower of leaves fall from a tree in one big whirly gust, and it was priceless. It was like seeing the first person on earth to ever see the beauty of autumn. He spared no amount of enthusiasm. I know how he likes his eggs, where he wants his blanky, and what his favorite shirt is. I know why he hates his blue raincoat. I know who he likes to hug, and who he'd rather not. I know that trains thrill him and car-washes terrify him. I know what "ra-ra-hallo" means before he falls asleep. You cannot write the list of all of these things down on a piece of paper for a babysitter or nanny, no matter how intuitive they are. These things aren't just learned, they are felt. So it would be such a loss to leave him while I worked.

Not that anyone is asking. I have applied to countless jobs over the past year, and the only thing good that has come of it is that I've gotten nice large doses of humility and thankfulness in the process. Humility that I can no longer march into a job interview and leave with my starting date penned into my planner. And thankfulness that Chad so diligently provides for Tate and I while I restlessly twiddle my thumbs and figure out what's next.

Ideally, I could be productive from home and have the best of both worlds, but I know that to do this and to do it well is a dream that many women have, and it's not so easy. But I have a few things up my sleeve. I'll let you know.

Fall Abundance

We had a tomato forest this year. 

Because Portland opted-out of summer this year, they are just now starting to turn red. 

Tate prefers to pick the green ones. 

Our second homegrown tomato ever! Meeting it's fate on a turkey sandwich!

Apple and plum picking at Sherwood Orchards. 83 varieties of heirlooms!

Page One

We have been searching for a new church home ever since we arrived in Portland last winter. "Searched" is a term I use very loosely here, because our searching was contingent upon the following things happening simultaneously:
1) We all three wake up happy and rested, 2) A church service happening somewhere in proximity to our home, 3) Tate not exhibiting signs that he needs a nap when that service starts, and 4) We actually all get dressed/diaper changed/bags packed and out the door somewhat near the time the service begins. It's nearly impossible. And to be honest, we haven't been that dedicated to trying.

We have tried a number of churches but none seem to quite fit: We like the people but don't get a thing from the sermon, We like the sermon but it's on the other side of town, We like the building but heck we aren't admiring the space, we're worshiping in it. So we have just plodded along, half-heartedly "searching" and hoping and feeling slightly guilty about the whole thing.

Two weeks ago, Chad had another one for us to try: Westminster Presbyterian Church in Northeast Portland.    We have only been twice now, but both times have been exceptionally moving, and I can honestly say that I can't wait to hear the message next Sunday. AND, they have an excellent Sunday School program for Tate ("Sunday School" I also use loosely - they have blocks and trucks and slides..) which allows Chad and I to truly tune in and put down Green Eggs and Ham for just a short reprieve.

What I love about this church, and particularly the sermons preached there, is that it is honest and graceful about our sinfulness and shortcomings, that it emphasizes Jesus's words more than their own words, that it emphasizes unity more than division among religions, and that we are constantly reminded of how rich and blessed we are, not how poor. The last one - about how blessed we are - is markedly different from our last church in New Orleans. Because New Orleans has endured so much pain and is constantly working against the odds stacked against it, its attitude is sometimes that of a scrapper. And scrappers are always trying to get ahead, always trying to get by -- and in New Orleans' case, this was both helpful and appropriate. The church there has recruited literally thousands of volunteers to rebuild hundreds of homes, and is on a serious PR campaign to keep forging ahead. This church, instead, takes the back seat and turns the limelight away from itself, on to the needs of others. (It also is in a city that was not 80% underwater, just to be fair.)

An example of how this church is different struck me last week. While Rev. Terry Jones was planning on burning Korans at his Gainesville church on September 11th, this church took the opposite approach and donated 100 Korans to a local bookstore. This doesn't mean that they preach the Koran, but that they respect people who consider it their holy book, and want to make reparations for hurt that is being caused by other Christians. I was shocked and glad to hear it. In fact, I thought it was jaw-dropping.

(This is a long post. I'm sorry. Wrapping up here.)

The irony of going to this church at this time is that meanwhile, my brother has just left the Presbyterian Church to convert to Catholicism. This church isn't even of the same school of thought as the one that he was originally following, so I feel even farther removed from where his heart is on the matter. Yet, we are in such different places. He is being interviewed by theologians, posting doctoral-level essays in discussion forums, and speaks with the knowledge of someone who fully grasps the history, doctrine, and context of each word. I do not, and I am not.

I am still on page one: trying to absorb directions as simple as "Love They Neighbor As Thyself" and understand concepts as fundamental as love and grace and peace.

Goodnight.

Oh-my-Opal Creek

Last weekend, Chad and I dropped off Tate at our dear friends' house and drove a few hours into the vast wilderness of central Oregon. Past paved roads, past cell phone reception, past wireless connections, past the grid that the rest of the world operates on. We tried a hand at living in the simplest way that humans can.


Jawbone Flats at Opal Creek is an old mining town that was in operation about a century ago. Since then, an organization has taken over its land and buildings and it now operates as a lodge and educational center. Jawbone Flats consists of about ten log cabins that huddle together amidst towering mountains and old growth forests, and uses the hydro power of its streams to generate just enough electricity to allow you to find a match to light your wood burning stove with at night. That's about it. Our modest little cabin stood sturdy and proud above Battle Axe Creek, with twigs and branches used as curtain rods over the windows. It was drafty, housed mice (notice the plural), lacked bedding and "could use a little updating" in Chad's estimate -- yet it was one of the most endearing places I have ever had the privilege to rest my head at. 

There is so much richness in simplicity. We had 2 plates, 2 bowls, 2 cups. This means that when you dirty your dish, you wash it, and it's immediately ready for its next use. And there is no dishwasher to load and unload. Our refrigerator was of the freshmen-dorm-room variety, and could certainly not house an entire load of bread. Yet, this meant that we didn't store more than we needed. We also brought exactly enough food to last us 3 days, which meant that we rationed our portions carefully and savored it. We had to share our limited electricity with others. This meant that we barely, if ever, used it out of consideration for others. This also meant that when the sun retired, we did as well. We didn't have central heat or television. So instead, we sat by the fire and it became our heat and we became our own entertainment. (I was reading Wendell Berry so you know I was REALLY hippie-ing out.) There was calm, there was silence, there was solitude, there was peace. 

There were mountain lions. 

We did not know this until AFTER our 13 mile hike up to the top of Mount Whetstone, which we clambered up for the sole purpose of getting a teeny morsel of cellular reception that would allow me to check in on Tate and Chad to check his voicemail. (We're new at this self-reliant game, so give us a break.) Our technology-inspired trek was probably a joke played on us by the Opal Creek staff boys that wanted to give the city slickers a way to check their cell phones in the mountains. "Just go on up to Whetstone," they slyly advised. When we stumbled back into camp at 5pm, they welcomed us back with warm congratulations, looks of surprise, and tales of other recent hikers that had been "stalked" by cougars for days. "But you should consider yourself real lucky to get attacked by a cougar these days...It's RARE!" one of them beamed. I'm not sure that "lucky" is how I'd be feeling if a cougar sank his teeth into my neck, but I guess in that situation it would pay to be positive. 


But we made it out alive, replenished, necks intact, and with a new appreciation of how much is truly needed to have a happy life (not much) and how so much of the extra just gets in the way. 

One more of Tate and the Cardboard Songsters

Sorry, I must share. He is just. Too. Cute. He has started to play the washboard on his belly using a Tupperware lid and uses a plastic toy vice (only in our house!) for a clarinet. I will change the subject soon.

Tate and the Cardboard Songsters

One of my favorite weekly rituals is going to the Portland Farmer's Market at Portland State University on Saturday mornings. We rise and shine, put on our socks, shoes and jackets, and still half-asleep and with growling bellies, board the Max train to downtown Portland. Riding the Max is an adventure in itself, with all of the hoi-polloi ambling about in their Gore-Tex and sleeping bags and knee-high socks. The train bell rings as it approaches the station, lights flashing, and every time, Tate nearly has a coronary.

But that is only the warm-up coronary to the one that we encounter once we are actually in the market, when Tate sees the Cardboard Songsters. The Cardboard Songsters is this vagabond group of musicians who sit under the same towering oak every Saturday morning, wearing felt hats and skinny ties and old leather shoes with cymbals attached to them. They play wash basins with strings attached to them (quite well) and other instruments made from the garage sale next door, and most of them are working on more than one instrument at once. In essence, they are magical. While they play, Tate rocks out on the sidewalk, clapping and bouncing in and out of beat with their ragtime. People stop and watch, then take out their cameras while I sit there beaming. It's so cute, it's silly.

Tate's weekly date with the Cardboard Songsters has enchanted him with music, and now he has taken up copying Felix with the harmonica. Here is a video of him playing (practicing) before meeting up with his fellow songsters today:

Yes, and in the next video I will try to control my gasping and sighing and clapping so that you just get the full Tate experience.

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.)