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.)