Isabella Bird Miscellany

It's the last day in October, Halloween. The slant of the afternoon sun is low. My backyard is filled with so much sun in the summer, but now it wears long shadows from the neighbor's trees. wind child, unseen, nevertheless felt no origin or home wind child comes and goes, disturbing all she blows through and past over and under, tossed and turned wind child blusters and plays a mirthful game of hide and seek The wind is loud in the pines and junipers; melodic in the aspen that still holds onto a few leaves. Curdled clouds are blowing in and my cup sits half full, milky and sweet. autumn:  a period of maturity verging on decline the free dictionary.com Most of the leaves have fallen and gathered themselves into messy piles around the yard; a last magnificent burnished hoorah before everything becomes shades of grey dusted in white. So, this afternoon I'll relish the faint warm rays as they touch my face, watch the shifting...

hands grasped, clutching, struggling it was just out-of-reach frustration, try again not to be defeated or disappointed it was right there attempts thwarted, why the obstruction it remained unattainable                   and slipped into oblivion When I find myself in times of trouble...let it be ...an appropriate Beatles song to hear in relation to these penned words. People are struggling, coping: to succeed, to climb, to flourish, to acquire or to merely survive another day, month, year. We all need hope. Tangible hope. Something that won't slip away. What's tangible, anyway? Real, touchable, actual, nothing ethereal, but something to lay our hands on. I need that. You need that. We all need that. Lord, help us. Give us hope. Give us peace. Give us love and patience, concern and compassion. Be within our grasp, don't slip into oblivion, or let us slip into oblivion. Missy    If you have been...

I started to clean the house.  It's a weekly routine, dusting, vacuuming, the regular stuff, basically mundane. And I couldn't seem to focus, flitting from task to task like a moth searching for light. Cool, down-tempo music beat in the background.  You know, the kind of stuff you'd hear at a totally chill night club. That's where the pretty people go to sip pretty cocktails. And here I was in jeans with a hole in the knee and a baggie sweater. I sat down for a cup of Chai and picked up my notebook; abandoning the cleaning. I allowed myself to be transported by the acoustics to that vibing club. In my imagination, I walked in pulsing to the sounds. I wore a mod black slip dress, hair slightly messy with sun-kissed bare arms and legs. Several years ago I might have pulled this off. Now, as an old woman, I still have the down beat in my soul and the messy hair; my legs and arms are waiting for the sun to come kiss them. Inside, I'm a cool girl. H...

It's a snow day, and boy I'm having a hard time focusing. Darn Ground Hog. He didn't see his shadow. That should mean spring's coming early. Heck, in January we had spring. The end of February however, has brought old man winter back.  I use the hashtag " #doilikesnow ." That's a tricky question, one that appears simple at face value; yes or no. The ruse occurs in the answer, since I'm more gray than black and white. I dig a powder-sugar dusting of snow and pendants of icicles lining the roof edge.  Silhouetted trees with snow clinging to bare branches, catching where limbs meets trunk are simply grand. And, I relish the solace and silence that a snow day creates. All winter dreamy stuff, right?  very small, insignificant snowflakes drifted down swirling casually before obscuring the dirt, pavement, the people it was quiet and subdued all you could see was white no definition between sky meeting earth everyone, everything ...

Reflecting. My uncle passed away last night. He was my one and only uncle. My mom was an only child. My dad had one sister. So, I had one uncle. Uncle Kenny was a military man. When I was young, I thought it was so cool that they got to live in Germany. I didn't even know where that was, but it was somewhere I'd never been; still haven't. Almost five years ago, my hubs and I took a road trip to where I was born. It had been scads of years since I'd been to Lakeport. However, I found where my grandparents lived - along with my uncle, aunt and cousins. I thought about the grand adventures Terry and I had. The house no longer existed, but the plot with block retaining wall and outdoor barbecue did. Returning from a jaunt overseas and to Texas, my cousins landed in the Olympia area. We'd take trips up the I5 corridor to see them. In return, they'd travel to Eugene where our grandparents had a farm. As kids, we'd play for hours in the woods and walk w...

I woke to the sun streaming in through the over-sized window in the living room. Cupping my coffee, I closed my eyes and soaked it in. It was such a welcome relief to the previous day's fog that kept everything cold and frozen; huddled in against the grey. Stepping outside I could feel the slight warmth of the sun; my shadow elongated due to it's southerly slant in winter.  Even the birds were more chipper, singing vibrant melodies and flitting about. A few squirrels ran up and down bare trees. Isabella was playful with her nose to the ground and butt up, only to flop down and slide and roll in the remaining snow. I don't mind a little hibernating in the winter. It's a great time to catch up on some reading or to enjoy a hot drink of sorts with a friend. However, I do love the sun shining bright, making me squint. It enlivens the spirit when everything is monochromatic and dormant. The Danish have a cool word - hygge - pronounced hue-guh. Hygge acknowledg...

The park was empty this morning. I was humming California Dreamin'.  I like seeing people and exchanging a few words, but there's something extraordinary and peaceful about being there - alone.  Isabella freely sniffed.  I could weave my way in and out of the trees without wondering if people thought I was a crazy lady for not walking a straight path. trees are gray-brown silhouettes  set against an ashen sky, ready to drop crafted snowflakes streets are iced houses bright with twinkling lights beckon us indoors winter is descending with darkness and dormancy and cold each breath exhaled creates fog an innate splendor  air crystallizes and suspends for a moment all is calm all is quiet in the season of rest and sleep I could hear the birds and see my breath.  I was mindful of winter's imminent arrival. The sky had that "snow sky" look. It's time to think about hibernating, where all is stilled and quiet for a time. Plants and ...

I was cocooned in a glass container on top of a hill, shrouded in clouds and mist. Eva Cassidy sang a bluesy "Wade in the Water." Looking out, the infinity deck was like a ship's bow and we were sailing through the storm. Every other year is our all-family together, together Thanksgiving gathering. 2018 happened to be that gathering year, and I was spoiled ; getting to stay in one of our favorite spots - the cabin above the clouds - that belongs to some friends. Thanksgiving Day was a cacophony of activity. Cousins big and little did their thing. The littles running through the house, even though they were supposed to be upstairs. Tons of giggling could be heard, and of course, the requisite getting mad; just because that's what happens. Love and interaction does that.  Family, even at young ages is messy, but I wouldn't trade or discard it. Stories, old and new were re-lived. Some old stories were given new applications. All isn't ros...

There was a day I was walking in the park with Isabelle. It's a daily activity that's pretty easy for me, now. But, several years back that wasn't the case. Discs in my lower back were pinching nerves, causing the most piercing pain I had ever experienced.  Walking was the worst; and I loved walking. i saw you walking in the park alone birds chattered with squirrels together i saw you bent, moving slowly coping willows shifting in the wind sky lit and sparkling balanced i saw you and i was sad until i saw your smile inspiring After infinite physical therapy treatments and injections and chiropractor visits my doc said a fusion was needed. I freaked, but at this point had nothing to lose and my very movement to gain. Seven years later, I can hike and bike, kayak and snowshoe. I'm grateful for the mobility I gained. So, seeing this woman in the park brought a flood of emotion and empathy. She was as bent as branches...

Writing sometimes takes floaty, old-school music. Right now I'm listening to a Zombies radio mix and specifically Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild" that fades into "Venus" by Shocking Blue. All these songs used to stream out of my sweet black transistor radio when I was in Jr. High, now known as middle school.  We were so cool with our stick-straight hair parted in the middle, wearing white go-go boots and micro-mini skirts. Yes, the stuff of Austin Powers' dreams was groovy reality, baby. All of this musical randomness slipped around in my thoughts as I experimented with another poetic fall piece, but Crosby starts tuning "Wooden Ships," so I pour a glass of 19 Crimes and light the candles. Curtains are drawn. It's dark and quiet outside, while music blares in the house.  The notes return the past, like Jr. High dances. How awkward we were, waiting for a slow song and the excuse to cling onto each other. Or, Strawberry Fi...

Leaving Las Vegas, a line made famous in movies, song lyrics and billboard slogans. For me, it’s more than a catch-phrase. It pierces my heart, now more than ever. You see, previously, people were there drawing me back, but as pages are torn from the book entitled “Life,” I’m more aware of how fleeting and transient things are. Change is a given. My heart feels - each word expressed - come back, don’t be a stranger. I know they’re wondering if they’re losing all contact with the family of ones deeply loved. I wonder, too. And while I also know that’s how things happen, I don’t have to like it. So, I stare out the window of the plane, the sun bringing light and heat to the day in shades of pink and pale orange which burst against the blue sky. My thoughts are pensive, questioning, seeing only the rugged ranges with striations of soil and color veining them. As the plane climbs we soar above the clouds stacked on each other like mounds of whipped sweet cream. Contemplat...

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.  - Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets She sat Mesmerized by bird netting Dropped over the garden and fruit trees It glistened in the sun and moved gracefully in the breeze So did the leaves on the pear tree Morning gentleness as birds made known the day Along with the quaking sound of Aspen Her coffee cup empty With a stained ring and splash down the side Notebook and pen left untouched She stood to tend pots of pink geraniums A train horn sounded from somewhere The neighbor's dog barked Her brown dog lay quietly by the purple table  Brushing hair out of her face Worn hands on her hips, she took stock of her ward and smiled Morning is my time for prayer, meditation and basically waking myself up to the day. I like it quiet and undisturbed. No voices. No talking. No answering. Simply quiet and undisturbed. In the summer, I find one of our Adirondack chairs to...

Living in Central Oregon, one becomes accustomed to living with dust. Our semi-arid climate has a sandy, powder-like soil which appears to grow rocks. How do you grow rocks? I don't know, but it happens.  When I'm cleaning and dusting for the umpteenth time I don't recognize dust for the artistry it can become. Beauty is and always has been created from dust. Pottery, paint and even facial treatments come from dust. And we don't think a thing about slapping a mud mask on to tighten our pours or take care of a bee sting. I asked myself an elementary question: What does dust do ? it clings and covers       blows around seeps in cracks and crevises                          permeates it stays and is ever-present       dust is not a respecter of objects it collects, hides       fine, gritty, powder-like in the air     on faces and bo...

Have you been told you always say something? I have. Evidently, I respond with "excellent" and then ask two questions: How serious are you? And, what's the vision? Each could be asked independently of each other or in reverse order, stacked on each other. Answering one leads to the asking and answering of the other. I know, it sounds like a labyrinth conversation. How serious are you? About a decision, about a change, about a direction or choice? If the answer is some laissez faire something, then nothing will occur. S erious action will not take place, and probably nothing will come of the thought. You see, the degree of seriousness creates movement. Movement, in turn creates a response. I picture it like the proverbial mousetrap game - the dropped marble starts a chain of events. What's the vision is directly tied to the serious question. The vision will determine the degree to which we seriously take things. A wishy-washy, obscured view doe...

I'm a music girl, but I like the quiet. So, I live with this paradox. I see other enigmas in my life - some are trivial, others deserve attention. Look at society. Our current culture is rife in a quagmire of nonsensical. We say we care and want to love, yet do nothing. Or, worse, we simply yammer on about how "somebody" really should be taking care of this or that. I'm guilty here. No stones are being cast. Ergo, I turned off the music to sit in the quiet. What can be heard in the quiet is unreal; the birds waking up, the guy down the street is warming his truck, the slight ringing in my ears,  my thoughts. I can hear my thoughts instead of drowning them out with sound. Sound that I normally groove on. When I hear my thoughts, I'm more aware of the paradox. Even as I sit, the furnace clicks off and the sound of the refrigerator is noticeable; a see-saw invasion to my soul searching and hearing. My interlude with quiet is ending. The sun is pourin...

I spent the afternoon reading through old notebooks filled with pieces I’ve written. Some were finished stories, others concepts or impressions from what was going on in my life.   I found many “mindful” thoughts, chronicles of trips, lists of words and disconnected sentences. It was quite fascinating; like a time capsule of events all noted on paper. I plan to start sharing some of these partial works. My intention is that something in them will resonate with someone. She worked underground. It was better than working above. Daylight exposed things and cast shadows of doubt. Scars and pain, hidden in the earth were revealed. Daily donning the garb of a miner, she gripped her pick axe to toil in darkness; striking each rock with a solid blow. Emerging at dusk, she was loose to roam the quiet streets.   Covered in grit, she was not a sight to turn heads. Her one atoning feature was the unconventional necklace hung from her ivory neck. People rar...

Today is Thanksgiving, and I’m intensely aware of being thankful . I’ve been remembering three years ago. We were moving. Our son and his family were moving. A baby was on her way, and my full-of-life father-in-law had died. Stress levels were off the chart since we were ticking way too many stress boxes. I remember being sad and afraid, angry and crying, but also very grateful to have my kids and grandkids all living in the same town. In our fluid world, this is a rare blessing. The dust has settled – as much as it can in Central Oregon – but there’s stuff. There always is, right? While standing in line at Trader Joe’s on Sunday afternoon, I watched people. The scene was alive, buzzing and organic. Noise levels were high; the place was crammed. The bustle made me happy. And, I thought, what stories do these people have? The guy checking my groceries said he was single, had been invited to join friends for Thanksgiving, but wasn’t sure. He saw too much dram...

We went away for the weekend; a quick getaway stolen to breathe. Stolen to rest. Stolen to connect, with each other, maybe with random encounters. The sea was stormy, but we could walk on the beach without being soaked or blown away. Experiencing the power of the waves, noticing stones and debris, some quite large, tossed like one would toss Pick-up Stix. S unny beach days are glorious, but for me, there’s a special appeal in the moodiness of a storm. Our paths crossed with vendors and servers and other visitors such as ourselves. Two encounters were different, no actually three. The initial encounter was with the servers at our first breakfast joint . The guy behind the counter was polite and refined in his jeans, t-shirt and Vans. The restaurant only accepts cash. Who carries much of that anymore? We had some, but needed to pay attention to what we ordered since we weren’t prepared. The gal said, “ No worries, it happens all the time. Just stop back and pay...

she lived an abstract life,          one painted, but lacking elements of realism existence was too harsh whereas the color-washed reality was delightful and delicate, full of impulse                  open to possibility        children live an abstract life                     she had chosen to join them Existing in thought or idea, but nothing concrete and tangible - abstract. Paintings, feelings, the wind, these are intangibles. I often feel like I live in and relate more to things, people, places that are abstract. There's a certain mystery, something to uncover. Abstract is experienced, felt. It's not quantitative. It can't be defined or put in a box with a pretty little bow. I often wonder why we want to define everything.  Think about it. Your job has a description, an ailment is named or given an acronym and heaven ...

Pink Floyd’s “ Dark Side of the Moon ” has been rumbling around in my car for the past several weeks. Ethereal, out-there, reverb melodies echo. Lyrics seem odd to the casual ear turned only to the instrumental depiction of helicopters and clock alarms sounding. The song, “ Time ” says, “ ticking away the moments that make up a dull day. ” That phrase has been stuck in my head. Maybe it’s because we view much of life’s routine as dull. dull: not sharp, blunt, causing boredom, tedious, uninteresting, not intense or lively, passionless, flat, stagnant, routine, usual What makes up a dull day? The answer to that question is as broad as the people you ask. For me, a dull day is a day without creative stimulus; for others it might mean having to do the same repetitious routine they did the day before and the day before that and so on ad finem. When I looked dull up in The Thesaurus, words like common, usual, routine and ordinary came up, along with a slew of oth...