Isabella Bird Miscellany

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...

Ever feel like you're living in a roundabout? Where I live, we have several. They move traffic well, except when they don't. And of course, we all remember the scene from European Vacation where Chevy Chase keeps going round and round the Arc de Triomphe. There seemed to be no way out of the never-ending circle. i'm circular my weary mind a looping maze all the paths it wanders come back to the same spot i try to jump out of the hamster wheel as it spins faster, but the centrifugal force holds me, stuck Yeah, that's me. I'm circling around. Going through motions, held in place. Why can't I slow it down or make it stop? i'm circular revisiting habits and manners of being how do i shatter those patterns so ingrained rutted in the psyche pushing hard on the lines that inhibit and restrain one hand reaches through a thin place As hard as I try, we try, the same stuff keeps coming up and back around. I become indistinct in the same grooves. ...

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 ...

My laptop sits on a makeshift desk. It's situated in an east facing window. From my window I see the neighborhood where I live, and an intense ruddy maple tree. At the base of the tree is a dry creek bed  we created this summer. It's now full of the red leaves, recently blown from branches.  Allowing my gaze to go beyond the maple, a tall pine stands and the pale medallions of the aspen glint in the afternoon light. The colors and splendor of the dying and drying leaves affects me every year. I wish I could capture the enticing beauty with photos and words worthy of the display. Copperhead Road plays in the background. The name kind of goes with this piece; a nice strong beat vibrating, much like my heart when autumn arrives. autumn sun rises slowly,  splintering the horizon into blushing skies that appear to the strain of birdsong wild geese honk their lonesome ballad,  taking flight in early morning mist falling gently on grass...

People come and go in our lives. Some, we spend time with for a short season, while others remain. My friend Cait, although I’ve only known her for a short time, has a way of leaving impressions that last an eternity. Back in January of 2017, we met up for lunch. She was preparing to take a trip. I don’t even remember where she was going. It didn’t matter. After we parted, I jotted down my thoughts with the full intention of finishing the poem. However, the more I’ve lingered with it, the more I love it in its incomplete state.  An ordinary lunch with an extraordinary person We ate tacos and pupusas and talked of adventures small and grand A weariness in her eyes as she prepared to leave  She’s brave and adventurous and vulnerable like a child all at the same time But then, aren’t we all? My friend, I’m so excited about the chapters you are writing in another place with other people. I hear your passionate words, “Stop the glorification of busy!” So tru...

Just over four years ago, my guy and I traveled to Lakeport, California where I was born. I hadn't been there since I was 12. As we walked and drove around, I had this weird déjà vu, I-remember-this-place thing happening. I tried to find my paternal grandparents home, but where that placed used to be no longer existed. Instead, there was an empty lot with only a block retaining wall still standing. The big cedar tree was there, strong and tall. where that place used to be is now a vacant lot a crumbling retaining wall borders the edge remnants of an old barbecue, a bird bath weeds and a few scraggly shrubs an old rose with scant petals, but many hips when I closed my eyes, it all returned the white two-story house with kitchen at the back wooden screen door that slammed as kids ran in and out potato salad and chicken fried up in a big cast iron skillet laundry hung on the whirly line in the yard at noon the firehouse siren would sound we'd r...

he lumbered down the alley, casting a long stalk of a shadow hat brim twice over his ears, he whistled a tune one of those you should know, but can't quite put your finger on strolling out-of-sight, his image lingered The photo is street art. It was my muse for this short scribbled poem. The prompt was "stalk." As soon as I read the word, I remembered this picture, snapped on an aimless walk through the Alberta Arts area of Portland.  Did you know there's a really cool word - coddiwomple - that means to travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination?  Yeah, a friend shared that with me awhile back, and I've been waiting for an opportune time to use it. Somehow, though, I think it will be worthy of a complete blog, in and of itself. I find street art to be poignant. It tells a story, even scrawled graffiti.  The spray-can wielding individual had something to say. And whether you agree with his method or not, the message was ...

Sitting on the patio at Milo's Cellar and Inn, I found myself mesmerized by the sound of the water. The theory was to read and write, but I was absorbed with the sound; conscious of the water spilling over the gutter which had become a fountain. We stayed at Milo's last year. It's an oasis in the desert, tucked above and behind the wine cellar exterior. Once the door closes that leads to the courtyard and rooms, one has entered another place, another time. A place where time is still and quiet, save for the profusion of water tipping over the gutter. water tipped over the down turned gutter covered with years of verdi gris on what was slick copper the splashing was loud; landing in a pool inhabited by shiny koi and a turtle named Tom cattails lived on the edge; conversant with existence in water and soil moss adhered to rocks drinking in each splashed water molecule listening, the sound was rhythmic and steady; a heartbeat in water the water...

I think in fragments. There's something curious and engaging about partial thoughts that have no punctuation or delineation. The oddments leave me wondering what's next, what's beyond the obvious. This unknown is like peering through a hole in the fence to see what’s there or opening a box of junk found in a cranny of the garage. I like to write what I call “Found Poems.” The basic idea is to take a handful of words, fragments if you will, and use them to write a poem.   The words I chose to incorporate into this Found Poem made it difficult,  but it's a good exercise for my mind to pull together disparate words to form something. Poetry should flow, yet the flow is often in fragments. words used: tower, viable, conversation, reservation, treat looking from the tower, perched on the edge beyond visible in every direction conversation viable in the great expanse no distraction, nothing obscured at the vantage above it all hesitation, ...

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 ...

tonalli's doughnut shop on the corner of ne alberta, pdx each morning they’d meet at the coffee shop on main street, the one located between the bank and the barber shop the counter was covered with turquoise laminate sprinkled with what looked like leftover toast crumbs black vinyl swivel stools waited for patrons it smelled of black coffee, fried eggs and doughnuts white, thick-rimmed mugs were etched with coffee stains the neon sign flickering “open” clicked on at 5:30 each morning one by one, they filtered in, taking their designated seats …and the banter began it was a game the old guys played every day, at the coffee shop We all like having a spot to go, to belong, where we find our friendships. Today, we call them meet-up groups or intentional community.  What used to just happen organically, now takes scheduling and might not happen for weeks on end. Case in point, I'm having lunch with one of my sisters today that I haven't seen...

winter seeds, all is not dormant Soft season of quiet anticipation, blankets with mist and snow Preparing for the dormant time   Sweet solitude balms the weary, all is in calm repose Patient and silent in winter’s rest   Come gentle season of peace and stillness, envelope in candlelight and flickering fire Welcome Counselor, welcome Advent   Solus Christus Sunday was the beginning of Advent, a time marked with anticipation of something, someone to come. It’s a time of expectant waiting; things coming into being. I am quiet. I am anticipating. I am waiting for things to come into being. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

life in a crack We left the city yesterday, wet leaves covered sidewalks; brown and at the end of their season. It had been nice to walk neighborhoods, dart into cafes for coffee or a drink. It was grey in a melancholy sort of way, with a fresh breeze. Being reminded of traffic, activity, and people. The places we gravitate filled with the not-mainstream people. I’m intrigued with their stories and thoughts, often different from mine. Bridges and highways, buildings old and new, some dilapidated, others restored. The rush and crush continues, all covered with leaves set in grey. Written in Seaside, about Portland while in our hip, urban loft-esque industrial hotel. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

I chose a seat by the window. There weren’t too many available... The glass went all the way to the floor. A wood bar was mounted at counter height with wobbly swivel stools. The view was urban; sidewalk, cars and shops. An older couple walked by leisurely, holding hands, while a couple of twenty somethings smiling and talking had a fast pace. I like watching from my fish bowl. A small bird pecked at what I can only assume were crumbs from someone’s leftover muffin. It’s quite content with scraps. The day itself was rainy and really blowing. Mid-fall leaves trying to cling to nearly bare branches, knowing that soon they too will join the others spread on the sidewalk. It’s pretty. I’m sort of oblivious to the goings on around me in the coffee house, instead giving my attention to what’s outside. While there’s activity inside, much is happening outside the window. Choosing where I sit – Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or insp...

aspen leaves look like golden coins tinkling from weathered white branches 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 I stepped out the front door to a blast of wind. It wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold, just wind gusting on an autumn afternoon. Why do we use the word fall more than autumn? Dry leaves clattered down the sidewalk, as a cloud of dirt and debris from a nearby construction site forced me to close my eyes, and I hoped Bella was doing the same. Taking a left on the next block, pine needles lay like pick-up sticks on the sidewalk and late season purple asters grew. My senses were on high alert. The wind does that; it disturbs everything. I felt it blowing hair out of my face; saw it kicking up and knocking down leaves of almost irid...

strewn pebbles Walking on the path I noticed the pebbles. I stopped and picked one up, holding it in my hand to feel it’s texture. Tiny and smooth, it felt warm from the sun. Continuing on my walk, the way was scattered with pebbles of different shapes and sizes; some flat and polished, others round and craggy with sharp edges that could cut the skin. I considered the meaning, if any. Some had been sanded to perfection by time and wear. Others recently broken and chipped were harsh, ugly to feel and look at. No matter, all were pebbles; that was fact. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

we took a stinkin' lot of dirt roads, but i wouldn't have it any other way The drive wasn’t long by west coast standards, a mere few of hours; which meant there was plenty of leisure (interpreted coffee time) before leaving on another road trip escapade.  I can’t begin to tell you how much fun it is to pack a bag, gas up the car and set out to see what can be seen. An interesting thing I’ve discovered on these exploits, is that having lived in Oregon for the majority of my life, I’ve missed “seeing” a lot of things. You know, I think we all get into the habit of going to the same places, which is a good thing, but we forget about the “other” places that are right in our own backyards. Case in point, yesterday afternoon, when my darling man and I went to Tumalo Falls. I’ve been to Skyliner Snow Park, but never gone the few more dirt road miles to see the falls. Holy cow! Is that lame, or what? a sweet little place, no frills, but plenty of yesteryear ...

What’s hidden in a blur of color? You know, those pictures that look like one thing until you put on special glasses Magically, we see shapes and forms that were hidden in plain sight Startling how the kaleidoscope transforms before us Isn’t life like that? Walking around in a blur of colored glass shards, when a pair of cardboard glasses with a cellophane lens would change everything Instead, we stumble and trip over things or flat out ignore them, pretending not to see Saying it’s hidden, lost in the blur A scant excuse that we tell ourselves to ease the unease we feel at our intended blindness What’s hidden in a blur of color? Child’s laughter and falling leaves; hurt and need and hunger Tears of joy and tragedy An amalgamation titled life -   Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance ...