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...

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...

fox glides, low to the ground                       sly, inquisitive, resourceful creatures solitary, bronzed and ruddy with flashing eyes        bushy tail dipped in white  forest home or urban domain                                      fox, a nocturnal pilgrim Summer has afforded me an opportunity to move about aimlessly; not quite a coddiwomple, but sort of. This week, I found myself writing and sipping iced chai at Foxtail Bakery. Let's just say the cookies were perfect and divine; I was completely tempted to purchase more pastries than I should.  There's a tall counter with white-backed stools and a big garage door to let in light and fresh air. Picture windows face the street. Cars buzz by. Black and white striped umbrellas twirl like the tutu of a ballerina. Assorted tables an...

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...

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 ...

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...

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, ...

even city birds know they can find food and a place to rest “ Look at the birds ” – it’s a phrase I often hear in my being. These words are a reminder for me to take my eyes off myself, to notice the attitude and conduct of my feathered friends. Have you noticed how birds never seem to have bad days? I do, but they don’t. I was thinking back on a walk with some of our grands last spring. The leaves hadn’t engulfed the trees quite yet. When things are bare, things are visible. One of our granddaughters noticed a bird nest in the bare branches. She said, very matter of factly, “When I’m a baby bird I can live there.” These are the simple words of an imaginative little girl. She went on to find different sized nests for her big brother and baby sister; each with the same explanation: “When brother is a baby bird he can live there. When sister is a baby bird she can live there.” when I’m a baby bird, will I choose to fly? it’s the nature of baby bird, y...

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...