Isabella Bird Miscellany

After taking a writing hiatus this summer, it's time to be back. Just like I'm ready for a change of seasons, I'm also ready for a change in mindset and habits. Summer brings camping and picnicking, farming and kayaking. I want to be outside every possible waking moment. My journals collected a lot of dust. And my thoughts drifted over how to combat aphids with ladybugs instead of putting ink to paper. Now that I'm sitting with a long-sleeved t-shirt on, but still a pair of cut-offs, I'm ready to tap out some observations, introspections, quips, quirks and everyday stories. Thanks for reading. Thanks for listening to part of my life. Around the corner, and a few houses down, live two little boys. They like playing barefoot, no matter the weather. Curiosity is ingrained in them, and Bella always gets lots of love when we walk by. One recent morning I was told they were going to the river to climb over big gray rocks and look for crayfish and snakes. The yo...

I sat down in a field to write. It had been recently mowed, the bales already removed. The stubble was coarse and golden with a few seeds scattered here and there. Eventually, birds will eat them or they'll become part of the next crop. The air was warm on my face, and I could hear crickets singing. It was bucolic and pastoral. In the distance stood the old red barn. It used to house cows and pigs, and a store of hay for the winter. Now, a few jumbled things are left inside, and the only creatures are spiders, field mice and swallows. A moss covered bird feeder swings in the gnarled apple tree. The small orchard is old , yet after all the years, it still yields fruit for the picking. This place. This farm. This field holds many memories for me. My Granny's fried potatoes and squash, Papa's big old watermelons, cows gently grazing and chickens pecking around before becoming dinner. Cast iron bath tubs were used as watering troughs. We kids used the...

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...

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...

Walking past the hedge, on the edge of the broken pavement, the path constricts as branches brush past my cheek. The way is narrow and thin; a reflective pace unavoidable. There's life in the hedge - birds and bugs, spiders and the sort. Life seems well designed for creatures of nature. They exist in the hedge and dine on what comes their way; a small interactive society. In some way or another, we all live in a hedge - our town, our community, neighborhood and home. How much we participate in the movement of our hedge depends on us. Take the spider for example. She spins a lively tatted web and then waits, luring in her food. On the other hand, birds flit and flicker, seizing what have you's here and there, and then  return to their nest. Other living things fill additional elements of the hedge. All have a useful fragment of the being. I walk by this hedge most days. And, most days the phrase, "walking past the hedge on the edge" goes through my mi...

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...

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...

It's Holy Week, and I don't feel very "holy."  Things are coming apart and are broken. There's a friend whose husband has been dealing with serious health issues for a few years. A family who lost a dear loved one and marriage struggles for other friends. My job is coming to an end. And, heck just don't even bother to watch the news. It's Holy Week, and why don't I feel "holy?"  Because I'm consumed by what I see and what's happening all around me. Lives are shattered into mosaic pieces. And, I desperately need the One who controls life and breath and everything else to put the pieces together. When I think of the word holy, visions of a perfect, devout person comes to mind; someone like Mother Theresa or St. Augustine. They probably didn't feel holy either. Stuff happened around them as well. I don't have a corner on the market for crap going on. You want to know what holiness is really about?  Look at Jesu...

It was 14 degrees when I went for a walk the other morning. Three layers under my puffy, wool socks, fur lined boots, checked scarf and a knitted beanie. Oh, and omni-heat gloves, but my hands were still cold. The morning fog was clearing and tiny ice particles drifted from the frosted air, dusting everything in delicate white. Faint sunshine was marginally warmer than the shadows. Interesting, at that temperature, to experience a meager difference. Belle was oblivious, romping and sniffing in the cold, while I wandered, observing. Observing iced trees hung with pinecone ornaments and glistening leftover crab apples. They looked like candied apples to pluck. Diminutive birds fluttered from branches overhead, joyous, as one would expect. And a squirrel or two ventured out, fleet of foot. I found myself humming " Walking in a Winter Wonderland ." It's one of my favorite Christmas songs, always reminding me of my Granddaddy. Later on, we'll conspire, ...

The lights just clicked on. The ones we hung outside last Friday when the day was bright and fair. Today it’s cloudy and cold. It’s dark earlier. So, the lights just clicked on. It’s pretty. If I squint, the white fairy lights look like tiny gleaming stars. Bordering on gazing at an inky sky, dotted and specked with minute bursts of light. Two Moravian stars with multi-faceted points hang. They sway with the breeze. Moving to the wind’s breathed music. They reflect in the open window; mirror images, star duets. Santa arrives in a helicopter descent at the Old Mill. He sets up shop, elves and reindeer to join later. High fives, and shy giggles, the kids approach. Innocent, bright eyes wide open and hopeful. It’s a magical and expectant season. It’s Advent. Advent – the arrival of the awaited One – is more than my lights clicking on, the Moravian stars dancing and my grandkids’ wonder at the arrival of Santa. I love each of these experiences and the ...

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...

waking: aware, conscious, alert  Morning musings as I meander not so meticulously. This particular day was one of those stellar days. It was cold and ice clung to the just-watered grass. It was crunchy and slippery. I needed to pay attention, at least in part, to my steps. Noticing my steps makes for a mindful walk. I see things. Experience what's going on. Breath could be seen, not just taken in. Air movement felt, causing hands to be pushed further into jacket pockets. My steps made prints in the icy grass. So did Bella's and every other dog roaming around. I would not begin to equate my park walks with my labyrinth walks.  However, I do notice that I walk quickly to get to the park. Slowly while in the park; leisurely on the way out of the park. This rhythm sets a good tone for my day. day is waking up                 assorted birds say it’s so with their voices ...

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...