Isabella Bird Miscellany

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 ...

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...

She came into the shop to purchase barbecue sauce, usually 3 to 4 bottles at a time. Her eyes were clear blue, and she had a ready smile that was mixed with quietness and melancholy. I remember one particular day she came in with eyes red around the edges. I asked if everything was ok. She looked at me with her clear blue eyes and said, "Yes, but there are days you just need to cry." I agreed then, and I agree now. Today is one of those melancholy days; not a need-to-cry day, but one that's on the side of sad and contemplative. So, it seems appropriate to share this post that's been sitting as a draft for weeks. People are lonely, desperately crying to be noticed. I've been lonely. I've had conversations with people who are lonely. The unfortunate thing is, it's not the outcast, recluse living in the hoarder house down the street. It's the chipper girl at the coffee shop who only wants another couple for her and her boyfriend to hang wi...

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...

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...

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, ...

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...

I didn't get it written down because I didn't slow down. I was mindful of needing to physically slow down my walking pace. Your voice was clear; a tangible choice to make, mirroring what my soul needed to do. So, I did ... momentarily. I was mindful of life to be seen in the desert. It had been hot and dry, but tiny wildflowers sprinkled the rocky, barren ground with dots of pink and purple with grey-sage leaves. Dragons darted in the parching air. Killdeer bobbed the earth while unseen birds crooned. I was mindful of stepping onto the dock; the bleached boards reflecting the sun. Small, almost see-through fish schooled away from under the landing. I'd known if I watched long enough, searched enough times, they should be there; and they were, they are. I'm mindful of how quickly these observations vanish like a mirage when my pace returns to frantic. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have ...