Boxes that were not mine:  My second year of graduate school, I lived with a woman up in the hills of Sierra Madre, CA.  Her name was Toby.  She was a social worker and therapist, and a reluctant smoker.  By which I mean, she really wanted to quit but had tried so many times that, well into her 50’s, she had given up.  She had the vertical lines around her mouth common to longtime smokers, born of their lips crowding around a cigarette countless times.  She did not dye her hair.  She owned a Volvo, and the most affectionate golden retriever I have ever met.  His name was Shamus, and to this day I do not ask when he died because I prefer to think he has not.  She was very kind, and quite busy, and my favorite memory of her is when we sat together one night watching Jane Campion’s Angel at My Table and her loving it and saying for weeks afterwards, “Only a woman could have made that movie.”

When I returned to Oregon, Toby was convinced I’d left several boxes behind in her basement.  It was possible.  I had been a bit hell-bent getting out of there, sick of LA and eager to get a job in Portland with my freshly minted MSW (acquired 20 years ago this month, by the way).  Years passed, and Toby asked me to please do something about the boxes.  Luckily, a toddler I’d known when I lived in the area was now a teenager and, for money, she agreed to ship the boxes to me.  They arrived: six boxes with a few words scrawled on each one the way you do when you put things in storage to remind you what’s in there.  It was not my handwriting.

How I would like to tell you that when I opened the boxes, I discovered interesting and unusual artifacts from someone else’s life – or even from my own life that I’d forgotten about.  Instead, I had numerous back issues of Car and Driver magazine.  Thank goodness for the  Free Bench.

Yesterday, biking home, I saw another biker who instead of wearing this

wore this

It was a little dissonant, merging two worlds in an unexpected way.  It made me think, of course, about the few years I took English horseback riding lessons, starting at age 11 when we lived in Scotland.  I didn’t want to learn to ride a horse because of the velvety helmet, but it didn’t hurt!  Mine had a golden yellow satin-y lining. I remember the helmet measured 6 and 7/8 inches.  Meaning my brains were not overly large.

I loved my helmet, I loved my jodphurs, I loved my riding crop.  I loved riding a horse whose ears pricked forward.  I remember Amber who was enormous and named for his color, and who earned me a grooming commendation at horse camp because his coat glowed so and his mane was made for plaiting.  I remember Pokey, who was named ironically.  I remember Blueprint, who threw me, and Colonel Flaxie, who was the first horse I ever road, and Shawnee, who had such a gentle lope a person could have taken a nap on her back.

The woman on the bike had the right style going, but I doubt she’ll be making the sort of memories with her bike that I made with horses – even if she does have the right headgear for it.

The title of this blog entry was going to be “Daring to Be Ordinary.”  In it, I planned to explain how last year at this time, I had all sorts of hopes and dreams about my writing, and how this year, I have scaled those back to a more manageable and modest scope.  I even planned to offer supporting documentation for this new stance.  I’d quote Adam Phillips, a British psychoanalyst who recently wrote an essay that invites us to give up the idea that we could have been a contender.  Who says? Russell asks.  Look at all the ways that bemoaning our ordinary life gets in the way of enjoying that ordinary life.

There is a certain appeal to crying, “Uncle!” in the face of one’s unsatisfied wantings.  Last year, I wrote a story that was exhilarating to produce and decided it was time to get back into the fray – I’d figure out possible markets for the story, send it out, keep track of rejections, keep sending it out, etc., etc. – only I’d forgotten what it feels like to have something rejected.  In case there is any doubt about this, it doesn’t feel good.  Maybe I didn’t want to participate in this process after all.

It followed, then, that if I just copped to being ordinary, I’d be able to step out of the entire agonizing sequence of wanting, striving, failing; wanting, striving, failing; wanting, striving, failing.  It appeared that the best place to stop that sequence was at the point of wanting.  If I resolved not to want, or if I shaped my wanting into something more attainable (as in, I don’t actually want that cute boy to date me, I just want him to smile back when I smile at him), then maybe I won’t feel this crappy feeling of wanting something I don’t get.

That was my idea a few days ago.  I’d get ahold of my wanting, I’d stop the cycle, I’d be heroic in your eyes – in an ordinary hero sort of way.  But damned if last weekend’s writing retreat didn’t get me back in touch with some wants I have for my writing.  So I had to change my title because while there might be daring in accepting one’s ordinariness, there is maybe even greater daring in being in each and every moment: being who we are when we want, and who we are when we are rejected, and who we are when we realize we’re no Virginia Woolf, and who we are when, even so, there are some things we want as a writer.

1)   If the guide book says there are lots of roosters on Kaua’i, really take this information in.  Read it again: “THERE ARE A LOT OF ROOSTERS ON KAUA’I.”  Think about what you know about roosters: among other things, they like to crow.  If there are a lot of roosters, then it stands to reason that a lot of roosters will be crowing.  Ask yourself, What might I need that I otherwise might not bring on an island where there are a lot of crowing roosters?  Ear plugs? A white-noise machine?  A shotgun?

2)  If you allow yourself for the first time in your life to order yourself a pair of prescription sunglasses, do not convince yourself that the ocean is gentle enough and you are savvy enough that you can wear the sunglasses while boogie boarding.  And if you wear them boogie boarding anyway, when your husband says, “You might want to take those off and put them in the beach bag,” listen to him.

3)  If a red-haired, 20-something hitch hiker dressed in shorts and a straw hat stands by the side of the road next to a pile of coconuts, give him a ride.  It will be fun.

4)  If someone you meet on the island says about Lydgate Park, “The snorkeling isn’t that great,” don’t believe her.  Any moment when you are under water and there are colorful fish swimming with you is an amazing moment.

5)  If you go to Jo-Jo’s Shave Ice Shack because the guidebook says it’s the best shave ice on the island, try not to get so bored waiting in the long line that you slump against the counter and accidentally knock over the tip jar – which happens to be an old glass blender.  Because if you do, glass will go everywhere and the sullen 20-something who is the sole worker there will use this as an opportunity to shoo all the customers out and close the shack for ten minutes while he makes sure he has swept up all the glass.  And ten minutes is just long enough for the one who made this mistake to feel so embarrassed that they don’t want to go in after 10 minutes because everyone will know the delay was their fault.  But, hey, even if you forget these details, don’t sweat it.  The island is crawling with shave ice places, and lots of them are pretty good – even if they aren’t Jo-Jo’s.  You’ll still be able to  find flavors like Hurricane, Buttered Popcorn and Dill Pickle, and you may even decide to eat all three flavors at the same time.

I recently bought some coffee that, by mistake, was un-ground, and so now I find myself every morning grinding the beans for my coffee – and for as long as I live, this will remind me of my friend, Steve Novick’s mom, Becky.

My freshman year of college at the University of Oregon, Steve and I became friends.  A mutual friend actually owned a car, and occasionally Steve would remain after the end of the school day in order to socialize with us – which meant we had to find a way to get him back home to Cottage Grove.

Steve lived in Cottage Grove with his mom, dad, and two younger brothers.  Times were lean at Steve’s house, and yet every time we returned him home safely, Becky would offer us a cup of coffee for the road back to Eugene.  She had a preferred ritual around the coffee.  They had an old-fashioned coffee grinder, and Becky’s idea was that a certain number of beans, and a certain number of turns of the handle, produced the best cup of coffee.  Steve would carefully count the specified number of beans into the top of the grinder and turn the handle.  The aroma of coffee spread into the small kitchen as the grinder broke open the beans, and permeated it further when hot water hit the ground beans sitting in their single-cup Melitta filter.

Coffee was still a luxury to me during those years.  Becky’s hospitality captivated me.  The things I deemed as precious were difficult for me to be open-handed with, and yet Becky wanted to share some precious coffee with Steve’s friends before we had to leave again.  I very much enjoy thinking of her as I noisily grind my morning coffee.

Today on the Free Bench:  A smiling blue fish pillow, two knife holders, a container of leftover spaghetti, a DVD of Whale Rider, and a package of Black Tiger Prawns with the heads and shells still on.

We returned home Tuesday evening after being gone for 13 days to find a delightfully festooned Free Bench and a note.

I will not detail the contents of the entire note (or maybe you can read this tiny print!), but the gist of it was that “our gracious neighbors” (that is, me and Garth) have provided us with this Free Bench so don’t abuse it by leaving stuff that really should just be disposed of.  

It was a sweet thing to come back to – and not just because anything one might describe with the verb “festoon” is bound to be pretty cool.  I was delighted that someone took this sort of initiative.  I doubt I would have.  How does someone look at our Free Bench and, rather than thinking, “Not my problem,” says, “Hey, this is my neighborhood and it’s my job to do my part to keep it the way we all want it to be”?  I know what it looks like when people don’t do that.  There is a block that Kami and I give a wide berth when we walk to her school because it’s just sort of dumpy and depressing.  No initiative on that block.

We suspected a couple neighbors of having this sort of get-up-and-go that probably resulted in the note and decorations, and finally we learned it was Ronnie.  She lives around the corner, is maybe 10 years older than me and drives a school bus for a living.  She adores animals and, as long as I’ve known her, she has always had a dog who looks a little like this:

Ronnie has single-handedly entreated (through small signs at dog-poop level) that people walking their dogs through our ‘hood pick up after them.  Ronnie is my inspiration.

Yesterday, before I turned it off, I heard a story on NPR about how in Spain, an old tradition is returning: hunting wild boar on horseback with spears.  To my mind, something happens when we enact a tradition that is no longer a necessity.  We no longer examine the thing itself, and maybe we divorce ourselves from the need that gave rise to the tradition in the first place.  We lose something important in the process.

In Hawaii, we had a day when we ate almost exclusively things grown on the island.  It was a cool experiment, and it was also devoid of any requirement.  If we grew tired of the experiment, we could go to the store.  Sometimes I spin wool into yarn and knit things to wear and use.  It is for the pure pleasure of it.  I could buy basically the same thing for a fraction of what un-spun wool and yarn cost.

I don’t exactly think I’m suggesting that continuing traditional practices are suspect.  Obviously, there can be artistry and pleasure involved in many things that are no longer essential, and I happen to think the world is sorely lacking in artistry and pleasure.  But I feel stumped by how to honor not only the historical necessity of something but also the fact that it is still a necessity in so many parts of the world.  And even if few Americans have to go hunt and gather for our food, more and more of us scrounge for the means to buy our food.

I am wondering how to carry my privilege honorably in a way that does not minimize the struggles of others (and perhaps even lightens their burden a bit).  Maybe something on the order of how Native Americans thanked (and likely many still do) the spirits of animals they hunted and killed for food.  I am eager for your thoughts about this.

There is something better about wearing fewer clothes.  (If you are confused, see Goulashesinhawaii.blogspot.com.)  The idea of wearing most of my Portland adornments – scarves, necklaces, rings, layers –  seems silly here, because bodies are enough.  I imagine most bodies would unfurl in this place.  Hawaii is the land equivalent of that amazing weightlessness of water that can make any one of us feel lithe and supple.

Experiencing this buoyant feeling means that an unexpected glance in a mirror or at a recently taken photo has the power to shock.  Moving around this place, I am a lanky, tanned, strong island woman – until reality asserts itself.  This is not a new phenomenon for a person to notice – being brought up short by the contrast between our felt sense and our outer image – but I’m not sure what to do with it.

It makes me think of the first time someone tried to explain Taoism to me.  I was maybe 13 at the time.  The Explainer may have been my brother, who would have been 14 and studying Ancient China at Yorktown Heights High School.  He said, “It’s like if you dream you’re a butterfly, and then you wake up as a human – who’s not to say you aren’t actually the butterfly dreaming you’re a person?”

We put more stock than we ought to in appearances and the way we appear to others.  We all know this.  How can we move through the world more as the person we feel we are? If we feel we are a butterfly, what should it matter that someone else might not see us that way?  I believe this is what my professional and personal life are about: wanting us all to dare to be the butterflies we are.

First of all, I find myself with my family in Hawaii.  Kaua’i, to be precise.  If you’d like to check out pictures et al. we are blogging at goulashesinhawaii.blogspot.com.

One of the first things I read after arriving was a Ms. Magazine we brought with us, and it talked about how the current food trend a la Michael Pollen and Barbara Kingsolver (in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle) is largely white and affluent-ish – and perhaps suggests women need to get back in the kitchen to boot (apparently Michael Pollen took on Betty Friedan for contributing to the erosion of women’s contentment with the kitchen).

As far as the latter goes, I mostly haven’t thought the food trends were presented as if they only applied to women.  But here on Kaua’i, I am thinking about the former charge.  Food here is really expensive.  And I don’t just mean organic hemp milk and its ilk.  A half gallon of regular whole milk costs almost $7.00.  So, we are shopping with the regular folk here in Kaua’i, which has me realizing two things.  The first thing is that this food movement – or whatever we want to call it – has to do better at addressing the needs (the financial needs) of working and middle class people.  I think Mark Bittman is doing a great job in this area but more would be better.

The second thing I realized is how much I insulate myself in Portland.  I know it so well I never have to go anywhere I am not familiar with.  And though I think it’s pretty human to prefer the familiar, it means, for example, that I only see the other people who can afford to shop at New Seasons and they do not a representative sample of Portlanders make.  I am woefully and willfully out of touch, and I might explore that topic another time here if I can do so without feeling too painfully sheepish about it.

This all puts me in mind of that saying about having to go halfway around the world to come face-to-face with oneself, except I only had to travel for 6 hours.

A few days ago, I left work around dusk.  As I climbed the hill beside the hospital, I noticed two people on the sidewalk, walking arm-in-arm, their long white canes swishing before them.  I had a twinge of concern: I tend to think of blind people as perhaps a bit more vulnerable than us sighted folk, and here it was getting dark.  How would they find their way around?  After all, they’re blind.

A beat later, I realized that, whether it’s day or nighttime, what helps these folks get around is not the presence of daylight, but rather those trusty canes.  It didn’t matter that it was getting dark.  They’d navigate Portland just as easily as they had before the sun went down.

There is something about coming up against my assumptions that I find delightful.