if we shadows have offended
think but this and all is mended
that you have but slumbered here
while these visions did appear
and this weak and idle theme
no more yielding, but a dream
gentles, do not reprehend,
if you pardon, we will mend
and as i'm an honest puck,
if we have unearned luck
now to 'scape the serpent's tongue
we will make amends ere long
else the puck a liar call,
so goodnight, unto you all
give me your hands, if we be friends
and robin shall restore amends

-shakespeare-

luna and i went running tonight, after a particularly stormy monday that simply flew by at work. that had something to do with how much time i spent trying to figure out a payment plan for the 2000 dollars that i now owe for max. which, while being ENTIRELY worth it...is not always worth it. ah, the guilt. plus i had a lot to do, spent some time gabbing with my cubicle neighbor about coworkers and her baby set-up (she's due in 5 weeks!), and watched the sky shift and fall outside my window. so after this day that trucked right along, i came home to find my brother out and my SIL at her clinicals, and the little bad dog was hungering for a run. i threw on my new (!) shoes and we headed out.

the bluffs were windy today. lu and i got batted around and hammered by rain; off and on the sun smudged the clouds a pale yellow. and every runner we passed waved a friendly hello, not a big gesture but just a small lift of the hand and little nod, an acknowledgment of the cameraderie that exists in a sport that is singular in its solitude. the far off mountains--those rolling strong hills that border the northwest end of town--were layered with little pockets of mist here and there. it was like living in a kesey novel. i love this place. i love how i can see mount st helens, mount adams, and mount hood on a clear day; i love how the trees whip around and rattle the sky on a dark day; i love how secure i feel here. i love how i can see my life stretching out ahead of me here, with the curves and the straightaways, and i love how that life looks.

come on without
come on within
you'll not see nothing
like the mighty Quinn

-bob dylan-

it's been a rough week. with the grand exception of a fantastic first night of dodgeball this season (we won both our games!) and a spectacular run today and monday. which, now that i think about it, are great exceptions. so maybe not a rough week. just an up-and-down one. one that ended with my cat, maximilian, in the emergency vet hospital for 2 days, where he still is tonight.

i know he's a cat. and i'm well aware that there are a lot of people who don't necessarily understand how much he means to me. or think that i'm heading towards crazy-cat-lady land. i can assure you i'm not. i'm already fairly certain that max is going to be a one-time deal in my life, because after him any other cat is going to have a hard act to follow. seeing him in a lot of pain and being told by my vet that his problem was one that does kill big male cats (of which he is certainly one) was rough. it also created, as my SIL reminded me, a good learning experience. i am, one day, going to outlive my sweet feline. and while that idea pretty much rips me up right now, it has also been...healthy, i suppose, to realize that that's going to happen. i was also thrilled with my vet clinic. they were kind, helpful, very attentive, and incredibly considerate in regards to both max's health and the costs of pet care. there was no guilt regarding how long i waited to bring him in, and no guilt about being concerned about the money. they're never like that! they always operate and interact in such a noble manner. and that was such a relief.

in other parts of life...the running has been good. i seem to be alternating between great runs and cruddy ones, but i think that's all part of the development process. today i did six miles over hills faster than i ever have, and it hit me during the last half mile that i had run almost half of the half-marathon that we're all doing in five weeks. there was no doubt underlying that realization, no fear or wavering confidence. i've done halfs before, and this one will only be better than the last two. i have felt less and less like a runner this week, faltering and struggling with new shoes and tight calves and a seriously sore core (CROSS-TRAINING!!!), but today, i realized it wasn't so much about how i run physically, but how i run mentally. no doubt today that i can and will do this half in may...no doubt that i will enjoy it either. and that made me feel more like a runner than any of my good runs have.

well i built me a raft and she's ready for floatin
ol' mississippi, she's calling my name
catfish are jumpin, that paddle wheel thumpin
black water keeps rollin on past just the same
ol' black water, keep on rollin
mississippi moon won't ya keep on shinin' on me
yeah keep on shinin' your light
gonna make everything, pretty mama
gonna make everything all right
and i ain't got no worries
cuz i ain't in no hurry at all

--the doobie brothers!--


so i'm sitting here tonight with one foot soaking in an epsom salt tub and one foot wrapped with an ice pack. my shins ache, but not as much as they did the last time. my back is twinging and, in my shorts and tshirt, i'm now freezing. if you're wondering why i do it, well, you're not the only one! the bro and SIL are out of town right now, on a well-deserved vacation, and while they sweetly arranged for a friend to come and exercise the pups each day, it turns out she can only come tomorrow. so when i got home tonight, Gwen and Luna were scaling the walls of the house. i couldn't bring myself to leave them behind, so we saddled up and headed out. they fell all over themselves! it was pretty cute to watch Gwen bouncing along like a little puppy. they are such good dogs. but still. on the way back, after the scheduled two miles for today, we stopped and i grabbed some mexican food, which absolutely hit the spot. and now i'm sitting here wondering why the hell do i run?

i run because i feel better afterwards.

i run because the burn in my lungs and legs replaces the burn in my heart and head.

i run because i get to be outside.

i run to see the envious looks on the faces of people driving by.

i run so that i can lose weight.

i run so that i can do a half marathon.

i run so that i can do a marathon.

i run so that i don't disappoint myself.

i run to reframe each day.

i run because luna loves me most when we're running.

i run so that when i'm tired at night, it's a tired i earned.

i run because it makes my father proud.

i run because the bro and SIL believe that i can.

i run because it makes my mother smile.

i run for the bad runs, and the good ones.

i run because every time i do, i'm a little bit stronger.

i run because the stronger my body gets, the stronger my mind gets.

i run to fall down so that i can get up again and keep running.

i run to prove myself wrong.

i run because it's the only way i have learned how to be free.

i was standing by Jackson Pollock
when a woman spoke French in my ear
she said you don’t love me no more
that i should take a fast train out of here

so i jumped into that painting and rode it
nineteen forty-eight number 1
all the way back to Oregon
what a long, long way to run

and the sun sits in a circle of yellow
in a gallery on the upper east side
there’s the purple of night right next door
as on a silver paintwhip i ride

Jackson where are you, come find me
as i stand wondrous and broken by your lyrics i fall
Jackson where are you, come find me
with each splatter line you twist and you call

but i can hear nothing at all
cuz i was standing by Jackson Pollock
when you cut me down from so tall
so come find me i’m Jackson, i’ll take you away

and on the wings of the paint flicks
we’ll ride out of the sky

-minnie reznick-


my father taught me to love jackson pollock. they were paintings of freedom. he told me how pollock used to stand over his paintings and fling the colors every which way, and how even though it looked like there was no design or intent, that pollock always knew what he was doing. i always loved him because even though he knew, he seemed to have to search for it. i like knowing that even people who are amazing at what they do, respected and revered and famed for it, have to search.

i've been fighting to be a runner. pretending and pushing, wearing the clothes and the shoes, doing the races, trying. it started out of family and continued after sheer stubbornness when people around me indicated they weren't positive i could do it. that was when i knew i would complete a race, if for no other reason than to prove them wrong. and in my new life up here, my new world, the mantle of "runner" is something that no one here doubts on me. so i tried to not doubt it on myself. after almost a year, two 5ks, an 8k, two 10ks, and two half marathons, you would think that i would be sure. but still...when you are a "fat girl runner" as my SIL calls us both, when it's hard to breathe and everybody runs past you and your knees and calves and back hurt, it's hard to be sure.

this week has sucked. i ran a shitty 5k on sunday, slow and gross. the training runs i've done so far for our half marathon in (eep!) May were awful. i was feeling down about it, thinking maybe, just mayyyybe it was time to end the charade. but, again out of sheer stubbornness, i hadn't give up yet when i took the little black bad border collie and headed out for a 3.5-er. for some reason my determination tonight was all in the stamina. it wasn't about running fast or pretty or well, it was about going and going. about 9 blocks in my calves seized up. i've had terrible shin splints and i know that's where the pressure was coming from, but knowing it didn't help. so i slowed down to a walk for a block, and then decided, fuck it. if i'm going to do it...i'm going to do it. and then i flashed on a technique that one of my "running for non-marathoners" had described, where you take whatever is getting in your way on that run, be it the hill or the heat or the pain, and instead of fighting it, you welcome it. so--several times on this run actually--i said out loud, "hello pain. come run with me, because i'm not stopping."

yup, people looked at me like i was crazy. but the first time i said it, bam, just like that my calves released. entirely. and then my knees released and then my core, and all of a sudden i had sped up without noticing. when i needed to slow i did, but i never stopped running. luna kept time by me, sniffing and snorgling and walking sometimes, but she never pulled or tugged. and all of a sudden i was at the turn around point, and when i did it hit me: i'm going to run all the way back. it wasn't a fight, or a goal, or a question. it was simply fact. i can do this. no problem. and it wasn't! as i came back around the corner Mount Hood was towering in front of me, absolutely beautiful as ever. and then i felt like i could fly.

and by the time i made it home, it had happened. all of a sudden, i was a runner. it was no longer a fight, no longer a facade. just fact. i am a runner. i know i will have my hard days and bad runs, i know i need to adjust my schedule and pay attention to my food. i need to be sure to take care of myself. why?

because i'm a runner.

sometimes i live in the country
sometimes i live in town
sometimes i take a great notion
to jump into the river and drown
irene, goodnight, irene goodnight
goodnight irene, goodnight irene
i'll see you in my dreams

-the weavers-

My grandfather Penn has been on my mind lately. I'm not sure why exactly, it's not close to his birthday or the day he died, not close to any major family event or holiday. But I have found, over the years since he died, that when I'm closing in on a choice, or struggling with a problem, or even fighting myself, he comes to the front of my conscious. I don't believe in heaven, or big scary ghosts, or in much for that matter. But I think that, when I need him, he's here. The idea of him, my memories, act as a canary in the mine for me, and I know that changes are stirring when his image pops up in my mind's eye. It's not like I can see him next to me--we're not living in a Patrick Swayze movie here, people--but more like I can imagine what he would say or the advice he would give, and take it even without actually hearing it. I remember his hugs, so strong and sweet--always sitting. He never hugged much when he was standing. I do remember him taking me by the shoulders on nights when we visited, and planting a kiss on my cheek with bristly white stubble. So even though he's gone from me, I still have him. And that's a comfort.

My grandfather was a principled, opinionated, strong man. He loved his grandchildren passionately. He was loyal and faithful to his wife of 60-some years to the end, and he had three sons who are all kind, smart, good men. In his convictions and his humor, the wise outlook on life that he had developed by the time I knew him, I learned a great deal about existing in the world. He had this way of looking at each of his grandchildren as a whole fully formed human being even before we were considered adults. He was happy to let each of us be simply who we were. My grandfather handed out books the way a kleptomaniac steals: compulsive, quick, without thought. He would see one of us glancing at a book and whoosh bam! It was ours to take home. The first time he gave me one I asked if he was sure. "Dahrling," he said, "I've already read it. And I loved it. You will too." He wrote me letters once I entered high school, asking about my studies and my friends, talking to me about politics and the changes in our country. Around the time of 9/11 he wrote to me and said, "take faith, Amela. Don't look at what everyone sees, see what's really there, and don't forget that men are evil in every color just as men are good in every color. Remember that people are essentially good."

In him was the heart of our family. With him came the family home in Three Arrows, Putnam County, New York, a part of a commune type organization that my father and uncles grew up in every summer, a community where we could walk around and people would greet us by saying, "you're a Melnick! Say hello to your grandfather and grandmother." With him came a place to belong. After he died it became clear that my grandmother couldn't live in this house by herself, and a wrenching decision was made to sell it. We can always go back and stay, Three Arrows will always be a home, but that part, the stilted house with high beams and wicker chairs and a huge sitting rock out back, that part is gone. And since he went, taking it with us, I have seen my family drift, just slightly. It was if he was our rudder.

I remember his hands, carving frogs and faces and walking sticks out of scraps, creating something out of nothing. I remember his voice telling my grandmother to leave me alone, that I was fine and knew perfectly well what I wanted to have for breakfast, thank you very much. I remember him doing his hat trick on the dock, winking sideways and basking in the giggles and squeals of kids--first his grandkids, then dock kids, and finally his great grandkids. I remember him sitting in our bedroom telling us stories and singing songs he'd made up for his sons, years ago. I remember how passionate he was about equality. How he was so proud when my brother joined a union at work; how he would have been so proud when I did. I remember how he would smile when we were all sitting around the table, how every once in a while he would get quiet and still and just watch us all. He wasn't a perfect man. No such thing, as he would say.

But in the nights when I am wandering a little, or a lot; during the days when every choice I make goes through my own third degree, he seems to bring me strength. Not even strength. I get that from a myriad of people and places. No, my Zada brings to me a confidence that everything will be alright. In the silent places between love and doubt, he reminds me that "I'm not lost. I'm right here."

I miss him.

so when you drive
and the years go flying by
i hope you smile
if i ever cross your mind
it was a pleasure of my life
and i cherished every time
and my whole world it begins and ends with you
on that highway 20 ride

-zac brown-


Today was one of those days where all I wanted to do was get in my truck and go. I wanted to come home from work, put my cat and my writing in the passenger seat, and go. Today would've been the coast, no doubt. I have a slight wanderlust, as I think most people do, and more often than not it's satiated by the words on the page. But today, with the silver sky tumbling around, I wanted to see the miles slide by beneath my wheels, watch the trees grow and stretch, see birds flying as we left the world behind. I wanted to drive until we hit the beach, find a room, hole up and listen to the waves, write and write and write some more. The words are there, I can feel them right now, bubbling up in my gut and churning my blood. They hurt, bashing and crashing around, struggling to find the page.

Once upon a time, almost 9 years ago now, my friend and mentor KB gave me an essay to read. I was at the Rep one afternoon, and he saw that I was floundering, just trying to keep my head above water. He knew I liked to write and so he pulled this essay and gave me a copy. I still have it, complete with the sticky note informing me that the underlinings were not his doing. It was amazing. I go back and read it, but there are parts that stole into my brain and are stored there. The essay talked about giving your passion both power and time, that if you want to write--or rock climb or sew or draw or hike--you have to give time which then creates the power behind whatever it is you're doing. Reading it for the first time, at 16, I missed most of the message. And it isn't until now, years later, that I realize KB knew exactly what he was doing when he gave it to me. It wasn't just an essay. It was permission to be exactly who I was. The other part that I love is when the author reminds his audience that sometimes the laundry doesn't get done, the dinner doesn't get made, the phone calls don't happen. If you're giving your passion the time and the power it deserves, then sometimes you will not show up at all. He says, "Don't worry if I'm late. Rejoice if I don't show up at all." In seeking the words I am giving them time; in finding them, power. Does it mean that I'm up an hour or two later than I want to be? Yeah. Does it mean tomorrow morning may be rough? Yeah. Is this a schedule I'm going to have to adjust once I start training? You bet. But for tonight I can't ignore what it is that I have to do.

Look! There! The words came. They always arrive. I forget sometimes that the road under me, that my bones and lungs and heart are composed entirely of letters that form words. That if I had to, I could write myself into being. I've done it before. I forget that when the day is rough all I have to do is let go, stop my desperate hold on the every day world and let the words carry me home. Then I'll be fine. Even better than fine...giving power and time takes so little. Hoarding it takes a hell of a lot more effort. So maybe tomorrow will be the day that I wake up and go to the coast instead of work, maybe tomorrow will be the day that I wake up and follow my heart to that place where I'll find the right to simply be. I can always hope. Until then...until then, there is sweet sleep and a warm handmade quilt and a big black cat to snuggle up with. And for now, for tonight, that is enough.

i will not play at tug 'o war
i'd rather play at hug 'o war
where everyone hugs
instead of tugs,
where everyone giggles
and rolls on the rug
where everyone kisses
and everyone grins,
and everyone cuddles,
and everyone wings.

--shel silverstein--



This actually wasn't the Shel Silverstein poem I was going to include on my blog first. It was going to be 'Where The Sidewalk Ends', which is one of my all-time favorites, but that one can be saved for a later date. There is a matter--something honorable--that I have on my mind tonight. As you may have guessed from the above picture, I live with animals. 2 dogs and a cat, to be exact: the playful sweet standoffish little prince Max, the crazy little black bad thing Luna, and the big fun police cuddle monster bear Gwen. When I moved in with the bro and SIL last year (almost one year ago!), we were all concerned and uber cautious about the relationship between Gwen and Max--me most of all. Gwen is not known for her...tolerance...of kitty cats. Understandably--I mean, she *is* a dog and most cats *are* less than pleasant to their canine counterparts, but we were determined to make it work. Sharing a house in a great neighborhood was going to be a good (cheaper, more fun) option to two apartments in crappy parts of town, and my bro and SIL were understanding and sensitive to the delicate balance between Max and Gwen that they let M and I have the master bedroom while they took one of the smaller ones, so that he could stay in it during the day while G was a-roamin and a-ramblin.

Animal wise, it has been an interesting year. The first time we introduced Luna and Max, she sniffed him and he hissed at her, then proceeded to smack her nose; the first time we introduced Gwen and Max, he hid and she was working so hard to control her inner CHASE!!! reaction that she was trembling. There were a few times that I didn't close the door the whole way, or communication breakdowns happened and G and M were out and about in the house at the same time, and once or twice we did some supervised visitations that mainly consisted of Gwen lying on the guest bed with her back to the world and Max sitting in the doorway of my bedroom on guard. That was most of March to November. We made it work! Everyone was happy...healthy...not terribly scarred emotionally by living under the same roof with a member of the opposite species.

Then November came...and with November came the "YOU MUST MOVE" letter--and suddenly we were staring down the barrel of the holidays, three people working full or part time, one of us facing finals, one of us pulling overtime, and one of us desperately looking for a full time job. So, we hit the ground running (seriously? Don't mess with a paramedic, an EMT/ER tech, and a stage manager when it comes to pressurized situations.) and moved to our new place in...9 days. It was pretty epic. If I do say so myself. And with that move came a new arrangement for living, where we all have more space and have rooms on separate floors. The complication for me and M came with the fact that the basement wasn't intended as a bedroom, so no door on it. I spent 3 days (I know, I know) building a barricade affectionately known as 'The Battlements', which served it's purpose for quite a while. But over time as the basement became darker during the day and we all got used to our new house, a funny thing happened. Max began climbing the Battlements! Up and over--my bro has a fondness for yelling "it's coming over the wall!!" every time he hears my cat making a break for it. Gwen and Lu, well they've both mellowed. Quite a bit. And when we moved together, Gwen really began to look at me as a member of her pack. Her tribe. I was no longer just a visitor or an outsider, but now I'm seen as part of her pack. She listens to me more, protects me just as she would the bro and SIL, snuggles with me just the same. She has softened, shown her gentle side along with her fun police-able side, greets me at the door with a huge doggy grin.

As the animals have mellowed out, the Battlements have slowly become less and less useful. Wonderful as a door at night, but not so necessary during the day. Until one evening when my human family members were working, I found myself sitting on the couch snuggled with Luna, only to realize I hadn't seen Gwen or Max for a while. I checked the guest room--nope. Then the office, where my bro's college couch, also known as Gwen's favorite spot, is, and there was Gwen on her end, snoot tucked in to tail, dreaming doggy dreams. And there, on the other end of the couch, was Max! Snoot tucked in to tail, dreaming kit-cat dreams. Amazing. As you can see from above it was a sweet and, for those of us who've known Gwen and loved her for a long time, completely unbelievable. Since then, about two weeks ago, peace has settled over our little kingdom. The SIL went into the office to study one day and found Gwen and Max sacked out once again. I have ended up snuggled on the couch with Lu, Max, and Gwen more than once. Lu and Max were sharing a sunbeam the other day. In short, a treaty has been made. And from a year ago, when they were hissing and slapping and barking and disliking each other, our four-legged family members have worked themselves into a friendship.

So maybe I'm thinking there's a lesson we can learn from them. If Gwen and Max can not only coexist peacefully, but share couches and water bowls and backyards and really live together, then maybe we could each learn to work with someone who is so different from us. Maybe what they can teach me is that, sometimes, it take a lot of time to overcome those differences but that it can happen. Maybe what they can teach me is that it's possible to have fun with someone from another world, or get comfort from a person of another country or culture. This isn't making much sense, I know, but in my quest to see the little pockets of good in my everyday world, I am struck with a calm tonight knowing that Gwen, Luna, and Max have made their peace. If they can, why not me?

Then again...maybe a sunbeam is just a sunbeam. Either way? In my house we're winning at hug-o-war.

let the rain kiss you
let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
let the rain sing you a lullaby
the rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
the rain makes running pools in the gutter
the rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
and I love the rain.

--langston hughes--

The rain came again today. I knew it would when I woke up. I love those mornings; knowing that the world will be thrashing around outside the windows at work and instead of feeling trapped I will feel insulated, instead of knowing that the outside will feel stale when I leave I know that it will be fresh and sweet.

Last night was our last dodgeball game of the season. Now don't get me wrong, we have one bye week and then we start again, so it wasn't a big goodbye or anything! But it was one hell of an evening. Team one, we kicked tail. Got some good outs, made some good catches, screamed my head off for my teammates and at the ref and the other team. A good clean game. Second team...well, they were well known for cheating and we had a rivalry going long before the game...so it was quite a match. VERY hard fought but in the end they won. That wasn't what bothered me. We played well, they played...well, they played well too! But here's the thing: in our league you have to start 3 guys, 3 girls. I play on a team where it doesn't matter what gender you are, if you play, you PLAY. But this team--the girls would pass each ball off to the guys. They would stand behind them. If a ball came their way they would dodge it (they were great at that), and then, once again, hand it off to the boys. WTF?!!! I'm not sure what pissed me off more, the fact that the guys made them/allowed them to pull that, or the fact that the girls just refused to play. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!! If you're going to pay the money, join the team, and get out there, then buck up and actually PLAY. But!! The best part of the whole game? Was the guys on MY team. Because when they saw that happening, they started heckling the guys on the other team and asking them why they didn't let the girls play? Or why they didn't hand the balls off to the girls instead of the other way around?! They cheered us girls on every game. Just like they should. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, holy hell, am I on the right team. Thanks, guys.

i've got five more hours of highway
five more hours to go
five more hours of highway
till i'm in the place i know
heaven only knows the time i've wasted
i'm so close now i can almost taste it
five more hours of highway
till i'm in the place i love

-gabe dixon band-


So I'm committed. Gonna sign up. The Columbia Gorge Marathon is in October of this year, October 24th to be exact, which gives me over 7 months to work up to it. The brother and soon-to-be SIL are running it too, which was the impetus for me. I've missed running with them!! And this is such a great goal--something I know will be completely attainable. And can you imagine? Late October early morning along the old highways in the Gorge, running in the mountains and the ages and the cold sunlight with pride. I'm so excited!! 26.2 miles. I never ever thought I could run 3, or 5, or 6, or 13. And then I did. So what's 26? And I say that in all honesty. It's a HUGE goal and it will be a huge accomplishment. But I can do it.

Hard day today. I made it harder than it had to be and the SIL did a great job of reminding me that sometimes I need to get out of my own way. This job, this job that I love and wanted and worked for, this job is being haunted by the ghost of the woman who had it before me. And she was terrible at it, to the point where I am doing a lot of clean up. I've been letting it get to me, in to the very heart of how I work, until I was so frustrated by the time that I got home that I was in tears. Completely unnecessary tears at that! We sat down and the SIL reminded me to let it go as much as I could, acknowledging that it was hard to do when your heart was so in your work. Bottom line is, at the end of this day that was exhausting, that I'm going to enjoy my days at work. Even if it's just one or two things a day, I'm going to laugh and have some fun and come home knowing that I did good work. The translation of ideals from the agency down to myself is a large scale reduction, but the reminder that I got today was that I can't change the agency in total. I can, however, do very good work. I can learn from the mistakes of my predecessor and my own mistakes, I can keep the children involved in sight and remember that they're why I'm doing this, I can make the choice to be good social worker. And I can do it with what fits in my purse, not what fits in my whole heart and head. That's just too big, too much to pull around every day. So as I head off to sleep, I set two goals for tomorrow:

1) Reframe it. See my work as the whole picture, and set goals that I can attain. See what I can do, and what those around me do, instead of what I can't and what they don't.

2) KICK SOME BUTT ON THE COURT!!!

whose woods these are i think i know
his house is in the village though
he would not mind me stopping here
to watch his woods fill up with snow
my little horse must think it queer
to stop without a farmhouse near
between the woods and frozen lake
the darkest evening of the year
he gives his harness bells a shake
to ask if there is some mistake
the only other sound's the sweep
of easy wind and downy flake
the woods are lovely, dark and deep
but i have promises to keep
and miles to go before i sleep
and miles to go before i sleep

-robert frost-

Robert Frost has always been my favorite poet. Much like Jackson Pollock has been my favorite artist, I am constantly amazed by Frost's work. By his words. They are so delicate, so perfect; they round and curve and drop like apples, each one crisp and sweet. I envy and admire his dedication, his ability to follow the words like a path leading onto the unknown.

More and more I find myself craving a return to art and a return to my first love, theater. I don't know why. My passion for helping kiddos and families is deeply rooted in my heart; it drives my mornings and afternoons, keeps me running and writing and breathing. For now that is enough. It is, in fact, more than enough, and I count myself lucky to be able to go to work every damn day and love what I do. But there is something about the mystery of being backstage, alone after a show, waiting for the techs to be done or replacing props, wondering what ghosts are going to come around the corner. There is something about starting a show and seeing people you admire and adore sit at the table for readthrough, laughing and talking; there is something about a family where once there was none. There is something about creating worlds out of air. There is a need for immense faith in the art of theater. It is not an easy business. There were more third week rehearsals where my mentor and director would look at me and go, "it's gonna get there, right?" And we just held on to the belief and the knowledge that it would. It always did!!

I learned more doing theater than I ever thought I would. And there are more memories from those days than I can ever imagine. From the first show as an ASM to the last as an SM, and all the load-ins and load-outs and early calls and production meetings and long rehearsals and crises and opening night galas and closing Sunday tears in between, those six years (was it really only six) hold so much of who I am. My work there informs my every day actions and keeps me dreaming. Every so often I think I'll go back. I'll always be a stage manager. Deep down, I know I can always do it again if I want to. But choices lead on to choices and, for now at the very least, I don't think I ever will.

Inch by inch, row by row
Gonna make this garden grow
All it takes is a rake and a hoe
And a piece of fertile ground
Pulling weeds and pickin stones
Man is made from dreams and bones
Feel the need to grow my own
Cause the time is close at hand

-David Mallett-

The rain has rolled back in this afternoon, slow and gentle, pulling dark clouds of purple over our skies. While many of my fellow Portlanders (what? I'm a Portlander? Well...it has been a year...) are, I'm sure, rolling their eyes and grumbling, I'm comforted by the sight of clouds and the promise of rain. For me it is a promise of renewal, of the scent of good dirt and sweet spring that will follow. Rain has always graced my world, anchored by tall mountains and sturdy trees. On nights as a little girl that I remember falling asleep to pitters and patters of each drop on my skylight, I slept sound and comforted. Our lullabies were about rain. Umbrellas were a mark of...shame and nothing used to make us giggle more than those poor college freshman at the U of O who brought out the rainboots, jackets, and pants at the first drop in September. One memorable Halloween it rained so hard that our street flooded; every costume we ever had fit under a rainslicker for the wet nights. Here in the Northwest we like to revel in the rain, it makes us sing and smile; it is one more difference that I like to hold as an Oregonian.

But this weekend the sun rose gloriously, and heading across bridges and out long roads, the mountains had lifted their cloudy skirts. Mount St. Helens lingered in the distance, solemn and pretty; far away and close enough to touch rose Mount Hood, stunningly white and proud. As I ran out Willamette Street with Luna to PSU and back, I could see Hood in the distance and kept my eyes on the peak, knowing that with each step I was coming closer to realizing dreams of my own. As the street curves you can see the city below and the river, and feel the push of Northwest promise at your back like the wind. There is strength here in the streets, built on decades of hard work by hard men and women who refused to let the land take them apart. And hope too, in trees that hold their needles throughout each winter and kids who play outside in any weather. The resilience of my valley astounds me and I am learning to draw it in each day.

It seems that my dreams are at my fingertips, each idea that I've ever wanted to make happen is within reach. I've recently begun to work on a novel. It's about a third complete, the first round at least, but lately I've lost my spark in it. I haven't given up--that's not an option--but I have to learn when to follow the words and when to shelve them. I've found that in time the right ones always come back to me. My best friend once told me that she thought I could do anything I put my mind into; that I could be a brain surgeon if I wanted to. I just have to have a little faith. So when I can't reach the words I go to the streets and the job, and put my heart into it as much as I can. In the balance between pushing myself and surrounding myself with people who help me get there, and letting my brain and heart take rest and rebound daily, the littlest things are making my life complete.

grace comes lilting
heavy gray rain pounding
the new blackberries outside
my window to mush.

grace comes lilting
peanut butter across my knuckles
and
spaghettios on my favorite shirt

high floating voice from the
back room.
hard hugs from
tiny arms.

her brother smells
sweet as only small boys
can. innocence as peace rests
on thin shoulders and
bright eyes.

her sister holds my arms
and smacking kisses
on my lips
the frenetic love
of a five year old.

grace comes lilting
in my arms
her arms around my neck
head on my shoulder.
as though she were my own
blood (though not my child)
is how i love her
love them

and so in the still of night
they are my own blood
they are unaware
of bringing grace
they own my heart

-Lillian Pincus-

I get a myriad of comments from people when I tell them I work in child welfare for the state. They range from "have another drink!" to "that's incredible" to "I could never do that", and those answers don't necessarily surprise me; it is, however, always fascinating to see who says what. It is, in one word, a frustrating job. Somedays you feel like a warrior, somedays you feel like a fool, and in each of those days is the potential to be good at what you're doing and the potential to be terrible at it. I suspect that's the same in every job. But I have begun to learn the massive ramifications of making mistakes in the world of child welfare, consequences that span from the unthinkable--the death of a child--to the fixable ones, because every time we make a mistake, it hurts the life of a kid in our care. Sometimes it hurts them in ways they don't ever realize, and more often than not it is a fixable error. But still. That is a lot of pressure to have floating around the office day in and day out.

With the knowledge of that pressure, of caseloads and demands and needs of the children in our state, comes a deep helpless frustration with public opinion of DHS. I am the first to tell you that we make mistakes. Who doesn't?! And we all know, every single one of us, what's at stake when those mistakes are made. But the opinion that seems to pervade our state: that child welfare is useless, incompetent, a waste of money, that state workers are paid too much for doing too little, that as an agency we do more harm than good, make me want to scream. Part of that is my own belief in some of those opinions. While I question how we operate, I have to go in to work every day with my whole heart in it, and so my doubts and fears have to be put aside every morning. But there is another side, and that is the look on the face of each caseworker I know. They don't realize it I think, but each worker in my branch has a set to their jaw, a glint in their eye, a compassion in their voice bolstered by steel backbones. They deal with demands of the court, furious parents, and traumatized kids. They are, every one of them, overworked. They are impressive by simply getting out of bed and coming to work. I echo that sentiment for EMTs/paramedics, ER docs/nurses/techs/scribes, police officers. There is something in those professions, a part of the world that is seen that no one wants to see, that makes the act of showing up with your eyes open impressive. I envy my caseworkers their ability to look every day and maintain an attitude that change can still be made.

Mostly I would like those who hold an opinion of the child welfare agency that is less than favorable to learn more than just what they see in the media. Because I can't blame them for feeling how they feel when they only hear about the two year old drowned by his mom's boyfriend or the kids whose father put a dog shock collar on them and chased them around the house. I can imagine that they feel an overwhelming helplessness and the instinct to look away. And so they want those of us in the frontline jobs to hold on to their guilt and anger, their sadness about the state of our society and the intense cruelty that lives in some people. So we do. I get that. And I'm proud of the people I work with, and proud of the jobs that we do together. I just wish that sometimes what the rest of the world got to see was the good, instead of the bad.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep sea, and Music in it's roar.
I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

-George Gordon, Lord Byron-

It's been almost a year since I graduated from college, and looking back over this year I am amazed at the life that I have somehow stumbled into.

Living with the brother and SIL, they've given me a foundation like no other. We started running together when I first moved up here, and after a year I've found that I can go farther, push myself harder, dig the burn and sweat and breathlessness. My dad told me that running gets under your skin, that if you stick with it you will find yourself going for runs to clear your head, relax, refocus. I've found it to be a way for me to shake off the days and lose myself in simple motion, one foot in front of the other and again. As our day to day lives have all shifted drastically, more often than not I'm running by myself or with the puplet, and that is a feeling like no other, simply because every day I run I can look back at the mile, or 3 miles, or 10 miles and think, that's what I did today. And I did that on my own. My SIL reminded me over and over that it's not about winning the race, it's about starting it at all. And one of the house mottos is "first mile, worst mile", which has spilled over into every bit of my world.

As I went through high school and college, I often found myself wondering if I'd missed out on some community by not being raised in any sort of religion. Not that I'm religious at all, but there was always a community there that I never experienced. And I always wondered what it would be like to be able to put your faith so wholeheartedly into one thing, one belief, one idea. What it would be like to have a place to return like that on days when you doubt yourself, your choices, your world. And as much as I have vowed to put my faith in humanity first, and as much as I believe more than ever that people are good at heart, and that the work that my friends and family I do does make a difference, there are days where it is simply impossible for me to return to the idea of humanity as my touchstone. This is where running has suddenly broken through for me. At first it was a way to get in shape, keep my head up and out of depression, something to do with my family. But somewhere along the way the very philosophy behind the simple motion crept into my heart and I have realized that in a way my religion is found in running. I don't say that to degrade anyone else's faith in any deity whatsoever, by the way!! Just wanted to make that disclaimer, and perhaps religion is too strong a word. I have found faith in the act of running, a place and action I can return too on bad days and good, and it is an unexpected joy.