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.