Summertime Checklist

For many of us, having something to look forward to can make the "stuff of life" a little easier to handle when the going gets tough. Here's a short list of what I love about summer in Ashland and what, at this rainy point in the late spring, I turn my hopeful heart toward. Drop a comment and add to the list....

1. Rarely setting alarms and moving to the rhythm of a more natural inner clock.
2. The sound of cicadas singing.
3. Falling asleep to the rhythmic click of the ceiling fan.
4 . Eating every meal on the back porch.
5. Walking barefoot through newly watered grass.
6. The sound of rotating sprinklers on a wide lawn.
7. The smell of Peter Buckley’s barbeque being lit up - night after night.
8. Sitting directly in front of a floor fan.
9. Weeding the garden early in the morning.
10. Long meandering hikes through dusty quiet wood.
11. The familiarity of a Sousa march being played in the band shell in the park.
12. Wading in an icy cold creek, to the point of bright red numbed toes and legs.
13. Bare skin.
14. Looking out from under the brim of a straw hat.
15. Potluck dinners under shady arbors.
16. Raspberries.
17. Crispy, drip down your chin, wet red watermelon.
19. The sound of neighbors laughing through their open screen doors.

20. Candlelight.

21. Ginny reading in the hammock.
22. Going to into an air conditioned movie house and walking back out into a sauna two hours later.
23. Picking and eating - straight from the garden: snap peas, pole beans, warm rip tomatoes.
24. Cotton dresses.
25. Marveling at the 4th of July territorial parade watching shenanigans.
26. Dancing under the moon.
27. Sneaking around the neighborhood after dark, playing hide and seek.
28. The thrill of the lemonade stand.
29. Driving with the windows down.

30. Cold beer - in quantity - combined with an equal share of good friends.

31. Putting away the lawn mower - job well done.
32. The first thunderstorm - it’s electrical charge and that delicious smell of wet, hot pavement.
33. Popsicles consumed in a good people watching place.
34. Outdoor concerts with starlight and half moon rising by the fourth song.

35. Driving to the coast - and the way the air temp drops 30 degrees on the other side of the tunnel!
36. The purple vetch that covers the foothills until mid July.
37. Campfires - story telling, poking sticks into the coals, the way the flames make faces glow.
38. Picking blackberries..eating blackberries...picking - eating - picking - eating.
39. The sheer voluptuousness and bounty of the stalls at the Growers Market.

40. Painting in my bikini.

41. Sprinkler games.
42. Gracie playing fiddle tunes outdoors at dusk.
43. Fresh Basil...armfuls of it...
44. Sinking - more fully - into the warm, full, ripe, inviting moments of each day.

April Photo Share

I've had some wonderful opportunities this spring to take portrait shots of Ashland folk whom I both admire within and without. It's always such an honor to spend time with someone in front of the lens.

As the season begins to change and with it, the light, hue and tone of the air, the photographer in me is being awakened each morning wondering "What can I see today? What can I learn to do with this amazing tool known as "camera?" It's a pretty cool feeling.

Throughout the day, I "see" shots everywhere. They whisper to me from unique places...the purple blossoms caught in the cracks of a sidewalk, the tightly closed tulip just before dawn, the silhouettes of children running across an open field in twilight. Each image tells a story, carries a hint of memory mixed with potential, and each reminds me to slow down - breathe - be grateful. Sure, I might try to remember each one with my mind's eye alone, but the photograph tenderly embraces the moment and offers a gift of return.

If you're interested in seeing these photos in their fuller format, please visit my website. Have a fantastic weekend! May it be filled with a array of interesting and provoking feasts for your eyes and heart. ~ mlp



Careful Out There!

One of my all-time favorite photos courtesy of the very talented Jim Schlight

Did you know that April is “Children and Nature Awareness Month”? I didn’t. In my world, and in my children’s world - every month is Children and Nature Awareness Month. I realize, however; that we are a rare breed of family these days.

As a mother, teacher, artist and poet  I have very strong feelings about Nature and its roll in the lives of children. I strongly hold the opinion and belief that Nature is at the root (no pun intended) of creativity. Nature is grounding, healing, humbling, miraculous, inspiring, frightening, beautiful, vividly honest and a teacher. Nature is an equalizer. I feel that this all applies to ALL of us - of ALL ages.

It wasn’t so many decades ago in our country that when some children were released from school for the day (if they went to school), and they headed home to work on their family farm or, if they were of an age, some other part time afternoon job. If they did neither - they were loose and rambling. In cities, they rambled in and out of doors in a cityscape. In less populated areas, there were woods, fields and beaches to explore.

As anyone who  is paying attention or has kids today knows, the after school and summer vacation-time lives of American children has changed radically - definitely since I was a child forty-odd years ago - but even in the last ten years.  In our relatively small community alone (and granted, this is a fairly affluent community), there are programs galore. There are languages to study, toys beyond belief, waaaaayyy too much electronic stuff, music  (which is wonderful), lessons – lessons – lessons…sports, groups, clubs and so forth. If you look at the calendar hanging in the average Ashland kitchen that tracks the movements of our “average” American children, it truly is incredible. Hopefully, there is gratitude for all of these opportunities, and yet - I’m feeling a bit of melancholy as well.

I’ve a fond childhood memory is of sitting in the apple tree near our family home on Oregon Street. The tree grew in a vacant lot (now there’s a term infrequently used lately), and ones main objective was to get up as high into the branches as possible and eat the tart apples while throwing the wormy ones down the adjacent street. Picture it: the arching, spinning toss of a bright green apple against a pale blue afternoon sky and dangling bare legs and pavement dirty feet hardly visible through the leaves. Hear the laughter and cry of delight at the “Pop!” of the fruit striking the ground; the skin bursts and viridescent flecks go flying, white flesh and seeds explode and scatter across the dark asphalt. Breathe in the too sweet fermenting aroma of windfalls which are composting slowly in the leaves and dirt below, and grin with delight at the mischief and poetry of this simple pastime…sitting in an apple tree.

We have to wonder, in our present busy lives, how many children have spent even ten minutes in an apple tree, much less picked their own tart Granny Smith from a heavy branch? How many backlot spy games will transpire this afternoon? Walks down spring rain dampened dirt paths?  Contests among friends in an open field without a whistle or a score keeper or a clock - where the rules evolve as the sport unfolds and officiating occurs by consensus and fair play?

How many of our children know how to hang out in Nature? How many of YOU know how to hang out in Nature?

It’s really not that complicated and definitely no big deal. You do not have to go camping or hike some steep mountain. Just step outside a few extra yards today. Leave your agenda (and your iphone) behind. Whether the place in nature is a window box, a back yard, an apple tree or the deep woods – when Nature and humans are brought together peacefully – there is positive alchemy that feeds imagination, curiosity, intelligence, relationship with self - and thereby others, and one’s very soul.

Careful out there. If you do it everyday, in some small way, even for just a moment or two - you will change. For the better.

To explore the very real phenomenon of Nature Deficit Disorder, check out the incredible work of Richard Louv, author of Last Child In The Woods.

To read up on how other communities are pursuing No Child Left Inside, start here with a fantastic article from Orion magazine.

To change your mind and your heart, the only link to click is the off button on this box. Try it for a bit, and take a walk in your neighborhood.

Healing with Sound

I've been enjoying working with Synthesis of Sound on their new website. It's concise, clear and lovely. The GENESIS sound therapy system is a fairly unique healing modality and quite extraordinary to experience first hand. Rather than try to explain, I hope you'll enjoy exploring the materials, images and resources of their new site. I also highly recommend that you contact Anthony John and try out the GENESIS for yourself! 

“Music washes away from the soul
the dust of everyday life.” 
~ Berthold Auerbach

Tardy Due to Detour

I’m running a tad bit behind this morning, but what the heck. It’s Friday, after all, and the sun is shining in truly glorious ‘queen of the heavens’ fashion, and I’m my own boss-lady; so hey, what’s a few extra minutes? See, this is one of the perks of having a home studio.

Having been a public schools teacher for sixteen years and then an “in the office - in the field” park manager for another decade, I think I have a thorough understanding of the schedule many working parents keep. I know about early (and late) staff meetings, punching in by a certain clock time, being unreachable all day long, sprinting to do my banking between work’s end and the bank’s close, squeezing the household and garden chores into evenings and weekends, that panicky feeling one gets in their gut when the alarm clock doesn’t go off, showing up even when ill, giving my kids every spare moment and giving my friends the meager leftovers. Of course, I also remember the regular paycheck, the decent benefits, the community of co-workers, the measured successes that could be seen and appreciated, the uninterrupted flow of the days, the clear boundaries between work and home, the clear boundaries between “on” time and “off” time, and the rhythm of the calendar that gave me a sense of balance and calm.

I remember both sides of that particular and very special coin.

Now, I have a different coin in my pocket. It’s a little foreign to me, so I’m still learning it’s value. On the one hand, I can work any time of the day or night. If it’s a beautiful morning like this, I can opt to take a walk right now - and work on my client’s website after sundown. But of course, if I choose to work in the evenings, then my children get a little less of me when they need my time and attention. So when interesting weather beckons, I choose carefully.

Scheduling my days requires a precise, mildly uncomfortable-at-times discipline known as “keeping on track,” wherein there are constant neon sign-like distractions winking and flashing at me. Friends and family know exactly where to find me and in loving, uninhibited fashion sometimes drop by to say “howdy.” Those who do it too often or stay too long have suffered my impatience, as I truly don’t like being interrupted when I’m “in the zone.” Neither do I always answer the home phone, even though it’s ringing only a few feet away from my desk. After all - if I were “at work,” I couldn’t answer it there, so why should I do so here - “at work?”

But the wonderful flip side is that there are many occasions when someone will call first (what a concept!), and I’ll be able to take a coffee break with them down the street at the Roasting Company, or we’ll go for a quick power walk, or I’ll sit on the stoop with them for fifteen minutes and hear the latest news. It can be lovely and rejuvenating, and often helps stimulate fresh ideas for my next wave of industriousness.

The importance of keeping the place tidy is greater now, for client visits, so I’ve learned to juggle some of my chores at the same time I’m operating in my office. Starting the washer or dryer is a walk down the hall, taking out the recycle is three minutes of fresh air, and sweeping the kitchen gets tacked onto lunchtime (which I also get to share with my fourteen year old most days, when she walks home from school for a quick bite).
The home-based cubicle offers multitasking at it’s best, which says a lot - since I personally think multitasking with anything other than domestic chores is a bad idea, but that’s a topic for another day!

I absolutely miss my professional community and the sense of being a part of a greater good that one can sometimes attain in a cooperative environment. I definitely miss the regular salary and benefits, but have learned a lot about faith, hard work and creating abundance. I sometimes miss the respect and understanding that others have for more easily defined careers, but I have huge gratitude for those who take the time to acknowledge and encourage me to continue pursuing work that I love.

So this morning after dropping off my youngest at school, as I drove through town, I saw an elderly man in a bright tropical shirt standing in the very very brisk 30 degree morning sunlight with his thumb out for a ride. I pulled over. My hitchhiker climbed into the warm car, smiled broadly at me and introduced himself. “Walter” had just missed the bus and was on his was to an AA meeting on the opposite end of town. I asked him if there weren’t closer meetings to his home, and he replied that there are, but he just loved the community of friends he has at the further location. I drove him all the way to the meeting while we talked about Ashland, her people, about how times change and how grateful we both felt to be where we are on such a fine day. He was kind and hopeful and reflective. The drive was simple to make. As I dropped him off and shook his hand, I said a little prayer of thanks for many many things.

This too, is one of the perks being the CEO of Martha Phelps Studio: on my way to work, I can choose to make a slight detour, and it can make a little difference.

May you all have a wonderful weekend, and may your schedules afford you an opportunity for a detour or two. ~ mlp

P.S. Thanks for the tardy pass, AJ! See, I wasn't just putting on my lipstick!

Supporting Folks We Believe In

One of the most enjoyable aspects of design arts projects in the studio is getting to help spread information about people whose work I believe in.

Take Karen O’Dougherty, for example. Karen taught for a decade at Lincoln Elementary School in Ashland, Oregon where - among many things - she created a powerful “body changes awareness” program as a part of her 5th grade curriculum. After leaving the public school classroom to raise her three daughters, Karen was encouraged by parents of former students who had younger kids, to begin teaching and sharing the program again to interested youth and families. Body Basics I was then developed in the form of private group lessons and has been empowering girls throughout Southern Oregon since 1998.

My two elder kids (one male and one female) attended Body Basics classes during their eleventh years and learned to safely and openly discuss issues of puberty and sexuality as well as gained clearer insights into who they were then as developing  individuals and amongst peers. I look forward to my youngest daughter being among Karen’s students sometime this next year, as Body Basics has become one of our families’ educational rites of passage.

When Karen recently asked me to develop some flyers for local distribution, I was eager for the project. The flyers, one aimed at preteens and the other for teenagers, came together intuitively with images that worked well. This is a bit of the magic that happens when working on something I believe in, like the Body Basics Program.

If you'd like to see fuller format versions, check the Design Portfolio on the studio's website.

Words & Art

Since the Southern Oregon weather forecast calls for snow showers right into Easter, I can't resist posting this favorite poem of mine by Billy Collins. Enjoy, and by the way - Happy Springtime!

Shoveling Snow With Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

Snow covered Buddha Photo
 taken By MLP 

 

Extending Life's Radius

 Mt. Shasta - a mere 76 miles from home - taken from Hwy 89 vantage

I heard somewhere that it’s not unusual for “most” people in the world to be born, live and die within a twenty mile radius. This is easy to imagine, when I consider the lives of folks living in developing countries, but it’s damn near impossible to fathom when I look through the rose-colored lenses of my middle class American educated upbringing in comfortable Ashland, Oregon. Nevertheless, the girls and I pondered this “leaving one’s known twenty mile turf” theory while our odometer logged in more and more miles in the opposite direction of home. We were readily able to acknowledge that our act of packing up and making a 1500 mile trip would be considered a very large departure of the norm for many folks.

Perhaps that was part of the reason our trip was such a stretch for me; I was actively choosing to drive away from a safety net I have had anchored in place since I was about ten years old. See, I was the kid who wouldn’t accept a sleepover invitation unless it was close enough to home that I could easily walk home (or be picked up by a sleepy parent ) at 12:30 A.M. That was about the hour I would invariably realize that I was SO wickedly homesick, so painfully anxiety-ridden with fear of being away - that,  with knees literally knocking together, I'd make the walk of shame to the parent’s of whichever friend had invited me over and ask permission to call home.

Mind you, after playing out that particular scenario two or three times in elementary school, it ceased to continue with regularity because I became a skilled practitioner of avoidance and was adept at politely refusing most invitations to slumber parties, Friday night sleepovers and summer weekend camp outs. In middle school, when the social ladder is as much a part of one’s overnight luggage as a comfy pillow, it was often a very tough call between accepting an invitation (and perhaps spending a night in overwrought tension) or declining (and being left out of essential adolescent  exploits to be shared among peers on Monday morning by the lockers). Sometimes I would momentarily forget my angst - in the excitement and thrall of potential adventures, and I would say “yes” to a generous friend who wanted my company. Then, I would remember my looming apprehensions at the last moment and crumble in complete humiliation - disappointing tenfold whomever my pal was with a phone call to say, “Sorry; I can’t make it after all.”

By the time I was fourteen, my parents were ready to disown me due to what they considered irrational behavior. It wasn’t irrational to me though, nor was it complicated. I didn’t particularly need THEM to be at home; in fact, they could travel away all they wanted, as long as they left me there  - safe and snug. About the time that they began to surrender to the idea that I would live in Ashland forever and never trot the globe, I began to conquer some of said homesickness by the company I kept, and made my first successful trip away with my high school sweetheart and his parents at fifteen, and the rest is - as they say - history. Sort of.

Diagnosis-wise, I’m fairly certain my symptoms were anxiety attacks, not exactly your run-of-the-mill childhood homesickness, but truly scary events. Do I still experience that knee-shaking, belly quaking fear from time to time? I guess the fact that I have traveled happily and successfully for the past three decades is some sort of “Proof of Ability,” but the honest answer is: Yes. Absolutely. (And I’ve learned to get over it.)

The first two nights spent with my son in the oncology unit at Oregon Health Science University gripped me like I’ve never been gripped, and since Reid’s cancer diagnosis, I have become reacquainted with fearful feelings I haven’t felt since adolescence.

So this first trip out and away since leukemia moved into our family, this first time away from Reid since he got sick, THIS was a big departure from the “new norm” of our life. All the way to Death Valley, California I asked myself, “Is fear of FEAR big enough to hold me back anymore? Do I decline otherwise new journeys because I’m afraid of being sick to my stomach with terror in the middle of the night? After having come all this way - after having left behind all that we once believed was comfortable and familiar, is worry big enough to keep us from venturing out, kids in tow to see, share and discover this amazing planet?”

I know it will be a damned tough call at times. Sometimes, like this past week, I will have to dig very, very deeply into my heart, remind myself to breathe and resolutely plant one foot forward. Being able to set forth and journey - both literally and figuratively - was and is a privilege and a joyful act of life celebration. The learning opportunities outside our doorsteps have as much to do with what we experience while away - as how they impact our return and the changed, hopefully sweeter relationship we will bring back home. 

 McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park, CA

127 miles from Ashland, OR

Once upon a time in Luning

Luning, Nevada. Located in Mineral County. Listed as a ghost town.

 

While Southern Oregonians are generally the first to make proud declarations about the scenic beauty of their home, it’s also part of the human condition to forget how good we have it - until “it” is either gone or absent. Being away from the valley recently served as a pointed reminder to the girls and me of what an magnificent place we reside. With the forest-laden mountains surrounding and an abundance of water, there is exceptional allure to the State of Jefferson. Even our smallest towns are attractive, and it’s clear that the people who live in this area are actively invested in and have a care about the physical environment of this place.

Driving south from Fallon, Nevada along U.S. Route 95  (the major  646 mile long highway that runs north to south directly to Las Vegas), one is treated to a stark and dramatic landscape of both naked nothingness (or so it seems to the novice passing eye) and nature in her most raw miraculous form. This is high desert county where daily survival of plants and animals is an act taken neither lightly nor for granted. Rough dirt and sand stretches blandly away from the asphalt into distant rolling hills, followed by folded steeps of curved perfection, into valiant and ruggedly stunning snow-capped monumental ranges of the truest velocity.

Most of the little towns - pinpoints along I 95 map - are simply and literally falling apart. We saw wind blown and weather-wrecked buildings, trash heaps and gully-washed ruts large enough to swallow whole houses and cars, abandoned everything (even military bases)...clapboards shacks, mining machinery, rusting signs, now broken promises of cold beer - hot coffee - rooms for rent - ice cold Coca-Cola, whispers of lives that once were - banging unheard along the exposed highway.

Passersby barely slow. They maybe, just barely, even give it all a notice or a thought - that once in Mina, you could get a hair cut or have your oil changed, and once in Goldfield, you could stay at the historic hotel where today each window across the first floor bares a bright red "No Trespassing!" sign, or three miles down the road you could find the Shady Lady Brothel.

All this evidence that “humanity came here once, but gave up and left” poked at my heart, as we made our way across the Silver State. While the distant ranges and changing colors of the steeps and mountains pulled us forward in anticipation to our adventures in Death Valley, the forlorn roadside trash provoked me - the way watching a bloody boxing match makes you want to look away and yet, you can’t. 

It’s the stuff of life. It’s the oddness of human behavior flanked by impressive natural beauty, and it’s hope declared out loud and then lost in silence to something more powerful. 

Thanks to those among you who endorsed my recent two week break from blogging. It's been a rich time with pen and paper and a healthy step back from the screen. It's also lovely to be home. ~ mlp

The 63 Word Decade

Two days ago, I was contacted via Facebook by a woman who was one of my dearest high school companions. We shared some incredible adventures thirty (oh lordy, I hadn't done the math lately) years ago. Sometime when I'm plowing down memory lane, I'll post a story about skipping econ class my junior year to go drink black coffee with Pat in her always sophisticated high heels. At seventeen, she claimed that a woman wasn't truly complete unless she wore pumps, but I digress...

This morning I get a perfectly-Patricia message. It is brief, witty and delightfully demanding. In her message, she encapsulates her life since we last saw one another (1997), into sixty-three words and then challenges me to do the same "speed catch up."
 
Ack! Those of you reading this blog or knowing me for any length of time know that I can't do anything in 63 words. Nevertheless, I've given it a go.
 
Before you read on; however, indulge me. First, this exercise was sobering. To reduce a decade that I believed was significant, changing and full of dimension into a quickie paragraph rather brings one up short. It feels as though there are several thousand words missing. Then there's the reality that my life, after re-reading the allotted statement, I judge to be somewhat...shall we say -  humdrum? I don't know what I expected. I mean - I'm perfectly clear that the last thirteen years have not included the long dreamt of retreat to Greece, the Grand Canyon trek, a published collection of poetry, learning to play the banjo or even the purchase of  a new television (my kids have been offering to pool their savings -- it's actually that bad), but I digress...again. Needless to say, the life of glamour that we envisioned all those years ago while delinquently sipping bad coffee transformed into something all-together-else.
 
So, Patricia Rae, I’m digging in the recesses of my brain trying to recall how old my kids were when you passed through Ashland with a very big, rambunctious dog and a bottle of vodka in your trunk. I’m pretty sure it was 1997. Had I run the Portland marathon yet? Sarah, then my youngest, would’ve been two years old. Reid David was seven, and I was still a brunnette. Yikes! Thirteen years chronologically in the space of a classified ad. Ready? 
 
“Single mom, English teacher, met man, took risk, married man, millennium delivered Virginia, stopped teaching, worked non-profit foundation, kids thrived, eldest child graduated AHS-moved out-started college, continued my art & writing, began dabbling in photography, separated from man, middle kid started AHS, youngest in 4th grade, working freelance studio, eldest child fighting-surviving leukemia, now very different strong-loving single mom.”

The Soul Of My Boots

I held my first “real” job during the summer of 1978 in Jackson County, Oregon working for the Youth Conservation Corps which at that time was managed through our local Bureau of Land Management office.Definition of “real” to me at fifteen years old included the following characteristics: an application and interview, a dress code, a commute to work, an absolute starting time and a regular quitting time, Monday-Friday, rain or shine and a proper paycheck (though  minimum wage at that time was $2.65 an hour - so however proper it might have been, is arguable).

In a nutshell, YCC is  a National Parks Service program employing youth between 15 and 18 years old to do everything from clear invasive species, to build and repair trails, to upkeep park’s facilities like playgrounds and picnic areas, to piling and burning slash, to helping demolish old buildings. That particular summer, our main project was building the Sterling Creek trail outside of historic Jacksonville (picture scrub oak and madrone, and very dry soil conditions in the traditional 100+ degree July weather of Southern Oregon). I used tools with names like pulaski, mattock, McLeod, grub hoe, council tool and the ever popular pick axe. Almost all of them involved swinging with a fair degree of momentum and upper arm and shoulder strength, and yes - I was pretty continuously sore that entire summer.

Everyday at 5 am I would drag my grumpy teenaged butt out of bed, make a behemoth sack lunch, fill my canteen, dress in the required gear (long denim pants, long sleeved denim shirt bearing the proud green and white YCC patch, over the ankle leather boots, 3/4 length leather work gloves and a bright yellow hard hat) and walk down to the corner convenience store to be picked up by one of our crew leaders with whom I commuted from Ashland into Medford. We’d arrive at the Medford armory by 6:30 to get our daily assignments and be loaded into pale green BLM vans and on our way by 7 AM. We’d be returned eight hours later - filthy, stinking, red faced, dehydrated, famished and $21.20 richer.

Let me get one thing very clear here. I was not a soft girlie girl at fifteen. I was an athlete, a tom boy of the highest order, a wizened treehouse builder and explorer of all things dirty, muddy and imbedded in poison oak, a seasoned weed puller and gardening assistant to my parents and an avid camper. If anyone could make it in YCC, it was me. Right. After two weeks I was completely ready to throw in the towel - or trowel - or whatever. I had never worked so physically hard in my entire life. Never. Never. Never. And never mind that the 5 am thing was killing me, too! Had it not been for my boyfriend Joe’s dad, I surely would have quit. But he sat me down one evening while I was whining about the work and gave me the most wonderful and positively delivered version of the “Once a quitter always a quitter” speech that I could have ever asked for. He helped me change my mind, and I then became my own agent in changing my life.

Had I quit, in the ensuing eight weeks I would have missed out on learning to build a cross buck fence (a part of which still stands around one end of Hyatt Lake, and I can look at with pride even after 32 years). I would have missed the day we were rewarded by a trip to Crater Lake and the exhilaration I felt while running off the dock at Wizard Island and flying into the icy cold, crystal clear, aqua-colored ancient waters. I would have missed standing with my cohorts by the Sterling Creek sign that declared it was build by the YCC. I would have missed being tapped by a supervisor to spend an entire day in the field with a wildlife biologist doing bird counts and especially, tracking down and locating endangered owls in the Cascade Mountains. I would have missed the comedy of peeling off my jeans each afternoon with my gloves still on so I wouldn’t get poison oak from my britches - and the look of respect that my father gave me as I would tell him about my day. I would have missed discovering an essential part of myself - that self that doesn't just work until it’s hard, but works past the point of “hard” to “accomplished.”

Any what, pray-tell, does any of this have to do with Boot Week in the studio? Well, I was thinking last night about boots I have worn and the life I have experienced while decked out in this particular form of footwear. I kept trying to figure out, which pair of my boots do I “love” the most (aka - which life experience in boots has left an indelible mark?), when I realized - the pair I love the most are the boots I wore that long hot dust-covered summer working for YCC. When it was over, I couldn’t part with them, you see. First of all, after three months of wickedly hard wear and tear, I had worn them to a slipper comfort-like cured quality, and anyone who has ever tried to break in boots will tell you, that’s a beautiful thing for one’s feet. But mostly, they stayed with me as worn leather trophies of a job well done and my literal symbols of the proverb  “walk my talk.”

Two years ago, my elder daughter found them in a box and asked if she could wear them for hiking and service work at school. I took them out, rubbed the cracks smooth with beeswax, and passed them over to her with pride.

An Einstein Photo Journal

  

OUT OF CLUTTER,

FIND SIMPLICITY.

FROM DISCORD,

FIND HARMONY.

IN THE MIDDLE OF DIFFICULTY

LIES OPPORTUNITY.

~ Albert Einstein

Cuppa Love

From the Abundance Blog at Marelisa Online, come 101 prompts for a writer’s journal jar. There are many fantastic starts and ideas here, including the 100 Things I Love exercise - which has a strong appeal to the list maker in me who thrives first by making the list and next, by crossing things off of it! In this week of reflections on Love - both profound and trivial - today I’m sharing one of the items from my personal 100 Things list. It’s a small daily thing, but it is because it is small and daily that I admit and consent to “loving” my cup of coffee.

100 Things/Item#52:
Espresso, very hot water and a tiche of milk - otherwise known as an Americano. I know that the espresso shot has been perfectly pulled if there’s a reddish caramel-colored layer of smooth dense holy grail-like substance called crema - on top of the drink before I add in my milk. You could dub a well made Americano either “coffee with a kick” - or “a lazy espresso,” but for me it’s the perfect balance of smooth, bitter, rich, full and sharp. 



The “Fresh Roasted-Perfectly Ground-Brewed Just Right” coffee snob culture came to me over twenty years ago when Starbucks was still simply selling beans to brew at home to Seattlites and no one had ever heard of or maybe even imagined drive through huts pumping out gallons of hot caffeinated, whip cream drowned drinks to the masses. In 1983, with a brand new bachelor’s degree in my hip pocket, I worked at Cuppa Joe, a small business in Ashland. Joe's was locally roasting and selling fresh coffee beans to discerning gourmets and offering 12 oz cups for fifty cents from a thermos in the shop. It was there that I developed my taste for coffee. Back then I could actually taste the difference between beans grown in different hemispheres. It's a science and an art, truly.



These days, I only require one decent cup of the dark stuff per day. While I’ve been fervently working for over a decade at creating the perfect cup of french press in my own kitchen, you can often find me down the street at the Rogue Valley Roasting Company bowing down to the shop owner, Dustin Way’s espresso pulling finesse. 



Besides the Roasting Company’s Americano earning a spot on my less-than-legendary list of 100 Loved Things, I love that when I walk through the shop’s heavy swinging door, someone greets me by name. I love that Dustin and his co-owner (and Mom!), Cindy - are local Ashlanders. I love that my kids can walk in there alone without people looking at them cross-eyed because they’re kids and sometimes press their faces against the ice cream case and leave smudges on the glass. I love that even when there’s a line of high school kids backed up out the door during lunch break, no one gets snippy. I love that the employees are treated well, respect each other and care about the customers. I love the safe familiarity - which on days when things are crazy in my life - can pull me back to center. 



That’s a lot of love over something as small as a cuppa coffee. I’d like to order one of those to go, please.

"Oh My God...How Risky."

The wind and rain did some serious window rattling last night. My youngest - despite her own awareness of the mountains rising protectively around our hometown - asked as she was surrendering to sleep, "Are you sure we can't have a hurricane here?" It was a concern I remember having myself as a child in this very same town, and I cherished the sensation that we lived in such a remarkably safe place.

Ashland, Oregon is a sweet-natured, semi-conservative, attractive to big city refugees, feels-slightly-metropolitan but is actually a fairly-small-town -- that is tucked into the foothills of the Siskiyou and Cascade mountains. It's not geographically conducive to tornadoes or tsunami's and it's been a long time since the last volcanic eruption. I happily settled here, in part, to give my own kids the same nurturing and sheltered childhood that I experienced.

While social and economic times and ways of the world have grown and shifted, Ashland, Oregon has been fortunate to keep crime and calamity to a minimum. But it's not a utopia, so occasionally bad things happen to this good community. Most recently, a couple incidence of sexual assult. The response throughout Ashland has been swift and vocal. Newspaper articles, police warnings, a composite sketch, internet messages with safety tips, announcements at the University and local high school, and even a "Take Back the Night" march to raise awareness. It's good stuff. When alone it's smart to tune in; be familiar with one's surroundings; take off your ipod and listen to the world around you; practice "wide angle vision" (a tracking term for seeing and intuitive awareness  much further than the distance between self and screen, steering wheel or Wii);  walk with a "don't mess with me" confidence. They don't always stop the worst, but employing these tools and others will definitely increase one's odds of well being.

So, here am I, finishing today's blog so that I can -- go for a walk, in broad daylight, in the rain, ALONE! Oh my god...how risky. 

Let's face it, we can spend our whole lives being afraid or cautious - or even equal and intelligent parts of both. We can employ every measure of safe living and behavior that we are taught. We can stay in, lock the doors, filter the water, "green" the house, eat organic, take our vitamins, put on our coat, walk with a buddy and carry pepper spray, but in the end, we have no control.  Huh? Nope. Nadda.

Sometimes, no matter what you've done "right," a monster shows up. Shit happens -- in spades -- right in your own living room. 

Having recently lost so much of the freedom I treasure so dearly and the sense of safety -- for myself and my loved ones -- that I have always prized, I will not relinquish a simple act that brings me joy. I will take walks.