Big Sky

Road trip to Ronan, Montana.

We piled the whole bunch into the RDX. All five adult-sized humans. Grandpa, Son, Hubby, Nephew and me. I drove. Grandpa got to ride shotgun. And the backseat was filled with Sardine One, Sardine Two and Sardine Three.

Driving east into the Columbia River Gorge the morning sun gave the cliffs on our right a luminous glow. On our left the river's surface twinkled, pushing ever tirelessly to the sea.

We passed the dry farmland of Hermiston with its fruit stands and painted "watermelons" signs. Into the Tri-Cities and across the Snake River. Stopped at Ritzville for gas. Then through Spokane, its skyline dated like a heyday past. We motored into Idaho, hugging the long curve of Lake Coeur d'Alene's verdant shore. Then past the old mining towns of Wallace and Mullan. Finally we scaled the Fourth of July Pass, then Lookout Pass and crossed into Montana.

Where suddenly everything was different. The road less traveled. The folks friendly. The pace unhurried. Montana, a land of sandy fertile soil, bright blue rivers, rolling gentle hills and steep mountains with carved facets and crevices of snow. We followed the Clark Fork, then the Flathead River to Dixon, to Moiese, Charlo and Ronan. Breathed in the smell of hay. The wide pastel sky. Cows. Lots of cows. The flat mirror of Ninepipe with its ornament of birds. The Mission Mountains rising like priests to the east.

We came to rest in Polson across from the wide cerulean expanse of Flathead Lake.

Then to Ronan each day for convention. Communion with God. A settling peace. Messages of hope. Inspiration. And cheer. We scaled the mountain and saw again an uncompromising view.

Commencement

June 9, 2015

Electricity filled the air outside the Chiles Center at the University of Portland. The air was warm. Families bunched together in a fat snaking line, clumping wherever there was shade. Graduates in royal purple robes and mortarboard posed for snaps with brothers, sisters, proud parents, grandparents. Bouquets in the crook of an arm. Balloons bobbing in the movement of the crowd. When the doors opened the throng pressed into the huge auditorium and slowly filled the seats to the rafters.

Graduation. Commencement. Not the end, but the beginning.

A friend texted that she spied the Mister and me from her seat across the vast hall. "You are beaming."

Pride, love, excitement, astonishment, the emotions pressing out beyond measure. My mind spinning pinwheels of memories. The proud preschooler leading the Halloween parade. A small boy stepping over the threshold into kindergarten, a watchful eye on daddy close by. Elementary school speeches (I Have a Dream), reports (state report on Indiana with the Indy 500 replica Dad and I stayed up all night to perfect), performances (the musical Annie). The best friends who formed his Battle of the Books team in fourth grade: the Quad Squad. The four are still besties today. Just taller now with facial hair, drivers' licenses and college dreams.

So many hours at soccer games, despairing over the impossibly close score and yet another crushing loss. Swimming lessons. Basketball practice. Choir performances. Piano lessons. Vacations at Sunriver. Camping at Silver Falls, Skiing at Bachelor. Family trips to Hawaii, Disneyland, Washington DC, California, Mexico. Last year's summer as a ZooTeen. Last fall's wobbly driving practice on the rural roads of Washington County.

College applications. The acceptance letters. The merit scholarships. The talent awards. And all culminating in this moment, this explosion of feeling, this pride in the man he has become.

The back door burst open and the graduates took their seats in formation. Two by two, feet bouncing with excitement, serenaded by Pomp and Circumstance. The crowd's zeal was palpable as iPhones and flashbulbs recorded the moment. Speeches were given. Awards noted. The moment serenaded by the Jazz Band's fizz, adorned with the Madrigal's song. And one by one they took their place on the stage to receive that diploma, to shake hands with the officials, and to bound down the steps changed, made perfect, set free.

To commence the first day of the rest of their lives.

2015 Grads

TY
Avid outdoorsman.
Hard worker, gentle spirit.
Will never give up.

MEGAN
Good at everything.
Fixes cars. Plays saxophone.
Best feature? Her heart.

SETH
Striking, honest, kind.
Blond streak on the soccer field.
"Goal" oriented.

JAKE
A people magnet.
Fit, driven, loquacious, bright.
He's going places.

KATIE
Much ado about something!
Thespian, painter, singer.
Renaissance woman.

BRETT
Focused achiever.
Witty, creative, loyal.
The piano man.

ISAAC
Hard worker, funny.
Chemistry whiz. Best actor.
Aand, you know dat's right!

Timberland Sky

Timberland sky to the east at sunset.  The soft pastels of Gauguin or Seurat. Right here in Cedar Mill. Someday this open field will site the Beaverton School District's newest Middle School. But today it's a masterpiece of light and color. For moments. Then the beauty vanishes, swallowed up in twilight.

Bucket of Good

Five years ago, my cousin Trish died. She was 50. The first of our generation to go. A year ago next month, cousin Dennis passed away at age 46. October first, it was Paul who left us after the quick onset of illness. He was 57. Then Bruce died of leukemia at age 64. Weeks after Bruce, my cousin Mary's husband Paul passed away. We are middle aged - too young to leave this life. Yet some do. And all will.

So I think of the concept of the bucket list. What is important or desirable to accomplish on this earth? In this short life? This moment that is mine? Before eternity dawns.

My bucket list won't have trips to Nepal, sky-diving or professional achievements. Here are some of my aspirations. Wants, not necessarily needs all. But that's what a bucket list is.

• Seek God.  
• Experience romantic love.
• Develop your natural talents.
• Use your body; feel the rewards of moving, of doing, of pushing yourself. Breathe in pure air. Feel your heart beat from exertion.
• Experience parenthood. Recognize it as one of life's most precious gifts.
• Sacrifice for someone other than yourself.
• Help someone who can do nothing for you. Then do it again. And again.
• See the masterpiece that nature is around you.
• Learn the lessons animals can teach.
• Work hard. Be thankful you can.
• Love others.
• Explore the world through travel, through reading, through curiosity and questions.
• Be a good steward of all you have been given:  your family, your health, your place in life, your talents, your years on this earth, your mind, your body, your soul. Realize that one of these will last forever; none of the others was designed to.
• Experience the joy of music.
• Seek peace. Understand you won't find it outside of yourself before you find it inside.
• Fail, and try again. Develop strength.
• Help others. Give. Be generous. Forgive.
• Appreciate art: natural, man-made, formal or accidental. Whether done by a master or a child.
• Let your greatest triumphs be triumphs of the spirit.
• Express your love to others. Love is everything. God is love.

Symphony at the Schnitz

Friday the Oregon Symphony played Beethoven's famous 5th Symphony at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. We sat near the front. Close enough to see the twinkly barrette in Sarah Kwak's hair. Close enough to see that Stefan Jackiw's bow broke a string twice in the intensity of his searing, soaring, poetic performance. Close enough to see Christoph Konig's kind smile as he rebuked the upper balcony for clapping after Beethoven's second movement. "There are two more! Just wait!" Close enough for Son to record the work of the maestro on his iPhone.

The music was exquisite. It echoes yet today. The plaintive strings, delicate piano, rousing percussion; the masterful dynamism of loud, soft, silence, and noise. Antonin Dvorak's Romance for Violin and Orchestra brought swirls of cadence, rich layered melodies, and Konig's mesmerizing energy embodying every nuance of the music;  now loud and powerful, now quiet, impossibly soft. His hands and body became the very notes and kept the orchestra perfectly one.

As I sat in Arlene's ornate hall, memories flooded my mind.

In college I heard the Oregon Symphony a number of times under James DePriest. His charisma filled the hall as amply as the music filled the air. In the 90s we waited outside for a glimpse of Bob Dylan before his concert's start. He jumped off the tour bus dressed like a roadie, a hoodie pulled over his head, and disappeared into a back door before anyone recognized him. Several years later Hubby and I rocked and swayed to The Cure's loud luscious beat. I was pregnant, Baby Son kicking to Fascination Street in my womb. One year we got tickets to the Symphony's Christmas Concert and I gave away a pair to one of my teachers as a prize. I remember waving to her and her husband seated about fifteen seats behind and above us. Son was younger then and he called the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall "that place with a cantaloupe skin ceiling". Its embossed pattern looks just like a melon rind.  One year I took young Son to a kids' Symphony concert on a Saturday afternoon. The naughtiness and noise horrified me. Kids, yes. But what were the parents thinking not to teach them better manners? We were at the Schnitz, in an upper balcony, enjoying 1964, a Beatle's Tribute band when I got the call that Beaverton School District wished to offer me a position as principal. In 2012 we were at a Morrissey concert at the Schnitz when Son called to say Nephew was having a seizure. We raced out of the earsplitting noise and hailed a cab on Broadway, flying fast to get home. For Mothers' Day in 2013 we saw Bill Cosby. (Before his recent shaming.) He sat onstage in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, drinking from a cup of water on a side table beside him. The Cos was hilarious - Nephew and Son loved him. In February 2014 we picked our way gingerly through sidewalks iced with snow to hear the Oregon Symphony play Beethoven's 7th.  Its strains serenaded my thoughts for weeks.

Yes, the good old Schnitz.... the rococo lobby with endless intermission lines and pale pink frescoed walls.  Its wool carpet, elegant bubblers, and stylish eccentrics. It is to us the music that is Portland.

Wriggling Through By Subtle Manoeuvers

The UK Guardian ran an article about the daily rituals of famous creatives. Morning larks and night owls alike, exercisers and unrepentant louches, those with day jobs and those without, each had in common a daily iron-clad ritual.

I dream that someday I shall be free of working and able to write. Many of literature's finest wrote in spite of other full time employment, and some made the case that their writing came because of full time jobs.

Wallace Stevens, an insurance executive and poet, wrote that "I find that having a job is one of the best things in the world that could happen to me. It introduces discipline and regularity into one's life." Thought provoking. Compelling.

But I think my favorite quote is from Franz Kafka, who also worked in insurance. "Time is short, my strength is limited, the office is a horror, the apartment is noisy, and if a pleasant, straight-forward life is not possible, then one must try to wriggle through by subtle manoeuvers."

Three cheers for subtle manoeuvers!

https://podio.com/site/creative-routines