Begin Again

In my long career as a teacher, thousands of students passed through my classroom. For a while–sometimes a semester, sometimes a few years–I got to see them almost every day, got to watch them make their way through the giddy, grueling, crazy maze of adolescence, got to listen to their hopes and heartaches, got to read their essays, got to know them as students of English and of life. It was, from start to finish, an absolute joy. From those who recoiled at the very thought of reading a poem to those who approached every assignment as a gift, they all ALL inspired and energized me. And then they moved on. But some will always remain in the front row of my head and heart. Some have continued to inspire and energize me as they graduated into adulthood, entered relationships, started careers–Ehow Hawk Chen, Ashley Karitis, Emily Comerford, Patrick Carroll, Kelsey McClure, Whitney Swander, Alex Day, Juliet (JT) Mylan, Patty Garcia, and so many more (my front row is crowded!). I love these ...

A lot of New Zealand is beaches: stunning cliff-hugging beaches, long sandy beaches, beaches with harbors, beaches with surfers. It’s an island, after all. So, Catherine and I (and Jim, when his travels intersected with ours) spent a lot of time communing with Neptune–walking along, wading in, watching the vast vast expanse. In lovely Russell, we even spent a day sailing with a small group–a first for me–in the Bay of Islands. It was exhilarating and wonderful. I saw dolphins. I burned my feet. But some of the most memorable experiences I had in New Zealand were about as far from the sea as it’s possible to get on the North Island (81 miles), in Taupō at the Jensens’ beautiful, peaceful home. Kathy and Ian (Spike) Jensen have been friends of Catherine and Jim for over 20 years, and they welcomed me as though I were part of the family. The 17-acre property (about 7 hectares) where the Jensens built their home is tucked up into the hilly pastures just outside the metropolitan center of T...

  When the impossible happened in 2016, I began to seriously consider a move away from this country where I no longer felt at home, and over the course of four hellacious years, I obsessively researched possible landing places–places where people mattered more than profits, where basic needs (food, shelter, health care) were recognized as rights, not privileges, where I could afford to live comfortably (if not lavishly), where I could make a new home for whatever remained of my life. Again and again, Portugal presented itself as that place. Portugal was warm and people-centered, welcoming, affordable, and safe. Steeped in a rich history, building toward a better future for all, it seemed like a real possibility. I had to find time and means to go there, to experience the reality. My friend, Catherine, who had spent some time in Portugal (and loved it), offered to be my travel companion, and we began looking for a good time to go. But life: I went back to work, first just to help ou...

  OK. In case you didn’t know already, I’ll tell you. My sons are so, so fucking great. They are smart and kind, funny, talented, tender, thoughtful. I love spending time with any of them, and having them all together–which, since they have grown and moved away, is a Christmas time-only experience–is amazing. Not always easy, mind you; not uneventful. But amazing. Discussions about football or politics or, well, anything, really, can (and have) become loud, angry philosophical debates as my ultra-verbal sons weigh in passionately (and stubbornly?) for their position; evenings can (and have) turned sour as one or the other of us unwittingly tapped into tender emotional territory–or perceived that his emotional territory had been invaded. But the amazing always kicks in afterward. Laughter returns. Love prevails. So, when the prospect of a full-family June gathering was floated, I was thrilled. Neal and Brendan took vacation days, I made reservations at the Burbank airport Marriott, ...

  Another failed attempt at a camping trip to Joshua Tree. I thought to beat the oppressive heat with an early April run, but I thought wrong, and that’s all right. For the three days I was in Southern California, daytime temperatures nudged 100º, once even topping it. So, I shared the wifi and air conditioning with Colin and Leigha (both of whom are working from home) during the day, and we ventured out when it cooled down in the evening (into the 80s) for good LA food and one great night of music at the Largo. It was awesome. After the amazing time I had getting to Los Angeles, I would have called the trip a success if I’d only seen the Los Feliz Blvd. trash can fire that prompted Leigha’s first ever 911 call. Driving to our campgrounds outside of Crescent City, CA, on the first day was mostly familiar, a pretty, easy drive I made so many times to see my parents in Medford. My heart ached a little as I passed landmarks that reminded me of those distant days. But as I cut away fro...

  Tomorrow is Mardi Gras–literally Fat Tuesday–the last day before the Lenten season of self-denial, self-reflection, self-abnegation. We will indulge with a raucous carnival–literally farewell to meat–then get up the next day to be reminded of our mortality with a solemn ash cross swipe across our foreheads, preparing us for 40 days of sacrifice. Haha. JK. We’re just going to keep the carnival going, right? I have long since abandoned the rites and rituals of my Catholic childhood (and early adulthood, for that matter), along with my belief in a True Faith, an omnipotent score-keeper, or any sort of heavenly afterlife to which I might be admitted if I check all the right boxes. But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on wonder or a commitment to good. I am regularly awed by small, simple moments that remind me that life–in general and particular–is absolutely amazing. Looking up from my dinner preparation to see Chip and Caruso, curled together in front of the fireplace; passing withi...

  It’s December and still no snow. Mt Bachelor is getting antsy, I imagine, but these beautiful, clear days, with highs in the 50s (and a few times 60s!) are letting me enjoy midday walks with my dogs that my former work schedule prohibited. Nearby trails and neighborhoods, their foliage and front porch decorations changing with the seasons, provide our usual routes, but today after errands we stopped at the Skyline Sports Complex where my boys could run on the deserted fields while I made my way twice around the paved perimeter. Except for the group of children on the far east playing field (7 – 8-year-olds, I would guess; probably Seven Peaks students), we were the only ones there. The children were engaged in a game of kickball, and, as I entered the park, their piping voices carried clearly to me: Piping Voice 1:   Hey! You went t o  the wrong base! Piping Voice 2 :  I can choose my own base! Piping Voice 1:  No you can’t! There are ruuuules!! I mean, yeah. ...

  After sixteen days of travel, I thought my dogs and I would be happy–relieved–to be home. But as I unloaded the Subaru, filling the washing machine, packing away camping gear, hanging rain-soaked tarps and my tent awning to dry (in the garage; it’s raining here), I felt more glum than glad. Maybe Dashiell felt the same. After a quick tour of the house and yard, he jumped back into the car and refused to get out. For him (and me?) these tight quarters had become home. Don’t get me wrong: I love my house in Bend, and I appreciate the comforts and conveniences I am so privileged to have here. Indoor plumbing? Heck yeah. But if there’s one thing the freedom of retirement has shown me so far, it’s that “home” is not just a particular physical space; it’s also an ideological anchor. The Trump-loving citizens of Lakeview, Oregon, where I stopped at a Safeway long enough to hear a young, unmasked worker urge an elderly masked shopper to avoid the dangerous Covid vaccine lest it ruin his ...

  Welp, once again life happened while I was making other plans, and my agenda ended up in the recycle bin. In the three days I planned to stay in Los Angeles with Colin and Leigha, I watched the weather prediction for Joshua Tree with concern, fearing that the 80º+ temperatures there would be too much for the dogs (mostly Chip) and not very comfortable for me. I don’t mind camping in the car during cold weather, but, at a certain point, heat is a deal-breaker. Finally, I decided we would give it a try, with the option to cut and run if it was just too hot. Then the UTI that had been threatening erupted with a vengeance, forcing me to stay closer to, well, bathrooms and giving me the chance to try out my brand new Medicare insurance! Oy. Anyway, the change in plans gave me more time in LA, which allowed me to indulge in one of my interests: death. Apparently, not everyone thinks about death as much as I do, which is weird, but to each his own. I find mortality one of the most compe...

  Why do I always feel like I have to defend California? I’m pretty sure it’s doing just fine without my two cents of support, I haven’t lived there in over 30 years, and nobody cares what I think about it, anyway. But for some reason I find it impossible to resist confronting the easy platitudinous putdowns of this complex and remarkable state. And every time I return–usually to visit my son who came back here for college and never left–my sense of California loyalty is reinvigorated. We moved from North San Diego County to Bend, Oregon, in 1990 to provide our growing sons with opportunities we could not afford or find in Southern California: clean air, open spaces, woods to explore. Bend was small and quiet and beautiful, smoke curling from chimneys of homes near Drake Park as the January snow fell when we first visited in 1985. Along Riverside Drive, children bundled in bright parkas and toting Care Bears lunch pails thrust out their tongues to catch stray flakes. Every vulnerab...

  The sort-of goal for my October trip–to experience the much-touted fall foliage in New Hampshire and Vermont and New York–might have been just a little silly. I realized today, when I walked my boys through Drake Park, that I can get all the fall spectacle I need right here at home. A cool breeze ruffled the Deschutes and coaxed leaves from the park’s glorious maples, deepening the golden carpet. Small groups of visitors posed for each other’s cell phone cameras. “I have never seen such a beautiful place!” gushed one woman who almost backed into me, trying to frame the best shot of trees, river, and footbridge. Would this have been me in New England, if plans hadn’t changed, thrilling to Norman Rockwell scenes that I might have discovered without ever leaving Bend? Maybe there’s some deep truth to be found in today’s little park experience. But I’m too busy planning my next adventure to look for it. Before winter sets in (I hope), I’m taking off again, heading south to Joshua Tre...

  While I was on my trip, I found myself sympathizing–a little bit, at least–with my son, Colin, in regard to his attitude about eating. As someone who does not enjoy any part of the food process–planning, acquiring, preparing, ingesting, cleaning up, eliminating–he looks for ways to get the calories and nutrients he needs with the least effort and most efficiency possible. I, on the other hand, actually enjoy food. I like finding the best in-season peaches, trying a new recipe, creating a pleasing presentation (even when I’m the only customer), and experiencing the tastes and textures of a meal. I don’t even mind the KP duty afterward. But I had some trouble getting the hang of meal times on my trip. I mean, I made a couple of OK camp meals–a vegetable stir-fry on instant rice; a bowtie pasta with peppers–but most were minimal, rushed, and not so great. The Kraft mac and cheese with sriracha-flavored tuna was especially awful. I love my little camp stove, and I had all the tools I...

  I imagined that when I rolled back into my driveway after a month on the road I’d feel some relief. Camping is a lot of work; driving long distances on unfamiliar roads can be exhausting. But today I feel disappointed. I’m not even close to ready for the work and exhaustion to be over. Not to mention the absolute pleasures–falling asleep under an unbelievably thick blanket of stars that shone through my moon roof at a trailhead outside of Bozeman, savoring a jalapeño-cheddar croissant and a latte from Bernice’s Bakery while people watching in a pretty Missoula park, marveling at all the jaw-dropping wonders of Yellowstone, reading in my camper-car while snuggled under a cozy blanket, the dogs snoozing beside me as a cold rain poured down outside–all of my moments have filled me with gratitude and with a strong urge for more. So, although I know that my Chip needed to come home, I also know that I will need to go back out–when the time is right. In the meantime, as Jack Kornfield ...

Kennewick, Washington, has everything you’ll ever need. At the Columbia Center, just down the street from my Fairfield Inn, you’ll find Build-a-Bear and Cinnabon, Hot Topic, Sephora, Macy’s. It is, in fact, “The Tri-Cities’ family favorite shopping dining and community destination.” (I don’t know why they reject the serial comma.) Target is just across the street, Costco’s around the corner. For at least 9,000 years, the original residents of the area–Umatilla, Nez Perce, Wanapum, and Yakama–managed without these conveniences. According to records from the Lewis and Clark expedition in 1805, about five to six thousand people lived peacefully here, catching salmon in the Columbia, living comfortably through the relatively mild winters. Then, as Wikipedia so deftly describes it, the area was “discovered and settled by European descendants.” Now the native American population of Kennewick is .8%. In spite of what website photos suggest, you’d spend a long day at the Columbia Center S’barr...

  When my mother was still somewhat coherent, but clearly in mental and physical decline, she became very emotionally fragile. Each time I made the trip to Medford–once or twice a month–she spent much of our brief weekend visit recalling past hurts, bemoaning how seldom her children called or came to see her, expressing her sadness and loneliness. It made me feel awful. I knew that she actually did get calls from my siblings, and I tried to stay connected as much as possible. My father doted on her. But her experience was painful and, to her, real. What if she had a dog? What if I could find her a little, non-shedding, hypoallergenic, even-tempered dog to love? I believe in dogs, and have had one almost constantly since Coco (technically my brother Bill’s, but actually my sidekick and soulmate) joined our family when I was 7. I even tried to smuggle a stray into my dorm room as a freshman at San Diego State. Each has enriched my life, and I wanted that to happen for my poor mother....