Top Secret Martha-style Enterprises
I don't know what it is about the Pacific Northwest that has so much epitomized what I need from my own place on earth, but it's always been the PNW for me. I will readily admit that having gotten used to being able to grow lemons and tangerines in California I do occasionally pine for a lemon tree that I can put in the ground and know that it will thrive. I did, once this season, look at pomegranates in the nursery catalog and wish I could ripen them here in the Willamette Valley. But those are Mediterranean plants and this is not the same climate.But these longings for climatically challenged fruit pass pretty quickly underneath the quick-change skies of Yamhill County where we can see the sun bust out of the clouds in a great flourish, feel the rays for two whole hours before the clouds roll across again in a big precipitous display that ends in five minutes of sleet followed by some gentle sprinkles which are then finished off by the most vibrant unbelievable sun set.
We've been here for a year now. A whole cycle of seasons. This has been a year of incredibly hard, but fun, work. A year of coming home. A year of scaring off potential new friends. A year for forging new connections. A year of healing from the incredibly dark months that led up to our northerly migration. In fact, I think we're still healing. Philip still has surgery to look forward to on his arm. (That pesky bone grafting fun he gets to participate in because his bones have not healed even though they're bolted together with sixteen pins and a sheath of titanium).
We thought that by now we would know if all our work building a business was going to pay off. We're still not sure. We've been in this funny limbo for a year and a half now. The limbo of having no idea where life is headed. What we'll be doing in six months. Whether we'll be living in this boring but good house or renting an apartment here in town. Whether we'll both be working for JoAnnes or Wilco with matching mullets, or if we'll be paying all our bills with Dustpan Alley, our labor of great passion. We have been scared at times, and at others so certain that whatever happens we are on the path we need to be on. We have been on a great roller coaster of depression and excitement, anxiety and confidence. It's hard to know the difference between our elbows and our feet which are always bent, always moving.
The only thing I've been sure of in the past year is that moving back to the Pacific North West was the same as moving back home where my spirit belongs. Right here. It's something about the quality of the air. The nature of the climate. Almost no one can resist pairing the words "Pacific North West" with "rain" and also "wet rain" and sometimes even "endless fucking rain". I don't even notice it. Is it raining all the time? Is it grey all the time? Really? Are you sure?
Personally I think the whole liturgy about the Pacific North West and it's dreary weather is something people spin out to discourage others from moving to this region of sparkling earth. No, you can't ripen pomegranates here, but in the end, who the flippin hellety hell needs them when we are living in the place where blueberries grow like WEEDS. LIKE WEEDS WITH CANDY ON THEIR BRANCHES.
And nothing on earth is better than riding down highway 18 on my Vespa to Farmer John's to pick up twenty pounds of tomatoes to can on a scorching day, with the hot air hitting my skin like a sand blaster rushing all my irritation away, and passing through thick clouds of wild blackberry scent, a scent so peculiar to Oregon* in my mind that every time I smell it my soul settles in a little deeper, committing just a little more to the moment at hand.
Oh yeah, about the title of this post... I almost forgot to tell you all that I made some totally cool decorations yesterday for my friend Dominique's baby shower this week-end that I can't show you yet because she reads my blog and I want her to be surprised. For a person like me, who doesn't do parties, who refuses to play any kind of parlour game, or pretty much ANY GAME**, and who is a lot like a grumpy old man with a half smashed cigar hanging out the side of my mouth and perpetually mumbling curses out the other side of my mouth, I was surprised at how well I channeled the decorating hero of the world. Yep, I really did. But now that I've said all that, you will undoubtedly be disappointed.
Oh, you're wondering how I got involved in this party making fest at all if I am as I say I am? I mean, why plan a baby shower for a person who really loves parties and decorations and is sweet and light and full of baby joy...why step in with my curses? A-ha! Good question. You will all be relieved to know that there are at least two other people planning it. I am merely an instrument. The other two are not like grumpy old men at all and have (mercifully) taken on the task of setting up the baby shower games that I will alienate everyone by refusing to participate in. I am just helping out because I adore Dominique and want her to be super happy with her day. That's why I've crawled out of my cave to make like Martha.
Seriously, I can't wait to share my creation.
Right, so on an even less expected topic than the above, I just want to say that I am so tired of being a person with chin hairs. Not just a "person" with chin hair, a WOMAN with chin hairs. I don't have enough to sign up with the local circus as a bearded lady, but I have quite enough to mess with my view of myself as a dainty feminine creature.***
*Don't be worried, I know that blackberries grow in California too. I've picked 'em and canned 'em there too. But they don't permeate the air down south. The scent of blackberries doesn't rush out at you on languid walks from every nook, from every bank of the road, as it does here.
**Except for scrabble with Philip. This is one of those things that really irritates people, drives them wild with a desire to CHANGE my ways and then makes me into even more of an old curmudgeon because the more a person tries to get me to play games, the more they drive me into a fighting corner. Never a good idea. I always come out looking like a mean loser and an outcast. Playing games makes me so uncomfortable that I would rather peel a whole layer of my skin off than participate. I am unbudgable. (Rare exceptions are made for small children.)
***You've sniffed out a contradiction. No, see, I am really more like an old man the way I've described it, so the reality is that I've probably grown chin hairs because they are totally appropriate, but in my mind I imagine that I am a dainty delicate female with grace and gentle ways. (Until someone tries to coerce me into playing games.) Holy hell, I need to just shut up now, huh?
We've been here for a year now. A whole cycle of seasons. This has been a year of incredibly hard, but fun, work. A year of coming home. A year of scaring off potential new friends. A year for forging new connections. A year of healing from the incredibly dark months that led up to our northerly migration. In fact, I think we're still healing. Philip still has surgery to look forward to on his arm. (That pesky bone grafting fun he gets to participate in because his bones have not healed even though they're bolted together with sixteen pins and a sheath of titanium).
We thought that by now we would know if all our work building a business was going to pay off. We're still not sure. We've been in this funny limbo for a year and a half now. The limbo of having no idea where life is headed. What we'll be doing in six months. Whether we'll be living in this boring but good house or renting an apartment here in town. Whether we'll both be working for JoAnnes or Wilco with matching mullets, or if we'll be paying all our bills with Dustpan Alley, our labor of great passion. We have been scared at times, and at others so certain that whatever happens we are on the path we need to be on. We have been on a great roller coaster of depression and excitement, anxiety and confidence. It's hard to know the difference between our elbows and our feet which are always bent, always moving.
The only thing I've been sure of in the past year is that moving back to the Pacific North West was the same as moving back home where my spirit belongs. Right here. It's something about the quality of the air. The nature of the climate. Almost no one can resist pairing the words "Pacific North West" with "rain" and also "wet rain" and sometimes even "endless fucking rain". I don't even notice it. Is it raining all the time? Is it grey all the time? Really? Are you sure?
Personally I think the whole liturgy about the Pacific North West and it's dreary weather is something people spin out to discourage others from moving to this region of sparkling earth. No, you can't ripen pomegranates here, but in the end, who the flippin hellety hell needs them when we are living in the place where blueberries grow like WEEDS. LIKE WEEDS WITH CANDY ON THEIR BRANCHES.
And nothing on earth is better than riding down highway 18 on my Vespa to Farmer John's to pick up twenty pounds of tomatoes to can on a scorching day, with the hot air hitting my skin like a sand blaster rushing all my irritation away, and passing through thick clouds of wild blackberry scent, a scent so peculiar to Oregon* in my mind that every time I smell it my soul settles in a little deeper, committing just a little more to the moment at hand.
Oh yeah, about the title of this post... I almost forgot to tell you all that I made some totally cool decorations yesterday for my friend Dominique's baby shower this week-end that I can't show you yet because she reads my blog and I want her to be surprised. For a person like me, who doesn't do parties, who refuses to play any kind of parlour game, or pretty much ANY GAME**, and who is a lot like a grumpy old man with a half smashed cigar hanging out the side of my mouth and perpetually mumbling curses out the other side of my mouth, I was surprised at how well I channeled the decorating hero of the world. Yep, I really did. But now that I've said all that, you will undoubtedly be disappointed.
Oh, you're wondering how I got involved in this party making fest at all if I am as I say I am? I mean, why plan a baby shower for a person who really loves parties and decorations and is sweet and light and full of baby joy...why step in with my curses? A-ha! Good question. You will all be relieved to know that there are at least two other people planning it. I am merely an instrument. The other two are not like grumpy old men at all and have (mercifully) taken on the task of setting up the baby shower games that I will alienate everyone by refusing to participate in. I am just helping out because I adore Dominique and want her to be super happy with her day. That's why I've crawled out of my cave to make like Martha.
Seriously, I can't wait to share my creation.
Right, so on an even less expected topic than the above, I just want to say that I am so tired of being a person with chin hairs. Not just a "person" with chin hair, a WOMAN with chin hairs. I don't have enough to sign up with the local circus as a bearded lady, but I have quite enough to mess with my view of myself as a dainty feminine creature.***
*Don't be worried, I know that blackberries grow in California too. I've picked 'em and canned 'em there too. But they don't permeate the air down south. The scent of blackberries doesn't rush out at you on languid walks from every nook, from every bank of the road, as it does here.
**Except for scrabble with Philip. This is one of those things that really irritates people, drives them wild with a desire to CHANGE my ways and then makes me into even more of an old curmudgeon because the more a person tries to get me to play games, the more they drive me into a fighting corner. Never a good idea. I always come out looking like a mean loser and an outcast. Playing games makes me so uncomfortable that I would rather peel a whole layer of my skin off than participate. I am unbudgable. (Rare exceptions are made for small children.)
***You've sniffed out a contradiction. No, see, I am really more like an old man the way I've described it, so the reality is that I've probably grown chin hairs because they are totally appropriate, but in my mind I imagine that I am a dainty delicate female with grace and gentle ways. (Until someone tries to coerce me into playing games.) Holy hell, I need to just shut up now, huh?
Labels: a year in review, Oregon, Pacific North West