Bright red things
Pay attention! The universe is knocking
Check in
Early risers
In many parts of the country, forsythia is the earliest bloomer. In Portland, though, forsythia has to compete with camellias, daphne, hellebores, daffodils, snowbells, flowering quince, crocuses and some other purple flowers I forget the name of. It’s a worthy competitor.
I’m running the forsythia photo a little late. Already, pink puffs of flowering plums are bursting out all over town. Here are some snowbells from our garden.
And the blossoms of flowering quince, which gladden my heart from February through May.
Pi day
Today, March 14, is π day.
0 3 1 4—that’s both today’s date and the first four digits of an irrational number (03.1414 . . .), one that can never be expressed as a real number or a fraction. Π, or pi, represents the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter.
That a number could not be exactly assigned to π was known to ancient Greek, Chinese and Arabian scholars. More recently, supercomputers have calculated π to more than 10 trillion digits. Still no pattern; still irrational.
I recently ran into a man who remembered science teachers challenging students to memorize the first 10 or 20 or 50 digits of π. But why? Wouldn’t it make more sense to memorize some poetry? Or the Gettysburg Address? Marc Antony’s “Friends, Romans and countrymen” oration?
Pins and pi
The first four digits of pi could be used a PIN number, like the one you use for your debit card or the ATM. It could replace easier-to-guess PINs like your birth year or the first four digits of your driver’s license number.
Did you pick your own PIN, or are you using the one the bank assigned you? If it’s your creation, does it have any connection with you and your history? It could be a historical date, like 1066 or 1789. Maybe the address of a place you don’t live at anymore. The page number of your favorite dessert in Larousse Gastronomique.
I’m curious how you chose your PIN. Maybe you could leave a comment with a clue.
Meanwhile, a lot of pizza places and bakeries have specials on “pie” day. I hope you were able to take advantage of one.
Writing poems for others
I haven’t written poems for strangers in a long time. The weather has been clear but cold and windy, and then rainy, not good for sitting in my chair waiting for folks to ask me to write for them.
Last week, I struck up conversations at my local coffee shop with two interesting strangers. Well, they are less strangers now that we’ve gotten to know each other.
Chuck is a chess master who teaches and coaches. On his recommendation I’m reading The Queen’s Gambit by Walter Nevis. I’ve seen some of the TV series made from the book, but the book is somehow more compelling. In fact, I can’t put it down.
Beth works for a big Portland-based advertising firm. Coincidentally, her mom lives in the same independent living community as my mother-in-law did.
Also coincidentally, Chuck and Beth are both from Ohio, Chuck from Columbus and Beth from Cleveland. Or maybe Cincinnati. One of those C towns that isn’t Columbus and has professional sporting franchises. If I had ever been to Ohio I’d remember the differences better.
Both are involved with youth, Chuck through his coaching and Beth as the mom of a young teen.
I wrote a poem for each of them.
For Chuck
A sonnet
Match and mate
Seeing moves far forward on the board A chance in battle brings foes to the fore White knight, black bishop, pawns in hoard Topple your king, resign, the game is o’er. Can life be like chess, or is chess like life? Making strategy while tickling the mind. Move forward, then retreat, resume the strife Harrow the field, turn up what joys you find. For joy in fighting, fiercely take the flag, Your eagles come to rest; the fight is done. You’ve taken the bit and ridden free, no lag, And now you sleep, the battle fully won. You marshal forces forward, one and all You will not falter, neither fail nor fall.
For Beth
Creative life
Colors are your world, time your flowers You curate your knowling in amber. Step forward now, the time is at hand Don’t force the flow, let it gush on its own. Placid waters, rushing rapids, a lake, An ocean with surf’s mighty roar. A creek where minnows flit, a river— Making, doing flow through you, your eyes clear. Your face in the sunset glows golden You fold your wings not in prayer But in worship of the force that’s within you, The seed held in secret, forever and now.
Resolution
Last December, I threw together a bunch of resolutions for 2026, one for each month. Thing is, I’m pretty tepid when it comes to resolutions. They are mostly meaningless. Writers on Substack whom I admire were writing about making resolutions for the new year, though, so I came up a theme for each month of 2026.
My March resolution: Gathering inspiration where you may. Pisces.
Now here’s a problem. I don’t know “gathering inspiration” means. And I also noted that the predominant Zodiac sign for March is Pisces. I don’t really know anybody born under that sign, at least not well, so I don’t know anything about Pisces, either.
Still, I think I should at least make a stab at honoring this resolution.
Time to gather
Okay, finding inspiration. It seems to me that inspiration is 10 percent input from the universe and 90 percent paying attention when the universe taps you on the shoulder.
Here is an example of inspiration striking. While I was out in my power chair, the universe took me past a wall. It was nearly hidden by a huge rolling gate. Passing by, I noticed the bright red thing (I’ve no idea what it might be). I moved on, but then I felt the tap on my shoulder to go back and check it out. That’s when I saw all sorts of odd details like the implements on the wall and the crazy, hard to see doohickey in front of the yellow door.
Bright red things often inspire me, move me, make me pause and question and feel. Like this installation at a MAX light-rail station. I forget what it is, but I love the color, the cleanness of the font, the brilliant sun, the diagonal lines of the tracks and beyond them, the freeway.
And of course, fire hydrants are often red. This one, which I found in Portland’s Richmond neighborhood, is not a real fire hydrant. It’s a miniature, perhaps 18 inches tall. I think it’s supposed to be a doggie restroom, helping keep the dog pee away from the surrounding grass.
Are you inspired now? Or maybe a bit entertained? Keep noticing!
As Robert Louis Stevenson wrote,
The world is so full of a number of things I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.
Or as happy as queens. Or pages. Or mages. Or goats, stoats, bears or deer.
TriMet incidents
Clean up on the bus
TriMet is clear that food on the bus should be in covered containers. That doesn’t stop passengers from boarding with, say, a piece of half-eaten pizza. I once saw a woman carry on a strawberry waffle on a plate, complete with whipped cream.
Even food in covered containers gets spilled. The spills are usually ignored. Small rivers of sloshed coffee are a common sight.
So it was noteworthy to see a woman walk up to the driver and ask for some paper towels to clean up the coffee she’d just spilled. Then, after she’d wiped up the mess, she tossed the towels in the trash bin at the front of the bus and told the driver, “You’re a gentleman, I’m a slob!”
She’s not a slob, she’s my kind of passenger. My hero!
Clean up on the platform
An angry woman in sparkly boots is prowling the Gateway Transit Center. She yells and stoops, yells and stoops, picking up pieces of trash and slamming them into the garbage bins.
“No, no, no!” she yells as she picks up another candy wrapper. She is so angry she is spitting. It’s as if the trash is a personal affront. “This shit is not okay, bums!”
Finally she boards the 22 bus. She leaves the platform looking a lot better.
Funny how we look past trash. I sometimes pick up a big, clean-looking piece, say an empty chip bag, and put it in the trash. But other things like cigarette butts or dirty clothing—they are too much. I leave them for the TriMet cleaning crew.
Tap your fare
TriMet has a new announcement. Every few minutes, on buses and trains, a sweet feminine voice interrupts with a message about paying your fare
On the bus, her voice is indistinct enough that what I hear is, “Remember your therapist.” But why would I need a therapist on the bus?
On the train, I can hear the message more clearly: “Remember to tap your fare every time you ride.”
Oh! I get it now.
Check out
Spring poem
The smell of new rain, Daffodils and narcissus Cats lounging on pavement Not warmed yet by sun. A season of shyness Metamorphosing to bold, Scatterings of small flowers Become masses of bloom. Gentle rain, gentle wind, Earthworms turn in the soil. Trees shake out their branches, Soon to wear a new coat.
That’s it, folks
Once again, thanks for reading Becoming. Thanks for subscribing.
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Next week, an entirely different set of photos, poems and essays. Hope to see you then.
Love, Fran
—30—
Fifth-sythia…made me smile :)
delightful, as always. thanks, Fran