Vacation

Stepping back in my 100th issue of Becoming

Check in

I’m taking a few weeks off. But I still have a few things to say.

One is to note the weirdness of having to stay indoors for several days. Portland had a heat wave and people with multiple sclerosis can’t tolerate heat, so it was just me in the downstairs of a two-story house with one window air conditioner.

The weirdness was how much it felt like the COVID lockdown. I had places to go, errands to run. I wanted to see roses. And I was stuck inside. We had the blinds closed and curtains pulled against the heat, so I couldn’t even see outside.

I burrowed into my own interior. Inhabited books. Saw some synchronicities and made some connections I will share later.

For now, here are some photos and poems to carry you through till I come back in a couple of weeks.

Messages

Portlanders are a caring bunch. No, really. They are forever posting feel-good messages in public places. Like these.

Not sure what this bumper sticker means, but it sounds fancy.

Uneven pavement kept me from getting a better angle on this message.

PGE at work

Hardhats turned up in the neighborhood this week to cut back trees that impinge on electrical wires. A pile of branches in front of our house inspired a poem.

Many branches of uniform length and thickness were fed into a chipper.

Sacrifice

They feed the limbs, the severed branches
That were alive just moments before
Into a chipper, a noisy contraption.
Beautiful branches, turned into mulch.

That is the way we clean up our forest,
Cutting the branches away from the wires.
I just wish the branches could stay here forever
In a mound on the street, the leaves dying and dead.

Life must have sacrifice, entropy’s not an option.
New branches, new growth replacing the old.
We can’t live forever, nor should we want to—
Forgive and move onward, make room for the next.

What will come after? Are we ever to know?
That does not concern us: our moment is now.
What’s new today withers as fresh buds appear.
Over and over, the now gathers its power. 

Sonnet

This sonnet is in the Shakespearean tradition.

Creation

I wonder, when I think about creation
How thought and image buckle in my mind.
I wander though a forest of frustration,
And harvest nuts of wisdom that I find.

These forest trails are covered with detritus—
Leaves, needles, pinecones, acorns on the floor.
Small slivers of the tropes we think unite us,
Such intimations make us wonder more

About the meaning life may have to show us—
Simple questions, things we may have read.
Pencils at hand, we figure that we know us
As solvers of the riddles we are fed.

Then we forget that Spirit is our guide,
And fall back into hubris, weakness, pride.

A few other old posts

While I’m on vacation, I invite you to walk through the archives of Becoming. There is a lot of material there. I tried to make every posting inventive and unique. Quirkiness abounds. Some of the photos are pretty good. So are the poems.

Take your tablet to the beach and dive in.

Check out

Please click on the heart at the top if you like this post, even a little bit.

I’m still on vacation next week, so expect more photos and poems.

If you really want to support my work, buy a subscription. Hardly anyone chooses $5 a month, so most are $50 a year. Think about it.

Meanwhile, I am grateful that you are reading. Every week, the stats say more folks are doing that.

Oh, and remember to be authentic. Breathe deeply at least once a day. Flossing doesn’t hurt, either.

—30—