Winter light
We softly step into the season of yearning. And then it rains.
Check in
Mission statement
It’s been several months since I last posted Becoming’s mission statement.
Go slow now. Take time, feel gratitude, forgive.
Remember what matters: Spirit, authenticity, justice, words.
Every day: Watch things grow. Live with silence. Reflect.
This statement espresses the aspirations I hold for my personal growth, and my desire to grow and share with others. Winter weather
After an unusually bright fall, the rains came to Western Oregon this week.
Thanks be to God! He laveth the thirsty land! The waters gather, they rush along; they are lifting their voices! The stormy billows are high, their fury is mighty. —Chorus from Mendelssohn’s Elijah The rain, it raineth every day. —Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
Winter light
Winter casts two kinds of magic in Oregon. One is the graceful tracery of bare trees, shorn of leaves, showing lovely form and naked squirrels’ nests. Their limbs cast long shadows on sunny days, seasonal sun dials.
The second kind of magic is the magic of light. Winter light, laser bright on sunny days, is milky and soft as pussy willows on the days when rain drops and dribbles and mists over the land.
Winter started out in Western Oregon this year with lovely sunny days. The sun slanted low, direct, bold, clear, clean. Evergreens provided the only shade, while bare trees reached for the heavens.
I miss the sunny winters in Minnesota, where I lived as a child. The snow was blindingly white, the shadows gray and long. In Portland, we can expect a day or two of snow most winters. Rarely, snow and ice last for a week.
Otherwise, the rain. Every day, it seems, for weeks. The obverse of our long, sunny summer days.
Winter means rain in Oregon, and we have lapsed into a season of gray skies and nearly continual moisture. Now the magic of light comes from the occasional lighted window, a promise of warmth and inclusion, a refuge from the downpours.
Consider clouds
Winter means clouds, too. And oh, those clouds. The cloud landscape is varied, exciting, ever-changing. Smudgy gray clouds, gravid with rain, bruised and billowy, sped by winds aloft. If you can spare the time, and you should, do some cloud-watching this winter.
This week, the weather shifted from downpours one day to pouty light the next. Streets were shrouded in a misty glow.
The sun through breaks in the clouds illumines a single house, leaving the neighbors in shadow.
Winter’s hold
When winter held us in her grip. We knew, we knew the frigid would not last. Yet world of white, a pale sun overhead— This to us beckoned, pulling us outside. The warmth indoors held no appeal, no more, The quilts and comforts of a cozy room. We marched outside, our footfalls breaking snow. Our sodden shoes and wet socks hung to dry. This winter pulls and pummels at our souls. We crave the ice, the silhouettes of trees Scratching the skies, bare and free and yearning. The rabbits hide in burrows, crows strut free. The world is made for us now, quiet. We are free, the cold makes us free, we see Our breath, our essence split open, never warm.
Poems for everyone
As I have been doing for the past few years, I went to the Tuba Christmas celebration in downtown Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square, sat in my wheelchair, and offered to write poems for free. I ended up writing too many poems to run in a single posting. Here is the first batch:
I wrote a poem last year for Jennifer, who was helping out at the Smart Park booth this year. She asked me for another poem, this time about life and loss and love.
Life and loss and love
Well, which is it?
Can you have one without the others?
Yes—each is a single player,
But it takes all to make a symphony.
Life for breathing,
Loss for grieving,
Love for leaving.
Pick and choose? No, they choose you.
You are the target, the loved one, the lost,
You grab at life, holding it all in your heart.
Allyson asked me to write about new beginnings.
New beginning
Fresh from the womb, Hearing the first Heartbeat outside, Safe on Mom’s breast. A seed lies uncased, Warm in the soil Seeking the light From the womb of the earth Honor each fresh idea, Newly arrived from the universe, Coddled and curated Like a shiny prized horse. All things that come to us, Well would we love them, Well should we love them, Take them as our own.
Regina asked about kindness
Tuba kindness
Warm, sonorous blasts, hitting the heart Opening and folding, Filling and brimming, Kindness in the crowd as people make way. Smiles and greetings On a dry winter’s day, No hard words, just tubas —and the occasional euphonium. A chid with a peppermint, A man with a dog, Babies in strollers, Old folks with canes. Many wear sweaters I wouldn’t call ugly, More like art for this season Of kindness to all.
Tristan asked me to write about surprise, or maybe he wanted a surprise subject.
Surprise
Surprise is easy, says the world. Just open your eyes, everything Will astonish—small details, huge outlines. Draw it all, with chalk, on the sidewalk. Draw it all in your spirit, Etch it on your heart. Make your bones sing like sugar, Your teeth ache with yearning. Every tiny thing reflects the whole, A universe in a grain of sand. A sandy beach that once was rocks— Miracles, all miracles, the entire world.
Mia got a surprise topic, too
The underbelly
What lies beneath the earth Is more than we can imagine, Hot lava, cold clay, the embers Of the life that flourishes above. Tickle the belly of the beast. Come on, leave fear behind! You, too, will prosper, just Cherish the embers, all banked. Reach inside yourself for the fire, Wear its scars outside, like a brand Cackling and cracking along your bones. You are the fire, the cold clay, the beast.
Check out
Good news!
The Christian Science Monitor picked up this “good news” item from The Washington Post.
San Diego lifeguards saved a black Labrador Retriever mix who had been swept nearly a mile out to sea by a rip current. The dog, “Sadie,” had gotten out of a nearby Airbnb and headed for the ocean. [While it was] Too dangerous for her owner to go in after her, two lifeguards mounted a rescue water craft and spent over an hour looking. Just before having to call off the search, they spotted the exhausted dog and brought her to safety.
Water bites dog, dog survives!
Another hydrant
I find myself attracted to fire hydrants. I have quite a collection of photos of them, some of which I’ve shared in these postings. This week I braved pouring rain just to memorialize this one, which I sighted in the Parkrose neighborhood of Northeast Portland.
I first saw it from the bus on the way to my mentoring appointment at Parkrose Middle School. After that, I braved the rain to wheel the dozen blocks back to hydrant. Then, after snapping the photo, I sat in the rain for another 10 minutes waiting for the next 22 bus back to the Parkrose Transit Center.
Ten minutes doesn’t sound like too long a wait, but in that time, a steady downpour soaked all of me, from my stocking cap to my shoes, in that 10 minutes. But it was worth it, don’t you think?
And that’s it, folks
Another Becoming is completed, #174, if you’re counting.
Thanks for reading, and blessings to all subscribers, free and paid.
If you’ve been thinking of supporting my work, this is a good season to do so. Happy Hanukkah, Christmas, Halloween and Kwanzaa.
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So long until next week.
—Fran
—30—
One of my favorite jokes featuring rain is about Bergen, Norway. Wet tourist sightseeing in Bergen asks a young local boy, “Does it ever stop raining in Bergen?” Boy answers, “I don’t know. I’m only nine.”
And yes, the hydrant photo was worth a thorough soaking. Thank you for taking and sharing it!
Constant rain would send me to a mental hospital. How do you endure it? Meanwhile, you poems today, all of them, were rich with beautiful and evocative imagery.