The Last Two Weeks or So

JoAnne's sister Aileen called it the vortex. Amanda called it the purple explosion. To JoAnne it was the happiest day of her life. The wedding was indeed many things: beautiful, exhausting, fun. It was so good to be with so many of my old friends from college all at once.

After the wedding Amanda and I rode to Newport, Oregon with our good friend Terri and her husband and kids. There we camped on the coast for twelve days, changing camp sites five times and campgrounds twice. In between taking down and setting up our tent we walked on the beach and in the woods, read books, explored tide pools, washed dishes in a tiny pot, and got caught up with Terri.

Now we are in Eugene staying with a community called Church of the Servant King in a house built in 1889. The weather has been beautiful and the people are so warm and hospitable.

That is just an outline of what the last few weeks have looked like for me. I will try to fill in more of the details as I am able.

One Way to Get to a Wedding

When the bus pulled into the truck stop at 2:30am and told us that we'd all have to get out and wait for the next bus my first thought was, so they're just dumping us on the side of the road? The answer, of course, was yes. It was supposed to be an hour layover. But as we waited on the curb with the hodgepodge of backpacks and suitcases, an hour turned into two. Lightning streaked across the sky. It started to rain and we all ran for shelter under the awning of the McDonald's and Subway restaurants. When the bus finally came, the driver gave Amanda and I the bad news: we had already missed our connection to Bend in Ontario, Oregon and there wouldn't be another one for 24hrs. We would have to stay here till noon and take the bus to Portland.

So we settled into the Subway Restaurant that doubled as a bus station. We would be there for thirteen hours before the frantic bride and her maid of honor rescued us and drove us the four hours to Bend. There was nothing we could do but learn patience. And I think we did.

Life in Spokane

Last Friday is was 100 degrees hot here in Spokane. Of course, comparing it to Vegas, it didn't seem so bad, until my friend Amanda Halpin and I ended up sitting in the car at the grocery store for 15 minutes trying to get a package sealed with the really cheap tape we had just bought. People in Vegas know not to do such things. So after that we decided to go swimming. Amanda's grandma was one of the first residents on Liberty Lake outside Spokane, a short drive away. Amanda's dad came too, and her mom arrived later.

While we were still cooling off in the lake, a strong wind came through bringing dust and emptying the trees of dead leaves. After awhile we got out and sat on the lawn to read. Amanda's dad was reading a tourist magazine on Tennessee and he kept interjecting with descriptions of chapel/museums, restaurants that serve ribs, and panoramic pictures of the Smokey Mountains. The wind kept blowing.

Then we saw sheets of lightning on the other side of the lake. Amanda and I tried to stay outside, but the wind was pelting us with tree droppings to the point where we could barely open our eyes, so we went inside. That's when the rain started. I hadn't felt rain in so long that I opened the door and stuck my hand out; the wind tried to push the door into my arm, but a few drops landed on my palm. The temperature had dropped thirty degrees. Lightning switched on and off. After dinner, when the wind had died down and it was still sprinkling, Amanda, her dad, and I went out and watched the sky slowly clear in the East. The storm was over.

On the drive home everything seemed more colorful. We watched the sun set from the back porch of the Halpin house. Their backyard has a garden of tall, grassy flowers that attract humming birds and butterflies. They also have raspberry and blackberry bushes. It is too early for blackberries, but one cool evening we filled a big bowl of raspberries. The berries are sweet and the seeds get stuck in your teeth.

I have spent most of my days over the last two weeks very simply: reading a book on the back porch, swimming at the lake, talking to Amanda, eating dinner with her family at the kitchen table. It has been a beautiful retreat. Today we leave for Bend, Oregon where we will be bridesmaids in our friend's wedding.

On a Hike in Northern Idaho

The earth rose to a point between hills and mountains. Pine trees grew to the tops. There were no majestic glaciated peaks or larger than life trees. Just humble, peaceful scenery. Clear lakes with beargrass growing along the sides. Fish jumping out of the water to eat insects. A cool breeze.

A Day in San Francisco

It is amazing how quickly air travel can pluck us from one world and put us in another. An hour and a half after leaving Las Vegas I was already wearing a jacket and looking at row houses with big bay windows and Eucalyptus trees out the window of the BART. I got off on 24th St. in the Mission District. It is the kind of neighborhood with narrow streets and small shops. I saw a boy in an apron washing off the sidewalk with a hose. Azaleas spilled out from behind walls. One block had large trees with tall white trunks and dense foliage high above that I felt as a cool shade on the sidewalk below. And there were murals everywhere. One alley was painted over completely by all different artists. The neighborhood had something of a Latin feel. Stores so overflowed with cheap plastic items that they hung from the awnings and filled tables outside. A man on the street corner called me bonita to try to sell me something. Fruit stands sold yuca and papaya. A panaderia displayed Mexican breads glossed with egg white and pink sugar.

I had come to visit a community called Church of the Sojourners. I met up with them at one of their houses-- "Big Blue"-- on 22nd and Florida. They were preparing a salad for a gathering they call "The Celebration of Yahweh's Kingship." The community doesn't believe in pledging allegiance to anything other than God, including our nation, so a patriotic holiday like Independence Day is replaced with an alternative (though I got the sense that this was more important to some members of the community than others). It started with a church service in the living room of another one of their houses a block away. There was singing and scripture reading and the children waved purple ribbons. Then we all ate barbecue chicken, salmon, and salad in the backyard. To round out the celebration they had a "Lack of Talent Show" which included such acts as surfing on an ottoman, singing a song learned to memorize the minor prophets, and rambling while wearing fake bad teeth.

That evening we watched fireworks from the rooftop of Big Blue. Their neighbors seemed not to worry about issues of safety or legality, so we were right in the middle of the show. I twirled around to see little electric sprouts in all directions. Flowers of light blossomed directly above my head. Some of them made more noise than light; they were short green pops in the sky. Others were white willows slowly dissolving in darkness or bright red rings. In the distance we also saw the city's fireworks show bursting from behind the buildings of downtown. Even after we went inside, fireworks lit up the windows like lightning.

I was exhausted from travel and from being around so many people I didn't know all day. Yet I found myself lying awake on my pad on the floor. Night, when everyone has gone to bed, is an irresistible time for thinking. I thought about my journey, how I could really call it that since I had no plan for how it would end. I thought about the people I met that day, about what it might be like to live in community, how ordinary it truly was-- the every day of things like tallying and splitting food costs or waking up early to pray together. Yet they also seem to know something about loving one another, the kind of thing that I would like to learn and perhaps can only be learned by sharing ordinariness. I am not sure how a stranger like me becomes part of that ordinariness, which brings me back to journey.

A Small Thought While Leaving Las Vegas

From the plane window I saw the Strip looking like a toy model a child was still building. Then I saw the stripe in the earth at Red Rock. Sometimes it is enough to have a place to move from. And from this moment on I live wherever I am.

Check back to hear about living in San Francisco, Northern Idaho, and more.

Some Thoughts While I Was At the Library

I am sitting on a stiff little couch in the grad lounge of the UNLV library, facing the broad panel of windows which looks across to the stairway and the third floor stacks, where along with books are students hunched over them or typing on a computer. It is strange to think how near I am to being totally an "other" here, totally unattached and unconnected with academia. All around me are students working hard, carrying the heavy burden of unfinished assignments. Even if they stayed here for many hours it would probably not be enough to lift that burden completely. Most will leave here still heavy and stressed out. But me, I am reading a book. For fun. No one told me to. The only reason I am even in the library is because the AC in my apartment is broken. I am so glad I am not one of the burdened. I am so glad to have finished my thesis, to only be waiting on my diploma. Over my years of study I have grown very discontent with the university as an institution and I step away from it eagerly.

But my discontent is not really what I want to write about now. Instead I want to consider and remember the good things about academic life.

On the bulletin board to my right is written this quote: "If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn't be called Research." --A. Einstein. Research-- that plunging into darkness and chaos, that stretching of the borders of our minds, reaching up like a child who can't get the cereal down from the shelf-- that is one of the things that I love about academia.

Next to that quote is a white board where someone has drawn a picture of a droopy-eyed girl with two thought bubbles extending from her pig-tailed head. One bubble has a stack of books and a notebook, the other an island sprouting palm trees. The picture is labeled: "The Common Mid-Semester Malady." It must have been up for several weeks now. It reminds me that there is a rhythm to academic life. Like seasons, semesters come and pass with their mid-terms and their finals and their new beginnings. These semester-seasons are common to all the students and teachers at the university. You can turn to the stranger next to you during finals week and sigh and that stranger will second your sigh and add: "It's almost over."

I no longer share in that sigh. I am out of place here, removed from the rhymths that defined my life for so long. I am like a ghost inhabiting this library.

What Is a Palo Santo tree?

Literally, palo santo means 'holy stick' in Spanish. It is the name of the skinny, white trees that grow on the Galapagos Islands. Annie Dillard writes of them in her essay "Teaching a Stone to Talk." She says, "I see us all as palo santo trees, holy sticks, together watching all that we watch, and growing in silence." "Teaching a Stone to Talk" is about witnessing, about waving our arms at the world, which is exactly what I am trying to do in this blog. I want to share the way I see the island of the world that surrounds me. I hope you enjoy it.