Blues and greens of life.

I spent the long weekend in lovely Trout Lake. It's a tiny town in southern Washington where Dan grew up. Our days there were filled with good company and the beauty of undeveloped green hills.

Mt. Adams dominates Trout Lake's northern skyline, and people come from all over the country to live in its shadow. Some say the town is one of those thin places where the boundaries between the seen and unseen blur a bit. Others insist that there must be something in the water.

Remember in color.

Hooray for a long holiday weekend! I'm headed out of town and out of the reach of modern technology for the next few days. It will be a fun weekend of adventure and relaxation. I hope you all get to enjoy the break. What are you doing with your extra day?

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Memorial Day is typically a holiday where those who have passed away- particularly soldiers- are remembered by their loved ones. Flowers lie on gravestones, and flags are put out on front porches.

My grandfather is still alive, but I thought I should take this chance to give him a little online salute. My grandpa was born in 1912, and he will turn 94 years old this September. His life has spanned the most dynamic century of human history. He was with the Army in France during World War II, and he spent most of his adult life as a cranberry farmer in Southern Oregon.

One of my favorite things about my grandpa is his mechanical aptitude. On the farm he always tinkered with his machines to make them more efficient, and he had a continual interest in the technological developments that surfaced during his lifetime. He took 8mm film of the startling battlefields left behind in France; and his workbench always turned out interesting adaptations to the norm. (Our family still has a lamp that he made from an old candlestick telephone).

Although we still enjoy having my grandpa present with our family, I want to remember all that he has given to his family and his community through a lifetime of service. Happy Memorial Day!


My grandpa- Loris W.- in a picture taken by Bethany last Christmas.

All the energy underneath.

We're back to rainy days here in Portland. The long stretch of blue skies has given way to a gray canopy of clouds, and we're all dressing in long sleeves again.

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I turned in a notice of resignation at my work today. It feels so good to be at this point of transition. In three weeks I will be starting work at a nonprofit that advocates for the homeless community in Portland, and that job will switch to part time in the fall when school starts.


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I've driven by the Trojan Nuclear Plant so many times on my way to Seattle. I never even got the chance to say goodbye...

Rocks in my yard.

The stories of the earth lie under our feet.

The sunshine brings them out.

I couldn’t help but watch them. We were eating our burritos at a tall table in the restaurant, and I tried not to be obvious as I glanced over Carolyn’s shoulder at the couple sharing a table outside. They were middle aged, average looking folks in shorts and sunglasses. My guess is that they had been married for a couple of decades.

They ate in silence. I never saw a word exchanged, but their communication was beautiful. They didn’t even need to talk. She reached over and took a tortilla chip from his plate; he raised an eyebrow. She passed the salsa to him like he had asked for it. He handed her a napkin. She nodded once. They knew each other that well. There was no distance between their souls. And they looked happy.

Another couple sat at the table to my right. Their hands seemed proud of the shiny wedding bands they wore, and their faces were young. The two sat on the same side of the table so their arms brushed as they ate. He soaked in her every move, and she looked softly at him out of the corner of her eye. They were blissfully unaware of the rest of the world, and their excitement in each other was tangible.

And last night, as the lingering bits of daylight disappeared from the sky, I was lying in my backyard and recalling the scene. Those small moments of shared experience are life, and life is dazzling.

Stop the clock.

Life shifts. Those marks of identification, they melt, seep down almost unnoticed and fill in the cracks of something new. What was known becomes a blur of outlines; the past sticks to us- as real as the present or future. Structures crumble. The space of is holds tightly to the moment of was and will be. Grass grows up through it. The old is young again.

New growth underneath.

Temperatures stayed near 90° most of the day. The afternoon seemed gray under the heavy heat. And, unfortunately, this was the day I had planned to work outside on my yard. A pickup load of bark dust needed to be shoveled, and it was finally time to deal with the Pampas Grass.

I don’t know who decided to plant five clumps of the tall, ornamental grass in my yard. I wish that I could have been around to object. I like the way that Pampas Grass looks, but it is painful to prune. A few chops with the shears filled my yard with knee deep piles of the brown blades. And those leaves are sharp! My arms and legs have been sliced to prove it.

It took me too long to finish the job. Toward the end I started eyeing my lawn mower with new landscaping potential. But the grasses were spared the mower blades; they just may not have a permanent future in my yard.

It was a long day of work in the sun- complete with victory and agony. There is nothing like yard work to make one realize the limited influence that one pair of hands and shears can really have on the will of nature. But I finished the work that could not be put off, and now the tasks ahead seem like cake.

The hot day wound down to a pleasantly warm evening. The yellow moon hung large and low on the horizon. A mild breeze stirred the leaves overhead. This world is brutal. This world is beautiful.

And knowing is half the battle.

I have decided that today is self-awareness Friday. That means I have an excuse to post a few things about myself that really serve no purpose for the common good. Someday I’ll do a blog entry on our post-post modern culture of compulsive confession, but for now I’ll just participate.

Heather tagged me a while back to list my ten simple pleasures. These things make me happy by just thinking about them.

1. Sitting at my kitchen table in the quiet morning.
2. Taking a nap on my parents’ couch.
3. Holding hands.
4. A long drive in the car.
5. Seeing Mt. Hood on a clear day.
6. Ethiopian food.
7. Dancing.
8. Holding little children on my lap.
9. Riding my bike.
10. Finishing a book.

Continuing in the same spirit, here’s a survey I heisted from David.

[PAUSE]
What are you doing right now? Working and filling out this survey while I’m on the phone.
What are you wearing? A black shirt, grey sweater and jeans.
What are you listening to/playing? NPR
Are you talking to anyone online? No.
What are your parents doing? Probably working too.

[PLAY]
What time is it? 10:01 AM
What school do you go to? Did, you mean? Seattle Pacific University
Who are your friends? Many, many people that have been a part of my life.
Who are your enemies? I can’t think of any.
What do people label you? Usually “Erin.” Or “That tall girl”
Where do you like to hang out? Portland has so many great places to explore. Outdoors is almost always preferable to indoors.
Who's your crush? I’ve got a pretty big crush on my boyfriend.
What's your locker number? It has been a long time since I've had a locker.

[REWIND]
Where were you born? Portland, Oregon
What were you named? Erin Elizabeth
When were you born? August 18th at about 2:30 in the afternoon.
How much did you weigh when you were born? 8lbs-ish
Who were your best friends in kindergarten? Probably Tyler Trautman- I remember playing together a lot, and we carpooled.
Who were your best friends in first grade? Maybe Heather Voight
Who were your best friends in second grade? Dawn Putnam
Who were your best friends in third grade? Still Dawn.
What was(were) your favorite color(s)? Pink.
Who were your heroes back then? I always loved learning about the lives of Amy Carmichael and Clara Barton.

[FAST FORWARD]
What do you want to be when you get older? A person with roots.
Where do you want to live? I love Portland, but I’m open to adventures.
What's your dream house? A place where people feel loved and welcome.
Do you plan on getting married? Plan? Can one plan such things? I guess I hope to, but I don’t plan on the unknown.
Do you plan on having kids? Again, I hope so, but plan?
Where you do want to be buried when you die? I’m not sure I want to be buried. I dislike the whole coffin-embalmment business. Maybe I’ll be cremated.
Does your family plan on moving? My parents might travel when they retire.
What school will you be at in 4 years? Hopefully I’ll have recently finished law school.
Do you plan on going to college? Only grad school now.

[JUST TO KNOW]
1. Do you sleep with your door open or closed? Closed.
2. Do you ever steal the shampoos and soaps from hotel rooms? Is that stealing? Isn’t it considered an amenity?
3. What friend have you had the longest? Outside my family, maybe Carolyn? Or Denise?
4. Have you ever stolen a street sign before? Nope.
5. Do you like to use post-it notes? I use them all the time.
6. Do you cut out coupons but then never use them? Yes.
7. Would you rather be attacked by a bear or a swarm of bees? Probably bees.
8. Who was your favorite teacher in high school? Oh, that's a tough one. Mr. Mark, Mr. Meuser, Mr. Scott- they were all great. Mr. Mark gets the credit for inspiring the most personal epiphanies in his literature classes. Mr. Meuser knew my whole class really well. And Mr. Scott is still one of the smartest people I have ever known.
9. Do you always smile for pictures? If I know that they are being taken.
10. When was your awkward phase? 6th – 8th grade. So awkward.
11. What is your biggest pet peeve? Poor grammar and/or punctuation in emails.
12. Do you sleep with your sheets tucked in or out? In.
13. Do you ever count your steps when you walk? Sometimes, but more often it is the mental narrative “Right, Left, Right, Left…”
14. Have you ever peed in the woods? Yes.
15. Have you ever hooked up with more than one person in a day? No.
16. Do you chew your pens and pencils? Sometimes.
17. Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego? Ah! Rockapella! Get out of my head.
18. What's your favorite animal and why? Meaning one single animal or a type of animal? I really like my parents’ dog, Pekah. And I love hearing the little birds in my yard.
19. Do you like popcorn from those big tins? I can only see myself eating it in the living room of my grandparents' farm house that they sold twelve years ago. That is a vivid memory. Otherwise, I'm not a huge fan.
20. Would you ever tape yourself doing cartwheels? I would if I could do cartwheels… sigh.
21. What's your song of the week? Snow Patrol- Chasing Cars.
22. Is it ok for guys to wear pink? Yes.
23. Do you still watch cartoons? No- I don’t have a television, but I’d watch King of the Hill or The Simpsons if I could.
24. Where would you bury hidden treasure if you had some? Maybe I have some, and maybe I’ve buried it. If so, I won’t tell you here.

One more set of voices.

Dan posted some new footage of our trip to Kenya. This segment is of our time at the Kibera slums. Go check it out over at Lahash.

Streaks on the glass.

I had a busy weekend with work and church and friends. I'm back on a Tuesday- Friday schedule at work for a while to accomodate all the weekend events that happen in the spring. I don't mind the change, but I think I prefer my Monday- Thursday weeks.

After a full launch into Oregon spring, the weather shifted back to gray and chilly. My body seems to prefer the tropical temperatures of Mexico, and I have contracted a head cold to prove it. I'm not miserable yet, but I feel that potential for miserable riding in my tonsils.

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I haven't posted any poetry up here in a while. Here are two that I wrote last year.

Almost Memories

You come to mind
from the strangest cues:
the wind on the grass,
a car trip out of town,
someone’s dinner plate.

My mind settles in worn paths.
not from memory to memory,
but from hope to hope.
I’ve soaked in your smile
so many thousand times.

Recovering Spring

The first cloudless day
of the season is euphoric.
We pull up the legs
of our pants and let our skin
drink in the fragile rays
of that stranger, the sun.
People beam in the bank
and on the street.
Ah the weather, we say.
Rolling down the windows
in our automobiles,
we let the still-cool air
remind us of the way
the earth should smell.
The birds sing again,
and we smile at the sky.

Bloom time.

The light stays longer lately. I was at work until almost nine o’clock last night, and as I walked to the car I noticed that the daytime still held onto the corners of the sky.

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Recently I’ve read a couple of really interesting articles on the tension between Western and Islamic cultures. NPR directed me to the preface of Ayaah Hirsi Ali’s new book, The Caged Virgin. And while I was in the air between Los Angeles and Portland, I read an editorial in the Wall Street Journal about the academic work of Bernard Lewis. Both selections feel weighted toward the West, but they are helpful and very intriguing outlines of the conflict we are feeling on our shrinking globe.

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Speaking of religion and politics, Moussaoui has been spared the death penalty. I think the jury made the right decision. He is guilty of deplorable actions (or non actions in this case), but I see no purpose in taking another life and creating a martyr.

My feelings on the death penalty have changed a lot in the last ten years. I remember seeing a protest when I was in high school. A group of citizens had gathered at a local park to march on behalf of a death row prisoner. I was sitting in the car with my parents who had picked my siblings and me up from school that day to tell us that my grandmother had died.

The conflict that I felt in that moment never quite settled down. I knew the death of my grandma was a sad event. She was the first person close to me that had ever passed away. But what about the death of the prisoner that the protesters were trying to save? Would that somehow be without tragedy? Does a guilty death provide comfort for an innocent death? Or if it was the “right” punishment, then how could it be the same disturbing event that had occurred in my own family that day? And what about my faith? The entire idea of salvation in Christianity is based on total absolution from sin and the grace of reconciliation- of full life- available to all humanity. While it may not be written into legislation, could I personally demand a punishment that is so different than the tenents of my own life philosophy?

I don’t know how I would feel about the death penalty if one of my family members had been killed in the World Trade Center or on one of those flights. I cannot deny that moral convictions are always based on personal experience at some level- whether that experience is one of faith or tragedy. But I know that if I err, then I hope to always err on the side of life.

In the morning.

I'm back from beautiful Mexico. Our flight got in last night after the sun had already set in Oregon. Bethany and my mom stayed behind for an extra day in the sun and the promise of a free airline ticket for the seats they gave up on our overbooked flight.

About two days ago I started dreaming about all of the things that I needed to do when I got home. Emails at work, bills at home, weeding outside. The last bit of vacation always loses that blissful gleam of distance.

But oh, I am glad to be home. I like my life. I like the people and places in it, and I wouldn't think to trade any of it for a warmer climate.