Letter to a Writer Pal at Hedgebrook

I find myself in the landscape of simplicity - yellow flowering rabbit brush, seepweed, sage brush. Five or eight black cows laying in the corner of their field, which is on the other side of the fence to my corner in the campground. They take the heat without complaint, watch me with their slow, bovine eyes.
The Eastern Oregon desert sun beats out it's afternoon rays, mating dragonflies dive about my camp chair and the Stinkingwater Mountains rise calmly in the distance,  This is her, me, this girl in a body with graying hair, wishing to write, thinking of Tamsugah, the 'Shug', pal from my Puget Sound life, sleeping tonight in Willow Cottage at the Hedgebrook Women's Writing Retreat Center. Tam, writing her heart out there, for the month of August, writing and being out in the wilderness too. I am thinking a letter is in order:

Dear Shug-
You, your sonorous laugh, your penchant for biting commentaries punctuated with snappy street girl slang, slick one line descriptions, the agile ability to change the subject at just the right time, your giant heart, I am thinking of you.

You are in Willow Cottage, or at the beach, or soaking in the tubs in the bathhouse - or playing hooky with the wildest girl in the area.
Whatever you are doing, it is better, healthier, more high class than that terrible High School PE teacher jock who made you and your friends bend over and hold your ankles for the disciplinary swats. You made it out of the sludge, the mediocrity of American midsize towns which lie too close to big military bases. You are proof positive that there is a tide rising - a tide of women who won't take the same shit, and who have the words to tell the real stories, who love fiercely and realistically and passionately all at once.

Women who write, and write with courage. A whole bunch of shit's been buried you know ( you do).
The buried shit, some of it is too awful to dredge up, but some just needs the light of day, to compost and become fertile ground for new life. You, I am confident,  will give it the light of day. The old and the new, mix it up sistah.

If you had been my sister in childhood, you would have taught me fearless being, you would have taken me to the right places and showed me what is what. Instead I met you when I was 52 years old, and you 39. You asked me to read some poetry with a group for Women's History month. I can't imagine what luck it was to find your writing group during my lonely lost winter in a new town.

Today I sit writing this at Crystal Crane Hotsprings in what you might loving refer to as B.F. nowhere, Southeastern Oregon. (The road sign last night said 'Winnamucca, NV-  222 miles'). From this desert I write this love letter up to the islands of Puget Sound, on this gorgeous August day.

Write girl! Write like you are on fire. Write like no one's watching. Write for women throughout time who never had the time or opportunity because they were enmeshed in a patriarchical world which did not want their stories to travel. Write like a dance that moves to a perfect rhythm.

You are my beacon as I sit writing this, trying to put words to life.
From my camp spot with the funny, stolid cows, we all salute you!

A Centuries Old Practice

Driving down the dusty hills this morning, in the dark, preparing my mind to lead an early morning yoga class, the radio told me more than I wanted to know. The stock market fell 2000 points.  Immediately I switched the station, and my head, back to the present. I refuse to be drawn into the negative emotions of the money world, even as it is all too apparent that my IRA's will be of questionable worth, if and when I need them. My yoga practice is still worth millions though, and gaining each month. My practice is my health plan, my retirement happiness plan, my being a grama someday plan, and my staying creative and inspired plan.

One of my students today pointed out that yoga has survived worse historical times, in it's 5,500 years. It will prevail on, and those of us lucky enough to come together in the 6 am dark to share it are reaping the benefits.

What can we do when things look tough? Breath first, that is a natural place to begin.  Secondly, we can do our homework, what ever that is. Today my homework is writing, because I've been away from that part of my practice.

I just spent 3 days out on the North Santiam with a group event called "The Fishing Trip". We noted this year that it seems to be more about wine and food than fish. Of course most sport fisherman on the rivers now don't keep the fish, they throw them back to keep the populations growing. Grapes, however, are becoming plentiful, and wine is our consolation prize for being human.

The Fishing Trip consists of 50-75 people camping out in an old growth fir grove along Whitewater Creek. It has been happening for 44 years, always in early August.  The regulars work to create the campsite kitchen, showers, sanitary facilities, trails, bridges, food, firewood, and so many more things too numerous to list. Every year I am amazed, and every year I learn something about the power of human cooperation and altruism.  The camp goes up in a day or 2 and in 2 weeks it is gone, only the trees and the cold flowing snowmelt fed creek remain.

In camp, after a day of hiking, swimming, a group baseball game, even a golf tournament, folks sit about the fire in the evening. This, after some lovely healthy dinner, like stir fried veggies and salad, not many sugary or processed foods around camp.

We sing into the night, the same songs shared every year, and some new ones. The old and the young sing together. The trees I'm sure listen, I can feel them telling me they remember when my kids were little, and came here with their Uncle Tom to play with the other camp kids. Now all those children have graduated from college, and are part of the working world. The trees remember for me though. When I find my way back to the tent in the dark, I can feel the years, and the trees show the way.