Words

He asks me, my earnest 11 year old student, "If blunder means the same as mistake, why are there two words for the same thing?"

I have to think fast. "Well, I was wrong. They aren't the same thing.  If I say that I committed a blunder, that would be a more formal way to say that I made a mistake. Words are nuanced."

 This puts me into a deeper hole out of which to explain myself.

He asks, "Why do there have to be so many words that mean the same thing?" This is an honest question. I start in on my story of the 1600 years of English, all the tribes and countries that shared language between them, continuously adding words that are marvelously specific. This only makes my young student look at me quizzically.

"What is formal?" He asks.

Now I have to think. How would you describe 'formal'? It means many things, and has several connotations as well as denotations. Words are not cold stone, they are molten lava.

I give it my best, describing what I would wear if I were dressing up to be formal. I ask him what he would wear to be formal. He doesn't know. He doesn't have anything to dress up for yet. I try another analogy, of how people talk or write in order to sound formal. I think he gets this one.

There are over 250,000 distinct words cataloged in the Oxford English Dictionary. This does not include some technical jargon terms and slang. For me, as a writer and speaker, this is impressive and makes me proud of my native tongue. On the teaching end it is a huge challenge to keep new learners from feeling rightfully overwhelmed.

It remains a privilege to be able to spend the better part of an hour discussing words with young minds, even with all the ambiguities, varied synonyms and cultural connotations which are included in the process of understanding how to actually use a word in a sentence. Somehow I feel as though I am influencing the future in a lovely way. I imagine the words we cover to be little lights, stars to see the future by, to describe mysteries, to tell of love and loss and all that goes between. At some point in time this young man will know the difference between love and romance, nuance and difference, formal and casual, blunder and mistake. For now we navigate the strange vast land of Words on a cool fall evening in October, as the light gives way to some softness a word might aptly describe, if I could find it.

Goodbye LaVonne

Today I learned of your passing, dear pal. I think you tried to call me last week, and I tried to call you back, but the response was busy over and over again.

I need to talk with you, because the last time we spoke was 4 months ago... too long. If I had known, if I had only known that your bad heart would take you this soon.

Let me tell your sons about you as a 15 year old High School Junior. That is when I met you. Intro to Biology, Mr. Ainsworth. We were the only Juniors in a class of Sophomores. You were new to town. We became lab partners. Later in the year we honed the scientific skill of rationalizing reasons to skip class. Spring of '73 was the time we spent procuring beer, and ducking off campus before the class day was over. Biology, which happened to fall into last class of the day status was the usual casualty. If I recall correctly, even after spring fever hit, I still was able to earn a B. 

Neither of us liked biology. I was into creative writing and my boyfriend.  You were restless and not college bound. Your family was of the solid working class, and you got an office job as a secretary before you even graduated from Sammamish High.

I remember tooling around Bellevue in your Mom's maroon '64 Impala. You drove like an old pro. I had not even gotten my learner's permit yet. You impressed me with your chutzpah, bravado, courage and impulsive devil-may-care attitude. In retrospect, I see that you were like my alter ego.

Strangely, after we graduated there were years we never kept in touch. Our paths diverged. Fate and time brought us together again in Port Angeles. You had moved to Morse Creek with  husband Craig, and I was in Joyce with my soon to be husband, Jim. I had been the maid of honor at your wedding to Craig. I remember that pretty, fancy white dress, and a tall head piece you wore. We had a funny time figuring out how to arrange it properly on your head.  Jim took the photos for the wedding. We smoked a joint while I was helping you get dressed. You were very nervous about your family all around, especially your brothers.

You died on the last day of summer, days before you would match me in the age of 58 years. Now I am recalling the last visit we had, how much we laughed. We laughed until we felt as young as we could ever be, the abandonment of time and space. I will miss how you could take me there. 

Hot Days of Fall

I checked The NWS, it is 94 degrees here in Milwaukie today.  It feels just like that too.

Leaves are beginning to fall from the giant sweet gum tree in the front yard. They dry into a crackly tan color in the heat. I throw watermelon rinds to the neighbor's chickens, who hang out in our yard most of the day. They go at them with excited beaks, grateful for the moisture and the sugar.

I ride my bike today, along the neighborhood streets and along the Springwater bike trail. Biking in the heat is a great alternative to being in a car. I cannot overstate that fact. The hot wind like a fan against the skin, the open air. I feel young too, on a bike. It has the element of freedom, running up on the sidewalk, whipping through otherwise cumbersome intersections. So far the cars are quite kind. This makes me feel the universe is indeed a mostly benevolent place.

The garden grown tomatoes from my friend are so red, they look more like Christmas than the end of summer. I eat them like candy, they are so sweet.

My little rudbekia plant has the bright yellow flowers I look forward to all summer . The Common name for this flower is 'black-eyed susan".  Baby Kaitlyn loves black-eyed susans too. A neighbor near her house has a lovely garden at the sidewalk edge which is filled with them and hibiscus. Kaitlyn loves to look at this yard on our walks. If I stop in front of it, she just quietly stares, and I feel these flowers would hold her wavering baby attention for long minutes, much longer than a 'toy'. Next year she will be in my garden, helping me to pick zinnias, sunflowers, astors and veggies.

This gypsy has no yard of her own today, but next year, if the universe smiles, she will. She will love it all the more for the wanting.

City Life

My last post in June was written from Chehalem Mountain, where I have lived most of the past 10 years. A month ago I moved into "town" - Portland town - Milwaukie to be exact. The Milwaukie in Oregon,  not the Milwaukee in Wisconsin. This is the town where my parents met. I live not far from where I must have been conceived, the low income apartments where my family lived when I was born.

It is a transition, to be in the city. Summer is a good time though, with the windows wide open, the sound of  the trains passing below in the night as I sleep, or don't sleep as the case may be. Insomnia has not changed with being in town. Not better, not worse.

Tonight we took a little bike ride across the pedestrian/bike bridge into Sellwood.  On the way many runners were diligently making their way west. I asked a staff-type person posted at a corner what the event was. In between his cheering of each runner that passed he answered ,"Hood to Coast."

Ah, yes I know that race. I used to live near the coast end of it. There were vans all painted up and the limping team members wandering Seaside, enjoying being tourists after the long relay haul. Tonight we biked in between the many runners. The neighborhood families in houses along the way cheered the racers on. That gives a feeling of cheer to me as well. This is a fortunate example of being in town.

Crickets chirp in the big lots behind us. The light has lowered to darkness. Do I miss the mountain? I miss my neighbors very much, and the view of how the light changes, and my flower garden to care for. I miss my compost pile. The owner of the house we rent won't let us have a compost pile because of rats. Rats.

There is no place which has everything. There is only the sense of peace and contentment at the end of the day. It certainly helps that I also have yoga classes within walking or biking distance. Now that I have a new bike, all I have to do besides ride it is figure out how to lock it and keep it safe. The city is what it is, elements of people in all forms. My practice, to find my own place, how I fit, what I have to give, and how to keep my compost and my bike safe.... Om Shanti.

Racing the Warm Rain

Workday is almost done,
Just the final touches on the stairway cleaning
last weeds to collect and mulch.

Raindrops fall big and warm on my bare shoulders,
The garden watering can be crossed off the list.

The work is done for now,
The painting and cleaning, hanging laundry, fixing floor trim.

Summer rain is like a gift,
Coming to open the dirt clods parched,
in a dry spring.

Last week it was the children - my attempts at
teaching them mindfulness with the yoga I know better.
The week began in rain, and we did our poses inside.
By the last day it was hot, and so we walked
the peace path to do
poses at the stations.
Walking toward the Rosa Parks quote, I ask..
"Does anyone know who Rosa Parks was?"
A little girl answers, "I do!
She made the first flag!"

We stand at the station for Rosa, and I explain:
"Rosa sat in her seat, she disobeyed a bad law. "
One can say these kinds of things at the
Quaker Peace Village
Thank god, and God and Goddess

We offered our chair pose to Rosa,
the little kids and me.
The sun beat down upon the path,
we walked with our hearts held high back
to the church-
stopping briefly under the big cypress cedar's shade
to practice the splits.

What We Came From

We are driving the old roads
Where we used to live at the beach,
my son eating his special taco from the
favorite Stand, at stop lights while driving.

My kid, who hung out in summers with me
in ancient time now
by the river at his Uncle's house.
Three years old, and I can still see him
playing in the sticks and mud at
creekside.
I have strawberries in the back seat.
He reaches back to eat one
periodically as we travel the coast highway we know so well.

I ask if he wants me
to wash one, the berries came straight from a field.
He says , "Dirt is good for you."
and then, all I see is his little face
5 months old
covered in dirt when he crawled off
the blanket next to our cabin
where he was born one night
in the woods.

Cruelest April

Another cold
spring morning dawns, when the spring question
asks itself again, and again after more than half
a century of spring questions

What is this mind I
walk around in?
What am I looking for ?

I am - I am who I am looking for.
I am who I want to be.

What if
every one of us 7 billion
wanted most to be
ourselves, and knew
knew like warm sun on the face what that feels like
without trying.

What if we wanted just this body here,
not someone else's, not rich
not younger - only
who and what our first baby soul felt
when we first smiled tentatively at the world.