It is 80 degrees, nearly the end of September in Portland, Oregon, where I sit now, writing. I've just arrived, and I'm getting my bearings, looking for a point of beginning, a place to leave myself behind and see what's really here.

What happens next? It's a good question to ask myself. I am used to certain features of traveling: packing, looking online for things that might interest me, looking at maps and weather reports. But, I like to see what it feels like in a new place, let the place take me by the heart and lead me around. There may be an embrace, a fit of anger, and there may be a long relationship that begins. Who knows.

For me, a pretty quiet person, an introvert really, what piques my interest is listening to voices, seeing the landscapes and cityscapes as three-dimensional art in real time, feeling the movement and energy around me, and letting it move me. It's as much physical as emotional, internal and external. I travel; I learn.

Portland moves as cities usually do, with pace and sound. It has a pride and sense of itself that derives from its geology and geography. Big hills roll up and away from its big rivers, and grand mansions stand on high promontories above the riverbanks. The symmetrically arranged grid pattern of suburban streets and avenues further away are interrupted by the random wandering paths of streams and rivers.

It's Indian Summer, a warm incongruity that doesn't seem to match my vague idea of what the northwest should be. On a day so warm and languid as this one, the complaints I've heard of rain upon rain upon moist cold ring false. From what I see around me, this is a fine, easy town, used to warmth and an outdoor lifestyle.

What did I do today?

I arrived. That's an accomplishment sometimes, I have to say. There was a bland lack of challenge in it at first, but Portland doesn't sit around for long, waiting for a person to wake up to it. There is energy here, not restless and unruly so much as undaunted by problems, a town walking into its future with intention. That sounds odd to me to say after only a brief time walking along its streets, but the set of the shoulders, the pace and look of the populace tells me that it is more that than not.

I didn't really get a sense of Portland ahead of time except that friends told me it's a pretty town (it is) and that there are good street cars and light rail (there is). Maybe I will admit to believing that Portland is a funny mix of tree huggers and rednecks. It might turn out to be, but I need to have a look, feel it out. Definitely, I did not expect the torpid heat.

But, that's the point of traveling. You get your mind set on an expectation so easily. Then, things pop up differently than you'd planned, so you have to listen more closely, see what's around you, learn it for what it really is. Lots of trees shade the streets. People are out walking, cycling, sitting in cafes, riding street cars and talking to each other. There is an air of self-acceptance and something else here. Independence?

I photographed roses by the millions in the International Rose Test Garden, rode the street cars around town and ate at a lovely restaurant (see? I am not a cagey, thrifty traveler!) called Higgins. I walked for awhile, heard young buskers playing plaintively on street corners that echoed the sounds of their violins and horns. I wore the wrong shoes, got a blister, and reveled in the warm night air despite the discomfort of my feet.

I am sitting here late at night, listening to the same echoing rumble I might hear at the shore of my own town when the waves of the ocean break, but there is the sound of humanity out there in Portland, voices and engine sounds coming through the night air in similar waves. In the morning I will wade in, up to my heart, up to my eyes and ears.

Wow, I'm a Gardener

I walked around Cypress Garden Nursery today, drunk on beauty and fragrance.  I feasted my eyes on a froth of flowers and realized the Cypress Garden had simply transferred all their knowledge about growing healthy vibrant plants to me.  I have at last replicated their success, at least a much smaller version, and I am immensely grateful to them for that.

This year, my garden, which is largely a container garden, has sprung from a sad, ratty ugliness born of serious neglect to become the most abundant garden I've ever grown before.  What's my secret?  First of all, I had to pay attention to it more often.  Then, heavy pruning in January, regular feeding with an organic fertilizer and regular watering -- if rain wasn't doing the job -- has turned the tide.  (I have settled on E.B. White organic fertilizer, and I don't get paid to say so.)  My plants are growing abundantly and are producing profuse amounts of flowers.  A couple of plants are very challenging, and I still I need to figure them out, but the majority are dancing on their stems in apparent happiness.  I like to think so anyway.

Pruning is the one area that takes time to master, and I have asked a lot of questions.  If injudicious cuts are made, you can lose a plant, but if you don't prune out dead wood at the beginning of the growing season, the plant is stuck with it and vitality is lost.  Roses, the most vulnerable plants to pests and horrible afflictions, need pruning in January and then constant attention to battle the waves of predators that materialize from nowhere.  So, I remembered that and accomplished my pruning when the yard was still cold and dreary.  Now the roses are popping out all over the plants like nobody's business.

It is said that life happens in seasons not in 30-minute segments, so I am in this for the long haul now.  Sticking with the plants as they go through their life cycle is proving to me that keeping my eyes on the prize (lots of flowers throughout the growing season) takes perseverance and a long-term focus, but wow is it worth it.  If my flowers could sing, I'd hear quite a chorus.

Spring Warmth At Last

It has been chilly here on the Central Coast lately.  The sun comes out, but you still need a sweater. It's kite flying weather. So, it being cool, the growth of my garden flowers has been slowed. That is, until today. Warmth and moisture makes almost anything grow, and when there is finally a series of warm days, flowers burst into bloom and plants go into super-grow mode.

Rosebuds I'd been anticipating opening for a few days are finally unfurling, some at a rate nearly visible to the naked eye.  No time-lapse photography needed.  The roots are warming, the sap is flowing and plants are using energy at a tremendous rate.  After this first flush of blooming, I'll trim them back a bit and fertilize again.

A woman and her husband who got sick of industrial-grade produce went off to the countryside in the midwest and bought 30 acres of land to begin a farm.  She researched the steps she needed to take by scrutinizing every article she could find on the internet and has made a success of the effort so far.  Her kids complained, it is said, about having real chores to do every day, day in and day out, but now they're stronger and have more real skills.  The woman said, "Life doesn't happen in 30-minute increments. It happens in seasons!"

One's gardening and growing effort has to be continuous and driven by the plants themselves. A careful eye must be kept on shoots, suckers, insects, watering, and feeding or the previous 80 or 90 days' work is all for nothing.

Nothing surprises a gardener or farmer more than seeing the immense bounty from the farm or garden once it's in the house.  I have one container of herbs that is producing enough for many families to use, far more than we need.

So, I saw the flowers' blossoms exploding open around me today, the sun bright overhead and then the wind galloping across the open bay in the distance, kicking up whitecaps as it came.  As the days grow longer until June, extended periods of warmth will produce even more flowers and growth than I'm enjoying now.  Hard to imagine since the garden's already flush with color, shape and texture.

A Rose, Hope and Love

I dug my hands into the big bag of potting soil and inhaled the scent of it. 

With both hands cupped and filled to overflowing, I piled my bucket up with the fragrant soil and walked over to my little climbing rose in its redwood planter.  They say the rose is the symbol of love, the divine feminine, the eternal mystery.  But, you have to keep the vine healthy first before there can be a bud or a blossom.  I have no buds on this little vine.  She is struggling to find her place in life.  I imagine in my mind's eye a vine loaded and heavy with blossoms, petals floating to the ground on the morning breeze.  She looks gloomy though, unhopeful, a little discouraged. 

I water her, I feed her, I look for things that may harm her:  Little green caterpillars that eat her tender leaves and little mites that sap her strength.  Still, in spite of my ministrations, she is struggling to hold her own.  I keep hoping, and I am still learning how to grow a rose. 

She's meant to be a climber, to send tendrils to the wires I've strung and beyond to the fence where she can spread her vining branches.  There is opportunity for her; she senses it is there at the tips of her tender growth tips.  

I spread the soil into the planter and tamp it down, patting it firmly. It feels good. I've added a special ingredient, too, that combines pest resistance and nourishment.  I water it in and let her know how much I want her to grow and flourish.  She hangs her leaves and looks wan and listless, stressed.  She nods and waves her pale leaves halfheartedly, but I feel encouraged for her.

My hope for this little rose has taken on a more symbolic tone.  In terms of reality and practicality, I know she will find the right time to bloom, will do well.  In terms of my vision for her, I see in my mind's eye a green vigorous vine thriving, successful, fulfilled.  My vision has to do with love and belief, my hope that an imagined reality can guide the expression of her potential. I see what can be, not what is. 

Isn't that what we do though?  Move in a world full of ugliness and tedium with a vision of some beauty and joy in mind - try to match something in our world to that vision and celebrate when even a small match is made? 

I could have given up on her, cut her back, criticized her failure as a vine, her difficulity coping with the stress of living, but that says more about me than it does her.  I'd rather hope for her beauty while I love her all the while, look forward to her strengthening vines and sturdy growth and then her beautiful flowering glory. 

If I hope, I can love.  If I love, I can hope.  The two things are indivisible and without them, the blossom never can come to fulfillment, and the mystery can never be expressed.  My vigilance is now allied with her own vigor and resilience, and the potential for beauty is undeniable.  The manifestation of her gifts and glories is yet to unfold.  I am eager to see it but willing to be patient and give her lots of time now. 

I wash my hands under the flow of cool water from the hose and stand back to see the little rose growing in its box.  I think she has already taken strength from the freshened soil and water.  She already looks more hopeful. 

The sun dashed a few diamonds amongst her leaves; droplets of water left by the watering hose began to dry in the midday warmth.  The moment lingered as I thought about what I had decided to do:  Allow for time to express the fulfillment of potential in a rose.  There's no rushing that sort of thing, you know.  Patience, now, patience.