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.

An Avalanche of Irritations? No, Just A Reason To Give

Do you ever think about those little things around the house that you put up with all the time, that you never really fix? I just noticed about three things as I got up from my computer. Three pretty simple things to fix that if I were to change them or replace them, would probably make me really happy.

I have cute drawer knobs but they always work themselves loose and wobble when I use them.

The ice cream scooper is funky and doesn't really scoop very well.

There's a stain on the rug and it's faded, an inexpensive throw rug by the back door that I've had for a good number of years.

I'll bet I have about $15.95 in repairs or replacements right there in that little list, and I'd be pleased as can be if I did something about them.

I know at least one man, my uncle, who takes such excellent care of every tiny thing in his home that you'd swear the place was just built last year. It was built in the 50's. He keeps a mental list of each thing that needs maintenance and replacement and gets them done. It's really pretty remarkable. Maybe he goes overboard, but I prefer to think of him as an inspiration. The thing is, though, I wish I would remember to be inspired while the cupboard knobs were twirling in my grip or the ice cream scooper was making tiny ineffectual divots in my double chocolate ice cream.

When an avalanche begins to rumble down a steep alpine slope, its weight has reached critical mass and overcome inertia and friction, yielding to gravity and releasing a huge amount of energy. If I ever notice the spinning knob to a point where it feels like it will just come off in my hand, I suppose I'll overcome inertia and go to the store to find the proper washers I should have installed in the first place. Or when I'm at a store like the ever-wonderful Williams-Sonoma or Sur La Table I'll see a terrific ice cream scooper and buy it. The stars and planets will be aligned, candles will have been lit and I will feel the delightful surge of inspiration and happy mental focus that will culminate in a purchase. But, you know what? I'll probably give it away as a gift.

Oddly, and most often, the urge to upgrade my own things usually transforms itself into a desire to buy something new for someone else, not myself, who probably would love to have a new this or that. For instance I bought my sister a new garlic press I liked a lot, thinking to myself she really could use it, but I didn't buy one for myself, even though I liked it quite a lot. It made me happy to give it to her. I've bought a lot of things and given them away as gifts. And then I just go on overlooking those little things that could stand a bit of fixing. They don't bother me enough yet, I guess. Yes, I do think that's odd and a little nuts. If I were a more irritable person, they would be making me crazy. Me? They make me want to give someone else a cool gift. It's just the way I am.

Small Alohas in Oahu

I'm thinking back to my recent visit to Oahu at the beginning of the month, with nothing clearly important to say about it except that it was exactly what I needed to do for myself. So, I'll give you bits of aloha that I carried back with me.

I was in Honolulu for a week to visit loved ones. At one point, early in the week, I met a lady called Auntie by her friends, a short, roundish island woman who gives out warm embraces like others give out business cards, only I like the hugs much better. She asked me how long I'd be on island. When I told her "only one week," her face looked concerned, sad, and sincerely empathetic. "Oh, you really must stay so much longer than that. We are so laid back here. You cannot get the feel of it here in only one short week."

She hugged me and wished me much aloha. Like everyone who meets her, I smiled and wished she could be my auntie forever.

I swam at Sans Souci Beach a few times, and one morning as I was drying off I looked up high above me and saw white soft clouds tumbling slowly. Three white terns stitched along the edges of the clouds, perfect white against dark blue. The silent ballet far overhead was exquisitely peaceful.

I hiked the mile and a half through dense rainforest on the Pu'u Pia Trail to a point above the Manoa valley that offers a pretty vista including the steep tree-covered walls and peaks to the north and Honolulu to the south. Along the way, strawberry guava groves and ginger blossoms stood in counterpoint to almost solid green. I was sweating like mad, as I invariably do in any kind of humidity, but it felt great to exert myself. It's considered an easy trail by young men but would be a challenge for those with a tendency to trip over roots or twist ankles on loose rocks. I wore the same sandals as on the Kalalau Trail on Kauai, the indestructible Ecco sport sandals I have had for over six years. I saw only four other people on that weekday morning, including my hiking companion. Birdsong was a symphony of bright twittering sound, almost magical. Later, I sat in the shade of an enormous banyan tree at the Chinese Cemetery overlooking the same valley. They say there is perfect fang shui energy there. I am not going to argue. Peace and tranquility seem to have been invented there.

The immediacy of nature in the islands creates a much different balance between human beings and their environment than you can sense in cities and towns across the mainland. Life is circular, cyclical and rhythmic in Hawaii. The ocean and the wind always have the final word in any discussion. Mauka way, toward the mountains, is centering, literally. You look up to the center and highest points of the island, downward and outward the shore and then the far horizons where the Pacific stretches to infinity. Rain can pound hard and flash floods accelerate the degradation of the mountain slopes over time. What was once a mountain ridge or a coral reef becomes flat beach sand that is incessantly tumbled by waves.


I swam at Sans Souci or Ala Moana Regional Park beach every midmorning. One day I made a trip to Fresh Cafe to have an acai bowl. I was salt encrusted and felt pretty mellow after my swim, found the recommended little place on Montserrat, ordered and waited. The walls stood testament to the surfing-is-my-religion lifestyle of the cafe's patrons, young locals with their kids alike, all of us patiently anticipating our treat. Jawaiian music played and flip flops were everywhere. A large brown plastic Buddha smiled at me, he draped in plastic leis and surrounded by grainy, out-of-focus snapshots of what probably were pretty sunsets. I got back home later and realized what a mess I looked but did not care. No one knew me and will not likely see me again, incognito beach slob that I was.

We dressed up one night - skirt instead of shorts - but stuck to flip flops, and went to Town Restaurant in Kaimuki, a neighborhood of Honolulu. The Town slogan fits so well:  "Local first, organic whenever possible, with Aloha always." You know how you hear people singing karaoke at local pubs and think, "well, that was pretty okay?" and then hear Etta James sing "At Last?" That's the difference between nice food and Town's food. It's the real deal, the whole package. Young talented chef, integrity, vision, style, young energy and attention to detail. So, we had lovely fine drinks, food that nourished our hearts and souls and then walked home in the warm Hawaiian evening with our shirts fluttering in the playful breeze. We could not have asked for better and were very well pleased with it all.

It feels like whatever love is, the island winds and oceans tumble and splash with it. The moon rises up through it in the nighttime and the sun bursts forth with it in the morning in neon explosions of color. Auntie's dismay at the news of my brief time in the islands was born of her lifelong knowledge that love and aloha are at home in the small things of life in Hawaii.

I promised Auntie I will return; I would anyway even if I had not promised her. I must, for so many reasons, but most of all - aloha.

Chaos Is a Flower

This is chaos.

The shape of this flower is chaotic, asymmetric, seems to follow no rules. But I, and maybe you, think it's beautiful, in contrast to what we fear in chaotic situations: Energy unbound and unpredictable.  

There's a particular thing to notice about nature:  Entropy, the tendency of things to become randomly disordered. Add a single droplet of red food color to a glass of water. You can easily distinguish the swirling shape of the red color as it gently and slowly twists and twirls in the water, but then it disperses and becomes less and less distinguishable in the water. Finally, the liquid is uniformly pink.  

Random movements of the molecules of red liquid disperse it throughout the water molecules into which they were dropped. Molecules are, in effect, jiggling all the time, and as they jiggle they bump into other molecules, ricocheting off of them and toward others in their proximity. They jostle and bump until they all establish a random state of order. Which is chaos, utterly disordered.

Pink liquid doesn't look very disorderly and chaotic, but it is technically that. The molecules are jostling and have not formed a recognizable shape or visible order. They go everywhere inside the glass and would go further if the glass were not holding them in check.

The flower's petals are curved this way and that, some catching the light and some shading their neighbors. Every petal is a different shape and size, but we recognize the shape as a flower just as the liquid is a glass of pink water and coloring. So?

Chaos feels frightening on a human scale. Disorder and randomness represent threat and insecurity, sometimes death. But also, possibility and potential. What about that? It's a law of nature; it happens all the time, everywhere.

Think of the red droplet beginning its dispersal in the water. There's no real stopping it once it starts. It goes to its natural conclusion, which is perfect randomness, ultimately pink and fully chaotic.

But can we see war that way?

I Sit Awake When June Stops

June just ended, and now it's July.  I am awake. It's dark outside, very quiet. Inside, the house is making its contented sounds:  A ticking clock, whirring refrigerator, a fly randomly crashing into the window pane with a quiet "tock." Fingertips on the keyboard are soft pats and clicks, contact of skin on plastic. My foot brushes the floor as I shift my weight on my chair. July is hushed so far, sidling in, awaiting its cue.

It seems the stage is set now that I'm aware of all these little things, but what's going to happen? My mind begins to wander...

Wouldn't it be strange if everything just collapsed like a soap bubble and disappeared? Only a little splash left behind? Or if a superhero flew through the window, smashing the glass, rolling onto the floor and then springing to his feet ready to save my life? The glass would turn to water drops and then diamonds everywhere. Conveniently. Glass shards are too much. Some other meander could accommodate them, not this one.

I wander further...

It might be possible that everything becomes edible: the walls caramel and the curtains crispy. Or that the lamps have voices and tell great stories while the chairs chuckle at the punchlines. The sofa sighs and stretches, reaching for its glass of brandy. I like the squeak of leather, so I'd add that in. It's clubby and rich with detail. Then, the doorknob turns and all is quiet again. Anticipation of something, but what? Let's see...

This is where stories start, you know. In the middle of the night when the town is quiet as one month stops and another starts. Between the lines of ordinary life.