Wednesday’s Words/Short Story: Business, Not as Usual

Columbia River, Oregon

“My skin is a brier patch–no one can go there without coming back wounded! I really have to find some magic moisturizer.”

“Well, time for my new creams–that, or an invisible fence around you, dear,” her mother said, blinking at the last thought, trying to not imagine someone on Elise’s skin. Though Elise was hardly a child. Still, what a thing to say to her, not the comment about her creams– no, they were excellent. But Jama was a dog lover and so the last slip, as if meant for protecting Elise…

But what else might Jama note? It was her daughter she was surmising. The dress was skimpy, boisterous with slashes of color and to make it worse, cheap on closer examination. She, herself, preferred tailored clothing, like the navy slacks with tiny white feathers and trusty white shirt she’d slipped on before coming by. It was one of the less offensive things she might wear in Elise’s estimation–the feathers made up for the vast navy-ness of it. But Jama was a quintessential classic woman–good solid colors, accents of gold or platinum at ears, neck or wrist. Elise? Chunky plastic or beads or whatever. She tried to overlook it all; to each her own.

Elise was posing in front of a full mirror, examining how the sundress hung on her newly curvy body. She had given up dieting when she turned forty, and good for her, her friends said as they rallied behind her fabulous self acceptance. If that was what it was; she was more lazy when it came to routine habits, and food fell under that listing. Not that it mattered for awhile, anyway…it had become a “go with the flow” thinking. She was taking things easy , that was it. Not coasting exactly–she had aspirations of many kinds, but not enough interest or energy to fuss over what she put on her plate every time she was hungry. She needed to be fed, that was all! Food: a basic need. Her figure had inflated. She felt more comfortable.

Even if she wasn’t like her mother, verging on petite. Thin. “Delicate” was not the word–the woman would reject that adjective herself–but feminine in ways, perhaps, Elise never got but so what?

“I read yesterday that celery green is the hyped color this year.” Jama stood up, smoothed her shirt and pants, stretched like a luxurious feline. She felt conscious that Elise had a diminutive space to live within as she went to get a drink of water. On the other hand, her own house was unwieldy, too much; she lately imagined living more simply. “I think I’ll try the hue as a small piece, maybe a scarf,” she called out in an afterthought.

“Ugh, named after my least favorite vegetable, stringy, tasteless.” Elise slipped off the cheery dress, pulled on leggings with a loose top. She hung up the summer dress and wondered how long would she have to wait to wear it–it was sixty degrees today, grey skies with raindrops spattering on her windows now and then.

And how long would her mother stay, that was the question. She filled a glass with iced tea but didn’t offer one to Jama as Jama drank cold water and hot tea, never combined.

She came by once every month lately after years of infrequent visits. There was more time free as Jama was edging more toward retirement, allowing her beauty products company, Jamalyn’s Rose Rescues, to be helmed by her right hand woman, along with the loyal band of staff she had built up over decades. It had started with a passion for roses and her small flower garden and soon it embraced a slew of plant-based products that had been ahead of the times. Now she relinquished control bit by bit as she prepared to have a different lifestyle for the first time since she was in her twenties.

What sort of lifestyle does an older single woman have, though? Elise had pondered it: she could not imagine her mother resting, or alone.

“I’m thinking of doing something different this summer. Marv has a boat, as you know, and he’s offered to take a few of us on a trip for a month around the San Juan Islands and north. Gino, Marissa and I are joining him.”

“That aging laggard, surprised you still hang out with him,” Jama said then tightened her lips in a line. She should know better than to offer such an opinion; the girl adored her first ex-husband’s nephew, they’d been friends for a lifetime. He supposedly got his life on track, anyway, and it was not her business, anymore “I hope it’s been kept up so it’s safe sailing.”

But Gino…that man Elise kept returning to the past few months. Successful but not so reliable. Jama had yet to meet him.

“It has a motor, mother, it’s a modest yacht. And Marv would never let me on if it wasn’t in good working order–as you know.” She wondered why this was her focus rather than Elise not teaching at Community Design Studios, as usual, fpr the whole summer. Didn’t she care? But Elise kept her thoughts on work to herself for the time being. She glanced at the leopard clock on her galley kitchen wall, watching its tail switch back and forth with each second.

Her mother snorted. A creaky ole thing, Marv’s boat–she had been aboard it once and the ensuing two hours were quite enough three years ago when Marv got engaged, threw an intimate party–and, of course, ended the engagement, as he had enjoyed a bachelor life too long. He adored his boat. She never understood the boating life, whiling away the hours on chilly open waters, risking life and limb and one’s digestion, calling it fun. Why couldn’t people be sensible, perhaps go by plane or train if they must have a little diversion? That was her plan in June, clickety-clack all the way down to sunny, beautiful San Diego.

“I guess your teaching will be fewer hours this summer, then. I do hope that works out. You need that job until you come up with a solid plan for whatever may come next…. But I can tell you have more on your agenda besides seeing me today. I did have a reason for stopping other than saying hello, Elise.”

The younger woman hesitated by her mother, as if to sit. Was it going to take that long, Elise wondered, but she smiled obediently and settled into her new, second-hand hanging rattan chair.

Jama perched on an overfilled couch cushion, leaned forward as she picked at invisible lint on her pants leg. From the corner, Elise tuned into her mother’s sudden quietness. Admired her half-Filipino tawny skin and shining striated-silver coif; fine boned hands, feet crossed at ankles and clad in pewter leather flats. Elise had her father’s fairness–but did have her mother’s caramel-toned skin, softly padded lips. There the similarities seemed to end. She did not have the full beauty or ambition. Lately she was making peace with who she was. Her own carefree style. Her search for love more open. Her creative spark finding different directions.

Jama had never been anything less than a sterling example many women aspired to, her incisive mind with a perfectionist attitude a tall order for her staff to meet, and natural grace enhanced by her own pricey organic products. Her strong nature was energetic if critical and efficient, more yielding with her dogs and verging on tender with her expansive gardens–which now were managed by professionals and which she rarely visited except when product development required it. They were miles from her big house now.

Jama–Elise called her that ever since she was thirteen, it felt more right than simply “Mom”–had doted on her daughter and son (four years Elise’s senior) when they were much younger, when she had time–if one could call teaching social graces and taking them on numerous educational forays “doting.” She did read them books, hugged them at bedtime; she did see to it they were healthy and managing alright. Mostly if no man distracted her much.

And then she was gone often as her business rapidly grew. Elise was on her own after her brother, Todd, left at 17 for university. By then she had her social circle and interests; their housekeeper was a constant, generous with her care. Jama’s absence felt more like the curious lack of a lustrous, valued family treasure– missed but nonessential, as it turned out, until searched for when truly needed. So there was that: the needing and the not having.

Elise swung gently in the suspended chair, and as seconds passed nervous quivers snaked across abdomen and chest.

“Okay, tell me!–are you alright, Jama? What is the mystery?”

Jama pushed a silvered lock from her forehead, eyes focused on her daughter; she licked her lips, a sure sign that something big was coming.

“It’s Wesley. Wes. Remember him?”

Elise frowned, slowed the swinging chair, bare toes skidding on the floor. “Wes…the only Wes I recall would be your second husband…” She sat up straight. “Did he finally die?” It sounded rude, but it wouldn’t cause her any pain.

“”Elise! No, he didn’t die. He got the diabetes under control long ago. No, I’m, we…oh, it’s this: I’m going down to see him. In June. For three weeks.”

Elise stood with arms dangling, mouth open. “Jama, no, tell me you’re joking! Surely you haven’t lost your mind!”

Her mother looked at her steadily, eyes shining but hard like topaz stones. And she waited until her daughter was done.

“It can’t be! You and Wes…you were like oil and water, no fire and ice–it ened badly, Jama. I would hate to see you with him ever again. He was not good for you, he was too much, he could be so tough, even disrespectful to us, and he never did compromise no matter how you tried to you said–“

“That was then, this is now. He has changed, believe me.”

“And you know this how?”

Dare she pry into her mother’s private life? They rarely did that, they let things be rather than stir things up. But why him, why now? When Jama was on the verge of at least semi-retirement at 68 and yet recently had considered other ventures to undertake. “You have been single for fifteen years and said you’ve liked it that way.”

“Fourteen years. Who said I was getting married? Don’t be ridiculous, Elise. I’m visiting him for three weeks. I just wanted you to know what my plans were ahead of time. To avoid explanations or fake apologies later…”

Elise paced, pulled her ponytail tighter–a nervous habit–and paused before her mother. “You mean you’re going to hang out with a man who threatened to sue you for alimony and almost hit you as he finally left. How can I forget? Todd and I were there, too, remember? He was home from college, you insisted we stay out of it but Todd had to put himself physically between you and Wes! And the ghastly man finally left.” She covered her face with her hands. She had been sixteen then but it came right back. “A brief but bad nightmare…oh Mother.”

Jama felt a shock wave of conflicting emotions. It first was hearing Elise saying “oh Mother.” Like she meant it. It was recalling Todd doing what she said, edging himself between Wes and herself when Wes had reached out to grab her or slap her or who knew what, maybe nothing but more pleading would have come of his anger and longing, it was all mixed up in their arguing. It was a bad moment, yes. But it was also wrong timing for such their alignment. And they were not much older than Elise was now. She had learned new lessons since then. Been married, even– again. And then alone.

“Please, calm down.” She patted the couch beside her and Elise sat gingerly. “I know, it was not good. My marriages… never worked out, I’m sorry that’s true. I have not been great life partner material…I was more about my business, my independence. But people change…I have changed some, too.”

“Really? Don’t we stay the same, essentially, Jama? Aren’t we products of our pasts? What can we do but try to do better, despite the mistakes, despite who we are? I know I am trying to not repeat your mistakes, Jama…to forge my own path, make my own legacy.”

Elise and her mother gazed at each other; sorrows and needs radiating from them, and a sad uncertainty that was laced with deeper love that had rooted despite difficult events and years lost. Jama looked away last, eyes watering.

She took her daughter’s hand in hers, and it was smooth and warm despite that earlier comment about being bristly and dry. And Elise didn’t tug it away-yet.

“Not in spite of, Elise, but because of who we are. We are always in a process of transformation, if you think about it. Just like nature, we adapt and adjust and come into new parts of ourselves. We just have to determine the whys and hows of it, shape things up.”

“A bit late to lecture me, Jama. Really, I don’t buy that Westley could have changed enough to make you happy.” Elise got up and refilled her glass.

“I’m already happy enough. I don’t need anyone to do that.”

“Exactly.” Her phone rang and she checked it, saw it was Gino. “One moment, I’ll be back.” She left the living area and closed a door.

Jama sighed and her shoulders slumped. It now seemed a mistake to come. She hadn’t expected whole acceptance of the idea. She had hoped for a curled lip and shrug to start, with improved response as time went on–if things went well enough in San Diego. She couldn’t predict a thing. Wes and she had talked for hours and hours over past months. He had flown up to see her once. It was still a slow reveal, a careful process but she was feeling almost optimistic for the first time. She might build something real with him this time. It was true they had failed and after two years despite fervor and intent. But so much had happened since. He had gentled, he had expanded his once rigid thinking; she had grown more secure and content with herself. Yet she knew from scathing experiences that anything could happen, and it could just as well be more bad news she ended up with as she limped off. And what then?

How could she explain why a return to him? Reassure her daughter? But in the end it wasn’t necessary. They were no longer young mother and daughter and had long diverged their paths. They had become naturally separate entities, determined to design lives their own way. Still, Jama had been anxious so long about sharing this with Elise.

Returning from her call, Elise leaned against a door jamb, index finger tapping her chin in thought.

“When did you say you were leaving?”

“I’m taking the train down late June, return early July–a nice vacation for me, don’t you agree?”

“Well– yes, I do.” She bent over the kitchen counter, forearms flattened. “Jama, will you make me a deal? First, let’s talk more about being safe around that man and second, have dinner with Gino and me before you go.”

“Stay safe…?”

The words snagged her mind, bringing the past back into focus. How Wes could be, his tendency to roughness not so passionate at times as controlling. But he was, well, they were, both drinking a bit then. He was magnetic, no way around that. Now, neither of them cared for the loosening and distortion of alcohol. They had lost that appetite and had been unwilling to give their dreams up for the pleasures and pain of it. Or so Wes had told her in many ways during their recent conversations. They had mellowed in some ways, sharpened their minds. Hence, the exploratory trip.

“We’re past all that. I wouldn’t even go if I didn’t feel feel it would turn out nicely, even better than that.”

“It’s just…you are not like some aging swinger, Mother, despite your fancy marriages and fancier divorces. I mean, you do have a good sense of propriety…I know you, you need order in your life and worthwhile ventures. He seems a throwaway; it seems reckless, okay?”

And there it was. “Mother” again, though with a sharp edge. The judgment of Wes and her, lacking understanding without knowing more, without any patience. It stung; Jama pulled back into the couch, arms crossed. It was getting late. She was getting tired of this. Well, she would not sell her daughter short. But she was done talking–for now.

Jama smiled sweetly and lifted her palms upward, then reached for her purse. She strode to to the brightly decorated coral and teal kitchen.

“Yes, let’s have dinner on the riverboat, alright? You’ve always loved that–“

“Wasn’t Wes a major boat lover? And now he’s in San Diego… Jama, you dislike them so.”

“No, he has a pontoon now. And I’ll manage. As I was saying, pick a date and time, let’s have a nice evening so Gino and I get to know one another better. You said he has promise and you may be right.” She reached across the counter, gave her daughter a peck on her cheek. “It’s been lovely talking, wanted you to know my plans– but I must dash, Elise dear, it’s getting late.”

Elise saw that she had failed to impress and she had to give it up, for now. Jama smiled warmly, graciously–but was there the tiniest hint of condescension?– and then was gone. Had she just managed the whole conversation and called the final shots? Again?

They had had a full adult conversation, hadn’t they. It had gone alright until Elise felt alarm that her mother might be off and running again, a replay of same risks. It worried her. But maybe she was wrong. Anything could happen, with time. She knew that by now. Just as she and Gino had found their way from breezy friendship to deepening love. Just as Marv had finally found someone he’d stay with for a lifetime. Like she was going to branch out and develop her own business in interior decorating. For boats.

She prepared a crisp salad for lunch and ate on the half-moon balcony in the energizing sunshine. Her business, how she loved the ring of that! Jama would be excited when she finally broke the news over the dinner. Gino was helping her start it. Bright Sails Interior Design. Home Cruise Designs. Ocean Decor by Elise Maddox . She tapped her lips with the fork. No, she decided, no time to waste on this. She must meet up with her mother sooner than later, and men were not to be invited.

San Diego Bay, Pacific Ocean


Monday’s Meander: Sauvie Island Time

Beautifully green Sauvie island: this was the place on Mother’s Day I wanted to enjoy a few choice hours. It was a great change from my usual mid-May visits to ocean beaches or Columbia Gorge, (both closed due to coronavirus). Here one can enjoy several bodies of water; smaller Tualatin Mountains west of island as well as three major peaks and Cascades in the distance; meadows and farms; and birds and other creatures all in one fell swoop.

Only about 20 miles from our home, this large river island is situated between the muscular Columbia River on the east, narrow Multnomah Channel on the west and the good-sized Willamette River at the south (which passes through Portland and close to our current habitat). The island is one of the largest of its type in the US, comprised of rolling grasslands, scattered woods and lush farmland over 24,000 acres. There are also 7 lakes I counted on a map; I only saw a couple when once in search of an uncrowded public beach.

The whole island can only be described as fecund and bucolic.

L., Mt St. Helens which famously blew its top in 1980 and R., Mt. Adams–both in WA. state. One can occasionally see three at once–the two above plus Oregon’s Mt. Hood.

Temperature was upper 70 degrees Fahrenheit; breezes were tender on the skin, grasses rustled and danced; birds vocalized their near- symphonic offerings. Horses, sheep, cows all grazed contentedly. We drove around and feasted our eyes; we normally stop at several sites within the large Sauvie Island Wildlife Area but some were closed off. This time we visited Raccoon Point. There were very few people there. We waded through sweeping areas of tall grasses but there was one beaten pathway to follow.

We saw red-tailed hawks and American kestrels while gazing into the treetops and water into near-blinding sunshine, but in prior visits have spotted sandpipers, herons and egrets there, as well as bald eagles.

Moving along via car, we enjoyed more countryside and then the channel, where dozens of houseboats are anchored, along with boats.

As the afternoon ended, I thought briefly how this time of year I am mindful of three family members who passed away so very close to Mother’s Day. It was for once a perfect day: to think of them with love and affection, to have gratitude for their lives as well as my own and more. We were both satisfied by varieties of sensory offerings and tantalizing though familiar scenes. All in all, I felt fulfilled on Mother’s Day, and this was on top of wonderful earlier visits–if rather distanced–with our adult children and a few grandchildren.

I hope you enjoyed our mid-May meander!

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Possibilities for Rescue

What cannot be surmounted

can be welcomed;

what cannot be released

can be tamed.

What cannot find its way

can be protected;

what cannot be believed

can be reviewed.

What cannot be healed

can be pardoned;

what cannot be changed

can be unchained.

What cannot be spoken

can be sung;

what cannot be moved

can be reawakened.

What cannot be joyous

can be recreated;

what cannot stop weeping

can be forgiven.

What cannot be revealed

can be redesigned;

what cannot be embraced

can be blessed.

What cannot come out of dark tunnels

can be retrieved with little flames of truth,

and it is expected that the luminosity

will well save you both.

Wednesday’s Words/Nonfiction: Lessons from the Past

Yesterday I returned to our old neighborhood in search of abundant flower gardens. I found a few, but, honestly, it is only early May so those were rather high expectations. Lots of vibrant rhoddies and azaleas. I can’t say I was disappointed. The sights were worth revisiting as the warm, lemony sunlight of mid-day soothed and cheered me. But it was more than the flowers, I have to admit. Perhaps I was looking for our more carefree days before the coronavirus, my husband’s recent and surprising job loss, and the very unstable future in our country–and the world.

It was good to walk down those streets, to recall the years we enjoyed an overall comfortable, interesting life. To see people chatting on their porches–we have fewer porches where we now live–and see children playing on the street, even if at arm’s length, as they played basketball and rode bikes and drew colorful hopscotch diagrams. Our current environs rarely include big porches facing wide streets, and there are fewer children about–we live in condo country and also among wooded homes that tend to be more secluded in the hilly acreage.

As Marc and I strolled about NE Portland, pointing out changes and what has remained the same, I thought as I often do that one never knows what the future holds. I’ve long felt this is an aspect of being human that’s exciting: around every corner–every single new day–there is something about to arrive that will challenge or thrill or enlighten. There is new information to be gleaned, an experience worth embracing. At the very least, one that offers a glimpse into the kaleidoscope of our living, and potential wisdom for the next part of the journey. I am not the sort of person who hides (for very long) but who steps forward to see what is next. I want to know things. Despite it being a bit of a risky proposition at times to just step outside and wave hello, I’m doing it.

So I yet choose to welcome the new day. However, I’ve had to remind myself of this during the shut-down of our country, and as we seem to be considering a very gradual re-opening…which concerns so many of us. I admit my cozy blue-and-cream-flowered quilt is tempting to pull up to my chin another fifteen minutes. But I get up before too long. Get fully dressed. (I still take a a moment to choose clothes carefully as I like certain colors at certain times. Old habits…)

Yesterday while cleaning I came across a small journal. It was as if I was to review what I’d lived the past year. It is one of many journals begun and soon abandoned; after 40 I ceased to be an avid diarist so the vast majority have been repurposed, or completed ones tossed long ago. But not this one.

The only entry was written on 2/1/19, a month before we moved from our established city area home to a SW Portland suburb. I read it over slowly.

It seemed I’d had a difficult dream the night before, and during it I felt we were being pushed out of our home, intruded upon by strangers, and sent packing to unknown lands. I couldn’t figure out how to orient myself via four true directions of the compass in my mind, a strange occurrence as I tend to use an instinctive sense of direction. But it had panicked me and I came to a startled awakening. This does seem a most obvious dream to have about moving. And I wrote:

“How odd to feel so lost in that dream… I came to waking too late after being suddenly jarred to consciousness three other times: the ceaseless planning, the work of it, the new locale and its issues, the costs of moving, the details to manage alone while Marc works. Disruptions and requirements that seem a tsunami of change. One more month until we must start afresh–yes, among tall pine trees on a high ridge. It will not as before. The suburbs have always sent me hightailing it in the other direction…

“What does a woman need to live a rich and fulfilling life, regardless of upheaval? Far less than one imagines, materially. I look through my books; surely they are one essential good. I must choose wisely for the smaller space. I finger scores of pictures, tons of old CDs, small treasures here and there…what matters now?

“It is only a change of house. I have done it so many times in my life! Yet I sometimes tremble as I prepare for this one. Why? Does one habitat mean more than the next? I will go simply forward, find my way, as always. Oh, dear God, I surely hope.”

Did I sense any of what lay ahead? I thought we were moving close to our daughter and son-on-law so when they had precious twin girls–high risk for various reasons– we’d be only five minutes away instead of thirty due to traffic jams and distance. But it seemed like something else was afoot despite all the reassurances we had. There came upon me a weight of dread at times, and an urgent need to get our lives in good order. To deal with whatever was coming: it felt as if I was preparing for something far bigger than any of my ordinary plans.

I didn’t know my daughter would suffer from nightmarish postpartum depression for three months, and that a good, solid recovery would take another three. She recently published an essay on her experience; it was harder and scarier than I, her worried, praying mother, even witnessed and I saw a great deal. The beautiful twins’ arrival and first months’ was not to be that happiest of all events during which we’d share energy and time and love in a simple, straightforward, constant manner. It was, in truth, harder than anything I’d ever thought it could be. To see my daughter sink and struggle day in and day out with her mothering and her perfect babies was so painful I couldn’t speak of it…only weep privately. We were not able to be the easy going grandparents in and out of their lives effortlessly as I had experienced with other grandchildren. Yes, I was there for hours several times a week, and my husband and I took care of each other, too. And the babies thrived. In time, life started to slightly brighten and if shadows fell again, the horizon was more discernible; more illumined ways and means came to us with each day’s coming.

And my daughter got better; she labored at it with intense energy, used every resource available, sought support and welcomed daily help. We all learned and adjusted even as there were times of deep pain and worry. I found I understood fewer of my son-in-law’s parenting perspectives as I helped with the babies three days and more each week. In time, since he was not working , he was able to leave and get other things done, or get a needed respite. My daughter had returned to work but sometimes I just glimpsed her on my way out. She was worn out and determined to settle back into routine. I sure had to learn about caring for twins and their family needs on the run; we sometimes compromised a little. The babies were snuggled, fed, diapered and adored. I saw how incredibly strong my daughter–and her husband–were and are. To parent requires courage; to parent with extraordinary stresses requires a warrior spirit and hope beyond hope.

Adversity can do damage but it can also make one very strong, can expand and enlighten person; it can make one tougher yet more tender, at once. I think we each experienced some of that as we plunged on, got past the hardest weeks.

I discovered things about myself as a mother, and as an individual–how much more I was willing and able I was to endure greater fear and uncertainty, how much more love came forward when I felt tapped out, how much deeper my faith in God would become. How I will not give up my belief in better times, even now in my later years after sorrows galore, not give in to fear or worry or pain for more than a small time. But I let my deepest heart feel it all.

There was nowhere to run, after all. I was living it with them all, was smack in the middle of our real lives. I was not going to turn away from not only the crises but the miracles.

There are times we must, I think, allow ourselves to feel our brokenness, to admit our frailty so that we can be ready for more healing once again. Because it comes if we embrace the process. If we are ready to grow further as individuals. And looking back can only help us understand a bit more. The rest is staying steady as we can in the moment and moving on.

We have lived in our woodland home now for over a year. It is a place that has come to so well suit us. I see how important it has been to have vast reserves of nature’s wonders right outside our door; how much more healthy to have miles of sinuous trails for walking or short hikes; how soothing the river with its timeless flow of waters; how cleansing the winds from the western mountain range and foothills. It is quieter in all the right ways, and birdsong never ceases to bring a smile as I awaken. It is gentler here, and we have needed that.

I feel gratitude daily, even moments of joy despite these chaotic times, and deep grief for those who are suffering. It'[s all of it, isn’t it, our human living? And we will keep on, until we do not. I have come close to death several times, and each time I wonder how it happens that we each leave or we stay. But today remains the gift right now.

I don’t know if we will live here beyond next March. Who knows where we all will be this time next year? It has always been unclear, hasn’t it? This time it is a viral scourge, next time it may be something else entirely we must face and cope with. It depends now on how COVID-19 rules our culture, economy and health, yes. And if my husband will find another good job or if we can or simply must retire sooner than later. If we can remain fit and able as we have been, overall. But every place I’ve had to move– despite challenges– knowledge has been gained, fun has been had, friends made. I hope I have left some good will. Wherever we are, we lug ourselves along, as the saying notes. So I best take care of my soul, mind, and body–this life I still have depends on it. So I draw nearer to those I well love. I still offer my kind greetings and support to friends and neighbors–and you, dear reader, if you will have it via my weekly stories.

Blessings to you, do not despair but find the good in the living you do.

Monday’s Meander: An Oregon Riparian Wildlife Refuge

On Saturday we returned to a place we explore each season, the Tualatin River National Wildlife Refuge. The riparian forest, wetlands, and lowlands comprise over 1800 acres that are home to over 200 species of birds, 50 of mammals, 25 of amphibians and reptiles and a large assortment of insects, fish and plants.

We had our ears attuned to birdsong as eyes sought out critters among lush greenery. We heard more than saw wildlife–a snort of a black tailed deer, the sleek fat body of a river otter, the rustlings of perhaps a snake through the tall grasses. I was hoping for a bobcat but have never seen one, and may have sighted a coyote and beaver.

It was a peaceful mosey among groves of old great white oak trees, which support 800 kinds of creatures there. We missed the bigger groves but there are many other trees to enjoy along the paths. Small lakes amid the wetlands were luminous, dramatic as the sky darkened and brightened with sunshine alternating with rain clouds. The river itself was hidden much of the time–several areas are off-limits to humans to protect migrating birds.

Rain became a fickle companion, the sky feeling low and then high again.

Rain increased but it was a mild day and we are Oregonians…we kept on. At the end of our walk, the small lakes and swooping vocalizing birds captivated me. I could have set up camp there right through dusk and nightfall.

Clouds scudded off; the landscape flushed with honeyed light once more.

It was a soothing while also stimulating afternoon, and I always feel happy photographing nature. We will return when more paths are opened to our eager feet.