Adjustable

On the corner of Stanton and 11th, at the edge of someone’s garden, there is a wooden post sticking out of the ground with an 8 x 11 glass frame. And every week the frame holds a different poem. I always make a point to walk by when I’m in the area. Today I was. It was written by a woman who was mourning her sick cat. She knew his life would not go on much longer, so she thought about all of the times she sat on the couch when she was sad and wasn’t quite alone. When she brought him to be seen, the vet noticed how relaxed he seemed to be in her lap. This was probably something she’s always known, but at the moment, the thought surprised her.

It’s been beautiful all week. Hardly any clouds and the ones that do float in the sky carry some distinguishable shapes. Lauren noticed a chicken wing, Garrett and I decided upon a large man jumping off the diving board to belly flop into a pool. We sat on the porch as Garrett experimented on the guitar and Lauren read her book.

It’s been interesting merging my life now with my life before now. My parents came a few weeks ago. My mom could tell that it was a “greener” place after using the water efficient toilets in the airport bathroom, and my Dad planned a trip to coast (where we continually compared every small beach town we drove through to Drakes Island). We stayed at a golf resort, and he didn’t play golf. I ate meat again. Then Conor came two weeks later. I drank beer and didn’t feel bad about it. He joined in on our mock debate during spirituality night. We walked around North Portland without a particular destination. It was wonderful to have very important parts of my life come together. And now it’s over. So I’m trying my best to bounce back.

So now I will have to reclaim this all again as my own. I took a long walk this morning and tried not to think about work but did. The medication boxes that run out to early, the pen Erwin through on the ground the morning of his last radiation treatment, the drawings Jake tacked to the wall beside the window. I wonder if there is anyone that just forgets about their work the second they walk out of the office. If it’s possible to just push something that you focus 40 hours of your week on out of your mind.

I ended up at Grant Park, on 33rd and Knott by the end of this walk. There were a lot of people there, mostly small children, a girl with a red cape, “DAD MOM AVA ISREAL” written in twigs on the pavement. I sat on one of the benches next to three statues: a girl, a boy, and a dog. They were of Ramona, the protagonist of Beverly Cleary’s books. There was a stone in the ground next to the dog that read, “Ribsy is what you might call a well-adjusted dog.” A trait that should never be taken for granted.

Mixed Weather

I read a book a last week about four six graders drinking tea together on Saturday afternoons. They were in a small down in New York State, and knew not much else besides their school bus, the class bully,retirement communities that grandparents flee to in the cold winters, the strange feeling of walking into a cafeteria for the first time, and their parents' unpredictable decisions. The book, A View from Saturday by E. L. Konigsburg, was introduced to me a month ago, when Leslie Phillip's found it stored away on the wooden book shelves at the lodge we stayed at for winter retreat. Her mom had read it to her when she was young, so she read a few chapters to us inbetween meals and sessions. It's a good one. And I guess it reminded me how much you can learn about the world and the people within it when you enter sixth grade.

It's been raining all week in Portland. Which is no huge surprise, but the beginning of spring has come on with bit more punch than anyone might desire at this point in the year. I guess it's the randomness of it all--the hail and then the sunshine, and then a moment later a gust of cold wind. You never know what coat to wear here, really, or if the sunny bike ride to work will cost you in the afternoon. If we have made it to the warm season or if we should still hold onto what is behind us.

I am sitting in a coffee shop for the first time in a while. People are doing their homework, and taking notes from power point slides on weak acids and ions. Three friends of the barista just walked in. They are hugging. They seem happy to see each other.

I went to church two nights ago for Holy Thursday. I was too tired for such an endeavor, and probably should have considered this before committing to the event. But I went anyways, trying to hold onto a tradition that I was committed to while in Medfield. So I sat and watched people washed each other's feet. I listened to both the Spanish and the English and I didn't feel very close to any of it. I saw my own feet, in my own shoes, and later the hands of another girl who I did not know washing them. I walked home, quickly, and I felt like there was a lot of things in my head that I did not understand. I could still feel the weight of my day and the day I would have ahead. My brother on the other end of the phone, about to go for a run. The long conversation with my supervisor about employee burn out. The beer cans the case manager saw all over Aaron's old apartment when she brought him to pick up his property. He is a new patient, with a 14 and 16 year old, and he wishes he was able to get around better for them. Later that day he wheeled in the office and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I said I'd let him know.

I guess his question, and his quiet despiration to connect, to be part of some sort of project, made me feel sad. I realized how often I may take for granted my 7 or so person staff, all working together and sometimes bickering amongst eachother in the name of a common cause. And that maybe everything would be a little bit easier if we all had people to sit with on Saturday afternoons in front of a hot pot of tea.