"I'd like Enlightenment please."
Pilates on Parkside.
There's always one over-achiever...meet Jordan.
Every carved stone captured me...I wondered where the student wrote the poem...who did the carving...where did the rock come from...who funded it all...who did the work of placing the stones in their spot...all of it seemed like one big surprise party made only for me.
Every stone echoed in my heart.
I came upon stones that had the Native word for our ordinary words:
It felt like I was being handed a secret code...or a blanket from the past...
Wrap yourself up in our words and our ways.
Know that the Willamette was here before you and will remain long after you.
Find comfort in the unwavering strength of stone...the unstoppable movement of the river...
the beauty that waits for you to notice.
That beauty is yours every day.
Poetry at the Beach
Here she is:
Meet the Willamette.
I walked along that stunning slice of sand...soaking up the driftwood so beautifully, carelessly tossed right where it was meant to be...looking at the gray stones and seeing
gunmetal, silver, ash, slate, smoky, dove's egg, charcoal...the twists and turns of gray...
and the gift of being able to see every last hue between black and white.
I started my walk despondent over the now...alone...I ended my walk soaked in the people who came before me...the river that spans both and will arch into the future as well.
We have junkyards and poetry.
Stones waiting to be carved and poems still left to write.
Every single day, it's up to us to find the poems.
Up to us to notice...and leave our mark.
You get to choose:
junkyard or poetry.
Today, I thank the eagle, the frog, the Canadian geese, the otter and the driftwood.
I thank whoever found the swimming otter driftwood and left it for me to enjoy too.
I thank the stone carvers and the poets...the dreamers and the visionaries...those who thought to combine Native history and language with the beauty of the beach and children's voices.
Mostly, I thank the Willamette River who has seen her fair share of junkyard and poetry...
and still she flows.