The Junk Yard vs. Poetry Beach

There's been a lot of sorrow.

Deep sadness.

Tears.

Worry.

Fear.

I try not to think about it...but every tiny act of mothering is a reminder.

Tonight I clipped my child's fingernails.

I wondered who clips the nails of the children in cages.

Does anyone notice when their nails are too long...or too dirty.

Yesterday, my 12 year old daughter asked me to braid her hair.

It's a rare treat these days so I seized on the moment to brush and tend and love her via her hair.

I wove her hair with a heart that is tattered...I saw the tiny stripes the sun has tinted in her hair already...I knew the area on her head where the braid always gets bumpy...I smoothed and tightened and thought of all the young girls with no one to fix their hair.

Children are being taken and separated from their families.

Intentionally.

The government is working to bring the most pain to bear on immigrants.

It's working to harm the youngest and most vulnerable.

I can hardly believe this nightmare is true.

A few days ago, I was moving my daughter up to Portland.

Despondent over these babies and mothers I went for a walk along the Willamette River.

I tried to lose myself in that new place...tried to notice something new with each step...

a wildflower here...a tiny bird there.

It felt good to walk along a river and notice the current that never falters...always moving forward.

Lost in my thoughts I abruptly hit the end of the path...

a dead end with a junk yard attached.

How cosmically perfect.

Gross - Dead - Polluted - Junk

Might as well be describing our government...or my mood.

It felt maddening and sickeningly spot on.

What could I do but turn around?

I literally made an about face to begin walking back and discovered a path called Poetry at the Beach.

I marveled at this mystery.

What was going on?

How could there be poetry at the beach?

Literally, two of my favorite things embedded in some sort of spiritual mash up...what??

I should head back...I had chores to begin...and commitments to attend to...but I knew that wouldn't be happening.

I had to walk the path...

I discovered stones that had the words of children...the poems that children created carved into them...voices of Native American children who pondered the Willamette River and what it 

meant to them - felt to them - inspired in them.

Here are their hearts etched into stone:

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...

Sit here.

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.