A cup with a view...

Sauvie Island April 2012

Do you have a favorite window with a view of a special place? A spot that you can land after you brew  a cup, sit in the quiet, and breathe in the steam circling from the lip of your cup? I have many. Did I mention that you can have more than one? In Portland we rely on windows to decide our wardrobe. For many of us, it is the first thing we head to when we wake up in the morning, so that we know what to wear in the event that it is a downpour, overcast, or sunny.  And in cloudy Portland, we depend on windows to let in light. Growing up I had a window seat in my bedroom that faced the street. The window was enclosed within a series of dense wisteria branches. I could fold myself into the window seat, under the wisteria and watch the rain, spot friends and head out for a play date, or gather all my dolls into a big heap to keep me company.

I have other favorite windows that are not my own, but that I consider my favorite. When I went to visit my grandfather I would sit on his couch and look out at the Portland skyline. When he was going to move, I remember thinking about how much I would miss that view. To my surprise (and delight) he found an even better view of Portland and Mt. Hood in his next home. In San Francisco I have three favorite views. My godfather has a living room that is glass from floor to ceiling. Everyday he wakes up looking out over the entire San Francisco skyline, and at night the city lights up like fireflies. My cousin has a view of the entire Golden Gate Bridge from his living room window, and our friends that live in Presidio Heights have a large window overlooking the city, the bridges and the water. It is the first thing you see when you walk into their home. Thanks to the dense San Francisco fog, you have to be in just the right place, at just the right time, to catch these views at their best.

In Pendleton, when it is so hot the air is still, we have a favorite hotel that sits on the highest ledge of town. From the balcony window you can gaze out at the gold and brown landscape that extends as far as the eye can see. At Cannon Beach, I have fond memories of sitting with Aunt Gai, her window overlooking the beach and Haystack rock. When we visit family in Ontario, the view from Mike’s living room window takes your breath away (my grandfather’s favorite view). Most recently, this past weekend, I was out on Sauvie Island, and the window in the kitchen looked more like a garden painting, than a window with a garden on the other side.

I grew up watching the world go by outside my window, be it in the car (driving through Montana, Idaho, Malheur, California, etc.), on the plane (looking down over various cities around the world), or portside (from my small cabin window on the ship). These windows are similar to a television set, but better, because they are always changing. No one “show” is ever the same, and you gain a different perspective depending on where you are– you grow new eyes.

Windows allow the outside to come in. I have never grown up with blinds–none of my neighbors have them. I find it quite comforting to see across the way to glowing windows, my neighbors preparing dinner, or waving from inside as I walk by. These open windows often invite me in. Countless times I have been mid-step in a walk, when a neighbor pulls me inside for a cup, and a story (blinds and shades would have made this exchange impossible). So as you brew up a cup, go sit by your favorite window, and if you don’t have one, go borrow one–you never know, it just might become your new favorite view.

This cup is for George (the only window that truly brings the garden into your kitchen)

And for Rod, Brent, and Hope (who gave me the best views of San Francisco)

What's Brewing?

Never. Ever. Stop.
This cup is for the "Kick it Krew" (where will we go next?)

Breathe. Brew. Relax. (Repeat often)

Some days it is hard to balance all the cups...
This cup is for Emma M. (I miss our long afternoons of sketching and coffee in class)

Today's Forecast: Transition

Today was the first warm day in a long time. Buds exploded from branches, flowers tipped toward the sun, and it seemed that everyone came out to grab some (much needed) vitamin D. The weatherman predicted a “transition” in weather patterns– a hint that spring-cleaning is just around the corner, and to sweep the cobwebs off of your lawn mower.

For me, I am in a different kind of transition. My transition is similar to that of a weather pattern–it is unpredictable. Each day brings about new questions, revisits old ideas, and looks for answers.  I (nervous and) excitedly look forward to the unexpected, and unannounced. Some days are sunny, brought about by good news, good vibes and good energy.  Some days are rainy, due to challenges, obstacles, and (in some cases) defeat. I like to call it the transition of the twenties. As I am faced with new transitions everyday, questions brew in my mind and cloud my thoughts, such as, what will happen tomorrow? Next month? Next year? In 10 years? Where will I live? Who will I become? I wonder if all transitions are this challenging (for creatures big and small, twenty or one hundred and twenty)?

When the transitions begin to pile up, I imagine what a hermit crab must feel like when faced with the sudden urge or need to find a new home, what shell troubles he must have to overcome? Does a bear feel disoriented, confused and forlorn when he wakes up from a long bout of hibernation? How does he wrap his head around the events that he missed while sleeping?  How does he reconnect with his friends? What happens when birds heading south hit an unexpected head wind? Do they give up or keep going? Do they feel outnumbered in the crowd? Fight for a place in the V? Or face competition? What kind of predicament do flowers and plants face when the ice refuses to melt of the heat lingers in the air for too long? Who do they get advice from? How do they decide to overcome these obstacles? For humans, I think it is safe to say, we rely on each other to help us through the big transitions–the weather patterns called daily life.

Lately, I have found that a long run, hitting the pavement with friends, has been just the place to help work through the transitions of daily life. Within our group of runners, I am one of the youngest. I feel so lucky to have so many amazing women (and a few men too) that I can look up to, who lend a listening ear, give advice, tell me their story, share their transitions, and reassure me that I am not alone. They have taught me that no matter where you are in life, there is always going to be a transition ahead and that somehow, everyone manages to get thought it and come out on the other side. Their encouragement and support not only gets me through a long run, but it gets me through life.

Somehow, someway, everyone maneuvers through the tough weather patterns, be it a storm or a major life change. Hermit crabs manage to find new homes, bears wake up and get acclimated, birds migrate, and plants sprout from the ground season after season, year after year. And if they can do it, I can do it, and so can you.

This cup is for my running buddies: (Jfro, Carolyn, Dana, Dawn, Tahni, Mary, Angela, Adrianna, Trish, Caitlin, and the Reds) who meet me rain or shine.

My Roots Are Showing

When someone asks me “where are you from?” my mind is flooded with thoughts. Douglas fir trees, cold oceans, snow capped mountains, roses, the smell of fresh ground coffee, wet Labrador, pine, and rain, and the feeling of cozy flannel, puffy vests and comfy boots.  However, if someone were to ask more specifically “where is your family from?” my mind would wander east, toward rolling wheat fields and broken down barns and travel all the way down to the sunny clear skies of California. This past weekend I headed out for the open road, and found myself winding through the countryside of Eastern Oregon and Washington–the very same stretch of land that generations before me had walked so many miles to discover (and eventually settle). While I have always said “you can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl,” there was something really peaceful about zig zaging through the open valley of my ancestors.

Our family ranch is located in the small town of Pomeroy. The old house and barn, while falling apart, are tucked in the folds of golden wheat fields. As I stood in (what felt like) the skeleton of the barn, and looked out over the open valley, I thought about what it must have felt like to discover this place after traveling so far. While I never met my grandmothers, my great grandparents, or my great, great, grandparents, the creaky wood of the barn beneath my feet, the cool breeze on my face and the sunrays hitting the wheat fields connected the past to the present.  I knew they were there.

While I am used to the hustle and bustle of city life, the country is a nice change of scenery. During the day, sheep dot the skyline, working their way across the land. Farmers are early to bed, early to rise, and if you keep your eyes peeled, you can spot coyotes, blue birds and barn owls. At night, the stars light the sky as far as the eye can see and it is so quiet that you can hear your own heartbeat. As I took in the landscape, and listened to old family stories, I was reminded that this (too) is part of my genetic makeup–my DNA– and is (also) where I am from.

This cup is for the Houser’s (because this land was made for you and me)

THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND

by Woody Guthrie

Chorus:

This land is your land, this land is my land

From California, to the New York Island

From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters

This land was made for you and me

As I was walking a ribbon of highway

I saw above me an endless skyway

I saw below me a golden valley

This land was made for you and me

Chorus

I've roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps

To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts

And all around me a voice was sounding

This land was made for you and me

Chorus

The sun comes shining as I was strolling

The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling

The fog was lifting a voice come chanting

This land was made for you and me

Chorus

As I was walkin'  -  I saw a sign there

And that sign said - no tress passin'

But on the other side  .... it didn't say nothin!

Now that side was made for you and me!

Chorus

In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple

Near the relief office - I see my people

And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'

If this land's still made for you and me.

In loving memory

Since I was a little girl, I have been fortunate enough to be surrounded and influenced by many amazing people. Their creativity, insight, encouragement, and support, have shaped who I am today. Throughout my life, these amazing people have loaned me their lens to see the world from a different point of view. They have been the driving force that urges me to venture into the unknown, and they have always been there to share a cup when I need a push, a shove, a shoulder, an ear, advice, laughter or company. These amazing people are the kind of people that I take with me wherever I go. These are the kind of amazing people that can let years go by without checking in, and yet, we pick up exactly where we left off. These are the kind of amazing people that call you out of the blue or drop you a line, or show up at your doorstep unexpectedly. These are the kind of amazing people that you find yourself saying “when I grow up, I want to be just like them.” These are the kind of amazing people like Rhoda London.

Rhoda poured her whole heart, body and soul into her work. She was honest, talented, trusting, smart, funny, headstrong, successful, confident and beautiful. I always admired her style, her thick skin and her can-do, will-do attitude. Rhoda always encouraged me to be me. She always told me to keep creating, to keep painting, and challenged me to find the meaning behind my work. Rhoda was a very special person in my life and I am honored to have called her my friend.

This cup is for Rhoda: a truly amazing person.

I will carry you in my heart (always).

Cups of Creativity

There is a creative energy looming in the air. I can’t point fingers at who or where it is coming from, but it is definitely present. Last week, my mom took part in a poetry competition. Her creative juices were on high alert and intense pressure, not only to show up to her pen and paper, but to deliver winning results. To put it lightly, she nailed it (I challenge you to write a poem with the word pusillanimous–not an easy task). While she missed the finals by only a few votes, her ideas and creativity proved to be a winning team. Her creative juices must have rubbed off onto me because while she was writing, I pulled out old ideas, new canvas and got inspired to create. I wonder what my great grandmother would say if she saw me using her fine china as a paint pallet?

I am impressed when our minds can deliver ideas on demand. For my mom, it happens late at night, between cups of tea and hand fulls of wheat thin crackers. For me it happens when my brush meets the canvas, while I am out on a run, or read something that sticks in my mind long after it has been recycled. While Portland itself can’t quite let go of its winter rainclouds, it is nice to know that you can glob warm colors onto fine china and stay dry with good poetry. Now– go pour yourself a cup of creativity and enjoy!

This cup is for my mom (who inspires me everyday)
and for Chris (who taught me to love making art).

Brunch
 by Suz Blackaby

Coy koi and other mousy fish—

The timid, pusillanimous,

Unanimously gutless cowards,

Cowering in the reeds—

Stay steeped within the murky mix

(Above the silt/below the scum),

Supposing they are safely, soundly

Hidden in the interim.
Along the rim, a heron waits.

Pacing at a patient gait,

It waits to catch (so shy of sense)

The quick flick of a silver fin

Or crimson ribbon—just a glimpse!

As sheepish fish slip into sight,

It waits and, tasting victory,

Moves to strike.