Light Fantastic

The heavy hand of winter is slowly lifting: the sun has made an appearance for the past four days, along with mild temperatures and a seemingly widespread social zaniness (people wandering lazily around Portland, wearing t-shirts and shorts and sandals, bicycling their strong little butts off, smiling deliriously). It's remarkable how the dismal rainy season managed to seep into my very being, and now that it is nearly over, it's as though I am slowly shedding layers of scowls, lowered eyes, tired arms, weary feet. Jace (6 months) and I go for long walks and swing about in the hammock. I'm hoping he learns to crawl in the fresh uncut grass. Avi & Marley (nearly 3 and 16 months, respectively) are so much happier when we can be out in the garden for hours at a time, eating kale off the stalk and playing with the dogs. 

Interestingly enough, I feel far more connected with weather and seasonal shifts than I did back East. There is something more pronounced about the Pacific Northwest climate, and people seem to exist in sync with their immediate environment. Ever since I arrived here, I have felt compelled by my body to eat according to current harvest, to sleep according to my genuine level of fatigue (not according to feelings of should or shouldn't), to make my yoga practice a priority amongst all the constant going, and to be outside as much as possible, rain or shine. The upside of rain in Portland is that it usually consists of light sputterings, followed by brief interludes of moist air but no precipitation. There have been cats-and-dogs days but not many, so taking a walk in the rain usually isn't out of the question. The world looks different in allegedly 'bad' weather; meaning, when one has the opportunity to be outside and travel daily routes in all kinds of weather, one's experience of the roles of observer/participant become somewhat clearer, or at least more intriguing. It can become a fascinating investigation of ecology and community. 

Much of my desire to be outside, not only in the much appreciated sunlight but also in the rain, comes from taking care of children five days a week, and realizing that the last thing I want to do is teach them how to fear exploration beyond the House, even beyond the Backyard. Although my parents encouraged my brother and I to frolic, I became more of an indoor person, and, as a child, even strove to modify my outdoor activities with the comforts of my bedroom - I dragged blankets, pillows and books to a corner of our backyard and set up camp, taking great pains to flick every ant or spider away, trying to secure my little cotton nest against any organic insurgent. In high school I refused to participate in outdoor sports and spent most of my senior year reading on the bleachers while other kids played sports and ran track. None of which I actually regret. But my resistance to finding joy outside came from a general distaste for perspiring, getting filthy, being far from a bathroom, and the headache one gets from squinting one's eyes against the sun. Not to mention the seeming unpredictability of the real ground, sky, air. Heaven forbid it begins to rain, or it gets too hot, or the wind blows hard. For the longest time, I simply couldn't manage that uncertainty.

These habits of mind have been difficult to overcome. Overcome is, perhaps, the incorrect word. I haven't overcome my love of the indoors, because I've decided it isn't something that needs overcoming. Rather, it is a habit that begs for a companion habit in order to locate balance. And so I have cultivated a love of the outdoors, which includes but is not limited to: a fondness for dirt, worms, rain, grass stains, sweat, sore muscles, quick thinking, picnics, tackling steep hills, navigating suburban canyons, weeding, harvesting, running, jumping, sun salutations, keeping an eye out for dog poop and roadkill, paying attention to bird calls, neighborhood cat-titudes, the shape and height and character of trees, the ubiquity of water and sound and change. 

Water and sound and change: it's all there.