Thanksgiving in Oregon

Oregon is cold and grey, with some intermittent moments of sun accompanied by damp chilling temps ... it is winter here, for sure, and once again the family gathers for Thanksgiving.  In a large house in the Oregon suburbs four (or is it five?) generations from two sides of the family mingle, cook, watch television, take walks, play cards, take showers, do more cooking, and play with the terminally cute schipperkee puppy called Tugboat, and the noise/energy level rises and falls, but mostly rises.
We prepared a beautiful and very generous turkey dinner, complete with several kinds of potatoes, roasted root veggies, green beans, succulent shimmering cranberry sauce, and we ate with great appreciation.  Good red wine abounded.  The talk was light, but I think the hearts were full:  of appreciation, each in our own way, for being alive, being with people who care about us, for having the abundance....  Daughter #2 whose home we inhabited made four pies.   Pie making is something she truly loves and is proud of.  Lemon, Pumpkin, Chocolate candy, Apple.  They were quite something -- a parade of pies!  This may be the only time I eat dessert, and I must -- to honor the heartful effort she put forth.
Journeyed to Portland yesterday to visit the art museum, a pristine bright, light space filled with art old and new.  The contemporary collection feels pretty significant, and my heart warmed to see some painters I knew well.  Looking at art makes me SO happy.  I feel complete.  As though this too is enough, just the way it is...  The kids tagged along of course, and occasionally related to the work on the walls.  Mostly I think they just loved walking through the spaciousness of the museum, feeling the freedom of that spaciousness.  I saw my desire to teach my family arise and I kept it as quiet as I could.  I know so much more than they do, and part of me wants to impart all that knowledge, and then, too, I have to realize that they may not need or want that information.  Knowing about art has been essential to me, from the time my mother dashed off to art school, and subsequently filled our environment with her dashing, brave abstract paintings...  It was a survival thing this relating to art.
Lunch at an upscale boisterous Peruvian restaurant in the Pearl district was a foodie's adventure.  Lots of small plates and succulent flavors, from paella to ceviche to seafood wontons and avocado stuffed with crab (oh so good!).  We ate and we ate and finished, of course, with dessert:  three kinds of creme brulee, some chocolate extravaganza, a shortbread cookie sandwiched over a rich caramel.   Then out into the chilly streets to explore this warehouse district turned upscale artsy neighborhood.  It was getting darker (our lunch had been a long and late one!) and colder by the moment, and while I wanted to relish the character of the brick buildings and interesting storefronts, ducking inside was a relief.  Cargo -- a funny eclectic store that seems like a maverick cousin of Cost Plus, and much more daring.  A sprawling warehouse of kooky, enticing, imaginative goods.  I wondered:  could one do ALL one's Christmas shopping there??
Last night we played poker, while others watched some strange sci-fi movie with very loud sound effects.  I realized in the midst of all that how sensitive I am to sound.  It's the living alone, I guess.  There was movie sound, shrieking of children sound, chips on the table sound, miscellaneous interchange at the table, occasionally the high pitched bark of Tugboat when the children screamed at their movie.  It felt like physical assault at times, and I tried very hard to roll with it, but at times I found myself reacting before I could stop myself.  When I got in my car late into the evening to motor to my very quiet motel by the river, I relished the silence - I turned the radio off, and just drove...   I LOVE quiet.
Since earlier in this visit I had finished my knitted scarf project, I had little to occupy myself with as we sat around the family room with the giant TV screen showing a movie that seemed meaningless to me.  I wondered about conversation, and why there was so little of it.  Just another moment of many where I realized what a different world I inhabit from the rest of my family.  Sitting there feeling separate, and much of the time being at ease in that separateness.... There were times when I wished I was more a part of their world or they of mine, but then I remember how impossible that really is.  And, in fact, it is NOT what we really want.  Aren't our wonderful unique differences what help us to appreciate, respect, and treasure one another?  Unconditional love is born out of that acceptance and maybe even gratitude as well!  We are all separate AND connected.  And as long as we don't expect (or crave) respect and adoration, we can simply roll with what comes in this ever changing dynamic of family...
When I return to my sleepy little house in SF, I know I will feel twinges of loneliness -- really alone once again, and in this season of darkness and the dying off of things, this season which invites melancholy no matter who you are with  (or not with!).  The 20th anniversary of my mother's death is December 1, and I will try to mark it in some ritualistic way, so the sadness doesn't envelope me, but rather so I can invoke and honor a life that gave me life.  For twenty years now I have been the matriarch in this family!  And I can't help but wonder :  how long will this continue?  Ah yes, death and dying are with me, with us, now.  BUT, I am just now reminded of the Pablo Neruda quote that Jack K. loves to offer up on retreat:  "You can pick all the flowers, but you can't stop the spring."  That sounds pretty beautiful to me right now.
May all beings find peace, joy,  light ... and the inevitable spring

Less Light, More Dark ...

The air is cooler, and the darkness is more upon us now, as the winter season makes its presence known.  This is the time of year that my old melancholia tries to nudge its way back into my life, with a free-form anxiety coming along for the ride.  I have realized that the amount of solitary time I spend is directly related to the tenacity of my dark spirits...
But this weekend I had a chance to spend time at the beach interacting with visitors coming to Salmon Creek for their "art walk," and the change in momentum is clear.  To the prevailing enthusiasm about my art (my eclectic, eccentric necklaces), I feel myself becoming animated, attending to my words, actually liking what I hear.  I feel authentic and solid in those moments.  In keeping with the ever changing nature of things, these weekend days went from grey and drizzling to bright and sunny (today), and you can feel that "nip" in the air, which is invigorating.  I go to bed listening to the roar of the ocean, and wake up to the beginnings of bird conversations, and in moving about my little house I pay close attention to the minutiae of life ... the warmth of the teacup in my hand, the ivory keys of my piano under my fingers, the smell of some exotic new soap in my bathroom, my cat posing on the windowsill in the sun ... all this and more, when I'm not ruminating about our terminal human journey.  Impermanence is with me through all my waking moments it seems, and there are many times I have a hard time opening my heart to it.
Have been reviewing my photographs recently in preparation for doing a photo show, and that has been a gratifying process : to view one's own work with objectivity and respect.  I see a thread in the work : the spiritual character of our human existence.  As I look at the Burmese children with their wide open smiles, the Bhutanese monk proudly gazing at my camera, the Balinese couple with their hands raised in prayer ... I realize the need we all have for the divine realm, that place where we are all together as members of the human family, and there is no separation, no judgment.  Which leads me to wonder whether I should move out of my hermit self, reach out more to the world, offer more of myself to life, much like I have this weekend with the art enthusiasts... Connection is a lifeline.  It vibrates.  Solitariness can be retreat -- ever so still;  one's line of sight becomes so much narrower the more time one spends alone.
Yes, now that there is in fact more darkness (the season for hibernation!), and, yes, the 20th anniversary of my mother's death, I will take some steps outward.  And I will see perhaps that I am not as alone as I believed I was.