I’m off on a new adventure. Since I am just limited to my cell phone and I am thumb impaired, I will be sharing my experiences via my written journal- hopefully readable!
It all started with an idea
manifesting
to a penciled entry on my calendar
Later changing to ink.
As the date drew closer and closer
Loose ends started appearing everywhere
Coming out of crevices
I didn’t know existed.
I tripped repeatedly over them
And as one grabbed my ankle
I fell into a vortex
Of whirling procrastination.
Round and round I went
Until I grabbed the
Dangling loose ends
Pulled myself up
Then tied them all together in a tight knot.
I finished gathering all my belongings
And left.
Breathless, I found my seat, buckled up
And sighed with relief.
The door closed
We taxied and took off.
Peering below were a few more loose ends
Shrinking in the distance
Gyrating like frustrated cobras
Trying to bite me.
But it was too late
I was off.
The above poem was published on my blog in June 2017 before I left for Ireland.
A mistake I thought as we pulled up in our U-Haul truck to our recently purchased farmhouse in rural Oregon. That was on a cold, dismal rainy day in 1993. The place was overgrown and sad looking. When we entered, the previous owners had not cleaned. The house smelled of their chain-smoking. There was no choice but to get to work.
We froze for the first two winters. Eventually, we got the place cleaned up, insulated and a new heating system installed. Only then could we start thinking about cosmetic improvements. Our son started first grade at the small school across the road.
My husband had been in a depression and said he would be happy if he could live in the country. As for me, I had lost track of how many moves I’d experienced since leaving home at 19. After university, I was like a tumbleweed in search of Nirvana, working seasonally in far-flung places of Alaska for the better part of 10 years. Now, with a young son in tow, I was ready to put down roots, even if the house and the town weren’t perfect.
My now ex-husband moved on after a few years. He was wrong. Living in the country did not make him happy. Happiness is an inside job. I realized that though and I married myself to this place determined to build a life for myself and my son.
Bandit
That was 26 years ago this May 31st. The house is now cute, cozy, with a big garden & lots of roses. The generic rural area has now become “The Wine Country.” I am interwoven into the fabric of the community and have great friends. I know the names of the UPS guy, the mail lady, the receptionist at the pool, many business owners, and the birds that frequent the feeder. Another, more suitable man, shares my life as well as my old dog, Bandit. Then there are the sweet memories of the dogs and cats that have passed before him. My son grew up but lives relatively close by and thinks of this as home. In this place, my hair has grayed. In this place, I grew to be at home in my own skin.
Dougie RIP
I finally found Nirvana.
My Home
Was built on the dreams of the Kalapuia Indians
Looking for game and camas root to feed their families
Of weary pioneers ready to cease their westbound journey
I’m off on a new adventure. Since I am just limited to my cell phone and I am thumb impaired, I will be sharing my experiences via my written journal- hopefully readable!
A mistake I thought as we pulled up in our U-Haul truck to our recently purchased farmhouse in rural Oregon. That was on a cold, dismal rainy day in 1993. The place was overgrown and sad looking. When we entered, the previous owners had not cleaned. The house smelled of their chain-smoking. There was no choice but to get to work.
improvements. Our son started first grade at the small school across the road.
By Alanna Pass 