from desert to sea
in a day’s drive through one state
(miracles exist)
rainforests between
to prove heaven lives on earth
(nature is my god)
we found our daddy
after cherry shopping; lake;
beyond evergreens
a driftwood dinner
no one could have predicted
in another life
yet here we’ll find sleep
all together in one room
at earth’s clouded edge
The beauty of the road is so much more than views. It is the elevation loss and gain that sneaks up on you as quickly as the road snakes its way along the Snake River.
It is the surprise of the desert that has made its rural-America mark in southeastern Oregon.
It is the spontaneity of stopping at state parks for a peek at history and scenery so breathtaking you feel you’ve stepped into a mini Grand Canyon.
It is the trail our ancestors walked upon that you place your weary soles on now, however twisted and stolen it may be. It is still a silent beauty resting behind a sleepy Americana town, waiting for rediscovery and firsthand learning for three young women.
It is the creek sparkling in the hotter-than-expected northwestern sun, and the quick dip that makes an afternoon sparkle just as brightly.
It is the curve that moves from summit to limitless landscapes, to the expansive end of the Oregon Trail, played out in a quilt of farm fields, and the hope they held for a better life.
The road brings beauty, and within this beauty lies everything you’d expect and wouldn’t expect: children bickering, bits and pieces of trash and clothing piled up in the backseats, state lines that bear no stoppable signs, audiobooks and downloaded movies, snapshots taken from a moving vehicle, trucks that hog both lanes, treeless mountains and endless vineyards, poverty and wealth found behind fences and up on winery hilltops.
The road brings more than views of tall pines, sagebrush-only molehills, and sleepy rivers. It brings us all a new world view where we search for ourselves and find ourselves in each other. Where children find joy in only their siblings’ company, where the road promises a pool at the end of the day and a reality check about small city poverty to remind us of what we have.
Can you see it from an airplane, from a train ride, from a walk down the block?
Never quite like the views you’ll find when you hit the open road. The views of nature, of civilization… of yourself.
You just need one set of keys, a whole lot of gumption, and a pair of soul-searching eyes, and you can find yourself a whole new world view.
mountain views bring peace
better than a city day
our summer freedom
camping in nature:
reminder of what matters–
family connections
weekend getaway:
my moose, their antlers, our love
better than the beach
with a broken fridge,
limitations on dry ice,
and carpool circles
to pick up daughter
from uncalled-for punishment,
my Monday sucked ass.
driving home in rain,
she told me the whole story
and other teen truths.
then shared her essay:
perfectly satirical
(writer at fourteen)
the rain flooded us
and we laughed until we cried
knowing that truth hurts.
one week after snow:
sunny summer theme park day
because spring’s fucked up
because we need this:
desertification looms
just beyond the bend
(Trump looms there as well,
where the ninety-degree March
made some record highs)
and so? a snow march
to keep precipitation
where it belongs: Earth
Shakespeare’s Juliet
with a ten-year-old’s line twist
and a handmade dress
my oldest asks for advice:
What should I text the boy
whose number my friend got for me?
(just a pinch of middle school, relived)
Ask him about his weekend,
tell him you went skiing,
ask what his favorite foods are…
In a huff, she stomps out of the kitchen,
her adolescent heels too stubborn for her old mum.
That is terrible advice!
I won’t say any of those things!
How many successful relationships have you had?
(my attempt at middle school banter)
To which the youngest,
just ten and always listening,
banters back,
Technically, Mama, you’ve only had one–your marriage. All the rest were epic fails.
Touché, my smart-alec girls,
for always knowing the brutal truth
an afternoon wind
blew in a flurry of texts
and opened this door–
it knocked down a glass
from our dishwasher-less rack
(because all things break)
it sent me spinning
on my endless carpool trip
(keeping up with kids)
the sun was shining
on my student-made pastry,
unaware of shards.
i swept up pieces,
circled back to get daughter
and wash more dishes.
baklava melted
like rays of afternoon sun
in each of our mouths
(a reminder that
gusts of wind, circling drives
are just shards of days)
on Monday, a beer
because the cafe was closed
and i needed one
it was a sports bar
and the tears she shed were mine
in goodbye moments
(i didn’t share them–
not then, not out on the street–
only in words. here.)
because i’ve been there.
we have all been there. mothers.
sisters. wives. children.
i should have seen it.
the comings, goings of days,
built on loss and fear.
her tears were my tears.
her daughters were my daughters.
we are all the same.
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