​Today, I allowed myself *not* to write a big post and publish it all over social media. I was about to do it, and instead started listening to this amazing podcast / Youtube video by Pema Chodron: The Joy to Do What Helps Us. What helped me yesterday was to joyfully exert my independence and freedom not to post, and to walk outside in the sunshine instead... However there was so much I learned from her talk—I want to explore it in more depth in a later post...

A few seconds of today's Veteran's Day parade in Portland, Oregon on a crisp November morning....

It’s Veteran’s day, and today I feel compassion and gratitude for soldiers who served my country. I also can’t wait for tomorrow’s parade (which happens to march right past my neighborhood). The kids twirling batons and the marching bands playing “Eye of the Tiger” always get me teary-eyed. 

And while I am grateful to individual veterans, when it comes to my feelings about the military—it’s complicated. I am angry and sad about our country’s military past and present.  I am angry that the effects of PTSD and inadequate healthcare cause a lifetime ripple of casualties (suicides, broken lives, and the latest mass shooting) for veterans whose service has supposedly ended. I’m angry about the violence towards women, people of color, and LGBTQ people that continues to haunt our military.  I am horrified that we continue to sell to Saudi Arabia the weapons that are raining down on innocent humans in Yemen, for starters.

But I am grateful that I live in a country where I’m still able to freely express this ambiguity and where in the midst of extreme partisan polarity, we are maybe also growing to accept and express nuance and conflicting feelings within ourselves. Maybe?

​I recommend this article about women in the military, and the internal conflict that many experience with trying to fit in and to move past at the same time.
​
Women are the Most Visible Servicemembers, and the Most Invisible Veterans https://www.cnas.org/publications/reports/women-are-the-most-visible-soldiers-and-the-most-invisible-veterans

Ars Poetica
BY ARCHIBALD MACLEISH

A poem should be palpable and mute   
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--

A poem should be wordless   
As the flight of birds.
                         *               
A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,   
Memory by memory the mind--

A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs.
                         *               
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--

A poem should not mean   
But be.

Today is Liisa’s birthday! Not many people have both an infectious laugh AND are themselves funny as hell—but she’s one of them. Ever since I was a tiny kid and she a teenager, she always treated me like my voice mattered. She listened, laughed, and learned alongside me, even though she already knew way more and probably had better things to do. As an elementary school teacher and now a skilled educational administrator, she has made the lives of so many kids and other teachers richer, deeper, and has ignited the love of learning in hundreds if not thousands of souls. As a mom to her own kids she is a phenomenal mentor and friend. My life would not be the same—in fact it’s not an exaggeration to say the world would definitely be less wonderful—without this person.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIISA!

​P.S. Apologies to my other four sisters and two brothers who were not born in November and therefore do not get the #NovemberGratitude treatment.

Today in the U.S., we inched forward with record-breaking representation of women and minorities in our midterm elections. Today is also the Hindu holiday of Diwali—a festival of lights—a symbolic victory of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance. The evening is closing in extra-early here in the Pacific Northwest November, and tonight is the night of a new moon. Sometimes we need the darkest nights to see the stars that are already there, or the fireworks of our own making.

I'm extra grateful to live in the state of Oregon, where we vote by mail and don't even have to use a stamp if we want to save that fifty cents (my local ballot box is literally at a McDonald's "drive-thru," which in true Portlander form, I "walked-thru"). 

This morning, I'm trying to wrap my head around the fact that women have only "been allowed," or "had the right," or... (there is NO good way to say!) that women have been legally participating in this basic part of democracy for less than 100 years. And that it took decades of activism, being voted down, laughed at, dismissed, over and over again.

​When everyone “in power” tells you your idea is ridiculous—for decades!—it can be easy to start believing that, too. But sometimes, it can fuel your fire. May we stay hungry for what we know is right—and for what can make our lives extraordinary!

Yesterday, walking with an inspiring friend, we stopped at every other amazing tree to appreciate each one’s autumn colors (the auburn oak, the orange tie-dye flaming japanese maple, and my favorite: the butter yellow ginkgo with her chanterelle-shaped leaves). As I drove away, the fluttering of giant wings above the road caught my eye and I pulled over. It was this amazing Barred Owl. We stood and looked in each others eyes (his/hers with beautiful circular arches, a funny white mustache just like the guy on the Pringles can, and streaks of brown and cream feathers down his/her chest). The owl blinked and rotated its amazing head and showed me all its tricks. I always feel like seeing such things is important and that I should stand witness for as long as I possibly can. I tried to let the owl’s wisdom and fierceness and beauty seep into me. I guess that owls are actually common in the Pacific Northwest where I live. But today I am so grateful for such ordinary things...

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*​― Pema Chödrön, The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times

Yesterday, I rode my bicycle northbound across the I-5 bridge from Oregon into Washington, for the first time. It was terrifying.  The bridge has a few hundred feet of elevation in the middle and then descends, which sounds fun except that there is barely enough width for your handle bars and you’re going maximum speed. To your right is the mighty Columbia river, to your left is the smoke and scream of traffic, and every so often the path narrows even more where the bridge buttress things stick into the trail. I had no idea what it would be like, but I followed my friend who had. By the time it was done, "terrifying" became "exhilarating." 
​(Below is a video clip by Portland Metro, about how to ride the bridge, which I edited for this piece.)

I am so, so grateful to ride a bike. First, thanks to my brother, whose hand-me-down late-80’s mountain bike is my current ride. Second, thanks to my friends who let me tell my dark, vulnerable secret: I’ve always been afraid to ride bikes, and I didn’t properly learn to ride one when I was a kid. I avoided it because it scared me. Somehow as the youngest of eight kids, by the time I would have been riding, a lot got assumed. It was taken for granted that some sibling or friend somewhere somehow would teach me, and that I’d be interested enough (and not terrified) to try. I remember other hand-me down bikes, and a few tries with training wheels, but I never got into it. By the time I was about 11 years old, a terror hit me when I learned we were going to move to Scotland for about a year. I got it in my mind that everyone in Scotland was always on a bike. So I secretly took someone’s bike from the garage, and practiced alone, enough that I could basically stay upright on a bike. Newsflash: I never rode a bike in Scotland. It wasn’t until I was living in Portland and about to turn thirty that the panic hit me again. I’m going to be thirty. Thirty! This seemed just altogether too old to be afraid of bikes. So again, I borrowed a bike and practiced my turns in the park.

A friend lent me an old steel root-beer colored Schwinn I started making my way around town, solo, my heart racing every minute. And now, over a decade since, I’ve become a regular Portland cyclist. I still have my secret and not-so-secret fears about riding, but mostly I can’t believe how much I love it. The feeling of freedom and speed—I could ride all day. And perhaps because it’s a gift I discovered later in life, it always feels like a secret pleasure to me—not just another way to get around.

*from the poem, "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou

​When I think of places for which I am grateful, I think of Indonesia—a country where I’ve spent at least a couple of years cumulatively, and still barely scratched the surface of its diverse array of people and islands. Like all my best life decisions, the choice to go there was made pretty much at random. 

I knew I wanted to go somewhere totally beyond my imagination. I thought that would be India, and I could study (and hoard) a cache of beautiful fabrics (in college I was minoring in Fiber Arts—yes that's a thing). But the alphabetically-ordered university study abroad catalog had something called “Indonesia” instead. I saw that there was beautiful fabric made there—the birthplace of batik, and ancient weaving techniques. I earned a fellowship to go. I studied its charming, playful language, Bahasa Indonesia, which lets you roll your r’s for days if you want, and simply repeat words to make them plural. 

Arriving in the East Java town of Malang, I remember one of the “culture” lessons we received, about walking alone. We were told that people will ask, “Are you alone?” and that the root word for alone, “sendiri,” essentially means the same as “lonely.” So if you tell people you are “sendiri,” they might assume you want company. You WILL be asked for tea—sugary, sugary tea or coffee with ginger—and you will not know when the social visit will end, and it will be hard to get out of politely.

I’ve solo-traveled many places since then. I’m not going to say that it’s always rosy or that I haven’t been harassed or even endangered. Or that sometimes I’d really, REALLY rather not engage even with the most well-meaning of strangers. But I could not be more grateful that it was Indonesia where I was first immersed in the magic of being the cultural outsider. It is a place where friendliness to strangers is a deeply-held value. Indonesia holds the world’s largest Muslim population, and having experienced the love and sincerity of believers there, when I think of Islam, I think of the faces of my friends. It’s painful to me when others invoke to the name of this religion with fear or anger. I want everyone to have a friend of every faith, so they can picture that face when that faith is mentioned. Mark Twain famously said: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness…” I think the opposite is true as well. (If you start with prejudice, that will be fatal to your travel experience.)

I am thankful for you, Indonesia! From Java to Sulawesi to Lombok, to the special Hindu hospitality of Bali, I hope others have a chance to increase their awareness of and appreciation for this country—whose culture and industry effects each of us in ways we probably have never considered (look at where your clothes and your coffee come from, for starters!).

On a final note, the effects of the earthquake and subsequent tsunami on Sulawesi are still devastating lives and livelihoods. Consider giving to #MercyCorps, or to the #IndonesianRedCross (ifrc.org) for disaster relief. #IFRC 

#gratitude #gratitudediaries #gratitudegrows #ThankinOfYou #NovemberGratitude #WhatYouAppreciateAppreciates #DiaDeMuertos #Daditude

I am happily jumping on this November Gratitude bandwagon. In addition to my wholehearted belief that “what you appreciate appreciates,” this whole November Gratitude Diaries movement has provided me with a path to emerge from my cocoon of the last several months—to share my thoughts with the social media world. For the rest of November, I plan to post frequently about the people, places, and things for which I am most profoundly grateful. 

Although I have an almost-daily writing habit, the truth is that I compulsively draw a thick bright line between The Personal Writing (journals, poems, and copious color-coded post-its) and The Professional Writing (brand guidelines, fundraising appeals, mission statements, and most recently--cover letters!). It is a source of great anxiety for me to let that line smudge or erase. So, obviously, first quick thanks goes to Eleanor Roosevelt: “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

And here we go.

November 1st. My dad.

My dad died on the last day of February this year. He was surrounded by his children, and we watched him literally wave good-bye as he left his body behind. No matter the unfinished conversations, the unresolved conflicts, the generational or religious divides, I do know this: my dad loved me. 

From Gloria Steinem to Malala Yousafzai, I’m struck by how many women leaders thank and attribute their most important values to fathers who were ahead of their time. My curiosity for learning, fascination with language, and love of adventure are all thanks to my dad as well. He shared the duties of child-rearing and chores alongside my mother. He cooked our meals and was a kind of Depression-era “foodie” (does Tang count as "food?"). He took his children for walks, pointing out the names of plants and creatures. He was a scientist. He made up bedtime stories about a little girl who lived in his childhood home on the prairie of Alberta, Canada, who was summoned by woodland creatures when the Chinook winds blew. He was a professor of agriculture. He was a cowboy poet. He always made me feel he wanted to know me, even though we were far from perfect at knowing and understanding each other. We shared the longing to know.

Both my dad and my mom created a home that was safe for people from all walks of life and all cultures. I think of this now in these times of great divisions, fear, and shutting-out of “the other.” Our home was a place where most nights dinner was hosting a mystery guest or a family of guests, from church or university, or just in the neighborhood. Our basement was often occupied by graduate students or families getting on their feet, or visitors from faraway lands—China, Thailand, Nigeria, Finland. Helping others was just a given.

From my father and my mother both, I learned the human mandate of inviting people in. I’ll end this piece with a favorite poem by Rumi which serves as a perfect reminder to me—of my father's curious spirit, and of the open courage I want to draw upon as I share my vulnerable stories of gratitude with the wider world.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
——————————--
Especially on this November 1st, Mexican holiday of Dia de Muertos, I send thanks to all my guides from beyond.