Dancing School

I went to a small, sheltered school in Portland, Oregon. There were 30 people in my class, many of whom I had known my whole life. Boys and girls played together, but we still stayed in our boxes. We loved to play boys chase girls in elementary school. I loved it, because I could show the boys how tough I was by wiggling free of their firm embrace. I also loved it, because it made my heart pitter-patter every time Spencer or Adam pursued and caught me. It was my earliest memory of flirting. 

Back then sixth grade was still part of the elementary school. I liked still being in the same building where I first learned to read, tie my shoes, and do cherry drops. I wasn’t ready to grow up or act mature. My world was still familiar and safe. Mid-way through the year, our teachers told us that we would be moving to the newly constructed middle school building. Most of my classmates embraced this change, however, I was frightened. I didn’t want my life to change and go from being a big fish in a small pond to a small fish in a big pond. 

But, change is inevitable. On Friday we were in our old building and the following Monday we were in our new building. New desks, new faces, and lockers! There were also new social rules. No longer was it okay to play with the boys on the playground. Now girls stayed to one side and the boys stayed to the other. Instead of playing four square and tetherball, we sat around and “talked.”

But, the defining moment of my transition was the next year in seventh grade. In the 90s, every seventh-eigth grader in the Portland Metro area attended Dancing School. My mom was so excited for me to participate in this long-standing tradition. When she was growing up in Portland in the late 50s, she also attended Dancing School. Alas, not much had changed from when she did it to when I did it. 

Girls were supposed to wear long, fancy dresses with white satin gloves and patent leather shoes. Boys were supposed to wear slacks, collared shirts, breast pocket jackets, and loafers. 

We arrived at the Scottish Right Center in Downtown Portland on Friday nights dressed appropriately. If you were not dressed according to the rules, you were sent home to change or if you had too many demerits, you were asked not to come back at all. Once you entered the ballroom, boys were told to go to one side and girls were told to go to the other. Members of each sex stood there awkwardly until it was time to form two circles: one on the inside for the boys and one on the outside for the girls. We were matched up with a partner and must curtsey or bow to greet the other. Then, we watched the couple (male and female) demonstrate a dance move that we were to practice with our partners. This went on for an hour, frequently rotating around the circle until you danced with 4-5 different dancers throughout the evening. Whoever you ended up with would be the one who would walk with you to say “thank you” to the chaperones (the adults who were watching out for any funny business). 

Once outside the building, the gloves, dresses, suits, and formalities were shed and everyone met up at Petros Pizza. Now that the uniforms were off, another costume was put on. For me, this costume was harder to put on. I didn’t have boobs, shave my legs, or wear makeup. I looked around at all these new girls from other schools. Ones that I had seen in the glossy magazines and on TV. They felt foreign and scary to me. But, also mysterious and desirable. They were the ones that got noticed and were popular. They were the pretty roses, while I was the dandelion. 

I watched how they dressed, moved, and talked. I wanted to emulate them, so I could fit in and be liked by the boys. That night, I told my mom that I wanted her to take me bra shopping and that I needed to buy a razor to shave my legs. This is despite the fact that I was flat-chested and hairless. 

The next Friday night after Dancing School, I put on my new uniform (bra, tight shirt, and mini skirt). I looked the part, but I still felt invisible. I have never been a good actor. 

It wasn’t until the following year that something switched. I showed up at Dancing School and this time I was noticed. I had something that wasn’t bought at the store or manufactured. That something was confidence. 

Apo

It was spring 1998. I was studying abroad in Vietnam with 12 other American college students. We were there to immerse ourselves in the culture, people, history, and land of this Southeast Asian country. We followed the rhythms of the day as day turned to night.

In the evenings, we ate Pho at street-side stalls. The heat and the aroma wafted from the bowls, as we sat on our plastic stools. We slurped up the goodness as sweat poured down our faces. We were ready to take our full bellies dancing.

“Where should we go?” Jasmine asked as she stood up from her stool.

Anne, who had grown up visiting family in Vietnam, said between bites, “my cousins like to go to a place called Apocalypse Now.”

I took out my Lonely Planet guidebook and read aloud, ‘Apo’ has been around since 1991 and remains one of the must-visit clubs in town. It's a sprawling place with a big dance floor and a courtyard, and its eclectic cast combines travelers, expats, Vietnamese movers and shakers, plus the odd working girl. Expect pounding techno.”

Melanie smiled, “Sounds like we at least have to go check it out,” then frowned, “I am not sure how I feel about the “odd working girl” but in this city, it doesn’t surprise me.”

We followed the directions from the book and made it to the entrance of the club. Spice Girls, Wannabe, was blasting from the speakers. The dance floor was packed with people, mostly Americans and Vietnamese. 

“I think we need some liquid courage,” I commented as we made our way to the bar. 

“Yes, please.” Anne agreed. “Em muon bon Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonics, lam on,” she said in Vietnamese. 

With our G and Ts in hand, we headed to the dance floor. The music was thumping and the dancefloor was beginning to fill up with people gyrating to the music. I stayed on the periphery to get a better view and have some space. It was a little quieter and I could hear myself think better. 

A tall, dark, and handsome man came over to me. Oh no, I thought. I don’t know how to flirt. What am I going to say to him?

Since the music was so loud, he got close, a little too close.  “Hi,” he said. His eyes were the color of caramel.

“Hi,” I replied, fiddling with my drink straw. “Do you come here often?” 

Did I really just say that? I have been watching way too many American sitcoms.

“No, this is my first time here. My name is Jean. What is your name?” 

I detected a faint French accent. “My name is Hannah. What are you doing here in Vietnam?” I asked. 

“I am visiting from Cameroon. I am on holiday with some friends.” He motioned with his head to another corner of the dance floor. 

I had so many questions! I have never met someone from Cameroon. What is it like there? Is French the official language of Cameroon? My thoughts were interrupted, when Jean said, “Do you want to dance?”

“Sure,” Jean and I made our way to the dance floor. 

The DJ was playing Ace of Base. I closed my eyes and listened to the lyrics.

“I saw the sign and I opened up my eyes, I saw the sign.” Suddenly, I heard some kerfuffle. I opened my eyes to see five or six Vietnamese women hitting Jean with their handbags and screaming at him. I stood there motionless. What is going on? I thought to myself. He hasn’t done anything wrong? 

Jean was a big man, but looked powerless from the mob of angry women throwing their loaded handbags at him. He held up his arms to block his face, yielding to the injustice. It was then that I saw what the Vietnamese women saw: A black man dancing with a white woman. But, I didn’t feel what they felt. Were they trying to protect me? Were the women justifying their actions as brave and noble? This is so fucked up, I thought. 

“Dung lai!” I screamed. “Stop!” I pulled Jean away from the dance floor and ran to my friends, who witnessed the melee. 

“We need to leave NOW!” His friends also saw what was happening and ran out of there. 

All seven of us (four Americans and three Cameroonians) reconvened outside. 

“What just happened?” Jean’s friend asked in confusion. 

“I don’t know. I was dancing with Hannah,” Jean replied, as he pointed to me. “And then these ladies started hitting me.”

“Those women were racist,” Jasmine said angrily, “you were the target of their prejudices.”

“I didn’t think there would be racism against blacks in Vietnam,” Melaine said innocently.

I shook my head, “racism is systemic.”

From that night on, I started noticing microaggressions everywhere. The American tourists disregard of Vietnamese “street people.” The North Vietnamese disdain for the Western views of the South Vietnamese. The Vietnamese prejudism against Cambodians. Although these were isolated occurrences, racism and injustices did happen and still happen in Vietnam today. The night at the dance club proved that. 

After that night I was able to walk away and go back to the freedoms I have as a white American. Jean did not. I wonder where he is now and how he remembers that night. I wonder if he feels free. 

Gravity

“Let gravity do the work,” instructed my dad. I was small and needed some speed to get through the deep snow. We were skiing in Sun Valley, Idaho and it had snowed overnight. I had never skied in this much snow before. 

Some of my fondest memories are of skiing in Sun Valley. My family visited this mountain town every spring break and some winter breaks to ski on its world-famous ski runs and light, fluffy snow. At age 4, I took my first turns down Dollar Mountain in Sun Valley. I wore jeans, oversized ski boots, and a gap-toothed smile. I loved feeling the wind rushing by my head and the gravity pulling my body down the mountain. My dad would put me between his legs, so I could learn how to move my hips to make my skis arc. Soon, he let me go, so I could try on my own. At first, the runs were flat with little risk, but as I got more confident, the terrain became more varied. Eventually, I was skiing with my friends through the trees on runs called, “Dilly Dally Alley” and “Grandma’s House.” 

‘Let’s do that again,” I screamed in delight to my friend Nell. We would load the chairlift and do another lap until our toes and nose were cold and then we would go into the lodge for hot cocoa and french fries. When the day was done and the lifts were closed, we would drag our bodies home and regale our families with all our fun adventures. 

These spring break weeks were what I longed for all year. I loved being in the mountains and as corny as it sounds, “being one with the mountains.” I loved the challenge, the euphoria, and the adrenaline. I went back to these feelings every year, and eventually, boundaries got pushed and the challenges got harder.

My dad wanted to take me down Fire Trail, a black diamond run, the hardest classification for ski runs. The run veered off from another run and disappeared into the trees. It was so long and steep that I couldn’t see the bottom. The snow was also up to my thighs. My heart was beating inside my chest and my legs felt like jello. My dad was an accomplished skier. I looked to him for how I should ski: confident, effortless, and strong. I skied all over the mountain with him on groomed runs, but this was my first black diamond, powder skiing run. He took off first to demonstrate how to angle your body and let your skis float on the snow. He stopped part way down, so he could watch me and give me advice. I lined up my skis to face down the hill and pushed off with my poles. I made a right-hand turn and went to turn again, but could not get my skis to come with me. I ended up falling forward with my head facing downhill. Cold snow crept down my jacket and into my pants. 

“Dad, I am stuck!” I screamed in fear. 

“Throw your legs over your head,” he responded. I did what he told me and voila! I was back in position. I stood up shakily. 

“Don’t overthink it this time. Just point your skis downhill, lean back, and let gravity do its work,” my dad hollered. 

Okay. I thought. Easier said than done. But, here it goes. 1, 2, 3…

I leaned back and pointed my skis downhill. To my delight, it worked! I met him at the bottom with a hug and sheer adulation. 

“Can we do that run again?” I said with a smile. 

Challenging Assumptions

I was raised to be modest and to take up as little space as possible. I was told to cross my legs and suck in my stomach. 

We went swimming down at the lake. I had just gotten a new bathing suit. It was a one piece polka dot bathing suit. I loved the way it hugged my belly and made me feel sleek in the water. 

“Girls, fudgiscles!” my friend’s mom yelled to us across the lake. My favorite, I thought. I swam fast across the lake and dried myself off. 

“Here you go, Hannah,” as she handed me the fudgsicle, already dripping down the stick from the heat. 

I closed my eyes and tasted its sweet, chocolatey goodness. I tried to lick it all up before it melted all over my hands. It was gone in seconds. 

“Mrs. Brewster, could I please have another?” I said politely, remembering my mother’s expectations and lessons on manners. 

She reached into the cooler and was pulling one out, when my mother swiped it from her grip. 

“Hannah, that is enough. That suit barely fits you as it is.” 

I was crestfallen. My new one piece, polka dot bathing suit was no longer like a second skin, but more like a sausage casing. With my mother’s words, I no longer felt beautiful in my body. People assume that body weight is a sign of health. Since that day on the beach, my body has become a commentary on my health and my social status. I don’t want to reiterate that in my own daughter’s life. I want her to love her body: the curves, the rolls, her birthmark. Our bodies may only be on loan, but they are our bodies in this lifetime and they are beautiful.

Backbone of the World

 My friend, Melanie and I planned to backpack for four days in July through the heart of Glacier National Park in the Northern part of Montana. Our plan was to follow the Continental Divide, along the Highline Trail, past Garden Wall, over Swiftcurrent Pass, and down to Waterton Lake in the Canadian part of the Waterton Glacier International Peace Park, the world’s first peace park. We envisioned ourselves crossing this imaginary boundary into Canada with only our packs on our backs. We even brought our passports. 

Backpacking in Glacier is sort of like gambling in Vegas. You need a little bit of strategy and a lot of luck. Unfortunately, for us, we had a lot more strategy and not a lot of luck. After waking up at the crack of dawn to be the first customers at the Apgar permit office, our bespeckled, pony-tail wearing ranger informed us that our intended itinerary was closed due to winter like conditions, “Unless you want to use crampons and ice axes, you’re S.O.L,” he quipped.

“What do you recommend is a good three to four day trip that has availability?” I asked. In Glacier, there is a lottery system: first come, first serve even for campsites where you have to work hard to get there. 

“There isn’t a lot open right now and you are a little late in the game,” he mused, “but, I might be able to reserve two nights; one at the foot of Glenn’s Lake and one at the head.”

We looked at the park’s map to see what he was referring to: Glenn’s Lake was in the northeastern most part of the park, paralleling the Canadian border and running along the Belly River. If the Highline Trail is the park’s heart, Glenn’s Lake is it’s right ear lobe.

“Looks great. Let’s do it,” we said in unison, not knowing where we were headed or what we were headed to. 

The drive out to the Belly River Trailhead took us out of the park and into the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. The Blackfeet were not the earliest inhabitants of the area, but they were the most dominant. They arrived around the beginning of the 18th century, taking refuge in the mountains, which they considered the "Backbone of the World." 

We returned into the park right next to the Canadian Border, and instead of taking a right into Canada, we took a left into the Belly River Trailhead parking lot. In the parking lot, we saw other people, groups of two and four, gathering their gear and making minor adjustments to their backpacks. 

“Where are you headed?” we asked. 

“We are headed to Elizabeth Lake...Crowley Lake...Mokawanis Lake…” they responded. 

In the process, we discovered that we were following the same itinerary as a couple from Florida, Chad and Jen. Chad was a wildlife biologist in the Florida Keys and a professional photographer, while Jen was a prescribed burn expert in the Everglades. 

The view from the Mokawanis River: a pretty typical view in Glacier. 

Our pony tailed ranger from the day before told us that the first day of hiking would be flat. However, an elevation change of 800 feet in the first three miles led me to believe that his definition of “flat” was different from the average American. After walking through aspen groves and wildflowers, such as Indian paintbrush, glacier lily, and fireweed, we entered the Belly River Valley. To our right was the river and to our left was Chief Mountain, a towering monolith that is sacred to the Blackfeet. Chief Mountain is one of the best examples of an event that occurred over 170 million years ago called the Lewis Overthrust. This region of rock was several miles thick and hundreds of miles long, and was thrust 50 miles east resulting in 1.5 billion years older Proterozoic rock being displaced over newer Cretaceous age rock. 

The scenery started to change as we left the valley and crossed the river along a rickety hanging bridge. The forest got denser and the possibility of running into a bear got likelier. 

My first encounter with a grizzly bear was in the Yukon Territory. I was backpacking with my high school outdoor program backpacking in Kluane National Park. The bear was 200 yards away and reared up on his hind legs. I’ve never seen something so big and so terrifying. We spread out, linked arms, and sang, “Give Peace a Chance.” The bear got the hint that we were human, that we meant no harm, and that we were terrible singers. He sauntered away in pursuit of more tastier treats. 

“Mel, bear.” I calmly said. She froze in her tracks, glancing to her right, making eye contact with the bear. This is the first thing rangers say not to do when seeing a bear. It was a small brown bear, possibly a juvenile grizzly or a light colored black bear. But, I didn’t care. I wanted out of there. Mel, on the other hand, was savoring the moment. Her camera snapping away, taking pictures of the bear staring at us and then running away. Ten minutes later, we saw another bear. 

We found out later when we got to camp at the foot of Glenn’s Lake, that no one else had seen a bear on the trail. “You’re so lucky that you got to see a bear,” they said. I suppose we were. It was nice knowing that there are still wild places in the world where people can see bears in their natural habitat. 

On the trail wasn’t the only place to see wild animals. At camp, there were resident deer that hung around to try to get a lick of people’s salty perspiration. Deer and mountain goats in Glacier are severely salt deprived and crave human pee and sweat. They are mostly harmless, unless they get a hold of your shirt and try to run away with it. 

The next day we hiked a short distance to the head of Glenn’s Lake and set up camp for the night. Since the hike was short, we decided to day hike up to Stoney Indian Pass, a 13 mile out and back that took us past alpine lakes, cirques, and waterfalls. 

As we began the descent back to camp, Melanie spotted something moving in front of us. “Hannah, look, what is that?” Melanie pointed to a shaggy, chocolate brown shape scampering across the snowy path. I walked up next to her just in time to catch its backside. 

Sight of the elusive wolverine as it was running away.

“Is it a bear? Or...oh my god, is it a wolverine?”

I have always wanted to see the elusive wolverine. My obsession with them started while skiing in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho. A field biologist stopped and asked if we had seen any wolverines recently. He was studying their migration habits and had heard reports of wolverines in the area. The range of a male wolverine can be 240 square miles, often covering hundreds of miles in a few months. In the Rocky Mountains of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming only 28-52 wolverines have been tracked over the last 20 years. This is mostly due to the fact that much of their range is uninhabitable to humans, less so with the advent of global warming and the receding of the glaciers. 

Melanie putting her hand next to the wolverine’s paw print to compare sizes. Relative to its size, the wolverine’s paws and claws are very large and act like snowshoes that help the wolverine travel at fast speeds across the snow.

Up until that point I felt pretty good about the wildlife that we had seen, but it wasn’t until we saw the wolverine that I felt we hit the wildlife jackpot. When we got to camp that night, we checked with Chad, our wildlife biologist friend to confirm whether what we saw was actually Gulo Gulo or the mysterious wolverine.  

“It’s hard to see exactly what it is, but from it’s size, markings, and habitat, I would say it was wolverine.” He concurred. 

Whether or not what we saw was a wolverine, the experience of witnessing a wild animal made me feel more alive. Connecting to the primal, reminded me that we are part of a larger system. Understanding this connection, dissipated my fear of the unknown, and built my sense of self. 

The Blackfeet believed in a supernatural world that was dominated by the sun. The sun created the earth and all its beings. In Glacier, the supernatural is abundant, whether it’s in the mountains, the rivers, the lakes, or the wildlife. We experienced Glacier’s supernatural beauty as we called it a day and watched the sun set behind the glaciated mountains. Sometimes the best laid plans often go awry and they may turn out to be better than expected. In our case, I’m happy that they did.

One Good Egg

Three years. That’s how long it took me to conceive. At first I wasn’t really trying because I didn’t think I was really ready. I was selfish and wanted to continue living my life without children. I thought it will happen when it happens. So, after a year of trying half heartedly and after making my first appointment with a fertility expert, a sensation came over me. I was irritable, tired, and bloated. I already had an appointment with my doctor, so I kept it. I went in and got the whole talk about how ovaries work, and how eggs are produced, blah blah blah. I said, “I think I might be pregnant.” They looked at me like I was crazy, but said, “let’s take a pregnancy test just to make sure.” I peed into a cup and waited. 10 minutes later the nurse came in and told me the news that I wanted to hear. I was ecstatic. I immediately felt life inside me. A little embryo burrowing itself into my uterine wall. I put all those thoughts of infertility and desperation behind me. I was pregnant!

That afternoon I was flying out to San Francisco to attend a silent meditation retreat for five days. The timing of it was surreptitious. I got to sit in silence with my baby, eat nutritious food, walk, and be surrounded by nature. I met my friend, Lindsey in San Francisco who was also doing the retreat. I had to tell someone besides my husband the news. I’ll never forget waiting in line at a popular brunch spot, my stomach was grumbling, and I was anxious to not only feed myself, but to feed my baby too. It felt so good to tell someone. 

The retreat is located in the redwood forests of Marin County, near Mt. Tam. Wild turkeys, deer, and rabbit call it home. It is peaceful and comforting, like a wool blanket on a cold day. Every morning I would wake up and make my way down the hill in the mist to get my earl grey tea. This was my favorite time of day as I sat and watched the world through my steamy cup of tea. The rest of the day we sat in meditation, listened to dharma talks, did our mindfulness chores, hiked in the forested hills, ate wholesome food, and existed in silence. The only being I talked to you was my baby. The silence outside allowed me to connect deeper with the life growing inside me. 

I ended my trip with an extended stay in San Francisco. My friend, Hye was traveling and offered me her place in North Beach. North Beach was the perfect launching pad for my San Francisco adventure. It is in the center of many historical and urban landmarks. Saint Peter and Pauls Church, Washington Square Park, Telegraph Hill, Chinatown, Russian Hill, Fisherman’s Wharf, and Coit Tower were all within walking distance. Every morning I would run down to Ferry Building and get a latte from Blue Bottle, then make my way back via an alternate route that took me past the City Lights Bookstore and other sights of the Beatnik generation. At night, I visited with friends in Russian Hill and went to a Peruvian pop up restaurant with my friends, Georgia and Peter and their friends, all endurance runners, one having just won the San Francisco marathon the day before. It was a fairytale trip. 

Eventually I made my way back home to Sun Valley. I was now 7 weeks along, feeling more pregnant and confident that my baby was growing inside me. After hiking with a friend, I noticed some blood in my underwear. My heart sank. In my experience, blood was not a good sign. I called my doctor immediately. She ordered a lab to test my Beta level. This was to see if the baby was healthy and doing well. My level was positive, but I had to take a follow up test to see whether the levels had doubled in two days. Two days later I took the test and my greatest fears came true: my levels didn’t rise like we wanted them to. I still wanted to hold on and believe my baby was going to make it. I continued to treat my body like it was pregnant, took more tests and had a couple ultrasounds. On the first ultrasound they found a faint heartbeat, on the last ultrasound the heartbeat was gone. My world shattered. My baby that I envisioned holding in my arms, watching their first step, teaching how to ride a bike, sending off to school, and loving with all my heart was taken from me. 

I had what was called a spontaneous miscarriage, which is the loss of the fetus before the 20th week of pregnancy. Even though I felt so alone in my pain, as many as 50% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Usually, it is a hormonal imbalance or a chromosomal abnormality. Regardless of statistics telling me that miscarriages were typical, my pain still felt isolating. Not only was it emotional painful, but physically painful. Since the fetus never emptied completely, I had to “expel” it through drugs. I wanted “it” out of me as soon as possible. I didn’t like the feeling of “it” being inside me. So, right before school started, I took some drugs that took a few hours to kick in. It was in the middle of the night when the pain tore through my stomach. It was like the worst period cramps rolled together with food poisoning and dipped in influenza. My insides felt like they were tied in knots, as I threw up and expelled copious amounts of blood. I thought I was dying and might need to go to the emergency room, but relieving the pain with heated water bottles and funny movies, I made it through the night. 

I had heard about women having miscarriages, but it was a distant reality. After having my first miscarriage, I was thrown into the world of fertility doctors, drugs, acupuncturists, chinese herbs, and emotional upheaval. I was now part of a tribe of women around the world who have unexplained loss. I blamed myself and felt that the universe was telling me that I wasn’t cut out  to be a mother. It was a downward spiral of inadequacy, self-loathing, guilt, and mourning for my lost baby and my lost identity. 

A journey to quench my thirst

Portland, Oregon is a walker’s city. Lovely neighborhoods, like Mississippi, Hawthorne, the Alphabet District, and Division/Clinton dot the city and make Portland feel like a collective of small towns, each representing a kaleidoscope of businesses and residences. 

I recently visited Portland in June. June is when roses are in full bloom releasing their sweet perfume, skies are robin egg blue, and temperatures are a comfortable 70 degrees. It is no coincidence that the annual Rose Festival takes place this month to commemorate the proliferation of these flowers. June is also the time of my annual visit to see family, eat local food, and do yoga.

Growing up in SW Portland, the eastside of Portland seemed as far away as Australia. But, after living in Portland as an adult, I lived in NE Portland and got to know it intimately. So, now when I visit Portland, I find myself gravitating east. The abundance of locally-sourced restaurants, eclectic boutiques, coffee shops, and yoga studios excite my senses. So, on this particular day, I have selected to do yoga at People’s Yoga on NE Killingsworth. With two locations in NE and SE Portland, this yoga studio offers yoga classes for the frugal yogi. Their approach to yoga is that it should be available to everyone. I like to take yoga classes at People’s Yoga as much as my wallet will allow.

Today, after an invigorating class of forward bends and hip openers, I feel a thirst coming on. New Seasons Market on NE 33rd Avenue isn’t too far away, so my noodle legs and I take a nine block walk to the market for some fresh juice. I decided to take a side road so that I can notice the everyday existence of the NE Portland neighborhood. As I walk, I notice that each house has a personality like that of its inhabitants. Sidewalks become extensions of the yard. Pea shoots grow from a garden box built into the curb, as well as broccoli, lettuce, chard, and cabbage as big as my head. A lady pedals by on her squeaky bike. Lanterns are strung across a back porch; red, green, and yellow. From all four sides of the street, mothers and grandmothers stroll by with their baby carriages. I wonder is this a sign, am I next? The thought fades as I hear a gleeful chirp. I look up to see birds flying high in the blue bird sky. My legs keep moving and I see pink roses, red roses, white roses. City of Roses. As I start to approach my destination, I see a parking attendant with a reflective vest and people pushing their grocery carts. As I cross 38th street, the Trimet bus driver wearing hologram glasses waves at me to cross. I think to myself how friendly Portland is.

As I enter New Seasons Market, my senses become alive with the scent of fresh fruit and baking bread. I take a lap around the store until I settle on my juice. I chose a Green Juice from Columbia Gorge Juices, an “honest to goodness” juice packed with fruits and nutrients to make my cells sing. 

On the way back to the yoga studio, a man with a black shirt and pot belly leaves the store right after me. We walk in unison across the busy intersection. As soon as he gets out into the fresh air, he lights up a cigarette, outweighing the effort of his healthy deed. I look down and see grass that grows wild and untamed by its urban surroundings. The breeze hits my face and feels warm and soft. The sound of skateboard wheels gets my attention and I look to see a man and a woman struggling to stay upright on their boards. Orange buckets leaning against fledging trees that are straining to touch the sky. There are more birds on telephone wires. I think that there is truth in the “put a bird on it” from the IFC Portlandia show that mocks Portland and its idiosyncrasies. I look to the left and see a house built with stones or river rock. It looks out of place amongst the wood shingled houses. A car is parked in the driveway with a sticker that reads 26.2 miles. Running a marathon is something to feel proud of. I see another car, a red Subaru with a Thule rack. It looks like the owners like to play outdoors. I think, “I would like to get to know them,” as the sun shines through the clouds creating a light mosaic. Another mosaic catches my eye, a post with pieces of glass shards. There is a poem attached to it by Billy Collins, called simply, “Nostalgia”. In the poem, he writes of longing for the past when life was simpler. Collins writes, 

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.

I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees

and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light

flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse

and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As I read Collins’ poem, I realize that his words and my walk have a secret understanding: when one distills time into its most basic parts, it becomes alive. My walk becomes more than just a journey to quench my thirst; it becomes a journey of the present moment and watching what happens when life slows down.