The Big Picture

Notes From a City Mouse

We left the exurbs of New Jersey in 2010. After rewarding careers and a life-time of parenting, we chose the Colorado Rockies. Homes far apart, grocery store twenty minutes away and five miles to our mailbox. But probably starting around 2018 we had many conversations with friends about an eventual move, closer to metropolitan health care providers, the drive over Berthoud Pass in winter being long and treacherous. It was a wonderful life of hiking in Rocky Mountain National Forest and kayaking on Grand Lake so we were in no hurry to leave, but the decision was made for us. Isn’t that the way much of life is? So much talk about what we want when it is often out of our hands.

Now we are in a small city—if you call one hundred thousand people and more coming every week small.  Because Bend has far more traffic circles than red lights, my eye doctor is only fifteen to twenty minutes away. Same for my primary physician and wrist surgeon. There’s the hearing aid technician fifteen minutes in the other direction and the dermatologist office close to JJill and REI, favorite shops. OMG all of these doctors. What is happening to my body?

I’m thinking that my soul is in better shape. Through one of Erika’s Sunday messages, one of my mantras for this new year is to live intentionally. I will intentionally not worry about all of these doctors hovering nearby, watching my skin and eyes and body aging. But this year I am planning to read more intentionally and that’s such a good city thing.

That’s because the lovely, old public library is also fifteen minutes away, and when I get my confidence and spring weather back, I can ride my bike to it. The Roundabout Book Store is about a mile from our house. Imagine, a book store that one can walk or ride to! The joy of being a city mouse.

For you serious readers my best books for 2023 were Postcard by Anne Berest (historical fiction) and All That She Carried (non-fiction) by Tiya Miles.  And I can already tell you, though I’m only half way through, that Martyr by Kaveh Akbar will be at the top of 2024. I was on the wait list at the library for this book and finally got it in my hands:  Within thirty pages I knew I had to own it so that I could make pencil notations throughout.

It’s a book of contemporary issues, family loss and wisdom. I am reading more slowly than usual, more intentionally, because it is so much more than a good read. It is a thoughtful book that warrants my time.*

Living intentionally:  My goal for the year in this city of coffee shops and book stores and rec centers. And yes, young, smart doctors. To live each day aware of what I need to do, what I want my life to be. What I hope to do for my family and others in this city circle. To live the days not totally on auto-pilot. 

I hope you find good books and good pastor messages in 2024 that lead you to intentionality. Kind and competent doctors who will heal your body and lots of experiences that will feed your soul. Happiness in your city or country life, no matter where you have landed.

Fondly, from Bend

*Yesterday on page 176 I learned the word sonder. Perhaps I am admitting my ignorance to not know the word that I’ve experienced/thought of many times in my life. Sonder:  “The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.” Now I have a name for it and a new word for Scrabble:)

(A note about this post:  After I wrote last week, I realized this shouldn’t be published. How can a trivia of my life be worthy of a reader when there is now another war in our world? So much tragedy. And then today I thought of Pete Davidson, his beautiful words and wisdom on SNL—we all need a laugh. So I hope this gives you a chuckle in these hard, hard times.)

Having had the burden and luxury of mega shopping to create a new life in Bend, I know the stuff that I like:  clothes, cars and kitchen equipment. Clothes were difficult to choose, a new car was a bit stressful, but the kitchen pots, pans, dishes, knives and tools were fun. And along with all of this newness, I now can say that I’m not the only Spaet who cooks.

Living close to the kids, we are every fortnight or so invited over for a meal. Erika is an amazing chef.  She uses the NYTimes for most of her recipes, and though I’m sure she does repeats, she always serves something new for the entree. With two little ones in the house, salad may come from a bag, but the main course is always a wonder to me.

The other Spaet cook is Bob. Since moving to Bend he has expanded his repertoire. In Colorado it was primarily, actually only, tuna noodle casserole, a delicious, cheesy comfort food. Now that he realizes he truly is retired and could cook more than twice a year, he has more recipes under his belt.  Seafood Medley, Stir Fry Shrimp and Ski Soup—no, we haven’t taken up skiing. 

Erika cooks with her iPhone in one hand, the sautéing spoon in the other while she carries on a conversation with Theo, patiently responding to his every utterance. And that in itself is amazing, but the weirdest part for me is her process.

We arrive at the house and there’s an appetizer board set up or a few bowls of nuts, olives, etc. No sign of cooking smells wafting from the kitchen. She’s done the prep and the counter is covered—and a small counter it is—with chopped vegetables, a bottle of olive oil and seasonings. She has a drink with us, talks about her day or the babies then begins cooking. I could never do it.

Bob, on the other hand, attacks his cooking as a scientist. Early in the afternoon, he chops onion and measures it. If half a cup is written in the book, that is the exact amount in the little cup. Green pepper is diced so perfectly that it looks as if each morsel has been measured. Chicken stock is measured in advance, and if it takes two different bowls, so be it. The Ski Soup calls for macaroni. That, too, is measured in advance and waits on the kitchen counter. Fortunately we have the space for all of these items.

I have equipped this kitchen more thoroughly that needed perhaps, but in the final day of our insurance claim window, Bob went to Karin’s kitchen store and bought four new measuring cups, large and small. When I looked on in amazement and uttered a big “Oh,” his answer was, “I can never have too many.”

So where does this land me and my cooking? I think somewhere in the middle, and no doubt I think I have the best approach. Bob is now taking a power nap—a neighbor told him a twenty-six minute nap is the perfect number—he sets his alarm. I think he has adopted some of Erika’s method because he’s throwing all of the ingredients together in the soup pot in the last hour just before guests arrive. Drives me crazy!

I’ve set the table, done the baking and when Bob begins stirring the pot for this meal, I will leave the scene. This is one chef I can’t bear to watch. All of the containers annoy me, but when the meal is served, I will chime in with praise for this beefy, veggie soup. I’ll bite my tongue and won’t mention the hilarity of all of these little measurements. But I had to tell you!

From our kitchen to yours, Bon Appetite, no matter who is cooking, no matter what the method. It’s all good and occasionally delicious to let go.

Learning, always learning to let it go.

Watching my weight, always watching. But it’s summer and ice cream time. I envy Theo who can eat ice cream every day—stracciatella gelato at our house—and there’s no pudginess on that little boy body.

So a couple of weeks ago, a sunny Bend afternoon, I turned left from the highway into the Whole Foods shopping area, looked to the side, yep I could get a McDonald’s cone. How many calories can there be in that simple vanilla swirl? I also saw a homeless woman at the center entrance island. It’s a common spot for those asking for assistance, usually with a sign, “Anything helps.” Sometimes I give but not always.

I did my shopping, and when I got back to my car, the delicious sweetness of that cone was still on my mind. Also on my mind was the woman. How could I pass by her with ice cream in hand, driving in my new, sporty-looking car no less. 

Little time to make my decision, but I had a solution that would salve my conscience of having so much while she seemed to have so little:  I made a turn into the lot and knew that I could offer her a sandwich or coffee. Whatever would help her, but of course, I was doing for myself as well. Altruism? Is there such a thing?

I approached her with a smile and told her my name. I said I was going into McDonald’s. 

—Anything I can get for you?

—Oh, I’ve been wanting an ice cream cone.

I’m not kidding. That’s exactly what she was craving. I was more than shocked at this coincidence. Was it a simple coincidence or something more? We shared a moment. We shared a desire for something sweet on this sunny day. She asked for nothing more.

I bought two cones and returned to her with a spring in my step. Not because I was changing her life or doing anything that would help her situation, but because of the connection. I had seen her and let her see me.

As I crossed the street to return to the parking lot, I passed in front of a car that stopped for me. The man in the driver’s seat gave me a little wave, a little salute. I don’t know what he thought, but in his gesture I knew that he had seen us two women and our moment together.

At church a few days later, the scripture was from Psalm 121. The contemporary translation begins with these words:  “My heart’s eyes behold your Divine Glory.” Our lay leader asked if there were any phrases that popped out. For me it was and is “my heart’s eyes.” I love that image, that idea that we can see if we use the love that is in our hearts. 

I will probably never see this woman again. I remember her hair, her smile and her need. I will never forget her and am so grateful and blessed that I saw and allowed my heart to guide me. My gesture became a special moment for me, but I don’t fool myself. An ice cream cone, a sandwich, a cup of coffee are not enough. The struggle to help the homeless and how to do so continues in cities all over our country. God help us.

Toddler orphaned by Highland Park mass shooting: ‘Are Mommy and Daddy coming home soon?’ (July 4, 2022)

As Mother’s Day approaches and having just celebrated my birthday, I am so grateful for Erika in my life. And I think of my own mother. I often want to call her and tell her my news:  I have a hearing aid that’s connected to my Phone, no battery to fumble with; there’s a new baby in our lives; we are going to Alaska! So often I want to pick up the phone and dial her.

Dial! What’s that? Occasionally Bob and I talk about the burst of technology that we have seen  in our lifetime. I remember when GPS first came to cars and Mom asked, “How does she know how to get us there?” She would laugh and gasp at all of these changes. Through texting and e-mail and Facebook, I have been in touch with people who have wished me a happy day, people whom I would think must have forgotten about me after all of these years away from New Jersey.

Wonderful inventions that have made life more fun and daily connections possible.

But hey, we know not all is better. And after another mass shooting, you know what I’m thinking I must do, even on this beautiful day where the glow of my strawberry birthday cake is still alive. Write to you.

I know in the past ten years I have written about the gun issue, and many of you know about the neighbor I found many, many years ago, lying on her bedroom floor, a fatal gunshot wound to her head. A life-changing day for me. I’ve lost track of her children. I often wish that those girls would find me.

Every killing on American streets, schools and malls, cuts me to the core. Yet I don’t express my anger. I’ve given up on American people and their love of guns. I know, however, my readers don’t love guns or care to own an automative weapon like the ones we see almost daily on the news. But on this day there are a few things I want to say to you:

—If you are a hunter or married to a hunter, do you need to be a member of the NRA? Can you cancel your membership in order to make a statement? 

—Likewise if you have any kind of gun in your house, can you let that organization know that you don’t fear that your weapon will be taken away from you, that their support of automatic guns and manufacturers is wrong? More than wrong, attitudes and beliefs that are enabling the horrific killing of children and their parents.

I can never forget the two-year-old in Highland Park, Illinois, who about a year ago lost his parents while they were at a parade. The same age as Theo. There are so many maimings and killings—we’ve lost track. I remember the day that the murders at Columbine School shocked all of us. Let’s admit it:  It’s no longer shocking. But it is still as hurtful. Some of us have simply quit watching the news, but we can’t look away from our children.

—And finally can you vote for legislators and a future President who will begin to rid our country of automatic weapons, leaving them for law-enforcement and soldiers? 

It’s time for the side of common decency to take a stand for our country. It’s not about politics but about the coffers of the NRA and their buddies who make weapons that were never intended for individual citizens, who certainly haven’t been commissioned to be a part of a “well-regulated militia.” It’s time to make a cosmic change, a revolution for mothers and fathers and for all of our children. It’s way past time.

Every day I see the beauty of the Cascades, Douglas firs  and open sky. I see and hear the ugliness of unkind and thoughtless words and images. Injustice. In so much of what I read and see there are glaring contrasts:  philosophies about education; wealth and poverty; extravagant homes and tent cities; glitz and gray. 

Today it’s the cover of The New Yorker. I’ve been subscribing for years and often guiltily put an issue in the recycling bin without even reading it. I can’t cancel, however,  because of the amazing writing and the cover art. This week it is a colorful illustration of Governor DeSantis with a carving knife and stacks of books beside and behind him. He’s carving out the pages of history that don’t suit him. He doesn’t want children, even adult college students, to know our history.  The book Caste by Isabel Wilkerson had been on my new book shelf for over a year. I had read excerpts, but in walking our neighborhood one day I found a gently used copy in a Little Free Library. Coincidence that I am finally reading it this week as the DeSantis smirk stares me in the face?  Certainly a contrast to the political agenda of this man who would be president.

There are volumes of what I need to know about our country’s history. In high school I didn’t care much, and in college one history course was simply a requirement. In adulthood I’ve tried a bit to make up for that loss. For example:  We know about castes in India. We know about the Holocaust. But did you know that the Nazis learned from our playbook regarding how they could subjugate a whole population of Jews and others they considered undesirables? They learned from our treatment of American Indians and African American slaves. The chapters of Wilkerson’s book are hard to read. I won’t forget the examples of horrific treatment of the lowest castes in India, Germany and America.

Can it be true that DeSantis and others aim for us to be ignorant of these crimes against humanity? Is he alone going to decide what can and cannot be taught in schools and universities? All so that we can believe that our hands are clean?

I don’t want to live in a country of such ignorance. As much as it will hurt for my grandchildren to learn about slavery, the Civil War, Selma, Wounded Knee, oh my God, the list goes on and on. They are innocent, but they will have to know in order to become thoughtful, empathetic and caring human beings.

We can’t read everything; we can’t know all of the hate in the world. We should experience joy and hold on to it wherever we can find it. We don’t need to carry around a burden of guilt that weighs us down, but we do need to understand and empathize with the forced immigration and subjugation that has occurred in the history of the world—the creation of the lowest castes. 

No matter what your political leanings are, you must consider the ramification of voting for anyone who wants to close the curtains on history; we cannot be blinded by a faction that wants to bury the past. God knows what our children’s futures will be if they live in a la-la land of ignorance.

—We’ve had a pre-Christmas white, days of snow and now temps above freezing. The streets and sidewalks are clearing, but our lawns are still white. When I say lawn, most of you would say a patch of grass. City living.

—The ice is treacherous. Merchants do little to nothing to clear the pavement. The parking lot at one of the most upscale markets has been treacherous. Those of us from the Midwest complain. No salt here!

—As I write, a new recipe is in the oven:  Little sponge cakes that will be filled with whipping cream and berries later tonight. Hope this turns out okay!

—Hope. Always a Christmas wish.

—Neighbors have given us goodies and a delicious dinner last night. So thankful that on our new block everyone works together to clear the common drive/alley way and the sidewalks.

—New friend Pam is in Utah receiving the love and care that she needs. Her daughter is the caregiver until Pam returns to her Bend home. Another hope for her and me!

—Erika is no doubt working on her sermon now. She will create a beautiful service this evening for her Storydwelling community. Such a busy family. Tom created an amazing Christmas card—so much talent. Theo is talking and talking, sometimes with words that only he understands. We are loving this joy in our lives. The latest game at Mimi and Opa’s house is Hide and Seek. Hard for a busy toddler to wait quietly to be found.

—We will Face Time with old friends in the next days and enjoy the post Christmas quiet. Soon January will arrive, and we will wonder where the old year went. The tree will go out to be mulched, and the sparkling ornaments will be stored away. We will think about exercising more, eating healthy and hopefully follow through. It will be time to think about babies coming in spring:  Baby boys in Bend and Heidelberg, and from Maryland, we will receive boy or girl news in just a few weeks. New joys and hopes for these families’ futures. And we know above all there will be love. And new questions for all of us:  How can we make the future good for all children and those who suffer in the world?

==============

—Fifteen minutes later little cakes are out of the oven! A success, I think. Tonight we will have our traditional Hake/Spaet Christmas Eve of opening gifts and eating supper and treats. How long Theo will stay awake no one knows, but he recently added the word party to his vocabulary. Tomorrow Bob will open one last gift as we have a quiet morning together—ice trackers for our boots—that no doubt should have been opened several days ago. We have them just in time for the melting ice:(

—Ending these notes with weather reports, as most senior citizen conversations begin and end. Friends in Florida can’t eat their dinners outdoors today—49 degrees at five p.m. is the forecast. And my sister in southern Illinois is experiencing frigid temperatures that haven’t been seen in three decades. Fortunately our TV hasn’t been tuned to the weather channel yet, but instead CNN politics and You Tube choo-choo trains for toddlers.

—No perfect place for weather though I’ve heard Hawaii is pretty perfect. But we will be staying in Bend with family and new friends and hope for the new year, 2023.

Happy, happy Christmas to all of you and hope for our world’s New Year!

Love,

Linda

This week at Storydwelling’s service, the congregant who gave the message—Erika out of town and out of country—asked at the end of her sermon for us move into small groups and ask the question, “Have you ever felt lost?” Of course, we have.

Coincidentally, I was feeling lost that morning and it helped to share. A young man in our little group spoke about feeling lost much of the time. Looking at his life circumstances from way outside the window, one wouldn’t expect that to be the case. A sweet family, financial success and a stable marriage. Yet the feeling of questioning our life choices and wondering about what should be next persists for most of us.

This week I finished reading Lessons by Ian McEwan. The character feels lost much of his life, yet he manages to enjoy his routines, his jobs, and his friends and family. The simple pleasures. Though we may have hoped to live big lives with big successes, he recognizes that these little joys are what make a meaningful life possible, especially during times of personal and global feelings of discouragement.

McEwan says it best on page 403 of this recently published novel. It’s not a fast or easy read, but it is a great read, beautifully and thoughtfully written. Perfect for winter with a cuppa and a fire. I recommend it if you’re looking for a novel that covers a large swath of modern history through the mind of one man who seeks to find his way in a complicated world.

Now a few lines from the book, McEwan saying it best:

“The windows were open to the warm night air. . . .It often happened like this, Roland thought, the world was wobbling badly on its axis, ruled in too many places by shameless ignorant men . . . Truth had no consensus. . . . Parts of the world were burning or drowning. Simultaneously, in the old-fashioned glow of close family, made more radiant by recent deprivation, he experienced happiness that could not be dispelled, even by rehearsing every looming disaster in the world. It made no sense.”

Wherever you are for Thanksgiving, with whomever you share your table, I’m wishing you a close time of joy—whether it be the Martha Stewart grand variety of a gathering or one of simplicity. Wishes for health and happiness. And always good books.

Linda 

When I was in college, taking an American Lit class, I read Mark Twain’s words about a man losing his house in a fire.  His writing has stuck with me all of these years. I don’t know why it stayed with me, but now I know this sort of loss and can relate to Twain’s words. *

Today at church when we broke into small groups to discuss what prayer is, I explained briefly to the man I was paired with that immediately after the fire I knew that we needed to be with family. We couldn’t handle our situation alone. He understood. But then he said about our home, the contents of it, that it was just “things.” My answer to him was that he could say that because he hasn’t had such a loss.

Two years after the East Lonesome Fire I know I should be over it, but I’m not.

I now can go to my closet and mix and match. There were many months where that was impossible. But there is still in my mind the things that I lost. I see folks moving in next door to us; they have so much stuff. They’ve been to Lowes to buy cabinets for the garage in order to store all of it. I admit that I’m glad that we didn’t have to do that. But today after my conversation with the gentleman, I thought of the glass pitcher that I bought at an antique store in Odin, Illinois, many years ago. What a find. It had delicate floral etching and a pale green handle. Such a delicate piece.

And too often I think of Mom’s glass tumblers that now would be considered vintage. She used them at every card club when her girlfriends came to our house. As a ten-year-old I carefully carried the glasses filled with Coke to each of the ladies. These losses hurt. They weren’t just my stuff. They were a connection to moments that had meaning.

I’m thinking of closing down my blog because it does become too sad, and I know that we each have our own hard times. I am not an exception. But I am driven to explain who I am especially now when we’ve had this life-altering experience. What good does it do me? I don’t know. And I don’t know that it helps any of you who have your own challenges.

Today when our pastor, our own sweet, wise Erika asked all of us to consider what prayer is, the word community again came in to play. Prayer connects us if we share our prayers, if we open up our hearts. I think of all of the churches I have attended and been a part of. The pastor would ask if we had any special prayers to share. And I have wondered what that is about. Does it mean if more are praying, the odds are better for the prayer being answered? That’s not my theology.

I do believe, however, that sharing creates a sense of belonging to each other, the exact opposite of what is happening in our political climate today. Prayer is a way of caring for the folks who sit next to us in the pew or on the grass as is the case at Storydwelling, the name of the “church” that is beginning to feel like my Sunday home.

So is my blog my public prayer? When I look at the stats and see that there are days that I have readers, I wonder who you are. I love that mystery. There is a connection that is happening, just as today I connected with a stranger at church when we shared a bit and talked about prayer.

I don’t know what journey you are on, but I would bet that there are times when it is hard. My hope is that you connect to the unknown, the spiritual, the neighbor or stranger in what we can call prayer. Thank you for connecting with me and my journey. 

*Mark Twain, Chapters From My Autobiography, Chapter 6, October 5, 1906. https://www.skmurphy.com/blog/2015/09/20/mark-twain-on-a-dumb-sense-of-vast-loss/

A Colorado friend messaged this bit of wisdom to me via Facebook. It becomes a kernel of thought for today.

The right things:  So many issues that need to be righted. Why are vaccines and common sense gun legislation so obvious to most of us, but not all?  We see the division in our country and wonder what is causing such opposing poles of thought.

When I was canvassing our neighborhood—mostly white, definitely affluent—to get signatures for the Oregon IP17 initiative, getting a few gun safety legislative items on the November ballot, I walked the sidewalks and saw a landscaping crew, two men working, mulching the ground. (I’ve never seen so much mulch as I have in this neighborhood—a whole different blog piece:)

I approached and one of the guys said, “Oh, what’s this? Some liberal agenda.” I had a clipboard in my hand so he was on to me. I answered with a big smile, “No, a common sense agenda.” I explained that the initiative was to get two items on the ballot:  More background checks and training before one could be licensed to own any gun and a limit of ten magazine rounds per gun.

He agreed and said he would sign. He also said that he loves guns and fishing. I think he meant that he loves hunting. Now I will never understand the satisfaction in killing a wild animal, but that’s where he and I can agree to be different folks. He’s not asking me to hunt, and I’m not asking him to stop.

Why is it the landscaping men and I can talk about a gun issue and others can’t get past their fear, anger and hatred.

First of all we have to be willing to listen to each other and try to understand that we are living in different worlds. People in every part of this country are worried about having enough food, back-to-school clothes, gas to get to work. And my neighborhood is spending hundreds on mulch. So there is anger about this divide.

You and I may not agree on every bit of gun legislation, but we don’t scream hateful words at each other. We may not agree on Roe v. Wade, but most of us keep quiet because we believe it can be a hurtful issue for lots of women. We know that this isn’t a black and white issue as many paint it. It is difficult to know what the right thing is, but I know that I should not be the judge of what a woman decides for herself.

For me, here is one of the truths of what is happening in our country:  White men and women who are very angry are getting lots of attention from the media. Twenty-four-seven “news.” Trump is still everywhere on my TV channels. And extreme folks on the left get air-time, too. A representative from Planned Parenthood referred to abortion as a form of birth control. That’s an ouch for me. But I’m not going to write her a hateful letter and threaten to kill her. Nor have I ever written an e-mail or carried a placard expressing hate to the extremists of the right.

We have to listen to each other and give less attention to what some are calling the crazies. We have to care enough to try to understand each other. Will this happen in my lifetime? It looks like it won’t. But for our children and grandchildren’s sakes, we had better start.

So many divisive issues, but the biggest issue of all, the destruction of our planet, needs our undivided attention right now. If we can’t listen to each other and take action, all of the political rhetoric and demonstrations and letters to the editor will not matter. 

And neither will this blog or any other thing on paper.

I would like to leave this with a bit of hope, but I don’t have it now on this day that promises to be 105 degrees in this high desert, record-breaking heat. Pray for action—what can you and I do? Vote for people who make climate change their priority. All must work together to save our Earth and the democratic way of life that we have enjoyed. For our kids to have the same. Always aiming to do the right thing, often the hard things.

Today after picking up Theo from daycare—he is still adjusting—with my heart strings already pulled tight, just to see his smile and eyes light up when he saw me, I observed a moment on the street that I need to document.

Third Street is a major thoroughfare in the city. It’s not the hip downtown:  There is every bank one can think of, a Ford dealership, Starbucks, Safeway, a new gun store, McDonald’s. All of this is a few blocks and a world away from the picturesque Bend that we and tourists enjoy. 

A block off of Third there is a bottle recycling shop. Coins handed out for plastic and glass. People with recyclables and financial security take their bags and donate them to the homeless folks who gather at the intersection. 

As Theo and I sat in traffic waiting for the light to change, I noticed a man at the edge of the Safeway lot. He was dressed in a drab coat, wearing shaggy hair and a beard. He had a shopping cart of plastic water bottles. They covered the bottom of the cart and made up several layers of clear plastic, all with blue labels. I saw him reaching into a large bush, one a few feet taller than he was. He would reach into the twigs and then bring his arm back, throw a bottle into the cart. He did this operation repeatedly. I couldn’t think or see what he was accomplishing.

Then I realized. He was twisting the caps off of each bottle, one at a time, emptying the remaining water onto the leaves of the plant. He did this over and over again, taking the time to water a thirsty plant that somehow is surviving our drought in the West.

I could have cried to see such care coming from a citizen of our town, one who may be without an indoor place to sleep, one who most of us want to avoid and look away from. 

In my old hometown in Illinois, rain comes in buckets I’ve heard, some days two inches within a twenty-four hour period, maybe more. In central Oregon the average annual precipitation is only eleven inches. Fortunately the snow-covered Cascade mountains provide our water. But a lot is needed, and eventually this summer, if not before, we will be in conservation mode.

Many homes here practice xeriscaping. Most don’t. I don’t know how many lush-green golf courses are in this town, but I can’t point fingers without examining how we manage water in our own home. Recently we downloaded an app from the water department that shows how much water we use each day. I was shocked to learn that we are using 46-75 gallons a day, for only two people. That seems like a lot, and we haven’t even started watering plants, using the irrigation system that came installed on our new property.

I want to always keep my eyes open to Theo, the toddler who has a hold of our hearts, and I want to be more open to the homeless I see on our streets. So today from this gentleman two lessons:  Certainly the lesson of water care/conservation. I’ve started keeping a tall pitcher by our kitchen sink. We can collect gray water to carry out to water plants this spring and summer. I can take a shower every other day and use less water on the odd days by simply washing up at the bathroom sink. Or maybe take quick showers instead of luxurious ones.

Second lesson:  There is a man in this city, perhaps homeless, but certainly poor, who is not thinking so differently than I am. In spite of our disparate circumstances, we have common concerns about our dry environment. And if I should see him again on Third Street, I hope that I will have the courage to walk up to him to say hello and thank you. 

In this time of global warming, all of our worries for our children’s futures on this planet, and uppermost in our minds and hearts, the genocide in Ukraine, I truly don’t know what to do. But I saw today that I can continue to think about water, every little drop that can be used to water a plant. 

Today from my computer screen to yours, cloudy with drizzle in Bend, but no measurable amounts in sight.