My constant companions and me

Lessons I've learned from my constant companions; my boys.  One thing I've learned is never expect what you set out for when going on an adventure.  You must be open to changes and patient with their constant loss of focus.

Today my two boys and I traveled up to the Ochoco Mountains to go snowshoeing and sledding.  I asked them to dedicate one hour to snowshoeing and then we would spend the rest of the time sledding.  Snowshoeing brings me great joy.  I love to walk through the woods or across an open meadow, gaze at the tracks laid by countless animals, catch snowflakes on my gloves and examine each shape, stand in awe of the majesty of the tall, tall trees.  But my children have a way of making all that beauty become overlooked.  I instead spend my time impatiently dealing with their constant complaining and fighting or explaining to them why they can't just go off trail and be out of my sight.  Today after several minutes of this I decided to talk to them calmly and rationally about what they were doing.

We stopped at the top of a hill in a meadow with sparse trees of pine, fir and juniper.  The snow was coming down and it made for an amazing sight.  I turned to them both and asked them, "if you were doing something that brought you joy and I stood by you the whole time complaining and then even found ways to fight with those around you how would that make you feel?"  They both answered, "Pretty bad."  I explained that was exactly what they were doing to me.  I asked them for twenty more minutes up the mountain and then we would turn around.  They agreed and for the rest of the time we talked about what was beautiful about being out here.  Nikolai shared his favorite thing to see in the snow was the trees heavy with the weight bowing down to the ground.  He also talked of how he loves to find forts underneath the trees.  I was instantly taken back to my childhood where treeforts were my playground.  I had a fort beside our house in the cedars, I can still smell it.  The ground was lined with needles and the trees sagged to the ground.  A small opening allowed my sister and I to go in and shelter ourselves from the weather, which was usually rain growing up as I did in the Willamette Valley.  We made up so many games under those trees and that was just one of several treeforts we had.  Our Dad had built us our own tree fort high in the fir trees of the backyard.  We would climb up and jump to the ground.  It is a wonder we didn't break anything.  When our dog attacked a rabbit den we saved the babies and brought our incubator to the tree fort to attempt to save them.  Eventually our parents found out and we brought the one remaining bunny inside.  We named him flops alot and he lived for a little while under our care.  We had another treefort in the front yard.  This one was high up several branches.  I would take all of my girlfriends up there and we would carve our names in the tree.  When I was an emotional pre-teen I often escaped to that tree to reconnect with myself and reality.  That tree gave me peace.

Trees are good for my soul.  I see such strength, beauty and peace in them.  As I snowshoed I thought about the trees I was walking past.  I studied their trunks, their branches.  I often examine trees to find the best climbers and encourage my boys to conquer them.  If I were an artist I would paint trees.  I have pressed their leaves into my heavy dictionary at times to save a memory.  I continued on down the trail admiring and enjoying.

On our way back Max explained his favorite thing about the journey was the zig-zags in the trail.  How fitting that he would appreciate the journey not being straight.  Much like our lives, the journey takes us on a constant climb, zigging and zagging through unknown territory.  If we look up, we find our strength and can continue on.  We must look down as well in order not to stumble but we find our strength in the high places.  It is important to look up each day, to be thankful and to meditate on those things that give us strength, encouragement and hope.

Solo Traveler

Solo traveler in the tree
How I wish to be like thee
Traveling places near and distant
Searching, flying without resistance
Each day brings a bright new home
Searching each corner as you roam
Solo traveler what do you seek
A sunset beach or sunrise peak
When you travel do you sing a song
As the miles go marching on
High above do you gaze below
Watching others travel to and fro
Do you value freedom above all
When the road speaks to you listen to its call
Do you celebrate the path ahead
Or look at the journey with a sense of dread
Do you ever tire of flying alone
Or simply celebrate what you've been shown
Solo traveler in the tree
How I wish to be like thee

Pain in the Lower Story Often Means Great Things in the Upper Story

Pain is not something I deal with in a public way.  I hide it in the deep recesses of my soul preferring to weep in solitude in my room quietly.  I have grieved in closets, grieved next to beds and in small corners but you won't often catch me crying or grieving in public.  However, I was recently touched by a couple's public pronouncement of their pain and it made me think that sharing my pain might be of service to others as well as help me put closure on the pain I've experienced.

Pain has been a pattern in my life as it is in everyone's.  I often have remarked that is the most painful thing I have ever been through only to be catapulted deeply into something more severe.  But when the pain ends and my life resumes its normal positive journey I have not been reflective enough on how I was brought through that pain and what resulted from the pain.

When I was young I dreamed of being married and having a family.  My sister and I have always remarked how we had the perfect childhood.  My parents fought, we had financial problems, we didn't get the cool clothes or new technology of the day but we were loved immensely by our Mom and Dad.  They showed it in everything they did.  They sacrificed for us and made family time a priority.  I imagined I would do the same; make the perfect childhood for however many children I had.  More than ten years ago when I was in my twenties and still married my husband and I decided it was time to have our family.

After 9 months of trying I was finally pregnant.  I was elated.  I began making big plans but those plans were not meant to be.  I miscarried after only 8 weeks.  I was devastated but hopeful because the doctors said it was normal and I could try again soon.  We tried for along time.  Each Mother's Day passed with me weeping in my bedroom and my husband trying to offer comfort that would not come.  I spent countless hours crying and questioning why I wasn't good enough to be blessed with a baby.  Going to church was brutal.  I was old enough to have a family and had been married long enough.  Church is centered around family and so the invites to social gatherings were few and I felt isolated.  Through it all I taught children's church longing for that connection.

That was my lower story.  Eventually I went through infertility treatments which were all unsuccessful. It was painful physically and emotionally.  All the while I talked with my husband about adoption because honestly it had been on my heart since I was a teenager.  God was preparing me.

Meanwhile in the upper story.  Maxim was born in Russia when I miscarried to a mom who could not take care of him.  He lived in an apartment with no furniture and random people going in and out.  His mom was an alcoholic.  She couldn't provide for him.  She had already given up another child, a sister but that was not where her or his story ended.  As I spent years in doctor's offices trying to figure out what was wrong with my body Max spent years trying to survive.  Eventually his mom gave birth to his brother, my little Nikolai.  Max took care of his brother when no one was there.  He loved that baby brother of his and he tried to take care of him even though he was still a baby himself.

When finally I had given up on birthing a baby and knew adoption was my road I began my research.  We had decided on Russia because of a simple photo on a website.  It was a little boy who had recently been adopted.

I prayerfully considered all options.  God led me to our adoption agency and Russia.  I knew I was prepared to raise boys and we decided to ask for two at once.  We also decided to ask for brothers.  It would take over two years processing paperwork, being interviewed, having our house checked and applying for documents.  Once again the lower story of pain and frustration.

In the upper story, Nikolai had been born and both boys were left at a hospital; abandoned.  Their age difference was enough that in Russia they were separated, something we would only know later was painful to Max.  Max had cared for his brother.  He was three when he was left and Nikolai was just a baby.  They were sent to different orphanages with little hope to be reunited.  This was their lower story.  Meanwhile in their upper story God had  made sure our application asked for brothers between the ages of 4 and infant.

In my lower story I prayed daily that God would not make me turn down any orphan as that would be too painful.  That prayer led to a long wait to match us with children and I was still weeping almost daily.  I was frustrated and exhausted but God was not.  He was waiting for his perfect timing.

I finally got the call that we had been matched with brothers aged three and 14 months.  I could hardly contain my excitement.  We anxiously awaited the video that would show us the boys and help us determine whether or not they would be our boys, my boys.  The video came and I watched it so many times, I can't even remember.  Max did not speak once in the video and I was a little nervous about that.  Nikolai was not yet walking and I could tell from the look in his eye that he was going to give me a run for my money.  He was just like me, I could tell from the twinkle.

The doctor's viewed the video and said they looked healthy so we began making preparations.  Max's fourth birthday was coming up and I was praying we would be able to scoop him up before it came but it seemed it was not meant to be.  Our travel arrangements and court date were set for after his birthday, I was a little sad but ready no matter what.  Then one day at work my adoption agency called me and said, "You need to travel next week.  The court date has to be changed because the judge is going on vacation and if you don't go next week it will be several more months."  The next week would put us there during Max's birthday.  I would have my oldest boy before he turned four.  The upper story was playing out just as it was supposed too.

Our journey to Russia is another story for another time.  It led me to my boys who God had set aside for me long before I realized it.  It led me to one really amazing upper story despite the pain in the lower one.  And all those tears I shed were not wasted because they were like offerings going up to God.  He blessed every last one of them and I am now blessed to be raising two wonderful boys.

Max's upper story was even better.  He was reunited with his brother before we made it to Russia. He was allowed for those few weeks to live in the same orphanage as he awaited our arrival.  He has been forever the caretaker of Nikolai,  a role he has never forgotten.  I cannot describe in words his face when he found he would be going home with us and Nikolai.  It was both scared, relieved and at peace all at the same time.

Nikolai's upper story was blessed as well.  He loved to be held and couldn't be held in an orphanage full of youngsters needing attention.  His first English word was up followed by "up Mama, please".   He was heavy but I did not care.  I toted him around everywhere.  My muscles grew as our bound grew.

My boys and I are deeply connected.  That is our upper story.  We are intertwined and that family I had wished for has been created.  I may not have the husband but I am certain my children will look back at their lives the same way my sister and I did and realize they have truly been blessed.

Poetry

I have written and read poetry since I was a small child adorning the back of my bedroom door which became my corner of solace in my teenage years.  I have continued to write and read poetry and was inspired today by a beautiful day to share some of it hear.  

A Mother's Journey

A mother’s life is intertwined with her children so closely it is often difficult to tell where one begins and one ends.  A mother’s love is poured out in each tear wiped, meal cooked, recital attended, artwork saved and tear she cries at injustices wrought against her children.  She is all at once powerful, creative and delicate like a bird making its nest.  She finds joy in hugs every morning and kisses every night.  She loves to teach about the stars and encourage her kids to reach for them. She is the force of change in the universe but often times silently so as she guides, directs, comforts and cares through a touch, a word, a prayer whispered while they sleep.

Fall's Favorite Gift

In the crisp white frost of the early morning it sits in all its orange glory, hanging gingerly from a tangled vine.  It once was a seed, white and teardrop until it was lovingly planted in the soil, watered and warmed by the sun.  It grew into a green vine with large sprawling leaves and then began the flowering, one big, bold orange blossom after another.  Eventually its leaves fell away giving birth to a globe of green which grew and grew and eventually turned as orange as the sun that warmed it.  Now it waits to be plucked from its vine and carved to make a warm, delicious pie or a jack-o-lantern to light the way home.

Nature's Tune

The Aspen quakes while its leaves tap out a song,

The Tamarack sways from side to side and holds strong,

The Maple swirls and shakes and dances,

The Rhododendron undulates and prances,

The Lilies shake and shudder,

The Willows swing like no other,

The Sunflowers circle round and round,

The Pines hold fast to the ground,

The Grass waves its quiet hello,

While the Poplars loudly bellow,

Each piece of nature follows the baton,

The wind is the conductor of this song.

Hummingbird

Hummingbirds don't rest much but when they do it is high in a tree nestled on a branch usually overlooking food.  Their wings flutter faster than we as humans can blink.  Their hum is distinctive and full of character.    They rarely travel in groups.  They are the original solo traveler searching for beauty and provision.

I was once likened to a hummingbird and the nickname stuck.  In many ways I am just like those colorful, bright, exuberant birds; I rest little, I seek beauty in life and I buzz quickly through life hoping to leave beauty along the way.  I found myself recently taking refuge, as a hummingbird would, in the branches of an apple tree overlooking an orchard with what truly is my favorite food and I realized my hummingbird nature.  I was perfectly content picking apple after apple by myself as my boys, apparently seized with boredom, went off to play football.

The smell of the trees enchanted me as I continued reaching ever higher for those perfect small heirloom apples.  I reflected on the ancestors who had planted these trees ensuring their survival in a harsh landscape of desert.  I buzzed about the orchard finding only the best apples.  Tree to tree I went examining then picking the choicest fruits.  I wished I was a hummingbird because all the choicest apples were high and out of reach.  Climbing didn't always work and pulling down branches required a second set of hands to pick while I pulled and as I already mentioned the boys were not into it that day in spite of our past experiences when they loved it.  I buzzed alone.

The place where I differ from hummingbirds is that I am naturally a social person.  I love to spend time with friends.  Hummingbirds are solo creatures.  They do not like the company of others.  I have not imagined my life lived alone during the entire six years I have been single.  I always refer back to the fact that God made us for relationship. Unlike the hummingbird, we need other people.

Hummingbirds focus on meeting their needs.  They memorize things such as where food is located along their migration route and when it is at its best.  They memorize their feeding stations.  Memory serves humans as well and I have memorized my feeding stations.  I fill up on Sundays with songs that I play over in my head during the week. I instinctively memorize feelings and impressions from the places I have been which in turn feeds my desire for adventure.  I memorize the hiking trails we trek and the patterns of months.  My inner hummingbird memorizes what feeds it best.

As a hummingbird I buzz through my life.  Research might list me as ADHD for my constant buzzing or depressed and filling an emptiness through constant movement.  But that would not be accurate.  I am simply living life not letting it live me.   And I am influencing the other two hummingbirds in my life to live it to its fullest as well.

These boys make my buzzing look like a turtle race.  The only time they are slow is in the mornings getting up.  They take after me in that.  After our slow wake up Max's first question is , "What are we going to do today?"  He rarely wants an answer that involves resting.  The quicker the pace the better.  Nikolai and I's favorite activity is hiking which is a given on the weekends.  We buzz together up and down those trails and up and down the trails of life.  We are one another's branches for rest and we are blessed for it.

Mountain Climbing and Life

It is true our lives experiences often teach valuable lessons.  Mountain climbing has many parallels to our struggle through life and it was on a recent climb that I realized some of those important lessons that can only be learned through pushing yourself further than you would think was possible.

My friend Rebekah invited me to climb South Sister with her and some friends.  I enthusiastically accepted and then began to question judgement.  How often do we do this in life?  Or is it just a certain type of personality that does it?  I am not sure but I often jump into things with full effort only to find myself coming up short.  It may be the dreamer in me that leads me to do such things.

In preparation for our ascent I decided to do some research.  I thought it would be great to know ahead of time what I might encounter.  The first articles I found basically told people not to do and instead take the lake loop trail.  "There is safety in the lake loop trail.  You will still see the mountain but not have to venture up dangerous terrain" was the basic gist of the advice given.  This seems to me like our everyday conversations with our maker, no matter what we believe.  We question which path should we follow.  I feel now that those doubtful words we hear hinder us from accomplishing what we truly want and were meant to do in life. We are all too easily convinced there is safety in the lake loop trail.  We are also convinced that we want that safety.  But look at history.  How much history was made by those who took the lake loop trail?  None that is memorable.  Jesus certainly didn't take the easy way.  He would have taken himself off the cross.  Surely that would have been easier.  Gandhi didn't take the lake loop trail.  If he had India would still be under British control instead of having an independent government that is gradually gaining on the world stage.  Gorbachev didn't take it either.  He knew communism wasn't working and he was prepared to see it dismantled even if it put him out of a job. Our founding fathers, with all of their faults, risked imprisonment just to guarantee basic liberties. What one thing did they all have in common?  They believed the ascent was important.  They believed to climb that mountain was essential to being human.  They were risk takers and bravery was their number one character trait.

I have been working on bravery this year.  I have felt called to be more brave and bold and so I have stepped out and let that inner lake loop voice be quieted.  I have been rewarded with enriching experiences which have changed my life.  My encouragement to all is to do the same.

My climb of South Sister was amazingly rewarding and I will write about it again but the most important thing was to learn the lesson of not listening to that voice that doubts or discourages.  Be encouraged, be bold, step forth and follow your path and see how rewarding it can be.

The Last Breath of Summer

   Its that time again when the chill hits the morning air,
   The sunflower seeds are drying and falling to the ground,
   I gather the last spoils of summer as I make my garden rounds,
   Their is a shorter amount of time to bask in the sunshine,
   And tomatoes sit red and yellow on the vine.

  The last breath of summer means one last time swimming at the lake.  We ventured out, played in the sand and went for a swim.  The water is much cooler than it has been as if preparing for fall.  The level of the lake has fallen dramatically as farmers pump the last bit of water to their crops.  Goodbye to the diving dock, it is no longer deep enough.  The sun is still warm but not as sizzling.  One last backstroke gazing at the cloudy, blue sky.
   Already we are delving into fall activities; soccer, football, hiking and of course school.  But we are holding on tightly to the last breath of summer taking it in on the weekends, breathing it deeply to fill us until it comes around again.
   One last trek in the sand, tubes and towels in hand.  Sandy feet will soon be replaced with sock-clad ones.
   Each meal outside could be the last as the sun sets sooner and the nights grow cooler.  We thankfully sit around the table and breathe in all the fresh air we can get never exhaling too soon, not wanting it to leave our lungs.
   This summer girl loves her seasons but one stands out above the rest.  I was born in summer, born to be in water, born to have that fluidity to life that summer brings.  Inhaling, holding for as long as I can that last breath of summer.
   
   

Da Vinci

  Da Vinci is someone I have long admired.  I use him as an example of the fact that humans have endless capabilities.  Sure Da Vinci was a genius but I think we hide the genius in all of us by compartmentalizing our lives.  Da Vinci was classically trained.  He was an artist, inventor, architect, stagecrafter, mathematician, doctor of anatomy and writer.   He could not be placed in one of our modern day boxes we have created that seem to only entrap our creativity and bind our souls.  I do believe many of us could be Da Vinci's.
   It was with eager anticipation that I walked with my boys to Science World in order to view the traveling Da Vinci exhibit.  Once inside we spent hours playing the hundreds, maybe thousands of science games.  We puzzled over hand puzzles.  We tested a lever to see if we could lift a rhino.  We created dams on rivers.  We predicted the outcome of games.  We measured our jump, limberness and quick response. In other words we played for at least four hours.
   Finally we came to the Da Vinci exhibit.  I tried to explain to my boys who he was and why this would be so fascinating.  The exhibit is based on his notebooks which were used to recreate his inventions utilizing only materials that would have been available to him during his lifetime.  One feature is huge poster-size enlargements of his notebooks throughout.  Several of the notebooks are also on display and no bigger than a 3 by 5 card.
   Da Vinci was an observer of the world around him.  When he wasn't inventing he was improving on the designs of others, scuba equipment was one invention where he made improvements.  Always inquisitive, his quest for knowledge led him to dissect 30 cadavers over his lifetime which was illegal and had to be done in secret.  He carefully drew each part of the human body and left for the generations ahead knowledge of unknown magnitude and depth.  His drawings included descriptions of the functions of each internal organ.
   Each invention that has been recreated for the exhibit is a masterpiece in an of itself.  There are things still used in today's world that Da Vinci invented such as the coiled irrigation pipe.  He invented many flying machines and confessed, "Man will fly, if not me someone else."  He studied birds and copied their wings.  He made several flying models incorporating large bird type wings.  He invented independent suspension which is used in automobiles.  A large portion of his inventions were devoted to the military.  This is how he made his money.  He was paid by the prince of the town where he lived and they most wanted military machines.
    Da Vinci invented a bridges, ladders to climb castle walls, a tower with bridge that rolled up to a castle wall spanning the moat and allowed for attack and guns that fired multiple rounds.  He lived in a time of war and therefore made his money contributing to war but all the while he explored his other interests.
   The end of the exhibit was dedicated to his art particularly the Last Supper and the Mona Lisa. The Last Supper was projected digitally on the wall as a commentator explained how many times it had been "restored" poorly so many times that only with recent technology were they able to find the original work. Another restoration is currently underway. Perhaps I will see it on my next trip to Italy. They had a replica Mona Lisa.  Once again with the Mona Lisa they showed how technology has allowed them to determine the actual colors he used as well as shown them the veil she was wearing.  Da Vinci died without finishing the Mona Lisa.  It would be interesting to know what he would have added.
   Artist, inventor, scientist, writer; Da Vinci was a true Renaissance man.  The key to his genius was that he questioned everything around him.  In modern times we "know" so much that we often forget to question.  What would we be led to discover if we only questioned everything?

The boys and I go to Canada

  As I lay sleeping in Vancouver BC, window propped open by a picture frame to combat the heat, I am awoken one more morning by the sound of birds and bells.  But these are not the birds of Rome sweetly chirping while the church bells toll nor are they the familiar sound of Goldfinches singing outside my own bedroom window.  Instead it is the squawking of Seagulls one after another drowning out both the bells and the flock of pigeons cooing right outside my window on the neighboring roof. I give into the Seagulls and raise myself from the bed to ready myself and the boys for the trip home.
  This trip has taught me plenty.  It was meant as an introduction to foreign travel for my boys; a test to see if they would be ready for Europe in two years.  We explored endlessly.  They were unafraid of the city although Nikolai said he would probably get lost alone in the city. They loved, as I do, listening to all the different languages being spoken as we passed people on the streets.  They were decent at navigating busy city streets and I only had to remind them a handful of times that we were not in Prineville anymore.  We walked almost everywhere and they complained very little.  Besides walking we rode a train, a trolley, a bus, bikes and a subway.  The subway and trolley were both first for the boys and they were excited.  Unfortunately on the subway they were smashed in the middle of the crowd and couldn't see out once it came above ground.  They liked its speed.
  More than a few times they called cars as we passed on the roadways; Maserati, Porsche, Lamborghini, Ferrari.  "Is everyone in the city rich?" they inquired.  They could count the number of trucks we saw on one hand.
   On our first day we visited the Capilano Suspension Bridge.  The boys woke up early eager to explore.  I made oatmeal in the room and quickly discovered I had not brought near enough food.  Boys eat a meal and five short minutes later they are starving again. We would have to find a grocery store today and stock up.
  We walked through Gastown exploring the inner workings of the steam clock.  Its gears exposed by glass clicked and turned and the vents at the bottom of the clock poured out heat like a radiator.
  On we walked to Canada Place taking pictures and looking at both the waterfront and the skyscrapers that are as foreign to us as the languages being spoken on the streets.  A homeless man offered to take our picture and I consented knowing he would be asking for a little money.  I gave him a couple of dollars in coins and he graciously thanked us.  On we went ready to board the shuttle to the park.  I attempted to buy some juice for the boys, one of our morning staples, and quickly found out it is a premium product in Canada costing anywhere from three to five dollars for a very small bottle.  We would have to do without for the day.
   The shuttle ride was an adventure.  It chugged up the hill to the park dying more than once along the way while the driver reassured us she would make it.  At last she died as we turned into the parking lot but we had made it.
   The park's website had advertised more than just a suspension bridge and I expected to spend the day but upon arrival we discovered it was very small.  We spent the first few minutes arranging our newly acquired yellow rain ponchos over our bodies and then explored the exhibit on native Canadians. We spoke with a native man about a wooden canoe and he explained it was just a replica.  Native canoes would have been built two from one tree by splitting it down the middle.  These canoes took the natives to Oregon, Washington, Alaska and even Hawaii.  Hawaii seemed impossible to me but he explained that the natives first knew the trade winds, could smell land and knew where fresh water springs existed in the ocean.  They navigated to far away places using those three keys.  He said pollution has destroyed the smell of the land and it is no longer possible to find their way.  There was a sadness in his eyes and I got the feeling he didn't often get to tell people this much of his people's story.  Most people quickly moved past the exhibit not stopping to talk at all.
   We moved on to the suspension bridge and I was anticipating fear from Max who is not a fan of heights.  We all three quickly moved onto the bridge and Max wasn't frightened.  The bridge wobbled and swayed to and fro as the river gently passed hundreds of feet below.  Once across we explored the pond where we spotted a few fish.  We moved on to the "raptors exhibit" which consisted of one Barn Owl and a Harris Hawk.  The tree house adventure was a series of platforms connected by suspension bridges.  It was small and only took a few minutes to cross.  Later we took the canyon walk which has plexiglass overlooks of the river and granite walls.  We were disappointed to not be able to leave the walkways to explore the Pacific Rainforest more.    There were not any trails for us to hike and we were not able to hike down to the river either.  We were finished with the park in just a couple of hours.
  We followed the advice of one of the park workers and walked up the hill a couple of miles to a small village for lunch.  There was a deli tucked off the main road between a barber shop and bookstore known only to locals and we ordered some soup and sandwiches.  It was expensive, as I later found every meal in Vancouver to be.  We ate outside since the skies had cleared and the sun was warm.  On our way back we stopped at a grocery store and picked up snacks and oatmeal.
   When we returned to the park we were lucky to catch the trolley shuttle back down to Vancouver.  The trolley blazed down the hill at breakneck speed as we held on, Nikolai looping his arms through mine to keep himself from falling out the large open window.  We laughed the whole way back bouncing and shifting around.
   Back at Canada Place there was a ship in port so we decided to take a look.  As we walked towards the ship I noticed a museum exhibit about the War of 1812.  I told the boys on the way back we would have to look at it.  They were less than thrilled but I convinced them.  When we were finished we returned to the hostel and dropped off bags.  Off we went again to explore the city.  When the boys spotted the subway I asked a foodcart vendor the cost.  It was inexpensive so I figured we would do it.  She directed us to the station around the corner and told us to get off at Science World where we would be able to walk along the water and explore Olympic village.
   Olympic village had huge statues of birds and spinning chairs down by the water.  The boys took turns making one another dizzy on the chairs.  I went once but not too fast.  There were dragon boats practicing, kayakers on the water, bikers and runners all around.  We threw rocks into the water and strolled slowly back to town.  Science World caught the eyes of my boys and they begged to go.  When we returned to the hotel we asked the front desk clerk.  She checked to see what was being displayed and it turned out to be the world tour of the Davinci exhibit.  I had to go!  They next day we would head there but first pizza and sleep.

Familiar Contentment

    I am abundantly familiar with contentment.  I might even be considered an expert.  However at this stage of my life I am instead questioning this familiarity and challenging myself to dream bigger.
    I am currently reading a book on buying a house in Italy thanks to some friends who already own there.  The book is designed for English speakers and mostly the British but it is interesting and loaded with necessary information.
   It is broke down by region and explains what types of properties are typically available in those regions.  So far I have narrowed it down to North of Naples somewhere.  That encompasses basically all of Italy.  The reasons for eliminating Naples are several.  First, if I do eventually and by eventually I mean years down the road want to live there permanently I would not find Naples appealing.  The area does not experience seasons as much as in other areas.  I have lived where there was a lack of seasons.  Montana has two; summer and winter, fall and spring are smashed into approximately two total months. I loved Montana for its beautiful mountains but found the winters long and painful and longed for the hot summers, colorful falls and abundant springs of Oregon.  A second and important reason not to head to Naples or further south is "fire insurance".  The book clearly states that if you are asked to buy "fire insurance" you should do it.  We can all read between the lines and figure out what that means.  Third, I am looking for a country home, somewhere serene and peaceful.  Naples doesn't strike me as serene and peaceful.  Perhaps after I visit in December I will change my mind.
   The areas that most appeal to me, those close to areas of interest.  I want to be in the country but able to jump a train or bus and head to the city or the sea and be there in a couple of hours.  In Italy this is an easy task.  Simply look at the geography.  The boot is thin, jutting out into the Mediterranean and surrounded by two seas.  I could potentially own a place in the mountains and be to either sea in two hours.
Living in the mountains usually means living near a national park where hiking and outdoor activities abound; perfect for myself and my active lifestyle.
   "Familiar" is a word repeated frequently in this book. The author uses the word to evoke a sense of security or comfort.  He often explains that a place will be familiar to an English speaker because there are many English speakers already living there or the Italians have catered to English speakers in that area.  But I don't want familiar.  If I wanted familiar I wouldn't be buying a house in Italy.  Each time I read this term about a place it is quickly eliminated from potential places to buy a residence. Tuscany, so beloved by English speakers that it is now considered saturated, is off the list.  It was too expensive anyway.  The Italian Riviera is also out as it was once a English colony.  If I desired English culture I would buy a place in England. No, I love Italian culture and would like to be exposed to it as often as possible.  If I live in an area that is familiar this will not happen.
   Strangely this word familiar has also struck me as linked with contentment.  On Sunday our preacher spoke of contentment.  I feel as if I am an expert in the area of contentment.  I have been content no matter what my circumstances most of my life.  Contentment is familiar to me and perhaps that is one of the reasons the two terms are bothering me so much.  I have been content raising my children basically alone for the last six years.  It is familiar to do so and yet it is not fulfilling.  It is a daunting task full of upheaval and nights spent wondering if I have done the right thing.  I wonder these things to myself because I do not have someone to bounce those ideas off of.  I have been content living in a rental in a subdivision, nothing I had ever envisioned for my life.  Contentment is synonymous with acceptance correct? In other words I have accepted the fact that I was forced off of my acreage and into town.  I have been content with sacrificing all of my dreams for my children. I have not been resentful in doing so because I love being a mother and I deeply love my children.  It is only through loving our children that we see the depth of God's love for us.  Each time they mess up and we forgive, we are reminded that God does the same.  Therefore, I believe it is safe to say I am familiar with contentment.  I know God wishes for us to be content but at the same time he wishes for us to dream.
   Dreaming is something that helps us to continue to be content.  It gives us an escape and a goal to keep in mind.  Don't we challenge our kids to "dare to dream"?  But when we become adults we give up our dreams so easily.  One of my long-held dreams was to visit Italy.  I have fulfilled that.  Another long-held dream is to live overseas perhaps while teaching.  That will be my future. Writing and being paid, it is only a matter of time.
   I have been busy dreaming since my return from Italy and I am dreaming big. When I think about buying a place in Italy my soul both leaps with excitement and finds solace in resting upon the knowledge that I will be home someday.  My soul knows it belongs somewhere besides a subdivision surrounded by small lawns and sparsely planted trees.  My soul does not wish to have the familiar because the familiar will lead to much discontent especially later in life when I am without children.  My soul longs for Italy.  My soul drives me to look up airfare daily and sign up for price alerts in order to book another trip.  My soul says I cannot go another year without revisiting Italy.  This time when I go I will have another goal in mind; looking at small farms and researching regions.  I will be pursuing my passion because neglecting it blocks creativity.
Contentment can lead to resentment and to the non-fulfillment of your destiny.  The familiar is easy but dreams are challenging.  They are meant to push our boundaries of comfort and move us forward to something greater.  Familiar contentment can be dangerous.

Camping solo

Camping is one of my summer passions.  I am always frustrated if at the end of the summer when we have only managed to camp a handful of times.  This summer was certainly shaping up to be a less than abundant camping summer.

It occurred to me one day that we hadn't camped once this year and I knew that had to change.  I talked it over with Max and Nikolai and decided we would go out to Prineville Reservoir.  My plan was to load the canoe with camping gear, paddle to a sandy spot along the lake and camp for a night or two.  So on a whim we did just that.

As we launched at the boat dock near the dam we were asked about our plans by a passing boat.  I explained we really had none and they thought that was unusual but great.
Max had decided to man the front oar while I was in the rear.  The canoe was heavy and Max likes to do everything in rapid fashion.  Life is not fast enough for him but his paddling was too fast for me.  We were zigzagging and getting nowhere fast.  I enlisted Nikolai's help asking the two of them to exchange places.  We were doing slightly better but I realized quickly that the main problem was both rowers were sitting backwards.  I had allowed this because they complained there was not enough leg space.  I could not take it anymore.  I asked Nikolai to figure out how to sit the correct way and finally we were off at a good canoeing pace.

Canoeing is an art and you have to practice with patience.  I have canoed with many people over the years.  Big strong men like to paddle fast with maximum force.  Women sometimes like to daintily place their paddle in the water and barely move any water.  When it is done correctly it is beautiful to watch and experience.  Rhythm is the key to canoeing.  My sister and I have perfect rhythm and we glide through the water with ease.  I have been molding my boys into expert canoers for eight years now.  When they are alone together in the canoe they are in sync. Nikolai who is built more muscular takes the rear piloting seat while Max with his quick strokes takes the front. When I take over the rowing it throws the rhythm off immediately.  Nikolai and I have an easier time regaining the proper strokes.

As we made our way down the lake, this lake that I have been visiting since I was a toddler, I was flooded with memories.  This is my lake.  I know this lake, each and every turn intimately.  I know all of the sandy beaches, the twists and turns, where the water is colder, the most open spots for skiing, the rimrocks and their changing shapes and the best swimming holes. I look up and see the tall hill that overlooks what once was our place on the lake.  

My sister was my constant companion on our visits to the lake.  My Dad had loved this lake since he was young and decided to build a small cabin with two of his friends along its shores.  It was our vacation spot.  We would bring the boat over at the beginning of summer and leave it there until summer's end.  It was the place I dug for bones under juniper trees, testing my hand at archaeology. It was the place where my sister skied and I kneeboarded.    We would study the anthills that were just up from the flood plain.  We caught frogs and raced them on the deck.  Some were as small as bottle caps others several inches long.  We endured countless sunburns in frying hot tents.  We walked at night exploring the quieter side of the lake when the bats came out diving for bugs.  Once a bat mistook our groups noise for the noise of bugs and dove at us tangling itself within my sister's hair before it quickly darted away.  We played in the sand when we were younger and laid in it as we turned to teens.  The lake saw every stage of our lives.

As we grew older our friends made their way to the lake with us.  At first there were only girls but eventually the boys came along.  With the boys came a whole new level of adventure.  Rachelle always wanted to keep up with them and I watched and prayed a lot.  One time two of our friends Todd and Jared decided to jump off some rocks, but not the ones everyone else jumps off of because those were too small.  My sister agreed to join them and I drove the boat to pick them up scared to death as the fell several stories to the water.
These thousands of memories swarmed while I paddled.  I first came back to Prineville to live in the lake house that my parents had purchased once we had grown out of the cabin.  I walked along those shores that September filled with hope and inspiration.  I never expected to stay so long.    

 We make camp at a small sandy shore.  Our tent is placed close to the lake and on a slant.  I explain to the boys that we will sleep with our legs downhill and be fine.  We build our own fire pit. Then it happens, Nikolai spots a school of fish.  My help is gone, they are busy putting together fishing poles and baiting the hook.  Within minutes as I am still setting up sleeping bags they each have caught a fish.  They caught at least ten that first day.  They are each others constant companions in the summer and I secretly hope they will always remain close as my sister and I have.  I pray they will nurture that relationship.

After camp was completely set up I wanted to go swimming.  I kept trying to coax the boys into the water but they couldn't stop fishing.  I swam alone far out into the lake.  It was the middle of the week and there was very little boat traffic.  I swam back and finally Nikolai joined me.  Eventually Max would follow as well.
We ate fish that night along with the dinner we had planned.  We played a game by the campfire and went to bed at dark.

The wind had begun to blow shortly before we went to bed but once we were in the tent it really kicked in.  I was thankful the boys had thought to stake down the tent.  It was loud as it barreled through the tent fly.  Nikolai fell asleep quickly and deeply.  Meanwhile Max and I tossed and turned and talked.  Eventually we slept.

The next day was a repeat of the day before with the exception of one glorious canoe ride with Max and I at the helm.  He finally understood rhythm and I felt blessed to be paddling with him.  We were swift and quick in the water cutting through the glass quietly.  It was a much needed beautiful moment with my twelve year old and I will hold close forever.

Finding my passion

Before I left for Italy each night I would lay in my bed cross my arms over my chest and cross my feet.  In this corpse position I would sleep the night through.  Once in Italy and since my return, I toss and turn, lay on my side, wake up multiple times and rarely just rest.  Was my life here dead before I left and I am finally returning to life?  I think constantly while I am trying to sleep now about my dreams and ambitions and how to achieve them.   Something has been awakened.  I recently read a quote from Joy Harjo who followed her dreams while her family shook their heads in disgust, "It you do not answer the noise and urgency of your gifts they will turn on you.  Or drag you down with their immense sadness at being abandoned."  Those abandoned dreams of mine have been dragging me down with their sadness.

I do not want to set that example for my children.  I want my children to be intense pursuers of their dreams. I want to be the type of Mom who doesn't squelch anything they put out there.  But in order for me to do this I must pursue my own dreams with the same earnestness I will expect from their teenage and adult selves.

A close friend recently told me that he could see I had found my passion while in Italy.  Up until that point I didn't know I had lost it.  I am passionate about so many things on a daily basis but upon further examination I think he is right. I had lost focus on my passion.  As Danielle Harris says in her blog, Oregon Pilgrim, we as a society are overwhelmed by having to make so many decisions that we forget to focus on our goals.  She goes on to say that a character in a story makes decisions in order to get what they want.  Therefore, if I am editing my life in order to achieve a goal I have to make decisions to get there.
That may have been where my passion has gotten lost, in the decision making.  In going to Italy alone I made a very definite decision.  I said to myself, if my goal is to go to Italy I can no longer wait for the perfect person to go with.  I knew I had to just go.
My goal while in Italy besides site seeing was to study farming practices and hopefully bring those back to the states where I had planned on setting up my own organic self-sufficient farm where I would teach others.  However, once I was in Italy my thoughts suddenly changed to what if I owned a farm here?  The suggestion first came up when my friend Bernadette said, "I think you are going to buy a farm in Italy."  I had the usual reaction of, "ya right."  But it feels as if Italy is pulling me back and now I have to make some important decisions.

The first decision I have to make is saying yes to Italy.  The more I think about it the more logical it really sounds.  At first we would only spend part of the summer there and of course I would have to hire a caretaker.  I am not at a point right now where I feel as if I can say no.  I asked my Mom the other day what she had believed I would be doing at this point in my life.  "I thought you would be living in China as a reporter, " she quickly responded.  "I always wondered why you wanted to go to China and not somewhere else, " she continued.  Obviously my dreams have evolved and been shaped by my life experiences and China did not happen but the key to what she said was she never expected me to be state-side.  She said she was surprised I hadn't fully followed my dreams.  Now as an adult raising two boys my dream is a farm in Italy. What is the next step?

I need to make a plan for how I will achieve that goal.  Obviously there are many obstacles.  I currently have some savings but not enough.  The first goal will be to build up that savings.  I have already been prepared for this by going to a Dave Ramsey class.  I know I can get there.

I have my boys to consider.  In a few years I would love to participate in a teacher exchange program.  Maybe I will be able to find a teacher in Italy to take my place for the year.  I could take my boys for that year and give them an experience that will mold and shape their lives.  This would give me plenty of time to look for a farm, if I haven't bought one by then.

My job is a gift that I love.  Considering leaving it any time in the near future seems crazy.  The life I have in Oregon is a blessed life and fulfilling at times but it often leaves me passionless and bedraggled.  The place I am currently renting has seemed to be pivotal in my lack of passion and feeling unsettled.  Should I move somewhere that would be more inspiring within my area?  It is always a possibility.  I know when I had my own chunk of land with a large piece of dirt to concentrate on in the summer I felt a lot less restless and significantly more passionate.  But the benefit of the place I rent is the price which will allow me to save faster for that dream farm in Italy.

I will say yes to Italy!  I will not continue to live my life without striving towards my dream and hopefully that will translate into inspiring my children to follow their dreams.  Bring on the obstacles I am ready to face them head on.  After all a life without dreams is not a life at all it's a routine.

A Farm in Italy

I spent several hours yesterday viewing farms for sale in Italy.  I asked myself with each click is now the right time?  Should I buy now and restore a farm and then have a longer-term goal of moving there?  We could spend part of our summers there and I could send Paul and Danielle over. Paul could do the restoration work while Danielle writes and homeschools.
At first when I began searching I thought the prices would be ridiculous and therefore bring be quickly back to reality.  I was wrong.  The prices are comparable to here.



Farm number one.  This one needs total restoration but it is less than $70,000 and comes with just over 1 acre.  It is close to the sea and located on a hilltop with wonderful views.



This one looks huge.  Also situated on top of a hill and close to the sea.  It needs total restoration.  It is close to two lakes and has just over 1 acre.



This one needs no work.  It is already an organic farm which is exactly what I would be looking to do.  It even has a swimming pool and is a total pipe dream because of its price.  It has several more acres than the previous two.  It however, is in a perfect location for attracting tourists and has a separate apartment.  It is close to Florence and Pisa and located in Tuscany.


When they don't even say the price you know it is too much.  Needs minor restoration but has loads of land, 50 acres or so.  It is in a great location.  Over ten acres of vineyards and includes a private lake.  Can someone say heaven?  If I learned anything while in Italy it was that you need a place to cool off, a lake would be ideal.

What I love about looking at Italian real estate is the differences between how they view things and how we would view things.  There are many barns for sale that, "could easily be converted into living space".  They realize the importance of the land surrounding and focus on that when taking pictures.  Many places I looked at are considered, "structurally sound" but I am not sure I would agree.  Sometimes if it is in really poor shape they call it a ruin but that is rare.  There are farmhouses with no roof, no doors, no windows, and no electricity that are being sold as, "a wonderful opportunity for restoration".  Strangely this hasn't deterred my looking or my desire.  I am saddened when I read, "can tear down to build dream home."  That sounds so cliche.
When there is major work required they supply ample pictures to give you a clear idea of what that means.  They don't seem to be overselling the property.  The property is what it is and the price matches the needs of the property.  Their sales tactics are not deceitful.  It is obvious when something needs serious work and when something else is in perfect condition.  They always indicate what the property is near, how close town is and how close places of interest are such as the sea, a lake, a river or a national park.
 
A final picture and a final dream for now.  It is $50,000 with just about 2 acres of land.  The land already has vineyards and is partially forested.  A river runs nearby and it needs a good amount of restoration.  However, there are three levels, a huge fireplace and a large original stone sink.  Paul and Danielle, what do you think?  Are you up for the task?
Should this be my next adventure?

Back to my roots My Kind of Town-Prineville

     I wrote the piece below just a couple of years ago in hopes of having it published.  As I inquire, what if, I feel I should also examine what is and has been.  I am trying to remind myself why I have lived and loved Prineville for so many years.

My Kind of Town-Prineville, Oregon

 “It’s hard to make a living here… but easy to make a life.”

Eleven years ago I loaded up what little possessions I owned and drove thirteen hours to what I thought would be my temporary home, Prineville, Oregon.  Located in the heart of Central Oregon near the well-known town of Bend, Prineville is a small, old-fashioned town with a unique charm and intimacy.  People in this part of the country have a set of values different than you would find in a big city.  We smile at each other, talk to strangers, wave at each other when we pass on the street and we spend much of our time outdoors.   We cherish the outdoors.  We are a community of ranchers, fishermen, hunters, snowmobilers, boaters, hikers and bikers.  There are towns close to us that boast larger populations and certainly higher income levels but none are as friendly.  Our population of cattle is larger than that of the people, and that is a good thing. We buy our beef from local ranchers or raise it ourselves.  Calving season is one of the best times to see our valley, coming upon a new baby being licked clean by a mama that has just pushed it into the harsh winter winds while the bald eagles swoop down to snack on the after birth.

  The scenery is filled with stark contrasts.  Dry sagebrush and juniper-covered mesas drop suddenly into spacious green ranch and farmland.  High Cascade mountain peaks with year-round snow serve as the western background while pine-forested smaller mountains grace the East.  High rimrock buttes jutting skyward greets visitors at all six gateways into town.  

Prineville is like one of the junipers that cover its hills, its roots are deep but only because it seeks the simple necessities of life.  It clings tightly to those roots and yet dwells in the modern age as well.   It grows and shrinks, as most small towns do, with the booms and busts of the business cycle.  We have an economy that has depended at times on cattle, lumber and tires.  Currently it is a mix of the three.  The sheep and cattle wars were big in these parts.  Now many people raise both, a compromise based on the usefulness of each.    

Nature at its finest exists in our sunrises and sunsets, as they blaze red, yellow, purple, pink and blue.  Our town is laid out along the convergence of Ochoco Creek and the Crooked River.  Both have been dammed and the reservoirs that have resulted provide endless water recreation and fishing.  The water system of canals pouring from these reservoirs feeds the farm and ranch lands and is one of the geniuses driven by man’s desire for a better life, taking a once dry desert landscape and turning it green. 

At Christmas time the town adorns the streetlights of Main and Third with lighted candy canes nestled inside cowboy boots and cowboy hats overflowing with presents.  The courthouse, grey stone with a domed white clock tower, is one of the oldest in the state, built in 1909.  Ivy covers the front reaching the third story as it meanders along the stone walls.  A fountain greets visitors and leads to a large staircase and twelve foot tall double oak doors.    We have a bike path which follows Ochoco Creek through town and is frequented by young and old.  Our library is located close to the river, inviting you to check out a book and stroll along the rippling water. 

On the Fourth of July, our fire department puts on a fireworks display from the top of the viewpoint which overlooks our quaint town.   We sit nestled under our blankets watching the colors blaze in the sky while the temperature drops 20 degrees.  Everyone waits in eager anticipation for the hill to be lit on fire.  Town members are disappointed if this part of the tradition is missing.  Our summers are hot, as you would expect from a desert, but not too hot.  We tend to only have a few days in the 90-100 degree range. Most of our summer is spent in the comfortable 80’s. If you are uncomfortable with the heat on any given day you can climb high enough to see that temperature drop into the 60’s or plunge into a local lake to cool off.  We see sunshine almost 300 days per year which improves the attitudes of most of us.  Our winters are cold, sometimes snowy and windy.  It’s hard to make a living here… but it’s easy to make a life.  On any given day we could hike a Cascade mountain, canoe a local lake, climb Smith Rock, snowshoe an unknown trail, or simply sit in the peace of a slow, quiet, sun-filled day and warm our souls. Mt. Bachelor is less than an hour away for skiers and snowboarders.  Bend, a 45 minute drive, offers the best shopping for the necessities of life and wonderful places to eat.  You can drive the Crooked River Canyon as it winds gracefully through the high jagged rimrock cliffs, and caresses grassy fields and imagine how it carved this area with its once fierce waters, now dammed, tamed.  Hawks and eagles patrol the river and I have once witnessed the quick grasp of a trout out of the rippling river by a majestic eagle that took off to savor its kill with the fish flopping in its talons. 

When nature has satisfied, town offers the Pine Theater, a restored single-screen theater from a forgotten age.  The county rodeo and fair are the two biggest events of the year and draw visitors from all over the state.  Everyone turns out for the parade and cattle drive through town.  The grandstands during the rodeo are filled with cowboy hats, brand new Wranglers and stiff, starched shirts.  On Sunday afternoon there is a stick horse race for all the kids.  They are rewarded with ice cream cones for their effort and the winner receives a buckle.  Our fair might be small on rides but it is big on animals.  Future Farmers of America and 4-H are well represented in our community as youngsters learn how to make a living through the proper care and feeding of their animals. 

We now have five stoplights which sometimes feels like too many.   Our biggest traffic jams are during hunting season when it seems as if the whole state passes through to the surrounding mountains on a quest for meat to fill the freezer and possibly a trophy set of antlers.  A large percentage of students in our schools take the time off to hunt as well.  Providing our own food is goal many of us share.  We can grow a nice garden here but always have to be prepared to cover it, even in July, if the frost hits.  We still know how to cook for ourselves from what we grow, gather, fish and hunt.  The Native Americans loved this valley for all it provided.  I imagine the settlers were encouraged by our fertile river bottom soil, the abundance of animals and the long sunny summer days. 

I have been a visitor of Prineville my whole life.  I moved to Prineville from Montana thinking I would someday go back there, but Prineville has held me with its welcoming comfort that always makes me take a deep breath and sigh with a knowing I have found home.

 

Coming Home?

I have lived in Prineville for more than ten years now and have always thought of it as home or at least for the past seven years.  If I was coming home from a journey either short or long; Costa Rica, San Francisco, Portland or just camping as I would drive either down the grade or down the long descent from highway 26 and a feeling of peace would wash over me; I knew I was home.  It never failed.  I have felt that at times just coming home from a trip to Bend.

I had never dreamed of living in Prineville although many others among my family and friends had.  I just ended up here after a hard life in Montana.  I hadn't planned to stay too long either.  Bend was a viable option or other places but Prineville grew on me and I stayed.  So much for those dreams of writing and traveling around the world.  Mine would be the life of jobs that weren't meaningful to me and a marriage that was not fulfilling.  But I told myself things would be great because I am an optimist.  

I have made the best of living in Prineville.  When I was without children my ex-husband and I traveled enough to keep me satisfied but not fulfilled.  I liked the work I was doing well-enough, although it wasn't my calling.  

When my kids came along I thought Prineville was the perfect place to raise them and it has been amazing.  We are blessed to spend our winters snowshoeing, our springs and autumns hiking and our summers swimming, canoeing, paddle boarding and doing anything else that gets us in the water.  And yet still something had been missing for me.  I have stayed in Prineville for the sake of my kids even though many had suggested I leave long ago.  

I have so many things to be thankful for here in Prineville.  I teach with the most amazing group of teachers I have ever met.  Each person cares immensely for each student and I am not just saying that.  Every teacher I work with sacrifices their time and money for our students.  I love my work.  It is fulfilling but still there is something missing in my life.  I have been dreaming of my own farm for many years but it has always hung just out of reach almost torturing me.  I have submitted multiple pieces of writing in hopes that something would get published and each rejection letter stings as much as the first.  I have wanted to live a life greater than the life I was living.  I have longed to travel to many amazing places, leaving for months at a time.  These were my dreams of my youth and they are powerful in my mind.  So I did something bold searching for the link I felt I was missing.

I could not have known that by going to Italy I would find the missing piece.  Something significant has changed in me.  When I last drove into Prineville it no longer felt like home.  It was a weird feeling that I let my heart embrace.  It circulated around me knocking me off balance.  What could this mean?
  Italy felt like home every minute I was there.  I miss socializing in the town squares, staying up late, rising with the sun and watching life being lived in perfect harmony with nature and humans.  Each day I awake thinking, how will I get myself back to Italy?  Of course I am aware of the reality of my situation and Italy is a long-term goal. It has to be except the visiting portion.
  And since I am home now I have decided to try and focus on what I love about Prineville and plan my next trip to Italy; solo or with kids. 

And lastly I have decided to focus on the question, what if I saved my money and bought a farm in Italy? What if?

Lasting Impressions

While in Rome one night, waiting for Allesandro, I grabbed a napkin and began writing my thoughts on Italy. I continued writing until he arrived and wrote more in my journal later.  I have continued to note things that I liked and disliked.
Things I loved and miss:
1.  Waiting on fast Italian men
2.  Eating chocolate for dinner
3.  The view of both Rome and Sora at night from anywhere high
4.  The people and their passion
5.  Being sung to
6.  The fountains-I have water on my soul so I was completely taken in by them
7.  Buying all new clothes in Italy-that should be a no-brainer
8.  Being complimented by men constantly
9.  The peace I felt on the farm and in the countryside
10.  All of the brave, bold, courageous people I met who were not afraid to step out of their comfort zone to become my friend even if it was short-lived for some.
11.  Homemade wine
12.  The price of wine
13.  How good the wine was

Things I didn't like at first but see the value of now:
1.  Siesta
2.  Time being meaningless
3.  Ice in red wine-Rome was hot it made sense

Things I didn't like:
I cannot think of one


Italy is sensuous.  It awakens every part of you.  It takes you and bathes you in it.

To me Italy tastes like a hot apricot after a long mountain climb.  It feels like a shower of sweat pouring off of your body and leaving you glowing and happy and hoping for someone to trace the lines of your body through the sweat.  Italy sounds like loud cicadas, birds chirping exuberantly, church bells ringing and butterflies fluttering.  Italy smells like the sea air slowly coming off the water and lemon mint in the mountains where old villas stand.  It looks like all the pictures you have seen and none of them at the same time.  It is mountain homes, busy city streets, meandering rivers running through valley towns big and small and villages perched atop outcroppings of rock.

It is a place that makes you feel at home, at peace and in a place your heart should have been for a long, long time.


 I was told a couple of days ago that vacation spots always make you feel better because you are not worrying about the day to day of your regular life.  While I can agree with that I also disagree in so many ways.
I have been blessed to travel to many places in my lifetime.  I have never felt absolutely at home in another country.  I always have had the experience of an outsider looking in.  I have tried previously to have authentic experiences in other countries so I don't think that is the factor which is different.  In Italy I felt at home.  I felt at peace.  I felt my soul rest and feel wholesome.  It is not something I have experienced elsewhere and it is not even that feeling I get when I drive down the grade into Prineville knowing that I am home.  It was an all-encompassing home.  It was a feeling of fullness, of all my longing being fulfilled in a brief moment of time.  Why?
Italians live my lifestyle; they grow their own food, appreciate being outdoors, experience the beauty of creation, love people and like to savor things.  As I took my time eating my salad and salmon today I was reminded, most Americans do not appreciate the moments of their lives and their food as much as I do.  I feel as if I live an alternative lifestyle in the United States.  I am a person who wants to have a self-sustaining farm where everything would be grown organically and in concert with nature.  I would not compete against the forces that have lived longer than any human soul.  I would simply enter into that concert and play my instrument. I do things differently.  I love to sit and sip my tea in the morning slowly savoring each drop.  When I am eating something I enjoy I sometimes make noises in appreciation for what has been prepared.  I do not love material things and therefore have very few.  I am a hopeless romantic when I am honest with myself and I fall in love pretty easily because I am accepting of who people are.  And that can make it exceptionally easy to break my heart but at least I have taken the risk.  Others are not so willing and lead a life of solitude, heartbroken and sad.  I refuse!
Italy somehow made me more aware of what I truly want in life and for that I am forever grateful.  So much so that I am trying to go again soon and learn Italian!!! More on that later.

Who says flying should be boring?

 My cab arrives early in Rome and I am off to the airport.  I feel wonderful but exhausted.  It is 3 am, bad travel planning on my part.  When we arrive at the airport people are lined up outside.  This seems strange to me but many things about Italy have been strange.  It turns out the airport is closed, an international airport!  We are all expecting to check into our flight to Amsterdam but instead are left outside without chairs, standing.  When at last we are let in we are directed to use the electronic check-in.  After this we are able to stand in line to check our bags.
I arrive at the bag counter and ask politely if she will check my bags only to Portland as I am not continuing on to Seattle.  She tells me there is no way that this could possibly be done.  I ask what my options are.  She directs me to stand in front of an unopened office and wait until after 5 am for them to open.  I can then pay a fee to change my ticket.  If I wait until after 5, I will miss my flight.  I walk away in try to put my thoughts together.  I have not slept.  I am so tired.
At last an idea comes to me.  The new bag that I bought in Rome is too big to be a carry-on but my old one that finally arrived is not.  I head to the restroom, find a big stall and lock the door.  I unpack everything and repack my backpack and original suitcase.  I have bought souvenirs and new clothes so this will not be an easy task.  I am going to have to leave a few things behind.  I ponder what will make the most sense to leave.  I finally settle on my book and of course the big suitcase.  I also unload all paperwork, bags and wrappings on everything.  I roll every piece of clothing and put on my tennis shoes instead of my flip-flops.
I am ready to go.  I make sure there is no one in the bathroom with me and ditch my beautiful suitcase in the garbage.  (I did want to cry.)  That suitcase had served me well and I figure that it was part of the adventure.
I board the plane and we do not even leave the tarmac before I am out.  I wake up in Amsterdam.  My next connection is tight but I need to pick up a few more souvenirs.  I head through the airport at a fast pace, check in at an electronic ticket station, stop and buy my sister and my Mom some cute little wooden shoes and head to the terminal.  I am there just in time to board.
I head to my seat and as fortune would have it a nice young gentlemen is sitting next to me.  We will be on the plane for more than ten hours together so I decide to strike up a conversation.  His name is Robert and he is a police officer from Hungary.  He plays drums in the orchestra with his girlfriend as a hobby and travels Europe playing.  This is his first day on an airplane.  He is flying to Portland because his friend from Australia is marrying an American girl.
We talk for hours and then sleep awhile.  He is happy that I am helping him practice his English and I am enjoying telling him about my life and travels.  I talk to him about a future trip I am planning with my boys and he suggests we see Eastern Europe.  I already planned on seeing Prague and wanted to go elsewhere in Eastern Europe as well and then head to Italy.  He makes an itinerary for us which he says is easily traveled by train.  It includes a stop in Budapest where he will meet us and show us the countryside.  It sounds perfect.
I ask if he needs a ride to his hotel in Portland but he declines.  I try to insist but when we are separated at customs I am not able to find him again.  We parted with a hug and a promise to keep in touch.  On the plane I quickly realized I should have just checked the bag because of course you go through customs at your first stop.  Unfortunately in Rome I was too tired to realize this fact.
Back home I was welcomed by my parents and taken to lunch.  My thoughts returning constantly to Italy.  Even today I long to be back in the Italian countryside.  It felt like home to me.

A day at the sea-Gaeta

Early Thursday morning the five of us girls planning on going to the sea gather at the table.  We have a little breakfast and discuss the plan.  Will we walk to town to catch the bus or will someone drive us?  We are still unsure as with everything else we will have to wait for an answer.  I am the sole American.  We are two Icelandic girls Melina and Malan, one Irish, Kierra and  one Ukranian, Dasha.  Each of us is looking forward to the refreshing sea.  We are missing market day in Sora and I am a little saddened by this but the sadness doesn't last long.
Linda comes downstairs preparing to go to market and agrees to take us to Frederico's where will take the bus to the rental agency.  I am, of course, already familiar with this whole process.  Melina is worried about having to drive the car off the lot.  She is the only one with the correct documentation but she never drives and doesn't want to practice in Italy.  Malan agrees to drive and I agree to navigate.  We are sure the agency will not even notice if Malan drives.
We reach the agency and Melina fills out the proper paperwork and then we inspect the car.  It is a four-door blue Fiat with a sizable trunk for such a small car.  I stash my luggage and we are off.  Malan and I make a good team.  She is a wonderful driver and the girls are all shocked how well I navigate.  Signs in Italy are infrequent at best.  You often have to make a decision going around a turnabout without a single posting. Each time we continue down the road and the others are shocked when we reach a sign and I have made the correct decision.  They ask where this ability comes from and I attribute it to my Dad, inherited and maybe a gift.
We reach Gaeta and the map that is to take us to a smaller less populated beach is unclear.  There are no signs and this time my natural navigator instincts are not working.  We stop at a fruit stand and I load a huge bag for the day.  I jump back in the car hoping now I will be able to figure it out.  We decide not to waist anymore time and just enjoy the busier beach here in Gaeta. We park by an information center,perfect because I have to figure out how to get the train or bus back to Rome today.  The lady is extremely helpful and loves practicing her English while I practice my Italian.  She explains I can take the train from Formia, a town we passed through on our way.  She gives me a schedule and shows me which routes are direct and which have multiple stops.
Next we look for food and as fortune would have it there is a deli on the corner.  Dasha and I enter and are overwhelmed by all the choices.  We are meat-eaters but Melina is not.  She looks for food elsewhere without any luck.  Dasha and I order salami, prosciutto, cheese and olives.  We grab some water and head out.  Once we reach the beach I am a little shocked at how Italians go to the beach.  There are thousands of umbrellas with chairs lining the beach.  There are tiny white picket fences separating each area and the umbrellas and chairs are different colors in each of those areas.  You simply see the guy in charge and pay for your chair and umbrella or just a chair as we did.  It is inexpensive and he sets it up for you.  Dasha, Kierra and I pay and make our way down the beach.  The other two girls want to look around first.  They end up laying their towels on the beach below but join us later.
Dasha and I are immediately ready for the sea and run as fast as we can, the sand burning the bottoms of our feet.  The water is shallow for at least 100 yards.  We finally reach an area where we can swim and both do so with enthusiasm.  We have suffered the heat of Sora and need the refresher.  The salt water scrubbed my skin washing away the dirt of the farm and Sora.  It will now just be a memory.  After some time we return to our chairs and sunbathe.  It feels amazing.
The girls from Iceland head to town to attempt once again to find vegetarian fare.  They return downtrodden, siesta again.
Instead we all gather up on our three chairs and share the bounty of fruit I purchased earlier, the cheese, crackers, meat and olives.  The olives are seasoned with cayenne pepper and are delicious but require an immediate drink.  The girls are thankful I have thought ahead and purchased enough to give us each about three pieces of fruit.  I guess I fall into that mother role pretty easily these days. Everything tastes divine and the combination of crackers, meat and cheese is no less that perfect.  We eat until we are filled and then return to the sea.
Dasha and I swim the most, the others choosing to sunbathe.  Each time Dasha and I pass the gentleman at the entrance to our area he showers us with a compliment; always differing them and always very flattering.  His eyes are fixed on us each time we pass and he even stops his conversation midstream in order to observe and comment.  It is so flattering.  As we walk down the beach others take notice as well.  I feel more like a woman each day I am in Italy.
After awhile Kierra, Dasha and I decide to go for a treat.  Town is out, it is still siesta but there is a little shop set up on the beach so we head over.  Dasha is looking for something rich and decadent, she settles on an ice cream sandwich with chocolate and cookie wrapped around it.  Kierra chooses another kind of ice cream bar, less decadent, reserved like her.  I go for the lime granita.  Ordering is tricky.  It takes awhile before they understand what I want but finally I get the refreshing drink.  We enjoy our treats under the awning and gaze at the sea.
The sea is Caribbean blue.  The sand white and soft.  Cliffs surround the ocean on both sides, one has caves below.  A church sits atop the cliff and the bells ring every hour.  On the other side of town are farms in the hills overlooking the sea.  I would love to linger and explore more of this area.
We stay at the beach as long as our parking meter will allow.  On the way back to Sora the girls drop me at the train station in Formia.  I say goodbye to my new friends hugging all of them.  Dasha and I have the hardest time saying goodbye.  I know I will miss her.
Luggage in hand I head to the ticket counter as they drive off.  I approach asking for the train without stops only to find the lady in front of me grabbed the last seat.  My next option is not a non-stop or I can wait another hour for the next non-stop.  I choose the one that will stop questioning my decision immediately.  It is supposed to drop me in Rome early enough that I will be able to head to the Pantheon and see the last few things I missed.
As I wait for the train I visit the gift shop looking for souvenirs for my loved ones.  I haven't yet purchased anything for my boys, my Mom, Dad and sister.  I come to a cabinet and in it are little tile clocks, each with a unique Italian scene hand-painted on it.  I decide on the one of the sea to remember this great day.  It is a souvenir for me and the only one I have purchased.  I am content and I board the train.
I was excited for the train because I imagined gazing out the windows at the Italian countryside passing by but instead the windows are heavily graffitied.  My window is cleaner but doesn't face the way I would wish but I do manage to spot farmlands surrounded by hilltop towns.  The towns always look magically placed.  A monastery we saw on the way to the sea had stairs leading to it up this extremely high hill.  How many times do people venture up there we wondered?
My feet are still covered in sand as I ride the train back to Rome.  Once in awhile I reach down and try to dust some away.  I am reminded how universal a smile is while I sit upon this train.  Everywhere I have been in Italy I have approached with a smile and people have welcomed that smile with open arms.  Today at the beach two little girls tried to talk to me but realized I didn't speak Italian.  Later we saw them again and they smiled and said hi.  I returned the greeting.  In Sora at the car rental agency our smiles got us through until we could understand one another.  No one became frustrated because we were light-hearted about it.  In Rome when I needed anything, if I asked it with a smile it was immediately returned. As I sat in the train terminal next to an older woman she attempted to talk with me but she knew no English and my Italian was too poor. She look so happy to be going somewhere as if perhaps she was visiting someone dear to her.  We made the best of our brief conversation and parted with smiles.
The beaches of Gaeta were no different than Rome for Italians expressiveness of their love.  Men and women were making out under their beach umbrellas, in the sand, in the water; wherever they were.  Men wore speedos and for the first time in my life I actually appreciated it.  The men in Italy are so attractive and it puzzles me because it is almost unsettling.  You actually look for those that are not attractive and they are rare.
My choice of train was soon revealed as poor when we stop in a little village and the Italians pour out of the train to smoke their cigarettes.  The announcer explains we have to wait for another train to clear the track before we can move on toward Rome.  I hope this will not be a long wait but as the Italians begin to throw their hands up in disgust after speaking with railroad officials on the platform I know my plans in Rome are doomed.  I won't be back now in time to do much, maybe shop for souvenirs, have dinner  and a late night stroll.
We are finally able to leave and everyone is still frustrated but I am relieved because maybe we will make up time.  Ha!  Our train actually moves so slowly at times that I could walk and keep up.  But it allows me to see an ancient aqueduct, long but with huge missing pieces.  I am able to see more vineyards and read the names of these, making a mental note of the types of grapes they grow.
We finally arrive in Rome and I head to my hotel.  At first they say they have not received my luggage even still but later they find it.  In the lobby while I am there are two other guests, one is asking about food and by now I am so hungry I tell him I will follow him to wherever he goes.
My reservation has been booked for the wrong day but I have now arrived so late that it really doesn't matter.  My plane departs at a ridiculous hour and I can leave my bag at the hotel while I have dinner.
Rob, asks if I would actually like to join him for dinner.  I accept and we head off to the recommend restaurant.  We have to make a reservation and the concierge suggest we have a drink at a bar around the corner while we wait.
We head out and order two glasses of wine from an Indian man who spoke perfect English and was hilarious.  He raves about how good the wine is and suggests we buy the whole bottle.  Rob and I decline.
Rob is in Rome by himself, it seems to draw singles in maybe because of the romance.  He is Polish by birth but now living in Canada.  His family is on a trip back to Poland and he has decided to make a side trip to Italy.  He is a graphic artist and later when we are walking I love to watch him look at the beauty in Rome from a different light.
We finish our wine and head back to the restaurant to eat.  We both order different pasta and he is disappointed I didn't order pizza so that he could try it.  He tells me of his unrequited love for a woman back home who has not yet seen his inner beauty though it shines magnificently to me.  He is quiet and reserved.  He tells me he has not gone out at night since being in Rome.  I am shocked.  He has been watching TV on his laptop instead.  I tell him I have to take him out and he agrees after awhile.  We stash my luggage in his apartment after he carries up five flights of stairs for me.  I ask several times to take it off his hands but he refuses.  I immediately think God has sent me an angel on my last night in Rome.
On our way out we stop at a gelataria and order.  This place is filled with Italians, not one English speaker.  I order in Italian and am rewarded with two huge scoops.  Rob orders in English and is given two significantly smaller scoops.  As we walk away he makes a comment about their size and I know I have been rewarded for the attempt to speak the language but Rob won't understand and so I just shrug it off. We walk first to the Spanish steps passing fountains large and small, all elegant.  He snaps some photos and his perspective is perfect.  He must be great at his work.  At the steps he tries to take a picture of me but becomes frustrated with the imperfection of my camera and throws up his hands in disgust.
I lead him to the Trevi Fountain and his is immediately taken back.  This is what he came to Rome to see and we talk about the different features of the fountain naming our favorite parts.  I dig two coins out of my purse and we toss them over our shoulders at the same time, the wish to return to Rome.  We take a seat and linger.  He is tired and my cab will arrive soon so we head back to the apartment.  I encourage him to experience Rome by being brave and talking to people.  I promise him he will be rewarded.  He is so unsure of himself that I imagine he will sit in his room and watch TV more often than not.  As I reorganize my bag I unload my guide to Rome.  I haven't looked at it once but it seems it would be just the thing for Rob to have.  I leave it in front of his door with a note thanking him for being my angel.
I jump in the cab closing the door on Rome and drive away towards the airport.

Siesta

Siesta time in Italy caused me to miss more than one meal, frustrated efforts to go anywhere and ensured I could not spend money in the local shops.  Myself and my friends spent more than one day planning an activity and then realized we were planning it for siesta time and it would have to wait.  I arrived in Sora on Sunday, the Sabbath at siesta time.  I couldn't have arrived at a worse time because even those few things that might have been open on Sunday which would have been rare, certainly would not be open during siesta.
In Italy siesta lasts from 1 to 4:30 pm.  During this time shops close up, children leave school and parents head home from work.  They all dine together for lunch which usually includes a bit of wine and then they rest.  The temperatures at this time of day are scorching and the faint-hearted wouldn't want to engage in any activity anyway.  In other words, it is a perfect time to rest.
At 4:30 shops begin to open again but you cannot eat dinner until 8.  From 4:30 until 8 you can have pizza, which explains the prevalence of pizza shops or sandwiches usually served in the bars.  Gelatto is of course available and that is usually what I end up having.  I have had gelatto since returning home and though it was promised to be all natural and made the same way as in Italy, it was not.  It was terrible.  Gelatto doesn't leave you feeling tired and heavy but the American version does.  Tired and heavy seems to be an unbreakable pattern in American life.  We are burdened and feel as if we are not taken care of.  Maybe we just need to take a rest midday, a siesta.
  After days in Italy I began to appreciate the meaning and need for siesta.  I even rested in a hammock one-day, swaying in the wind while I read my book.  It was rejuvenating.  I began thinking like a teacher and I realized how good it must be for the students to have this long break from school in the middle of the day.  Families are reunited and allowed to feed each other's souls as well as bodies.  Everyone gets a reset.  Imagine any stressful day in American life interrupted by a required time of rest.  Preschools sometimes require it, kindergartens maybe but the rest of our world is hurried and stressed.  We can get anything at anytime if we live in the right place.  Even in my tiny town things are open from 6 am until 12 pm. What is the reasoning for this?
With a required siesta we would have to be better planners or live without.  On most occasions for me in Italy, I simply went without or waited long enough for things to open.  When I didn't like the option of pizza for dinner, because believe me you get tired of it even if it is great, I went to the deli and made my own creation.
The relaxed pace of siesta seems more natural to me and not one bit lazy.  Italians are seeking a good life filled with good people, good food and good families.  They patiently wait for all three.  Imagine that decisions don't have to be made right away but can be put off until after siesta.  How much better would our decisions be?
 Divorce is still seen negatively in Italy as it should be.  When I explained that I was divorced I always got the same reaction, shaking of heads and mournful eyes.  I believe siesta is one beautiful way they keep their families together.  They reconnect with their spouses and children in the middle of the busy working day and focus on the true meaning of why they have been put on this earth.  It is also easy to see how they can be passionate about everything because they have time to recharge that energy.
In the end although inconvenienced by siesta I came to love and appreciate its beauty, its meaning and its power.