Memoirous

Tea, forgotten On the counter, on the tea warmer In the cup, in the mug Tea bag still left in, growing darker, more tanic By the hour, minute, second left untouched . . . forgotten. Until I look up and ask myself: Didn’t I have a tea somewhere?

 A Lie Someone Told You About Yourself by Peter Ho Davies Was a very interesting and heartbreaking book. A simple story really—it’s about life, love, and children—particularly your child and how impossible it is to feel in control. Those of us who are parents are tapping our chest and saying, I feel ya. It is a small book and a quick read—though I guess it took ages to write. In fact the little I’ve gleaned from a topical search online about Peter Ho Davies and a masterclass I had with him via Zoom a couple of months ago through Story Studio  inform me that he is self-deprecating and transparent about feeling guilty about not writing. Funny, I‘ve been doing much the same. Not writing, and feeling bad about it. Not true. I have been writing, not just the stuff I meant to get around to. I’ve been busy with these blog posts or what I like to tell folks: the personal essay. Seinfeld would label it writing about nothing. Ho Davies seemingly writes about nothing. There was no plot to

 I finished Philosophy for Polar Explorers by Erling Kagge. So much of what he wrote is about the everday everybody—not just those ascending Everest or seeking the Pole. Of course as a long-distance cyclist I can find myself in many of his messages. Yes, I’m not fast, I’m not breaking world records, nor am I the first. I’m just a solo trekker of a certain age—who people tell me is brave. I don’t always feel that way. For instance: as a writer it is much tougher than you think to come back to a project where you have failed and try to revive it, or to tell yourself you might have to let this one go. To face the blank page. A bigger Pole is to create with words something out of nothing, to translate that feeling or concept you harbor in your head into words, words that have an impact upon a reader. There are times I find this impossible—and yet I keep trying. Writing is like being a polar explorer. It is about facing your fears, the absurdity of the task, and being present anyway.

My last meditation provoked by reading Philosophy for Polar Explorers by Erling Kagge is about routine. I completely tore up the pages of my life in Chicago, nearly 40 years there, to fly out to Eugene with a bicycle and a suitcase to “start over.” Yet, once again, I began to build routine. We are creatures of habit. I imagine Neanderthals lounging around in caves bored, but also satisfied that for a brief moment they do not have to run from dinosaurs or whatever danger was right outside their stone walls. We all take comfort in a set list that is settled and gives a familiar feeling of structure. It’s why I cycle. Yes, it is easy to feel like a machine, part of the cogs on the freewheel, a link in the chain, so to speak. But, I never had to question my existence or what to do that day: I woke up to pedal, I ate to pedal, I slept to wake up and pedal. It was about getting from A to B. It was that easy. So in Eugene, embarking on my new life I established a routine. Tea, stretch

Philosophy for Polar Explorers Erling Kagge Pantheon (November 17, 2020) As I mentioned in an earlier post I’ve been reading a small contemplative book titled Philosophy for Polar Explorers by Norwegian adventurist Erling Kagge. In one short chapter is a meditation on happiness—and how it isn’t always relative   to circumstances. How we can be happy with nothing and terribly miserable in the midst of plenty. It’s like reading a fable of the rich and poor. We can be rich and at the same time poor in spirit. What brings happiness? I’m constantly amazed at the turn my life has taken. While cycling last year from Chicago to the Pacific, eventually to see my daughter in Oregon I had no idea I’d move to Eugene. At one point while camping at Cascade Lock I was joined by 2 PCT thru-hikers. The older gentleman shared that he and his wife looked after their grandson. I told him my daughter was expecting my first grandchild—a boy. He immediately said, So you will be relocating. I responded,

 This isn’t just something someone says about others who micromanage or who are bossy, we cyclists say it about trying to stay alive. While at the hiker/biker campsite at Sunset Bay St. Park I chatted with some hikers doing the Oregon Coast Trail. The woman said that at one point she was walking through a tunnel. These are tunnels shared with motorists. Supposedly if a button is pushed they have to slow down for walkers/bikers—except she related a story of how when walking through she’d made it almost to the end when a logging truck whizzed through with barely enough room for her and all its axles etc. Her husband was taking a video and we watched her face crumple in terror. By that point it was funny—sort of. They talked about hyper vigilance, focusing on only what is ahead and immediately around you. Cyclists call it staying in your lane or taking a lane. I’ve taken up a whole lane when going down hill as I’m not going to be hurtling down a mountain pushed off to the side. I’m

 Well, thank you Universe! Thank you God! After my exercise in listing what it was I wanted in accommodation in Michigan (click on link )—I got an answer. I wrote that post on a Thursday late morning. A few hours went by and I checked Craigslist. What I found at the top, just landed there, was exactly what I’d described. A professor at MSU who often travels (3 weeks out of a month) was looking for a roommate not just to cut expenses but sort of look after things. We called and chatted that evening. By Friday lunchtime I was the forerunner candidate. By evening I was her choice. How does one write about the synchronicity, the coincidence of just this: an answer to prayer. I put it out there. So next steps are a job and actually getting there—all things will come to those who wait, and seek.

 I feel like a high school senior whose parents and relatives keep asking: What are you going to do? What’re your plans? I have no idea. I keep checking the various websites looking for rental properties in the Lansing, MI area. My daughter thought I was just being negative but even she agreed that most offerings look like meth houses. And it’s not just Craigslist. You’d think even a realtor taking site glamor shots would straighten the towels in the bathroom. I’m just not sure how I’m going to get from A to B at this rate. So I’ve decided to write down my dream list, aspects I’d like to see in my next sojourn:             *ground floor entrance, I have 2 bikes             *a balcony or back patio *kitchen             *bathroom             *cozy tiny house feel             *garden, or a bit of nature             *not too close to a busy road             *close to a library, grocery             *close to a bike shop I can work at             *neighbors, landl

 I got out early today as there are heat warnings up across the Pacific Northwest. Temps over 100 degrees are predicted. (Remember not many houses have AC.) I rode my bike along the Willamette River bike path. I saw— A man sitting in the midst a gaggle of white geese along the shore A woman eating blackberries straight from the bush. I stopped at a bush where last year Grace and I feasted on berries, and where she claims she got a rash. Today the berries though black were not plump, coated in dust and cobwebby. We haven’t had rain since the second week in June. The grass is brown and the river slugs along, much lower than years past. A haze hangs in the sky, perhaps, affected by the myriad of fires burning in the south and northern California.   Stopping, even for a second, I am drenched in sweat.

 An Unveiling I wish I knew what I didn’t       know up ahead, curving around the bend, straining into the wind, the pavement breaks abruptly, the hillside dropping down down to a ravine. No guard rails and little margin for error into fear, suspense.   We can be anxious for good and bad, everything is unnerving waiting for the other shoe to drop.   Cloud shadows sweep over the sand; the tide is going out, yet there is no end to the rushing of waves, washing over the rocks.   When the fog lifts I see the coast and the lighthouse drumming out a signal “Take Care.” In the distance is the        light.

Highway 101, Florence to Heceta Lighthouse 24 miles RT As I’m beginning the process of unplugging from Eugene ( see earlier posts ), I know more and more I’m going to miss this magical place. Yesterday, I took the Lane Link from Eugene to Florence for $5. How easy! Aside from having to be at a corner at 7:32 a.m. it is simple and quick. I retrieved my bike from the front of the shuttle and began rising up the coast at 9:15 a.m. I tried to recruit a cycling companion, but she backed out. I’m of two minds—my usual state of affairs—yes, it is scary to embark on any new thing, and Hwy 101 can be twisty-turny and traffic-heavy. But you don’t know until you do. You see, you can always turn around and come back. There’s no harm in trying. So I started off alone, with trepidation. Aside from my acquaintance pulling out, my daughter gets worried when I undertake these rides. To be fair, it’s not like I haven’t fallen or gotten into pickles. Again, we don’t know until we go. But, I left wi

 After my daughter moved away my days off were a little long and empty, I offered to help watch a former workmate’s daughter since she was off from school in the summer. Eowyn is a dream. My first day with her we played many rounds of Baby Animal Memory Game. As if the universe aligned, we tied a lot, our stacks coming to the exact same height. Still, I wasn’t sure if she liked me. Later we sat out on the trampoline (after vigorous jumping) and compared scars, telling the story of how they came about. I had to explain that a flattened out, brown skin tag was not a scar—unless old age counts. The next day while again playing animal memory game I brushed a hair off my shoulder. It landed on top of a card. Eowyn asked if she could have it. Flummoxed, I said, sure. She ran to her room with it and returned with a small tin with a lid. “This is my box of hair,” she said. When she opened it I saw that it contained mostly her dad’s locks, from a prior haircut. To which she added my single