Family at the Oregon Coast (My cousin Marita and her two girls Dorothy and Daphne and myself)
My vacation is winding down...it's been a fruitful fun ride. I flew out here on my own and have fumbled my way around so many amazing places.
I've seen family, friends and dealt with old ghosts. Ghosts in the forms of memories represented by houses and names of towns. The Oregon coast is as beautiful as ever. It's always seemed like a mystical place. A place to reflect the movements and decisions of the day and the hours ahead. It seems impossible a thing to imagine that the waves could sound different than any other in the world but I swear they do.
(On a lighter note I've gained about 5-10 lbs.)
There has been a stock supply of belly laughs, followed by more laughter. The kind that shakes you do the ground rolling in a fit where your whole body is echoing with laughter.
Memories are strange sensations. I have missed my brother, but not been sad, I realized near a playground in Salem, Oregon that I still carry him in me and always will.
Familiar expressions, vocal tones that seem to go back as far as one can hope to recall feel so lovely and warm. They feel like coming home. I realized home is in me, it will never be an external destination. It may seem like a little trite, this epiphany of mine~ coming from a woman who spent most of her growing years always traveling, always moving~ feeling her way to the next destination.
Poetry grounds me and this one often comes to mind:
Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
208. A Noiseless Patient Spider
A NOISELESS, patient spider,
I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. 5
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul. 10
Me, at Powells Books, largest independent run bookstore in the country, and oh did I have a hoot. Bought and had 6 books sent home. Art Deco history, smithing books and the new Dave Eggers novel.
Jessica, my dear friend