By Caprice Lawless | Contributing Writer
I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but eventually I hung up the bucket and its accompanying list of things to do, places to go and goals to achieve. For a while, as my career closed, I was focused furiously on the stuff; selling and giving away a lifetime of books I had already read, sporting equipment I could no longer use, and finally a house that was way too big for my needs.
One day, I stood in my driveway and wept as a moving van took away the piano I had owned my whole life; arthritis rendering me incapable of playing it. It was equally tough to sell my backpack, camp stove, mountain bike, road bike, ice skates and skis. But it had to be done. Another day, I stood with a stack of familiar cardboard boxes near the county’s massive recycling bins, dropping the daily journals I had kept for years into them as I tore up their pages. I thought I would reread them but the thought of doing so had lost all appeal. Similarly, I shredded years of paperwork I no longer needed. I noticed that each of those u n n a me d , u n s h a r e d r it u a l s imparted a sense of buoyancy along with the loss, though. I could feel something new opening with every ending. What would fill my mind, what would occupy my time, when familiar responsibilities no longer pressed on me? Even more unsettling (and a little exciting) was to wonder what would occupy me once familiar surroundings disappeared in my rear-view mirror as I drove to a new life in a new state.
Once I got into Portland, though, and was busy with new endeavors, those nagging feelings of doubt lifted. Nowadays I keep only a thimble list of small delights I hope to find in a day or a week. And so, alas, that trek on the legendary Camino de Santiago through Spain, France, and Portugal is out of the question, now. I won’t be tracing, one winter in my own skates, even a few spots on the Netherlands’ Eleven Cities Tour. Unlikely now are several days hiking the British Cotswolds, or even a day hiking the Great Smoky Mountains along the Appalachian Trail. A few months of grieving over such losses was requisite.
Happily, since then though, I have chosen to release broken dreams and to embrace the present. I had to trade fulfilling far-away adventures for an appreciation of the nearby, even the ordinary. It’s easy to enjoy extraordinary beauty wrapped in ordinary chores here in Portland. A drive to the laundromat, for example, offers a shower of pink and white petals from flowering fruit trees. The lilting birdsong of neighborhood wrens and sparrows here can often sound transcendent. Light flickering through trees across the path as I stroll to “run” errands is captivating, especially because I am never in a hurry to complete said errands. A day’s drive to the coast, to Mt. Hood, to wine country, or to the many natural wonders here offers a bounty of experience.
The only trouble with a thimble list is how its size requires frequent filling. Fortunately, that is easy to do in a setting like Portland, in a neighborhood like Concordia.
I wonder if the poet Blake and I share the same viewpoint:
“To see a World in a grain
of sand
And a Heaven in a wild
flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of
your hand
And Eternity in an hour”
-William Blake, The Auguries of Innocence, 1803
