A Harvest Requires Growth

Today, on Lammas, I think about the harvest in my life. What is ripe and ready to pluck from the vine? What has steadfastly and efficiently used its resources to grow?

I'm having trouble seeing these things. Recent days have been difficult, with my wife in near constant pain for the last week. Running the pain gauntlet with her, even as a passive witness, wears me down. It seems ridiculous to be exhausted by her experience, since I'm not the one living through the pain and its fog of medication. Yet here I am coming up empty when I ponder what harvest to honor in my life.

I suppose there is the fact that I have been good to my body recently, feeding it whole foods and consistently exercising. This is in stark contrast to late May and June, when I was back on the sugar train and drinking too much alcohol. Getting back off processed sugar and focusing on goodness for my body has been one way I've grown this season.

However, the emotional harvest I would expect to experience as a result of my physical wellness has yet to materialize. If anything, I'm less present and self-aware than when I was sugared up and drinking regularly. Apparently I am like a transitional farm, slowly weaning itself from the toxins it used to apply.

My emotional health has not flourished like my physical health has, making me feel stunted rather than vibrant and growing. It's hard to find evidence of the harvest in a landscape of misshapen plants.

Yet, I am aware there is a rich harvest around me. I'm not blind to the beauty and bounty surrounding me; I am aware and grateful for it. I am merely waiting to see this mirrored in me.

I suppose the thing about growth is that it comes in stages and isn't always recognizable. There's also the potential that the process of growth itself is its own harvest. Wherever I happen to be right now in the process, I honor it.

Very Portland

Today was pickup day for one of our CSAs. It was also a day I rode my bike to work. I didn't realize until late morning that I would have to cart home our 12 items from the CSA in my panniers. On top of that, I had a few items to pick up at the grocery store on my lunch hour. And, of course, we absolutely needed some fresh berries from the farmer's market for lunches tomorrow. I totally geeked out fitting all of this in my new panniers (recently purchased after this month's bike theft incident.)

It doesn't look like much here. I found myself grateful that I had some bungie cords with me to affix my purse (made from recycled bike inner tubes) to my rear rack.

With some creative packing, I managed to get all of this home to the safety of my kitchen:

The aerial shot misses the fact that there are three containers stacked high of hummus, salsa and Italian vegetable soup.

Before I left the office a coworker looked into my cubicle and inquired if my produce was in a bike bag. When I replied yes, he told me I would look "very Portland" on my way home.

Indeed.

Celebrating Sente

A good friend, Sente, recently celebrated his 40th birthday. This is a story of our friendship and my gratitude.

Sente and I have been through a lot together since I first met him more than two years ago. In fact, our friendship started to grow at the most unusual time--when he and my wife were ending their relationship. My wife's struggle with chronic migraines started during her relationship with Sente and he and I were the only two adults who watched that from an intimate perspective. Sente was an invaluable source of support to me, in particular, and showed much kindness to my family by helping in small, yet significant, ways. From car rides to child care pickups to kind words of encouragement, his support was helpful as we adapted to our changing lives.

As the relationship between Sente and my wife deteriorated and ultimately ended, things became tenuous. How would or could I remain friends with my wife's ex-partner in the midst of the hurt feelings that come with difficult breakups? I was actually not sure. We had one difficult discussion over coffee where we each said our peace and accepted an uncertain future where our friendship was concerned. It took some time, but we slowly found a way to salvage our friendship from the wreckage of a difficult ending.

In part, I believe it is because we committed to a friendship based on what we like about each other. I think we started to know each other in better and new ways after the breakup. I remember for a while we wouldn't discuss my wife and in the process, we began to focus on each other and nurture our friendship.

Sente is nothing if not encouraging. From my own relationships to professional challenges, he is my biggest cheerleader. I cherish our evenings out because inevitably he will give me the pep talk I need to convince me to take a stab at dating or pursue more fulfilling work. Sente is a kind, thoughtful and loyal friend.

I appreciate that he shares his stories and struggles with me and that I get to return the favor to listen and offer my own bit of wisdom. I am grateful that our friendship has blossomed into a supportive, fun and meaningful part of my life.

Here's to 40, Sente! I hope that you enjoy many more healthy years. I am honored to be your friend.

Pointlessness

I have these days from time to time. I forget about them until they pop up again. Their source is a placid mountain lake of clarity. They take me to a place of bitterness and heartsickness.

On these days so much seems pointless. I walk through my day wondering how it can be that my life includes these experiences. I sit in my cubicle in the Land of Capital staring at two monitors spewing information. I look through the eyes of a coworker as cancer colonizes her organs. I repeat tasks that I've done day after month after year, still unsure why. I gasp for breath in a landscape of stifled creativity and assumed solutions to ignored problems.

Watching the bustle of activity on the downtown street outside, I study the vibrant stories. I am the caged lion in the barren wasteland of my office zoo and the manufactured ecosystem is stilted and lacks life support. The visitors outside look in at me, laugh and gloat. They are moving with purpose and they probably know what they are doing and why.

Is this the future of my remaining 25+ years of work? In ten years will I be the elephant in the animal sanctuary whose mind slowly disintegrated from life in captivity?

On other days I am able to rise up, to disregard the veneer of emptiness and see through to the core of me. On those other days I hold tight to moments when I can breathe--with my family, in nature and among people who see me. My ability to hold on and disregard seems to grow weaker.

I am heartbroken by the days when I am unable to summon a tsunami of beauty and joy to wash away this meaninglessness.