At the
Saturday Market a few weeks ago, I overheard an older gentleman say to his companion (while shaking his head in bewilderment), “Oh, there must be something in the water here in Eugene.” Translation? Eugene has a reputation for being a little quirky, a bit different.
Why, whatever do you mean??
Yes, it’s true. Eugene embraces diversity, and by diversity we mostly mean fashion. Not style, nor culture, but
counter-culture and its accompanying costumes. Eugene is home to many tribes and we can easily identify one another by what we wear.
But first, I must tell something on myself. Do you see the photo of me, one hand defiantly on my hip and coffee in the other? Look at the expression on my face. I am watching the parade during the
Eugene Celebration last Saturday morning. That, apparently is my parade-watching face! Don’t you think it should be registering something like joy or delight?
Or what about this next photo I love so much? I have no idea what’s going on here but I’m standing with friends in Boise at the Capitol; le sigh, Christine La Bean, rest her soul, appears to be transforming into a robot while I look as though something smells verra verra bad. I laugh a deep belly laugh every time I gaze at it. But my point is this: I was spending time with friends I love dearly and my face does not show it.
Walking down the street, I’ll catch a glimpse of my face in a store window and it actually scares me! I often have such a stern expression that my own face startles me.
A few weeks ago, while in Sunriver, Groom and I decided to have lunch out. We chose a lovely looking bistro and ordered our food, and of course, a cup of coffee. Most of you know, I looooove coffee. I do most things with a cuppa including photography, designing jewelry and watching a parade.
In fact, Groom just snapped this next shot of me while I was propped up in bed reading this week. Whoa, did you catch a load of my schnoz? Rarely have I seen my face in profile, is that really what I look like?
But I digress. Back to the bistro in Sunriver. We paid for our food and coffee and sat outside at our tall table, waiting. And waiting. After an awfully long time, we checked on the status of our order. The proprietress acted shocked that we wanted the coffee that we paid for. She really didn’t feel like making a pot of coffee as the restaurant would be closing soon. I looked at my watch. It was 1:30pm. “What time do you close?” I asked.
“3 o’clock.”
What? An hour and a half before closing and she didn’t really feel like brewing a fresh pot as the old one was empty? Now it became our turn to express incredulity. She “explained” that we’d probably be the only ones to drink it and she really couldn’t afford to waste the rest, like times are tough, you know? Well, using her argument, we really didn’t feel like giving her money as a donation for coffee we weren’t going to receive. Is that even legal, charging for an item on the menu and then balking at having to serve it?
I admit it, I was ticked and Proprietress was in a dilemma. She didn’t want to refund our money nor did she want to brew beans. In a snit, she finally decided that money in her till was better than giving it back, so it was with a martyred sigh and a huff that she made us coffee. Well, by this point, I didn’t want it, so I did my own version of sulking. Then, a man walked up to his car parked in front of our table. He unlocked it with his key chain remote, making that horribly obnoxious beep.
That’s all it took. A fearful owner, too tight-fisted to make a pot of coffee, and a man unlocking his car without benefit of a key. My mood blossomed into a minor tropical storm. Now, I didn’t do anything except complain to Groom.
And then the scary part happened. For the very first time, I felt the particles of my spirit hardening and I felt alarmed. I knew in that moment, I could get stuck like that. In an instant, I had sudden compassion for the nasty next-door neighbor where I lived when I was little, or the wicked step-mother of my dear friend; two women, whose faces had frozen into eternal expressions of bitterness.
I called God’s Minion in a panic. I told her I was very afraid of hardening into a freeze-dried shrew, the life and joy leaking out of me until I was a shriveled husk. To my amazement, she laughed her deep, throaty southern laugh.
What? Here I was in the midst of a true mid-life panic and my dear friend was laughing at me. In the condensed version, she said she knew me too well and that I’d never get stuck that way. The fact that I could recognize it and was repulsed by the notion was all the proof she needed.
She compared my panic of angst to downhill skiing. Describing me all dressed up like a snow bunny (okay, I added that part) on a slope with a sign pointing downhill toward Getting Stuck in Bitterness. “You looked over the edge, saw the invitation, got a little spooked and skied on,” she told me, and then added, “You had an insight of compassion for those who do get stuck there. You now see how easy it is to simply point your skis down that hill and keep going.”
If your heads are still in the upright position, then please follow the lighted pathway to my next example. Right after Sunriver, we shared dinner with friends and they told of a similar experience. They had been invited to a restaurant with a guest Italian chef. He was in town for only one night, so the place was packed. They had to wait almost two hours for their food.
The man-half of the couple, whom I’ll call Victor, decided it was “unacceptable,” while the woman present, who shall be named Victoria, pronounced it “entirely acceptable.” They debated and Victoria said, “It’s a beautiful summer evening, we’re out with friends listening to music, anticipating the chef’s creation, of course it’s acceptable.”
I am now referring to this as the “Victor/Victoria” syndrome. Two people in attendance at the same dinner having completely different experiences. One went with the flow, charmed by the company, music, and warm summer weather, while the other found fault. I recognized myself as Victor.
My life is beautiful. So why then, do I tend to focus on the ridiculous instead of the sublime?
Right after the Eugene Celebration parade last Saturday, a friend stopped by the booth with her new great-grandson. I’d met him soon after he was born, but he’d been asleep in his buggy. This time, however, he was wide-awake and a few months older.
Let me just say right now, I had an attunement by a baby. You know how a piano tuner is able to get the instrument back in alignment, back in tune? Well, this magic baby did the same for me. As I squatted down to say hello, he grabbed my fingers with both of his little hands and smiled. Okay, that’s pretty normal so far.
But wait. He held onto them tightly, looked straight into my eyes and started singing to me. Well, no, he’s too little for lyrics, but there was definitely a tune. I’ve heard babies make gurgling sounds, tummy rumbles, or high-pitched squeals, but this was otherworldly.
The music this baby was creating was truly lovely and here’s what’s so cool, I felt my heart quicken. And then it happened. All the little crusty bits and scabs surrounding my heart melted. I felt like the Grinch when his heart grew two sizes that day. Yes, there was an actual physical sensation as the hardened shell around my heart gave way in the face of this tiny angel singing me his message. Bitterness is powerless in the presence of love.
Thank you Holden, for that amazing experience. Forget all those energetic healing sessions, a few moments in your beam of light and all’s right with the world.
As for the rest of this week’s photos, they are of the Eugene Celebration including our newest
S.LU.G. Queen, Slugasana. Congratulations!
So I’ll close for now, leaving you to decide what is ridiculous and what is sublime.
Of course, as the chronometer continues to spin through time, this capital city has adopted more of a modern metropolitan feel than its mining history, although some of the historic buildings still exist.
The first thing a person needs to know about the third largest city in the Pacific Northwest is that it is pronounced Boy-see, not Boy-zee. The locals tend to admonish ignorant pronunciation.
I don’t know if it’s the second thing anybody needs to know, but we found a restaurant serving “Trailer Park Cuisine.” Now who could pass up that opportunity? Groom and I were even offered the best seat in the house, a vintage car on blocks. You can see me leaning in toward it and then Groom ordering from their classy menu.
This was the luxury view from our window while we ate macaroni and cheese with sweet potato fries. It came with “trashy sauce,” which turned out to be sour cream and brown sugar plus a “secret ingredient.” Greasy and queasy.
Feeling momentarily sad, iconic Abe Lincoln made us feel a whole lot better with his generous hugs.
Of course, we’re happy to be home, but as Art in the Park was good (we sold all but two necklaces!), we must immediately gather and focus our creative powers for our last two shows coming up in rapid succession, the Corvallis Fall Festival and the Sacramento Arts Festival. 
