This is the longest hiatus from P.E. I’ve ever taken. I haven’t felt inspired, been feeling more inward and, honestly, kind of tired of hearing what I have to say. That happens. I have been writing poetry. They occasionally float quietly in through the window. Other times they stomp up on the porch and bang on the door. Most of the time they just sit down with me for a little chat, to let me know there’s something they want to say, something I need to get busy writing about or I’ll wither away. The desire to write poetry is something I treasure, something that means that no matter how bad the world out there gets, that poetry still wants to live, wants to give voice to the depth of human sorrow and the beauty of the human soul.

I’m back in L.A. for the time being. The summer was spent bouncing up to Oregon several times, over to New Mexico, up to Napa and back to L.A. in between all of those trips. There were times when I found it difficult to ground myself, to connect with where home was for me. Instead of seeing the divine order of my life, I felt split in two, caught between, not only my two places of residence, but between who I was and who I am becoming. I wasn’t sure where I belonged.

It was on the drive down from Oregon after my last trip that a peace settled over me. I drove the 900 miles with only my two dogs as companions. It takes fifteen hours and I split it up into a day and a half-day. It’s always tough on the body, these road trips, but there’s something so liberating, something that gets freed up inside when you move through the countryside, stop at little towns and wayside stations along the way. By the time I pulled up in front of our house in L.A. I was joyfully exhausted. There was a certain amount of triumph in having gone the distance, but more than that was that somewhere along Hwy 97 or I-5, a peace had arrived, an understanding about where my true home is, where I will always belong—a place that will never have a mailing address or a weather forecast. I can’t really explain it. Like a good poem, peace is a mysterious force, some of which can be told, but most of which reaches down inside you and opens you to an inner truth, to grace.

Here are some photos taken in Oregon and on my way driving south.

 The "old bridge" over Crooked River Gorge between Redmond & Madras, Oregon

The train bridge over the gorge. When I was in high school my friends and I would come out and play chicken. Scared me then. Scares me now.

Closer look at the train bridge. It’s an amazing piece of engineering and beautiful to behold. Same goes for that husband of mine!

 
Here’s me being artistic with the photography.

Gotta interject a "bridge" poem that I fell in love with by a Polish Poet, Leopold Staff.

THE BRIDGE

I didn’t believe,
Standing on the bank of a river
Which was wide and swift,
That I would cross that bridge
Plaited from thin, fragile reeds
Fastened with bast.
I walked delicately as a butterfly
And heavily as an elephant,
I walked surely as a dancer
And wavered like a blind man.
I didn’t believe that I would cross that bridge,
And now that I am standing on the other side,
I don’t believe I crossed it.

Leopold Staff
Post-War Polish Poetry

Grass Lake just south of Mount Shasta. One of the most stunning and peaceful places. 

The story of Grass Lake. Maybe if you get a magnifying glass out you can read what it says.