The Umatilla,

from Lake Creek Trail into North Fork Wilderness.
We found the wreck of a downed plane: deep indent in the ground,
rusting metal everywhere, eerie and overgrown.
The crash took place in the 40s--a World War II training exercise
took a turn for the worse.

This morning, we heard an elk bugling, loud and distant,
recalling the howler monkeys of Costa Rica,
the way you'd hear them hundreds of yards off, moving from tree to tree,
coming closer.

Well, yesterday was a year since I left Honduras,
and as for the south,
I both long for and release it.

In the Umatilla, I lose count of the firs I see tipping 30 inches in diameter,
the Western Larch and Blue Spruce (Engelmann's), and White and Lodgepole Pine.

I revel in the Indian Paintbrush and yellow alpine lupines
(I've only seen purple lupines before).
I lay in my ocean blue tent and easily shut my eyes at 8'o'clock.

My left forearm swells and my hamstrings ache,
but I praise the G-d of all these trees and ridges,
of wide silent spaces and wildflowers.

Yes, may the Prince and Maker of this greenness live near me forever.

music of the last six months

by album
Ana Tijoux / 1977
Bon Iver / Bon Iver
Brooke Fraser / Saving the World
MIA / Kala
Shakira / Oral Fixation

by song
Adele / Someone Like You
Beyonce / Start Over
Florence & The Machine / Shake It Out
Gregory Alan Isakov / 3am
Hillsong United / Desert Song
Josh Garrels / Farther Along
Kanye / Stronger, Welcome to Heartbreak
Taylor Swift / Breathe, 15, Back to December
Trevor Hall / Te Amo
Blessed Be Your Name

Trust: the antithesis of stress / belief as everyday work; to gut-believe in the good touch of G-d towards me
*a discipline, a practice, a vocation: the work of trusting Love. Intentionally.

''The full life, the one spilling joy and peace, happens only as I come to trust the career of the Lover, Lover who enver burdens his children with shame or self-condemnation but keeps stroking the fears with gentle grace.

Trust in the wholeness of the gospel--including this moment, good news too--and be saved. Choose stress, worry, anxiety, reject what God has given now, which is good news too--refuse to trust--and be condemned.

Without trust in the good news of Jesus, with out trust in the good news of God's saving work even in this moment, without an active, moment-by-moment trust in the good news of an all-sovereign, all-good God, how can we claim to fully believe? This is the trust I lack, to know that if disaster strikes; he carries me even there.''

-A. Voskamp, A Thousand Gifts

Every afternoon, I followed the scarred dirt road
rutted and dry, or else water-logged, thick with frogs,
an eighth of a mile from my front porch
past the houses of my neighbors
(and his house, the one for whom I left)
until the road turned right and became a trail.

I crossed the stream, water supply of the village,
where the trail began to climb and became La Culabra.
La Culabra: wilderness behind my house.

I memorized that trail like the ridges of my own dry heart
I have no photographs but memories
of greeting Justa, Marlon, y Marí, breastfeeding her newborn as she climbed
The men with machetes, sometimes drunk.
Buenas tardes, I would sternly tell them, trying to glare them off from any ill intentions.
I love you, they would say back in English
Once I came across one in a fetal-position in the middle of the trail;
he was fast asleep.

The rising trail offered a topographical look at the village,
the Great Rubber Tree marking one of many forks.
My favorite wandering place in those mountains had a view like the Rockies
shale rock, the river below, miles of sky.
I would steal away there and cry, sing, pray, sit in silence
until the light was almost gone and it was time to stumble down the mountain in the twilight.

Well I have hiked four times this week, and I am grateful for the steep, quick paths; the wildflowers and vista rewards,
the familiar land of my birth.

But it is nothing like La Culabra.

And I miss La Venta, the earth, the students I dream of nightly, the warmth of a language and a body next to mine
and I grieve the separation and loss of this 23rd year.

[Tip # __

You know you might be in trouble when death by bus accident seems a desirable way of getting out of the mess.

summertime, don't leave so fast

the jesusita fire

Ten days of tears, and even several instances of the f word, and now graduation really is nearly (nearly) here. Fast and soon and crazy. The Jesusita fire has burned through almost 3,000 acres, and is only 10% contained. 5 of the people coming to see me walk the dais on Saturday will not make it now. My parents drove to Ventura tonight after being evacuated from their hotel and finding every other hotel in Carp and SB booked.

But we will make it, with strong doses of laughter and an increased appreciation for the ridiculous. Because this is how we grow up.

swimming against the current

oh those nights
of unspoken promises and small disappointments and secret, unshed tears

i was burrowing for a while, back into that hole for foxes
but then your voice came from the earth itself

and i remember now, your name is Shepherd.

bird by bird,

we will make it

twin braids,
red shawls,
nighttime walks to the library
listening to the owl
singing rocky votolato songs
a tanzanian blue and red plaid blanket
wrapped around my shoulders
the softest, sparsest raindrops
barely touching my lips

i think i can handle my three research papers,
the essay, test, and presentation due this week
not to mention the election,
which has made me oh-so-anxious
since the one in 2004

yes, with moments like this, i think i can handle life.

3 day mountain biking trip: los padres national forest, california

the last day of summer

of forests and farmlands, fields and fabric
woven with those clean linen fibers you so long to wrap your body in
to run through meadows, and jump into rivers
the weave of living, of swimming naked, your skin glowing in the moonlight
the stars too bright here, too close to fathom

and now the double wedding orgasm has passed-
now with one of your own (four, in fact) wed
and the day was sweet: the mountains and river and oh, that fabric, blowing in the wind
the banjo, gazebo, chickens and contra dancing
a true northern countryside wedding

and we danced and drank for a long time under those stars and candlelight
like hobbits in the burrow, or Jews celebrating Shabbat

we rose early this morning, hours before dawn broke
we drove to the airport
we parted ways: they for Mozambique, me for school
now i write and listen to patty griffin, i wait in the in-between time
tomorrow, everything is different
so i say sweet & sad goodbyes,
and i lean into this season change with wide arms and open heart

summer solstice

I have arrived. Here I am in Lakeside, Montana, along Flathead Lake and within Glacier County, just miles from the National Park of the same name. The drive here was large, if you know what I mean. The sky was wide, the fields stretching, the mountains immense and green.

Everything in Montana seems to have a name like Whitefish, Great Falls, Bear Paw, Big Sky, Yellowstone, Birdseye, Blackfoot.

This is the West, so different from my Northwest (did I ever know?). Ranchers stroll the edges of their land along the highway, and I drive by at 80 miles an hour (Montana just installed speed limits a few years ago, and they are still very high), listening to Jackson Browne and taking it all in.

There are a few backpacking hitchhikers on the way here, and I smile and wave good blessings to them as I drive. Two hawks swoop over carrying large fish in powerful beaks.

And I have lived at the Golden Gate, at the doors of the West in that foggy city we love, and I have lived along Lewis & Clark's trails and pathways, their "almost-there" Western summit. But now here I am in the Shadowlands, in the Western stretch of the journey, at the top of the Rockies.

Last night, we walked down to the lake, sat on the docks, took pictures, laughed. All the snowy mountains around the water were dipped in sunlight, and the evening stretched until the 9:45pm sunset: we celebrated the day for 17.5 hours of its light.

Wendell Berry prays, "At night make me one with the darkness, in the morning make me one with the light."

Oh, the North, the fabled West, its overwhelming summer solstice.

Happy hinge-point, my friends. I hope your spring was well.

culture shock

coming back to the barb (as it were)
is turning out to be much more surreal than i imagined

what was that yesterday outside the library?
those yelling voices i flinched at, thinking fight! (of course),
then wait, it's Westmont
(but don't i hear & see fights multiple times a week?)

& eating kumquats out of the formal gardens, evening walks with You
might be keeping this chest breathing
(peace, child)

saturday eve my flight arrived: a few of us went to the beach,
listened to the waves, smoked cigars, talked until 2am
sunday morning i held back tears
this aint the city anymore, baby

been drawing figures, contours, shading with my fingers
thank You for the little moments of friendship & beauty
especially when i sort of want to scream

Monday: work 9-3:30. Break up fight outside hospital.

Tuesday: class. Finish double essays.

Wednesday: work 10-5, in psych ward. Zen hospice training.

Thursday: work 7:30-3:30, attending multi-faith domestic violence seminar.

Friday: work 9-5. Nelly comes to visit from LA! Wind up in cafe in the Mission watching husband/wife band The Cobalt Season.

Saturday: start research essay--Misogyny in the Church. Due Tuesday.

Sunday: say goodbye to Nelly. Run. Meditate. Do some push-ups in preparation to dive into patriarchy, gender constructs, Catholicism, and Tertullian. Breathe.