On what is the eve of the opening of the Owens Valley Reception Center, i.e., Manzanar, my heart is heavy thinking about our nation's internment of Japanese Americans and the impact upon them, and us, as a result of their internment.

Photo from Wikipedia by Dorothea Lange

   Indeed, a lot has been weighing on me this month. In addition to our own messy moments, there's been our study of Sudan in our middle school book group. We read and discussed A Long Walk to Water trying to understand the crisis that has taken place in Sudan, even as it continues to put millions in a state of conflict. And I dare say, it's humbling to talk to eleven and twelve year old girls about a crisis that began when you were an eleven year old girl and you are just now really checking in about it. No words for that.

   And realizing that your boy child could just as easily have been a Lost Boy should he have been born on another continent is saddening and sickening. No child should have to endure war, the loss of their families, villages, and communities.

   On the eve of Japanese internment camp round ups, and the orders that created such places as Manzanar, there are still white lies that surround and control us.

    Touring the Pearl District of Portland recently was both enthralling and a bit unsettling. I couldn't put my finger on what seemed to be rattling my soul. But there's been a lot of noise lately about the gentrification of Portland, and signs are pointing to the fact that there's more than one way to push diversity out of your city, and push people out: Be a gentleman, and simply raise the rent.

    The Pearl now, is an area we never would have ventured into then. When I was a child, the area east of Burnside was a land you didn't wander into. The Pearl now is home to million dollar airy apartments, gentlemen, and persons who kid themselves that they know and understand the concept of diversity. To know, foster, and understand diversity you must first be diverse. The Pearl is many things, but it's not diverse, Eloise. Ironically, the Pearl has gone from being not accessible to accessible to not accessible once more, and it's just one area of Portland.

   I cannot, and will not, attempt to write deeply about issues I'm still coming to understand. I'm not trying to preach here, but sit up, learn, and hear what my soul is saying. We seek to know and understand these stains on the history of our world and the peoples of our world for the sake of all children. Their future is at stake.

These issues rattle me. They make noise in my life.

In 1859, Oregon did not want African Americans.

We can change that, and we must.

     We cannot and we must not seek to make America an exclusively white nation.  Make no other gods before me. An exclusively white America is a dangerous America.  It's an America where violence makes right because fear calls everyone who doesn't look like us wrong. Remember. Manzanar.

   How about we talk immigration for a second?  Do we know what it's like anymore to welcome the foreigner? Let go of our preconceived notions? McFarland. See it. Even Paddington is trying to tell us something about welcoming the foreigner. See it.

Immigrants. People. Families. Workers.


We are they. 
They are us. 
We are them.

Remember! 
Manzanar, Gila River, Granada, Heart Mountain, Jerome, Minidoka, Poston, Rohwer, Topaz, and Tule Lake!
These camps are the legacy of our shame and little white lies.

    Before 1942, Japanese farmers owned 1/5th the arable land in the three west coast states. It was taken. It was confiscated. If they owned it today, the farming practices of the Pacific Coast might be, could be, and would be vastly different. Vastly more sustainable. Diverse.

If America is exclusively white,
when we look at the enemy,
we are looking at us.

   If you really change your ways and your actions and deal with each other justly,  if you do not oppress the foreigner, the fatherless or the widow and do not shed innocent blood in this place, and if you do not follow other gods to your own harm,  then I will let you live in this place, in the land I gave your ancestors for ever and ever. ~ Jeremiah 7:5-7

   Let us recognize we reside here by grace. We were born here by grace not to be great, but to be gracious. We are commanded, instructed, and told. It's made crystal clear: Don't oppress a sojourner. Don't oppress the foreigner. Welcome the immigrant, for you too, were once a stranger. Let us embrace diversity when all the world is aflame. One day a new king and kingdom will be ushered in. God's kingdom is diverse. Remember, "red, yellow, black, and white, they are precious in His sight?"  We also know the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. This is not easy for me, for us, to swallow, but who am I to begrudge God's generosity?  I need it every day. Indeed, I hope for God's generosity every day.

   Therefore, I'd best get to work fostering His kind of community now, that I might join it then.

 Even those I will bring to My holy mountain 
And make them joyful in My house of prayer. 
Their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be acceptable on My altar;
 For My house will be called a house of prayer for all the peoples. 
~ Isaiah 56:7

Gifts from Wild Seas

   We are exhausted. Exhausted from what feels like weeks of sickness, but in reality has only been about 10 days. We battle sickness, school, and each other. Oh, the battles. I've not seen the likes of these kinds of truly messy moments for about seven years, but we are in the middle of our messes, the ones we so easily make.

   I feel like whining. I am whining, but since we have embarked upon our Safe Families journey the mess has met us. Why didn't I expect this? "Get real," I tell myself. "You stepped across some invisible kind of line. Did you not expect some blow back from the dark side of the universe? You are so not equipped for this." But God. 

   And so, all our messes are meeting us in our moments: middle school moments, marriage moments, every messy moment possible. Eighteen years into our marriage, we are needing new tools. Yes, again. We aren't going to crash, nor will we burn, "but we been having us some bumpy landings folks," and we are realizing that we are once again in a transition time with the kids and each other, and we need to listen better. More. Intently. 

   I've been reading through Gift of the Sea, Long Life, The Connected Child, and Too Small to Ignore, and simply planting myself in Hebrews 1: He is the word that sustains life, sustains me. He the Word comes, and the words come. I've written 20,000 words this month and the words just keep coming. I love it, and my amazing critique group is so encouraging, but oh the battles in between those words, and all the words surrounding them.

   We even battled the river this month. J managed to pass his impromptu Willamette River swim test upon turning over a single crew shell last week in the river. Needless to say, God got his back, and his back stroke. He got home that night. Grateful. 

   And now it's 8 p.m. and we have begun this book in our home for bedtime discussions and prayers. We are praying round the candlelight for the Light.

   A few words that have been blessing my mama me this month in Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.

   I walked far down the beach, soothed by the rhythm of the waves, the sun on my bare back and legs, the wind and mist from the spray on my hair. Into the waves and out like a sandpiper. And then home, drenched, drugged, reeling, full to the brim with my day alone; full like the moon before the night has taken a single nibble of it; full as a cup poured up to the lip. There is a quality to the fullness that the Psalmist expressed: "My cup runneth over." Let no one come - I pray in sudden panic - I might spill myself away!

   Is this then what happens to woman? She wants to perpetually spill herself away. All her instinct as a woman  - the eternal nourisher of children, of men, of society - demands that she give. Her time, her energy, her creativeness drain out into these channels if there is any chance, any leak. Traditionally we are taught, and instinctively we long, to give where it is needed - and immediately. Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim. 

   Where are you finding time, creating time, to be filled within? When do you seek renewal, in a world that does not reward spiritual or inner renewal? 

   But why not, one may ask? What is wrong with a woman's spilling herself away, since it her function to give? Why am I, coming back to my perfect day at the beach, so afraid of losing my treasure?

   Here is a strange paradox. Woman instinctively wants to give, yet resents giving herself in small pieces. I believe that what woman resents is not so much giving herself in pieces as giving herself purposely. What we fear is not so much that our energy may be leaking away through small outlets as that it may be "going down the drain."  We do not see the results of our giving as concretely as man does in his work. In the job of home keeping, there is no raise from the boss, and seldom praise from others to show us we have hit the mark. Except for the child, woman's creation is often invisible. How can one point to the constant tangle of household chores, errands, and fragments of human relationships, as a creation? It is hard to even think of it as purposeful activity, so much as it is automatic. 

   Yet, that which feels automatic, often contributes to peace and creativity. Doesn't mankind hunger and thirst, seeking to create from the chaos around us? The automatic activities of woman, the chores and errands, do not create, so much as make space for creation. And within the walls of the home, we desire to be creators; we were fashioned creators, designers, and inventors. In creating, we desire to become, to live, breathe, and find a place where we belong. Thus, an orderly place becomes a creative space. Randomness can indeed lead to creation, for some, but for many, clear spaces make way for creative spaces.  

   ...We are hungry and not knowing what we are hungry for, we fill up the void with endless distractions always at hand - unnecessary errands, compulsive duties, and social niceties. And for the most part, to little purpose. Suddenly the spring is dry; the well is empty. 

   We want our spring to flow instantaneously, automatically, but when a spring bursts forth, its reservoir has taken time to fill. Never does a spring burst forth that has not been filled slowly day in and day out, over many a rainy season, and this is how the spring remains abundant and life giving, in even the most dry of seasons.

   Even purposeful giving must have some source that refills it. The milk in the breast must be replenished by food in the body.

    May you find solitude and stillness this week. May you be replenished in order to share with the thirsty who cross your path. May you be a deep spring. May you nurture this week, and also in turn, be nurtured. 

~ Kim

A Mostly Wordless Wednesday

 Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise. ~ Horace

   We are working to recover from sickness, 

and yes, sometimes ourselves, 

but there's hope, always hope. 

   I always entertain great hopes. ~ Robert Frost

A Stream of Consciousness from the Seas of Schooling

    It's been a few weeks since I've strolled by the sea, but I'm facing down a tempest. I'm clinging to the side of a rock. Hopefully, the Rock. I intend to hold on, ride out the storm, and yes, win. I don't need to win at most things, though I'm a tad competitive, but there are some things a mother must win. Must win. This week is school, and I'm claiming the high ground.

   The tempest? A middle school student and her moments. She may be fraught with spring fever, but we will not spend all day in the wilds reading. 

   And while it's all fine and dandy that you'd like to spend your hours reading When the Rivers Run Dry, and Shooting Kabul, and European comics, it's not. Because we are not unschoolers. We have a family, and we have a schedule. There are others in the house with lives, who want their school day to be over by 8 p.m.. Indeed, 3 p.m. would be better. 

   Then there's the issue of latin, history, and writing, and if you don't write something about those pyramids, I might just ship you off to live in one. They often induce claustrophobia you know. And while this house may feel claustrophobic, the pyramids are worse! Yes, dear middle school child, there must be, there will be, some rhythm and routine to our days. 

   Just as I cannot eat fruit gushers all day, you cannot stay in your pajamas all day. On another planet, they may,  but not on the tiny patch of land you call home. And so while the waves may roar, and the sea storm, we are going to ride it out. We are going to jump in and embrace life.

   And when the day is over, we'll get off the rock and be on our way. We'll journey, and the storm will pass, and we'll be in the same boat. Trust me, we will. But since I'm your mother, it will be my boat.

   There'll be more wild days, but one day we'll laugh, and remember when the wind blew our hair,  when the waves roared, and when I won - at least at school.

Timbers and the Fire, Chicago

   We took in our first Timbers game last night. An auntie was very gracious to share two tickets, and we were able to pick up two more cheaply through StubHub.

   Unfortunately, we didn't make it to Portland in time to eat at Kenny and Zukes. Maybe next time. I also missed seeing the sawing off of one round of the Douglas Fir log they keep behind their home goal. This, after their first, and only goal. However, the sound of the Timbers chain saw kept the game humming along. FYI, the game ended with a 1:1 tie.

   It felt like the Timbers did a lot of standing around last night, but it was a pre-season game. We learned where to sit, and where not to sit, for future games, i.e., behind the goals. Ear plugs came in handy, but I sense things were pretty sedate last night. Thankfully, we didn't hear much inappropriate language. It's amazing how a little beer in the mix makes people messy. 

   The stadium was a homogeneous green. Amusing. Portland is known for its eclectic individuality, but one didn't see that within the environs of Providence Park last night. I bet it's a riot of green when there's a St. Paddy's Day game.

   While it was great to finally watch a Timbers game, we love the quiet sportsman like Oregon State games. OSU has some highly competitive players, the game pace is very fast, and the environment in Corvallis is a bit more kid friendly. Oh, and the games are free!

   The Timbers may have headed home as pictured above. Thankfully, we did not! Where's brother? He doesn't make an appearance here because his head was in the game. He didn't want to be disturbed and mostly kept his eyes on the futbol. Here's to the beginning of a great futbol season!

Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne

   I have read my first Jules Verne book. Dare I declare such information? Shame or pride? Suffice to say, I wasn't introduced to classical books as a youngster, unless you count National Velvet in that lot, but as I'm re-living 6th grade with my daughter, I'm acquiring education anew. 

Around the World in 80 Days Middle School Study Guide Google Docs

Only love can be divided endlessly and still not diminish. 

Don't wish me happiness

I don't expect to be happy all the time...

It's gotten beyond that somehow. 

Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor. 

I will need them all.

The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, 

too greedy, or too impatient. 

 To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, 

but lack of faith. 

 

Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches.

Patience and faith. 

One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach

—waiting for a gift from the sea. 

All quotes & poems are from Anne Morrow Lindbergh's,

 Gift from the Sea 

Beachy Kid Books

The Sea of Sleep

Utterly Otterly Day

The Sea Fairies

 

Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

Oregon Beach To-Do's Near Newport

Hatfield Marine Science Center (free)!

Oregon Coast Aquarium

Beaver Creek Kayak Tours

iconic Sylvia Beach Hotel