At least my list is only a set of crossed out lines...

I recently read a study that people who make piles are more creative than people who make files. That some randomness in the disordered order actually has meaning and function. Those far-too-organized, Tupperware-bin-loving, file-folder-hanging, Steven Covey disciples are actually the boring freaks you always knew they were anyway.

This news gave me comfort about how I live my life. My desk at work is littered with scribbled-upon papers. My car always full of clothes to be delivered to Value Village, books to be returned, water bottles, barrettes, chapsticks, receipts and all the other detritus of car travel.

At home, I pile unread mail, bills to be paid, reminders from the vet to take the cat in for her rabies shot, Jiffy Lube coupons and anything else that comes through the mail slot into a big basket. Sometimes, if it gets too full, Bela the paper-obsessed Labrador retriever steals whatever is on top and shreds it into pieces on the living room rug. If I spot her in the act, I make her bring it to me and say, "Thank you!" as if she were doing me a big favor. I don't know if it's discouraging her or not.

I try to make lists: dry cleaning, new tires, look for a low bookshelf, buy b-day present, open savings account. I do half the list--the things I can do on the way to Powell's or Portland Nursery--and I throw the rest away. You know, I never have to make a list of things to do in the garden. Don't need to. Never have to make a list of things I want to write someday, dreams I want to have, music I want to hear. There those things are--they present themselves--line up for me to wander past and notice. Weed this patch, clip that back, sew new seed, water, search for pests, harvest fruit. It's all there like one instinctual mnemonic device. It's so embedded it comes naturally.

Do you remember when you didn't have to remember anything? How seconds stretched out? When you had no idea the difference between a month and a moment because they sounded an awful lot alike anyway?

Piles. Just put it down and I'll take care of it. Don't move it or I'll forget all about it. Don't move it or it will have never existed.

Chinese herbs

Chinese herbs taste like compost tea. The arrive in compact, brown paper packets, and their aroma invades the house immediately. Pungent. A bit sweet underneath. Like worm casings.

I dump the contents of the packet into a pot--twigs, dried fungus, seed pods--a dried and dessicated forest floor. I add water and soak the mix, and boil the contents into a dark, brown liquid, then strain the solid matter out and divide the tea into two strong doses.

The first day, I was depressed with each sip. "I have to drink this crap twice a day?" I was a four year-old faced with a plate full of mushy peas. I held my nose, made gagging noises each time I swallowed. This is ass tea. This is dog coffee. Cigarette butts, mud water, graveyard earth, battery acid.

The fifth day and I could taste more. Licorice, maybe? Still bitter, still earthy fungus, but somehow healing. The tea fills me up and satisfies my hunger. Surprisingly there are no more nighttime cereal raids, no wine binges, no need for second helpings.

There is power in continuing to do something you believe you cannot continue to do. There is power in running one more block, in getting up early each day to write, in drinking bitter, brown liquid every morning and night.

Maybe the tea makes my life better? Every moment I am not drinking it is a gift. I am taking out the trash, but not drinking tea! I am washing my face and flossing my teeth, how glorious! How precious--this moment before I have to take another sip. How enjoyable--this row of knitting before I force myself to drink again.

Snow day

It's snowing here today and the city has shut down. I've been at my desk at home all morning, mostly watching the snow build up outside my window, and e-mailing clients some of the time. I left the wheelbarrow in a corner of the yard last fall, and there it still sits, filling up with inch after inch of snow.

Yesterday was a different kind of snow day. T. and I took Bela up to Mt. Hood for an afternoon of skiing. Here we are, taking a rest in front of frozen-over Trillium Lake, the mountain rising up in the background.

Looking at old photos, take two

I'm getting a little obessive about those photos...

I have a photo of my mother. She is laughing, her eyes closed tight. Someone has just pushed her onto the bed--my father. They are playing and she pushes her backward and snaps the photo just as she lands. She makes a soft divot on the mattress. We all know what must have come next.

This is our own little apartment, she thinks. It's just the way I want it. The bed's from a garage sale, and the rest from the Salvation Army, but it's ours. It's neat. The bed stays made all day, the bedspread a smooth surface I can peel back before I slide under the cool sheets.

This was before I existed--perhaps just a heartbeat before my conception and I'd like to believe so. I manufacture my own mythology. I was conceived in joy and as I divided cells one after another, my parents contentedly lay next to each other.

What is it about these photos that attracts me? I can't get over how much my mother looks like me, how handsome my father once was. I recognize myself in them--my own life--I see their desires through my own eyes.

In one photo, my father sits in his study. A set of Encyclopedia Brittianica shelved neatly behind him. He's bought a globe and it sits atop the shelve that houses the great books. There are three books on the desk before him, and is studying. I am a knowledgeable man, a man of the world. I've gone beyond all expectations, risen above my promise though no one's asked me to.

I remember being a young child, paging through the that same set of encyclopedias. Anteater. I wanted to see a picture of their long snouts. I sat on the floor of his room waiting for him to come home. Anteater. Antelope the next entry, and not as interesting an animal.

I'm struck by how playful they are. How they honestly smile--they are not smiling for the camera--they are smiling for each other. In pictures taken now, I see fear, distance, self protection.

Looking at old photos

I have a photo of my mother and father together. It's the only one I've ever seen. Usually, dad took pictures of mom, or mom of dad. But in this one they are sitting together on someone's lawn. A number of other people sit around in lawn chairs in a circle in the background, and the grass is green, so it seems they're at a summer party.

Mom sits in a lawn chair, her shoes kicked off and several months pregnant. That's me in there, just a few months old. She wears red pants and a red-and-white checkered smock-style top to cover her growing belly. Her hair is so 60's--a smooth short bob tucked behind her ears. That was when her hair was still a shiny strawberry blonde. So pretty. She's got a red-and-white can of generic cola in her hand like she chose it just to match her outfit.

She's not looking at dad. Maybe he just asked her a question and she's looking off into the sky, thinking of the answer, or maybe she's mad at him and is avoiding eye contact, or maybe it's just a strange moment in between. It's hard to tell. But he's looking right at her, waiting for something from her. Dad's sitting on the concrete stoop of the patio, Budweiser in hand, thick sideburns frame his face, looking kind of cool in some white Adidas sneakers. He is looking at her as if they are having a conversation. As if they know each other. As if he really sees her. As if he loves her.

I'm not as angry with my father as I used to be. Ten years of silence between us has turned my anger into something that's both easier and harder to live with: a recognition of loss. Easier because I don't have to be strong about it any more. Harder because I let myself feel it.

There are other photos. Dad opening presents at Christmas. He's got a big foil bow stuck to his forehead. Mom doing dishes, a newfangled electric can opener on the counter next to the sink. One where she's laughing--it looks like he's pushed her down on the bed, and the photo doesn't show what happened next.

Those photos are different of the ones that came later. They were playful. Honest. They were seeing each other. How can I say this? It's like sometimes photos don't show you what's for real. They show you what people want to remember. But mom and dad were alone in their apartment, alone in their own little world and you can tell they weren't posing or trying to hide from one another.

How surprising it is to see them that way. My memories of their relationship begin post-divorce: hurt, betrayal, bitterness, estrangement. It's almost comforting to have proof they really did love each other. There was something there, for a little while.