The Headwaters of the Salmon River, Idaho June 2020

The habit of Sunday drives that rose out of the depth of the shutdown, has expanded as I slowly make my masked way back into the world. The drives now include travel from Idaho to Oregon and back again; from Portland to Mt Hood to Sisters. The great outdoors has never seemed more precious, now that it is not only where I can escape, but where I can connect - to nature and to people. This intractable virus, it seems (fingers crossed), is somewhat humbled in its search for victims when we shelter under the protection of Mother Nature.

I explored a wider range of Sun Valley in June, discovering the trailhead for the hills behind our home. Wild flowers sent shoots up at every turn. The “Plant Snap” app allowed me to identify each plant, spurring on my blossoming horticultural hobby.

In July, I travelled the familiar trails of Mt Hood. Today, I hike during the week, as weekends have turned the forest into superhighways of people escaping from the heat and the city and the day to day realities of the pandemic. I have to say, Oregonians are largely obedient, and smart and courteous. It’s not ideal to exercise with your nose and mouth wrapped in fabric, but people are being careful and I am grateful.

Still Standing, Mt Hood Forest, July 2020

July also brought lots of miles of neighborhood walks. Each step took me past garden after garden, tended and loved. It is clear that time at home as been used to brighten up yards and neighborhoods. I am grateful for everyone’s efforts and for the joy that effort brings into my days. We live in community, and if we take care of ourselves and each other we will be better off because of that care. Gardening counts.

I lost track of my blog for awhile until its nagging finally brought me back. I’m glad to be here again, telling stories. My book is evolving, slowly, like anything worthwhile, I suppose. I have hundreds of pages of content that are patiently waiting for the right structure to welcome them into a cohesive tale. Patience, never my strong suit, is slowly weaving its magic around my efforts, making them more fruitful. The voices in my head that tell me my work is terrible, that chide me for thinking I can write a book, are very creative; shapeshifting every day to get my attention. I talk back to them, colorfully, and they retreat, but only for a time. And so, I go back to work, where I find comfort, and a measure of peace and hope. This is where I spend my days, with stories waiting to be told.