Diligent Optimism

I have been putting this off…Partly because I don’t like writing very negative stuff; not because I am always perky or annoyingly optimistic (maybe I am to some, though), but because the negative usually resolves itself and I don’t like seeing old negativity sticking around (forever or until The EMP apocalypse in the case of the Internet). So, as the inevitable downside to my relocation to a new state reared its cranky head, I simply stopped writing for a while.

But then November 8 happened and I wondered if I would ever write again. I know that sounds dramatic, and it is. On November 8, 2016, enough of the people registered as voters in just the right places in America, decided that Donald J Trump should be our 45^th President. Ok, there, I said it; wrote it down and reread it. Now where to go? Thousands have written about this phenomenon- for it is phenomenal that 60+ million people would decide that this blowhard, narcissistic, intentionally uninformed demagogue should be Commander in Chief of the United states of America. The Home of the Brave. The Land of the Free.

People have written about how he won, why he won, how people need to get over it, how people had better not get over it, how people should unify and how people should fight. The opinions and the fact checkers and the politicos and the “experts” all have something to say about where we are and how we got here and where we will be going.  Every day, no, every minute, social media trends some new story that illustrates how the President-elect is thinking (or not), what he values, how the government may be run after January 20, 2017. Trump supporters have entrenched themselves in the self-righteousness of the victors. Trump critics lob salvos of information, context, innuendo and opinion hoping against hope that the tide will shift and America will come to its senses.

I find myself exhausted by it all. I am aghast at what I read and hear. I am trying to be a good steward of information and glean news from varying sources in an attempt to actually be well informed, not just inflamed. I read the NYT, listen to NPR, watch PBS, I even go to Fox News. I Snope things, I Fact Check things. I try to remain positive that this person who refuses to give up his global business interests, who brings his children in to diplomatic meetings, who refuses to let the smart people near him actually teach him, who is madly appointing people to head organizations that they have openly tried to thwart, if not destroy…I try to remain positive that he will somehow, in the next five weeks, become presidential. Or that the Electoral College and the Congress will come to its sense and not ratify this Presidency…

Above all else, I work very hard every.single.day. to not let my fear and anger over this election affect my relationships.  Again, dramatic. I know many people who voted for this moron in a gilded penthouse; this mangled apricot hellbeast (thank you, Scotland, this is my favorite descriptor).  The people I know who voted for him are good people. They are not racist, they are not misogynists-hell, many are women (although we know that, historically women have often acted against their own best interests), some are even people of color! Holy hell, I say to myself, why would they vote for him?!?  Vote third party, vote for a sick marmoset, but not him!  I remind myself DAILY that these people saw something else in him. Whether it was just a seething hatred for Hillary Clinton (which, I will never understand, but I think Patton Oswald was on to something—look it up), a resonance of the idea of an “outsider” winning the election, or just the promise to return long gone jobs…something spoke to them louder than any “ism.”  I don’t get it, but I try, for the sake of my relationships, to accept their decision. Time will tell if these same people will realize just what they have unleashed. Trump spewed hatred to a level that I have never seen in any election (but you know, I am still young). His diatribes went beyond striking at policy and attacked the personal; nationality, religion, gender, disability. He encouraged violence.  And he appealed to the scummiest of our nation; the racist underbelly that has been looking for something to legitimize it’s cause. Misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, and isolationist nationalism, all found a home in the man who will now be President. His speeches, while horrifying to some, emboldened the worst of us to take action against our fellow human beings; in the streets and on subways, on college campuses, at the gas pumps and in public venues. People of color, LGBTQ, women, and Muslims;  verbally and physically assaulted in plain view by people totally confident that they were doing so with the support of their candidate. Now, people are palpably afraid. They are afraid that this unapologetic and zealous hate is the new norm and will be followed by the loss of hard-won rights.

Trump is, as of this writing, on a “Thank You” tour of states that supported him and won him the election. He touts the unprecedented nature of his victory; his landslide of historical significance (For the record, I believe history will recall a puffed-up windbag who could not differentiate truth from fiction, and a renewed public fervor to discard the Electoral College whose votes are slated to go to Trump while a historically large number of votes wanted his opponent in office [2.8 million and counting]). Interestingly, his speeches are leaving his own supporters befuddled, confused and more than a little unsure because he is suddenly removing the mask, drawing back the emerald curtain, and telling them that his fiery rhetoric and promises of dramatic action “played well” for the election. What must that say to the millions of people who are counting on him to fix their socio-economic woes? Who will they blame when he doesn’t come through? As of this inauguration the country will see a lop-sided shift of power; Republicans will control the White House, the Congress, and in theory, the Supreme Court. All branches of government will shift right. The giddiness some of them must feel. The headlines are crammed with stories of the theoretical plans whirring through their conservative imaginations: Obamacare repealed! EPA dismantled! Labor in the hands of a businessman! National Security run by a paranoid, xenophobic, conspiracy loving, Islam-hater! Secretary of Education run by a rich, school-for-profit, Christian zealot. It is all enough to make us liberal elitists cry in our hypoallergenic pillows.

I have barely scratched the surface with my little rant. There is much more that can (should?) be feared in this unprecedented time. But there are a couple of things to consider: 1. Be careful what you wish for, and 2. Hope.

Be Careful What you Wish For

Yes, the pride and determination that the Republicans in, or entering office must feel! They now have at least the potential to make striking changes to our public landscape. Legislation that changes the law of the land to reflect their political, moral, social, and fiscal values is more than possible. What will they do? I submit that they, like Mr. Trump, will rethink some of their bluster. It is all too easy to say that sweeping change will come; it is another thing entirely to make that change happen. If that change does happen and your constituents are suddenly worse off? If the Republicans can’t come up with a better alternative to Obamacare? If the fundamentalists try to repeal gay marriage rights, abortion laws, or even amend the Constitution itself?

Even Trump supporters have their limits. The people who voted Trump in office don't want P.T Barnum, they want... Who DO they want? They elected him on his promises that he was an outsider, someone who would make things better for them. If he and his cronies don’t make that happen?  The pendulum will swing again and it will be years before it swings back to the right. Certainly if I realize this, they do.. 

I hear mutterings of power grabs and how Trump is another Hitler. Perhaps. Anything is possible. Dictatorships have started with less, but I have more faith in my fellow Americans than that they will follow sheepishly while a demagogue riles up the (relatively) few haters in a crowd to the point where black shirts rule the night and goose-stepping replaces P.E in schools. 

For now, disturbing as it all seems, it is rhetoric. Opinion, supposition and pandering chatter aimed at appeasing a certain sector; an attempt to live up to the considerable hype of the past 18 months. Thus for now, I remain an optimist, but a diligent optimist. I am prepared to see the reality of the situation, good or bad. If somehow, Trump meets the challenge put in front of him, then bully for him (and us). But if hate sells itself as justified nationalism, and prejudice tries to disguise itself as patriotism, I am ready. I have too much at stake not to be vigilant. I have predecessors who sacrificed so that I can enjoy the freedoms I do, and young ones who will follow me for whom I want things to be even better.

Hope

…is a funny thing. At times it transcends reason. We look to hope for little things (I hope my kid gets to play in the big game) and during our darkest moments. It is the loss of hope that stops us in our tracks; keeps us from going forward, and can push us backward. In the face of overwhelming odds, hope is what gets us to the next week or day or minute. It is hope that I truly believe moves us forward at this ridiculous point in history. Most of us, no really, think about it…most of us have people in our lives who are people of color, or LGBTQ, or non-Christians, or women, or have people who love people who are some or all of the above.  When the rubber meets the road and our freedom to love who we choose, pray to whom we feel we must, take care of our own bodies, or our children’s, I am confident that we will, in the perfect word of Maya Angelou, RISE. 

We will rise with the lessons we have learned over time. That color of skin doesn’t fucking matter, except to add a beautiful palette to our world; that it’s more important that people love than who they love; that if people pray, the only thing that matters is to pray for peace; that women and men are equally important and deserving of respect, and that we must stand for those who cannot. These are fundamental truths in my life and in the lives of so very many.

There are enough of us to fight them if it comes down to it. By legislation, by peaceful protest; by pushing back. With our words, our wallets and our wherewithal.

And they know it.

And it scares them.

And it should.

So I am not afraid. I am determined. And if those who wish to leave their thumbprint on me come forward, they had better be prepared for my bleeding heart liberalism to morph into ferocity.

Geese in the Sand Trap and a Robot in the Hall

Moving to a new geographical area is always an adventure. Sometimes the adventure is due to the exotic nature of the move (from the U.S to Nepal, Los Angeles to Wilmot, AR [pop 522], etc.), but it is important not to underestimate the entertainment value of simply moving across a few states. Recently, if you've read my most recent posts, you know that my family is trying to transition to a new state; Washington. Now, it should be noted, that while I have never been an expat,  I have lived in my fair share of places within the U.S. and I have traveled a bit abroad. My academic foci in grad school centered around intercultural communication and how people acculturate when they relocate. Still, now it seems I tend to pay attention to the little details of difference that often just plain amuse.

Yeah!
Every region has its own words, expressions or practices regarding conversation. If, as Rita Mae Brown said, language is the roadmap of a culture (it is certainly one), then slang is a shortcut to the back alley subcultures of which all broader cultures are made. Colloquialisms are found everywhere. While there has been discussion that regional colloquialisms seem to be dying out in favor of a national jargon, I submit that travelers will find regional patois wherever they roam. In southeastern Washington one of the more noticeable Tri-Cities-isms is "Yeah." Not the (slightly lazy) affirmative response to a question, or an expression of agreement, no. In this case, "yeah" is said in response to "Thank You." The first time I received this response it was from a teenage kid working a drive-through window. I figured the kid was raised by wolves and disregarded the moment (because now that I am old I do that sort of thing). Then it happened at a sit-down restaurant. Granted, it wasn't Nobu or Tavern on the Green, but come on! My plate was put in front of me, I said Thank You, and was answered with YEAH. I am fairly certain that, at that point, the ghost of my grammarian-by-hobby grandmother silently brandished the Oxford Guide to English Grammar and mourned the imminent downfall of western civilization. Even then, though, I thought the response was a coincidence...By the time the third person said it, I knew it was a "thing" and started paying even more attention (at this point, if you are thinking I have too much time on my hands, you couldn't be less correct; I am simply somewhat obsessive sometimes). I started hearing it at work, I heard it between familiars and in more formal conversations. I heard it between adults and also between kids. I am now waiting for my ten year-old to start saying it (Gramma, where is that book?). Here's the thing, and it's probably just me, "Yeah" sounds so weird as a response for "Thank You." Someone might as well say, "refrigerator."  How in the hell did "yeah" become a thing? Perhaps it morphed from someone saying "Sure"  or in response to "Thank You." So, basically it took a condensed term and uber-condensed it...why? The worst part is, I tend to be a pretty good mimic, I have a good ear for languages and I learn slang quickly, (I think it is an unconscious attempt to immerse myself in the group), so I am not afraid to admit that I may end up jumping onto the "yeah" wagon. Sigh. In a year, if I am saying "Yeah" as "You're Welcome," you, dear reader, have my permission to hit me upside the head with a grammar book.

I do NOT want a straw with that...
I've started drinking more coffee. Nothing hardcore, I am no connoisseur. I am fine with Starbucks  (most of the coffee snobs have now stopped reading) and it must have lots of milk, cream (ice, whipped or liquid, or, preferably all three), sugar and some sort of chocolate, caramel, cinnamon, nutmeg, or vanilla foo-foo flavoring in there is good too (no hazelnut, I'm not a maniac). This increased consumption of caffeine-laden, roasted bean juice is in direct response to my move to Washington. The truth is, the transition is very stressful and sustained stress makes me tired. I go to bed tired, I wake up tired, and I spend every day at varying levels of constant fatigue. So I drink coffee; at least two shots of espresso in some iced or hot form every day. I realize this is not a lot of coffee for long-time coffee drinkers, but I think we are talking gateway amounts here... I typically vary my coffee procurement between Starbucks (and there go the last of the coffee snobs), a local Tri-Cities place called Roasters, and a regional favorite, Dutch Bros. Unless the morning is already very warm I usually buy a hot coffee. So, imagine my surprise when I was asked if I wanted a straw. I am going to let that sink in, but you should know, it wasn't an accidental question; the barista knew I ordered hot coffee. Seriously. A straw. How could anyone decide that drinking hot coffee with a straw is a good idea? Sucking potentially scalding liquid through a small hole and shooting it into your mouth and straight to the back of the throat. Seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do, right? One of my friends, an ex-barista said that he knew people who ordered straws with their coffee so that the coffee and it's staining properties would by-pass newly whitened teeth. In some weird, American vanity gone mad sort of way, that explanation makes sort of a skewed sense. In point of fact, I have only ever seen three women using straws in their hot coffee and they do have remarkably white teeth. End of mystery? Probably, but it still seems like an unnecessarily masochist means of consuming hot coffee.I suppose, though, that I won't worry too much until someone gives me a spoon with my steak...

The geese have landed...
Having relocated from an area where I saw wildlife on a regular basis, I truly dig the number of waterfowl that spend their summer on or near the Columbia River in the area. Canada geese are especially numerous and amuse me no end because they are relatively fearless creatures and can apparently be quite an annoyance to the locals. Say what you will about the terrorizing potential of a large goose (One friend would walk across the street to avoid the inevitable confrontation with a particular pair of geese in her neighborhood), they are not stupid creatures. When we first visited the area and were walking along the Columbia, we met a gaggle that included several young goslings. My daughter got perilously close to the babies and the mothers (or nannies, as they certainly do use the village concept of raising their young) didn't raise a feather, but when some "immature" children came by and wanted to hold the babies, the adult geese broke into two groups; one herding the little ones to safety while the others went after the culprits. To their credit, the parents of the boys asked them if they learned anything and kept on with their walk. For their part, the birds continued with their routine with nary a feather out of place.

The place where I now work has cooling water (Cooling what? I have no idea-don't judge me, I'm still a tourist.) in large ponds that sit in the midst of buildings on campus. They include fountains and add a pleasing aesthetic to the commons area. The first time I saw the area was during my interview day and I noticed that there also seemed to be dogs on the premises. German Shepherds to be exact. Several of them, guarding what I could only assume were strategically mysterious areas of the grounds. Impressive, I thought, and then I realized the dogs were moving in a wholly unnatural bobbing motion. Face palm. Turns out these black, metal silhouettes of dogs (ahem) are used to keep the geese away. The dogs (who have collar tags with the acronym of the place on them-woof) sit on a spring that allows the slightest breeze to move them, thus keeping those pesky geese from settling on the area around the cooling ponds. Aww, I thought, the water, which is a strangely hued blue, must not be safe for the geese, so they are keeping them away for their own good. Nope. Sometimes I wonder how I lived this long being so naive. The dogs perpetually stand guard to protect the cement walkways (and thus those who walk on the walkways) from an over-abundance of...you got it...goose poop. Turns out those feathered gangs produce loads of waste and don't give a honk where they deposit it. Apparently the dogs work pretty well, as I saw only a small amount of goose guano and have not yet seen a goose on the premises.

Say what you will about the terrorizing potential of a large goose (One friend would walk across the street to avoid the inevitable confrontation with a particular pair of geese in her neighborhood), they are not stupid creatures. When we first visited the area and were walking along the Columbia, we met a gaggle that included several young goslings. My daughter got perilously close to the babies and the mothers (or nannies, as they certainly do use the village concept of raising their young) didn't raise a feather, but when some "immature" children came by and wanted to hold the babies, the adult geese broke into two groups; one herding the little ones to safety while the others went after the culprits. To their credit, the parents of the boys asked them if they learned anything and kept on with their walk. For their part, the birds continued with their routine with nary a feather out of place.

In other areas of Richland, the geese have invaded the leisure time of the locals. Not being short on water, Richland has built a golf course in the middle of town, replete with (perhaps naturally occurring) marshes that serve as water traps. These reed-ringed ponds also make great goose bait. Add to the aqueous treat the presence of grass and conveniently placed sand traps (to help them digest said grass), and you have a veritable waterfowl wonderland! The geese descend on this spot with no concern for the traffic streaming nearby, nor the golfers wishing to play through. Once, while at a red light, I saw a man shake some sort of golf club in an attempt to scare the geese. Rookie. The next thing I saw was the over-tanned retiree retreating across the green while chased to his golf cart by at least five adult geese. Advantage, badass waterfowl.

Aye, robot!
Skynet. H.A.L. Robbie the Robot. Science fiction abounds with instruments designed to serve humanity that ultimately turn on its creators. My theory, is that the overthrow of humans will not come from the coup d'etat of our defense systems or the mutiny of our smarter-than-us companions. Rather, I suggest that it will be the meek robots who inherit the earth; those robots who seem harmless, those that aren't even designed to "think" in complex ways. Case in point; the carpet-clening-bot. This bot, as my not-going-to-get-myself-sued-name suggests is a floor cleaning robot; an overgrown, hyper-steroidal version of those little round robot vacuums that are the subject of ten thousand hapless cat videos on YouTube. Recently, my employer deployed one of these monsters in the building that houses my office. To be fair, they sent out notification a couple of weeks before they brought it in, and I thought, cat videos; small, innocuous, harmless, defenseless, and drop-kickable if necessary. Instead, I rounded a corner in the hallway yesterday and came face to face with the imminent downfall of humanity. It was huge and it was humming. This thing was designed specifically NOT to look at all menacing; slightly square in form, no discernible features that could be mistaken for eyes, and as far as I know, no vocal capabilities. In sum, it was reminiscent of the purser robots from film Wall-E; meant to do a job and then stay out of the way. It will avoid walls and people and office furniture and presumably not try to overthrow the free world in an instant of apocalyptic chaos of our smart phones morphing into zombie-making death machines. All this being said, the true menace (and yes, that may be a harsh term) of this robot is what it means to the person whose job it is now doing. The notification stated that the robot will clean the floors, thus allowing the custodian to focus on other tasks, but it also said that the robot will save a boat load of money; implying that the custodian will, in fact, lose hours. Harumpf...Is this where my eyes are opened to my new, seemingly benevolent employer who will turn out to be a northwest version of the evil empire? Turns out, the answer is NO! Hope abounds because who, do you think, dear reader, is in charge of ensuring the bot is charged; the human who comes when the bot sends a signal that it has come to an obstacle in its floor-cleaning path? The custodian! It turns out that another reason for the bot-deployment was to mitigate the effects of the repetitive motion injuries that are common from the vacuuming motion. Not exactly the evil empire after all.  This turn of events makes me happy because the truth is that I am not creative enough to think of a future overrun by vicious robots, but it wouldn't be the first time that big business had been short-sided with regard to its human talent. Pro-robot people (whatever they are called) posit that robots only take the jobs that humans don't really want to do anyway and that the associated technology will always require human intervention, and thus, provide job security for mankind. Oh sure, if you are a robotics engineer. I realize that some of this cynicism is a little hysterical, and probably a function of getting older (we don't worry less as we age, we simply worry about different things). Also, I like our custodian, she is gregarious and works hard and we chat in the hallway. I like seeing her face when we talk, her animation and her emotional response. I like that we exchange pleasantries and commiserate about the mid-week hump. She also goes home when her work is done, she doesn't sit in the corner, humming, recharging herself, and plotting the downfall of humanity.

A couple of weeks later, I am not only accustomed to the Bot, but now I find myself anthropomorphizing that silly rounded square that cruises the floor. I found a pattern in its lights that actually resemble a friendly face (coincidence?!), and when I encounter it during its rounds, I feel bad for it when it gets stuck. But it could be worse, at least it's not honking and chasing me down the hall....

Pay Attention

I returned to New Mexico (where my husband, dogs, daughter, and the majority of my stuff still live) over the July 4th weekend. Before returning home, I'd noticed some definite tones when talking to my daughter on the phone, that suggested she was depressed. Despite claims to the contrary, she started isolating herself and acting out. Nothing too dramatic, but these things were signals, so when I got home I asked her if she wanted to return to Washington, earlier than we had originally anticipated, where we would get to know our new world together until the balance of our lives finally show up. She jumped at the chance, I think, because she is a pre-teen girl and because she is ready for a change as much as her Dad and I.

This Transition we are trying to make, it is a fairly big one and causes a ton of stress. Both of us in a new place, trying to find our feet, make new friends, learn new routines; it make us both beyond tired. On the other hand, having another person to explore the new environs with me was also a reminder that we had places to go and beaches to explore, so I planned a trip to the Oregon coast. Upon telling some Tri-Cities people where we were headed, a couple of them said, "Oh, once you get past The Dalles, it is a gorgeous drive." OK...I expected barren, lifeless visages, poison water holes, bandits, and maybe rabid Jackalopes. Boy, was I wrong (and so were my informants ). The weekends we took to the coast presented us with some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen.

The drive out of Kennewick, Washington, is punctuated by rolling farmland; about 30 miles of it before we reach the Columbia River and the border with Oregon. After another 20 or so minutes of farm country and a couple of small towns, the road starts to run parallel with the Columbia. The river is wide, it is deep and it kept us company for the next three hours as we made our way across the state to Portland.

One striking set of features visible early in the drive was the plethora of windmills, sorry, wind turbines (those high-tech, white marvels whose blades are as long as a commercial truck trailer) that sprinkle the landscape. Most were still during our first strip,  but I knew if someone had gone to the trouble and expense of installing hundreds of them along the crests of  hills for as far as we could see, there must often be something spectacular blowing across this area. In fact, during our second trip we learned that the wind can scream up the canyons to the east of The Dalles, as if trying to bully the Columbia into flowing in the opposite direction. The river responds with white caps and wind waves that crash against the small rock islands that dot the river. The dark teal water nevertheless continues its trek towards the ocean, carving ever-deeper into the gorge. The country through which it travels on the "east side" varies between rolling hills that look like velvet, covered in wheat-colored desert grasses, and jagged peaks and cliffs the color of aged mahogany. The landscape is beautiful, in a brutal, pay-attention-or-it-will-kick-your-ass kind of way. It is easy to imagine Lewis and Clark and company traversing these waters and then getting hit by the wind. Did they move close to the cliffs in an attempt to avoid the full force of winds that would surely surge them backwards, despite the push of men and paddles? I was slammed out of my reverie by the shove of wind against the car. Pay attention.

After hugging the cliff sides and following the curves of the river, driving defensively against the wind, we reached The Dalles (pronounced "The Dals" and yes, the "The" must be there). This spot in the river, the third oldest incorporated city in Oregon, was a campsite of Lewis and Clark, the end of the overland Oregon Trail, a hub of Native American trading for thousands of years, and the location of an extremely treacherous set of rapids on the Columbia. The area, a channel two miles long, 150 feet wide and 150 feet deep felt the brunt of the entire volume of the river pounding down the canyon. In 1957 The Dalles Dam was opened, its back fill waters effectively drowning the historic Celillo Falls and taming the once-grand rapids in the area. The Dalles also represents the beginning of a change in topography in our journey to the Pacific Ocean. Rolling hills give way to mountains and the desert yields to evergreens. By the time we reached Hood River, about 24 miles down the road, the arid landscape was replaced by the welcoming softness of evergreen and deciduous forests, and with them, more people on the road. Pay attention.

We reached what is clearly identified as the sexy part of the Columbia gorge. This area is even officially called "scenic" and truly it meets the classic definition. Along this route there are dozens of waterfalls that spill out of the mountains and into the river. Multnomah, Bridal Veil, and Wahkeena Falls are some of the 90 or so falls that feed into the river along this route. By this time in the journey we also reached the wet side of the State. Clouds here are more dense with moisture and thus more likely to let loose. In spring and summer, splashes of wildflowers show their appreciation for the showers by jumping up wherever the trees leave room, adding some bright diversity to the palette of 10,000 greens. This area is like the beauty queen contestant of the natural world; flaunting what its Mama gave it in a way that cannot help be dazzling, if a little over-the-top. But with such grandeur also comes the downside; thousands of people. Foot and vehicle traffic can reach mind-numbing proportions and parking lots and their associated highway exits are often closed due to the congestion.  There are gorgeous scenic byways that one can drive; small mileage treks that are actually the old Columbia River Highway, still sporting beautiful remnants of a time when even the highways were designed with aesthetics in mind. These roads travel under canopies of trees and close to water falls and afford the opportunity to actually slow down (whether due to narrow lanes or many cars) and take a look at the surroundings. Pay attention.

Exiting the western end of the goge our route took us to the outskirts of Portland, the largest city in Oregon. Portland is a lovely city, with a mix of new and old architecture, a great foodie scene and terrible freeway infrastructure. Yes, Portland suffers a mean rush hour exacerbated by older, narrow freeways (Pasadena Freeway, anyone?). Any trip to the coast that involves passing through Portland and its surrounding towns should include proper planning to avoid the worst of the congestion which, for a city of this moderate size, feels Los Angeles-esque in its wear and tear on car brakes.  Portland, however, boasts more Prius', Fits and Leafs than LA's Benzs, Hummers, and BMWs. If you are gong to clog the highway, do it sustainably...ahem (0_o). Our first trip to the coast was planned...poorly, and the Portland traffic added an hour to the trip. Pay attention (sigh).

The final leg of our most recent trip to the coast took us across route 26, out of Portland and across broad farmlands and into misty temperate rainforest mountains. The trees in these coastal ranges are literally dripping with gray-green moss that hangs over the twisting, undulating roads. These roads tested patience as we inevitably encountered many a campsite-on-wheels (RVs) doing their best to maintain speed in the you-think-this-is-the-last-6% grade-but-no-wait! mountain roads; roads whose signs reminded us that we might also encounter elk or deer (weeeee!). An hour and a half to two hours later (I lost track, to be honest) we saw the first hint of the Pacific; an elusive swath of deep blue peeking momentarily out on the way down and between mountains. The drive down then included a briny scent in addition to the already humid air. We were so close that it was difficult for me not to speed on this downhill race to the sea. Pay attention.

This trip brought us to Cannon Beach, a cute, intentionally touristy, but surf town-vibed community with more hotels than houses. The roads were narrow, the tourists on foot or bicycle were many, and the people unusually friendly considering it was mid-summer in a customer-driven economy. Our hotel was large and at first I thought we were in the wrong place because I couldn't tell that there could possibly be rooms facing the beach (a luxury I have no problem paying for). Upon checking in we were directed to our room; we had to descend stairs from the parking lot to reach it (if a tsunami hit in the middle of the night, we were screwed). The room indeed faced the beach and had a glorious view of Haystack Rock and the Pacific. Cannon Beach as a community has been a going concern for more than 150 years. William Clark visited the area with Sacagawea in 1806 where he bartered with local Tillamook natives for whale blubber and oil. Clark applied the name Ekoll (Ehkoli is a Chinook word for whale) to the nearby creek and settlers later called their community Elk Creek. In 1846, a cannon from the U.S schooner, The Shark, washed ashore near the area. The schooner hit land at the Columbia Bar (a.k.a the Graveyard of the Pacific) and was destroyed. The cannon was lost and

subsequently rediscovered in 1898 and spurred the name change of the town, made official in 1922. Cannon Beach itself is reminiscent of much of the Oregon coast; civilization tempered by the wildness of the cold, rough ocean and temperate rainforests. Rock formations abound (Haystack Rock being the centerpiece at Cannon Beach). Anyone who grew up watching The Goonies will half-expect to see One-eyed Willie's ship come sailing out between the rocks. The rocky coast also provides homes for  a myriad of tidal zone creatures; the notable exception nowadays being sea stars. The sea stars suffered a wasting disease that caused a near-extinction event up and down the Pacific coast in 2014. While some of the sea stars have bounced back with juveniles seeming to flourish again, the stars are sadly missing from much of the tide pools along the coast of Oregon. While not yet certain of the complete cause, scientists have found a link between the wasting and human touch of the sea stars. Pay attention.

When I was a kid, you couldn't keep me out of the water at the beach. It didn't matter if it was cold or even raining, I would always make a bee-line for the water. My Mom used to tell me a story about a particular visit she and my father made to Santa Monica beach when I was a toddler. They put me in a playpen they set up under a beach umbrella to keep me wrangled. She and my father then went to the water (yes, left alone on the beach; it was the 60s). She said I started crying and the crying devolved into screaming. She figured it was because I was left alone so she went back to join me. I kept screaming. My father joined us, but to no avail. I kept wailing until my Dad, in desperation, took me down to the water. The minute I was able to touch the water, I stopped screaming. My Mom and Dad took turns slathering me in Sea N' Ski and taking me into the water. My daughter, too, is a water baby and both times we visited the Oregon coast she made a straight line for the water. I am still soothed by the sea, but I no longer feel the need to necessarily be IN the water. In fact, the water felt painfully cold, but there was no stopping my child. She played in the water while I stood, ankle deep, ready to run in after her in the event her body seized up from the cold. Of course it never happened, but when she finally did come out, she took to the warm sand and later a shower. Two days at the beach that included, tide pooling, wandering the lengths, falling asleep to the sound of the waves, and playing in the water (OK, I kept to the warm pools left by the receding tide). Bliss. Peace. Serenity. Paying attention - to us.

At the end of our visit we ventured back toward the southeastern desert wherein lies the Tri-Cities. As I drove, my daughter dozed, dreaming of warm sand and cold water, and listening to her iPod. The traffic was easy going this direction and I reveled in the peace that being near the ocean, with at least part of my family, had brought me. We were going back to continue the adventure, the transition of our lives. This jaunt to the sea allowed us time together and away from the anxiety of a new job I still wonder if I can do successfully, and the fear that a ten year-old has when her entire life changes literally overnight. As I drove, I watched the early evening light fall on the Columbia; changing the river from blue to silver to gold as I went east. By the time I got to the eastern entrance of the gorge there was no wind, the turbines once again still. We would need more weekends like this, next time with my husband and soon, I hoped, with the canine contingent of the family. Time to be together and remember why we are making this change in the first place. "We can do this," I thought. We just need....to pay attention.

A Change of Life (No, not THAT change...)

Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach OR

I was sitting on the beach. It was a Saturday afternoon. The sand was warm, but not burn-my-feet blazing; the day was temperate and breezy and there were clouds. I could see the offshore siblings of these clouds and they looked more serious; the watercolor brushstrokes of dark gray falling onto the
Pacific told me it was raining out there. Here, though, it was the perfect kind of day to forget that we hadn't spent a lot of time lazing in the sun this summer, even though July is waning, so we needed sunblock and didn't have any on hand. We would pay for this lapse in solar memory later, but for now I watched the tide slowly come in on an Oregon coast beach, while my ten year old dozed next to me buried neck deep in the sand. I kept thinking about how we got here.

How the hell did we get here...?

For a few years I was unhappy at some core level with my job. Pfffffffft (or worse) you say! I know! First World problem! It seems that most people I know are, somehow, unhappy on the job. I am personally acquainted with only a relative few people who wake up everyday with passion in their intention and a spring in their step. But I wasn't even looking to be passionate, I would have settled for distracted contentment. Nope, I had reached some kind of internal line in the sand and didn't even realize it until I received what seemed like a random email. The email contained notification of a widespread job search; that the hiring organization had not yet found the level of candidacy they sought (I note this now because it is an ego boost for me, not because it is particularly relevant to the story). Long story short: I had an uber-crappy day at work and applied for the job on a whim. The job was in WA. Now, I am not the most self-confident of people. Yes, I am smart, and yes, I seem to be ok at what I do, but after years of going no further in my career, watching people (mostly men) around me get paid WAY more, and wondering if this was going to be the rest of my life, my sense of self-efficacy and innate career value, were a bit dodgy. Thus, I was a bit astounded when I received a response asking for an interview. The whirlwind started then; a first interview, less than a week later, an onsite interview that consisted of flying to WA, an early breakfast interview, a formal interview with panel, an interview with the big boss, lunch (still "on"), a quick tour and then off to HR to hear why this place would be a great place to relocate my life (and my husband's, child's, and dogs'). The next day, I flew home early and by the time I drove into my driveway, a voicemail was waiting wherein they told me I was their candidate of choice. You should know, this kind of thing DOESN'T HAPPEN TO ME (ok, I guess it does now...). I am no rockstar at work, nor a golden girl who was rising through the ranks. On the contrary, I stumbled upon the job that somehow became my career, and was all but coerced into applying for the first line management position that I then held for seven years. I waited for their offer, calculating what it would take to move me from where I'd spent the last 16 years.

It is funny (in a psychotic way) how we can pine for change to happen in our lives and then become slightly paralyzed when the opportunity presents itself. When the organization demonstrated just how serious they were about hiring me, I suddenly needed to find my big girl panties and make a decision. In order to do that, I flew with my family to the area because there was no way i was going to unilaterally decide to move us 1200 miles northwest.

And now a word or two about the Tri-Cities in Washington state. First, I said Washington so you likely thought green and rainy, didn't you? Yeah I did when I first saw the job ad. Dear reader, did you know there is desert in Washington? Back in the days of the Manhattan Project this area in southeastern Washington was home to the B Reactor; the first full-scale plutonium production reactor in the world. Plutonium from this site was used in the first nuclear bombs (Fat Man and Little Boy), and we all know what happened to them. I spent the past 16 years working at Los Alamos National Laboratory (home of said bombs) with mixed results on my conscience the entire time. Now I faced the prospect of moving to another desert that was once chosen, at least in part, for its isolated
location, and that grew up into more, despite itself. The Tri-Cities (Tell me you don't hear John Ratzenberger's voice every time you read that name!) and its role in history might be relegated to library archives and seldom-used internet links if it weren't for one thing: WATER. Not a little water,

The Columbia 

nor some wannabe seasonally streaming creek that only runs during the rainy season. Oh no, the high-quality H2O of which I speak is none other than the MIGHTY COLUMBIA RIVER. Yes, I am shouting. This giant, and ever impressive river flows through the area where two other rivers, the Yakima and the Snake, join its journey to the Pacific. So while the Hanford site is infamous for being the most contaminated nuclear site in the country, the
economy of the area continues to grow in large part because of the river. (You can probably tell I am a bit infatuated with the Columbia, more on that another time.) The river allows massive irrigation and therefore a huge economy of agriculture. And, after decades of farmers growing corn and wheat, someone discovered that the area is marvelous for grapes! Thus, a strong, award winning vineyard culture has grown up around the area as well.

Going for THE VISIT

But back to the decision. The balance of my nuclear family (no pun intended) liked the area. David was willing to change his life because, in his words, "It's your turn." My ten year old girl decided it would broaden her horizons (after saying this she told me she didn't know what that meant, but after I explained it, she said, "See?"). So, after thinking long and hard for a week, I took the job. Holy crap, I took the job.

They say (Whoever "they" are, they have strong opinions and considerable street cred) that some of the most stressful life events we must work through include moving and changing jobs. Great.  I will say at the outset of this section that the hullabaloo surrounding the exit of a job and the logistical insanity of trying to move one's entire life to a different part of the country where a new job will commence, is indeed a challenge (please note, at this moment, how calmly I seem to be relating this angst). Once I made my decision to exit stage left, I had to tell people. My intention was to give enough time so that at least an interim replacement could be identified, I could finish some projects, and the whole transition could be done as seemlessly as possible (and, let's be honest here, to give myself ample time to get my act together before relocating). Suffice it to say, I will never do that again. Best intentions aside, giving more than two weeks simply gives people more time to ignore, deny, overreact, and freak out (in about that order) over the worker leaving. It does, however, give the person exiting ample time to feel some long overdue love (I am shameless, I know) and enjoy a great going away party. Emotionally, though, I had no idea to what extent I had wrecked myself. What made me think that leaving my family (including my ten year-old daughter) for an indefinite amount of time would be easy?

It wasn't.

During the following six weeks from ending one job to acknowledging my first month in the other, I would randomly and seemingly inexplicably experience the following: excitement, elation, panic, fear, self-doubt, other-doubt, everything-doubt; loneliness, pride, confidence, curiosity, peace, desperation, exhaustion, relief, contentment, amazement....oh you get the point. And I am not even going to attempt to discuss the shock to my system upon learning that I missed my old job, learned that I had made real friends during all those years, and found that my old, "pack everything you own and drive off" self wasn't going to cut it this time around. During this change my internal life's been the equivalent of a super bouncy ball let loose in a Tilt-a-Whirl. I am pretty sure that my family would say the same thing about their own perspectives at this point.

We've eaten well...

Now the emotions are slowly calming down. My new job has a definite learning curve, but every week it feels not quite as vertigo-inducingly steep. As of this writing, though, my family remains unsettled. My husband, dogs and "stuff" (read, everything in our house) are still in the southwest. I am still in corporate housing (which is lovely so please don't think, prison compound or dreary, Cold War-era concrete duplex), and my daughter (who is at the age where she wants her Mom) joined me in early July, so I am definitely not as lonely as I was.  I did learn, in no uncertain terms, that my family being together is the most important part of my life. There are still many uncertainties with regard to how we will actually get to be together, but I am hopeful that paths will open up and we will choose the one that meets our needs. We have passed through the acute pain of long-overdue change, and are seeking, if nothing else, a focal point that will help us navigate the remaining logistical quandary. Unfortunately, the next bit is pretty much out of our control and I do my best to subdue the nagging ache to figure it out and make it happen (let it go, let it go, let it go). But the first (fairly big) steps in this adventure are taken, and it's not all bad by any means; Nora and I take opportunities to explore the easily reached Oregon coast, which bring us back to how we got here...The answer seems to be, Be Careful What You Wish For.

Next time: The actual path to the beach...