reciprocity

Definition of RECIPROCITY

1

: the quality or state of being reciprocal : mutual dependence, action, or influence

2

: a mutual exchange of privileges; specifically : a recognition by one of two countries or institutions of the validity of licenses or privileges granted by the other

Reciprocity, one of my favorite words. Every time I heard my history teacher say it I wanted to jump in his mouth. It was like he was talking about some far away place...

A place of mutual like, mutual needs, reciprocated. How exotic and foreign a concept. 

Gravity

I don't think you really miss me.
I think you miss me in theory.
Like the theory of gravity.
That the magnetic pull is what's keeping us planted here.
As if we have anywhere else to go.

Volunteers . . . my favorite flower

This summer, well, since July, I've been volunteering because I am unemployed. I volunteered with Basic Rights Oregon, donated blood, went to Orientation with Community Cycling Center and picked fruit with the Portland Fruit Tree Project.
How do I feel?

I feel lucky and productive. However, it really is one of those thankless things.
I'm not a bleeding heart liberal. I do do things for my self. I like to give back. If I have the time, why not?

I rode 39 miles in one day. The most I have ever done probably. I rode past fields of tall dry grass and picturesque blue mountains that stood majestic behind them. I sang songs to myself and whistled without a care. When the mood struck me I stopped in the shade and drank water. After consuming an apple I tucked it neatly away in the weeds for nature to take care of my waste. It was beautiful. It was a challenge. By the time the weekend was done I had ridden 67 miles. My goal of riding more than 80 was not reached. I felt accomplished though. I was proud. I built an Eiffel Tower out of Popsicle sticks. Because Popsicle sticks is what I had.

Lee's Launderette

I was at Lee’s Launderette on a Saturday night, watching my red panties swirl around in the dryer. My plans that night had fizzled. I was struck dumb by the glow of the Launderette’s florescent lighting and past issues of Mademoiselle and Good Housekeeping. The featured article in Good Housekeeping was an account of how to maintain that story book romance as well as prepare a delicious Thanksgiving meal. I salivated over the delectables pictured. Mashed potatoes glistened with melted butter. Sliced honey-glazed-spiral ham jumped off the page, and oven-baked sweet potatoes were garnished with a few miniature marshmallows (watch the calories ladies). The pièce de résistance was the turkey. It was a headless mound of golden meat. It rested its weary legs on a silver platter in the middle the dining table spread. It was waiting to be sliced, served and dished to starving cousins, nephews, nieces and aunts. With bright delight the turkey gets gobbled up, smothered with mom’s grand gravy. The Waldorf salad slides merrily down everyone’s gullet, with intent and gluttony. Aunt Flo helps clean up the dishes afterwards and stores away leftovers for turkey sandwiches. The men folk gather around the big screen and watch the game, and before long, grandpa Ted snores graciously, tummy bulging beyond capacity, in his favorite easy chair. That’s the way Good Housekeeping told it anyway. I remember Thanksgiving different.

Last year’s Thanksgiving at my house was like this . . . .

I left the crumpled post-it on the dining room table with Ollie’s home number on it. He wasn’t the only one in town who still used a landline, yet he was never home! I kept trying the number over and over, but Ollie wasn’t going to answer, because Ollie was dead. Ollie had wrestled with that turkey for five hours before the turkey finally got the better of him. Heart attack and just like that, Ollie was gone.

It was only noon, but I had already had it with this damn Thanksgiving. I needed to get out of the house. “I’ll be back in a couple hours to fix the green bean casserole and finish the laundry!” I yelled after to the kin around the TV set. As I entered the carport, I soon realized I was standing in a pool of water. The washer had busted a hose. I hurried to the launderette to get the good table clothe clean and dried for dinner. “Shit shit shit!” I declared as I rushed away in my Corolla.

Mom and dad were going to beat me back to the house. I could picture Dad in the recliner, with an opened can of Milwaukee’s Best in hand, just minutes after walking in my house. And mom will be there, bringing her famous rolls, quickly taking to scouring the inserts on the stove with steel wool. I can hear her now, “I taught Arlene how to clean better than this.” Oh my my. Why the hell do I want to go back there? And why the hell does every Thanksgiving end up with someone dead?

At night I am restless.
I flicker like the flame in this candle before me.
I read the fiction
the romanticized notions
the picture perfect couples.
I sit flickering.

Urban Hike #1

Today we got a break from the rain. I hurried and got on my boots and went for a nice walk. I got a little rained on, but it was well worth it. I took some photos while I was out and about. These were taken in the neighborhoods known as Irvington and Sabin.

The Art of Walking

I don't think I have ever written about this on my blog, but I love the outdoors. I've been cooped up for the past few days recovering from surgery, and tonight I was near campus outside waiting for my dinner date, enjoying the cold crisp air after class. Just being outside for that short bit lifted my spirits.
I like to think about where I'm going to explore next? When can I go? How much time can I take? I work and go to school, so I am very limited in my actual getting-away, but I have many days where I "urban-hike." Last week, for example, I walked from Albina and Interstate (the yellow line max stop) and to home. I stopped there after class intentionally so I could get the chance to see a different stretch of a neighborhood I so often just pass through. When I got home I want to see how far it was from point A to B so I Googled it. Google said it was about 2.6 miles. Which isn't that far. But considering the extra walking I did around campus and at work, it adds up. (And it is certainly more the average American.)
On my urban outing, I stopped in at The Rebuilding Center just for fun, didn't see anything I couldn't live without and decided to grab some food at Mississippi Pizza before heading the rest of the way home. All in all I probably walked more than 4 miles this particular day. I walk a lot, often because I don't own a car, but often I prefer the pace of walking. Cars often seem claustrophobic, and if I'm on the bus during rush hour, walking is often the better choice for peace and quiet.
There is so much to see in the Northwest that gets absorbed much better when I take the time to hike around. The urban trails I've made and committed to memory make life that much more satisfying. It isn't about the gear that gets packed or the weight I eliminated off my shoulders, it is about the journey. A walk seems to put things into perspective. It isn't technical or stressful. Most days it is the most satisfying thing I do.
I read other people's blogs that are backpackers and ultralighter's, and I am a bit of a gear-nut myself I admit. I like to go to REI and visit all the websites that obsess about backpacking gear. I am often reminded that this is just how adults get to be kids again. The big difference between the times I spent outdoors as a kid and the hiking trips I do nowadays has to do with planning and price-tags. I had gear when I was a kid. I had so much gear and camouflage one of the neighbors in my old neighborhood, a Vietnam-vet, said "We didn't even have that much stuff when we were fighting in the jungle." So, now that I'm an adult, and the prospect of playing in the woods is somewhere in the near future, I get to be that kid again. Although I'd love to have some of my camouflage gear back. -R

Letting go

Two monks were returning to the monastery in the evening. It had rained and there were puddles of water on the road sides. At one place a beautiful young woman was standing unable to walk accross because of a puddle of water. The elder of the two monks went up to a her lifted her in his alms and left her on the other side of the road, and continued his way to the monastery.
In the evening the younger monk came to the elder monk and said, "Sir, as monks, we cannot touch a woman ?"
The elder monk answered "yes, brother".
Then the younger monk asks again, " but then Sir, how is that you lifted that woman on the roadside ?"
The elder monk smiled at him and told him " I left her on the other side of the road, but you are still carrying her "

-From Zen Flesh Zen Bones

New Years' are about letting go of what happened last year. I like to burn some of the things that I need to rid myself of. It is a good ritual. It helps the mind let go of a physical thing. Up up and away, I offer my past to the fire. It gives me smoke and new hope.