Reach out

You think you are doing the right thing.  You buy the time that may save your life.  You move your wife away from her friends, and farther away from her children, to lessen your commutes, to be closer to your work, to be closer to nature. Everyday you see the beauty of nature all around you, but, at times, you hear the loneliness in your wife's voice and heart.

Then, the text from her friend.  One of the friends we dined with, and partied with.  The one who lost her sister to cancer.

Then, the text from her friend.

"I start chemo next week."

And there is nothing you can say.


DN

Part Time Poet

It’s not easy being a part time poet.  I live in a beautiful part of the country where the clouds, sunlight, trees, flowing river, animals, all lend themselves to moments, events, or thoughts that beg to be written down and shared.  The problem is, I am a part time poet.  I don’t always have the time to sit down, relax, and write.  I don’t have the time to get into the moment.

 

Just yesterday, it seemed to come to the forefront.  My wife and I were rushing out the door.  Yesterday was a cloudy, blustery, windy day.  I was leaving the house, turning out the lights, locking the doors, and, …leaving.  That very moment, a line crept into my head. A beautiful line, great words, great rythmn.  A perfect first line begging for a poignant poem.  This happens to me an awful lot.  I get these little seeds.  Sometimes they germinate for a day and grow into beautiful thoughts.  Sometimes they fall on unfertile ground and wither to a wasted potential.  

In this moment, I thought that sounds great.  I will write it in my head and it will be great.  I turned out the lights, grabbed my keys and jacket and walked out the front door.  As I turned to lock the front door, I started to think of all the things we needed to do that day.  Saturday chores, shopping, shoestores, grocery stores, my wife’s flu shot.  And there you have it.  That second, that moment, my great line was gone.

Truthfully, I didn’t remember losing the line until this morning.  The same weather conditions, lighting, all combined to make me remember the moment of loss.  I remember the moment.  I can’t remember one word that gave me that feeling.  It is gone.  

This morning I scribbled these lines on a note pad in the kitchen:

First line, lost and … gone.  Just before trekking out the door, a line not written, an emotion deeply felt. Chores, and journeys.  A day’s rest.  The emotion remembered. But not the line.

 

Such is the life of a part time poet.  I think I have an idea for another blog.  But I just don’t have the time right now. 

DN. 

Safe Harbor

My wife and I live in Hood River, Oregon.   We like to stroll along the river to watch the sail boarders and kite surfers dance on the river.  The wind through the Columbia River Gorge is amazing and gives rise to a lot of wind daredevils. 

One particular evening we were strolling by the yacht club.  It was windy on the river, but all the berths in the harbor were in use.  Every boat was anchored, no sails were rigged. We could hear the lines of the sails whipping against the metals masts.

"The ships are safe within the harbor.  But is that what ships are for?"  

I was told that Albert Einstein said that.  But looking for the proper citation for this little entry I stumbled upon "https://quoteinvestigator.com/2013/12/09/safe-harbor/".  The Quote Investigator tells me that this saying should be attributed to John A. Shedd, from his  1928 volume, "Salt from My Attic."

So, I will go with that.  

On entering my sixth decade...

On Friday, July 27th, 2018, I entered into my sixth decade on this great planet.  I have spent the weekend in deep thought about my life as it is.  I have a beautiful life. I have been blessed with great parents, (R.I.P.), great brothers (Mark, R.I.P.) and sisters.   I have a wife who gave me two great kids. My wife has connected me with another whole family, aunts, uncles, cousins, and more sisters.  I believe I have really accomplished everything I set out to do. My life is blessed.

This weekend I celebrate my sixty years on this  planet. Friday spent in pensive thought and restfullness.  Saturday, a farmer's market and off to a winery for wine and music.

And today, Sunday, my wife and I took a trip to the Maryhill Art Museum out in the gorge.  It was something I have wanted to do.  What a great little trip.  It is about 45 minutes east of us in Hood River, Oregon.  It was a nice drive although all the hills are now covered with a dry, tan grass. It is a nice museum.  I was pleased that the Rodin exhibit was still there.  I have been a huge fan of Rodin's sculptures.  The ruggedness of their form still manages to capture all the emotion meant to evoke.   We were lucky to see it.  

After a tour of the museum we drove about 4 miles east to the Stonehenge Memorial.  Sam Hill, the benefactor for the Maryhill museum also contracted for a replica of the Druids Stonehenge site up here in the Columbia Gorge.  The replica was built as a memorial to the 11 Klickitac county young men who lost their lives in The Great War (AKA the war to end all wars, World War I).  The memorial contains plaques honoring those 11 young men -- not a one older than 30, most in their early 20s.

This memorial was built in the 1920s or 30s.  It was not until later that the WWII memorial was added, as well as the American wars since, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

The Stonehenge memorial touched me this weekend as I turned 60.  The young men memorialized here were barely in their 20s. I have lived triple their life span.  I wonder if I have accomplished enough to justify their sacrifice.  Should we not all live our lives to the betterment of society?  Should we not live our lives to make these men proud and to honor their sacrifice.  We should be taught this early on in our educations.  I wonder, if knowing this now, that we must live such as to honor those who have given their lives for our continued freedom and liberty, I wonder.  Can I still make the necessary changes to my life, so to make those who have given me this life, proud?

I wake up every day and try.     

Oregon Trail

I live on the Oregon Trail.
And enjoy all the hope
and treasures the journey affords. 
And God is my neighbor.  

D.R. Normand
C. 2018

A Mystery of Life

The other day was a particularly stressful day at work.  I was struggling with trying to understand a sufficiently difficult task so that I could write the procedures about it.  I was struggling with how to make it understandable to the normal person.

The engineer I was working with called it "black magic" and said no one understands it.  Know that Joe is an engineer and went through yeas of training in math and science to get to where he is now.  I am a technical writer, a geographer, trained in maps, blueprint analysis, and the ability to read two dimensional depictions of three dimensional items.  This "black magic" is a mystery to me.

During the course of my research into this topic I was introduced to a concept called "Fast Fourier Transform".  It was basically important for me to understand this concept, so I used my trusty research associate, "Google" and ran a search.  My associate came back with a website called "Betterexplained.com".  This site takes math concepts and simplifies them.  This site told me a little about Joseph Fourier and his transforms.  They even mentioned a descriptive model that he had about circular forms being made into a staircase.  STAIR CASE??!!  JOSEPH.  Whoa!!

Joe is my engineering cohorts name.  Wow.  Amazing.  Staircase? Joe! St. Joseph's staircase!  (https://www.lorettochapel.com/info/staircase).  "Black magic"? No.  It is the beauty of a higher power.  The workings of this problem, this task?  The understanding is part of the mystery of life.  To understand it, you just gotta have faith.  That much I understood.  It is a miracle that I figured that out.

DN. 

So, I sit and stare...

I stare at the blankness of the beckoning page.  Do I have something to say?  The emptiness taunts me, the blankness, like a silent elevator among strangers, I am compelled to make a joke.  Compelled to speak.  The silence is painful.   The blankness is painful. And so, I throw ink on the page, words to  the silence.  AND for what?  What is this saying other than I feel a need to communicate.  I in my silence.  My blissful silence.  I, the lonely poet,  I feel a need to speak?

No, not speak.  A need to communicate.  This is my communication.  This is my voice.  These are my songs, my blogs.  This is what I do. 

Whenever.I.remember...

DN

Blogger Since 2007

I started my blog in 2007.  I've been at it for over ten years now.  When I got laid off last summer, I started to look for other income streams.  I went into my blogger account and checked my account balance.  My balance was a cool $25.00.

So, over the last ten years I have made $2.50 a year off of my blog.  Contrast that with 265 working days (365-100 weekend days = 265) in a year.  So, my blog has yielded me less than a penny a day.  And there you have it.  A penny for my thoughts.

That would be true if I blogged everyday.  But I don't.  My total blog posts actually dilute my worth.  Does that mean I will give it up?  No, or course not.  Write, I must.

I guess this just proves the point.  "It ain't about the money."

But I want it to be.

David Normand.

Rowena Plateau

The last two and a half years have been an adventure.  Job losses, pulling family roots, moving towns, moving states.  But we landed in a place I never want to leave.
  

We live in the great Northwest, where God is our neighbor.  He lives here in the trees and streams and sends us fresh air every day.  It is the greatest pleasure I have known. 

Unfortunately, the past few weeks we weren’t listening.  Somehow I picked up some respiratory crud.  It knocked us for a loop.  Weather too cold outside, so we locked ourselves in our new apartment.  Some lingering germs maybe?   We fought it. 

This weekend we may have finally knocked the illness that has haunted our household the last few weeks.  Friday, was the first day both of us started feeling like we had our old energy back.  Real bad cold threw us for a loop.

My wife works from home now, and I have the chance to, if I am under the weather or just don’t feel like spreading germs.  So, last month good friends of ours were in town and we went walking in downtown Hood River for souvenirs and other novelties.  I bought this book about places to see and trails to hike in our neighborhood.  This weekend, feeling much better, my wife suggested that we take the book and explore. 

Ten miles east of our town is a scenic overlook and trailhead to the Rowena Plateau.  We both thought this would be a nice leisurely way to start to get some fresh air and gain our strength back. 

A wonderful hike.  

We started out overlooking the Columbia River.  Then a short hike into the meadows.  Awesome.  

The little white dots in the river are wind surfers.  The water actually had white caps today.  A good strong west wind. 

Lupine

The HIstoric Columbia Gorge Hwy 30. 

Balsamroot flowers.

And below, more Balsamroot flowers, the trail be some basalt outcrops, Ponderingwife, and I-84 to points east.

The Day

Smile, I meant to say,
    to you on this beautiful day,
    when we wake up, breathing and living.

A day, the gift to any mortal being,
    when the night and fears are fleeing,
    the day begins, a gift for the giving.

David Normand, March 2018

To Honor My Dad

On This day he would have been 88 years old.

Night Words

after 3 years

I was away when you died.
You said “safe travels” before I left,
Words I should have said to you.

But my plans could not be changed.
The rule-breaking was not for me.
The die had been cast.

I was not meant to be there,
By Whoever’s plans, as in
Other things, and other lives.

David R. Normand, 3-31-2018