Place where I live...my thoughts

Body and Soul

The place where I live is not the place I call home. Home is where the heart is, that’s what they say. I left my heart and soul behind many moons ago. You can find it where I grew up. Crooked houses that used to stand straight hundred of years ago occupy my soul, cobblestone streets run through my veins. There I can still hear people from long ago walk along those streets, and knights passing on their horses. Longtime neighbors greet each other across the fence. This is home.

Now, I am thrown out of the Middle Ages into the Wild West. I exchanged brick walls for plywood walls. I miss the sense of old, the sense of generations before me.

A tall Douglas fir overshadows the place I live in. It is just beyond the reach – kept away by a fence. How I long to touch its bark and feel its history. Standing near it I look up to see where it ends but that too is out of reach. It makes me feel small and insignificant.

The house I live in now has no history and no character. It is the mirror image of the house across the street; placed at the end of a street, blocked by a gate. It is quiet at the end of the road but I do not feel at peace here. My cat, curled up on my lap, is my only comfort.

On the other side of the gate, I hear the water of a pond and squawking geese. At day squirrels and crows screech, telling my dog to get lost. The night brings out wild animals. Skunks leave their mark and force folks to stay inside. Raccoons, coyotes scurry by. Don’t they realize this is a tamed neighborhood?

This place, where neighbors are strangers, possesses only my body and mind. I yearn to be whole again…

Prelude

Pick a place, stay there for an hour and find out what relationship you have with the land. Does this relationship change over the next few week? This is my assignment for one of my classes.

I am picking a place…Lone Fir Cemetery. This cemetery used to be my favorite one; but over the many times I visited I became numb to the beauty of it. This is what I know about the cemetery: it is the oldest cemetery in Portland, the first burial (Stephens) happened in 1846, the land of 30 acres holds the remains of about 25,000 people…. and this is all I know. I also know that this is were I take pictures of what is left of other people’s loved ones…a headstone, often inscribed with a name and sometimes a date as to when they ceased to exist. No stories about their lives, about who they really were, what their dreams were. Today though I am not here to search for what is left of these people. Today I am here to find out if there is more to this place, maybe if there is more to who I am. I used to drive my car onto its roads and “out of respect” I would turn off my radio. Today, I will start walking again.

Here we go again...

Well, it's back to school. Not looking forward to it. A 4-week class in history and an 8-week class sociology. I just want to enjoy my summer, visit friends, go to cemeteries and sleep in...
I am wondering if it is worth it; am I getting anything out of it later on?

The Innocent

I posted this to another blog, but thought it would be important to post here too.

As I was searching for a grave marker the other day I came across this marker for a little girl. She was not even four years old. I am not sure why her marker is at Finley Sunset Hills, my research kept bringing me back to a Naval Air Station in California. I also could not find a obit at the Oregonian for her. It is sad to see grave markers for children , especially for those who died by the hands of a parent. How can anybody be so cruel to children...it sickens me.

I was sitting in the Ikea restaurant today watching people. An older couple sat at the table next to us. For half an hour they sat there, eating and looking around...but no word was spoken. It was a sad sight. Could not help but wonder if they had been together for so long that there was nothing left to say. The question remains, are we in danger to become them?