After winter

There was just one little blossom on the stem when I planted my pansy last year. But it was a pretty little blossom so I put in it in my window box with a few other little blossoms and hoped it would be happy.

The summer was hard on it. Or maybe it was me. The unrelenting desert sun and dry heat, combined with my unpredictable watering and frequent travels, left it struggling at times, though valiantly blossoming at others.

And then came winter -- a cold, hard winter, freezing temperatures and deep snow that could only have been very hard on my already-stressed little pansy.

Imagine my surprise then, when spring came and there was green sprouting in my window box. And imagine my delight when those little sprouts turned into big, healthy masses of pansy blossoms.

I can't help but wonder if it was surviving all the tough stuff that made that little pansy stronger and more beautiful. Did it find something inside that helped it hang on through the dry and then the cold? Did the quiet time of turning in to heal build even greater determination? Did the time to reflect, away from the bright lights of life, help it celebrate even more the beauty of sunshine and warmth?

It makes me think.

And gives me hope.

And makes me wish the same for one who is in the middle of her own private winter.

Latest studies

I can't remember if I read it in TIME or the DesNews or on-line or Atlantic Monthly or Family Circle or, yes, AARP magazine. But I'm not worried about not remembering where I read it anymore. Because what I read was pretty much that forgetting things is all in your mind. Yes.

There was this scientific study where they divided old people -- the youngest of whom were actually as old as me -- into two groups and gave them tests. The first group was told that this was a test of how good or bad their memory was. The second group was the placebo group -- they were told the test was about a subject that had nothing to do with memory but that I can't remember now but I'm not worried about not remembering it anymore.

So, the group that was told they were having their memory tested scored worse -- probably because they were so sure they were old and had a bad memory. You may need to read this through a few times before it makes sense.

But the study made sense to me. When you forget a word or a name, you are so busy thinking, "I forgot that word or name because I am now old and old people forget words and names and it probably means I have early-onset Alzheimers and pretty soon I won't remember my kids names because I've already forgotten their birthweights and I'll likely be in a home soon and people will come to visit me and then tell their friends funny stories about all the silly things I said when I couldn't remember who they were or what they were talking about."

And with your mind going in that direction and beyond, it's no wonder you can't remember the word you were working to remember. You probably can't even remember why you wanted to remember that word.

I've tried to adjust to this logical scientific finding. When I can't think of a word, I now try to focus on the word rather than my future in a nursing home. And sometimes then, I even remember the word.

I love it when studies tell you something you want believe but didn't dare hope. They've even come up with one that says chocolate is good for you. Yea for science.

On the lighter side

Spotted in recent travels:

But this, from the top of Haleakala in Maui, Hawaii in 2006, still wins:

Looking around

Perspective is the way you look at things. And it changes. Sometimes you look closely at something to see its detail. Sometimes you step back and look at that something and how it fits in with all its surroundings. Sometimes you turn around and look at what that something would see if it could look.

Sometimes you look up. Sometimes you look back.

Perspectives from the Brooklyn Bridge hardly seem to come from the same place.

Perspective is how you look at life too. And it can change as well. Maybe you were looking so closely at life one day that you were worried about what to fix for dinner. And then maybe the next day you stepped back and looked at life with a broader view and realized that dinner really wasn't a thing to be worried about. Maybe one day you looked up. Maybe one day you looked back. And maybe one day you looked at life through someone who was looking in a different direction than you were looking in.

And then maybe you saw something you'd missed before.

Wandering and wishing

Just when you're about to step out onto the wide expanse of beach with the cliffs on one side and the little old building that used to house the lightkeepers just below them, with the waves curling at your feet and the eagles swooping overhead, you spot it. A little black sign with unfriendly white letters: Posted. No trespassing. Keep out.

And you stop with a start. Are they kidding? The beach? Is private?

So you look for another way to enter the rock-strewn beach and walk along the bay, only to find more unfriendly black signs with white letters.

And when you do find a little community park close to the water, there is no access to the beach because the bridge for some reason that also defies logic ends before it gets to the sand spit and the tangle of weeds is impenetrable.

And you're surprised. And disappointed.

And when you finally find access to the beach that seems legal, you're not sure how far you can walk without being accused of infringing on someone else's turf.

And you say to yourself: This never happened in Oregon.

And then you remember hearing about an Oregon governor -- long before you started walking on Oregon beaches -- who made all of Oregon's coastline public. And you wish that maybe Washington's governor would do the same.

On the way

It's not just when you get there that you see interesting sights.


Sometimes it's along the way.




While heading out to Forks, Washington for a photography workshop last month, I came across these scenes.

Some required a detour. But detours often payoff.





Maybe that's why you hear all that talk about joy in the journey. Maybe getting there is just as fun as being there.

I am not making this up

It had been two years since I'd last stayed in Forks, Washington for a photography workshop.

Little about the quiet lumber town had changed, despite its new-found fame.

Only one specialty store.

And the signs.

The marquee at our motel, the Olympic Suites Inn, read, "Edward Cullen didn't sleep here."

I arrived on a Friday afternoon. It was, incredibly, the day of the local blood drive.

At the high school.