Spring

Back in February, the Willamette River was so low you could walk all the way to the boat dock on the beach instead of on the paved path above.  As I strolled along, I found a perfect little rock, pure black, inexplicably smooth, shaped like a teardrop. That's the first day I truly knew in my heart that I would leave OPB.

I carried the rock with me as I spent two weeks tromping around the wet, wintry countryside trying to reconcile my head with my heart.  I carried it as I said goodbye to my longtime friends and colleagues.  And I carried it as I muddled through these unsettled in-between days.

It's been an uncommonly sad time, getting used to the idea of being away from the familiar places and people I've grown to love, in exchange for a fresh opportunity. Yet across these contemplative weeks of transition, I watched the dark of winter reluctantly turn into the enchantment of spring, and have been reminded of the good that can come from change.

How the thin slivers of buds in the maple trees resemble thousands of tiny fireflies lighting up the dark woods. How the stark moss that defined the shape of the forest fades against the freshness of new growth. And how the snowmelt, silent, pure and frozen only moments before, now bounds exuberantly over the rocks while giant bumblebees feed from the blooms of the salmonberry along the shore.

Determined to experience spring in the wild once more before embarking on my new work, I packed up my brand new hiking shoes and headed into the gorge. The wildflowers were charming.  The weather, not so much. High on the open face of the ridge just below Angel's Rest, where the ancient timber burned in the big fire of 1991, a dark cloud passed through and created a surprisingly wet rainstorm. 

But a drippy jacket was a small price to pay for the scramble up the final set of rocks and a seat on a boulder at the top.  Because there, you find clarity from being above it all, inspiration from the massive strength of the river below, and tranquility from the hawk who rides the wind for minutes on end without once beating its wings.

As I sat and looked out, I finally felt that it was time to leave the sadness behind.  On a whim, I took my perfect little traveling rock out of my backpack, leaned out over the edge of the cliff, and placed it in a mossy little bowl carved out by the wind and rain.

I'd like to imagine that someone will come along who also wants to feel the delight of peering over the edge.  And I hope they'll wonder how that magical little rock got there, and that they'll reach out and let it accompany them for a time.

Even though I'll never know what happens, I do know that tomorrow is a new day.

Poem in your pocket

The New Year's resolution I kept was to read more poetry.

Poems are fascinating to discover, easy to carry with you, and enjoyable to return to. The spareness of the form allows you to experience the heart of an idea in a powerful way that's completely different from a story or an essay. And it demands strength. Absent the luxury of hiding, it must bravely stand alone on the page defining itself from the very first word.

Today is Poem in Your Pocket day.  We literally get to carry a poem with us all day long.  The poem I chose to place alongside the magic rock I've been carrying around, is part of a Robert Frost poem titled "A Lone Striker." It reminds me of my favorite hike, and will be a fine companion today as I shop for new hiking shoes.

He knew another place, a wood,
And in it, tall as trees, were cliffs;
And if he stood on one of these,
'Twould be among the tops of trees,
Their upper branches round him wreathing,
Their breathing mingled with his breathing.
If - if he stood! Enough of ifs!
He knew a path that wanted walking;
He knew a spring that wanted drinking;
A thought that wanted further thinking;
A love that wanted re-renewing.
Nor was this just a way of talking
To save him the expense of doing.
With him it boded action, deed.

The factory was very fine;
He wished it all the modern speed.
Yet, after all, 'twas not divine,
That is to say, 'twas not a church.
He never would assume that he'd
Be any institution's need.
But he said then and still would say
If there should ever come a day
When industry seemed like to die
Because he left it in the lurch,
Or even merely seemed to pine
For want of his approval, why
Come get him - they knew where to search.

The allure of the mountain

Growing up with ski-teaching parents, we tumbled around the slopes of the Ski Bowl pretty much all winter long.  I loved speeding down the hill. I hated the cold, wet snow on my face and under my collar. I still hear about and vaguely recall, how on less than pleasant days, I would bury my face deep in my jacket all the way up the chair lift and shun any attempt at conversation with something akin to a grunt.

Upon my sister-encouraged return to skiing several years ago, I realized that I could choose to ski in whatever weather I wished. And I've become a much more charming ski partner because of it.  But fair weather skiing sometimes means you get imperfect snow.  At 9am this morning the snow was already what I would call two o'clock snow, mushy and likened to mashed potatoes by the funny ski patrol guy who carries suntan lotion and candy in his pocket.

Luckily the digging out of the Palmer lift had been recently completed and the snow was a little firmer up top.  To me, the best thing about Palmer is the arrival. First you ski out and face a stunning panoramic view with Mt. Jefferson standing tall in the center. Then before you drop off into the steepness, you turn to look up and feel like you're so close to the top you can nearly touch it.

After a couple of hours, with worn out legs, I rode up one final time, skied out as far as possible, took off my skis and jammed them into the snow to form a solitary lounge chair. This is one of my favorite things to do.

To be on the open face of the mountain, just over the rise that hides the lifts and people from view is to experience a remarkable feeling of freedom. Nothing stands between you and the sky.  The spare landscape is stunningly tempting, a bright white ocean breaking in a clean line against the piercing blue.  The stillness accents the spectacular drama above as ice breaks away and crashes down from the jagged rock face. And the wings of the crows sound wonderfully powerful as they beat against the thin air.

Today, I watch the climbers disappear one by one into a single cloud that shrouds the top of the mountain and refuses to let go, even in the warm spring sun.  I watch the cloud slowly dance around the summit and see how its shadow alters the look of the ice from moment to moment. I talk with a disappointed climber who waited near the top for almost an hour before turning back without achieving his goal. But he's still happy enough to be out on the mountain on a beautiful day.

And then I look down to my side and am surprised to find a tiny lady bug gingerly walking across the snow, carefully placing her feet one by one on the minute crystals that make up the vastness of the snow field.  I reach out and let her sit on my hand for a few moments and ask her what she's doing so high up on the mountain.  In answer, she silently stretches her legs, opens her wings and tosses herself up into the blue sky and over the ridge. I will never know.

It's always a good day on the mountain.

Complexity

I always meant to read Anna Karenina. My handsome navy blue leather bound edition is evidence of that fact.  Yet I know why I've not yet jumped at the opportunity. The book itself is more than two inches wide.  It's heavy. The pages are dark with dense writing and long paragraphs.  And the page count: a whopping 736. Last Sunday, we attended a brand new theater adaptation of the novel which peaked my curiosity and moved the daunting book to the top of my list.

To me, a play becomes brilliant when it evolves into something more, when it reveals feelings and ideas in a new way, and best of all, when it delivers me to a place beyond my seat in the theater, if only for a few moments.

In this case, I could never get past the fact that I was watching actors on a stage marking their places, conveying their gestures and delivering their lines.  It was enjoyable, well-acted and well-staged, yet the portrayal seemed too basic and uncomplicated to truthfully reveal the depth of feeling this searing story about our human imperfections must possess.

I can't help but think that inside this celebrated novel, there must be a stunning richness of passion and thought and conflict and ideas that are inherent in making the often difficult choice to follow your heart.  And that it's the complexity of all these things playing against each other that creates brilliance and delivers true artistic power.

In a week where I've sometimes felt like a one-sided caricature, my mind focused on my professional life, on the changing of profiles and email addresses, on setting up my new space, and on the unsettled nature of this in-between time, I received an email from a dear friend with a great line in it. "I think of you as a lover of gardens!" 

For more than 20 years, Deb and I have had a fun friendship formed by proximity and revolving around our gardens and our cats. We were the only two in our traditional suburban neighborhood who opted for a purposefully unruly look that involved paths and stones and plants tumbling over one another rather than green lawns and shrub-filled borders. Our gardens were places of constant change as we moved, divided and added, in an attempt to create beauty and form. And we never did get rid of all the weeds.

Last year, in an inspiring search for a fulfilling endeavor, she left our now familiar corner to live and work in a 90-year old farmhouse on 10 acres at the coast.  Stunningly overgrown and in disrepair, she took on the unimaginably difficult task of wrestling the charm of the place out of wildness. Already, you can see the results of a wonderful passion and energy.  And you can feel how the marvelous complexity of thoughts and ideas that led to taking this leap is adding beauty to the world.

It's a nice reminder that we all carry wonderful complexities that can be seen in the diversity of things we choose to do and create. And that many things worth doing are probably not all that simple, and without the imperfections, maybe not nearly as interesting either.

And now to find the time for some more reading....

Goodbye OPB

 

I'm not sure there was ever a time when OPB wasn't in my life.  I remember watching the first episode of Sesame Street with my mom when I was four, back when watching TV was a really big deal in our house. After that, OPB was never far away. The Electric Company taught me to love words.  Arthur Fiedler taught me to love music. Mr. Rogers tried to teach me to be calm.  And I've since discovered so many amazing and magical things, all because of OPB.

Seventeen years ago on a snowy February day when I first walked in the door, I would never have predicted how completely this place would steal my heart. The friendships and partnerships I've gained are truly irreplaceable. And the surprising lure of on-air fundraising captured me so completely - from the suspense of being on the edge of the goal, to the thrill of making it, to the wild twists and turns that happen in between, and even the occasional misery of failure.

I love that I know where all the light switches are in the dark at 5am, and where the balloons, streamers and prize wheels are hidden away, and that when you put together costumed characters and unruly hosts and fabulously creative people, wild things happen. I love that my kids slept on my desk as tiny babies because I simply couldn't stay away, and that my kitchen counter has been an assembly line for pom poms, signs and other fabulous sparkle for parades, membership drives and events.

Mostly, I feel incredibly fortunate to have been a part of something genuinely remarkable and beloved. It's been an exceptional gift to have the opportunity to be completely connected, to work hard, laugh often, and have a ton of unbelievable fun. Sometimes it demanded everything, but that was worth it, because that's when the magic happens.

It's difficult to believe this is the end of what has been.  Maybe that's the best time to go - when you're still a little bit in love with a place. It's the hardest thing to do. But you get to keep the friendship and the magic, and that's what really matters.

How to raise $11 million

Awake at 4:29am.  Responding to a pre-departure request.

WHAT I DID**
Build strategy
Manage resources
Make decisions
Navigate politics
Find people
Connect people
Create cohesion
Have ideas
Steal ideas
Share ideas
Seek opportunity
Build strength
Downplay weakness
Develop messages
Design campaigns
Make things bigger
Add sparkle 
Generate fun
Celebrate achievement
Prune trees
Make crafts
Say yes
Aim for perfect
Rarely achieve perfect 
Don't let anything stop you

**Sometimes it worked.  Sometimes it didn't.

In the desert

Unlike the traditional pack of cousins that arrive in sets and tumble around as kids, most of us on my dad's side of the family are separated by ten or fifteen years.  But it's never too late to play.  So last week, we fled our rain-soaked world to enjoy some playtime with my cousin Cindy who lives the leisurely post-work life in sunny Arizona.

It was marvelous to share adventures, pool time, conversation and laughs while watching the herons glide by and the hummingbirds flit around the backyard.  And the best part of the experience (besides the fun people) was getting to know the desert and watching my supposedly hike-averse kids climbing over rocks with abandon and delight, even though they later pretended they were quite bored.

I was struck by the powerful, almost haunting character of the desert.  How the stark angular mountains thrust from the earth, stand in stoic defiance of their ultimate fate of being slowly erased by the wind and weather. And how the open desert in the rocky plain below exhibits its own disconcerting type of defiance, giving the eye no real place to rest, yet demanding attention as if its taunting or daring you to even try to understand.

It's so utterly unlike the snow-covered mountains and green forests I know so well, that seem somehow more secure in their majesty and more inviting in their presence. Or perhaps that's merely familiarity I feel.

But when I stepped inside on my own two feet, the strange allure of the place began to make more sense. On that scale, I could see the fierce individualism and ingenious design that defines the desert. How the cholla with its fresh spring needles literally glowed in the noontime sun.  And the soft ocotillo buds that had not yet opened resembled menacing orange barbs protecting the delicate ends of the plants.  The low growing cactus briefly sported near-fluorescent oranges and pinks on their tips.  And the otherworldly shapes of the saguaros stood sentry over it all.

It becomes clear that each desert plant survives by both vigorously protecting  itself and creating its own special brilliance. And in doing so, fashions a place that suits the strength and solitude of the creatures who inhabit it, the rattlesnake and the lizard, of which we had the pleasure of seeing with our own two eyes.

Just as family resemblance runs deep and often harkens back to experiences and events that happened a lifetime ago or more, so it seems the character of the desert has been well molded across the ages by its own distinctive world. And what a fantastical character it is.