Claws often come out when we all have to turn back time this weekend. It’s exceptionally difficult for our Nancy Turner who faces a feline uprising every fall. Perhaps their yowls, however, led her into this meditation and greater good.

For the first time ever this spring, I bought a pair of rose bushes for our yard. My husband enjoys his view of the roses from his man cave. They serve as a reminder that I will care as lovingly for him as I do them.

Every year, the county fair reminds us where we come from. It’s where we learn to show up and take pride in what we raise, build, bake, or grow. It’s late nights in the barn and early mornings in the wash rack. It’s kids learning that blue ribbons are earned—but blue jeans are lived in.

People are dying on our streets. They are dying in our communities. This is not hyperbole; it is the grim reality of OHA’s continued failure to support common-sense, community-driven solutions like the Columbia Gorge Resolution Center. While we work to build solutions from the ground up, OHA’s rigid and legally questionable policies actively stand in our way.

Some of my earliest friendships were with kids who traveled each year to pick alongside their parents. We’d race through the orchard rows after chores, share snacks, and swap stories in Spanglish long before I even realized what that was. Their families were, and still are, essential to this place. They bring the hands that harvest and the heart that keeps the tradition going.

When people talk about raising the minimum wage, most picture fast food workers or baristas. What they don’t picture is the family farmer—like me—who grows the fresh fruit those same workers eat at the end of their shift.

I recently came across my notes from a ceremony I attended more than twenty years ago. I’ll share my recollections with you. Remembering this couple and how they lived through a time of intolerance to a time when they could openly celebrate their union, gives me hope.

The opposite of this concern for others is indifference. If you find yourself thinking, “Oh, that’s just the way it is and there’s nothing I can do about it,” you’ll feel worse. Don’t let yourself go down that rabbit hole. It’s time for a change.

I discovered that whenever I was engaged in singing (sad or happy songs, it made no difference), I did not feel anxious or depressed. It felt as though the activity of singing changed something in my brain and nervous system. That’s exactly what music does.

Along with working to get her body back to normal, Peggy works on getting our earth back to normal. In the Gorge, we live in farm country. The use of pesticides is prolific.

I reluctantly woke up and marveled that such a peaceful image had come to me. My inner dream maker had given me a gift that transcended rational thought or words. I spontaneously started humming the Beatles’ song, “When in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: Let it be. Let it be.”

So if you are having difficulty feeling understood by a family member, coworker, or friend, take a look at your own behavior first. Do you focus more on expressing yourself than you do on listening? Is your focus more, that is, on trying to be understood than to understand?

On Toby’s twenty-first birthday, his surgeon removed his diseased colon and pulled his upper intestine down to form what was called a “W” pouch, a make-do replacement for the colon. From the hospital bed, Toby, with his rye sense of humor, cracked, “Shouldn’t I be out cruising the bars?” 

Years ago, as fall menaced the skies with rain in Portland, I interrupted my dinner preparations to answer the phone. It was my twenty-year-old son, Toby, calling from Eugene.  In my habitual good cheer, I asked, “How you doing?” Silence drained the line. With the weakness of a starving kitten, he said, “Not so good.” 

Owning and running a restaurant is not a get-rich-quick business. It’s hard work, long hours. I asked Kaye and Barry, what is most rewarding? “The positive things people say on Facebook and Google. The comments mean the world to us. This place is like a little bit of Americana, to have a dream and have it work out so well,” answered Kaye. Barry beamed, “Worth the ride!” 

Misconceptions about mental health and aging include the idea that we can become “too old” for therapy to be of any benefit, as though we were a piece of petrified wood someone was trying to water back to life! It’s worth noting that…older adults often benefit more —and more quickly— from therapy than younger people do.

“My god, it’s raining cats and dogs! What do you think? Shall we go?” I asked the trio poised silently beside me. Four-year-old Elena quipped, “I don’t see any cats and dogs… I whispered, “We need to be quiet, everybody. No talking. Got that, Angela? Toby, you hold her hand. I'll take Elena. Ready? When we get to the end of the dock, we’ll light the candles and put the rafts in the river.”

Whenever we consider a change in our lives, even a positive one, we encounter the paradox of transformation. On one hand, we are on familiar ground. It may not be the best, but it’s what we’re used to. When we think of making a change, we run the risk of losing our stable ground. We tend to settle for what is familiar. Why rock the boat?

Bob and Evelyn look like ordinary folks. Don’t be fooled.  Sure, they raised two daughters. The Brockman’s house and yard are well kept and the neighbors never complain about them. You’d never suspect they have a secret obsessive interest, mostly hidden from the public eye. 

Watching chickens go about their daily business of strutting, tilting their heads just so, to one side, then the other, and earnestly pecking at a particular spot, entertained me to no end. I could stand, leaning against the fence railing, and watch for long stretches of time. It was impossible for me to feel bad about myself around chickens.