The Thunder Rock

Sometimes magic sweeps us up in its grip, catching us unawares but keeping things delicate and safe. Saturday was pure magic for me -- every song I listened to, every alley I took in NE Portland during my walk, every chance encounter with a stranger. I just kept riding this wave of pixie dust and faith and laughter. Thank you, Universe, for offering up an exquisite day-long moment on the unofficial first day of summer.

I woke up earlier than usual -- about 6:30 a.m. -- and felt ready to take on the day. After whipping up some eggs and toast, feeding Ollie and Luna (my adorable pups), and downing a few cups of yummy coffee, I headed over to the Convention Center to watch part of the International Gay Men's Volleyball tournament. I mean, A) it's in Portland, B) it's free admission, and C) all the volleyball players are GAY. Gay men. Gay hot men. How could I not go? So, admittedly, I was a total happy camper there in the bleachers, watching the team "Beaches" play some other team. (I decided to have a "crush" on Beaches Player No. 1, so I don't even remember what the other team was called....) There was something freeing, relaxing, and totally goofy about being at a sports tournament at 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday and enjoying myself. I looked around at all the folks soaking in competition, community, cutie-pies.

After a couple hours -- and when the sun started to peek out, giving Portland a breather from all this rain -- I took a drive out to the Rhododendron Gardens in SE. Julie, thanks so much for mentioning these gardens to me! Of course I got lost at first (is anyone worse with directions than me?), but once I found the gardens I was in a little slice of heaven. I wove up and down the paths, took breaks on the benches to soak in all the flowers -- some still clinging to trees, many petals fallen down into soft and colorful beds on the gravel -- and even stopped in a horde (yes, horde) of ducks who showed absolutely no fear. Some parents and their children were feeding the ducks, and there were also geese, and the sound of quacking and flapping wings filled the air with a kind of poetry.

Later in the day, two more beautiful things happened: I was in my mom's backyard, having just mown the lawn (I loved the feel of the freshly mown grass against my fingertips as I loaded it into the yard debris bin), and I heard this chirping (baby birds, I knew right away) and I looked up at the cowboy boot-turned-birdhouse in the dogwood tree. A mom or dad finch (?) was peeking its head out the hole, and I heard all the chicks inside, eating and frolicking, and all of a sudden I just started laughing with pure joy and light. Something felt so close to me, a heavy presence of Goodness. Then I decided to walk up to Alberta Street to grab a couple slices of pizza and to rent movies. On my way home, balancing my pizza box, sauce, and newspapers, I was distracted from the music in my headphones by two sisters sitting on their porch step. I stopped and looked over, pulling my headphones down and shutting off my disc-man. The sisters were maybe 3 and 4, and sitting there in cute dresses like they were ready to go to church or their grandmother's house, and there was a picnic basket between them. I couldn't see what was inside, but I did notice there was a white-and-red checkered cloth covering the inside. The little sister -- with her bangs and wide eyes -- remained quiet the whole time. Her older sis did all the talking. "We're selling rocks," she said. "Would you like to buy one?" "Why are you selling rocks?" I asked from my place on the sidewalk; I didn't want to scare them and move in too close. She shrugged. "We just want to sell them," she said. "They're from the zoo. We're selling them for three." "Three or free?" I asked, amused. "Free. We're selling them for free. Would you like one?" I replied right away, "Of course I would!" and I moved in closer as she started rummaging around in the picnic basket. The girls' father came to the screen door, understandably; he stood on the other side of it, and we exchanged greetings. The older sister pulled a jagged, white-gray rock from the basket. "This is the biggest one," she said. "It's from a Thunder Rock. The Thunder Rock hit the ground and broke into a bunch of pieces." She reached out and I took the rock, thanking her. "It's real," she added. I said, "I'll make sure I put it on my writing desk next to other real things." Then we said our goodbyes, and I headed home, the pizza goodies in one hand while I gripped my new Thunder Rock in the other.

So here I sit, on Memorial Day, writing this passage, thankful for Saturday and its bookends, Friday and Sunday. I've been noticing that I'm smiling at weird times, and starting to feel lighter and lighter. Something beautiful is unraveling inside me, letting go.