discovered while cleaning

a pencil-written note in the margin of information printed off about Olympic National Park campgrounds: "Pay attention, it's wonderful out here."

sunset at ecola state park

tonight, for the first time in at least a month, i went up to ecola to watch the sunset. it's been a weird weekend; i'm on 'count-down' mode for when i'm leaving. i try not to be because it makes me panic a little to think 'only a month left' or 'only four weekends left' or 'this may be one of your last sundays to drive down to tillamook' - one of my favorite sunday activities. i visit the cheese factory and the petting farm with the bird that sounds like a dinosaur and stop off to walk around on the docks in garibaldi if it's not raining and check out the rocks at bay view and depending on my mood and the weather will drive to cape meares.

it was a good day to see the sunset (i could say that there are no bad days to see the sunset, but tonight the clouds and sun made the last embers of daylight really interesting) - there were big clouds and the sun broke through in crepuscular rays that shone on tillamook rock lighthouse. the sun made a pinkish glow to the east on the clouds that hovered over Arch Cape and on the waves breaking near shore (it was close to high tide). the rest of the sea was a dark blue, teal as it got closer around crescent beach. sometimes the rocks look kind of hazy over the distance from ecola but tonight they were sharp and clear. i walked down to the view point and started thinking about the things i'd done at ecola: the sunday soon after i moved here when i thought i'd walk up to the park even though i was exhausted from walking around cannon beach all day, because i had no idea it was still more than a mile up a steep, winding road to the park; walking down to crescent beach at 7 a.m. in the fall; hiking tillamook head in the pouring rain to get lewis and clark pictures; discovering the world war ii bunkers near hiker's camp; the crows that stole the cheese from our barbeque; the (tiny) chipmunk that stole my (huge) apple at lunch when i hadn't yet taken two bites out of it; the countless times i thought 'this is worth it'because i knew i could go there and see those things on my lunch hour; donna's and mine barbeque with the bag you set on fire; watching surfers at indian beach; looking for the whale vertebrae (which was so heavy it broke the bathroom scale) on the day after election day 2004; visiting the park the first time mom and donna came to visit - walking to the sea lion rocks in the wind and the rain; oystercatcher calls on the beach during an early morning low tide; covering the wedding where the 'aisle' was the pathway to the sea lion rocks; walking down the eroded area near the sea lion rocks countless times; watching elk that congregate on the cliffs and near the entrance; the 'rollercoaster' hill right before the entrance; driving up there on a sunny afternoon on lunch break listening to stories and music on the radio while the sun shone through the trees and not believing how lucky i was to see this and wondering how to measure up to having witnessed this; watching hang glider overhead on the day we decided to go to mcminnville (you know the song) - where donna thought somebody had told her about a 'really big bird' that lived there when it was actually the spruce goose; visiting with uncle ward and not being able to see 10 feet because of fog.

for all the bad things, there are so many good things. and i really want to remember the good things and what i've learned from being here. friday night, i went to the scandinavian midsummer festival, which included a 'hex burning' to symbolically say good bye to problems and welcome summer, and the scandinavian court talking about 'what their heritage meant to them.' saturday was sandcastle day - i feel a little dishonest because i had so much fun and i felt like it really wasn't my event, like i was just using, stealing the excitement of the other people who were there. But it was fun. it was interesting to see the beach crowded, but not have it be crowded - have it feel like all the people who were there were there together, as part of one collective gathering. Kids throwing balls of sand at each other and doing bellyflops into the pits dug to help the builders get water. A group of teenage boys in the braces and not-quite-comfortable-making-eye-contact stage standing and singing about fast food to the tune of 'carol of the bells' in front of the gigantic sandcastle they built. people in beach-accessible wheelchairs and elderly couples sitting on the sand, occasionally feeding their dog a part of their hot dog.

writing is such hard work. i felt so inspired at sandcastle day, so many thoughts running through my head, but i can't seem to do it justice now. i was remembering, at ecola, how i used to narrate things in my head, automatically, writing prose in my mind almost all the time. i don't do that anymore, or i hardly ever do. i wonder if that's because i'm busy now, i have things to do and my job actually requires that i write so i have less free brain power to devote to that. i miss that, though. lately i've been feeling kind of down about my writing and pessimistic about my chances of being the kind of writer that i fantastize about being: like jonathan safran foer or john updike - having that ability to really write something meaningful and thoughtful and unique that i'm proud of and doing it in a well-written and complete way. things are changing: with japan and donna to africa and sarah having a baby and marcie getting married. i look at my writing, my experiences sometimes and i can't believe that i'm 26 years old. i feel like i should have a lot more to show for nearly 26 1/2 years than what i do. but that kind of thinking gets one nowhere. strong. smart. independent woman.

'we don't believe in war, and we don't believe in luck.'

wonder of the day

(otherwise known as things that awaken the sheer, mad joy)

the sound of mary travers' - of peter, paul and mary - voice and footage of her singing in the march on washington. the sound of the spoon hitting the bowl when cooking.

taken by donna.

why i'm going to japan

i sat down to write about why i'm going to japan and how it came about and why i started this blog, and, two hours later, i ended with 1,400-plus words. i don't think posts are usually this long, but i guess this is my blog, and i don't need to worry about word limits. but, welcome, enjoy, and if you have any experience in or knowledge of japan that you'd like to share, i would love to hear it.

I tell people I fell into going to Japan. A year ago, six months ago, teaching children English (although I had considered going back to school to become an elementary school teacher or an English teacher) in Japan (although in my heart of hearts I was trying to figure out how in the world I could be so exotic as to live in another country), would never have occurred to me. I got involved by chance, a happenstance encounter with a woman – a very warm, kind and enthusiastic woman – who my sister worked with when I happened to sit next to her at a volunteer training in February. She happened to ask if I would be interested in teaching in Japan. I didn’t turn her down, but didn’t take her seriously – it wasn’t that I wasn’t interested, I just never considered it a possibility. The next Sunday, I was thinking about my future and my current job that would end in less than four months, and what was I going to do. “Why not go to Japan?” something said. “Really, why not go? You want to do something different, you’d like to try teaching, you’re ready for an adventure, you only live once. Why–not–go?”

As a reporter I feel like I’m constantly asking people questions that I myself don’t know how to answer, not about my upcoming international experience, anyway. “Why are you doing this? What do you hope to get out of the experience? What are you looking forward to? What are you afraid of? What is your long-term vision for your life? Ideally, where do you see yourself in five, ten years?” But maybe it’s not entirely fair to say that I don’t know the answers to these questions. Because that assumes that everyone I ask those questions (and when I think about how I don’t know what I’d say, I’m amazed at the insightful responses people often give), just naturally had those answers. That assumes “you have it or you don’t” - not that someone can initially NOT have the answers to those questions, realize that that’s something they’d like to figure and then develop answers – honest answers, answers they feel comfortable with. Just because I didn’t know how to articulate why I feel like this is going to a really great thing for me as soon as I said “yes” doesn’t mean that I won't ever have those answers.

Before Donna left, we talked about interviewing each other about our respective upcoming adventures overseas. When I interview people sometimes and another person they know (significant other, mother, sister, etc.) is also there, I’m really surprised at how often the other person will stop and say “I didn’t know that” during the interview. At first it made me feel like ‘yeah, I’m an awesome (there’s a word I have to stop using) journalist, a fantastic interviewer who knows how to make someone feel comfortable and share.’ Then, I realized that this information that was new to family and/or friend usually came out after a pretty mundane question. And this April when Donna was here and I started listing off the usual questions, I realized that those aren’t the kinds of things (“What will be the most challenging? What do you think you’ll miss most?”) that you usually talk about with people – even the people you’re really close to.

We never did the formal interview, but on our trip down the coast we asked each other a few questions. I can’t remember if it was on the beach at Gold Beach or when we were driving back from "A Winter's Tale," but for some reason I remember the conversation happening under a sort of cloud (of drowsiness from dark and driving, or from sun and surf and seagulls, or neither at all I don’t remember).
When Donna left, we sat on a bench in Union Station, while a line of people who also had tickets for the Empire Builder stood in the center of the building, waiting for boarding to start. We looked at pics on meisties' digital camera, I (innocently but not wisely, it turned out) struck up a conversation with a woman in a wheelchair who had parked herself near us. But, for some reason, it wasn’t until that line started moving – and it moved fast – that we really acknowledged that we wouldn’t see each other again until we had both begun pretty transformative experiences. After Donna got on the train and I walked outside, I felt like I had two choices: I could continue to feel sad about saying goodbye, and think about the fact that our lives are changing and the next time I see Miss D might be a year or more. Or I could stuff up all these powerful emotions – emotions about life events that I’ve envied other people for having – go to Target, buy deodorant, get some high-fat comfort food, and go home and watch “Deal or No Deal.” But the latter, while tempting because it’s safe and familiar (and it’s my fault that it’s become familiar), is not living. Not really. So, after I left Union Station, I drove the Rose Garden, walked around barefoot for awhile, got some Starbursts out of my bag and read. I bought a Mother’s Day present for my grandma and went to Uwajimaya (Japanese market just outside of Portland). I looked around at the tanks full of live crab and cellophane bags of dried fish snacks, selected some ramen from an aisle almost completely dedicated to ramen-related product and bought some gelatinous strawberry cookies. I listened to “This American Life” on the way home, and I felt happy.

And that is one thing that I’m working to change and hope my time living in another country will facilitate: taking advantage of the fact that, right now at this very instant, I'm living and breathing to try new things that I really want to do. I’m going to Japan for the same reasons that most people travel: I want to see new things and meet new people. But I also want to prove to myself that I don’t have to settle, that I can create an exciting and fulfilling life for myself. I want to make a home for myself in the unfamiliar. I want to figure out if I want to be a teacher or if I miss journalism after a year. I want to make friends across the Pacific that I can go visit or will come visit me for years. I want become a better person, break out of the mold that my life has fallen into, prove to myself that I can do it.

About a month and a half ago, I remembered that when I was in high school, one of the things on my “list of things to do before I die” was to learn to speak Japanese. I bought a “teach yourself Japanese” book at Media Play and everything (I’ll bet it’s still in the basement somewhere…). But I lost interest in later high school years and didn't pursue it at all in college. I didn’t remember that one-time interest in Japan when I was considering if I should take the position, or when I learned more about the job and life in Japan, or even when I accepted. I don’t know exactly what prompted that once and future goal to come back to me, but I’m glad I remembered. It makes me feel comforted, like snuggling with the blankets up to your chin or hearing someone that you know loves you say ‘I love you’; it’s like a warm wash of good feelings and reinforcement, like maybe this whole thing wasn’t so random.

I decided to sign up for this blog (my first!) in the hopes that it will serve as a good kind of “scrapbook” for the trip – a place to collect images and thoughts about my first time living in another country and within a different culture. And, of course, it’s also a way to share what’s going on in the life with family and such. But writing for a blog is a bit odd. I feel tempted to write confessionally, as if this was a journal. But, I know, I know, this is for the “world wide web” accessible to any and all who happen to search for “Cannon Beach” or “Japan” or “Ludacris tattoo” (which, really, ask me some time about the “rappers for emergency preparedness” tattoo series). Plus, there’s the issue of writing for the audience, which will likely be people who know me. So there is literarily-sound reason for mentioning Ludacris.