Why do I blog? This was a question, though valid, that blindsided me a few weeks ago.
A long time friend who's opinions I not only value but seek was asking out of curiosity and a small amount of bewilderment, the idea of blogging being as foreign to her as the act of sharing an ice cream cone with a sibling is to a five year old. She wanted to know how I could be comfortable airing all of my personal laundry in a venue accessible to anyone with a computer.
I had never really thought about it - my only questioning of this practice was in response to a self created aversion to having to admit to being a blogger - and struggled to come up with a simple explanation. It was during the process of formulating my response that I was struck with the curiosity as to why it is a practice more questionable than common, though I suppose the extent of the freedom with which I divulge my thoughts does beg the question.
While I understand the inherent desire to keep one's private thoughts away from public opinion I wonder why so many people are afraid to share their stories; it is almost as though most people either do not feel they have an experience worth sharing or struggle with the belief that they have an adequate voice. It seems to me that happiness and understanding in life is created through connection and connection is increased through commonality. This being fairly true, what better way is there to assist others in their journey than through these shared stories as stories make us laugh and cry; stories can put into words emotions we cannot voice and can help us understand our own feelings.
But I digress as all of these thoughts are in avoidance of the question itself. So, getting past the questioning of the question, I do suppose, on the basest level, the reason I blog is to feed my ego.
While I do use blogging as a means to organize and substantiate the thoughts that spend hours swimming around in my conscious mind in an attempt to gain understanding, it is the desire to hear people's responses to these thoughts that truly draws me to the practice. A secondary goal of my ego houses the hope that I am capable of one day writing a book or two and, thus, I use this outlet to hone my rough voice and gather the opinions of others about what is readable and what is gibberish (and, please, if anyone wants to be my editor, let me know as grasp of grammar and punctuation eludes me like a dropped garden hose at full pressure).
I have found through this whole process that others' opinions have provided the biggest enjoyment for me; my favorite opinion has been geared towards how unexpected my voice and thoughts are to the readers. I suppose being lost in my own head for so long I had thought that judgment passed on the cause of my quiet and confused nature was easy to ascertain, I sense now that the judgments passed may have ranged much father outside of the realm of "philosophical dilemmas" and am curious - and perhaps a bit scared - as to people's initial thoughts about who I am.
Another digression aside, I have found that while searching for an adequate way to respond to a simple question I came across a complex process (and yes, I am aware that this may have to do more with my nature than with anything). I have also found that, though difficult at times, this process is one I would be remiss to trade as the insights I have received into others has been invaluable.
And so I ask, what do you have to say, what stories in your life have provided you comfort and guidance? Maybe they can help others - or at least provide us amusement in their read. Why not share? Blogging is simple, and you don't even have to be as egotistical as me to start.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
My trip's itinerary - phase one (Trip part 5)
I am going to leave Corvallis in less than two weeks with every nook and cranny of my van packed. I feel at ease about the trip but have one concern, the weight of a packed cabin and the van's lacking manliness. I fear that its 67 horsepower possibly is deficient in adequate power for the uphill battles and I fully expect to have to drop a cinder block on the accelerator as I jump out and push. Forseeing no way to pack less than planned, I guess this will be a good way to ensure I am exercising along the way as well.
When I tell people I am going to be living in my van many laugh, the thought of voluntarily living in a 7' by 15' foot box eliciting stifled chuckles created from the images of a cramped life inside a wheeled toaster. From time to time, while looking at my van from a distance, I can see a glimpse of what they are thinking. Yet, upon entering my spacious abode I am at a loss to truly understand this thought process, the knowledge that entire families used to live in cabins granting my comfort. Somehow I think I can handle a van with a comfortable bed, a stove and a fridge for three months - or at least, here's hoping.
In addition to the food and clothing necessary for survival on this journey I plan to fill the van with something I have been neglecting for years, books. From the time I was able to read, a book a night was my norm. I used to fill up my mind with the words and stories from all genres and authors, humor always being my fallback. I lost this daily growth the day mandated material took the place of voluntary words, textbook explanations of the life cycle of the Tsetse fly somehow seem dry in comparison. I also plan to incorporate music into all moments of the days as I enjoy a soundtrack for my life, music always setting or enhancing the mood.
This journey is meant to be one of no responsibility and so I head into it with no real itinerary. I know that the first leg of my trip will take on a southerly direction and will allow me a good 3 weeks to travel as my one responsibility throughout the whole trip, a good friend's wedding in WA, is something I would be remiss to disregard. At 200 miles a day, a self imposed cap - for my own sanity as well as my van's well being - I figure I can hit 4000 miles or so in this time, an easy jaunt and a great trial run.
My first stop on the trip is Bend, a place that is close enough to not put too much wear and tear on the vehicle yet far enough and over enough elevation that I can begin to judge the van's capacity for abuse. The mountains figure to tax the engine in a decent first test and, should anything go wrong, I will be close enough to civilization, making repairs easy and comfortable.
I am ashamed to admit that I have lived in Oregon for nearly a decade and have never seen it's most famous natural landmark, Crater Lake. Being a lover of nature I have purchased a National Parks Annual Pass, it's $80 cost affording me access to every National Park and Land Management area, and plan to use it wisely and often, Crater Lake being my first Park destination.
Crater Lake's beauty will give way to the small town feel of Grants Pass, home to one of my little sisters, Brin, a 24-year-old, sweet as sugar, red head with whom I have never met, much less even verbally spoken to. Incorporating my new family on this journey will be done mainly through thought and reflection, the occasional e-mail or Facebook message granting more insight, but the chance to meet Brin face to face is an exciting opportunity. I will then continue my westward march to the sea, the chosen path of a coastal journey offering me the beauty and serenity of open ocean and the promise of peaceful nights' sleeps as the lull of perpetual waves crash over the shore.
The ocean is my first excuse for a coastal route but not my only. For far too long I have promised to visit so many friends I have neglected, this journey grants me the ability to make amends. Spread throughout the country I have many stops along my trip, one of my first is San Francisco. The Golden Gate bridge will welcome me into a city of wealth and infamy and to the door of one of my closest friends, Lewis - an impressively intelligent man for whom the gift of gab comes so easily it makes me think he kissed the Blarney stone in a past life - and his lovely fiancee, Kelley who graciously loves me even though she has only met me on two occasions - and I hope to do nothing to ever dissuade her from this opinion.
It may be incredibly difficult to exit the upper class lifestyle of San Fran, but Santa Barbara and my beloved Yogini, Christina - an ex-OSU soccer player I was enamored with whose genuiness creates soulful beauty but with whom no relationship other than friendship ever blossomed - call my name. From the beer swilling nights and flexible days of Santa Barbara it is south to Pasadena to see an ex and the family I have not seen since dad's funeral.
Close to two years is a long enough time to heal many wounds, but the loss of a loved one cuts deeper than most. This stop will allow all of us to see how we have fared, lovingly reflect on the man that was my father and afford me the opportunity to thank them again for their support and love during the time of loss, especially towards my mother, a woman for whom affection was not a readily shown emotion until the loss of her center opened her eyes to what alone would actually feel like. I also, if artistic fate comes together, plan to show off the family crest tattoo that my Uncle Bob made possible.
The southern portion of the trip ends in San Diego, the home of some of my closest HS friends and their families. Though the fear of restless nights at the wails of newborns causes me temporary pause, the enjoyment of their company and the knowledge of a queen bed in the back of a spacious van overrides any lingering doubt.
It is from here that my journey takes an Eastern turn through the desert to a state that I would never think to visit as brown is one of my least favorite colors. Save for the big night sky and countless stars, the only draw New Mexico has for me is one of my dearest friends, Amberlee, an ex-Corvallis player with whom I have grown one of my fondest relationships - a relationship restarted four years ago outside Clodfelter's in Corvallis and never stopped, the conversations being so easy and entertaining I'd be an idiot to not seek out her guidance, wit and loving sarcasm - at least I hope it's sarcasm.
From New Mexico the constraint of time sets in as an April 11 wedding looms and the direction of travel will take a decidedly northern turn. The traveled course will bounce back and forth between Utah and Nevada with the ideal northerly goal of Montana, a state I know little about but have always been drawn to. Should I miss Montana, or neglect many of the beautiful National Parks that dot the southwest and California, I will be sure to return. But, as of now, the wedding marks my true end of responsibility, and so the second phase of the journey will be mapped accordingly.
When I tell people I am going to be living in my van many laugh, the thought of voluntarily living in a 7' by 15' foot box eliciting stifled chuckles created from the images of a cramped life inside a wheeled toaster. From time to time, while looking at my van from a distance, I can see a glimpse of what they are thinking. Yet, upon entering my spacious abode I am at a loss to truly understand this thought process, the knowledge that entire families used to live in cabins granting my comfort. Somehow I think I can handle a van with a comfortable bed, a stove and a fridge for three months - or at least, here's hoping.
In addition to the food and clothing necessary for survival on this journey I plan to fill the van with something I have been neglecting for years, books. From the time I was able to read, a book a night was my norm. I used to fill up my mind with the words and stories from all genres and authors, humor always being my fallback. I lost this daily growth the day mandated material took the place of voluntary words, textbook explanations of the life cycle of the Tsetse fly somehow seem dry in comparison. I also plan to incorporate music into all moments of the days as I enjoy a soundtrack for my life, music always setting or enhancing the mood.
This journey is meant to be one of no responsibility and so I head into it with no real itinerary. I know that the first leg of my trip will take on a southerly direction and will allow me a good 3 weeks to travel as my one responsibility throughout the whole trip, a good friend's wedding in WA, is something I would be remiss to disregard. At 200 miles a day, a self imposed cap - for my own sanity as well as my van's well being - I figure I can hit 4000 miles or so in this time, an easy jaunt and a great trial run.
My first stop on the trip is Bend, a place that is close enough to not put too much wear and tear on the vehicle yet far enough and over enough elevation that I can begin to judge the van's capacity for abuse. The mountains figure to tax the engine in a decent first test and, should anything go wrong, I will be close enough to civilization, making repairs easy and comfortable.
I am ashamed to admit that I have lived in Oregon for nearly a decade and have never seen it's most famous natural landmark, Crater Lake. Being a lover of nature I have purchased a National Parks Annual Pass, it's $80 cost affording me access to every National Park and Land Management area, and plan to use it wisely and often, Crater Lake being my first Park destination.
Crater Lake's beauty will give way to the small town feel of Grants Pass, home to one of my little sisters, Brin, a 24-year-old, sweet as sugar, red head with whom I have never met, much less even verbally spoken to. Incorporating my new family on this journey will be done mainly through thought and reflection, the occasional e-mail or Facebook message granting more insight, but the chance to meet Brin face to face is an exciting opportunity. I will then continue my westward march to the sea, the chosen path of a coastal journey offering me the beauty and serenity of open ocean and the promise of peaceful nights' sleeps as the lull of perpetual waves crash over the shore.
The ocean is my first excuse for a coastal route but not my only. For far too long I have promised to visit so many friends I have neglected, this journey grants me the ability to make amends. Spread throughout the country I have many stops along my trip, one of my first is San Francisco. The Golden Gate bridge will welcome me into a city of wealth and infamy and to the door of one of my closest friends, Lewis - an impressively intelligent man for whom the gift of gab comes so easily it makes me think he kissed the Blarney stone in a past life - and his lovely fiancee, Kelley who graciously loves me even though she has only met me on two occasions - and I hope to do nothing to ever dissuade her from this opinion.
It may be incredibly difficult to exit the upper class lifestyle of San Fran, but Santa Barbara and my beloved Yogini, Christina - an ex-OSU soccer player I was enamored with whose genuiness creates soulful beauty but with whom no relationship other than friendship ever blossomed - call my name. From the beer swilling nights and flexible days of Santa Barbara it is south to Pasadena to see an ex and the family I have not seen since dad's funeral.
Close to two years is a long enough time to heal many wounds, but the loss of a loved one cuts deeper than most. This stop will allow all of us to see how we have fared, lovingly reflect on the man that was my father and afford me the opportunity to thank them again for their support and love during the time of loss, especially towards my mother, a woman for whom affection was not a readily shown emotion until the loss of her center opened her eyes to what alone would actually feel like. I also, if artistic fate comes together, plan to show off the family crest tattoo that my Uncle Bob made possible.
The southern portion of the trip ends in San Diego, the home of some of my closest HS friends and their families. Though the fear of restless nights at the wails of newborns causes me temporary pause, the enjoyment of their company and the knowledge of a queen bed in the back of a spacious van overrides any lingering doubt.
It is from here that my journey takes an Eastern turn through the desert to a state that I would never think to visit as brown is one of my least favorite colors. Save for the big night sky and countless stars, the only draw New Mexico has for me is one of my dearest friends, Amberlee, an ex-Corvallis player with whom I have grown one of my fondest relationships - a relationship restarted four years ago outside Clodfelter's in Corvallis and never stopped, the conversations being so easy and entertaining I'd be an idiot to not seek out her guidance, wit and loving sarcasm - at least I hope it's sarcasm.
From New Mexico the constraint of time sets in as an April 11 wedding looms and the direction of travel will take a decidedly northern turn. The traveled course will bounce back and forth between Utah and Nevada with the ideal northerly goal of Montana, a state I know little about but have always been drawn to. Should I miss Montana, or neglect many of the beautiful National Parks that dot the southwest and California, I will be sure to return. But, as of now, the wedding marks my true end of responsibility, and so the second phase of the journey will be mapped accordingly.
Friday, March 13, 2009
My trip - reasons for (Trip part 4)
In a little more than two weeks my life will change irrevocably, but it is a change I have needed and dreamt of for the past couple of years, its escape promising me time. No longer will I be on a schedule, no longer will I have any responsibility except to go when and where I feel drawn, my travel done at a leisurely pace allowing reflection granted from the freedom of choice and the solitude necessary to listen.
For the last two years I have watched myself slowly slip away from anything I recognize, the pressures of life and an over analytical mind wrecking havoc. I have needed an escape since the realization that stress has lost any differentiation of level. It is sad to experience a similar level of dread for an incoming phone call as I would the fear of a flunked midterm and it is with this recognition that I have pushed to actually commit to this trip. Commitment being something I have sucked at over the course of my life, I am happy to say I have cleared my first major hurdle.
Knowledge of the sabbatical elicits responses ranging from absolute excitement to sadness; a touch of jealousy, not that I am going, rather that they cannot take my place, seems to ring in the voices of all I talk to. It is with this perspective that I feel the stigma attached to the "trip of a lifetime", my journey seems to have taken on a life of its own in the imaginations of many of my friends.
I know that I am incredibly fortunate to be able to take this time and this journey, especially in an economic climate of belt tightening and sleepless nights and at the cost of a nice down payment on value priced real estate. Yet, while I should feel at complete ease with it, I am stuck with a pervasive feeling of fear, fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of coming back to my existence with none of my questions answered, much less narrowed down. I do however take comfort in the knowledge that should I return to no job I will still have my Westy, and with it the bed, stove and fridge necessary for semi-comfortable living.
It is also true that while I speak of the romantic notions of life's callings and finding myself, I also would be remiss to not admit that the thought of never having to set an alarm again has more allure for me than most people can imagine. It seems that the ever present trill of beeps in the morning has slowly been driving me mad but, up until now, the means to make this a permanent blessing has proved ever elusive.
In my pursuit of soundless mornings I have come upon a few options, to become a writer seems to be the most valid and societally acceptable. This of course raises the pervasive question of ability as, to publish the great American novel, for most, is nothing but a pipe dream. It is in this that I struggle with the belief of its possibility, though life seems to have weaved a tale of intrigue and commonality within my existence.
And so I plan to write, the travels of my van and the three months of an alarmless slumber providing me the solitude and inspiration for what hopes to be an interesting tale.
For the last two years I have watched myself slowly slip away from anything I recognize, the pressures of life and an over analytical mind wrecking havoc. I have needed an escape since the realization that stress has lost any differentiation of level. It is sad to experience a similar level of dread for an incoming phone call as I would the fear of a flunked midterm and it is with this recognition that I have pushed to actually commit to this trip. Commitment being something I have sucked at over the course of my life, I am happy to say I have cleared my first major hurdle.
Knowledge of the sabbatical elicits responses ranging from absolute excitement to sadness; a touch of jealousy, not that I am going, rather that they cannot take my place, seems to ring in the voices of all I talk to. It is with this perspective that I feel the stigma attached to the "trip of a lifetime", my journey seems to have taken on a life of its own in the imaginations of many of my friends.
I know that I am incredibly fortunate to be able to take this time and this journey, especially in an economic climate of belt tightening and sleepless nights and at the cost of a nice down payment on value priced real estate. Yet, while I should feel at complete ease with it, I am stuck with a pervasive feeling of fear, fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of coming back to my existence with none of my questions answered, much less narrowed down. I do however take comfort in the knowledge that should I return to no job I will still have my Westy, and with it the bed, stove and fridge necessary for semi-comfortable living.
It is also true that while I speak of the romantic notions of life's callings and finding myself, I also would be remiss to not admit that the thought of never having to set an alarm again has more allure for me than most people can imagine. It seems that the ever present trill of beeps in the morning has slowly been driving me mad but, up until now, the means to make this a permanent blessing has proved ever elusive.
In my pursuit of soundless mornings I have come upon a few options, to become a writer seems to be the most valid and societally acceptable. This of course raises the pervasive question of ability as, to publish the great American novel, for most, is nothing but a pipe dream. It is in this that I struggle with the belief of its possibility, though life seems to have weaved a tale of intrigue and commonality within my existence.
And so I plan to write, the travels of my van and the three months of an alarmless slumber providing me the solitude and inspiration for what hopes to be an interesting tale.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Life, through foggy eyes
The last two weeks have been a blur. Between my impending escape from a life of responsibility and a new found family that is 5 times larger and 20 times more communicative than my own, the weeks and certainly days have melded together. Simple things like recalling who any of my teams have played on a given weekend, much less the game results, escape me.
People always ask me if I feel overwhelmed by all of this and I always tell them no, that not much overwhelms me. I now wonder if this is true or if in truth it is that I do not know what overwhelmed feels like. Surely I have felt no crescendo of emotion, no waves of feeling washing over me pinching at my chest and threatening to stifle my breath but I wonder if this is because the feelings do not exist at breath taking levels or if it is that in my management of them they have become lost in the daily circus that feels like my life.
I suppose the word circus should give that one away but I truly wonder if I really am constantly repressing, feigning strength til a time that I can crawl into a corner and let my life wash over me, or if I am in possession of that level of strength. Does the fact that I cannot recall anything other than an emotional baseline equivalent to that of a good book mean that I am overloaded, or just steady yet forgetful?
I say that the main reason for the trip is to deal with my father's death, and while this is no lie, to this day when I return home I still expect him to walk through the door, I wonder if that is just the justification for the needed catharsis.
My existence, I feel, is one lived on a deep plane, one that many times I wished and prayed would level out, but one I cannot shake. I see things differently than most and, while the simplicity of the surface has its allure, I cannot shake the feeling that depth has purpose. And so as the lines of life have blurred, the travel itself has been made more clear. It is within the clarity of travel that I hope to find my own clarity of life.
People always ask me if I feel overwhelmed by all of this and I always tell them no, that not much overwhelms me. I now wonder if this is true or if in truth it is that I do not know what overwhelmed feels like. Surely I have felt no crescendo of emotion, no waves of feeling washing over me pinching at my chest and threatening to stifle my breath but I wonder if this is because the feelings do not exist at breath taking levels or if it is that in my management of them they have become lost in the daily circus that feels like my life.
I suppose the word circus should give that one away but I truly wonder if I really am constantly repressing, feigning strength til a time that I can crawl into a corner and let my life wash over me, or if I am in possession of that level of strength. Does the fact that I cannot recall anything other than an emotional baseline equivalent to that of a good book mean that I am overloaded, or just steady yet forgetful?
I say that the main reason for the trip is to deal with my father's death, and while this is no lie, to this day when I return home I still expect him to walk through the door, I wonder if that is just the justification for the needed catharsis.
My existence, I feel, is one lived on a deep plane, one that many times I wished and prayed would level out, but one I cannot shake. I see things differently than most and, while the simplicity of the surface has its allure, I cannot shake the feeling that depth has purpose. And so as the lines of life have blurred, the travel itself has been made more clear. It is within the clarity of travel that I hope to find my own clarity of life.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Meeting the parents (Family part 7)
In possession of their address, and having seen pictures, I knew that I now had everything of a physical and emotional nature I needed to prepare myself to meet my biological parents. Now all I had to do was take the biggest step, but hopping in my car and making the short 81 mile drive north was more difficult than it sounded.
Since the arrival of that first e-mail, that moment my life changed irrevocably, I knew I wanted and needed to meet them, a lifetime of questions begat from wonder and curiosity right before me, but my mind had flipped into a defense mode of excuse making I knew all too well. I flip flopped for days, finally coming to the conclusion that if I did not set a date I would continue to push it farther back than humanly fair to anyone involved. And so I set Sunday Feb 22 as M-day knowing that giving them this information would minimize the chance that I would again bail.
That Sunday started off as they often do, me headed out to coach soccer games, my plan being to continue from my second game in Forest Grove to their home in Tigard where I would stay for an hour or so, long enough to get to know them but short enough that evening plans could excuse me should things get too involved for me to handle.
Perhaps it was due to the incredible weight of anticipation on my brain but I recall neither game as being particularly inspired, the Red Hots tying 0-0 to a team a year younger as their focus was more on playing Cupid between myself and their science teacher than the game. I was warned that she would be there, and guess I should be flattered that the girls are trying to set me up with their favorite teacher, but I was more focused on the afternoon ahead than anything else. The boys were no better, though their excuse had nothing to do with matchmaking, and lost 4-1 after being up 1-0 to a good side at halftime, their lack of focus in the first couple of minutes of the second half dooming them.
Immediately following the game I made a slow trek to my car, words of encouragement elicited from various parents who knew where I was headed, and I sank into my driver's seat as ready as I could emotionally be to make the 45 minute trip.
As I drove along Highway 8, a long stretch of intermittent farms and street lights winding their way to Highway 217, I followed a route I knew well but found myself searching for some viable reason for an about face or getting lost, my defense system again in high gear. I was definitely nervous, the wonderment of what I was in store for not quite sinking in, and various scenarios ran through my analytical head, but I hit peace with it all as I made the turn down their street.
I knew that they were both unemployed, victims of a current economic environment that swallows whole the strong and meek alike, and I didn't really know what to expect from their house. Pulling up to the modern gray and red trimmed two story home I was pleasantly surprised as a well manicured front yard, it's bushes and trees looking like they were taken care of weekly, stared back at me. I walked slowly up to the front door, the decision of knocking or ringing the door bell taking on more significance than it ever had.
I opted to knock and let my knuckles lightly rap at the wooden door. From inside I could hear quick little steps and heard the latch click as the door swung slowly open. There, standing in front of me, was Laura, the exact same woman from the Facebook pictures I had been perusing, blond haired and bespectacled, an impish grin somewhere between excitement and shock on her lips. I could tell she was in disbelief, the emotion of meeting her child after 34 years obviously outweighing any preparedness she could have mustered. Holding her arms out sheepishly, she reached to give me a hug and held on for awhile, not wanting to let go as the thought that I may somehow vanish again for another 34 years crossed her mind. The hug was warm and loving but I noticed a lack of emotion from myself, my mind still lost in the surrealness that had become my life.
We chatted on the stairwell for a brief moment, small talk bridging any nervous gaps, when she introduced me to her landlady. A quizzical look must have crossed my face as Laura hurriedly explained that they rent out the downstairs while their landlady, a nice, dark haired woman of about 45, lived upstairs. The landlady and I exchanged pleasantries, a look of something beyond curiosity flashing across her face, and I was lead down the stairs to my bio parent's apartment.
As I reached the door at the bottom of the stairs I felt a presence to my left and looked over as my bio father, Jim, a shockingly tall man of 6' 3", complexion darker than I envisioned, ambled out of their bedroom. We briefly stared, not quite sure what to make of each other, both shocked a bit that this was actually happening, and I stretched out my hand for a handshake. He took it tightly and we shook for a brief instant, the handshake quickly turning into hug and I was again held tighter than expected as the years of questions as to my existence melted instantly for him.
They invited me into their kitchen and my bio father and I sat down on either side of the counter, my mom opting to stand, their eyes both still wide from the shock of seeing their child finally in front of them. I was offered a beer and quickly accepted, the thought of cold familiarity sounding refreshing. The apartment was small, consisting of a bedroom and a kitchen/living room separated by a hallway, but was keenly decorated with a distinct Japanese flair, their formative and shared years obviously leaving a lasting impression.
I had expected waterworks out of her, after what I was warned of from our conversations as well as what I had heard from both of her daughters, but was somewhat surprised as she managed to keep it together, though I think the fact that her eyes remained as large as silver dollars kept them too dry to tear. For the next hour and a half we asked and answered questions, feeling each other out not quite knowing what to make of it all, the shared trippiness of the whole situation disallowing the reality to fully sink in for any of us.
It is interesting, and I am sure that many a psychologist and biologist would love to sit us all down for research, but it was almost as if life had, in this case, flipped nature and nurture. Looking at, listening to and watching them I seemingly shared more physical features with my adoptive mom and dad than with the two before me while a lack of shared environment seemed to have had no effect of those things one would expect out of nurture. I knew, looking at the pictures of them I was sent, that a shared resemblance was not expected, and that did not change now that I was face to face, but I was surprised at the shared personality quirks, thought patterns and body language I was seeing before me.
Perhaps sensing my thoughts of a biological disconnect Jim and Laura took out a small manila envelope stuffed with pictures of them chronicalling their lives from birth to a date only a few years ago in hopes that I would see more shared physical features. Pulling the pictures out of the folder and going over them slowly I did definitely see some similarities, especially between he and myself at the shared ages of 10 and below, but I was struck with the thought that perhaps my lack of sight is due more to an ignorance of what I am supposed to be looking for than an actual lack of physical evidence.
We chatted and went over pictures for an hour and a half, the visit breaking down the questions of the years as quickly as it was producing more. I knew they wanted me to stay longer but the weight of the moment proved to be too much and I opted to decompress, a mental break begging to be released from my mind. As I drove away in my car I saw Laura dancing giddily in her driveway, her body racing to give Jim a hug and smiled.
I was definitely happy I had come and knew I would be back, but right then I needed the hour drive of silence and solitude, the short drive south allowing my mind to wander and my body to relax. The surreal nature of my life set in, but I chose to let the steady hum of my tires on pavement become my focus and instead let the silence of the night settle my mind.
Since the arrival of that first e-mail, that moment my life changed irrevocably, I knew I wanted and needed to meet them, a lifetime of questions begat from wonder and curiosity right before me, but my mind had flipped into a defense mode of excuse making I knew all too well. I flip flopped for days, finally coming to the conclusion that if I did not set a date I would continue to push it farther back than humanly fair to anyone involved. And so I set Sunday Feb 22 as M-day knowing that giving them this information would minimize the chance that I would again bail.
That Sunday started off as they often do, me headed out to coach soccer games, my plan being to continue from my second game in Forest Grove to their home in Tigard where I would stay for an hour or so, long enough to get to know them but short enough that evening plans could excuse me should things get too involved for me to handle.
Perhaps it was due to the incredible weight of anticipation on my brain but I recall neither game as being particularly inspired, the Red Hots tying 0-0 to a team a year younger as their focus was more on playing Cupid between myself and their science teacher than the game. I was warned that she would be there, and guess I should be flattered that the girls are trying to set me up with their favorite teacher, but I was more focused on the afternoon ahead than anything else. The boys were no better, though their excuse had nothing to do with matchmaking, and lost 4-1 after being up 1-0 to a good side at halftime, their lack of focus in the first couple of minutes of the second half dooming them.
Immediately following the game I made a slow trek to my car, words of encouragement elicited from various parents who knew where I was headed, and I sank into my driver's seat as ready as I could emotionally be to make the 45 minute trip.
As I drove along Highway 8, a long stretch of intermittent farms and street lights winding their way to Highway 217, I followed a route I knew well but found myself searching for some viable reason for an about face or getting lost, my defense system again in high gear. I was definitely nervous, the wonderment of what I was in store for not quite sinking in, and various scenarios ran through my analytical head, but I hit peace with it all as I made the turn down their street.
I knew that they were both unemployed, victims of a current economic environment that swallows whole the strong and meek alike, and I didn't really know what to expect from their house. Pulling up to the modern gray and red trimmed two story home I was pleasantly surprised as a well manicured front yard, it's bushes and trees looking like they were taken care of weekly, stared back at me. I walked slowly up to the front door, the decision of knocking or ringing the door bell taking on more significance than it ever had.
I opted to knock and let my knuckles lightly rap at the wooden door. From inside I could hear quick little steps and heard the latch click as the door swung slowly open. There, standing in front of me, was Laura, the exact same woman from the Facebook pictures I had been perusing, blond haired and bespectacled, an impish grin somewhere between excitement and shock on her lips. I could tell she was in disbelief, the emotion of meeting her child after 34 years obviously outweighing any preparedness she could have mustered. Holding her arms out sheepishly, she reached to give me a hug and held on for awhile, not wanting to let go as the thought that I may somehow vanish again for another 34 years crossed her mind. The hug was warm and loving but I noticed a lack of emotion from myself, my mind still lost in the surrealness that had become my life.
We chatted on the stairwell for a brief moment, small talk bridging any nervous gaps, when she introduced me to her landlady. A quizzical look must have crossed my face as Laura hurriedly explained that they rent out the downstairs while their landlady, a nice, dark haired woman of about 45, lived upstairs. The landlady and I exchanged pleasantries, a look of something beyond curiosity flashing across her face, and I was lead down the stairs to my bio parent's apartment.
As I reached the door at the bottom of the stairs I felt a presence to my left and looked over as my bio father, Jim, a shockingly tall man of 6' 3", complexion darker than I envisioned, ambled out of their bedroom. We briefly stared, not quite sure what to make of each other, both shocked a bit that this was actually happening, and I stretched out my hand for a handshake. He took it tightly and we shook for a brief instant, the handshake quickly turning into hug and I was again held tighter than expected as the years of questions as to my existence melted instantly for him.
They invited me into their kitchen and my bio father and I sat down on either side of the counter, my mom opting to stand, their eyes both still wide from the shock of seeing their child finally in front of them. I was offered a beer and quickly accepted, the thought of cold familiarity sounding refreshing. The apartment was small, consisting of a bedroom and a kitchen/living room separated by a hallway, but was keenly decorated with a distinct Japanese flair, their formative and shared years obviously leaving a lasting impression.
I had expected waterworks out of her, after what I was warned of from our conversations as well as what I had heard from both of her daughters, but was somewhat surprised as she managed to keep it together, though I think the fact that her eyes remained as large as silver dollars kept them too dry to tear. For the next hour and a half we asked and answered questions, feeling each other out not quite knowing what to make of it all, the shared trippiness of the whole situation disallowing the reality to fully sink in for any of us.
It is interesting, and I am sure that many a psychologist and biologist would love to sit us all down for research, but it was almost as if life had, in this case, flipped nature and nurture. Looking at, listening to and watching them I seemingly shared more physical features with my adoptive mom and dad than with the two before me while a lack of shared environment seemed to have had no effect of those things one would expect out of nurture. I knew, looking at the pictures of them I was sent, that a shared resemblance was not expected, and that did not change now that I was face to face, but I was surprised at the shared personality quirks, thought patterns and body language I was seeing before me.
Perhaps sensing my thoughts of a biological disconnect Jim and Laura took out a small manila envelope stuffed with pictures of them chronicalling their lives from birth to a date only a few years ago in hopes that I would see more shared physical features. Pulling the pictures out of the folder and going over them slowly I did definitely see some similarities, especially between he and myself at the shared ages of 10 and below, but I was struck with the thought that perhaps my lack of sight is due more to an ignorance of what I am supposed to be looking for than an actual lack of physical evidence.
We chatted and went over pictures for an hour and a half, the visit breaking down the questions of the years as quickly as it was producing more. I knew they wanted me to stay longer but the weight of the moment proved to be too much and I opted to decompress, a mental break begging to be released from my mind. As I drove away in my car I saw Laura dancing giddily in her driveway, her body racing to give Jim a hug and smiled.
I was definitely happy I had come and knew I would be back, but right then I needed the hour drive of silence and solitude, the short drive south allowing my mind to wander and my body to relax. The surreal nature of my life set in, but I chose to let the steady hum of my tires on pavement become my focus and instead let the silence of the night settle my mind.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Volkswagen - logistical plea (Trip part 3)
Volkswagen Dialogue Center-
Car sales are at their all time lowest. The American people want value for their dollar and I truly believe in the product Volkswagen has to offer. I fully believe that my tour of the nation will showcase VW in all the areas that make Volkswagen quality, especially comfort, practicality and reliability, major selling points for separating VW from its competitors.
Starting March 23rd I will be logging close to 30,000 miles in 3 months around the United States, all of these miles on the open road, passing hundreds of thousands of families and individuals, my VW an open marketing tool. While I would love a newer VW to show off the advances in technology and comfort I was hoping VW would be willing to cover a bumper to bumper fine tune of my '81 Westy to ensure its reputation on the trip.
As further advertising, in addition to the on-road conversations, I am going to be writing and posting photos daily during my trip on a blog that is read by hundreds if not thousands, its pages turned into a book upon my return that will include as a main character my Volkswagen.
I thank you for taking the time to consider my inquiry and ask that you give some thought to my logistical argument before rendering your final verdict, as I know it could be of tremendous benefit to us both.
Thank you for your time,
Andrew Donaldson
541-908-0897
216 NE Plymouth Cir.
Corvallis, OR 97330
USA
Car sales are at their all time lowest. The American people want value for their dollar and I truly believe in the product Volkswagen has to offer. I fully believe that my tour of the nation will showcase VW in all the areas that make Volkswagen quality, especially comfort, practicality and reliability, major selling points for separating VW from its competitors.
Starting March 23rd I will be logging close to 30,000 miles in 3 months around the United States, all of these miles on the open road, passing hundreds of thousands of families and individuals, my VW an open marketing tool. While I would love a newer VW to show off the advances in technology and comfort I was hoping VW would be willing to cover a bumper to bumper fine tune of my '81 Westy to ensure its reputation on the trip.
As further advertising, in addition to the on-road conversations, I am going to be writing and posting photos daily during my trip on a blog that is read by hundreds if not thousands, its pages turned into a book upon my return that will include as a main character my Volkswagen.
I thank you for taking the time to consider my inquiry and ask that you give some thought to my logistical argument before rendering your final verdict, as I know it could be of tremendous benefit to us both.
Thank you for your time,
Andrew Donaldson
541-908-0897
216 NE Plymouth Cir.
Corvallis, OR 97330
USA
Monday, March 2, 2009
Death postponed
I know God exists, either that or I am going crazy. I talk to him every day. Not directly, at least not always, though in moments of anger he is sure to catch a piece of my mind. I, like I would hazard to guess most people alive no matter what religion they may profess to call their own, talk to him most in times of need. I would imagine this is a difficult thing, to be begged to spare and save while rarely thanked.
My life has been an interesting one, the interest level taking off exponentially recently as the stress caused from the death of my father a little less than two years ago has been added to by the addition of my biological parents reuniting and finding me not three weeks ago. Much like George from "It's a Wonderful life" I have wondered the importance of my life, the curiosity of a world with out me floating through my head.
I should have been dead on two occasions and wonder what stroke of luck or unseen hand played a role in my continued existence. There are other near miss occasions I can see through the misty fog that is my memory, but these two I can recollect with clarity, almost as if the events that begat them were purposefully seared into my consciousness, their absoluteness separating them from the fog.
The first was when I was about 10 years old. My family had left, as we did at least twice a month, for a weekend out on the boat, an activity my parents reveled in and one my brother and I had grown so accustomed to that it ceased to elicit an argument. We had anchored in Port Ludlow, a little cove etched into the coastline of Whidbey Island.
As always happened when we were finally at anchor, my brother and I took off rowing for the shore, happy to finally be free of a 30 by 11 foot prison at sea. We arrived at the shoreline and my brother took off on his ever present quest for all things marine, leaving me to tie up the dinghy. I hopped out, sans shoes, as I was so used to the rocks I didn't feel I needed them.
Pulling the boat up the rocks I stepped on a broken bottle and sliced a gash in my foot three inches wide and to the bone. Bleeding profusely I yelled for my brother to come row me back to the boat 300 yards off shore but he refused, thinking I was faking in some attempt to lure him away from his beloved beach roaming. Left with no other choice I set out to row myself back, the race on to get back to my father the doctor before I passed out.
In my recollection of the ordeal I was a tough solider muffling my cries every time I passed another boat at anchor. According to my parents, my wails could be heard across the cove, their pitch rousing them from their books to see what caused me such pain. My version will remain in the recesses of my memory, as I prefer to see reality as a time long enough passed, its true sounds forgotten. Either way, I got 25 yards from our boat when my parents saw the 4 inches of blood and water in the cockpit of the dinghy.
I recall hazily watching my father fly into action, the knowledge that I was safe lulling me to sleep. I cannot recall being yanked from the dinghy but remember waking up to my father stitching my wound with fishing line, but not before he showed me the bone through the depth of the gash, and my mother pleading with me to stay awake.
This story took on a life of its own as my father and I have always argued the true mix of blood and water in the dinghy that day. He tells me that with the amount of liquid sloshing around in the dinghy there was no way even 80% of it could have been less than water, that I would have lost consciousness on the row halfway to the boat. No level of explanation that neither when we got to shore nor when I hurried back in the boat was there ever more than a half an inch of water in its floor will sway him, his medical background not allowing it.
During this trip I do not recall any angels, no helping hands assisting with the rowing, for it was too long ago to recollect, but I do know that I never felt in danger, that even with the amount of blood I was losing my strength never wavered.
The second life saved was about 3 years ago when I was taking one of my dogs, Roscoe, out for a run in McDonald forest. We had been climbing up a bike trail, Roscoe alternating between running off in exploration and fearfully cowering at my feet, the smells and scents of other animals both enticing and scaring him. We walked for about a mile, through a windy and muddy trail and up a little hill about 200 yards long. When we reached the top I decided to give Roscoe an actual run and took off, near a full sprint, down the hill and out toward the trail head a mile away. I ran as fast as I could, my lungs bursting but my feet churning and steadily plodding after Roscoe. I am pretty fleet of foot and jumped effortlessly over downed trees and around muddy corners until I came to a 60 degree right turn in the trail.
One of the things I had not accounted for in this jaunt was that I was wearing sweats, those baggy, oversized soccer sweats everyone sees me in, their pant leg openings flopping over my ankles. As I was turning this sharp corner I felt my left pant leg catch under my shoe and felt my body pitch to the left, precariously leaning closer and closer to a topple position, when I felt a wall of sorts against my left shoulder and my body slowly being righted until I was again stable and upright, all the while my feet never wavering from their chugging state.
About 20 yards down the trail, when I finally came to a rest, I walked back to the spot and looked at where I had tripped and where my skull was headed. It turns out that had I continued to topple as gravity should have mandated my skull would have made direct impact with a 5 foot diameter downed fir, cut in half to make room for the trail, and my head would have served as my air bag.
Now, I know that many people can recollect a time like this, though I do not know with what clarity, but I am left to wonder the why behind both of mine. I know fully that there is no way I should be here, not with the acute loss of blood at 10 nor without an invisible wall and helping hands blocking my impending contact with a felled tree.
The question that permeates my thoughts from the knowledge of both of these blessings is the answer to the great philosophical question of why I am here. Why me? Why am I supposed to be here? Does my life has some larger purpose?
Perhaps both were blind luck. I have tried to justify both as pure coincidence, that perhaps I have a really good guardian angel, but to admit the existence of a guardian angle is to admit that my guardian has a reason to protect me. Figuring out that reason is an arduous task at best, I find it hard to believe that any answers are going to miraculously or even unceremoniously appear, no matter how hard I look for them or with how passionately I plead.
Though I am not thrilled by this I think that is kind of one of the great mysteries of life, that we are supposed to struggle over our destiny, our purpose for our short walk on this beautiful spinning planet. I believe though that were we to actually open our eyes, ears and our minds to the possibility of an established path we may find our way more readily.
And so I hope to roam for a while, my consciousness a little more aware and listening. My one hope along this journey is that I talk with whatever is out there more often in thanks than I seem to in anger. I figure I owe at least that much.
My life has been an interesting one, the interest level taking off exponentially recently as the stress caused from the death of my father a little less than two years ago has been added to by the addition of my biological parents reuniting and finding me not three weeks ago. Much like George from "It's a Wonderful life" I have wondered the importance of my life, the curiosity of a world with out me floating through my head.
I should have been dead on two occasions and wonder what stroke of luck or unseen hand played a role in my continued existence. There are other near miss occasions I can see through the misty fog that is my memory, but these two I can recollect with clarity, almost as if the events that begat them were purposefully seared into my consciousness, their absoluteness separating them from the fog.
The first was when I was about 10 years old. My family had left, as we did at least twice a month, for a weekend out on the boat, an activity my parents reveled in and one my brother and I had grown so accustomed to that it ceased to elicit an argument. We had anchored in Port Ludlow, a little cove etched into the coastline of Whidbey Island.
As always happened when we were finally at anchor, my brother and I took off rowing for the shore, happy to finally be free of a 30 by 11 foot prison at sea. We arrived at the shoreline and my brother took off on his ever present quest for all things marine, leaving me to tie up the dinghy. I hopped out, sans shoes, as I was so used to the rocks I didn't feel I needed them.
Pulling the boat up the rocks I stepped on a broken bottle and sliced a gash in my foot three inches wide and to the bone. Bleeding profusely I yelled for my brother to come row me back to the boat 300 yards off shore but he refused, thinking I was faking in some attempt to lure him away from his beloved beach roaming. Left with no other choice I set out to row myself back, the race on to get back to my father the doctor before I passed out.
In my recollection of the ordeal I was a tough solider muffling my cries every time I passed another boat at anchor. According to my parents, my wails could be heard across the cove, their pitch rousing them from their books to see what caused me such pain. My version will remain in the recesses of my memory, as I prefer to see reality as a time long enough passed, its true sounds forgotten. Either way, I got 25 yards from our boat when my parents saw the 4 inches of blood and water in the cockpit of the dinghy.
I recall hazily watching my father fly into action, the knowledge that I was safe lulling me to sleep. I cannot recall being yanked from the dinghy but remember waking up to my father stitching my wound with fishing line, but not before he showed me the bone through the depth of the gash, and my mother pleading with me to stay awake.
This story took on a life of its own as my father and I have always argued the true mix of blood and water in the dinghy that day. He tells me that with the amount of liquid sloshing around in the dinghy there was no way even 80% of it could have been less than water, that I would have lost consciousness on the row halfway to the boat. No level of explanation that neither when we got to shore nor when I hurried back in the boat was there ever more than a half an inch of water in its floor will sway him, his medical background not allowing it.
During this trip I do not recall any angels, no helping hands assisting with the rowing, for it was too long ago to recollect, but I do know that I never felt in danger, that even with the amount of blood I was losing my strength never wavered.
The second life saved was about 3 years ago when I was taking one of my dogs, Roscoe, out for a run in McDonald forest. We had been climbing up a bike trail, Roscoe alternating between running off in exploration and fearfully cowering at my feet, the smells and scents of other animals both enticing and scaring him. We walked for about a mile, through a windy and muddy trail and up a little hill about 200 yards long. When we reached the top I decided to give Roscoe an actual run and took off, near a full sprint, down the hill and out toward the trail head a mile away. I ran as fast as I could, my lungs bursting but my feet churning and steadily plodding after Roscoe. I am pretty fleet of foot and jumped effortlessly over downed trees and around muddy corners until I came to a 60 degree right turn in the trail.
One of the things I had not accounted for in this jaunt was that I was wearing sweats, those baggy, oversized soccer sweats everyone sees me in, their pant leg openings flopping over my ankles. As I was turning this sharp corner I felt my left pant leg catch under my shoe and felt my body pitch to the left, precariously leaning closer and closer to a topple position, when I felt a wall of sorts against my left shoulder and my body slowly being righted until I was again stable and upright, all the while my feet never wavering from their chugging state.
About 20 yards down the trail, when I finally came to a rest, I walked back to the spot and looked at where I had tripped and where my skull was headed. It turns out that had I continued to topple as gravity should have mandated my skull would have made direct impact with a 5 foot diameter downed fir, cut in half to make room for the trail, and my head would have served as my air bag.
Now, I know that many people can recollect a time like this, though I do not know with what clarity, but I am left to wonder the why behind both of mine. I know fully that there is no way I should be here, not with the acute loss of blood at 10 nor without an invisible wall and helping hands blocking my impending contact with a felled tree.
The question that permeates my thoughts from the knowledge of both of these blessings is the answer to the great philosophical question of why I am here. Why me? Why am I supposed to be here? Does my life has some larger purpose?
Perhaps both were blind luck. I have tried to justify both as pure coincidence, that perhaps I have a really good guardian angel, but to admit the existence of a guardian angle is to admit that my guardian has a reason to protect me. Figuring out that reason is an arduous task at best, I find it hard to believe that any answers are going to miraculously or even unceremoniously appear, no matter how hard I look for them or with how passionately I plead.
Though I am not thrilled by this I think that is kind of one of the great mysteries of life, that we are supposed to struggle over our destiny, our purpose for our short walk on this beautiful spinning planet. I believe though that were we to actually open our eyes, ears and our minds to the possibility of an established path we may find our way more readily.
And so I hope to roam for a while, my consciousness a little more aware and listening. My one hope along this journey is that I talk with whatever is out there more often in thanks than I seem to in anger. I figure I owe at least that much.
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