This is some of Laurelhurst Park. Maybe a month or so ago Laurelhurst Park began whispering to me…….”Hey. Hey, remember me?” And with here-and-there flashes of its up and down paths, its forest of one amazing and giant tree after another, its very own lake, and the all-in sensation of being one with, yes, I did.
When the rain let up Thursday, after setting up the desktop, after coffee at the Starbucks where I’ve been all three Portland days now, after something like brunch early afternoon, I threw on my heaviest sweatshirt and my R.E.I. raincoat and flowed with Cesar Chavez traffic right over to the park – parked the Camry and elatedly walked in.
Every single footstep felt like affirmation. Every sway of my eyes, from the grove of Redwoods to the crazy green at both ends of the lake, said “yes, yes, yes.” And as I stepped out of the park where you walk beside the road for about 30 yards before heading back in, I was literally stunned that here I was – in Laurelhurst Park, in Portland, with a current mailing address. Come on! I was just in San Luis Obispo. And wasn’t I just in San Diego? And here I am, in the attic, reading messages from people saying, “Yay. Welcome back.” Too much.
On my second time around a tank-top guy (which would have brought me to hypothermia) walked across my path and over to the lake with a big bag in his hand. I stopped to watch, and before he made a move, every duck and goose in the zip code came a-runnin’. It looked like this:
Far out.
So, I’ll end this week – one in which I wasn’t even sure I’d be posting – with another song. Exactly the right one:
from a mountain bench 
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