insignificant.

In August, the month that I left for this trip, I was coming to grips with the fact that my relationship was dissolving. A relationship that I had poured myself into. Despite the fact that I had finally learned how to be good at loving, and to give myself fully to someone else. Despite … everything. I couldn’t find the mistake or pin point where I went wrong. Even now as I look back I feel blameless. It didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. Not enough, not even at my best.

And it crushed me. Not swiftly, not all at once. There was no “we’re done”, or disbelief, or the sudden crippling surprise. It crushed me slowly to sleep next to him, and to feel him recede. Inch by inch, everyday less mine. Despite everything.

I tried to write about that feeling. I only found a single phrase. It isn’t eloquent, and I don’t know where it came from. In that sense, I guess it’s honest. I feel so small. Those four words ached behind my eyes, and I saw them written on the bathroom tile. They held the helplessness and the emptiness I felt from giving myself away.

But standing in Yellowstone, absolutely dwarfed by plateaus and mountains, they took on new meaning.

I feel so small. And I am small. Even my hurt and my fear.

(photo) on ilford b+w film, with Pentax k1000  (words) Bon Iver's Holocene.

Swifts at the Chapman School

In the beginning of fall, ten-thousand Vox Swifts roost nightly in a single chimney in Northwest Portland.  Watching them reminded me of a few lines from Emily Dickinson.

"These are the days when birds come back,

A very few, a bird or two,

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on

The old, old sophistries of June,--

A blue and gold mistake."

 Strange the way the early days of autumn resemble the first of spring.  September exits just as June entered. Two points on the same circle, equal distance but different directions.

The birds land like smoke in rewind.  The season has felt like that too - backwards but familiar - as we round the bend to winter.  Everything must leave the way it came.

(photo) kodak portra film with pentax k1000. The dutch tilt is uninentional, I was using a tripod on uneven ground.  (watch) You can see the swifts in motion here.

Landlocked Whale Bones

Long, long ago - 65 million years ago to be specific - Montana was actually an inland sea. It's hard to believe, standing there five-hundred miles from the nearest ocean. Landlocked and infront of proof as tall as a craftsman house. Ancient whale bones decorating the lawn like any old bird bath.

 Usually glass and velvet ropes lay a barrier between a person and the ancient. You know you're different. There is the precious world of specimens and then there's your world - where a twix bar from the giftshop is melted into your jeans. 

 But, here are bones that lay in the ground for millions of years and were randomly dug up along with some everyday dirt. They could be in a museum. Instead they are here, at the end of Whale Bone Drive.

A bleached white reminder of our insignificance. Pressed into a lawn, in the land of the living.

[(photos) on film with pentax k1000 in Kalispell, Montana.

(listen) Landlocked Blues - Bright Eyes (p.s) another thought on wonder]

Married to Amazement

Lately in the evenings, Eli and I have been watching nature documentaries.  I hop off the bus and stop at the little market down the street and buy a box of macaroni, a sixer of pilsner in the glass bottles - because I just like the feel of those better - and rent a dvd across the street. So far we've worked our way through 4 episodes of Blue Planet.

I spend most of the time shouting my head off : a blue whale is bigger than a T-Rex?! or elephant seals accidentally crush 1/5 of their young?! Eli, man of few words, just says wow!

I remember going to the redwoods with my dad when I was younger and thinking Cool dad. A bunch of trees. I was equally nonplussed with Yosemite Falls. I think I just wasn't old enough to really feel a sense of amazement at nature.

But, when Eli and I were in Argentina we took a 20 hour bus ride to Iguazu, to see a horse-shoe shaped cascading set of waterfalls. It was hot, and sticky, and we had to walk across little bridges. For the first time in my life I think I really felt a sense of awe.  

These days, I am in a constant state of wonder. Eli calls it "fresh out of the womb" syndrom. It's like I'm experiencing everything, even the mundane things, for the first time. Look at the light on that building or The way that squirrel is flicking it's tail is the cutest thing I have ever seen!

one of my favorite lines from Mary Oliver is

I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement

I hope to say that too.

(photos) on film at the Cannon Beach tidepools | Flickr (p.s) a favorite article on the Power of Awe from O Magazine