2017: A year of transitions


In a year of transitions, Lori and George celebrated their 42nd wedding anniversary in September.

This year has felt like no other.

Seeing the White House change hands from the most inspiring president of my lifetime to the least qualified and least compassionate was bad enough. Watching that train wreck of a human being proceed to drive even deeper wedges into an already splintered populace — well, that was even worse.

But I’m not here to dwell on politics.

No, not even Trump can take the luster off a year that produced plenty of memorable moments for the extended Rede family.

Yes, there was sadness with the passing of my dad, Catarino Allala Rede, just six days after he turned 91 in March.


The scene at the funeral home in Silver City, New Mexico.

But even then, there was a silver lining to his passing. I got to do a mini-road trip with daughter Simone to and from the Phoenix airport to Dad’s home in southwestern New Mexico. There, we were reunited with my stepmother, my two sisters, a niece, a nephew, and assorted cousins that I hadn’t seen for several years.

It’s funny how life’s milestones — births, weddings and deaths — are those that bring families together from near and far. But when your siblings and other relatives are spread out all along the West Coast — from Alaska to Southern California — that’s the way it is.

SC cathy-rose-george 2

With my sisters Cathy (from Dillingham, Alaska) and Rosemary (from Oceanside, California).

Aside from Dad’s death, this year of transitions was dominated by our youngest son’s graduation from college, followed just days later by his move to Middle America.

In May, Jordan graduated with a degree in biology from St. Martin’s College, a small Benedictine school outside Olympia, Washington, where he had commuted for four years from his home in Spanaway, near Tacoma. It was a remarkable accomplishment for someone who began college just months after completing a four-year enlistment in the U.S. Army, including a one-year posting in Afghanistan, and who became a father during his junior year.


We had barely had time to celebrate before Lori and I returned to Spanaway to help Jordan and Jamie pack up their house for a 2,000-mile move to the University of Missouri. There in Columbia, Jordan would do science research in a fellowship program designed to help students prepare for the rigors of graduate school.

Father and son embarked on a four-day road trip, with me driving a 20-foot U-Haul truck and Jordan driving the family’s Honda Fit, packed to the gills and including their two dogs and one cat. I had envisioned the trip as an upbeat adventure, but it quickly took a dark turn when the U-Haul truck got a flat tire on the first day and again on the second day in remote areas of Idaho and Montana.

We made it on schedule, but only after pounding through really long third and fourth days where sightseeing took a back seat to the urgency of sticking to our schedule. We arrived late on a Friday, unloaded the truck’s contents on Saturday, and I flew home early Sunday.


How I wish Dad had lived to see his youngest grandchild graduate from college and become a father, as well.

As for the rest of 2017, well, it’s no wonder it feels like these 12 months flew by. Lots of memories and two end-of-year milestones.

Travel: We stuck close to home with three trips to our quiet cabin on Orcas Island. We always look forward to the week-long respite from urban life. The trips entails a 250-mile drive to Anacortes, where we board the ferry for a one-hour sailing to the island, and then an additional 45-minute drive to our place above Eagle Lake.

Pictures are worth a thousand words.


In early December, Lori and I returned to Missouri for a quick pre-Christmas visit. It was a joy to spend time with our sweet granddaughter, Emalyn, and her loving parents.

Books: Literature is a passport of its own, with talented authors opening doors to unfamiliar places, people and experiences. Among those I enjoyed this year were: “Among the Living and the Dead,” a memoir by my Latvian-American friend and former colleague, Inara Verzemnieks; “The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest,” the last in the trilogy of Swedish crime thrillers churned out by the late Stieg Larsson; “Hillbilly Elegy,” a window into the Appalachian hillbilly culture written by one who escaped, J.D. Vance;  “Lab Girl,” a peek into the world of Hope Jahren, a pioneering research scientist; and “Evicted,” the Pulitzer Prize-winning examination of American poverty through the  racist practice of eviction. (Racist? Read the book and you’ll see what I mean.)


Music: I like to think I have broad tastes, though family members would disagree.  But, what the heck. I think I did pretty well catching a handful of concerts featuring artists ranging from Janet Jackson and Coldplay to Lady Antebellum, Michelle Branch, Tuxedo, Liz Longley and ZZ Ward.

Movies: No links this year because I wasn’t as diligent as usual. But I did enjoy “Get Out,” “Lady Bird,” “Detroit” and, most recently, “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.”

Visitors: We had a surprise visit in early May from Chiho Hayamizu, a lovely young lady from Japan who was just 20 when she came to live with our family during a year of study at Portland State University. Our oldest child, Nathan, was just 13 when Chiho moved in with us in the spring of 1993.

Chiho, now 44 but still looking 20 (and even 30) years younger, was back in town for an unofficial reunion with friends who’d also been exchange students in Portland.


Lori and Chiho: Radiant smiles, no matter the location or the year.

In October, my best friend, Al Rodriguez, came up from Santa Barbara to spend a few days timed to coincide with the annual Voices of August writers meetup. It was great hanging out with my longtime buddy, whether it was grabbing lunch from the downtown food carts or attending opening night of the Trail Blazers’ 2017-18 season. (They actually won!)


In November, two of Lori’s best friends, Terry (Long) Mullaney and Lin Dillon, came up from San Francisco for a long weekend of sightseeing and hanging out. Lori and Terry grew up on the same city block, and the two of them met Lin at the all-girls high school they attended. Nice to see such an enduring friendship.

Voices: For the seventh consecutive year, I curated a month of guest blog posts during the month of August. It’s become something that I look forward to every year, the opportunity to be informed, inspired and entertained by a changing cast of friends, relatives and online acquaintances, with ages ranging from 14 to 65-plus. Each person writes on a topic of their choice and does so in a way that brings variety and texture to the whole.

VOA 7.0 group

This year’s VOA peeps gathered Oct. 20 at McMenamin’s on Broadway. Front row, from left: Gosia Wozniacka, Elizabeth Gomez, Jennifer Brennock, Lynn St. Georges, Lori Rede, Lakshmi Jagannathan. Back row, from left: George Rede, John Killen, Bob Ehlers, Al Rodriguez, Keith Cantrell. Not pictured: Eric Wilcox.

This look back at 2017 wouldn’t be complete without two final notes:

— This is the year both Lori and I moved into a new age bracket: 65. She’s still rockin’ it as the owner of her personal training business and I’m enjoying my work as well, as an adjunct college instructor and part-time communications coordinator for a local education nonprofit.

— Chalk up another year with our two pets: Mabel, the mellowest of cats, and Charlotte, the energetic mutt who’s won our heart with her antics and underbite.

charlotte monkey

Up to no good. Again.




VOA 7.0 meetup

VOA 7.0 group

VOA peeps gathered Oct. 20 at McMenamin’s Broadway Pub. Front row, from left: Gosia Wozniacka, Elizabeth Gomez, Jennifer Brennock, Lynn St. Georges, Lori Rede, Lakshmi Jagannathan. Back row, from left: George Rede, John Killen, Bob Ehlers, Al Rodriguez, Keith Cantrell. Not pictured: Eric Wilcox.

There were fewer of us at this year’s Voices of August meetup  but that hardly took away from the good energy in the room.

A week ago today, 13 of us came together at a Northeast Portland brewpub to celebrate another year of great writing and great camaraderie centered around my annual guest blog project: 31 writers on 31 topics presented in 31 days.

In its seventh year, VOA has eclipsed anything I might have imagined when I first extended invitations to friends, family and work colleagues to choose a subject and write an original essay. Each piece reflects something of the writer’s interests and values. Each piece has something to inform, entertain, inspire or remind us of people, pets, ideas and events that are important.

Sometimes those essays are about taking new adventures or dealing with personal loss. Sometimes they are about facing our fears or celebrating an accomplishment. Sometimes they are about where we are in the stages of life and dealing with those challenges.

No matter what, they resonate widely. (More on that below.)

As good as those essays are, it’s the conversation sparked by these blog posts that is truly remarkable. Unlike the shouting and name-calling we see in too many reader comment sections, what you see within the VOA community is mutual respect and cause for reflection. From those online connections has emerged an annual opportunity to meet face-to-face with each other, renewing old friendships or making new ones.

Those good vibes were on full display last Saturday, with participants coming from as far as Northern and Southern California (thank you, Lakshmi Jagannathan, Raghu Raghavan and Al Rodriguez). Closer to home, we welcomed a VOA rookie to the party: Cynthia Gomez, a Portland State colleague of mine who’s just begun a masters program in Creative Writing.

I would have loved a larger turnout, of course. But several factors — out-of-town travel, family birthdays, health issues and more — conspired to chip away at attendance. Still, I marvel that we had contributions this year from a record nine states: Oregon, Washington, California, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Texas and New York. What’s more, those writers ranged in age from 60-plus to 18 to 13. Amazing variety.


Each year, I invite followers of VOA — regular readers plus writers, past and present — to vote for their three favorite pieces. It’s torture, I know, to select just three from the wonderful array of submissions. But here’s the deal: There are no criteria other than to choose what resonated with you, whether it was the quality of the writing or the subject of the piece. Either way, it’s good.

The top vote-getters win a gift card to a bookstore. This year, weirdly enough, not a single one of this year’s favorites was at the meetup. So, here’s a hearty online round of applause for those whose essays struck us as extra special:

John Knapp: “The Odometer” — On the eve of turning 63, John reflects on the matter-of-fact approach he’s taking toward life after learning his heart disease has advanced despite his best efforts:

“I was never going to get out of here alive, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pining for that hot dog I wanted, but never ate because I was afraid it might raise my cholesterol. Life is short.”

Midori Mori: “What it means to have Pride” — A precocious 13-year-old living in Portland’s liberal bubble sets out on a path of self-acceptance as transgender but finds it doesn’t come easily.

“It seems mostly everyone around me can accept who I am and the only person who can’t is me. I don’t care if I have to shout out to the world that I am transgender, but for now saying that about myself still makes me uncomfortable. Some part of me is more in shock of my own label than denial.”

Aki Mori: “My beautiful child, Midori” — A father writes candidly about his struggle to embrace his daughter’s new gender identity.

“I am coming along, and Midori gives me plenty of space with her happy-go-lucky personality. With the passing of time I am beginning to treat Midori more and more like my son, even subconsciously in many cases.”

Mary Pimentel: “Monster”— What’s it like to grow up without a mom who fell into drug abuse as a teenager? An 18-year-old college freshman draws us into her world, revealing the pain and emptiness she felt as a child but also her own capacity to understand and forgive.

“I live my life with pride and appreciation knowing I share so many qualities with such a beautiful human being yet with sorrow knowing that something evil took away the chance of having a mom to braid my hair and wipe the tears from my first heartbreak. I love her immensely still, and no matter the negative, I am living.”

And, as an exclamation point on VOA 7.0, I’m giving an Editor’s Award to Nike Bentley, who’s been part of this project since Year One. She’s a former student of mine, now married and mother of two feisty girls, and she sets a high bar when it comes to reader engagement. Every comment she leaves at the end of a post is thoughtful and often just as eloquent as the essay itself.

Catch up with anything you missed: VOA 7.0 index page

Voices of August 2017: Your favorites?


Another year, another month’s worth of essays from guest bloggers.

And this year’s submissions just may have made Voices of August 2017 the best one yet.

Thank you, friends and family from all over the United States, for contributing your time and energy, your thoughts and ideas to this annual project. As I look back at VOA 7.0, I am again impressed by the breadth of experiences and emotions you shared with me, with each other and with everyone else in the VOA community.

The joy of delving into each day’s post is not unlike celebrating Christmas in August, with a gift-wrapped package of words and images to start off every morning — or, depending on your routine, to finish the day.

Either way, it’s time to take the next step. Whether you were a writer or a reader, you’re invited to vote for your favorites. Just three. Your deadline: Saturday, Sept. 9.

Here are the rules:

  • Who can vote. As with previous years, anyone who has written a guest blog (this year or previously) or who is simply a regular reader of VOA can vote for three favorite pieces. You decide if you’ve read enough of this month’s contributions to cast a ballot.
  • Criteria. There are none other than your own. What grabbed your attention? What resonated with you? What made you laugh or cry? What challenged your assumptions? What made you see things differently?
  • How to vote. Take some time to review the month’s posts here at the VOA 7.0 index page and then send the titles of your three favorites to me at ghfunq@msn.com. (Please do NOT list your favorites on Facebook.)
  • Deadline: 11:59 p.m., Saturday.

As you revisit this year’s contributions, please take the opportunity to leave a comment on one or more posts. Be generous with your feedback, both on Facebook and especially on the posts themselves. Writers love feedback.

Let the voting begin!

Image:  FrontPageAfrica

VOA 7.0 index page

MT window

The written word can provide a window into the writer’s soul.

An archive of who wrote what during this month of guest blog posts for 2017 Voices of August:

Aug. 1: Rachel Lippolis | What you won’t remember

Aug. 2: David Quisenberry | The accidental manager

Aug. 3: Lynn St. Georges | Yes, this dog

Aug. 4: Eric Wilcox | Risky business: Getting involved

Aug. 5: Jennifer Brennock | Bad news

Aug. 6: Michael Granberry | My Watergate summer

Aug. 7: Lillian Mongeau | Waiting

Aug. 8: Al Rodriguez | Swimming with sharks

Aug. 9: Alana Cox | Not always right, but always sure

Aug. 10: John Knapp | The odometer

Aug. 11: Michelle Love | The Cross of Malta

Aug. 12: Midori Mori | What it means to have Pride

Aug. 13: Aki Mori | My beautiful child, Midori

Aug. 14: Tammy Ellingson | Baby, you can drive my car!

Aug. 15: Michael Arrieta-Walden | Making a better life for all of us

Aug. 16: Cynthia Carmina Gomez | Donde come uno, comen dos. Two can eat from the same dish

Aug. 17: Tim Akimoff |Three hours in Utqiaġvik

Aug. 18: Molly Holsapple | Life is not a science experiment

Aug. 19: Elizabeth Hovde | Luigi is mine

Aug. 20: Gil Rubio | Aspire to inspire

Aug. 21: Nike Bentley | Finding Abby

Aug. 22: Maisha Maurant | Olivia Newton-John and the test of a friendship

Aug. 23: Jacob Quinn Sanders |A writer writes. Always.

Aug. 24: Patricia Conover | Water music

Aug. 25: Sharon Tjaden-Glass | Being creative — while being a parent

Aug. 26: Lakshmi Jagannathan | Willow Tree Talk

Aug. 27:  Emily Zell | Organizing my way back into life

Aug. 28: Andrea Cano | When four corners are really five

Aug. 29: Brian McCay | All you need is

Aug. 30: Gosia Wozniacka|Notes from a greenhorn teacher

Aug. 31: Mary Pimentel | Monster

Photograph: George Rede 



MP mary summer

“I have ultimately taught myself that life truly begins when you let go of the past, and live in the moment.” — Mary Pimentel

By Mary Pimentel 

My mother inspected my sleeping father and 3-year-old me and decided that we weren’t enough. She vanished in the night in search of the ultimate high that would never satisfy her yet always keep her coming back for more. My mother became friends with this monster, drugs. Very quickly she then worshipped the monster and allowed for it to have command over her entire existence. The monster that dripped into her veins became the cloaked figure that would not only destroy her but inevitably everyone that ever cared for her. Five children she birthed into the world, and all five she damaged.

When I woke up the morning after she left, I didn’t know the massive part of me that longs for a mother’s touch was just forming, that it was only the beginning. I didn’t know that 12 years later I would cry myself to sleep as I read books about drug addictions, trying to understand how something that could be bought off of the streets was more important than me. Years from that moment I would understand my mother’s reason for departing and hate her for it no matter how close we would become. Her leaving me helped mold a sensitive yet strong personality. Mentally, I have lived and learned plenty on my own, more than I would have liked to.

For the rest of my life, my mother deserting me will constantly rest in the back of my mind day after day. It will always affect certain decisions I make and emotions I feel, but learning to appreciate the ones around me rather than longing for the ones that have gone has made all the difference. I have ultimately taught myself that life truly begins when you let go of the past, and live in the moment.


My mom and dad weren’t together for very long, and truthfully I don’t think I was meant to happen. Since her leaving, I have often attempted to put the pieces together. Why did she disappear? Was there another man? Where did she go to first? Wasn’t I enough?

Over the years my dad’s lips have been bolted shut over the idea of the monster that stole my mother away. I do not blame or condemn him for this, for I know the pain he endured after her vanishing. He was catapulted into depression and had his heart broken, left with a daughter whose features resemble the very woman he now hated. Everything I know is due to my own investigation through other family members or asking my mother herself. But who knows if what she has told me is true, for I know the monster is always lurking.

MP mary collage

Over the years, Mary’s mom has mailed packages containing letters, cards, photos, drawings and books, even some dealing with Hepatitis C and drug addiction.

All of my younger years lost from a mother’s love and affection took a toll before my pre-teen and early teenage years. She teased me with a half-truth about her addiction. So I tried to help my mom get better, and I thought that she was trying to help herself get better too. However, I learned that it isn’t my monster to fight, and he was smirking in the shadows every time I came to her aid.  The monster now laughs at how I once believed I was special enough to ruin his bond with my mother. The words I say are trash to the lines he whispers into her mind at night.

In my well-being and self-esteem, my soul, there has been a heavy hole dug. It is dreary, filled with lost hope and love. In there lie the few memories that I like to believe were spent with my genuine mother, no monster present. No part of me is willing to patch the hollow inside of me, nor will I act as if it does not exist. At 18 years of age I simply acknowledge and accept what has happened to me, and understand that it does not define me as a person. I am much more than a girl whose mother left her behind for a drug. And this discovery is only a chapter of my life so far.


The view from my upstairs bedroom window overlooking the roof and darkly painted night sky flows into mind. It is the view I encountered almost every night as I asked the moon the lingering and still unanswered question, “Will she ever come back?” In reality, I am now well aware that whether or not my mother decides to pop into my life is simply due to how heavily she allows the monster to influence her thoughts. It has nothing to do with how much I miss her.

As a child, she visited me sporadically. These are the memories in which I feel as though the monster wasn’t there. I watched her circle into the cul-de-sac on her cherry red motorcycle, and then together we rode letting the wind tickle our faces. We pulled leaves off of trees and colored the textures and shapes into scrapbooks. She is an artist. We also carefully walked along the edge of sidewalks with our arms spread out wide as we tried not to fall into the street, then called the hot lava.

Years later on a Mother’s Day, she startled me with a letter explaining that she wanted to kill herself. At the tender age of 13, I realized how deep in despair she had fallen, and for that moment we traded the roles of mother and daughter. That was the beginning of the wall that I started to build between us, and on that day I began to distance myself from her no matter how much it hurt.

(Click on images to view captions.)

A wall wasn’t started because of selfishness or fear, it was built because after so much effort of trying to help my mother get better, I realized that there wasn’t anything I could do or say that would work. In the end, I realized it was her willpower that needed to step up and confront the monster. I was continuously being lied to about her sobriety. I experienced mental breakdowns — hers and mine — that I wish I could forget. There were times where I was her favorite and times that I wasn’t. Our relationship never truly felt like mother and daughter, it felt more as if I was a friend that tried to help her become clean and someone she had fun with sometimes.

Our separation didn’t happen all at once, however, It was a slow and agonizing process. It was hard for me to let go. In November 2015, she was blocked from any type of communication with me. Occasionally she sent a letter in the mail; I was still too tender to respond. I had heard it all before. “I will get better. We will get better. I miss you. You are my favorite.” It was a cry for help that I had to ignore at the time. I had to heal and rebuild strength in order to let her back into my life. I had to fully accept who she was and the battles she had.

Now, we are strangers, yet connected by something that is unable to be seen. She is no longer blocked, but I see her once or twice a year. The difference in our relationship now compared to my pre-teen and early teenage years is night and day, but it is better this way. I’m not the only one to admit that she is reflected within my mannerisms and appearance, and it weakens me still. The furrow of my brow or the pouting of my lips is enough to make my father tell me “Don’t make that face, you look like your mother.” Right now my mother is miles away, hopefully growing, as I sit here, hopefully growing.


For a long time, my mother’s absence made me feel that a part of my life was missing. I couldn’t glance at a mother and daughter in a supermarket without my eyes watering. I couldn’t hear words of encouragement from any older woman in my life without imagining the words coming from my mother instead. A day did not go by where I wouldn’t hold a photo of us, or a letter from her, and weep myself asleep. Tracy Chapman’s “The Promise” and Hoobastank’s “The Reason” are songs she dedicated to me, and they are still to this day my ways of talking to her and connecting to her, even though they sadden me greatly.

For a long time, I couldn’t think of her without being thrown into heartache and tears. Talking to a therapist helped immensely. It was soothing to have someone let me explain my brokenness without being judged. She made me understand that my mother’s departure does not mean that I am not special, that I am not unworthy of love. It is a problem of hers and only hers. If it is too painful for me to speak to her while she is unsober, that is okay. And if it is too painful for me to speak to her while she is sober, that is also okay.

I owe my strength to handling this better to my therapist. I have learned that communication during grief is the key to recovery. I still think about my mother every day, and I always will. I will continue to experience things in life where I ask myself, “Would this be easier if I had a mom to talk to?” This sensation of loneliness has made me strong.

One day when I have children, I will aspire to be the mother I wish I could have had. I will never leave them questioning my return, and I will shower them with affection so that they will never struggle to remember what my presence feels like.

Today I am strong with an open and forgiving heart. Every day I live with my mother’s lips, freckles, passion for writing, thrill for running, creativity, impatience, and free spirit. I’m sure there are more traits handed down from her. I live my life with pride and appreciation knowing I share so many qualities with such a beautiful human being yet with sorrow knowing that something evil took away the chance of having a mom to braid my hair and wipe the tears from my first heartbreak. I love her immensely still, and no matter the negative, I am living.


MP mary grandparents

Mary with her grandparents, Raymond and Debbie, after the Miss Newman Pageant in September 2016,

My mother fell into the world of drug abuse before she became a teenager. At an age when a girl should be playing with dolls and playing tag at school, she lived a life of abandonment, sexual abuse, and then later drug abuse. The monster that shot into her system told her that the despairing childhood she lived didn’t exist. Soon she met my father and had me, but the monster continued to remind her of the freedom that eluded her. So she left.

Several times throughout my life I have tried to reconnect us. It was hard, but I now accept that my mother is a drug addict and will recover when she understands that she has power over the monster. All it takes is for her to stand tall and admit she needs help.

Mom left me as a toddler and teased her affection to me throughout my entire life. I hope one day – drug-free — she can watch me graduate from college and walk down the wedding aisle. I hate the aftermath of what her leaving has caused for me, but I am appreciative because it has made me treasure a parent’s love more than anything and realize its effect on a child. I can’t thank my father, stepmom, and grandparents enough for their support and the life they have provided for me.

All in all, drugs are destructive and evil. They steal the souls of human beings and replace them with heartless thoughts and manipulative actions. Drugs are the monster that have taken over my mother and resulted in me once feeling abandoned and worthless… Overcoming this monstrosity has been a curse and a blessing.


Mary Pimentel is 18 years old, living with her father and stepmother, often visiting her grandparents. She represents her small town in central California as the reigning Miss Newman — and was voted Miss Congeniality by her peers. This September she will begin college at the University of California, Santa Barbara, with an interest in Writing and Literature. She also aspires to move to New York one day to continue her writing and possibly attend graduate school there. It is a dream of hers to spoil her parents and grandparents as a show of gratitude, knowing she was raised with such a loving and supportive family.  

Editor’s note: Mary is the granddaughter of my second cousin, Debbie Pimentel, whose grandfather, Pedro, was a brother of my grandfather, Luciano. (Debbie’s mom, Julia, therefore was a first cousin to my late father, Catarino.) I’ve been hearing nothing but great things about Mary from her grandma. Working with her to edit this piece — an essay she initially wrote for a high school class — gave me plenty of reasons to understand why. 


Notes from a greenhorn teacher

Clark-chime tower

The Clark College campus in Vancouver, Washington, features a chime tower — its bells hidden within an imposing red-brick fountain pen with a silver tip.

By Gosia Wozniacka

At the start of my Journalism 101 class, a student’s mother committed suicide. The news arrived via two brief emails — one from a counselor at the college where I was teaching, another from the student.

I was stunned, devastated, unsure how to respond. The act of self-destruction, a chasm, jettisoned into my novice classroom. How would this student get over losing a mother and study simultaneously? How should I help? Was I equipped to do this?

A greenhorn teacher, I had just three months of adjunct teaching experience under my belt. I had spent the past 15 years working as a full-time journalist, a staff reporter for The Oregonian and then The Associated Press. I had in the past taught high school students in classrooms and workshops, but teaching college called for a different level of expertise. I had wanted to try it for a long time, and when a part-time position opened up at Clark College in Vancouver, Washington, I took it on.

Teaching college journalism, I thought, would consist of transmitting to students my real-life experience of a working journalist. I would inculcate in them the essentials of being a good listener and observer, asking open-ended questions, being skeptical, fact-checking and writing succinctly and with grace.

Yet I did not consider that these lessons would be just a scaffolding on which to thread a different kind of instruction; that the students would make me confront the tender flesh of being human and steer me to use my skills in ways I had not intended; that — though perhaps this is a truism, it’s one worth repeating — I would learn as much from them as they from me.

I liked to walk the college’s manicured, bird-filled campus. The cherry trees bloomed, weaving a carpet of pink under feet, and the chime tower — its bells hidden within an imposing red-brick fountain pen with a silver tip — punctuated the day.

I hurried with stacks of photocopies — “the art of interviewing”, “how to spot fake news”, etc. — to the basement classroom where I taught. As an adjunct, I didn’t have an office. I was paid only for the instructional hours, meaning that everything else I did was basically volunteering. And yet some of that unpaid time became most meaningful to me.

Clark-cherry blossoms

A familiar and favorite sight: blooming cherry trees on the Clark College campus.

After missing a single class for his mom’s funeral, my student returned. He was visibly distraught but determined to continue. We stayed after class and talked in the hallway. He didn’t look at my face but told me details about his mother’s death. I listened. I encouraged him, as I did in a previous email, to attend counseling, to seek out friends and family, to talk to me whenever he wanted.

We would work out a schedule for his late work. He could take time off as needed. I stumbled, wondering if I was saying the right things. I admired his tenacity, his desire —  bordering on desperation — to learn despite the circumstances. In the following weeks, he would sometimes stay after class and speak with me. At other times, he’d signal with his eyes, whisper an update (or not) and run for the door.

He wasn’t the only one who needed sympathetic ears. Several other students dealt with debilitating depression and other forms of mental illness.

One confessed he had recently changed medications and was struggling in his courses. He was easily distracted, he said, and his family life was in chaos — just like his writing, full of syntax and spelling errors. I often stayed after class to talk with him in the hallway. I shared contact information for the writing lab and the counseling center, and the link to a free online grammar spellchecker. I agreed to be his job reference. Though the news stories he wrote were tortuous to edit, he made a real effort and I appreciated it.

Another student had dropped out of high school and struggled with addiction, only to come back to college when he became a father. He said he had bigger dreams for his two-year-old daughter, whom he brought to class on several occasions when the babysitter fell through. She drew quietly while we discussed how to write a lead or structure a story. Her father, the student, asked a lot of questions. He planned to become a lawyer, and his work ethic, professional demeanor, and honesty were astounding.

I realized my students’ effort to connect, to show vulnerability, was the most important lesson I could learn and teach. Unscripted, raw conversations — moments no one paid me for, no one required of me, that had, on the surface, nothing to do with journalism – made this job relevant.

When a student confessed she had secured an important interview but was terrified to go through with it, we practiced. She was shy, a little socially awkward, she admitted, but I knew she had done impeccable research on her news story when she timidly slipped a list of detailed questions over my desk. Later, she told me she had nailed the interview.

On other days, daily life brought out the emotions. Another student who was a great writer once approached me before class. When I saw her ashen face, I led her into the hallway, where she immediately burst into tears. She explained her dog had just died and she needed to go home, but didn’t want to miss class. I gave her a hug, fetched her backpack, and told her that her absence would be excused.

I often shared with students something personal about myself: that despite being a successful reporter, I, too, was a rather shy and calm person. But this shyness didn’t prevent me from doing my work. It was, in fact, a weapon, a negative-turned-asset that helped with my reporting and writing.

I remembered what one student had written in her self-reflection, the first class assignment: “I am taking this journalism class to help me with my communication skills and social anxiety. I came from a poor home and neither of my parents went to college. I came to Clark to prove my worth and make a difference in my family…”

Only a handful of my students had said they wanted to become reporters — they aspired to be pilots, musicians, fiction writers, librarians, nurses, lawyers, business owners and teachers — but they all saw a benefit in learning about journalism. Some struggled financially, working full time to pay for college tuition and missing out on a social life.

Some were high school students — Clark College has a special program for those who want to get an early start on post-secondary education. Others hailed from very small towns — Vancouver, Washington represented a big city move for them. They were the first in their family to attend college, or one of ten or seven siblings. A few came to the U.S. from another country or had immigrant parents.

Though both of my parents were well educated (they were the first generation to attend college in their families), we were immigrants to this country. I had learned English as a teenager and knew about not fitting in. So while I felt happy when my outspoken students engaged in smart rhetoric, it was a million bucks day when a more reserved student volunteered an answer or when a working student or student with significant life problems continued showing up.

I asked them — no matter their challenges — to go a little beyond their comfort zones. But also to use their own personalities, interests and even challenges in the act of journalism.

I tried to treat them as reporters capable of doing real, impactful work. And though giving them feedback on multiple story drafts was extremely time-consuming, as was the copy editing, seeing their stories edited and published was rewarding.

Except sometimes it wasn’t.

When I failed my first student, I wrote him an email, profusely apologizing and explaining I was left with no other choice. He was one of my best writers but did not turn in the final project, a feature story.

To my dismay, there would be others. Some stopped showing up mid-way through the term. Others never finished reporting or writing their news stories. A few attended every single class but didn’t do any work. They didn’t respond to emails. I spent days wondering why they didn’t show up or submit an assignment — or why they had shown up but submitted nothing. Those whom I failed didn’t lack talent — they just stopped communicating about whatever it was that stopped them from completing their class work.

These disappearing acts were hard to accept. But a former professor and journalist helped me see them differently. It’s OK to fail, he told me; we all must learn how to do it. Sometimes, he explained, students needed to screw up. They needed to just sit through the class, even if they didn’t pass it. Some would take the class again and do well, others wouldn’t. Or they’d realize they needed extra help or a different approach to college.

Gosia Wozniacka

Gosia Wozniacka

Teaching, then, wasn’t so much about transferring knowledge as about helping students see their own selves and figure out how they functioned. It was about nudging them to become comfortable in a complicated world, even if that world wouldn’t include journalism.

On my last day of classes, I meandered into the campus green. Groups of students milled around the red-brick chime tower — I now knew some of them. I felt a sadness about the finish line, despite being utterly exhausted. As a part-time adjunct professor with two classes to teach, I had worked longer hours than I had for most of my journalism career.

I often stayed up past midnight preparing lesson plans and grading student stories. Yet, despite the negligible pay, the lack of health insurance and unemployment benefits, the experience was worth it. I’m thankful to my students for being open with me and for sharing their vulnerabilities. It was the most important lesson they could teach me about being a teacher.

Photographs: Gosia Wozniacka


Gosia Wozniacka is a freelance journalist and photographer. She was previously a staff reporter for The Associated Press and The Oregonian. Gosia was born in Poland and often travels to her native country. She taught journalism and digital reporting at Clark College from January to June 2017.

Email: wozniacka@gmail.com

Twitter: @GosiaWozniacka

Editor’s note: I’ve known Gosia for about 10 years, dating back to when she was a student at UC Berkeley’s graduate journalism school. This piece tells you all you need to know about the personal qualities and reporting and writing skills that prompted me to recruit Gosia to The Oregonian. In the past year, we’ve met from time to time to share our teaching experiences and strategies. Who would have guessed we’d wind up teaching a few miles apart in the same city? She at Clark College and me at WSU Vancouver.

Tomorrow: Mary Pimentel, Monster

All you need is

Love word cloud illustrationBy Brian McCay

I need to be up front with you. I’m going to talk about Love. So please be prepared, forewarned, open to it, skeptical or just stop reading now. It isn’t about Love in the traditional sense. As a scientist, I consider this article of a spiritual nature, since I cannot prove any of it. It would be like proving there is gravity or proving you Love someone. Good luck. Feel free to walk away believing I am full of beans. It’s all good. We are in this thing called life on Earth together no matter our beliefs.

We all know the state of the planet these days. Best I can sum it up is there is no normal. That ship has sailed. Never before seen behaviors from all corners of the globe causes a real sense of uncertainty for many of us. Polarizing perspectives are now the norm. News is a lot of things, but objective and fair is a foreign concept for many.  Intolerance, anger and even hatred are no longer in the closet. Where are we heading?  What awaits each of us awaits all of us.  How do we react to all this? Where do we turn for comfort?

Religious leaders continue to offer faith and comfort. “Resist” is a popular movement to display one’s displeasure with our current political direction. Others welcome this political direction as returning to the normal of many years ago. No matter your perspective, those of like mind sick together, further widening the schisms among us.

Many join causes that they are passionate about to ensure they can hold on to something that makes sense to them. Others give generously to organizations they feel need protecting from the onslaught of indifference. And then there are the plethora of individuals and organizations that continue to care for our home, Mother Earth. Each in our own way continues to search for comfort at some visceral level that will help us cope with our personal loss of “normal.”

Enter Love, the universal expression that, in my experience, defines who we really are what we are truly made of and ultimately, is all there is.

The secret is that this great source of Love cannot be found searching outwardly. It lies within each of us. This may seem trite, but it is so. To what extent do any of us reach inside of ourselves and find that omnipresent power of Love to give us comfort? Probably not much, if ever, since we’re not encouraged to do so.

love silhouette

Love defines who we really are and what we are truly made of. (Photo credit: The Odyssey Online)

At this moment, wouldn’t compassion be a beautiful expression of Love to show to any and all other human beings, especially those of a different mindset? “What! How do you expect me to Love these clowns who believe what they believe. They make my reality a nightmare!? I’d rather erase them all and return sanity to my existence.” I get it, but as a TV personality used to say “How’s that working out for you?” The intent here is not to judge or preach, but to be compassionate with the challenges we all face these days. This is all to say that perhaps our starting point for expressing Love is the challenge. We simply have not been made aware of how to tap into this omnipresent universal power.

Expressing Love to those we truly Love is difficult enough for many of us. Expressing Love for those who have diametrically opposed values seems like a bridge too far. Perhaps there is a starting point for expressing Love for a human being that once experienced, would allow our expression of Love for all others as well.

Where is this starting point? Got a mirror handy? It is the Love we have for ourselves. Wait, wait, wait! Before you roll your eyes and hit delete, hear me out.


brian mccay

Brian McCay

What follows are a couple of “exercises” suggested by others that really have made all difference for me and those close to me. It is my honor to share them with you. I hope they bring you some inner peace as we spin round and round on this beautiful planet.

There is a simple private way to validate the thesis that we must start by Loving ourselves. In private, stand in front of a mirror, look deeply into your eyes and say out loud “I Love You!” I suggest you do it every day and pay attention to what is going on inside of you.

Awakening the power of Love within you is no small feat. However, there is no greater reward. You have to trust yourself on this one. Give it a shot and see what happens. Over time you will find your experience of the world changing for the better. That sounds like a sweet outcome, does it not? What do you have to lose?

Speaking from personal experience, I had lots of tears and deep-rooted emotions rising up resulting in interesting physical manifestations. This was followed by a sense of relief and elation in the realization that I had experienced the stuff each of us is truly made of: Love in all of its magnificent manifestations. Practice it every day until you know you really don’t need to. Know that you are magnificent and perfect in every way. Love yourself.

Here is another Love-focused practice you can use throughout the day. This exercise is aimed at helping you see the magnificence in everyone. In turn, it brings you unbelievable peace.

Think of something that makes you smile. A joke, a story or a photo and when you get that smile on your face, move your attention away from that beautiful mind of yours down to your Loving heart. Now envision perceiving all around you from your heart center, keeping that smile on your face.

How does that feel? And no, you cannot hold this perspective, but you can practice going there anytime you like. Putting an image of what makes you smile on your smartphone and looking at it often (you can even set an alarm) is a great way to remind yourself to get heart centered. I hope you find this a fun and eye-opening exercise.

Loving one’s self first is paramount. You cannot skip this potentially most difficult first step.  Moving on to practicing heart centering will seem pretty easy compared to loving yourself, trust me. A sense of centering and calm will envelop you. Without you saying or doing anything, others will be influenced by your very presence. The Love emanating from within each of us is infectious. Start with yourself.

Be kind to yourself. Know you are Love manifest. Change the consciousness of the world by starting with you and then infecting others without even trying. Enjoy it All. John Lennon had it right.


Brian McCay, Ph D. lives in Bedford, Massachusetts, with his wife Gayle. They have two daughters and two granddaughters. Brian’s hobbies include wine, food, and writing. Spirituality is his passion.

Editor’s note: Back in the day when Brian and I both had a lot more hair, we had the good fortune to meet, date and eventually marry women who were college roommates. All four of us were attending San Jose State University in the mid-’70s. He married Gayle. I married Lori. Forty-plus years later, all of us are still together.


Gayle and Brian, visiting Oregon in 1977.

Tomorrow: Gosia Wozniacka, Notes from a greenhorn teacher

When four corners are really five

Woodburn book cover

Portland’s Woodlawn neighborhood has transformed from a small autonomous city at the end of the streetcar line to a large, firmly middle-class district of mostly midsized post–World War II homes and a few notable Victorian gingerbread-trimmed houses— former farmhouses that once sat on muddy streets. — Anjala Ehelebe

By Andrea Cano

It’s been about 15 years ago since I stumbled upon this neighborhood with my friend, Susan, who was guiding me with her real estate acumen to my first home ever.  I ended up buying a four-bedroom, two-bath on Winona Street, catty corner from Woodlawn Park.

[OK, I had to stop here and look up the origins of catty or kitty corner.  According to the on-line Grammarist – Middle English catre-corner, literally meaning four-cornered … meaning positioned diagonally across a four-way intersection. Sounds French to me. I’ll come back to this later in this story.]

My neighbor, Ms. Ruby, who survived the Vanport flood, lived in the big multilevel yellow house on the corner.  She greeted me my first week with a plate of freshly baked cookies. I would meet her just a few months before her husband passed away, leaving her the widowed matriarch of a large African-American family. Over the years, she would show me pictures of her now grown children and grandchildren, the trips to Hawaii, graduations, and marriages.  She would tell me about the neighborhood ‘comings and goings’, and would let me know when my tuxedo cat, Sebastian Banderas, had spent a long afternoon lingering on her porch.

[Oh, Sebastian, whom I was lucky to have as a kitty in 2001 and lost in 2009. We were so close that my landline message said:  Ha llamado a la casa de Andrea Cano y Sebastian Banderas… Mercy, folks not in the know would ask if he was related to Antonio. After a while, Sebastian even started to get junk mail in his name.]

I met other neighbors at the meetings of the Woodlawn Neighborhood Association (WNA), one of the city’s 90-plus such groupings coordinated by the Office of Neighborhood Involvement at City Hall.  Some were the longest-living residents, others were families with new babies, or single young adults still in college. But we were all guided with a similar mission for Woodlawn Neighborhood — a community where we lived peacefully and securely, our local businesses flourished, and a lovely park was maintained to enjoy year-round.

WNA had committees and work groups that reported at each meeting – from the Foot Patrols to the Land Use proposals. Even the local Portland Police precinct sent a representative to offer crime and safety updates.  We were intent on developing Woodlawn, accessed by two major bus lines (8 and 75) and the main street of Dekum — not as a “destination” such as the Pearl or Alberta Street, but a truly livable place.  We didn’t want high rises or multifamily dwellings. We just needed a good, local coffee shop, maybe a small grocery store, and a restaurant or two.

I would imagine that people new to the neighborhood would get a little confused once they drove off Dekum, especially going south. The crisscrossing of angled streets. Streets that led to dead ends. The two-story house on a little triangle patch of land on Bellevue near 13th.  But that’s part of the charm of a neighborhood that began as its own city sometime ago.

As I mentioned earlier, the catre-corner on 9th and Winona where I lived not only offered a view of the park, but also the occasional near misses, or near accidents, of automobiles and pedestrians on the multiple intersections within yards of each other.

The speeding cars. The no-stopping cars. The screeching brakes. The frequent gathering of neighbors to see what had happened or nearly happened. Ms. Ruby and I were concerned.  It was enough to prompt a call to the city’s transportation and safety department. That must have been around 2004 or 2005.

While I had not documented each incident, I explained to the city staffer the risks and dangers to moms with their babies in strollers, the couples walking their dogs, the senior adults stepping off curbs to gingerly cross the streets.  I encouraged the staffer not to take my word, but to come out and test and evaluate the catre-corner. She said they would.

We’re not sure how the assessment was done, outside of the cables laid on the streets, but within a month or so, there were four stops signs in place!  Ms. Ruby and I were delighted how quickly “City Hall” responded.

Woodlawn stop signs

Woodlawn’s quirky angled streets remind residents of a time when the streetcar depot was a major feature of the city. — Anjala Ehelebe

Ms. Ruby is gone now. Her daughter, Denise, and husband, Fred, now host the family gatherings with lots of youth and children filling the front yard as aunties and uncles enjoy the shaded porch of that big yellow house. The stop signs are still there; however; Fred says he still hears a few brakes screeching and see lots of people rolling through the stops signs.  Hmmm, maybe some intersection cameras now?

My son, Michael, and his wife, Chida, now live in my Winona house and I am a few blocks away. We remain hopeful that the Woodlawn neighborhood will continue to be a peaceful and secure place to live –  where we can continue to stop in for a slice at Good Neighbor Pizza, coffee and a scone at the Woodlawn bakery, Mexican food at Tamale Boy, a delicious dessert at Bassotto Gelato, a carton of milk at the P&Q Market, garden starters and chicks at the Dekum garden shop, meditate on the full moon at the Zen Buddhist Temple, and support non-profit organizations at the Public House.

As importantly, to be able to leave our cars behind and safely walk the tree-shaded streets with family, friends and pets, greet our new neighbors, and enjoy the wonderful, evolving community of which we are a part.



Andrea Cano

At a time when most people are retiring, Andrea Cano continues to serve the community as a clinical chaplain for Providence Hood River Memorial Hospital,  manager or facilitator for special projects under the auspices of Oregon Solutions, Oregon Humanities, and LACE (Latina Associates for Collaborative Endeavors) while “creatively embracing my crone y doña status, and greying in place.”

Editor’s note: Andrea is yet another multi-talented person I’ve met through my work. A former journalist herself, Andrea headed the Oregon Commission on Hispanic Affairs for several years; has a long track record of community service; and a passion for growing and cooking food.  Read her 2011 post: “What spreads, spreads…”

Tomorrow: Brian McCay, All you need is

Organizing my way back into life

emily birthday

Emily Zell celebrating her 67th birthday on July 1, 2016.

By Emily Zell

Cancer, cancer, cancer. It’s been living with me for the past year. It returned after 8 years of clean scans. Having been given a 1% chance for recurrence, I was shocked.

Surrounded by five close friends, I waited for the call giving me the result of the biopsy. I was frightened and then easily handed over the worry to my friends who absorbed the shock for me. My daughter, Lexi, her dad, Don, and Lexi’s partner, Sean, arrived soon after. Don brought cookies, Sean a doorbell to be installed and Lexi carried flowers and some silly things to cheer me up.

The reality didn’t sink in for a few days as I vacillated from being numb to being super cheerful. The days stretched out full of more tests and doctor appointments. My friends and family took turns accompanying me.

After the scans and chemo treatments were scheduled, I scheduled some other things. I looked around my house, especially my office and its closets and my desk drawer. All I imagined was my sister, ZiZi, sorting through everything to find passwords, contact information of friends and important papers. Even if I was only incapacitated and not already gone, I couldn’t bear the thought of her frustration, trying to figure out my filing system or my touchy garage door when it went up and down and wouldn’t stay at one elevation!

First thing on my list was re-organizing for my eventual demise, with a little room for doing something that brought pleasure to me: tackling my art studio. It was covered with unfinished and finished projects. I hadn’t minded because all the color made me smile when I passed it on the way to the laundry room. But I discovered that beginning to order the studio gave me room to work again without having to put things on the floor.

emily studio

Job #1: Bringing order to my art studio.

Next, I met with my attorney to be sure my will was in good shape. I already did that on an annual basis, so there wasn’t much to update. Then I typed out the pages of passwords and account numbers and ids for water, cable, garbage, Netflix, my Medicare and Kaiser accounts–and all the other accounts and passwords that have seemed to accumulate since the internet has become an insistent part of our lives.

As I worked, I added more and more categories of what needed to be organized. I cleaned and thinned out both office closets and the desk drawer. I ran stacks of an unnecessary accumulation of paper through the shredder after cleaning out my filing cabinet. I filled up the recycling bin many times and started to put in the garage things to give. Then there was a list of repairs, such as a water damaged spot in the living room wall and a window that needed to be replaced. I couldn’t deal with the idea of not having the house in order.

As I engaged in all this organizing, I thought less about my cancer.  The organizing took me away from cancer and into my life.

Several weeks before the re-diagnosis, I had ordered an additional 4 place settings of my stainless flatware, which arrived just in time for my diagnosis. This prompted me to start thinking about who would take all this perfectly usable stuff in my house after I was gone.

My grandmother, Lucile McKay Kelly, 1887 – 1988, left a three-inch binder with every silver serving piece, china and sterling flatware set, painting, garden sculpture, and piece of furniture, along with to whom it would be given. There were also notations indicating a back-up recipient, in the case that the first recipient did not want the item or was no longer around. Guess I received my organizational skills from my grandmother!

For the last twenty years, I have been the keeper of my grandmother’s binder, and I began to study its organization in order to prepare my own binder. I was always impressed how Gramma gave a brief history of many items telling when and where she acquired them. I didn’t want all my history to be lost either.

It took about four months to move through my house, getting everything in order:

  • Neighbor’s keys and who they belong to – photos of such keys
  • Photo and operation of garage door and the sponge that keeps the electric eye from coming out of alignment
  • A written description of quirks about the house
  • A description of every item of furniture or piece of jewelry and how I ended up being its custodian
  • Passwords
  • List of friends and family with email addresses and phone numbers, in groups of “in town,” “out of town,”  ”neighbors,” “close friends in town,” “close friends out of town,”“repair people I have used,” “house cleaner, etc
  • Envelope for my sister, ZiZi, with all things business related
  • Once I’d finished all of this, I was feeling pretty set. Then I opened the drawer in my dining room chest and realized that I needed to get some organization into that as well. The seven drawers’ ingredients included camera equipment, junk, too many tablecloths and placemats that I rarely used. (My orange placemats are my favorite and I am always drawn to them.)

I called friends Toni and Ramsey’s oldest daughter, Erika, who according to her mom, is a whiz at cleaning out and organizing.

Together, we began to bring order to my dining room chest — including painting it — then to my bookshelves and the many stacks of books around the house. It took hours to reorganize the books I could not part with. Next: my sewing room. Erika opened up the armoire where the yarn and fabric stash lived. For those of you who do not know what a stash of yarn and fabric may entail, it can be massive. I didn’t consider mine to be in that category; nonetheless, there was hardly any free space on the three shelves.

emily yarn

The yarn I am saving.

Erika helped me sort through all the yarn and fabric. The armoire is now clean and I can see everything easily. Erika and I also sorted all the fabric, which left me with two stacks I will use for a “Day of the Dead” quilt I will sew. It has been in the works for seven years.

(Click on images to view captions.)

We also organized and sorted give-a-way piles of clothes and other items, which had lined the walls of the sewing room. Once we were finished, I could walk easily–and even roll out my yoga mat, there was now so much space. The room was empty.

Or maybe it just felt that way.

The next morning, I came downstairs to survey my cleaned sewing room. On the sewing table, rather than piles of fabric and mending, only the machine was visible. There was plenty of room to sew now. I opened the cupboard and viewed the few stacks of projects I had chosen to finish. Then I went back upstairs.

I felt empty. Somehow the rooms full of stuff had been comforting. I sat down at my clean desk and paid bills and wrote several letters. Then I wandered back downstairs. I pulled out one of the mending projects to finish. In 20 minutes, I had altered the waistband on a pair of pants, adding fresh elastic. It felt pretty great getting that out of the way.

The thread was at my fingertips and the instruction book for the rethreading of the machine was within arm’s reach. I no longer had to dig through the armoir for what I needed.

Feeling encouraged, I pulled out the largest project, which was a quilt I began in 2008. It was almost complete; I just had to bind it. The quilt was for a double bed, but I had never had enough room to lay it out so that I could pin it. Now I did. With confidence, I spread the quilt onto the tile floor and worked my way around it with my pin cushion. Less than an hour later, I had changed the thread color in the machine and was ready to proceed. The quilt was bound before lunch.

emily quilt finished

The finished quilt.

Later, while enjoying avocado toast, I realized that I had made room in my life for all my creativity.  I was surprised that I was no longer organizing for my demise, but so that I could live.

Update: My prognosis is pretty good. I am off chemo and on a pill-a-day regime. In the meantime. I am living!


emily chair

Emily Zell in her “comfy chemo chair.”

Emily Zell was born and raised in Portland. She graduated, in Education, from Portland State University, in 1971. She migrated to the Bay Area in 1977, raised two daughters and taught elementary school. Among other things, she works in her art studio, is a history docent for the Oakland Museum of California and writes a blog called Zellously, all about living!

Editor’s note: Emily is the older sister of my wife’s longtime friend, Alexandra, aka Zizi. Lori’s connections have led to my own, such as teaming up with ZiZi’s partner, Brian, on a coed bowling team. It was at a milestone birthday party for Brian that I met Emily and took an instant liking to her. Last year, she made her debut on Rough and Rede II as a guest blogger

Tomorrow: Andrea Cano, When four corners are really five


Willow Tree Talk

Willow water

“I visit the willow tree because she listens. Silence. Breath. Leaves.”

By Lakshmi Jagannathan

Sunlight filters through the branches casting shadows on the water.  A gentle breeze ripples the reflection.  Long thin branches, bend low — heavy with bright green leaves. The ground is dry and rocky, the leaves wilting in the heat.

Suddenly, the skies part and rain comes in sheets blanketing brown hills as if Gods and Goddesses from Oregon have traveled South. The Guadalupe River almost floods its banks. The tree becomes a stranger – unreachable. I have mixed feelings about nature’s bounty.  Is this the ending of a relationship?

Willow sapling

The waters eventually recede and wildflowers cascade extravagantly down the slopes. I find a broken branch lying on the ground. I take it home and plunge it in water. Willow will root so easily that you can even use water steeped in it to root rose cuttings. Nothing mystical about that – just the effect of plant hormones.

Speak less, listen more.

I visit the willow tree because she listens. Silence. Breath. Leaves. The flutter of a duck’s wings as it lands on the water.

The world is a mirror.

“Ginny!” said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted (In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling). “Haven’t I taught you anything? What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain!”


Some people say the reality you see outside is a projection of your thoughts. You attract who you are.  Hard as it might be, we must take ownership for what is. We rant and rave at misogyny and bigotry while we actively participate it in it. As we have seen from many recent news stories, it’s obvious that the objectification of women is alive and well in the workplace.

And Racism was creeping and crawling under the rock all the time. When I first came to live in Oregon people like me were often asked this question: “When are you going back?”  I thought I was putting down roots, but apparently, I was quite foreign. Looking back now, I realize what the term micro-aggression means. “Do you live here or work here?” – a playgroup Mom visiting my home.

Examine your prejudices. I had to confront mine. (Why weren’t Islamic leaders more vocal about condemning terrorist attacks?) Until a cashier at a grocery store confronted me after a terrorist attack.  I got the feeling that she felt “my people” were responsible. A couple of months ago I participated in a rally to support Muslims.


Is it possible that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is actually holding a mirror to the Voldemort in all of us?

You are not your story.

They say grief has different stages.  Whatever this dark beast was also had stages for me – Disbelief, Acceptance, Sadness, Outrage, Anger, Personalization.  Yes, suddenly it was all about me.

It’s easier to rail against a common enemy then battle with your inner demons. But actually, our own stories hurt us the most. They change all the time – good, bad, ugly, wondrous. Love, Betrayal, Fame and Misfortune. Characters come and go. Some are there only in the first Act, some last to the end. All the world’s a stage, and we must play our part.

Write a new script.

We don’t have to be victims, though.

Below the surface of our rocky mind is a stillness. And there we can write our new stories and allow them to unfold in their own time. A life force can emerge out of a dead, abandoned stick.

Meanwhile, walk on a sandy beach, teach a class, bake a vegan, paleo chocolate cake.


There is a flutter of wings and suddenly I see it – an egret so big! I whip out my cell-phone, just a little terrified. It stares, almost as if it wants to advance towards me. In a second, it changes its mind and it’s gone – small now – up in the sky, white against a cornflower blue.

Btw, before you go, stop sharing every @#$&ing thing on social media.

Wow. I didn’t know a willow could cuss like a sailor.

And listen, hey, don’t walk away from me!! Get your $#@ together.

When are you ever going to write that book. What about your online energy healing community idea?

I know, I know, stop nagging me. It’s just that my life is so complex!! Time is like a thick sweet syrup, trickling sluggishly into a drain. I have insomnia I wake up tired and then drink a lot of coffee and then I can’t sleep at night. And then.

Excuses, Excuses. Never mind. It’s Ok.  Life is not an Amazing Race. Nothing to prove to anyone. Just be.

Photographs: Lakshmi Jagannathan


lakshmi jagannathan

Lakshmi Jagannathan

Trees seem to be a theme in my life, says Lakshmi Jagannathan.

“As a grad student many years ago at the University of Massachusetts I developed techniques to propagate a tree in vitro – Paulownia tomentosa, the Empress Tree. Revered in Japan, bridal chests were made from its wood. Later, long before social media, I attempted the creation of a portal for authors and their readers called Gulmohar (aka Flame Tree – a tropical tree with bright red flowers).

Now it’s a Willow Tree that inspires me to create a community to nurture emotional and mental wellness. If you are interested in knowing more or offering your expertise, contact me.

Join this Facebook page: fb.me/WillowTreeTalk

Visit my blog: Living La Vida Pura


Editor’s note:  I met Lakshmi in the fall of 2007, when she was one of a dozen people selected for The Oregonian’s Community Writer program. Her love of the natural world is evident in this piece, as is her sense of humility and her striving for a more equitable world.

Tomorrow: Emily Zell, Organizing my way back into life