"And that was no small thing, the pain you felt..."

This poem has been coming back to me time and time again all week long; or, rather, the final two lines of a poem-what I believe might be the most poignant sonnet I've ever read, written by a dear friend of mine.

We all agreed, on one day or the other this week, that it had been the hardest to date. I can't say for certain, beyond work woes, or being short on gas money, or just flat out being overwhelmed, why anyone else had such a rough time, but in a nutshell (a large one), here's mine:

As aforementioned by J-Sqwalles, one of our team members, I found a dog in Port Angeles. He was skinny, dirty, scared, hungry, and alone, and a golden retriever to boot. Who's NOT a huge sucker for golden retrievers? Seriously. After much coaxing and several pilfered chicken breasts, myself and my friends Marie, Elizabeth, Paige managed to get him into Elizabeth's car, and drive him to the Humane Society.

It was a bit of an ordeal, but after a quick exam and a scan, it was determined that he was not tagged nor microchipped, and as the HS was closing for the weekend, they advised that one of us take him home and care for him. We left Marie's phone number.

I christened him Persy, and after a bath, being made much of, and several metric tons of treats, he was doing much better. We played fetch. He came home to Port Townsend with me and slept on the bed. His tail filled out with brushing, and he came when I called him, even by this new name. I have had golden retrievers all my life-as my father's field dogs, who swam and hid and fetched dummies and ducks, as puppies from litters we donated to the Guide Dog organizations to train. My own last, most loved pet was a golden named Winston. Persy was no exception. I loved him immediately.

A week or so later, it came to rise that Persy DOES have an owner, a very nice lady named Lorraine who entrusted the care of her beloved dog to the wrong person, a person who tied him up outside alone and left him, and didn't bother to go looking for him when he got lost. Lorraine wanted to come pick Persy up immediately. It was Monday.

It was also on Monday that I walked into my 4th grade classroom, where I work with several very troubled and problem children. They are my 'boys'-a freckled, tousled, motley little crew who, no matter how many pencils they sharpen during class, or bathroom breaks they take, or loud noises they make, are still doing their best. They're doing the best they can. I was told that B., one of the students I'd been working with, was unexpectedly pulled out of school, and moved. His parents were perpetually late, or not in attendance at his conferences and plays and presentations. They were on welfare. B. has been sleeping on relatives' couches and floors for weeks. And now he was gone. All that progress was gone.

Lorraine called again. Her aunt and uncle would be in Port Townsend that evening to pick Persy up. Persy, my now-beloved dog, who I hadn't slept without since I found him. B. was gone. Just a couple of days ago, we sat in my classroom eating Dum-Dums mystery flavored suckers and doing fractions. He was learning. He WANTED to learn.

My friends were stressed out, too. I'd been getting texts and calls all weekend. My best friend, my rock, is on the verge of a divorce. I had $20 to my name until payday.

Lorraine called again. She really is very sweet. She praised my care of Persy.

"I want to send you some money," she said, "for the vet bills and other things. And a reward, I'm just so grateful you found him!"

But I don't WANT a reward, lady! I want the dog! Can't you see how badly I want the dog?

"Ok, well, my aunt and uncle will be there to pick him up soon, I'll have them call you."

I had to leave the classroom. I went outside in the chilled sunshine, and sat on the back steps, and cried. Yes, I cried. What else was I supposed to do?

Lorraine's aunt and uncle showed up. Persy looked confused for a second as we loaded his box of treats, food and new toys into their truck. He wagged his tail first at me, and then (oh, the relief...), at them. They tied him up in the truck bed and drove away. I cried more when I saw him hang his head over the edge, looking back at me. I cried while I walked to the mail box. I cried when I got into bed at home.

And then this poem came back to me, perhaps in my sleep. Perhaps the next morning, which looked as sad as I felt-full of fog and misty rain:

"I wanted to give you not was but is.
Love, all I could build to give you is this"

It had always seemed to me so melancholy, until I thought of my parting conversation with Lorraine.

"Do you eat fish? Salmon? I just feel like I should send you something. I can't thank you enough."

About B. and his efforts and his serious little face over his math homework, and how instead of getting testy, he'd finally started to smile at me instead.

About all my friends. The new ones. The old ones. The ones I've yet to make. About how this is, indeed, a two-line testament to what we're all doing, in AmeriCorps, and in our daily lives.

We are not here to do what's "right"-should I have sent Persy back, not knowing if he'd be well taken care of? What about B.? How do I know what's right for him?

We're not here to do what's definitively "right", or to tell someone what's wrong. We're not here to do things by the book, nor to do whatever we want.

We come here, and we do our best. We do the best we can. We build our own this: our own little towers of heartache and compassion and pride, and we stand beside them, knowing that they still stand, no matter how crumpled, no matter not white nor picket.

We do what we're asked, and more. We do the best we can, always.

* from "Late Valentines" by Derick W. Burleson (Never Night, pub. Marick Press)

Little Hamlet By the Sea

I can't believe I live here...

It had never occurred to me that I might fall immediately in love with this new place, and yet it's happened. We're right on the water. The fog rolls in off the strait and covers everything at night. The atmosphere and sea-smell are similar to coastal Alaska, and there are gulls and seals and otters in the harbor. All weekend long I drifted around the docks looking at boats: trawlers, sloops, dories, dinghies, and long-liners, inlaid with hardwood or mother-of-pearl. Boats that people live on, handcrafted, that are a way to make a living but more than that, here, a way of life.

I've met so many people, and absorbed so much information in the last week and a half. There are 40 volunteers with the North Olympic Corps this year-more than they have ever had. And every single one of us brings something enlightening and new to the table. It was incredible to be welcomed to the job and this new place by an entire group of people who are cohesive, united in our differences perhaps more than our similarities. Whether it's at work, or sitting around at the local pub over beers at dusk, or wandering around town, I've been impressed upon by our backgrounds and stories, by how much everyone wants to be here, and how certain we all are of what we're doing here, and why.

It was difficult to leave Alaska, knowing that it's home, having thought that I'd never feel comfortable somewhere else. My sense of community was eroding, though, worn down by more frequent instances of violence in the city, by the feeling that something was missing, and not knowing what. I feel here like a child must when learning to walk: surrounded by things that are stunning, fragrant, delicious and now attainable. We are all embarking on the missions we set for ourselves out of altruism, preparing to work on improving the environment, housing, education, and the lives of children. There are festivals and live music and fruit trees laden with pickable things.

I am taking my first steps. I am rushing headlong into the world, to make it the world I want it to be. Volunteers will be awarded exactly $11,800 in stipend/living allowance for an entire year. Most of us have applied for food stamps, heating assistance, and transportation assistance.

I have never been so rich.

You're a poem of mystery/You're the prayer inside me.

So I'm stubborn. Ruthlessly so. When it comes to taking someone's advice in regards to music or movies or which book to read, I tend to adamantly refuse to do so until weeks or months after the fact. The lines that title this blog are part of an Iron & Wine song; Iron & Wine being a band I flatly refused to listen to, simply because everyone and their dog seemed bent on telling me how good they were. How I'd probably never heard of them. I'm stubborn about taking advice. I'm stubborn about letting go.

I let go totally once. Three-quarters of the way up a mountain face, trying to run a line back down, dangling from a thin, green-barked tree. Hanging into a glacial waterfall.

To be fair, I didn't get hooked on a 'pure' Iron & Wine album, but rather a collaborative EP called "The In the Reins EP". Iron & Wine collaborated with a band called Calexico to produce the record, and it is this record's title track that's caught me thus: a low-toned string harmony behind a deceptively simple-sounding acoustic guitar. And then out of nowhere, a deep, strident voice that sings over the instrumental in Spanish.

The singer sounds like he's ready to give up, and yet, is still noble, and there's a nobility to that, too, isn't there? Being left standing alone and choosing not to follow what's moving away from you. I lost my line coming down the scree. I had no choice but to leave it. The sun was out.

Iron & Wine came to Anchorage last year. By the time I caught wind of it, the shows were both sold out. Back then I didn't really care. I wasn't aware of the EP that would knock my wind out. Of course, back then, I didn't know why I'd want it to, why I needed the strings and that noble Spanish verse. I didn't know that without them, I couldn't cry.

The sun was out but glacial runoff is never, never warm. It was either this, or go back up the mountain. And the tree was slick, so I let it go.

It terrifies me that it's all out there now, here, typefaced and silhouetted against, well, the Internet. As if by my own hand, by choosing to put it into words, I've already lost you. Oh, not entirely. You'll resurface someday, while I'm still chilled from this fall, from the lung-crushing weight of the plunge, legs shaking, chest contracted. You'll say hello, maybe. Maybe you'll ask how things are for me. You may very well say nothing at all.

Because that's how cold it is, how indescribably cold, that water. And I knew I could get out of it, and the heat still beat down on the top of my head, while above me the scree rattled: another runner coming down, someone else either very confident, or completely lost.

I'm stubborn, you see. Stubborn about letting go. Save for that one time, just once, up high on a mountain whose jagged scree and dusty, narrow trails cradled me. Save for the day we met, the day you walked out into the sun from the confines of a coffee shop and shook my hand.

Behind me the little tree snaps back into shape. In front of me, though I don't know it yet, you bend to pet my dog, the straighten again. Somewhere in the middle, I'm holding out for the sight of the trail again. Somewhere in the middle, I'm holding onto you.

But I knew this was it, didn't I? I knew the second I laid eyes on you that in one way or another, this would be it for me. I repeat this over and over and over, to anyone who asks. To some who don't.

I turn the first track of my first Iron & Wine album on again. And I run, now, years after cutting my shins & bruising my hands on the rocks on that mountain. Outside where it rains, where the rain makes tears and sweat taste like the grass that grows where river meets sea. And sometimes I find I can cry.

And most days, I find, one or two things drop, like my body from the cliff face, like a bird diving for moths. Most days, I find, I let a little more go.

Glen Alps/ Flat Top with Jason

On Tuesday I spent almost 5 hours hiking around a popular area outside Anchorage: Flat Top Peak. The weather was perfect, a sky so blue it seemed false. My friend Jason & I made it a point to climb the peak all the way to the top, which, strenuous though it is, provides a breathtaking view of the city, Cook Inlet, and the mountains surrounding the sea. The below pictures from the hike make me wonder how I can leave this place at all...

Family Reunion & Pauling Wedding Reception, Summer 2010

A week spent celebrating family with my dad's side:
Aunt Beth & Uncle Lance & Cousin Kim
Aunt Jenny, Uncle Randy, Cousins Andrew, Jo, and Beau (cousin in law)
Grandma Jo (Dad's mom)
Annie & Dave, Cousins Adrienne, Tommy & Ryan (cousin in law)

My brothers, brother's fiancee Sally, my sister, Asia (Daniel's girlfriend) and Hector (Anna's boyfriend)

It was also the first time our family was able to celebrate Adrienne & Ryan's marriage. Here are a few shots from the weekend:

Plans to make plans to make plans...

August.

It's been raining here constantly, save the weekend we all packed up and hiked into Crow Pass, where Eagle River was pouring over its banks, flooding the trail, soaking our boots. Chilling our bodies when we stopped to take a dip, to cool off, to remind ourselves how small we are, how powerful, how willing to carry things.

Family reunion time. We've all gathered in four houses, three motorhomes, and a tumble of catching-up. There are bonfires and homebrew, and lasagna in huge cast-iron pots, table settings full of flowers and seashells. Wedding presents. My brothers are here. My cousins. My sister. My parents and grandmother. And soon we'll all be leaving again, our reunion a brief respite from the weight of oneself in the world-it doesn't seem so bad when someone is there to pat you on the shoulder, to hug you, to offer you the last scoop of cookie dough, the first one fresh from the oven.

Where I'm going is coastal mountain range. Where I'm going, there are marine highways and colonies of writers and music festivals. Where I'm going is the sea.

My cousin and her high school sweetheart will celebrate their wedding tomorrow, surrounded by all of us, raucous and giddy on my uncle's homemade wines. My brother and his fiancee arrive tonight-her engagement ring is perfect, at least that's what everyone says. My sister and her boyfriend will be there, his hand on the small of her back like always. And there will be our parents, and our aunts and uncles, and their friends, happy in the longevity of their lives together, content to watch.

There's still a picture or two of us somewhere. In one, we're slid together in a bar booth, the light low and our heads together, our smiles the same, eyes cast down on your camera, revisiting a moment that was only moments ago.

In the other, we're up on a mountain somewhere in the Tombstone range, and you're holding the camera at arms' length. Our hair is longer now, and you haven't shaved. I'm half-hidden behind you, my knees supporting your torso, and you're smiling, but only part of the way, mouth turned up in the way I love, because it mirrors how you look while someone else talks story, like you're getting ready to have something to say.

And it's dim in one and bright in the other. And it doesn't matter how different each image is. It doesn't matter that nothing's the same.

All around me, people are putting their lives together, grafting them like cuttings from one tree onto the next. In three weeks, I'll leave here, where those pictures were taken.

I'll be off, somewhere, bearing your weight against my legs, bearing this like I bore your body on mine, your face pressed into my neck.

All around me, there will still be mountains, still the dim lights of booths or campfires.

My heart is breaking. My heart is broken, and I've never been so full of joy.

You'd never know, would you, 'cause you don't ever ask...

I'd pay money.
... I'd pay money to be allowed to love you the way I already do...


CIVILIZATION

There’s an art
to everything. How
the rain means
April and an ongoing-ness like
that of song until at last

it ends. A centuries-old
set of silver handbells that
once an altar boy swung,
processing . . . You’re the same
wilderness you’ve always

been, slashing through briars,
the bracken
of your invasive
self. So he said,
in a dream. But

the rest of it—all the rest—
was waking: more often
than not, to the next
extravagance. Two blackamoor
statues, each mirroring

the other, each hoisting
forever upward his burden of
hand-painted, carved-by-hand
peacock feathers. Don’t
you know it, don’t you know

I love you, he said. He was
shaking. He said,
I love you. There’s an art
to everything. What I’ve
done with this life,

what I’d meant not to do,
or would have meant, maybe, had I
understood, though I have
no regrets. Not the broken but
still flowering dogwood. Not

the honey locust, either. Not even
the ghost walnut with its
non-branches whose
every shadow is memory,
memory . . . As he said to me

once, That’s all garbage
down the river, now. Turning,
but as the utterly lost—
because addicted—do:
resigned all over again. It

only looked, it—
It must only look
like leaving. There’s an art
to everything. Even
turning away. How

eventually even hunger
can become a space
to live in. How they made
out of shamelessness something
beautiful, for as long as they could.

Carl Phillips