More on Hood River impressions here.
It’s official. I live in Oregon. We live in Oregon. Me, the man and the dog have moved over 2,000 miles from the city that never sleeps to the sleepy town that starts drinking beers at 2 pm.
I’ve bought flannel at Wal*Mart, eaten Annie’s Mac and Cheese for midnight dinner after a long day of unpacking, and been to the recycling center with our station wagon more times than I ever thought possible.
I’ve unpacked the yoga mats. Unboxed my rechargeable flameless candles, the Buddha head (now with broken hair-bun), and the iPod speaker thing to play my yogadownloads.
I have not at all, in fact, been on the mat.
Yoga, a practice I rely on to help me through transitions, emotions, upheavals and all such things, has been pushed to the extreme edge of my consciousness. I’ve gotten so far as to write down the local studio’s class schedule and glanced at it while spending the day in sweatpants and watching the clouds hug the foothills on the other side of the river.
I open a beer as soon as Oprah comes on and turn the allen wrench a couple more times on another Ikea thing. They say eskimos have a thousand words for snow. Oregonians must have a thousand words for clouds. So I’m spending my time thinking of words to describe the variety I see – gossamer, cotton candy, cool whip, spider web and fluffernutter. Perhaps for now that will count as my meditation.