I will remember nights like this.

Nights when the hum of the box fan in the corner cuts through the stuffy living room. Tim lying on his belly on the beige carpet, studying (what else?). The soft “clack” of the sliding door blinds coming together from the breeze outside.

I will remember nights like this because they are unmemorable. Unremarkable. Bland, if you will.

These nights consist of sprawling out on the denim couch that is slowly sinking into itself. My bare feet rest on a pillow set on the coffee table. A can of soda water is in my hand, along with a Roku remote as I scroll through Netflix on the TV.

It is not a marathon: my eyelids droop around 10 p.m. I pounce at the suggestion of sleep, sometimes (often times) so eagerly that I forget to floss.

But these nights in – with their sheer predictability – meld together in my mind, creating one long scene with the same characters and lines. This makes it difficult to mark the passing of time.

Hoursdaysweeksmonths slip away.

I will try to memorialize these nights, with their soft lamp glow and the cold metal bar to rest my feet on under the oak desk. I will hide the remote and light a candle and open Microsoft Word.

Then, maybe –

I will have stories to commemorate these nights. 

You & Me

We work because of our Oregon roots. We stood several feet away from each other in high school- years before we met-  at that cross country race where I saw you dancing to a boombox and just shook my head.

We work because of our wings. We've seen Europe and Africa and Mexico and the West Coast together. We've traveled next to each other by plane, train, automobile, ferry, mountain bike, skis and our own two feet.

We work because you always walk to the driver's seat when we go anywhere together because you know I'd rather be the passenger.

We work because I edit your school papers and your Spanish grammar and you teach me about adventure sports and how the human body moves.

We work because you've adapted to my blanket thief ways and now simply curl up next to me to stay under the blanket.

We work because of our faith: we accepted Christ as our Savior and seek to honor Him with our lives.

We work because we have an unspoken understanding that clothing and dish piles are acceptable on weekdays (and sometimes on the weekends, too).

We work because you make me crepes with lemon and powdered sugar on Saturday morning without asking because you know it's my favorite.

We work because we share a love of Citizen Cope, trail running, craft beer and dogs. And a day filled with all those things is nearly perfection.

We work because we never end a phone call with each other without screeching first (except when I'm mad, which only gets a "bye") and most of our texts end with "xoxo."

We work because of the promises we made on August 6, 2011.

We work because of our love.

Hawthorne

My first transaction on Hawthorne Street was a faded, olive Abercrombie & Fitch long-sleeve shirt.

I stood there, a lanky 13-year old in Buffalo Exchange (a used clothing store), unzipping my corduroy blue wallet to pull out $14 of precious babysitting money before handing it to a pale, petite brunette inscribed with tribal tattoos. 

Back then, I did not realize the irony of purchasing a shirt made by a cooperate machine like Abercrombie & Fitch on a "hippie" street. I just knew I wanted to fit in, and that a shirt was my ticket. 

It was in high school -- when my trips to Buffalo Exchange became more frequent -- that I began to understand the cultural nuances of inner Southeast Portland. As a high schooler without a car, the 15-minute walk down to Hawthorne from my house offered countless independent Sunday afternoons. 

I would stuff my backpack full of old clothes to sell before making my way through tree-lined neighborhood streets, past Western Seminary and down the hill to Hawthorne. 

The street is a stretch of shops and restaurants nestled between old residential neighborhoods with cracked sidewalks and narrow streets. No matter where you are on Hawthorne, you will smell a blend of patchouli, coffee and body odor. And somehow, the smell is endearing instead of repulsive. 

Its restaurants ranges from waffles to Vietnamese noodles, with the words "vegan" and "organic" in almost every window. The shops are just as varied, selling vintage clothing, tchotchkes, essential oils and "glass art."

But its the people that characterize the street most: Old men with frizzy ponytails and tie-dye shirts. Middle-aged women with salt-and-pepper hair in raincoats and Birkenstocks. Twenty-something men in skinny jeans, vintage band t-shirts and combat boots. And 30-year-old women in 1950s vintage dresses and streaked bouffant hair.

On Hawthorne, "conformity" is a dirty word. The street's regular inhabitants do not want to look like everyone else just as they do not want to consume like everyone else.

The more time I spent on Hawthorne, the easier it became for me to understand why. Shopping in thrift stores and boutiques requires much more creativity than mall shopping, since it becomes a treasure hunt. And walking past street performers and homeless people seemed oddly more bearable than walking past harassing mall kiosks. 

While I have not lived in Portland for over six years, I still look forward to the 15-minute walk down to Hawthorne whenever I visit. Nowadays Hawthorne is passe, or so I'm told. It has been replaced by another hip street, Alberta in Northeast Portland.

But I don't have to conform. 

remembering

“One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.”

― Sigmund Freud

Time has a funny way of softening the edges of memory; of creating nostalgia out of seemingly ordinary moments. At least this is what I have found to be true in my 24 (almost 25) years of existence.

This thought rings especially true in regard to my high school experience. As to be expected, there are a lot of little things I have long forgotten about my teenage years: locker combinations, who I sat next to in which class, where I placed in my first 5K.

But other memories will sharply appear without notice: the way my taffeta and velour choir dress felt against my skin, numb legs while racing the 400 in the rain, the way my heart always fluttered when my crush smiled at me.

The majority of these memories evoke positive - if not nostalgic - emotions. But when I read old journals from the same era, I am reminded of the less-than-joyful moments: the four months of depression and low self esteem after a nasty break-up, the frustration of running my fastest times as a sophomore, the helplessness and fear I felt  after my brother became sick.

It's funny how the mind is selective when it comes to memories. It is as if an editor sits in the grooves of our brain, deciding which stories will go on the front page and which will be buried on E6 next to the Classified's.

If our mind’s ability to process those memories helps us adapt to the present, then there must be a reason why some moments in our past have a stronger afterglow than others.

Perhaps this is why, as Freud said, "... in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful." In my own experience, time does not erase pain, but it does put it into perspective. Suffering shapes us - refines us - in ways that thriving simply cannot.

All of the painful experiences that I expressed in my journal as a teenager were just as formative as the joyful ones. Maybe that knowledge is how - over time - beauty seeps into those memories.

vim & vinegar

"She is full of vim and vinegar."

These were the words my elderly neighbor, Mary Miller, used to describe me as a two-year-old. 

The antiquated phrase -which means feisty or headstrong - seemed to fit. I refused to wear the outfits that my mom laid out for me, opting for my pink sparkly kitten shirt with rhinestone eyes every time (and then changing my outfit three times in the same day).

It was not until a few years ago that I discovered the book on my parent's shelf, "Raising Your Spirited Child: A Guide for Parents Whose Child Is More Intense, Sensitive, Perceptive, Persistent and Energetic," was purchased with me (not my brother) in mind.

I am now 24, and thankfully no longer wearing cat shirts. But those closest to me know that my core personality traits have not changed: I can still be fiery (also known as difficult) and persistent. These attributes have their obvious downsides. On the other hand, I am rarely accused of apathy.

I hope, I pray, that my writing never becomes apathetic. I can think of no greater sin as a writer, than to write without conviction, without the spark of creativity. Instead, I want my writing to be "spirited" -- intense, sensitive, perceptive, persistent, energetic. 

I know it is a tall order to fill, so please hold me accountable. Because the best stories, in my opinion, are those flavored with vim and vinegar. 

color fix

This time of year, I yearn for color.

Don’t get me wrong — I love the dry, rugged landscape of the High Desert, with its dusty brown and green hues, its sagebrush and snowy peaks. But around March, I start daydreaming about lush, grassy fields and vibrant wildflowers.

Last week, when I heard about the Painted Hills, located just an hour and a half from Bend, I jumped at the chance for a change of scenery. My father-in-law, Rich Gross, and his English setter, Hank, came along for the adventure.

The Painted Hills, part of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument, are located about 50 miles northeast of Prineville and 10 miles west of Mitchell. The fossil beds are divided into three geographical units, including Clarno and She

ep Rock.

The view from my car window along U.S. Highway 26 was admittedly ordinary, adding to my anticipation. Upon turning off the highway into the Painted Hills Unit, I craned my neck out the window and asked Rich to point out the hills to me.

“You’ll know when you see it," he said.

After a few turns on a gravel road, I caught my first glimpse of a painted hill.

A mound of terra cotta-colored earth seemed to rise out of nothing, banded with strokes of cream and pastel green. The rich tones looked stunning against the muted landscape, illuminated by the intense morning sun.

When I stepped out of the car, the scene felt almost quaint. Across the road, a herd of cows mooed and a tractor hummed in the distance.

It was just a taste of the larger, more impressive hills that awaited us a few miles down the road.

There, folded tan hills striated with red, orange and bronze are surrounded by smaller hills similar in appearance. Visitors can admire the view along several nature trails and viewpoints.

Before exploring the trails, we stopped at a picnic spot containing restrooms and exhibits. Informational signs and brochures tell the story of the multicolored hills, formed by millions of years of volcanic deposits and erosion.

Each hill is made of layers of claystone that contain ancient soils and lake beds. The desolate landscape has changed drastically over the millennia.

Fossil beds have documented the transformation, providing one of the most continuous fossil records in North America. Roughly 56 million years ago, the area was a subtropical forest where camels, saber-toothed cats and rhinos roamed.

After checking out the exhibits, we headed to the Leaf Hill Trail. The short, quarter-mile hike provided even more geological context. The sign at the trailhead told us that 33 million years ago, the land was covered with deciduous trees such as beech and maple.

The exhibit also identified the trail as an excavation site for thousands of plant fossils. Removal of fossils — along with walking on the hills — is prohibited.

Next, a mile drive took us to the quarter-mile-long Painted Cove Trail, where a wheelchair-accessible boardwalk slithers between red and gold hills flecked with black.

By this time it was early afternoon and overcast, and cloud shadows had colored the hills a deep and vivid red.

The trail offered an upclose look at the claystone hills. An interpretive sign explained how the clay contracts to look like popcorn when dry, and becomes sticky and absorbent when wet. Poor nutrient conditions and a hard underlayer keep the hills barren — one of the reasons why they are so visually striking.

Saving the best for last, we parked near the Painted Hills Overlook to take the Carroll Rim Trail. We ascended a few hundred feet in elevation for three-quarters of a mile to an overlook of the entire region.

It was well worth the trek. While all three trails were unique, this one offered a birds-eye view of the Painted Hills unit.

I took a moment to take in the view. From above, the ringed hilltops resembled tiny planets. The roads and trails below assumed the form of delicate veins, cars became miniature toys. It was beautiful and serene.

By the time we reached the car, the clouds had moved aside for the midday sun. Under direct sunlight, the hills were changing colors once again, appearing washed-out and subdued as we drove away. But I know the hills, with their mysterious shade-shifting quality, will eventually lure me back.

Next time, I plan to stay for the sunset.

Note: This article was published March 22, 2013 in The Bulletin newspaper