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