It would be 6 pm in an area of suburban Portland when the light would start to dim. The red tinged bark of the young Sequoia Tree that lay directly in my line of sight from my hotel window seemed especially luminous at this time. I marveled at that tree; strong, proud, absorbent. I imagined her insistent roots under the concrete. I wondered if there were ever moments where she craved, called out for the big forest. What intelligence within her felt displaced.
Fernweh, is the word they use in German. Longing for a place you’ve never been.
Every night, we’d both watch a man with his life piled in a shopping cart, push it from one side of the carpark to the other and disappear from sight.
Me in my hotel room overlooking the car park, her in her planted spot, overlooking the carpark.
I thought of that man and wondered, what happened to you?
If he knew he’d been witnessed, by me and the Sequoia. And if he even cared.
I talked to my tree and asked, what’s it like to be planted in a place you can’t escape from?
She was too gracious, too accepting to form an answer. A rock and a hard place.
When I got home, my son asked me about my time away and I replied:
I learned a lot, but I wouldn’t say it was enjoyable.
I meant to say:
I wanted to lie in the soil and let it cover me. I wanted grit in my nails and a squish under my toes. I wanted light that changed so I had to shield my eyes. I wanted to look out and be forced to stop my feet so I could make the looking last for longer.
I missed the world outside the city. And I am grateful to be home.
My time away made me realise how my world of the non-human that surrounds me- my trees, my birds, my dogs, my horses, my everything’s- inspire so much of my words and my work. And without them, I was a little lost at sea, in search of a new anchor.
On Wednesday, I travelled to the airport in an Uber for the two-day journey home. I had yet to write something for this week to share with you today, yet to formulate my question.
I knew the nature of the airport would not inspire, but a conversation with my driver did. Inspiration from nature of the human nature kind. And with that, my mind took a swift right turn, moved sharply sideways, and then galloped straight ahead.
This week, my challenge to myself was what can I see if I look differently?
This was my answer to that question, a piece of writing I mapped out on my adventures from Portland to LA, LA to Auckland then Auckland to Dunedin.
Human | Nature : Portland to Auckland
Total Minutes of Friendship: 831 minutes, 16 seconds
Uber Driver
He pulls up with his white, hybrid station wagon, pops the boot,
grabs my heavy bag by a strap designed to hold together but not to lift.
It’s New To Us, he tells me, tapping the roof,
which I understand,
the second rung down from New To Everyone.
I give a satisfied nod,
position my face in a way I imagine someone who
might appreciate cars would position their face,
especially when the car
is a New To Us car.
The traffic will ease, he says,
you won’t be late.
When they first put this road in
we thought three lanes was
over the top.
Whyever, would we need three lanes? we said.
Now we say hallelujah when it merges to five
and finally, we get somewhere.
He points out the window, I turn over to the left.
When they finish that train line- wiggles his finger with some force- they’ll take you right from where I picked you up,
to right inside the airport.
“Inside”, he repeats, admiring, incredulous, emphatic, his now cupped hand gesturing up and down as though trying to catch an unsuspecting passenger with a cup.
He seems satisfied, triumphant, which confuses me,
coming from a man
who gives lifts to the airport as his job.
You know, the other day, I picked up a man.
He flies to Idaho every Thursday,
has a Ballroom dancing lesson with his daughter,
the gets back on the plane,
and flies back home.
She’s getting married soon.
I smile a half smile, my insides warmer with the thought of a man who flies every Thursday to Idaho to take ballroom dancing lessons with his daughter.
If I’d caught the train, I replied, I never would have known that.
His face looks pleased.
I call my trips five-minute friendships, he says.
I smile, make a note on my phone.
5-minute friendships.
By your scale, I tell him, we’re already over five friendships in.
Total Friendship Time: 26 mins 37 secs.
_______
Lady at the airport shop selling bags (and other things)
I don’t know if you’ll like this, she says, but that’s not why I’m showing you. I just like showing people my favourite things.
She clutches the patchwork leather, multi-coloured bag to her chest. She’s tagged me as an easy sell. I wonder if I send out wafts of Easy Sell.
They don’t buy all the leather, she tells me, holding the bag forward. Not new anyway. They’re off cuts.
She’s proud, like she’s made the bag herself, instead of being the lady behind the counter in the airport shop selling them.
Off cuts! She continues, emboldened by my interest.
I am interested. I do like bags. Wafts Of Easy Sell That Likes Bag. Must not look too interested.
I lean in.
They collect them, the offcuts. Dump them out, arrange them by colour palette.
Her hands scatter in the air like a Jackson Pollock painter. My eyes see bits of leather flying round.
You want to know something else?
She’s enthusiastic now, like a busker in the street who’s finally drawn a crowd.
I kind of don’t, but I kind of do.
She takes the flappy part that closes the bag and swings it over the top.
It’s reversible, she says. You can make it look different by clipping it the other side.
She stands Dragon’s Den triumphant.
Reversible.
She gives me a moment for the news to sink in, reaches her hand inside the bag, pulls out another smaller, scrunched up cotton bag.
A bag for your bag, she says, waving it like a flag.
She’s delighted, cackling.
I want to buy the bag.
At the counter, she draws a third line on her page, like she’s counting groups of five.
You’re my third “My pick today”, she says, self-congratulatory, oozing delight.
I think, perhaps, I should feel used. I do really like the bag.
She flips the paper over, more marker lines across the page. That’s yesterday, she booms. When I marked off how many times I was right.
She cackling now, out loud, a smoker’s rasp.
I tell the other girls here, there’s no reason that the day has to be boring. The other day a lady told me I was a genius. I think that’s worthy of repeating.
She’s laughing harder now.
My daughter says that every time someone makes a nice comment about something that she’s wearing, it’s like getting a free taco. She’ll call me and go, how many tacos did you get today, mum?
Walking out, she yells after me, keep spreading the joy! We make a difference.
Total minutes of friendship: 16 minutes, 33 seconds (and a new bag)
Browsing
I wander round another shop, finger the clothes hanging on the rack.
I like your jacket, the man behind the counter says.
Thank you, I say, glancing back at him, my jacket and myelf swishing
Right out of shop.
Of course, he says.
Everyone in Portland says Of Course.
One taco for me, I think.
Total Minutes of Friendship: 2 mins, 46 seconds
Air New Zealand Flight NZ 3, Los Angeles to Auckland
I’m Jim, his hand outstretched to shake. He’s 6’3, maybe more.
A smiling face, warmth as big as he is high.
This is Tammy, points over to his wife.
Jane, I say.
I like them very much. Less than 30 seconds later, their names escape me.
I’m sorry, I say, I do this all the time.
Do you know Jim and Tammy Bakker? Jim replies.
I think I do, but I wonder if I don’t. The reference seems to help.
I nod in spite of myself.
There! He says, you’ll remember our names now.
He’s laughing now, out loud.
The airline hostess makes a drink, Jim makes a joke. She does not laugh. I laugh.
A bit stiff, I whisper to him.
Anal, he replies.
We sip our drinks and smile.
Total Minutes of Friendship: 13 hours, 6 mins (plus exchange of WhatsApp numbers and a google search of Jim and Tammy Bakker)
