Spring Edges Out Winter

Hello friends,

What a week! Spring insists on arriving, despite continued bouts of cold rain. Bees are busy at the upturned cups of crocus, the chickadees flutter excitedly in the bare Japanese maples, and squirrels race, chasing one another from tree to tree.

In the midst of all of this, what I now know is officially called post-concussion syndrome got worse. The neurologist couldn’t see me. The advice nurse sent me to emergency, which of course was backed up. Finally, many hours and one clear CAT scan later, I was sent home with an appointment to a physical therapist that specializes in post-concussion recovery.

Fingers crossed. I’m grateful for my support systems, grateful for burgeoning spring, grateful for books to read, and for you, out there, doing whatever it is you’re doing.

Meanwhile, I’ve mostly been resting, staring at nothing, sleeping, and reading when I can, and thinking of everyone else whose struggles are far worse than mine right now.

Our lifeline in these times is maintaining a sense of connection. I hope you are finding your own threads that are keeping you alive.

Before my brain condition got worse, I took a pilgrimage up Portland’s cinder cone volcano to see a piece of monumental art. It’s a tribute to the African man enslaved by Lewis and taken on Lewis and Clark’s expedition.

The art is unauthorized—some of my favorite art is—and replaces the statue of an important person in Portland’s history: the racist pioneer and newspaper founder, Harvey Scott:

Not all pilgrimages involve ordeals.

Sometimes, all we have to do is decide something is meaningful enough to trek up a cinder cone volcano and bear witness to what is there. 

It was a day of intermittent sun and icy rain. We climbed the steps and muddy pathways upward, sheltered by tall Douglas firs that had dropped limbs and branch tips, creating a rich green carpet everywhere.

Rounding the closed off drive, I caught glimpses of distant clouds, and city. And then I saw it. The thing we had come to see.

It was much larger than I thought it would be. Larger than any photograph had been able to convey.

It was monumental. Meditative. Ponderous.

And beautiful…

Just as spring nudges out winter, so one piece of history takes its place in the foreground, teaching us some things we had not been taught before.

Read more about my journey to the bust of York, and why art matters.

Then tell me: What’s keeping you alive this week? And what are you learning?

Blessings - Thorn