I'm living in a place where you might read the oregonian over morning coffee, or run a few laps around Lake Sacajawea, fondly called "lake sack of weeds" by my uncle Daniel. In a little blue house on 30th Ave, the Hakso/Huhta girls, known as the "fearsome foursome" since childhood, form a distinctive quartet of cousins. Distinctive because, well, there's a lot of truth in what we have been termed.

Though this place I find myself in is a far far cry from gap, france or beautiful bellingham, it suits me fine for the moment. I'm still afraid to sign any leases or bind myself to any cell phone contracts for fear that past homes such as france will call me back to live a while longer. But, when little cousins, fresh from Finland, are close enough to give me a bite of their apple, or when my Mummu (Grandma)can invite me over for a cup of coffee and a slice of pulla (bread), I find that I am quite content to stay here for longer yet. So, stay I shall. Living among people I hold dear.

summer is...

checking the tides before going blackberry picking on a secret island with wild cows, herons, a million frogs, even more blackberries, and the smell of the sea.




waking up at 3:00 in the morning to drive to the mountains, then hike to the top of tabletop to catch a pacific northwest sunrise that turns mt. baker a most flattering shade of pink.

at the market

In Gap, I lived on rue du mazel. It was an old, narrow street where musicians liked to play. There was a girl with curly hair that played the flute and a boy with tattered jeans and dreadlocks who played the accordian. I would sit at my window sill with a cup of coffee, listening, taking in the sounds of market day. I would watch too as the girl playing the flute swayed back and forth and as the boy's fingers pressed white buttons, each one playing a note to the tune of a french folk melody.



A morning such as that was prelude to the splendors of a Saturday in small town France where the church bells rang in a distant harmony to the loud chatter of vendors and buyers crowding centre-ville. I would walk through the square, stopping at my favorite booths to buy a jar of creamed honey, a wedge of mountain cheese, a loaf of olive bread, the most delicious tomatoes you've ever had...



The cheese was delicious and the honey was most sweet, but even better were the people. The old men in funny hats, the old women toting baskets brimming with vegetables, baguettes, and who knows what other fresh finds. I would say hello to the kids I knew, in English because that made them smile immeasurably with pride.

Little captains of their little boats

I am home. The freeway signs read bellingham, seattle, and portland. Everything is in English. Everything is normal again. But, I guess I forgot I never liked normal. I guess I forgot how much I hate traffic on these 5 lane freeways. I am guessing that I forgot a little bit of me in gap, france because this doesn't feel like the home I remembered.
So,
I'm trying to find some peace. I am praying to find some peace. But then, I am at work, at the toy store I left 10 months ago, and I find an order for some puppets shoved behind toy catalogues. I look at the date, September 2006. I forgot to send it before I left. I could have sent it today. I could have picked up right where I left off, writing and sending toy orders, filling up the basement of a drugstore with treasures for the children of Bellingham.
But,
that isn't even me anymore. That was what I did before france. Before my year of incredible self-discovery. Now, my handwriting barely matches the writing on the order, even though it is my own. Now, I think of children and I remember the little french kids I taught english.
Now,
I want to go. I want to do something new, something fresh, something amazing. I want to put this new me to the test.
So,
Maybe I'll go. Maybe I'll stay. Whatever, I am determined to stop merely doing the motions of life, like my body is all I have; like I left my spirit somewhere in the alps. That peace is going to find me, or I am going to find it, and my life will be an even crazier wonderfullness than it was before.

la parade des parapluies. rue du mazel. gap, france

A french field trip

Yesterday, I went on a french field trip to a castle in the mountains. It started with a train ride. No yellow bus. A train. I went along to assist with whatever needed assistance, or as the french would say, to give a coup de main. It was so very painless. Just let me explain. the kids were to go on a mountain biking adventure around the perimeter of the castle, so they needed someone to make sure nobody went off any cliffs, or got themselves into any sort of snare. You just never know what kind of dragon you'll have to slay when directing bike traffic outside a medeival castle. When they gave me my bright orange, plastic vest, and told me i had to stay at my post until midi (this was at 8:30) I thought I was going to die. That sounded impossibly boring. if you know me at all, you'll remember that I can't even sit through an episode of Project Runway, or a game of Rummy 500. You can just forget rummy 1000. Too, the thought of wearing a plastic vest in that 90° heat was enought to send me a runnin'. But, I did it. And, it wasn't even half bad. I got to my post, at a point where two castle walls meet. If you can imagine one of those platforms where soldiers with bows and arrows stood awaiting the enemy, then do, because that's where I was. Way down below, there was a gorge with a river, and across the gorge was a plateau with fields and some village I don't know the name of. So, there, sunbathing on this castle wall, I began my job of helping little french kids avoid danger. It was tough, sitting there in the sun, counting butterflies, watching rafters on the river below, singing any song I knew the words to, exploring my corner of the castle, telling little ones which way to go. It was rather lovely really.