Was sent a picture of the amber-yellow tents from SDA Camp Meeting & the image/senders made my brain smell way back  & then think about Pronto-Pups and Ball-Tag which sparked a memory of the gymnasium and the huge blue tarp for protecting the basketball court during the meetings which made me think of informal soccer games & this kid Taco who came every year & I wonder if that was really his name or if he’s alive now or if Water-Weenies are still a thing.   Then I hear the songs & prayers flood back & always near seems to be this youth leader with an acoustic guitar. At some point there is going to be a fire.

And I already know it’s not the same thing, but since I’m at Stommish Water Festival hosted by Lummi Nation, I get the picture on my phone & make all sorts of connections.  Because the paddle races/cultural celebration are annual & I witness shaved ice & tents & families who’ve been coming for years I see all these similarities & feel momentarily we are all related because who doesn’t like a corn-feed or revival. There is a sense at both Camp Meeting and Stommish that at any moment a teenager could get their heart broken or a man might find power beyond himself for the first time.  And it’s hard not to relate em’ when you imagine tribal members heart beating their drums & dancing under the same big tent as the youth leader who strums guitar in a ceremony where the Chief and Pastor trade vegetarian hot dogs and fry bread.

I can relate to or at least see a piece of myself in that storm-filled-guy glimpsed walking down Samish. Couldn’t make out words, was driving too fast, but he was pointing and yelling directly at me/everything. Chemically imbalanced or soul out of balance I wasn’t sure, but he was spitting.

I can also imagine the potential of me in the Mayor or Chris Cornell.

Without looking too hard I can see myself wearing ten year old taped-up sneakers or brand new leather Danners.

I am not above/below it. A choice or turn or two here or there –> a support or influence absent along the way and –> my landing spot’s not clear.

Am here right now about to press send and I’m either underachieving or doing a great job keeping it together.

You find out what your kid is made of when you’re running full sprint to catch the 50.  You learn things about each other when you say “go” and don’t think –>  just run, crossing streets, breaking laws, giving it a shot.

It’s not a Bond or Death situation, but it feels like it knowing the next 50 doesn’t run for two hours.  We cut across the library lawn in a desperate effort to intersect before Dupont St., but we see its boxy frame turn and roll out of sight.    Slowing to a jog we accept the truth, we missed the bus.

And when your child, still huffing for air, looks up at you for what to do next you either laugh or cry.

Fortunately, we have resources and legs. All that’s really lost is the plan which probably needed adjustment anyway.  It’ll be OK, that’s what I convey.  But a part of both of us knows we’re missing a good story or character that just got on at NW Ave.

At least I’ve learned some things need to be unlearned. Needing coffee in the morning or generating anxiety over nonsense are habituals that can be unlearned, replaced even if needed. Not saying it’s easy, but a clear attack-path is always present and attainable.

The trick part though is figuring out what you’ve unlearned that you need to relearn. Mental or spiritual gear, practices or reminders that worked way back when–> but have somehow slipped away or been archived in brain boxes.

Oh see sorry you/I hoped for answers, no, I’m all just about excavating and encouraging the clues right now.

Tricky remember getting some things back or unback.

News/Notes:

• Big cottonwood(s) down, now processing
• Moon back to work, now scrambling
• Basement re-insulation project looms, now groaning
• Still missing Yeti LEGO, now wondering
• The Black Count book, now reading
• NBA made me look, now washing
• Getting back on track with exercise, now maintaining
• Ira Glass this weekend at Mt Baker Theatre, now buzzing

The play is epic. I am a Scrabble god. I bingo with “oleander”, not even really knowing the word, just total recalling from a book cover Moon read years ago. I see the title in my mind, White Oleander, and brilliantly surmise the presence and placement of “white” makes it likely not a proper noun so it’s a legit play.  I am amazing.  I am going to be on SportsCenter.  I see the highlights of me spinning and running through a field of oleander shrubs. I hear the postgame interview where I say all the right things.

ME: “My opponent played well but at the end of the day I just wanted it more.”

SC: “Wes, tell us what you were going through when you made that scintillating bingo.”

ME: “I guess I was just in the zone.”

SC: “How can you explain your high level of play?”

ME: “I’ve got to give thanks to my teammate my brain, I would not be here without him. We really left it all out there on the board tonight.”

Admiring my score, I reach for my next tiles (need to replenish a full seven you know because I just bingo’ed).  This is the stuff champions are made of, I might make the Hall.    Still grabbing tiles when–>  no….no wait  –>  without realizing it I’ve created a triple-triple opportunity for my challenger who swoops in to score 60 with a three letter word. She’s only half awake but that’s all you need when a rookie maneuver leaves a triple-triple wide open.  Um. Suppose the Hall won’t be calling after all.  Now I’m the goat. I hope the camera crew and attractive sideline reporter went home early.  My self-image as a strategist aware of all possible outcomes instantly shattered by three little letters. So caught up in my own awesomeness I’d lost sight of, fact I’d never even seen the big picture.

Scrabble I love you, I hate you.  Oleander, you’re not so sweet anymore either, you’re just a poisonous plant whose flowers are usually pinkish anyway.