Live in the Wow: an Oregon Extension Memo

To begin to describe Oregon, I’ll borrow the back of a postcard (which actually refers to the lava beds of northern California we visited) to call it “a place of rugged contrasting beauty.” One of my earliest impressions of Ashland, OR when we visited Shop n' Cart and I noticed a variety of hemp products, incense, and crystals mingling with the groceries and cornucopia of organic products was, "Christ, this whole town is stoned." This did not illicit the former enthrallment but instead invited disease and dread that I would spend the semester narrowly dodging cannabis zealots. Since this first bit of knee-jerking I've relaxed and shifted my sentiment. I now, while waltzing in the pleasure of my sobriety, embrace my inner stoner, who fully enters the Wowedoutness of the West. I joke that I have a lasting reservoir of THC that seems to be activated at both whim and will.

Life on the mountain here in Lincoln (a bumpy and winding 30 minutes above Ashland) is gorgeous and simple. While remaining simple and serene it is fantastically thought-provoking. The community here is committed to challenging inquiry. And as far as I can tell it is totally legit, meaning, there's no sense of censorship, or skirting the ugly. They are familiar with the power of radical ideas as potentially concept crumbling. Our conversations find us approaching the edge of the cliff before retreating back to safety. Yesterday, however, I experienced a puncturing. The Void caught me by the throat and said “I am damn tired of you ignoring me.” So I practice. I say, “Welcome, Void.” This seems to startle and diffuse The Void’s aggression. I can sense The Void shrugging its figurative Void shoulders as it lets go of me.

Maybe it is the long dream of arriving here, the sustained patience it required, which leaves me dangling in a dream state of not quite believing I am actually living this. Maybe it is the baby deer who prance around behind our cabin, or maybe still, the majestic and flowing mountains who daily invite me to drown in the sweet abyss of my surroundings. I feel like I’m on drugs, except no, it’s something wholly different, whole, in fact, sublimely generous, like I’m living in the land of sweetness and light and it’s dawning on me that I am not “like” living it, I am in it, with it--I am of it. So I’m awed. I realize that somehow my clumsy yearning has made a vessel for me. It’s a psychedelic rowboat and once while I was sleeping I painted in round wavy letters “Live in the Wow” so I could trick my waking self into remembering it. Yeah, I remember this.

I’m a child again. Really, because I was born in Montana and every time I see these mountains they are the Montana mountains, Big Mama mountains, cradling mountains. So, huuummm, it’s like this: when I sigh now it’s a prayer of thank you because my passing speck of a life is caressed and held in the great gorgeous mystery. I remember who I am: I’m an act of Love.