A Wish Fulfilled - How Atticus Made Us All Better

Last Wednesday, I got to go to the biggest, most important soccer match I will ever get to go to. Was it a final? No. Was it a championship game? No. Was it World Cup or Olympics? No. But it was more important than all of those put together.

By Bruce Ely for the Oregonian. I'm somewhere in that crowd but that's not as important as Atticus about to score!

Last Wednesday, I got to watch Atticus and the Green Machine take on the Portland Timbers in an exhibition match and win.

But it was more than just a game and a win. It was you and me and community and sunshine and Portland and love and soccer and a little boy who wished to play with his friends and his heroes.

Atticus and his teammates didn't know they were granting us wishes as well. Because of his selfless wish, we all got to be a part of something wonderful and magical.

I hope I always remember that most wonderful afternoon but there will be those days when I am down, those days when nothing seems right. On those days, I can come here and relive the best afternoon I ever had and the best, most important game I will ever attend.

By Bruce Ely for the Oregonian. An "awesome" time was had by all. Check out those faces!

Previews

Portland Timbers Preview
Stumptown Preview

Recaps:

Portland Timbers Quotes and Notes (and Highlights)
Anatomy of a Goal
Ref Report
Stumptown Recap
ESPN SportCenter #1 Top Ten
Oregonian Photo Essay
Letter to the Oregonian
The Axe Pdx
Full Day Highlights (only watch if you want to cry happy tears)

I'd say, wish fulfilled for all of us, wouldn't you?

Help make more wishes come true.

You can't stop us...

As a runner, yesterday was hard.
    Running my marathon was one of the hardest physical and mental things that I have done. When you finish a marathon, you don't have a lot left in the tank other than the mind-blowing thought that "I did it. I finished. I can stop moving now." I'm amazed at runners with the fast times (think about it, the men's world record holder was running almost 13 miles per hour and the women's world record holder was running almost 11.5 miles per hour) but I'm almost more amazed at those with slow times because those are the people who dug deep into their heads and hearts and refused to give up. My marathon a couple of years ago took almost 6 hours, hours of gasping breath and pounding legs and wondering why I had decided this was a good idea and the constant thought, "You're not a runner, just stop, no one will judge." But I would have judged myself if I had stopped and I ran to prove to myself that I am stronger than the doubts and the fear.
   And, while my family was unable to be there to cheer me on, thousands of strangers became friends for a moment and cheered for us all.
    My cousin, Sarah, summed it up well in her FB status.
    "Crossing a marathon finish line is an accomplishment, not only for a runner but for the family & friends that inspired them along their journey to 26.2. I'm heart broken that such a sacred moment turned in to such a moment of terror and tragedy today. Praying for you Boston. Stay strong."

As a co-worker and friend, yesterday was hard.
    I first heard about the explosions as chattering in the office. One of my co-workers had a niece running in the marathon and she hadn't heard from her family if her niece was all right. Other co-workers have family who live in Boston. All of the family members appear to be fine but the news sent me to FB, where I discovered that pretty much everyone I knew in Boston (and some people I didn't know were there) had been at the Marathon as spectators. I was checking constantly during the day, feeling more and more relief as, one by one, people updated their status to let everyone know they were all right.

As an American, yesterday was hard.
    We like to believe we are safe, we are above it all, that kind of thing doesn't happen here. Our "safe" bubble was burst over 10 years ago but we've let it grow back, we've grown complacent. And the truth is, we live in a broken world. Evil can happen anywhere and bad things happen to good people. Where you live is no guarantee of safety. Your nationality is no guarantee of safety. But just because there is evil doesn't mean there isn't good either. You only have to look at the people who were running to help the fallen rather than running to safety.


As a global citizen, yesterday was hard.
    Running (and sports) more than anything, seem to bring the world together. It seems to be the universal language. The world is a fractured place yet we can come together to watch sports. We rejoice in our triumphs and comfort in our failures. We love those who pick themselves up and continue on. We celebrate those who have the opportunity to succeed. We cheer for the underdog and revel in displays of sportsmanship. The runner who continues despite hitting the wall and intense pain. The soccer or football player who manages to walk off the field after a hard tackle. The gymnast who falls in a dismount, yet gets up and tries again. The high school basketball player who passes the ball to an opposing player with disabilities and cheers when he scores. These things touch our hearts and remind us all of what we are all capable of, especially when we work together. Yesterday, someone tried to break that global bond, tried to pull us apart again. But it won't work, just like it didn't work before. We are stronger than fear and we will continue to cheer for each other and run for each other and celebrate each other.

You can't stop us. We are runners, we are family, co-workers, and friends. We are Americans. We are global citizens. We are human and we can't be stopped.

"And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer...there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for." Sam, from The Lord of the Rings

A Passage

Why is it we don't realize the impact someone had on us until they are gone?

I received an email today, notifying me that one of my chem professors, William Randall, passed away last week. You know, I can't really remember a single thing he taught me even though I remember having fun in his classes and labs. What I do remember is, Professor Randall was an understanding man.

That's me, in front with the stripey socks.

My senior year, I was living off campus with my sister, rowing on the varsity crew team, working a federal work study job, and finishing my chemistry degree (and baking on weekends). I cooked my own meals and I biked everywhere. I left the house at 5 am and returned after 7 pm. I once mentioned to my sister that I can't seem to do all the things I did that year and she reminded me that I slept most of the time.  And it's true.  Every spare minute, I was napping. On the bus, at my desk before class, hunched over a piano in the music building or my computer keyboard, practically any time I stopped moving, I was asleep.  The lounge in the science building was particularly comfy and quiet ('cause nobody but us science nerds knew about it). I would push two arm chairs together and curl up in the nest they created and nap until class time.  Professor Randall would usually stop by my nest to wake me up before class.  If he got there earlier that usual, he would let me sleep and then would send a classmate out right before class started to wake me up.

Professor Randall loved music and opera. He started coming to choir concerts after I joined his class. He came to my junior and my senior recitals.  I remember eating lunch in the dining hall and he joined me and we talked opera and music the whole time.

A few years ago, I ran into him at the grocery store.  He asked how I was doing, what I was doing. I explained that I was working in an office downtown, not doing anything with chemistry. I waited for the inevitable, "Why didn't you continue with chemistry?" speech (I've given it to myself many times).  Instead, his only response was, "But you're still singing, aren't you?"

Yes, Professor Randall was an understanding man. He understood that I was sleep-deprived, he understood when I wrestled with a concept or a lab. He understood that, when I struggled to keep my eyes open, it had nothing to do with him and chemistry and everything to do with me and the punishing schedule I was trying to keep.  And, he understood that while chemistry was something I was interested in and enjoyed learning, music is a part of my soul.

He understood, and it is a pity that I didn't, not really, until today.

Remember

London is filled with memorials.  I've always found memorials to be fascinating.  I wanted to know more about the people memorialized, the soldiers and statesmen, the volunteers and those who sacrificed bravely or not so bravely (yet they still sacrificed).

I feel the same way about cemeteries and graveyards as I do about memorials.  It seems so sad that a block of stone or a chunk of metal may be all that is left to remember someone or their deeds by and yet, someone thought enough of them to erect something to remember them by. And I wonder, who were they?  What did they accomplish? What were their lives like? How did they die? And, finally, how will I be remembered?

Memorials seem to mean more in the hazy light of dusk or the dim light of dawn.  I remember visiting the memorial for the 26 Martyrs of Nagasaki in early evening.  I was in awe of what the martyrs had done and it's easy enough to say, "Oh, I would have done the same thing." But there is no way to know that for sure and I pray I am never tested in such a way. 

It was incredibly peaceful and quiet.  The tourists were gone for the day.  I remember sitting in front of the memorial with a couple of classmates.  We had slipped away in our free time and, on a whim, had made for the memorial.  Our whole class was to visit the next day but we wanted to go right then and I'm so glad we did.   When we went back the next day, the reflective spell had been broken, the light too bright, the people too noisy.

My time in London was short and I passed by most of the memorials on my way somewhere else like the Churchill War Rooms and the National Gallery, where the few are immortalized, pausing only to snap a photo and wonder very briefly about the many being remembered in a broader way.  I want to go back to London someday and spend my early evenings, wandering some of the memorials.  As the light dims, I want to run my fingers over the names of places from whence came brave and scared men and women and remember them.

This year, the last known WWI veteran died in England.  The Great War was to be the last war yet we are still fighting.  We have yet to learn from history, yet to learn from our mistakes.  Sometimes I wonder, have we forgotten? Have our memorials become so much scenery?  It is too easy to pass by on our way somewhere else and not remember.

 Election Day is tomorrow and Veterans/Armistice Day is in a week. I may not always have the highest regard for those in charge of our country or those who want to be in charge and I am certainly glad I do not have to fight for my country.  But others have fought for my freedom, men and women, and it is only right that I take a little time out of my day to remember them and utilize the rights I've been given.

So, today, I voted. And I think, next week, when the light is dimming, you'll find me up at Washington Park, walking one of the memorials, running my fingers over names of those who are gone but not forgotten.  They never will be forgotten if we will only take the time to remember.

A Day of Rest

Early morning in Hyde Park

I was reminded recently that I haven’t posted here for a while and that I have not finished posting about my London adventure.  All I can say is, Easter happened and then it got busy at work.  Enough excuses, on with the tale.

Several years ago, I went to Italy and toured cathedrals and basilicas.  I remember walking through St. Peter's, marveling at the vast space and feeling... nothing.  The next day, I dragged my traveling companion across Rome to St. Maria della Vittorio to see the Bernini "Ecstasy of St. Theresa."  The church was situated on a very noisy square, with construction all around, yet, when we walked in, it was quiet and meditative. All that could be heard were gentle whispers and hushed footsteps.   It was a sacred space and rather than walk around as tourists, we chose to sit quietly as penitents and worship.  I realized I “got” more out of the experience when I approached the cathedrals and churches as intended, not as museums but as a houses of worship and prayer.

Guarding the City

So, when I traveled to London, I was determined to go to church when I got there, again, not as just another tourist.  I had lists of every church’s services.  Evensong, morning prayer, Eucharist, I wanted to do it all but settled on going to mattins and Evensong at St. Paul’s and an Advent Carol service at St. Bride’s.  I was told, by those who know, that the choir at St. Bride’s is excellent so I really wanted to hear them.

The day started, yet again, with a lovely jaunt through Hyde Park.  Have I mentioned how much I loved Hyde Park?  There were few people about, just some joggers and dog-walkers.  Though the sky had been cloudy when I woke up, the air was crisp and clear as I started out, the sun was shining, it was an absolutely gorgeous start to the day.  I decided to walk along Oxford Street on my way to Fleet Street which would get me to St. Paul’s for church.  This took me past several Wren churches, Twinings (meant to go there but ran out of time) and the Royal Courts of Justice.  I arrived to late for mattins and too early for Eucharist, so I haunted the back streets of the City for a while, following the footsteps of Shakespeare and searching out Samuel Johnson's house.  It being Sunday, most everything in the City was closed (in fact, later in the day, I made my one and only visit to a McDonald's to use the bathroom; it was the only thing open), but I got to see Johnson's cat, well, at least the cat's statue.

The estimable Hodge

As I look back on my trip, it seems I spent a lot of time walking, rather than seeing "sights."  But I feel I saw plenty.  Maybe not as many museums and exhibits as I hoped, although I managed to cram quite a bit into my short stay, but I still managed to see many things.  Like street signs that tickled my fancy (Knightrider Court, anyone? How about Sermon Lane?), a statue of a cat, tea shops and pubs older than the US.  I went to a Eucharist service and heard the Stravinsky Mass, sat under the dome of St. Paul's and listened to Evensong.  If I had more time, perhaps I would have gone back to "see" the traditional sights, climb to the Golden Gallery, maybe take the full tour of St. Paul's or explore Johnson's house.  I certainly want to go back and hear the choir at St. Bride's.  You see, in all of my to-and-fro-ing, I got the times mixed up for the Advent service at St. Brides's. 

Thinking it started at 6:30, I enjoyed a leisurely dinner and scrumpy cider at a pub, watching some football (the real kind), only to get to the church and realize I was half an hour too late.  Dashed to St. Paul's to see if I could still get in for their 6:00 Advent service but the doors were closed.  For a few seconds, I couldn't decide if I should go across London Bridge to Southwark or back down Fleet Street for St. Martin-in-the-Fields.  St. Martin's won out and with only about twenty minutes to spare, I started sprinting back towards Trafalgar Square.   Now, I realize, I had just completed a marathon the month before, so I was still in some semblance of running shape but running in boots, wearing a sweater and coat, with a bag is a very different thing from running with proper shoes and running attire. 

It was a day of spiritual rest but not necessarily one of physical rest.

The day ended with more Apple Crumble in the crypt of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Seriously addicted.

Never Never Land

Lichen on iron railings in Kensington Gardens

"I have a place where dreams are born and time is never planned.  It's not on any chart, you must find it in your heart... Never Never Land." ~ Peter Pan (the musical).

Half-way through my trip to England, I spent a leisurely day, walking through Kensington Gardens and perusing some of the galleries at the Victoria and Albert.

I had a lot planned for the day.  The morning was to be spent at the Victoria and Albert Museum (art and craft and fashion, oh my) and then a stop at the Science and the Natural History Museums across the road.  However, forces conspired to alter my plan, including but not limited to my own body and the batteries in my camera.

First alteration to my plans: I slept in.

Really, I can't blame my body for rebelling that way.  I was on vacation, after all, and so far, the latest I had awoken was before 7 am.  All those early flights and early sunrises were taking their toll. So, I didn't really begrudge the sleep.  Obviously, I needed it but the extra sleep pushed back the day.  Cross the Natural History Museum off my list.

Can you hear him playing?

Second alteration to my plans: Peter Pan and the fairies of Kensington Gardens.

I adore Hyde Park and the Kensington Gardens.  Right now, if you were to ask me where I wanted to live, if I could live anywhere in the world, I would say across the street from the gardens.  Imagine living on one side and working on the other.  Who needs a car when your commute could be a 15 minute walk through such a lovely park? And, they have an allotment (community garden to Americans).  Seriously, plant me there now.

The last time I had walked south through the park, I had walked on the Hyde Park side of the Long Water and the Serpentine, enjoying the sounds of Bing Crosby wafting from various game and craft booths.  On this day, I strolled along the Kensington Gardens side.  It was a much quieter walk and along the way, I found Peter Pan, playing his flute, with rabbits and squirrels gamboling at his feet.

 I must confess, I generally do not like squirrels (I have some living currently in my living room wall... ick!) but these bronze squirrels were actually quite cute and whimsical.  I spent quite of bit of time, walking around the statue, trying not to get into other people's photos.  Finally, after remembering I was planning on doing other things that day besides sit at Peter's feet, I tripped along my merry way to the museums, only to have my interest drawn in another direction.

I blame the fairies of the gardens.  Because of them, I saw magic in everything.  Another pedestrian became a modern goose girl, with her avian court hanging on her every word (all right, maybe they were just hoping for crumbs).  A gnarled, worn tree became a fairy hide-out.  My way led me under the Carriage Drive, through a tunnel.  What secrets lay on the other side?

 At the Serpentine Gallery, I turned right, enticed by leaf-strewn walkways and lichen-covered railings.  In the distance, I could see the spiky outline of the Albert Memorial.  I did not find it to  particularly beautiful, especially from a distance but it intrigued me.  And I'm glad I sought it out because I found these:

Bison!

Watch out, he spits!

That ain't no clay pigeon up there.

The memorial is surrounded by a gilded railing and at each corner of the railing, stood a set of statues representing a continent (America, Africa, Asia and Europe).  Although I can't find anything specific relating why these particular continents are represented, I'm assuming they refer to the continents where the English empire extended.

All very serious and noble, I'm sure, a worthy memorial to a man who devoted himself to the arts and his people.  Exquisite carving as well.  Yet, the sight of a carved bison, elephant, a bull and a camel were enough to get me giggling.  It's those fairies, I'm telling you.

I ate my lunch, sitting on the steps south of the memorial.  My whole morning was now gone.  Scratch the Science Museum off the list.  That left the Victoria and Albert Museum and, as that museum was one of my must-sees for London, I wasn't going to be deterred.  I took one last walk around the Memorial and found one last gift from the fairies.

A single golden leaf, blown against the railing.

 I finally continued on, past the Royal Geological Society where I met Dr. Livingstone (in statue form) to the V&A.  My initial visit (yes, I went more than once and I'll explain why in just a second) was slightly confusing.  My Rick Steves guide didn't quite match up with the V&A map as several galleries were being refurbished behind "hoardings."  What a wonderful way to describe the walls that hid the unfinished galleries.  I felt if I could just find a keyhole to peek through, I would find treasure beyond my imaginings, like a dragon's hoard.

One last bit of whimsy, a Chihuly chandelier at the V&A

The V&A can be overwhelming; I think I read somewhere that it has over 12 miles worth of corridors.  You certainly can't see it all in one day and appreciate it all.  I was going to try but then the third and final alteration to my plans:

My camera ran out of batteries.

After documenting what I could and trying to resurrect my tired camera, I left the V&A and strolled back home, through that wonderful park again.  It's even more magical as the sun goes down; you can almost hear the fairies flying through the air.

I started the day with my time planned and it slipped away from me, in the best possible way.  I spent the day dreaming and living in my own kind of Never Never Land.

An Atypical Tourist

Matilda, based on the book by Roald Dahl

I love to travel and I love to do the touristy things but what I really love is getting off the beaten path and doing non-touristy things.  Which is why, on my first full day in London, I was taking the Tube out to Leytonstone for a voice lesson with Jane Streeton.  Who goes to another country for a voice lesson?  I do, apparently.

And it was on Jane's recommendation that I bought a ticket for a West End musical, "Matilda."  West End musicals, those are typical for tourists in London, yes?  Of course, part of what really excited me about going was that the theatre was at the Seven Dials.  What's the Seven Dials, you ask?  It's an intersection of seven streets and the reason I wanted to see it was that the area was mentioned in an Agatha Christie mystery (I have a little bit of a thing with Agatha Christie mysteries; as a teenager, I collected them and I still have quite a few).

The Seven Dials

 

 

Apparently, I'm also the kind of tourist who will seek out a location mentioned in a book, even if there is nothing else to recommend the location.  No historical fact, no great happening.  It was in a book, that's good enough for me.  When I was still in Bath, I reveled in walking down streets that had been mentioned in an Austen novel.  Milsom Street, Westgate Buildings; part of the reason I chose my hotel was because it was off of Laura Place.  Later in my stay in London, I sought out Gracechurch Street and Cheapside, because Elizabeth Bennet's aunt and uncle had lived there.  I like knowing that these places existed and are real.  It makes the stories and novels seem true, as if they really happened or, at least, could have happened.

Even Matilda could not escape this peculiar facet of my tourist persona.  Sure, I heard about it from Jane (Streeton, not Austen) and she recommended it based on the press reviews, but the other reason I was excited to see it (aside from the theatre being in the Seven Dials) was that it was based on one of my favorite childhood books, "Matilda" by Roald Dahl.  If you haven't guessed by now, I'm a bit of a bookworm.

The Borough Market

Well, after my waxing eloquent on literary locations, I'm almost rather embarrassed to say, later that day, I went to the Borough Market in Southwark 'cause I saw it on TV, well, Netflix.  Yep, it's mentioned several times on a Jamie Oliver show and since I like farmers markets and buying locally, I felt I just had to check it out.  It was bustling and lovely and I wish I could go every week.  I actually spent an inordinate amount of time in the Market, trying to get my bearings.  I kept getting turned around and coming out of where I didn't want to be.  Looking back on it, it was a little like The Maze (another book!), except with food.

Speaking of food, I found the best pie stall (http://www.pieminister.co.uk/) and the cutest, most delicious shortbread owls you have ever eaten.  Mmmm... so tasty!  I think I need to start making pot pies at home.  Especially if I can recreate the Heidi (goat cheese, spinach and sweet potato); I definitely want a copy of their cookbook.  Both of the stalls sell online and deliver but not overseas (pout), unless you are David Beckham, in which case, Pieminister will deliver to the US (then again, if you are David Beckham, you can pretty much get anything you want, anywhere you want).  There was also a nice little stall selling chai tea but I can't remember the stall's name.  It might have something to do with my spilling my chai all over their table and, after helping them clean it up, fleeing in embarrassment.  Or not.

Southwark Cathedral

Before I left Southwark, I spent some time at the Southwark Cathedral, first sitting outside, listening to the bells peal, and then stepping inside the cathedral for a quick walk around the sanctuary.  Incidentally, Southwark Cathedral, though not mentioned in any book I've read, still has numerous literary connections, associated with Chaucer, Dickens, Jonson, Harvard and Shakespeare, to name a few.

It's not an optical illusion - the church is crooked.

Southwark Cathedral was the first church I visited in England.  A graduation ceremony had just ended so the sanctuary was filled with chairs and people lingered here and there, chatting, taking photos.  I did my best not to get in anyone's way, while taking a few photos of my own.  The cathedral has a unique feature.  Most churches and cathedrals built with a traditional or medieval floor plan, are built in the shape of a cross with the entrance at or near the base of the cross.  Though Southwark also follows this model, the cathedral is slightly crooked.  When you stand in the nave, looking towards the altar, or along one of the side aisles, you can clearly see the sanctuary turning ever so slightly to your left.  It's not a mistake, the building hasn't settled and although it was heavily damaged in the Blitz, that's not the reason either.  No, the building was deliberately built crooked to remind us of Christ's body, broken on the cross.  To me, this is yet one more example of how cathedral and church architecture was used to aid worship.  I know any place can be a sacred space but there is something about the lofty space of a well-built cathedral, the arches drawing my eyes up, the very shape of the space, that seems to speak to my soul.

And so it was, after taking a moment to pray and light a candle, that I left the cathedral feeling refreshed after my long day traversing London and went home, to feed my soul in another way.

 I ate my Heidi pie.

My first view of St. Paul's, across the river from Southwark.