Portland, Oregon is a walker’s city. Lovely neighborhoods, like Mississippi, Hawthorne, the Alphabet District, and Division/Clinton dot the city and make Portland feel like a collective of small towns, each representing a kaleidoscope of businesses and residences. 

Growing up in SW Portland, the eastside of Portland seemed as far away as Australia. But, after living in Portland as an adult, I lived in NE Portland and got to know it intimately. So, now when I visit Portland, I find myself gravitating east. The abundance of locally-sourced restaurants, eclectic boutiques, coffee shops, and yoga studios excite my senses. So, on this particular day, I have selected to do yoga at People’s Yoga on NE Killingsworth. With two locations in NE and SE Portland, this yoga studio offers yoga classes for the frugal yogi. Their approach to yoga is that it should be available to everyone. I like to take yoga classes at People’s Yoga as much as my wallet will allow.

Today, after an invigorating class of forward bends and hip openers, I feel a thirst coming on. New Seasons Market on NE 33rd Avenue isn’t too far away, so my noodle legs and I take a nine block walk to the market for some fresh juice. I decided to take a side road so that I can notice the everyday existence of the NE Portland neighborhood. As I walk, I notice that each house has a personality like that of its inhabitants. Sidewalks become extensions of the yard. Pea shoots grow from a garden box built into the curb, as well as broccoli, lettuce, chard, and cabbage as big as my head. A lady pedals by on her squeaky bike. Lanterns are strung across a back porch; red, green, and yellow. From all four sides of the street, mothers and grandmothers stroll by with their baby carriages. I wonder if this is a sign, am I next? The thought fades as I hear a gleeful chirp. I look up to see birds flying high in the blue bird sky. My legs keep moving and I see pink roses, red roses, white roses. City of Roses. As I start to approach my destination, I see a parking attendant with a reflective vest and people pushing their grocery carts. As I cross 38th street, the Trimet bus driver wearing hologram glasses waves at me to cross. I think to myself how friendly Portland is.

As I enter New Seasons Market, my senses become alive with the scent of fresh fruit and baking bread. I take a lap around the store until I settle on my juice. I chose a Green Juice from Columbia Gorge Juices, an “honest to goodness” juice packed with fruits and nutrients to make my cells sing. 

On the way back to the yoga studio, a man with a black shirt and pot belly leaves the store right after me. We walk in unison across the busy intersection. As soon as he gets out into the fresh air, he lights up a cigarette, outweighing the effort of his healthy deed. I look down and see grass that grows wild and untamed by its urban surroundings. The breeze hits my face and feels warm and soft. The sound of skateboard wheels gets my attention and I look to see a man and a woman struggling to stay upright on their boards. Orange buckets leaning against fledging trees that are straining to touch the sky. There are more birds on telephone wires. I think that there is truth in the “put a bird on it” from the IFC Portlandia show that mocks Portland and its idiosyncrasies. I look to the left and see a house built with stones or river rock. It looks out of place amongst the wood shingled houses. A car is parked in the driveway with a sticker that reads 26.2 miles. Running a marathon is something to feel proud of. I see another car, a red Subaru with a Thule rack. It looks like the owners like to play outdoors. I think, “I would like to get to know them,” as the sun shines through the clouds creating a light mosaic. Another mosaic catches my eye, a post with pieces of glass shards. There is a poem attached to it by Billy Collins, called simply, “Nostalgia”. In the poem, he writes of longing for the past when life was simpler. Collins writes, 

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.

I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees

and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light

flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse

and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As I read Collins’ poem, I realize that his words and my walk have a secret understanding: when one distills time into its most basic parts, it becomes alive. My walk becomes more than just a journey to quench my thirst; it becomes a journey of the present moment and watching what happens when life slows down.