Midlife Meditation

One of the places I've been--though not in the last month... It's been awhile. Thirty days, to be exact. Thirty days ago, I wrote a piece about Hillary Clinton, and why I think her wonkishness is exactly what we need in he Oval Office. Soon after I wrote it, Amy, two of our kids, and I spent a day flying to New Hampshire, where we met up with most of the rest of the Anderson family, and laid our father's ashes to rest in our mother's family plot. Claremont, New Hampshire, was not my father's home town--but then, nowhere else was, either. My father's childhood was divided up among three locations: Shanghai, China; McMinnville, Oregon; and Redlands, California. As an adult, he lived in many other places, finally retiring to McMinnville, where he spent the final quarter century of his life. But the community never really embraced him. Like my grandfather, who also led an itinerant life, Dad asked that he be buried with his wife's family. We honor...

This was the summer I did right. Up until this year, I have never finished a summer regret-free. There's always been something to mourn as the days begin to shorten, the leaves change, and the heat dissipates: opportunities missed, chances not taken, seasonal fruit not consumed in adequate quantities to trigger satisfaction. And to be honest, there were a few moments, particularly in the fruit category, that I did not fully exploit this summer; but only a few. Fruit, for instance: I could've done with one more flat of Hood strawberries. And I only went out once to pick blackberries, though I still might hit the vines one more time before the berries start to shrivel. But I've had raspberries, peaches, Hermiston watermelons, corn on the cob, and blueberries by the pound. I've also been to both major Portland beer festivals, early enough that I was able to taste every beer I was interested in-- and I had the privilege of introducing my now-21-year-old son to these ...