Dixie Mountain Crybaby

  So some of you know, and some of you don't, that I love to drive. When I'm restless, or sad, or just bored, I love to drive. Not with a goal in mind, but just for the joy of going somewhere I haven't been before, seeing something new, finding out where that road leads. Not everyone enjoys this. Some people see driving as just a way to reach a destination, and that's just fine, but to me driving itself is the joy, and I'm always a bit sad when it comes to an end.

  So today I set off down St. Helens road, feeling unsettled and a bit low. At some point I turned left (don't ask the name of the street because I never looked), because that was the direction in which the hills lay, and forested hills are among my favorite places to lose myself. I twisted and turned past farms and horses, over a one-lane bridge, past mailboxes, a few abandoned-looking cars, and one startled doe.

  I found myself going up, up in the trees. I could tell this wasn't virgin forest. (If you've been in enough forests you just know which ones are there by their own free will and which have been shaped by human hunger). I glanced to the right and saw a sign telling me I was on Dixie Mountain Road. Never heard of it. There's a Dixie Mountain in Oregon? Huh, who knew?

   So I drove up and down, curve to the left, to the right, not knowing where I was or where I would end up (which is the best way to be, I think) and then, all of a sudden, I was stopped in the middle of this narrow gravel road with tears streaming down my cheeks. Streaming like a waterfall in the middle of the spring melt. "Oh you are such a silly girl" I thought to myself as I felt the tears flow down my face and plop onto my fuzzy green sweater (Only $6.99 at Goodwill).

  You see, yesterday I sent out an email to a handful of friends, maybe six or seven or eight people I know, offering them some plants from my garden. You may also know, or maybe you don't, that I love plants. I love flowers. I love being surrounded by colors and living, growing things. I wanted to share some of these beautiful things with others, so I sent out an email offering what I had to spare.

  One person replied with a joke that, as so many of his jokes do, went right over my head. Another friend responded with annoyance that each time I replied to the first friend it was giving her alerts and it was becoming quite irritating. That's it. No one replied that they would love some plants, or "thank you, but no thank you", just a joke and a reprimand. Seems like such a ridiculous thing to have hurt feelings over, but there it was.

  So I was sitting in my car on a narrow gravel road, looking at thin swords of sunlight stabbing through those glorious trees as they stood all silent and alive and dressed in the softest dream-green moss, and tears were streaming down my cheeks because, though it did not occur to me at the time, what I had really wanted, what I had so very much wanted was to be given the pleasure of doing something nice for someone simply because I could. What I really wanted was to be allowed to do something nice, and make someone smile. And all I got was a joke and a reprimand. Crybaby, that's me.

  The moral of the story is simple: Sometimes the nicest thing you can possibly do for someone is allow them the pleasure of doing something nice for you. Think about that one for a little while. I'm going to go outside and watch bees, because that's another thing I love to do.