I moved to Portland in February 2016. The past seven years have been tumultuous. I’ve lived in three homes, in two cities; worked for four companies; lost a cat; gained a dog; had my job eliminated by a company I helped start; was unemployed for seven months; worked at an Amazon warehouse the summer before I turned 60; worked three jobs for a year; volunteered at a food bank during Covid; collected food for the needy for two years in our church parking lot; tracked down my faith, which had been AWOL for 30 years, and ducked the Covid pandemic.

This seventh year in Portland is the year of jubilee. Or moments of jubilee. Of 48 hours over the weekend of no intrusive thoughts. Of finally being on solid ground after being slapped silly by capitalism. Of letting go. Of exploring and dreaming, and relaxing, knowing that …

I’m good!