A $1 House, Chickens, Ducks, and Morning Glory

Admittedly, I know nothing about the Earth. Big "E" Earth and little "e" earth. I don't understand how we stay afloat in the universe instead of sinking into nothingness at an uncontrollable rate. And I certainly don't understand how we can bury a little nub of a plant in dirt and within days see proof of life emerging from the ground. While I will probably never understand the complexities of scientific law that propell us around the Sun, I can start to understand where I get my food. And that's where Kathleen Bellefeuille-Rice comes in.

I met Kathleen through Clare, her daughter and LACW community member. Kathleen is jolly, a hard worker by nature, and eternally passionate about gardening. She had extended a few invitations my way to visit her in Olympia, Washington, to learn about gardening and get my hands dirty. I decided to take her up on that offer.

Early October, I arrived in Olympia via public transportation. I paid a total of $6 to get from Portland to just blocks away from Kathleen's home. Granted, it took me 10 hours to complete the trip, I was stranded in Longview, Washington for 3 1/2 hours, and did hear the story about a mother being hit by a train (see previous entry). But the people are the glory of the adventure, aren't they?

Kathleen and her husband David live in a house that was physically moved from one lot to the current location. The house itself cost $1. It is now sitting on a nice plot on a hill in Olympia, surrounded by a garden that feeds Kathleen and David throughout the year. While they didn't live in a Catholic Worker house, they raised their two children in a similar lifestyle, valuing the traditions of simplicity and nonviolence. They do not own a car, relying on the public buses and their bicycles for local transportation. The food that doesn't come from their garden is purchased at the local food co-op, farmers market or straight from the farmer. David works as a water meter reader in order to provide an income and but not pay federal taxes (aka: war taxes). And Kathleen spends her days tending to the garden.

Although, "tending" might not be the accurate word, and the garden is not the sole venue of work. Kathleen labors year round to supply food her home. This includes the basics of planting, watering, weeding, pruning, and harvesting. There are also three chickens and three ducks that need food, water, and eggs to be collected. That is enough to keep anyone busy, but as I mentioned, Kathleen is a hard worker by nature. In the autumn, she spends much of her time around the stove, dehydrator and porch. The stove is the headquarters for canning. When I was with her, we made salsa out of tomatoes, parsley, onion, garlic and hot peppers. Kathleen also experiments with tinctures, homeopathic remedies and shampoos. (Science is a series of experiments, she says.) The dehydrator provides crisp slices of pears, handfuls of sweet kiwis and crunchy raspberries, flakes of nettle, leeks and onions for soups and rose petals for teas. The porch is the temporary resting area for the freshly harvested gourds, squashes, tomatoes, potatoes and other fall produce that aren't ready for in-house storage. Many of the vegetables later find homes in boxes under beds, under the house or in the attic.

This is just a quick overview of one season's worth of work. Did I mention that she often does it all by herself?

I don't want to project onto Kathleen, but I think she was happy to have another day laborer. David claimed since she knew I was coming, Kathleen started lining up more projects for me to do. We re-roofed her small greenhouse, cleared a few beds of produce, yanking morning glory out from the ground, and planted cover crops. Before some days began, I would join Kathleen for pre-dawn yoga. I was getting exhausted at 6:30 and going to bed at 8:30. I hadn't worked so hard in... well, a while. After working in her garden, a day at the Hippie Kitchen sounded like vacation. But it was wonderful work.

I had an established morning routine I looked forward to. First, I walked out to the Asian pear trees to coax the fruits off of the branches. The chickens followed and jabbed their beaks at the fallen orbs. Then to the raspberry bushes that were still producing juicy morsels. Spiders had found the thorny stalks and each day, I saw that one more had knitted herself a home between the aisles of bushes. My third stop were the kiwi trees. I reunited with the chickens who had declared a special roosting place near the fruits, and would chaperone my harvesting. They pecked at the ground for a second-hand feasts and clucked to each other incessantly. I would end the morning harvest when either the colander was full of the small, fleshy fruit, or when the chickens began to mistake my feet for grub.

Ripping fruit from its stem, however, was the extent of my garden knowledge. I spent a lot of time with a confused and/or apologetic look on my face, and Kathleen spent a lot of time telling me, "It's okay! You're new at this!" One evening, in preparation for dinner, I harvested an entire celery root instead of a few stalks as was asked of me. I mistook another plant for a rutabaga. Kathleen chimed in once more with reassurance as I hung my head in embarrassment.

When I wasn't making novice mistakes, Kathleen and I engaged in wonderful conversation. As we hauled clippings and weeds to the compost, harvested squash and loaded the dehydrator, we laughed and told each other stories. Kathleen openly shared anecdotes of her faith and snippets of motherly advice. We make breakfast, lunch and dinner together, and chatted about the place we found ourselves in our personal journeys. Our workspaces were warm with care and intention.

The entire two weeks were a blessing for me. Kathleen and David welcomed me into their home and into an intimate understanding of simplicity, peace and family. While I'm not sure I would be able to cultivate my own livelihood from the ground up just yet, I think I'd be willing to try in the future. So, thank you, Kathleen, for giving me an insight into the love that goes into the earth, and resurfaces to nourish us.

A Stranger's Prophecy

(note: info on my two weeks in Olympia to come later; thought this story would be fun to share)

One of the great lessons I learned at the LACW was how to interact with crazy people. Even more than crazy people, I learned to interact with men and women whose social skills drive others away instead of inviting them into conversation. And while I still can be cold toward strangers who are looking for a dialogue (or an ear for a monologue), I try my best to be open to the interactions I could have with the random person I meet.

I found myself in such a situation last night while waiting for a Portland city bus to whisk me away to the Keippela's home one last time. As is the norm, I silently waited with a handful of other strangers, staring up the street in anticipation of the desired bus. A woman came up to the bus stop, grinning at me as if I was an old friend. With her thin lips and curly short hair, she reminded me of an aged Meg Ryan (pre-botox). She was wrapped tightly in a black overcoat that couldn't hide her slight frame and her knitted scarf ruffled up to her gaunt face. Breaking the code of bus stop silence, she asked, "What bus are you waiting for?"

"The 35. And you?" I stretched out from my introverted state.

"The same. I just don't know when our bus is coming." She leaned against the railing next to me, making herself comfortable for the wait. "You know, at work--I work at this building where they have cubicles..."

I've got a rambler here, I restrained a roll of the eyes. I ran into a similar type in Longview, Washington, when bussing my way up to Olympia. He ended the conversation by telling me how his mom was killed when hit by a train. However, according to him, it was "not that bad. She wasn't nice. She wasn't a good mom. My dad didn't even like her." I wondered if this interaction would be just as fascinating.

Noticing that I was sniffling and coping with a cold, she spoke about a soup she learned about. "It's called 'sick people soup.'" She listed off the vegetables needed. "It calls for miso, too. You know, bean curd. But I didn't have any, so I put refried beans on it. 'Cuz that stuff is spicy! It elevates the, uh... oh, what do you call 'em? Those things." She waved her hands around her chest and stomach, hoping I could finish her sentence. "Well, the spicy stuff is good for you."

Portland State students passed by. Crowds entered and exited the restaurant on the corner. People gathered to wait for the bus, and I continued suppressing sneezes. All the while, my new acquaintance continued to talk, routinely adjusting her glasses with her leather-gloved hands.

She directed the conversation toward me. "Do you work or go to school?"

"Neither. I travel." This was the first time I'd ever defined travel as what I "do," and my heart jumped with a bit of joy.

"Where are you traveling?" Her eye narrowed in interest. She leaned toward me, her weight still resting on the railing separating our personal bubbles.

I explained my recent travels and upcoming plans. Usually, with strangers, I am reluctant to use the term "Catholic Worker." Mainly because I don't like answering the same questions over and over again, especially being asked if I'm a nun. Yet despite my limited energy due to my cold, I thought I'd return the favor of monologue and briefly explain the Catholic Worker movement to my bus stop buddy. Serving the poor, community, hospitality, nonviolence, the whole shebang.

She was immediately amazed. "That's wonderful. That's God's work." Her face lit up with a smile, and she fixed her glasses more rapidly. My few sentences were enough to spark her lengthy stories about giving her jackets away and revelations of Jesus calling her to Him. "Revelations are just dreams that God wants us to have," she clarified. Our bus arrived mid-story, and she followed me on, weaving her tale as we took our seats on opposite sides of the aisle.

The rumbling of the bus and constant influx of passengers made conversation impossible for us and I was preoccupied with making sure my luggage wouldn't hinder the path of fellow riders. When I was finally situated, the woman wrapped in black had found a new seat.

That was nice, I happily reflected. People just want to connect with other people.

Some minutes later, I saw movement to my right, and the Meg Ryan lookalike was seated next to me. She wore an expression of giddy anxiety. I smiled to her.

"The Lord wanted me to tell you something," she spoke confidently. "Actually, He didn't have to tell me, I just knew to tell you: You are doing His work. By helping the poor, you are doing His work. And it looks like you're not feeling well right now, but you'll get better. I'll pray for you."

There was a point when I could have entertained her fantasies about God and grinned and nodded and told myself, "She's crazy." Instead, I felt her loving concern and faith. I smiled as she professed. I was smiling so deeply my cheeks were going to cramp.

"The Lord is going to test you," she warned, "because He tests everyone. But keep doing what you are doing, and you will be fine. Don't stray from the Lord."

She looked down to her lap. "I wanted to give you these." In her small hand were a plastic wrapped collection of prayer cards with Bible verses printed on them. "They help me a lot when I'm having a hard time. This is my last one, and I want you to have it."

She reached to me, I reached to her, and in between us was prayer. "Thank you," I whispered.

She released the cards into my hand. "You know, I think I was supposed to meet you."

For the remainder of the bus ride, she spoke more about pastors she knew, asked if I worked to "save" the poor (my response: "St. Francis said, 'Preach the Gospel, and if necessary use words.'"), and told stories of friends who had been healed. We introduced ourselves by name. Sherry smiled and said goodbye as I exited the bus.

Oftentimes, "normal" people grow wary of those who hear God. We deem them crazy, and their message is lost. Sherry has probably been ignored, shut down, or unprofessionally diagnosed by people she has met. Do I believe that she actually heard God's voice? No, I don't. But her kindness, outgoingness and obvious faith are gifts that were offered within our hour of knowing each other. And no matter her place in life, who am I to deny such gifts? And who am I to say they are not of God?

So I think Sherry was right. I think we were supposed to meet.

The Keippelas

When I moved from Los Angeles to Oregon, I knew my ideal situation would be living with the Keippela family. Four years ago, I met Kacy as my supervisor at the University of Portland Office of Volunteer Services. The two of us hit it off and maintained what we jokingly refer to as a "secret relationship" throughout the year. I lived just two blocks away from Kacy and her husband Andrew, and spent a good amount of my junior year at their house. They took me out to dinner for my 21st birthday, tried to set me up with one of their friends, let me store all of my stuff in their garage one summer, and even let me crash at their house for a few nights when I was transitioning from one living situation to another.

Throughout my junior and senior year of college, Kacy and Andrew grew to be two of my closest friends. I learned about young marriage from them, and witnessed their dedication to each other during the beginning months of their lifelong commitment. Despite my differing political beliefs and world view, we respected each other and felt comfortable speaking openly; and when I told them about the Catholic Worker, they were very supportive. Kacy and Andrew saw me through travels to Nicaragua and Los Angeles, graduation, immense transition and inevitable heartache and my move to LA. I was present for Kacy and Andrew's adoption of their dog and first love, Oscar, the purchasing of their first home, and most recently the gift of their first child, Maxwell Alexander.

I had the gall to ask Kacy and Andrew if I could stay with them for a few months after leaving Los Angeles. Their response was immediate and welcoming, even after hosting another house guest for the three months prior. Once I arrived with my uncertain future ahead of me, they gave me a home. When I sank into the ruts of depression and loneliness, they offered me counsel. And without hesitation, they welcomed me into their family and asked me to be godmother to their son.

The expectations I had of these past months, as I have often written, were nothing of what actually happened. I thought Los Angeles was going to be the only place to which I would have an emotional connection, but the Tacoma CW dug into my heart. And now, I'm not leaving some place I've visited, or people with whom I can easily break ties. I'm leaving family... again. I'm packing my bags to venture out into a life yet to be determined, and I am saying goodbye to the Keippelas.

They are not affluent. They do not have a large home or income. They are not Catholic Workers. Kacy and Andrew are a middle class white couple who saw my need and offered food, shelter and love. They opened their house for hospitality. Once for a near-stranger, and again for me.

I share this story to lift up the Keippelas for their generosity and spirit of kindness. And I also share this story as an example of the great work an "average" person can do. Andrew told me a few weeks after I arrived, "We have that extra room and you need a place to stay." The logic was simple.

Without a doubt, Kacy and Andrew sustained me through what were months of confusion. They could have easily asked me to leave, or demanded a deadline for my stay. And while they may not define their generosity in this way, I received the grace of the Works of Mercy, and felt love that God asks of us all.

Thank you, Kacy, Andrew and Max, for everything you have given me.

More Confrontation With Money

These past few weeks have been a blur for me. I left the Tacoma Catholic Worker with much more sadness than I could have anticipated. The community members and Jesuit Volunteers pulled me back to purpose. I spent hours in fascinating conversation about life, love, family, service, music, and community. I ended my days covered in dirt from the garden, and plans each night were anyone's guess. My three weeks in Tacoma excited me for my future route through the west coast.

My excitement did break, however, as my grandma was recently hospitalized. Days after, on September 24, she passed away in hospice care in Pasco, Washington. Grieving a family member is new to me as an adult, and the process weighs on me. Yet the blessing amidst the sadness is family. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren: we are bonded together in our love for Grandma. And while that love was comforting, I couldn't shake the expectation for Grandma to walk through the door of her Lutheran church and join us in singing her favorite hymns.

I won't pretend to have the slightest idea of the workings of life and death (I think my entries are proof of such ignorance); but in effort to further my understanding of life, I am confronting the issue of need. As a first step, this morning I worked on my budget for the year. When I decided to embark on this year of travel, simplicity was not a goal but a requirement. I hadn't hoped for extreme poverty, yet I find myself with $327.13 to my name (not including some leftover money on a Target gift card and Fred Meyer coupon).

Side note:

I AM NOT ASKING FOR YOUR MONEY.

I have been given money by some family and friends. Some people have bought me dinner, drinks, paid for gas. And for all of these acts of generosity, I am grateful. But I do not want to skim through this year on the dollars of my friends and family. Will I turn down your gift? No. Might I send it to a Catholic Worker or local organization? Yes, and I would encourage you to do the same.

I already knew I wouldn't be able to pay for flights across the country, which is why I quickly abandoned any hopes to go to the School of the Americas Watch, and the east coast Catholic Workers. When I was telling some high school friends about my financial situation, one exclaimed, "That's less than one dollar a day!" For some reason, I had never thought of it like that, probably because I didn't ever take a good look at how far I could get with my money.

I was resistant to make a budget because of my idea of simplicity: money is not the priority. And I still agree with that statement! Money is not the priority. When it is, we get wars and corporations. But I can't argue that money doesn't exist. I have money, and I am going about a system that requires money as an exchange for goods and services. It would be hard to convince Amtrak or Greyhound that a jar or two of homemade blackberry jam would suffice for a ticket to San Francisco (even though I think that's a fair deal). Plus, you can't make that trade online, which is a hindrance.

In more detail, my outline of finances shows that I have approximately $36.34 per month through June. (My plans after June? We'll talk about that in June.) Within mainstream society, I can't really make that pittance support anything. People who are receiving multiples of that are still fighting to keep above ground. Lucky for me there is more than mainstream society. There are Rideshares through Craigslist, the Lower Columbia Community Action Council, dumpster diving, Goodwill, and most importantly hospitality.

My biggest hope right now is not that I'll make it until June. I know I will. That's not in question. My biggest hope is that I can make it to June without expecting rescue. Less than $40 a month will be difficult, especially for the girl who used to regularly overcharge her debit card at the mall. I'm not looking forward to the inevitable "I don't have enough money" breakdown. As long as I stay true to my goals for the year (see below), I have to remember I will be fine.

Goals and Purposes

* to explore the Catholic Worker lifestyle in new environments

* to better understand the needs of, use for, and actions of community

* to challenge myself as an individual to take risks, face discomfort, handle uncertainty and eventually find inner strength and peace

* to learn more about simplicity, nonviolence, hospitality and service and how to incorporate these values into my life

* to interact with people I might never have spoken to

* to find beauty and grace, even in the midst of suffering

* to bring the Catholic Worker to my family and friends as something tangible, relatable, real, possible

* to learn to love more deeply and more often

* to find Jesus and my faith

Passion: It Hurts So Good

I made it to the Tacoma Catholic Worker. And for the past three weeks have tried to keep busy amidst the community's attempt to restructure and redefine itself. I've found good, thankless work in the organic garden just outside the main house (there are 8 houses used by the Tacoma CW). I wake up at a decent, yet not lazy, hour to start weeding which is most of my labor. I spent a substatial amount of time harvesting the Asian pears, blackberries, tomatoes, miscellaneous squash, non-Asian pears, lettuce, beets and an occasional ear of corn. After I drained the garden of its yield, I helped to can the produce. And yesterday, I finally finished the blackberry jam project. But if I'm not in the garden, I sit back and witness community dynamics, have conversations with fascinating people (the Jesuit Volunteers are next door), search for a piano to play, and look forward to a year of discovering the lifestyle that fits me best.

A friend of mine is currently in a similar time of discovery, although half way across the country and without an organic garden. We met in Los Angeles, and he has since been a source of strength for me, possessing the unique ability to simultaneously calm and enlighten me. Our spiritual journeys have also been quite parallel, although his dedication to his own path seems much more solid than my temporal excitement.


Recently we talked of causes we believe are just. Essentially, we were asking: What do we do with our passion? Do we feed our passion to boredom to create a lively experience, or do we find what we need and cultivate our calling? We didn't have any decent answers.


Ironically enough, it seems the challenge is passion--reining it in, directing it. "Ambivelent" is not a word often used to describe a Catholic Worker. Yet sometimes our conviction as Catholic Workers is so strong that it drives others away, alienates us from dialogue, paints an untrue picture of our work, or distracts us from the journey toward Christ. In other situations, we feel the burning in our bellies and refuse to act for fear of disapproval. One of the many struggles I have lies within the risk of meeting the needs of my self and spirit without being dictated by the societal understanding of what is acceptable. My friend's response to that revelation: "Welcome to following the Gospel."



In Greek (pema) and Latin (pati), passion literally means suffering. Hence, we call the series of events leading to Jesus' death The Passion of Christ. This is slightly reassuring, only in the sense that my struggles with my chosen path now seem to have Greek and Latin meaning. It makes me wonder if the Buddhists really have got it down: Life means suffering (one of the Four Noble Truths). And the Noble Eightfold Path leads one out of suffering and to Nirvana. It transforms suffering into a higher level of existence, ultimate wisdom. Similarly, Jesus' death brought forgiveness and eternal life, and our following Jesus can lead us from the suffering of mortal life to immortal grace and love.

As I continue to learn, the journey seems to be within the challenge, passion and confusion. My dear friend and I are stuck on a path with blind turns, but we maintain faith that each step and the destination are grace. In the meantime, what do we do with our love, hopes and desires blooming from our passion?


"Maybe we just have to demand more from the world and, in turn, ourselves," I reached for wisdom.


"Maybe not more," he replied, "but just something different."

Get Going

Since moving to Portland, I have faced lingering depression. Away from the community that provided me with structure and purpose, I am trying to learn on my own how to be myself and proudly declare my intentions, values and desires.

I had great dreams of scanning the east coast and drinking in the culture of Catholic Workers there. Strangers becoming friends, new land becoming home. And now, I am in Portland, a familiar city, waiting for my friends to call, sitting at home unemployed, suffocating with self-pity. My plan was dying, and I mourned. I didn't have a job so I wasn't getting money, which meant my traveling would have to be limited. Underdeveloped. Unsatisfying.

I decided last week that I can't sit around like this anymore. With each second I am not moving, it is one more second I am wasting my journey on remorse. So I emailed the Tacoma Catholic Worker to request being in their company in September. When I pressed "send," I felt a resurrection of exuberance. I felt purpose coursing through my veins. I remembered the adventure I lusted for, and felt it just weeks out of my grasp.

Yesterday, after weeks of waiting and hopelessness, I was offered a solid job. I turned it down. The decision was quite counterintuitive to my original desires of saving money while earning an hourly wage; yet I understood at the very moment the job was offered that I didn't want a job. I didn't need the few months of pay. In actuality, I needed to stop worrying about doing things "right" and start taking care of myself. And that meant to stop delaying my travels and get to it. I knew I had the funds, the connections, the capability. In declining the job offer, I had finally gathered the strength to immediately take care of my own wellbeing instead of characteristically stalling for anticipated comfort.

I believe I made the right decision, but I am still so wrought with confusion. Should I really be saving money? Should I strive for my great nation-wide adventure? Can a local adventure be just as exciting and exotic and worthy?

The biggest struggle I am facing now is: Were these past six weeks just a giant waste of time?

I'd like to believe they weren't. My Pollyanna optimism would say in response that I learned a lot about myself: that I need community more than I thought, that I have the ability to conquer fears and discomforts, that I can face challenges on my own, that it is difficult to be in a new culture after two years, that I still hold such high expectations for my life and guiltlessly compare my "achievements" to others. And my realist and/or pessimist side would woefully moan: it was all a waste, you could have traveled sooner and instead you just sat around and felt sorry for yourself. Go now, but you have 6 weeks less to do it.

I guess either way, I used six weeks--whether they were useful remains to be seen. I have to forgive myself for being melancholy and dragging myself down. Any additional time spent on thinking about my loss of time or my seemingly unnecessary sadness will hinder my travels even more.

But I am heading out of Portland because I know I deserve to have my adventure. I don't want to sit around dreaming about it, or earning money for it--money can't buy me a better experience. I want it now. I'm sick and tired of waiting for scenes in my life to miraculously start without my provocation, or waiting for permission from others to partake in the life I want.

So I'm preparing to head out. Not much longer in Portland. Soon I'll be on my way and I'll have stories and meet people and use the youth I have been temporarily blessed to enjoy. Get me out of self-pity and get me to joy!

I Was Hungry and You Gave Me Dumpsters

I had the opportunity to dumpster dive while in Los Angeles. I was invited often during my last months, yet for many reasons I declined the offers. But the ideology behind dumpster diving was something I truly respected. In its best form, dumpster diving or food salvage or urban gleaning seeks to liberate food that has been unnecessarily discarded. Once gathered, the food is shared among community. The work is really what we do at the Hippie Kitchen: bringing forgotten and discarded men and women to community.

Sadly, or quite possibly luckily, I never had a reason to go search for free food. I was always provided with an abundance. But when I took a three week house sitting gig, I was confronted with the prospect of buying food. Since I'm trying to save money for travel and am still unemployed, my budget to spend any money is quite limited. I was not looking forward to spending it on food. The dumpsters remained my option.

The Internet proved a useful tool, once again, to educate me. Dumpster diving is a nocturnal activity. It's advised that a diver doesn't start until at least an hour after the store closes. Many places will have separate bins for food stuffs, or compost bins that look like dumpsters. There were a litany of excuses one could use if confronted by a store manager or, God forbid, a cop (many were "I'm sorry," followed by leaving, or a form of this response). And I should prepare to get dirty--wear long sleeves, pants and shoes.

On Wednesday, I skulked and whined and moaned. I was nervous to do it without familiarity of the process and all by myself. I scoured the Internet for more tips and hotspots around Portland, and hoped there would be meet-ups or groups already formed. There weren't as far as I could see, so I tried to form my own. I scrolled through my contact list and called my friends I thought would be interested.

Lo and behold, Karen called me back. Lovely Karen who, while we were at the University of Portland, became one of my few allies in social justice and peace effots. Preparing to leave Portland in less than two weeks, she heard my message and decided, "You only live once." She came over and gave me shoes to wear, as I only had sandals at the time. We loaded up. Armed with flashlights, a few bags, and NPR on the radio, we drove into the dark, suburban night.

It was disappointing. We traveled the roads of northwest Portland and its suburbs, and found that all of the suburban markets used trash compactors. We stopped at at least ten locations ranging from bakeries to cafes to fancy markets (ie: Trader Joe's, New Seasons). After the slew of trash compactors, we grew desperate. Our fear of approaching the dumpster took flight and we found ourselves tempted to look into each dumpster we saw, hoping for a treasure trove of unwanted food. But no. Leftover suburban food, it seemed, was to be fed to the hungry and effective trash compactor. After driving for 1 1/2 hours, our enthusiasm and excitement was slaughtered. We gave up and drove home in our clean clothes. I fell asleep at 1am, defeated.

The next day, I was determined to find food and feeling much less anxiety toward confronting the green, metal bins. Another UP ally, Valerie, RSVP'd for a Thursday night session. For the second night in a row, I peeked under the dumpster lids of Portland markets. Valerie and I made a few stops, only finding some oranges and apples in a Trader Joe's compost pile. Feeling less defeated than the night before, yet still unsatisfied, I dropped Valerie off at 12:30am and made my way back home.

As I crossed the Willamette River into northwest Portland, I decided once more to see if there were any stores that donated food via dumpster. I didn't want to go home empty-handed. I couldn't even find the dumpster at a second Trader Joe's, but a market nearby had an open dumpster right in plain sight. I parked, hopped out of the car and expected to see nothing, or a lot of trash. But right on top was a large bag, full of bread. I balanced my torso on the edge of the dumpster leaned my head in, and pulled out the bag only to reveal more food. I was ecstatic. Checking the hardness of the bread, it was clearly still good. I reached in the dumpster once again to liberate more food.

Driving off, I was motivated. I cruised for more dumpsters. At another store close by, a line of three dumpsters were carefully situated between the concrete walls of two buildings. It seemed to good to be true: the area was well lit and the dumpsters were wide open. I peered inside the nearest bin and saw, underneath a few garbage bags, dozens of bananas. I tried to balance my weight on the dumpster as I had done earlier, but I couldn't reach the bushel. I took a step back and stared at the dumpster for a moment, wondering what to do now. Then, quickly and instinctually, I climbed in and stood on top of the garbage bags.

I'm sure I looked like a frightened fawn learning to walk. I lifted my knees and kicked my feet in my attempts to maneuver in the metal compartment. At some point, I stopped caring about propriety and cleanliness. I was already in a dumpster, mingling with trash bags. So I started making room my myself to dig down and get the produce. Chucking bags in other dumpsters, pushing, tugging, smiling the whole way. My adventure was set to the soundtrack of the market's reeled music still serenading the empty lot. I conquered two of the bins and retrieved two dozen bananas, nectarines, cantaloupes, apples, grapefruits, onions, roses and a single potato.

As I piled the food in the back of the car, I felt more than a sense of real accomplishment. I confronted my fear of failing at new experiences and anxiety of facing challenges alone. And I came out unscathed. In fact, at the end of night, I realized my strength and capability.

I drove home, proudly unloaded my find, took a long, refreshing shower and went to bed. At 1:30am, I feel asleep happy for the first time since arriving in Portland.