Join the Slow Journalism movement. See the world from a 2 mile/hour perspective .
STORIES are everywhere
Travel can be as simple as a walk through an unfamiliar neighborhood in Portland Oregon. A warm light filled summer night walk to a pizza garden where they serve real Italian pizza with the crispy thin crust and a few flavorful toppings, instead of an American style doughy crust with quantities of sauce and cheese mixed with meat and whatever else you can think of putting on there.
The neighborhood presented all its grower’s glory in gardens. The unfamiliar sprinkled liberally among the familiar plants. It seemed to me a neighborhood of explorers, at least on the flora front. Plants grow big in this Northern rain forest area with warm, mild summers. Coming from weeks of battling hundred degree weather to keep my plants alive in my own garden, this Portland neighborhood was a walk in Paradise. Five foot high tomato plants, nasturtium leaves as big as salad plates, passion flowers looking at me intensely with purple rimmed black eyes. I drank in this walk with Alice in Wonderland thirstiness.
Suddenly there was the box. A flat box with plexiglass front on a post by the side walk. I stopped to see what was in the box. It was not a real estate advertisement. It was a poem from Mary Oliver. I was told that poetry boxes are the latest thing, inviting passers by to stop and become mindful. Mary took me to one of her moments with nature. My meeting with the poetry box was a soft brushing up against a friend who shared my delight of a summer evening.
I feel inspired to put a box by my sidewalk and live life just a little bit deeper. Won’t you walk by and read my poem?