People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within. — Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

When last left you I was going to go on a walk, and so I did. I drove from our farm, across the bridge over the creek, and into Ashland. The town sits on one side of a relatively narrow valley. A plaza, several blocks of independent shops and restaurants, the Oregon Shakespeare Theatre, and the library occupy the heart of Ashland on one of the few flat sections of town. Above this commercial district, streets go up the mountain, and it is up one of these streets that I walked. 

   I’d like to go back in time for just a moment to set the stage a little. In 2005 Brian and I were living on our farm in the Virginian countryside with our little daughter and a passel of animals. We had thought that the farm was going to be our forever home, but then two things happened that made us change our mind. Elise went to a fifth birthday party and when I dropped her off I saw that there was a handgun on the kitchen counter. In a room full of five and six year olds. I was appalled and though I would have liked to remove Elise from that house immediately I did not have the heart to do so. Instead I stayed and watched the goings on with my Mama Bear instincts on full alert. Thus we came to understand that the families in our area were not like us, in so many ways 

   Then, when Elise started school, I was chastised for encouraging my daughter to learn how to read. The teacher was annoyed because Elise was ahead of the other children and she did not want to have a child in her class who would require extra attention. I met with the principal who assured me that Elise would be placed in the ‘gifted and talented’ group. I waited and nothing happened. I had another meeting with the principal. Then I waited again. Meanwhile, my daughter was coming home with little, photocopied paper, stapled books, which were not unlike, in content, the Dick and Jane books that were forced on me long ago. She would hand them over, her little nose scrunched up with disgust. We would quickly read the despised story and then move on to Madeline, Dr. Seuss, Maisy Mouse, and her other favorites. 

  This is when we decided that we had to move, and after several exploratory trips up to Maine and the Finger Lakes in New York State, we came west looking for our future. We quickly realized that Sonoma and Napa were completely out of our price range, and other wine regions in that area were too rural. So, I started another online search and discovered a little town in Oregon just north of the California border that had the right climate for grape growing (one of our requirements), good schools, and the small town university vibe that we were looking for. 

   We came out to visit Ashland during spring break in 2007, and when I went out for my run on our first morning here I knew that we had landed in the right place. Clouds drifted across the face of the mountains that rose on the other side of the valley from town, and everywhere I looked there were trees and gardens, attractive little houses, and very few of what I call ‘concrete jungle’ spaces. 

   We moved to Ashland that summer and now live on a farm from which we can see the town, ranges of forested mountains, and Mountain Ashland in the background. From our house you can hardly see the houses and streets because there are so many trees in town. Most of the houses are one or two stories tall with metal or shingled roofs, and there are trees of all kinds on every street, starting on the valley floor and extending up into the forests above town.  

   When I started my first walk on that day I had my head down, listening to an audiobook, and I was focused on ‘getting this done,’ in much the same way I had been running errands, doing chores, and taking care of Milo. Then, after walking up a steep stretch of road I paused for a breather and looked back across the valley. And my breath caught. The mountains across the valley from town were the most incredible green. The slopes, which are unforested range lands, practically glowed with new life. When I looked down the street I saw the puffs of pink blossoming cherry trees. Some were a very pale color, which others were a rosier shade of pink. I saw clumps, little streams, and even swaths of daffodils in gardens and on verges.

   With eyes wide open and a heart that was now awake, I continued my walk, meandering off my chosen route every so often to look at a particularly lovely blossoming tree. In addition to the pinks of the cherry trees, there were the frothy white blossoms of ornamental pear and plum trees, and the spires of golden forsythia bushes. With fresh eyes I saw a cedar tree that was so big that it embraced the fronts of two houses. I saw pines that were three or four stories tall that pierced the sky. I noticed that many of the houses had been painted or renovated since I had last walked these streets, who knows how many months ago.

   When I got to the highest point of my walk I saw, floating in the distance, a range of grey clouds, thick and dense. Growing out of them towered white, billowing clouds that caught the sunlight. The clouds seemed to reflect my own transformation that morning. I had begun my walk feeling grey and heavy, and now here I was lit from within and touched by the light of the sun.