Upon arriving in our new home city of Portland, Oregon, I believed that my slower pulse, even breaths and rising devotion to living in the now were simply a reflection of retiring with a clean slate.
Free from L.A.’s traffic gauntlet of hurried motorists muscling into lanes that don’t exist, the San Fernando Valley’s oppressive summer heat and my mounting concern over whether this was the day I’d get COVID as an aging, acute care therapist in the hospital setting, I gave myself permission to fully exhale.
While the absence of these stressors may have contributed to the hundred-point spike in my wellness index, they are not — by any means — the whole story.
I’m beginning to think that it’s a Portland thing.
Last Saturday, our Division-Clinton neighborhood rolled out the welcome mat. My wife and I were greeted by smiling neighbors, none of whom flinched when we mentioned our previous home state. Service providers have been patient, kind and helpful in person or over the phone. Perceptive strangers have gone out of their way to offer assistance.
Even the dogs on leash are, for the most part, chill.
Sure, we’ve seen sidewalk dust-ups and hackle-raising behavior between canines on colliding paths. But that dust never rises very high and settles in seconds; fewer serrated edges of teeth are exposed and territorial barks are less than full-throated. The pet parents piloting their pups’ leashes are quick with corrective action and a light-hearted response. Stature in the community does not appear to hinge on perfect poise.
Our Boston terrier, Lilly, seems to be taking cues from the established kids on the block. Strolling past a few of the BoHo Boutiques on 21st Avenue, the three of us ran into a female couple and their rose-colored Boston, Minnie. Lilly and Minnie shared somewhat inviting looks. We four humans in the group nodded in tacit agreement to inch forward. Our dogs sniffed each other respectfully as we exchanged greetings.
A minute later, Minnie backpedaled and barked at Lilly who in turn spun one complete revolution and growled. However the sparks flew between the two dogs, the intensity of Lilly’s reaction was diminished compared to how it was in the community we left. She was quicker to whip into a sit-stay and remained calm thereafter. Minnie also backed off. The humans among us conceded that it might be better to try again another day.
Perhaps Lilly might be more vociferous if she were feeling sufficiently territorial. But maybe not. Pets often reflect the mood and affability of their parents, so if my wife and I set our reactivity to simmer, her’s might follow.
My wife and I understand that a simple change of venue is not a panacea for one’s ails. The late songwriter Harry Chapin once wrote: You can travel on for 10,000 miles and still stay where you are. To skirt the trap doors of disappointment and thrive in our new home, we’ll need to accept occasional setbacks and adapt to a new rhythm of life.
Together, we’re learning that this “race” goes to the slow and sure-footed and that quieter voices carry farther.