city girl...

i wander thro' each chartered street,
near where the charter Thames does flow,
and mark in every face i meet
marks of weakness, marks of woe.

Portland is unique. It took a lot of traveling for me to realize this. You can actually live in the city. Most of the people that I know live in the suburbs. They stare at me blankly and repeat the query, 'you live in Portland?' It's only been in the past couple of years that I have realized that in most places, living in the city is only for rich singles or impoverished families. I guess the Willamette river technically separates NE from the actual 'downtown,' but I can still proudly say that I very much live in Portland. We don't really have any 'bad' sections of town. Definitely no slums. I've grown up in a beautiful little neighborhood. And I love the city.
I don't exactly understand why I do. Isn't it better to live outside the city limits, closer to God's creation? Outside walls and away from the masses? The disease and the dirt and the crowds and the hurt and the closed air?

Why do I, of all people, who can't live without the windows cracked, the sunroof open, and the wind in my face, thrive on the song of the city? The paradox of my life intrigues me. Perhaps it's just a different variety of the invigorating fresh air I crave?

in every cry of every man,
in every infant's cry of fear,
in every voice, in every ban,
the mind-forged manacles i hear: [blake]

Blake's words are so dark; I don't want to believe them. I don't know if I truly care that much about the people in my city. I want to. I want to love the faces that I see passing by me on the sidewalk: the child, the hip young businessman, the yuppie euro barista, the old woman, the homeless man and his dog. I want to see them as Jesus sees them. Not as a flat silhouette or an excuse for prose, but as a soul desperate for attention and love. Blake hears voices crying out for escape from the problems of the city; I want to help the voices crying out for a Savior.

I still don't know why I love the city so much. Maybe I'm just another mindless consumer, captivated by fashion and prosperity and greed and 'progress.' Maybe I truly am just blind to the bad; only seeing the romantic beauty in every house, sidewalk, garden, and cup of coffee [kayris calls me 'the romantic'].

I want to believe Wordsworth:
earth has nothing to show more fair:
dull would he be of soul who could pass by
a sight so touching in its majesty;

Maybe it's my calling to love the city, even if my sisters and friends don't understand.

I would much rather read about Wordsworth's city than Blake's. What amazes me is that they write about the same place.

never did the sun more beautifully steep
in his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
ne'er saw i, never felt a calm so deep!
the river glideth at his own sweet will:
dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
and all that mighty heart is lying still!

Is it possible to hear both the pain of the chimney sweep's cries, yet appreciate the beauty of the city's mighty heart?

this city now doth, like a garment, wear
the beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
open unto the fields, and to the sky; [wordsworth]

As William Butler Yeats found himself drawn uncontrollably to the 'deep heart's core' of The Lake Isle of Innisfree, so this girl is drawn to the rhythm of the sidewalks and a view broken by the dramatic skyline.

Portland, I'm exactly a month away.