Rosemary Everywhere

an abundance

My housemates and I share a wall with four people and last night we sat around an old keg filled with logs and flames. A few of them are in their last trimester of college and I asked them what they think about the university here. They said they hate it and then listed off five problems in less than ten seconds. But they love Eugene: the fruit that swings from underneath the ground; the purple crocuses that are shoving their fists to the sky—angry to be up this early; the south hill neighborhoods full of children and grandparents and co-ops. There’s so much rosemary to forage, they said, I don’t know why anyone would buy it.

My friend plays the saxophone and he asked a band director how to get involved. Instead, he received a sideways glance and a list of tutors. This friend who graduated with a music minor asked if he could teach some lessons and he was told, Absolutely not. You will make enemies. Last night the eight of us counted how many saxophone players, on average, might be in a band. And then multiplied that by grade and then multiplied that by school. It seems like there’s enough to go around for my friend to teach a few lessons to some beginners. He taught a kid calculus the other day and the kid told my friend that he learned more in that hour than anything his high school teacher had taught him. So there, Mr. Band Director. Disclaimer: I know nothing about either the saxophone or calculus but I do know that my friend is smart.

I’ve been in this misty, sleepy town on and off since August. I’m the most in love with it I have been. This is probably due to shared dinners, my wood stove, and the person I came out of from this winter. And the fact that the end could be near.

But I miss the artist community in Michigan. I’ve never met an adult who told a young adult not to go after something he was so completely passionate about. Maybe I am lucky, maybe Holland is bad at telling the truth (this is true). But I think of all my friends who are artists and farmers and makers and writers and musicians. What if any of us were told no?

I love to say that I am from Michigan. There is no wild rosemary or fig; there is no ocean; there is no moss as free and green as there is here, the Emerald City. But I love to say I was formed from cold, gray winters.

According to our wall neighbors (and what I have witnessed) there is a disconnect between the college students and the community. I don’t know how to fix that, and I won’t because I am not from here. But, despite all of the issues I have with West Michigan, it makes me miss my college nestled into the brick streets. Of course, we’re always missing what is far away.

It’s lonely here sometimes. I miss my friends and teachers. I try to find them in the mountains, but they’re not always there. It’s usually me who turns up on the other side of a valley, changed and inspired from the past. It’s a good thing to know how to remember. And years from now I’ll remember this: the shuffle to work, the crowds of people with dirty carhartts, the glance from a stranger who might just be a writer, too.