V-Day, 2015

Things About Valentine's Day

Things About Valentines Day

Valentine Throw Down at The Doghouse:

Step 1

Wake up at 7:44 from a nightmare wherein your best friend accidentally runs over your only true love (Dagny) when your daughter accidentally throws a ball in the highway for her to catch. Interpret the meaning of this dream as the unintentional heartbreak all around you. Happy Valentine's Day.

Step 2

Make waffles (which you hate, thereby reducing risk of overconsumption) with strawberries and whipped cream, bacon and eggs for 6 teenage girls, two of whom say thank you. Feed the leftovers to dogs, all of whom thank you.

Step 4

Go back to bed and make sure no dashing romantic has sent a surprise Valentine Facebook message, text or IM.

Step 5

Give up on all such fantasies and go on a 2 mile "run", pounding out all of the negative thoughts.

Step 6

Wait two hours for the hot water to come back before you can shower, since three teenage girls took 45 minute showers as soon as you got back from your run. Eat the leftover bacon that you hid from the dogs.

Step 7

Get dressed in something as unsexy as possible. Because who cares. Make sure you are wearing unmatching underwear, since obviously no one is going to see them unless you get into a car wreck, which really isn't on the agenda.

Step 8

Giggle when fourth teenage girl attempts shower after you used all of the hot water. Then realize the joke is on you as you are locked out of the bathroom and your hair is drying after the fashion of Ramona Quimby. But hey, who's going for sexy anyway?

Step 9

Leave the house in an undecided foray into fun... it's 7 hours until the basketball game you will be at, but sitting at home in the meantime just seems like a waste of a Saturday.

Step 10

Get the mail. And then go home because sitting at home actually sounds pretty fun.

Step 11

Go back to bed and turn on the matress heater and force Dagny to snuggle for most of the afternoon.

Step 12

Finally get out of the house for a pizza and a beer and to watch the NPHS boys NEARLY win a loser out regional finals game. It was worth the drive. I am proud of our boys. And girls. Even when they use all my hot water.

Step 13

Go home and collapse into bed, once again, and finally. (with Dagny, of course)


An Ode to St. Valentine

Before you write off Valentine’s Day as another invention of American corporations in the quest for perpetual revenue from mass produced greeting cards and several thousand tons of seasonal candy, take a moment to consider the long, if not convoluted, history behind the holiday. Long before it was chocolates and diamonds and fancy dinner dates, Saint Valentine’s Day became a celebration of enduring love.

Valentine of Rome was a Christian saint in the 5th century who was martyred in 496 AD for his faith. He was buried on February 14th, and the anniversary of his death was observed by the Catholic Church after he was canonized. According to legend, Saint Valentine wore an amethyst ring embedded with the image of cupid. He officiated at the illegal Christian weddings of Roman Soldiers, who were forbidden to marry, as the Emperor Claudius II believed that married men did not make for good soldier material. It was said soldiers would recognize him by his cupid ring and request the performance of his secret nuptials. The amethyst later became the birthstone for the month of February, and is said to bring love. St. Valentine is said to have cut hearts out of parchment and given them to the soldiers that he ministered to, beginning the tradition of heart shaped cards.

Eventually Valentine was imprisoned for his Christian ministry, and while in jail, he is said to have healed his jailer’s daughter, Julia, from blindness. A letter sent from his jail cell to the girl was signed “from your Valentine”, perhaps the first Valentine ever sent. After his death, Julia planted an almond tree with pink blossoms near his grave. The almond tree is still symbolic of undying love and friendship.

The Catholic Church removed St. Valentine’s day from the General Roman Calendar in 1969, but the holiday was well rooted in tradition across the globe by that time. Speculation has tied the holiday to the ancient Roman feast of Lupercalia, a three day celebration of fertility in mid February, but there has been no traceable connection to this observance and the later resurgence of the romantic theme appointed to February 14th by poets and lovers who were far removed from Rome’s pagan roots.

The first romantic association with the church holiday of St. Valentine’s Day wasn’t until nearly a thousand years later, when Geoffrey Chaucer, the English poet, penned the verse: For this was on seynt Volantynys day, Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make. ["For this was on St. Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate."] Later, scholars would argue that the Valentine he referred to was not Valentine of Rome, but the feast of St. Valentine of Genoa, who died nearly 100 years before Valentine of Rome, which was observed in early May, a time more likely for the mating of birds in Britain.

Whatever the reference really meant, Valentine’s Day was securely established as a celebration of love on February 14th by the beginning of the 15th century. Following Chaucer’s lead, French and English poets latched on to the theme and over the next 200 years, references to Valentine’s day, featuring birds and romantic love surfaced across Europe. The oldest surviving Valentine came from Charles, Duke of Orleans, referring to his wife as his  “very sweet Valentine” while he was imprisoned in the Tower of London in the 1400s: Je suis desja d'amour tanné, Ma tres doulce Valentinée… Even Shakespeare gave a nod to the holiday in Hamlet in the early 1600s.

Mass productions of romantic poetry, cards and love notes was well underway in England by the end of the 18th century, and in 1847, the first commercially produced Valentines were available in the United States. It wasn’t until the late 1900s that the traditional note giving escalated to chocolates and jewelry. This became a trend in the United States when the candy and diamond industries saw potential for growth. It is estimated that over 190 million Valentines were sent in the United States in 2015, not including homemade exchanges between school age children. The average amount spent on a Valentine’s day gift in the US last year was $131.

However you choose to observe (or not) the festival of love that is Valentine’s Day, the story of St. Valentine, perhaps embellished over the years, is a good excuse to let the ones we love know that we are thinking of them. It’s also a good chance to break out the scissors and glue stick and show our love with a little bit of creativity and personal attention. Maybe we don’t need diamonds and puppies to tell our Valentine’s how much they mean to us, but since the middle ages, we’ve been using poetry to get our point across. The cliche “Roses are Red” rhyme began in 1590, with Edmund Spenser's epic poem The Faerie Queene, but was adapted into a nursery rhyme in 1784 from Gammar Gurton’s Garland:

The rose is red, the violet's blue,

The honey's sweet, and so are you.

Thou are my love and I am thine;

I drew thee to my Valentine:

The lot was cast and then I drew,

And Fortune said it shou'd be you


Welcome to the Weird

Weird

adjective

ARCHAIC: connected with fate.

Noun ARCHAIC•SCOTTISH : a person's destiny.

Origin: Old English wyrd ‘destiny’, of Germanic origin. The adjective (late Middle English) originally meant ‘having the power to control destiny’.

I never could have predicted that I’d be sitting here, on a perfect May night, in the Maryland backyard of my baby brother, sipping bourbon and throwing a very slimy frisbee for Doc, who has zero appreciation for my mixed up playlist of 1st gen rap, Pavarotti and Red Dirt country. Two of my kids are nestled all snug in their beds across the globe in Vietnam, after a day of scooters in Saigon and bicycles on Unicorn Island. The other two are happy in their assigned duties in the northwest, falling out of perfectly good helicopters and teaching my grandchild how to fetch like a puppy and handle newborn chicks appropriately. None of this was imaginable back when I was making All the Plans. Back when I thought I had some sort of control over my “destiny.” But the reality is that I couldn’t have planned it better than this. My imagination wasn’t this big. 

I told a friend earlier today that I feel like I am stuck in an ellipses loop in my life story. I just keep circling around and around in curiosity of what comes next. For the first time I have too many options - not obligated anywhere or to anyone - and it’s strange. It’s a roulette wheel of choices. I can go in any direction. I can do anything with my time. And here I am, in Maryland… Kentucky… Texas… Florida… looking for the right fit. Tasting bourbons in Kentucky, eating Indian Food in DC and Poutine in Canada and trying etouffee and crawfish for the first time in Louisiana. This last few months I wait for the What’s Next I’ve caught beads at  Mardi Gras in the deep south, bet on the winning horse in Louisville at the Kentucky Derby, tromped in the late spring snow on Canadian summits, felt the Kansas wind on my face, and picked up sunburns from Texas to Florida to Wilbur, Washington. I’ve met millionaires who are missing out and paupers who have it all. You wouldn’t believe some of the people I’ve met lately… I sure don’t. I haven’t left the continent and I feel like I’ve experienced a lifetime in one springtime. 

I struggle, more than I care to admit, with dark days when I don’t know my why anymore. When I question everything - even the point of my own existence. When friends tell me that sometimes it’s just about accepting reality for exactly what it is in this moment and nothing beyond. And other friends remind me that my best memories are only moments behind me and seconds in front of me. 

I have no idea where I’ll be headed next but I promise it will be interesting. This is my weird. The destiny that I have created, if by no other means than my unwillingness to say no when an opportunity presents itself. I will see all of my offspring next week and we’ll swap stories and compare our peeling sunburns and multicultural indigestion. We’ll talk about blisters and babies and all the Big Plans we have that we’ll forget about next week when something more interesting opens a door for us that we never expected. We control our fate by saying yes whenever possible. We shape our destinies with the curiosity that compels us to see what’s around that corner just ahead. 

We Are The Problem

“The media's the most powerful entity on earth. They have the power to make the innocent guilty and to make the guilty innocent, and that's power. Because they control the minds of the masses.” - Malcolm X

The ability to influence information as it is delivered to the masses is arguably the most sought after power in history. After all, what good is conquering a kingdom if you cannot also conquer the minds of it’s people. You might just as well start planning for the overthrow if you can’t figure out how to win the crowd. The richest people will tell you money is only as good as the influence it buys to create favorable conditions for your method of gain. If that’s war, you buy war advertisement on mainstream media. You sell it in the stories of victims and heroes. You sell it in the tales of injustice and violence and chaos that humans consume like an addictive drug. If you method of gain is in the markets, you leverage the lower classes against themselves to boost your own profits. You create panic because you have the power to do so, knowing you are safely insulated from the fallout. You skew the system at it’s root just enough to send the whole ship wildly adrift by the time that tiny course diversion reaches the masses.

Currency itself only has the value humans assign it, which is based on what we have been told for centuries. The almighty dollar only became so because we were told it was, and we believed it. Even when the United States did away with the “Gold Standard” in 1971 when they terminated the convertibility of the dollar into gold, the nation insisted upon clinging fiercely to the belief that these printed sheets pumped into the economy still have value… because we were told they did.

We are the problem.

We shoot up the drug of fast and loose information, paid for by the richest of the rich, for the quick and deadly high that violence and fear feed us. We eat without satiation from the gluttonous feast of fables spun by professional story tellers and we insist that it is real food, while it disappears even as we consume it. Even when the “facts” are proven lies shortly after. Even when “conspiracy theories” come true and the “science” changes according to stock market prices for massive corporations… we still eat it up. We are the problem.

There are truth tellers out there. There are good journalists and there are outlets who are intentionally fact-finding at best or at worst, unintentionally misled by the corporations that own them. There are critical thinkers. The storytellers are not the problem.

The feeble-minded children that feed off the voluptuous tit of mass media, social media and every easy outlet for information are the problem. That’s us. WE are the problem.

The same problem since King James had his way with the “infallible” word of god in 1611 and fed Shakespeare’s artsy and politically driven interpretation into the state-mandated church crowds. This is not a new tactic.

King James Bible, 1612-1613

The same problem when Hilter told the German people that the Jewish population was hell-bent on their financial ruin and exploitation.

Advertising poster for the antisemitic film, Der ewige Jude (The Eternal Jew), directed by Fritz Hippler. Germany, ca. 1940.

We listen, we read, we nod our heads in agreement and devour what we are told from the poisoned well of our choice. We are told to turn on our neighbor. The neighbor that loves guns and hates gays. The neighbor that denies biological gender and murders babies. THEY are the problem. The good people next door with their garden and their cats and their curly haired children. Clearly THEY are the problem. Not the ones controlling the algorithm that feeds you the reasons to blame your neighbor. Not the ones (ironically the same) that control the voices coming out of your TV and podcasts “news” reports. Not the SAME ones who can be found with their fingers laced intricately into the dark, matted mess behind every political “story” you share on your social media platforms. THEY aren’t the ones responsible for How Terrible things are. They’re just telling us how it is, what our neighbors have done to us with their pathetic voting habits. And we believe it.

And we share. And we post. And we perpetuate the garbage that distracts us from the real work that needs to be done. Helping the neighbor weed their garden. Getting their kids to school. Keeping those kids safe at school. Teaching those kids how to be kind and treat everyone exactly how they’d like to be treated so that they don’t grow up to hurt other kids. Instead we shove screens full of violence, indulgence and self-gratification at them so we can stare at our own screens of violence, indulgence and self-gratification.

We are the problem. We’re too busy scrolling and clicking and reacting and numbing and liking and sharing and posting in outrage and fear and superiority to see the damage we are doing. After all, we’re just doing our part to keep people informed.

What if we didn’t? What if we skipped all that? What if the neighbor with guns was actually really good friends with his transgender neighbor even though he was told not to be? What if differences made communities stronger and better? What if we didn’t share the post about the idiotic people who have been put in places of power by idiotic people with idiotic amounts of money? Let those monkeys have their circus. What if we quit clapping our hands like performing seals and got down in the dirt with the people we live and work with?

Illustration of a printing press and a composing stick from the first edition (1768–71) of the Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. 3, plate CXLVII, figure 1.

Social media and “information” accessibility in the last decade is a revolution comparable to only the development of the printing press at the end of medieval times, which led to the Enlightenment. Printed material began to permeate the developed world and literacy became more widespread. The power of information control was gradually removed from the ruling classes (which included the church) and placed in the hands of the people. Thought reform took off globally in all directions.

We stand at the crossroads of a similar revolution but we have failed to realize the ruling class still own all of the presses right now. The social media platforms we use are controlled by the ones who also hold the keys to the political, financial, and yes, religious kingdoms. The only thing that ended the dark ages was the proliferation of printing technology throughout geographic, philosophic and ideologic realms. This is why monopolization, centralization and control of media and social media technology is so dangerous. We can move toward a new age of critical thinking and enlightenment, or we can allow the current ruling class to dictate a future of division and distrust. We don’t have to be marionettes, dancing like fools for the infants in power. We can change our algorithms.

We can end the problem.




Be Longing

I just drove 8,981 miles in search of the place I belong.

It’s been awhile since I felt like I belonged anywhere, to anyone. Being on the road it occurred to me that maybe I’m not the only one who feels that way. And maybe I really belong to everyone, everywhere.

Maybe the open road and no plan are exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Traveling alone makes me feel sad when there’s nobody to share the white sands of Navarre or the backroads of Alabama with, but after 42 days, 15 states and more hotel rooms and vacation rentals than I can recall (along with some wild car camping stories), it’s amazing to realize that I spent a majority of that time with other people. People like me, scattered all over for all kinds of reasons. Friends in Idaho, Florida, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas. Offspring in Alabama and Louisiana. Offers of spare rooms in Utah and Nebraska… I was rarely alone. Even while there were days that it felt like maybe nobody would know if I was dead or alive, I know I wasn’t forgotten, just a little bit gone.

I found a lot of places that I know I could be happy, at least for awhile. But I know deep down that the key to my happiness is the people I surround myself with and being able to contribute to their lives in a meaningful way.

Yesterday I heard someone say that we chose our purpose in life. I’ll know mine when I see it and that’s where I’ll belong. Maybe I’ll BE there a LONG time or maybe my LONGING to BE will finally be realized. Either way I’m grateful for the journey, and the big, beautiful open space that I belong to for now.

It's The Holidays

I HATE winter. Really I hate winter here in Eastern Washington, but since that’s the winter association I hold for the majority of my life, I feel like I just HATE winter. The Magic of Christmas used to hold me over until at least the first week of January before the Absolute Distaste For Life set in, but I can’t tell over the last few years if the Magic is fading or the Distaste is just overwhelming it much earlier than it used to.

I asked my Oldest the other day if Christmas used to feel Magical to her and if it still does. She said it did and on the years when we all congregate at Grandma’s house like we did back then, she still feels it. But this year, talking to my baby brother and a few other assorted relatives, we all agreed that the Magic isn’t what it used to. It didn’t help this year to hear about the health challenges of a Close Relative, or thousands of flights were canceled and freeways were shut down and the fact all four of my offspring and other loved ones were jaunting willy-nilly over historically terrible winter roads in historically low winter temperatures didn’t do much for my own peace of mind.

But the Magic isn’t what it once was, and maybe that’s part of the Natural Progression of Things, which I am not a fan of, along with winter.

Even in the weirdness of not-all-the-kids being here and other family strife, we found our moments of magic. Nobody crashed their car or died in a snowbank. We have hope that the illness is treatable. None of the dogs pooped on my bed.

I am trying to overcome the Distaste For Life that settles over me this time of year like a moldy blanket. Every day I make lists of All The Good Things and I appreciate the beauty of snow and ice and shovels and mud as I look out my window and across a valley of frustrated commuters who can’t find an appropriate windshield wiper setting. I am endlessly grateful to live in a home with a consistently working furnace, a comfortable bed, a multitude of couches, way too many dogs and way too many leftovers.

I am clinging to the joy of ridiculous moments, like when my Youngest and I both answered the door for a solicitor and the reindeer antlers we were both wearing got tangled and we had to excuse ourselves to go sort out our attached heads. I’d like somehow to at least reduce the Absolute Distaste to a milder version, maybe a Partial Distaste For Life this time of year, but I won’t lie, it takes work. It takes the conscious decision to change every thought in my head. To rewrite “why do I live here” to “where should I go next” and “I f&%^ing HATE winter” to “I can’t I can’t f&^$ing wait to get somewhere sunny.” I’m forcing myself to get out of the house, to make plans, to see people, which is a step up from last winter.

If there are others like me out there who are not Fraught With Holiday Joy, just know it’s ok. You’re not alone. Find the little heartbeats of happiness and make plans for different things. There’s sunshine on the other side, somewhere. #itstheholidays


The Things They Carried: Military Holdovers in the Real World

Real life can be tough. If you’ve served on deployment, Mother Necessity most definitely birthed some ingenuitive inventions to make living down range a little more comfortable. From wet-sock canteen coolers to terrain based land navigation and the value of a safety pin, tricks of the war trade continue to serve veterans in their civilian lives. 

LINER, WET WEATHER, PONCHO : Hands down, the most loved, oft-heralded, never relinquished piece of military issue known to man, or woman, the woobie stands fiercely at the head of the pack of must-haves in the cold, cruel civilian world. Soldier turned firefighter, sailor turned cop, marine turned coach, all have this in common: love for the woobie. This versatile square of quilted bliss was recently upgraded with a built in zipper and improved insulation technology. As if it needed help.

“It’s the most comfortable, awesome, soft, perfect piece of fabric ever invented in the history of military equipment and I love it.” Says Ian Pickett, former marine.

TRI-FOLD ENTRENCHING TOOL (E-TOOL) : Because when it hits the fan, sometimes you’ve got to dig your way out. Whether you’re constructing an emergency latrine or, ahem, covering up evidence… this handle, collapsible tool might be your lifesaver.

FIGHTING/UTILITY KNIFE : Whether you’re still packing your marine issued Ka-Bar, Ontario ASEK, or an MK 3 Navy Issue, you’ll be hard pressed to find a vet who’s done time out of country that isn’t sporting an all-purpose blade of some sort. While most SOF guys go for customized numbers from companies like Benchmade and Gerber there are a growing number of small bladesmith start-ups, many veteran owned and operated. Either way, the consensus is don’t leave home without one.

LIGHT, CHEMILUMINESCENT : OK, so maybe you aren’t packing around a dozen orange glow-sticks in case of sudden blackouts or flash mob raves, but while field going service members might not agree on which form of portable light is the best, they all agree that some form is necessary. The best part about a chemlight is that you can’t accidentally burn out the batteries and they’re cheap.

CORD, FIBROUS, NYLON : Now that everybody’s got their own “survival bracelet” woven out of handy, find-anywhere neon colors, you’ll never be too far out of reach of a decent length of 550, or para cord, another must have in hunting/camping/zombie fighting kits for everyone. We won’t bore you with the millions of applications of this handy stuff. Plus if you’re bored you can braid cute jewelry for gifts. 

STOVE, COOKING, GASOLINE : We’ve come a long way since 1942 when the army commissioned the Coleman company to produce 5,000 single burner gas stoves for soldiers on the  African front. But even then, World War II correspondent Ernie Pyle said the “G.I. Stove” was second only to the Jeep in frontline usefulness. Modern operators enjoy a variety of personal camp stoves, and leading the charge is the JetBoil, a lightweight, rapid cooking system that is as hardy as it is practical.

FIRST AID KIT, GENERAL PURPOSE : Any soldier worth his mettle will tell you how important it is to be ready for medical emergencies, but it’s the tried and true warriors that know what really matters when it comes to life saving. Advancements in lifesaving equipment have come a long way since the gauze, iodine and ammonia that soldiers carried in World War I. Tourniquets new on the market like the RATs tourniquet are fast and easy for self  or one-handed application, and most seasoned vets will tell you that there’s nothing that you can’t fix with contractor grade trash bags and safety pins. And every good first aid kid needs a sharpie for marking tourniquet application times. The best part about this bare-bones doctor’s bag is that it’s multipurpose. Throw in some Benadryl, baby wipes and duct tape and you’re ready for anything.

BOX, MATCH, WATERPROOF : If you weren’t lucky enough to get your hands on a Black Crackle Zippo lighter in WWII, you probably had one of these. Matches or a windproof lighter are always a good thing to have on hand.

But it’s really the mental flexibility that military service demands that is the most useful takeaway from time in any branch. Army Ranger turned Hunting Guide Kyle Kowalski says that his training has served him more in civilian life than any of his Army issued tools.

“The biggest thing is probably problem solving, really. Anything can be accomplished. It might be sloppy, but then it will be refined, re-planned rehearsed and re-executed until becoming proficient in that task.” Kowalski says.

 

Today

Taylor Swift tickets. Ridiculous political election posturing. Missiles from somewhere landing somewhere else they shouldn’t. Thanksgiving. Shopping. Twitter and Elon’s latest craziness.

It’s hard to imagine how any of this matters.

I got sucked into the Instagram feed of the sister of one of the murder victims in Moscow, Idaho last weekend. All of the images of the Beautiful Girls. So ALIVE. So fresh and real and sure of everything. Just like my own daughter who lives in Moscow. And the one in Mexico. And the one in Utah. And the one in Colville. All so vibrant, just like the three girls and one guy who were just delivered back to their families with all of the life stolen out of their bodies. A week ago today, maybe they would have cared about Taylor Swift tickets. Maybe they were making Thanksgiving plans. Now it’s just darkness for them and everyone who loved them.

We take ourselves so seriously. All of our affectations of correctness and Knowing What’s Right and Doing Things. All The Things. And the whole while, we can’t even fathom that our children might not see another sunrise, just like these four.

They tell us it’s safe. Everything is under control. There’s no need for alarm. It was a “targeted attack.” But we don’t know who targeted them or for what reason? And could this person have the same reason to target my kid? Your kid? Someone else? Nothing is safe, nothing is under control. I want to reel Natalee back into my house and force “safety” upon her, but for what? Is my home really any safer than anybody’s?

The sun is shining so perfectly today and life goes on, but for four young lives, it does not. For their parents, it does not. For their classmates, coworkers and friends, it will never be the same.

It seems so petty of me to move about my day in the sunlight Doing All the Things and acting as if I Know What’s Right. The only thing I know for sure is life is a fucking crazy gamble and nothing is promised. All we have is today and I can’t stand the thought of wasting a single moment caring about T Swift tickets or Nancy Pelosi or Elon Musk.

This upside down world makes me determined to create a haven away from it. It compels me to build a system that removes my need for any of them. A place where my kids, my people can be. Where I can be, away from the clatter of the nonsense and lies of our time. I have no use for anything this “society” has to offer.

The Come Down

I’ve written before about the crash that comes at the end of fire season. The sudden removal of long days full of meaningful work and the same people, all up in yo’ bizness, at all hours of the day and night. The immediate revocation of a type of intimacy that isn’t mirrored in family homes or “normal” workplaces.

This time, coming off of a month-long assignment, my mom reminded me to be ready for the let-down. She’s watched me come off the high of a fast-paced fire to the nothingness of an empty house and a social circle that has forgotten me in the months I’ve been out of the game.


The last several years, coming “home” hasn’t really been that for me. The musty smell of a yurt and nest of sleeping bags in the back of my rental car has come to feel more like home than the places I have lived lately. I like my house. I like my bed. I like to be on a couch and be able to stare mindlessly at a remote control and remember that there is nothing worth watching. I like having dogs piled on me like cordwood, squished into the cracks of the couch in their malleable wrinkled shapes. But I feel lost. I feel like I should be calling someone. Reporting to someone. Fixing some problem. Producing something… But there is nothing to be produced. No one to call or report to. Just me, and dogs, and an empty refrigerator with no helpful ideas about what’s for dinner.

I keep opening airline websites and hotel apps to make plans for something. Anything. Maybe I’ll go to Mexico with my kids for Thanksgiving. Maybe I’ll disappear to an unnamed beach alone. Maybe I’ll turn up at a distillery in Scotland. Or maybe I will close my laptop and just stare at the ceiling.

I need to go to the store, but buying a block of cheese feels like a commitment I am not ready to make. Even the bottle of wine on the counter does not enthrall me. The Gentleman Jack that I opened months ago reprimands me from the shelf for my abandonment. But even he holds no sway.

This is my meditation. It will pass, the nothingness. I will show up, one day soon, in the wilderness of society and the language of “regular” relationships will begin to return to my tongue. But for now I can lie quietly, wondering about this space between my two lives. Enjoying the silence broken only by the dogs and their ritual wild times. Looking forward to something that I don’t know. Maybe it’s lunch. Maybe it’s sleep or a bubble bath. Maybe it’s a new job or moving across the country, Maybe it’s all six seasons of Peaky Blinders in one binge, with Cream of Chicken soup at 2 AM. I wouldn’t rule it out.


The Meaning of Life

I just googled “what is moth dust made of” to be sure I wouldn’t be poisoning myself when I drink the red wine in my glass where a small moth just met his untimely death. The sheen of moth-dust still lingers in the iridescent cabernet and I feel like it won’t kill me. In case you were wondering, moth-dust is actually hundreds of tiny scales that aid the creatures in flight. Like pixie-dust, but less glitter.

Drinking moth-dust wine seems like the logical first step on my new journey to take more risks. Bigger risks. To give god(fate, destiny, etc) a chance to intervene in the slow devolution of my existence. It’s come to my attention that the lack of Big Scary things in my life has made all the Small Trivial things scary, because as humans, we need a fight, or a flight, or we become depressed and life loses all of its meaning. So we turn everything into something it’s not, just to FEEL alive. We call this anxiety and we treat it with drugs and therapists and alcohol and - as in, my newly-decided-upon course of action - risk taking. We don’t have to fight to stay alive anymore. We rarely get eaten by bears or die from dysentery on the Oregon Trail. Most of us even survived COVID-19. The zombies haven’t come yet, China hasn’t invaded, and other than egregious inflation which is denied by the hard left or whether WalMart will cancel Black Friday sales, we don’t have much to worry about.

So instead of, or maybe more accurately, WHILE I am waiting to understand the meaning of life and why I am still here, existing and consuming and taking up space, I’ve decided I need to do scarier things. Take bigger risks. Drive a little faster. Stay out a little later. Travel alone. Remain unemployed. Drink moth-dust. Go flying in small airplanes with questionable load-bearing capacity.

I went skydiving once and have long maintained that I saw no reason to ever go again, but maybe I am looking at it backwards. Do I have a good reason NOT to go again?

Exhibit A photographic evidence

Ralph Waldo Emerson (who some of you know is one of my all-time favorites) once said that you should “always do what you are afraid to do.” This looks differently for everybody. Some of us are afraid of wrestling alligators but are not intimidated by the vastly more dangerous sport of raising children. Some of us are terrified of marriage or settling down but have no apprehensions screaming through the atmosphere in small metal projectiles with balls of fire propelling them. Fear, or fearlessness, are subjective. I’ve been called “brave” because I don’t have a “real” job. (I think it was actually a nice way of calling me stupid, but I’ll take it.) Truth be told, showing up in an office everyday is a 1000X more scary than not knowing how I will pay my mortgage next month. But money, or the lack thereof, has never scared me. Been there, done that, still have the t-shirt. What does scare me is being stuck - and yet for all of my attempts, I haven’t avoided it.

When I think about the scariest moments in my life, two spring to mind: once when I was on a roller coaster with Natalee when she was about 6, and I was so terrified for my own survival that I physically could not release my grip on the bar to grab on to her as her tiny frame slid upwards in the car towards certain death and decapitation (spoiler alert - she survived and just started Vet School and still likes roller coasters). The other was lying on a stiff plastic mattress in Uganda, surrounded by mosquito net with holes the size of baseballs littered across it. I wasn’t afraid of the mosquitoes or the subsequent malaria or the rebel armies that were still showing up from time to time in the north part of the country where I was. I was terrified that something might happen to one of my small children at home and I wouldn’t be able to get back to them. Both times it was loss of control that triggered my terror. My inability to change the circumstances. It was a good moment to learn something that would follow me throughout life - I am never in control. Whether I am sitting next to my child or on the other side of the planet - there are some things I will not be able to change.

A few seconds after I nearly blacked out while “assisting” (I was holding the video camera and light) with a goiter removal in a 140 degree operating room in rural Uganda

So why the fear? Why the anxiety? Because I don’t have monsters to fight? I don’t have challenges to take on? I read this great story in Outside the other day, and can’t get past these words from rafter Hendrik Koetzee before he met his untimely end in the jaws of a massive crocodile (sort of like the moth in my wine). “‘For me it’s not so much the bad times as the in-between times that are hard to stomach,’ he would later write to a friend, ‘when my life seems like a compromise not worth making.’.”

I don’t want my life to be a compromise on any level, and it has been too much of late. I don’t want in-between times, which is where I feel I am now, trapped on the other side of the wild and terrifying years of raising four ferocious girls and not yet launched into whatever fearful, mysterious unknown comes next. It’s the nothingness that suffocates me. Maybe that’s the monster I am wrestling now. Maybe I am facing my greatest fear every day - being out of control of what comes next. Maybe I should enjoy the ride.

I begged them to untape his cute lil’ jaws.

Why

Why am I here? Sometimes - no, a lot of the time - it feels like I’ve outlived my usefulness. My children are raised. I have no demands upon me. I have no relationships that depend upon my continued existence. I work to cover the expenses of a life that I rarely enjoy and that no one else benefits from. So why am I here? Sometimes I ask the why as if I there is no good reason and I am ready to go, but the real WHY isn’t a question of escapism. It’s the honest quest for purpose. I am still here so there MUST be a reason. There must be something that I am still supposed to do, to accomplish, to become. I’ve quit asking why I am alive, because as Alan Watts says, the meaning of life is just to be alive. But I still need to know why I am here. For what purpose. For so long, my purpose was duty to my children. Keeping them alive. That responsibility has now been transferred to them, they have become their own keepers. So why am I here?

Meaningful work is still just that - work. I could disappear from it tomorrow and be replaced like sand backfilling a hole. I am not special in that regard. The work I do pays for a house that I like but rarely see and barely need. The work I do pays for so much waste.

So why am I here? Not to take up space and consume, I have to believe that I am here for more than that, and yet that is all I do in this moment. Maybe in the process of consuming less I will discover why I am still here, occupying space. I have been guilty of trying to answer this why with things. With building an existence around me as if to prove I am meant to be here and I am worthy of the space I occupy, with my nice house and my nice car and my things. But none of those things matter, and none of them are why I am here, yet they are the sole reason I have to keep working. What a world of upside down. Maybe I am here until I can learn to right-side-up my life.

Because I chose. (the last love letter)

It started off on rough footing. It was rocky. Sure, on paper, some things aligned, and that’s why our friends thought it might work. But off the record, we were a shit show from the word go. You were an introverted Virgo with deep, festering wounds in your ability to trust - which is a problem even for a healthy virgo. I was a badly damaged Gemini with FOMO and a desperate need to belong. You were an aging frat boy who couldn’t come to terms with the timing out of your mojo. Of your legacy of the party boy with the golden hair. I was an aging free spirit, panicking about growing old alone with no one to adventure with. In some ways, we were the perfect fit.

And some things worked. They worked enough to work it out. And after we got through the worst of it, I made a choice. I didn’t know if I could see a life with you. But I chose to. I didn’t know if I could settle down to meet the long and detailed list of expectations that you had for a partner. But I chose to. I didn’t know if I could be content in your quiet world. But I chose to. I made a choice. and in the end, there was no one to blame but me.

We had some good times. Really, truly good times. So many things that I will never be able to chase from my memory. You have been my best fried, and there is no faking that bond. We’ve leaned on each other. You’ve saved my life and I’ve saved yours. Because life isn’t just breathing. It’s being able to wake up without hating the world, and you did that for me more mornings than I can count. For that I will always be grateful.

But you didn’t make the same choice. You kept your options open. And you never lied to me about that. You never led me on, verbally. You told me you weren’t sure. You told me you didn’t know. And I had made a choice so I told you it was ok. I was patient. I believed in us. I believed that all the ways that we made each other better and more real meant something. I believed that the ways we helped each other tap into our full potential and redeem our broken history, meant something. You were my best friend. I believed I chose right.

I was committed to you. Unconditionally. I studied your habits, your patterns. I learned your needs. I saw your illness and your darkness, I saw your strength and your brilliance. I loved them all the same. I worked hard to understand how to skate to the puck. To love you where and how you needed to be loved. The crazy thing is, you learned that about me too. You put that effort in. I learned, against everything I’d ever been taught or had modeled, how to back off and give you space, and appreciate even that. I was committed. I was in it. I chose you.

But you never chose me. I didn’t annoy you, which was a big deal. But you never chose me. You tolerated me. You allowed me to love you. You lived inside of my love and gave back what you could. But you never chose me. I didn’t have the list of options you needed in whatever model you were seeking. And I’ll tell you boy, nobody ever will. And I can say with a fairly high level of confidence, nobody is going to choose you like I did. They’ll love you. They’ll use you. They’ll annoy you. But they won’t choose you. People don’t do that much these days.

And now, like a fool, I stand on the other side of the final rejection. The last boot to my heart. And I choose differently. I choose to seek out a life that wants me in it. A life that has space for me. A life that chooses me. How to unchoose all the commitments I’ve made and move forward, I don’t know. How to even begin investing again, I have no idea. But I am choosing that path. I am changing my mind. I don’t choose you anymore.

I still love you more than any other human being, and I’m sorry for both of us, but there’s no one to blame but me. Because I chose. I knew the risks. I knew the reality, you never sheltered me from that. But I chose.

On Kissing

It's been a very long time since I have been kissed. It's been even longer since I was kissed properly. Like, REALLY kissed. Good and Kissed. Kissed like He Meant It. I think all of this came up while I was watching season 3 of New Girl, and I started to get annoyed with Jess and Nick kissing all of the time. Almost like they meant it. Maybe not like Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. Or even like Maureen O'Hara and John Wayne. But still, they make kissing look fun. And I was annoyed. Mostly out of jealousy. And the very, very real FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) on this for another Very Long Time. Or maybe forever. And it's not fair. Even eating garlic knots to make believe that the only reason I am not enjoying some Very Good Kissing right now is because I have terrible breath isn't helping. I am lonely for kisses. It's a dreary feeling in a dreary rainy fall that could so easily be a cuddly warm fall with Amazing Kisses.

"...although you need kissing badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, by someone who knows how!" -RB (remembering credit to Em Creach)

There is something about a kiss. The kind you feel to the bottom of your toes. In my mind there is nothing quite so vulnerable and intimate as a Real Kiss. Good Kissing, Real Kissing, is like extra smooth dark chocolate. Or a Really Good Red Wine. It's warmth spreading all through your body and a chill up your spine. It's a head rush that displaces time and space. Nothing but a kiss has the power to melt your heart, change your mind (see: The Empire Strikes Back) and disgust little boys.


You can't really plan a Good Kiss. They sneak up on you and ambush you when you're least prepared. They make your knees all loose and rubbery. But when you are with the right person, you also can't avoid them. They come at you from all directions in many different forms. The Real Kiss doesn't have to be long and wet and sloppy. Or short and sweet and innocent. It defies category. It defies definition. It's really the Best Thing Ever.

Not that I would know, or at least remember. It's been a good long while for me. But as time goes on I remember with growing fondness, or maybe unreality, that beautiful sensation. And I hope for it again someday before I die. Maybe when I am 80. Lots of Good Kissing in my 80s seems like a worthy aspiration. Obviously this means being with My One, so it's a part-n-parcel deal of heavenly winning. In the meantime, while I wait, I guess I'll just be annoyed at Nick and Jess. And Rhett and Scarlett. And John and Maureen. And all the other Good Kissers out there. I hope you know how lucky you are. Don't take it for granted, and lay one on each other for me.

In Defense of Sweatpants: A Really Bad Research Paper Written in One Hour

Popular culture is overrun with references to the socially acceptable hour to begin consuming alcohol. Jimmy Buffet lends Country Legend Alan Jackson some aid in the quickly established mantra of alcoholics across the world in his ode to early drinking: It's Five O'clock Somewhere. Whether five in the evening, or the broadly established noon hour should be considered the norm for drinking commencement, it strikes me as particularly neglectful on behalf of society that we have yet to examine the equally critical issue of what time of day is appropriate for donning sweat pants. To examine this oft-ignored social question, we must first break it down into the three separate issues it creates. First: is the dilemma arising because the sweatpants in question are actually still on from the night before? Second: Are the sweatpants in question stylish/sexy and or passable for public activities? And third, but most critical, what events precipitate the necessity for early accouterment of aforementioned sweatpants?



When examining the first question raised by mid-day sweatpants wearing, we have to consider the demographic breakdown of our audience. Assuming that we are discussing neither morbidly obese redneck men, or young athletic professional men, or any men at all, other than Marky Mark or Colin

graphic 1.0hhhhhh

Farrell (see graphic 1.0), it is safe to say that we are targeting women of all ages with a variety of issues to deal with on a given day. This brings rise to the discussion of whether or not the sweatpants that we are considering have been on since last night, or sometime in the previous week. If this is the case, we have to refer to the fourth paragraph of this essay to establish crises criterion with which to establish a baseline of long-term sweatpants wearing acceptability. Say for instance, your dog died last week. Obviously you haven't recovered from the trauma enough to have been able to change your clothes at any point. But this will be examined further in a later paragraph. Assuming no Major Catastrophe has befallen you, if the sweatpants in question have been worn since the previous evening or earlier, the move to change and/or upgrade to denim is based entirely upon the time of day that one enters into this decision making process. For example, if the question of changing clothes comes up sometime before noon or one o'clock PM, it's safe to say you may have a few successful denim wearing hours in the day. If this thought is not broached until after one in the afternoon, then dressing up is a foolhardy exercise in extra laundry inefficiency. The social justification for early-to-late sweatpants transition is far reaching and easily understood by everyone that matters, which is to say, all of the cool kids. (Echosmith, 2014)

Secondly, most of this debate is quelled with the answer to one simple inquiry: What Kind Of Sweatpants? Thanks to Jessica Simpson, circa 2004, when she was almost cool for a minute, if you had cable (In Review, 2004) (this is before the catastrophic Chicken of the Sea comment...), any sweatpants made by Victoria's Secret double successfully as sexy day wear. Just ask Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez, Meg Ryan, and all of your other high-fashion icons - slap a PINK! on it, and you're good to go. Hard Tail knits, Juicy Couture's remix of high-end velour track suits, and more recently (as in 5 years ago), Vanessa Hudgens sporting the Gypsy 05 sweats, are also emerging fixtures in the crossover world of lounge to party. Flo Rida and T-Pain give a nod to the "baggy sweat pants" in the '07 hit, Low (FloRida, 2007), giving instant justification to millions of stay at home booty shakers. That these events transpired more than five years ago is no reason to question the viability of acceptable daytime sweats everywhere, given the right label. More recent evolutions of the yoga pant to include demon-like 5 pocket styles and narrow bootcuts like a dressy pair of slacks, are a welcome edition to the repertoire of almost-pajamas that qualify as day wear. Emergent brands like Athleta and LuLuLemon are fabulous examples of this trend. Yoga pants and the theme they present really belong to a separate classification which should be examined in a later essay.

The third and arguably most poignant question which keeps the answer to this puzzle shrouded in cloudy mystery, is that of motivation. Why are the sweatpants to be worn? What is the compelling factor in the acquirement of sweatpants early in the day? As we mentioned before, an emotional trauma such as the death of a dog, the loss of a job, the toilet overflowing, or the mechanical failure of a washing machine are all reasonable justifications for long term sweatpants wearing. But finding the appropriate rationale for day to day early sweatpants wearing can be somewhat more tricky, especially if one is expected to work or perform on a semiprofessional level at any point before traditional bed times and/or workouts. There are a few exclusionary situations that qualify for rapid sweatpant admission without question. These include but are not limited to: being on one's menstrual period, PreMS, or PostMS, recent unplanned weight gain and/or having a child any time within the last ten years. Other unforeseen factors, such as relationship ebbs and flows, misbehaving children, and general bad moods can easily be translated into solid justification with little to no argument, depending on the value one's spouse/parent/living partner puts on his/her own life.

In conclusion, it is my personal experience that there are very few, if any, hours in the day that are exclusive of acceptable sweatpants wearing. Social settings, emotional events and demographic information notwithstanding, there is a reasonable argument for the propriety of sweatpants in most situations. How long a pair of sweatpants is worn acceptably is based entirely upon the surrounding circumstances and appropriateness of intimate support and/or antagonism from those closest to the wearer. The style, brand and appearance of sweatpants, with the advent of fashion forward lounge wear, becomes less of an issue than the Hanes Her Way quandary of the late 90s (I'm Sorry, 1995), when sweatpants in a nightclub would have been social suicide. And at the bottom of it all, the directing motivation for the wearing of sweatpants at questionable hours of the day is really the deciding factor in whether it is "OK" or if denim should actually be considered. Sweatpants have come a long way from the draw string gym pants of the 1950s (Steve McQueen, 19RAD )that some brilliant housewife thought to steal from her jock husband. The evolution socially, fashionably, and functionally of sweatpants cannot be understated for the frustrated woman who can only get her jeans zipped on six days of an average month. There is a time, and a place, for sweatpants, and the for daughters of this millennium, that time is all the time, and that place is everywhere.


Speaking My Own Love Language

I should be at my Krav Maga class. But I am not. I am trying to learn what it means to love myself, and while InstaOptimists make it sound easy, it’s been an exhausting, every-waking-moment challenge for me. Going to Krav Maga is one way I love myself, but so is not going when I have words that must find their way out into the open air to be tested for truthfulness.

I have flippantly touted the months and years that I have spent living alone, partnerless, with some level of success (translated: happiness and contentment), but the reality is, even when I am alone, I have historically always had a SOMEONE that I am fixated on. Sometimes it’s the most recent lover, sometimes it’s someone I barely know, but it’s hard to pinpoint a time in my life when I didn’t wake up thinking about SOMEBODY that wasn’t me and fall asleep obsessing over him. So that’s what I am working on, being the one that I think about when I wake up in the morning. When I go to sleep at night, and every millisecond in between. And to be honest, I am failing.

I don’t have words to describe the ache I feel to sit quietly next to my person, whoever he is, wherever he is. To be wrapped up in his arms and to just be content in the knowledge of his existence and nearness. I wasn’t designed to be alone, it’s not in my nature, and if I pray for anything, it’s that I am once again given the gift of love. But alone I am for now, and so the workout is filling that ache with my own, interesting self.

The object of my affection has always been the recipient of my perpetual quest to saturate them with happiness. To KNOW them and become fluent in their love language. Lacking another human to invest this curious energy in, I look inward and wonder how to apply this level of dedication and interest in myself. If I had a partner, what would I do for them, and what would I want from them, and how can I do those things for myself?

I’ve always assumed that my top two love languages (google it if you’re unfamiliar) are Gift Giving and Words of Encouragement. The gift thing is readily apparent for anyone who knows me or has been loved by me, and also, as I learn to speak love to myself, apparent on my credit card bills. “You know who would love a new pair of the softest sweatpants in America? ME!” Also I would like to spoil my lover (me) with a nice steak dinner, delivered to my couch… So I do. The potential for disastrous consequences is obvious here, and to be honest, all the self-love gift-giving I practice isn’t easing the ache.

And Words of Encouragement? Hot dang, there’s the struggle. I’ve never spoken a kind word to myself. I look in the mirror and fight hard to shut down the hate and disgust. I choke on acceptance and grace toward myself. It’s an actual sweat-inducing struggle for me. A full-on cardio workout. But maybe it isn’t words that are really important to me, or at least in that context. I’ve never been good at taking a compliment, from anybody. Words are important to me because they convey understanding… being known. I don’t want to be told I am beautiful, I want to be heard. I want intimacy. I want someone to receive my words and KNOW ME. So the reality of this craving is probably really more about Quality Time and not so much about Words of Encouragement.

In the absence of a someone, I have to use my words to know myself. I have to listen to my own heart (ironically the title of my very first journal ever), not shout it down into silence and submission, but acknowledge the aches, the reaching, stretching strain for someone to wrap it up in wonderment and adoration. I have to spend quality time with myself. I have to sit quietly and recognize that the pain is there and I have no cure. I have to turn the music up in the car on a long, lonely drive and not shut down memories, but love them for what they WERE, and never will be again. This is the best therapy I have found. To shift gears from fixation to gratitude. I have to honor my experiences and the comfort I find in the past, without staying hung up on it. Because it’s not about the past. Or the future. It’s about now, and it’s about me. Just me. And I’m learning how to speak Liv.

rock heart

Hard Heart.