Bailey and My Broken Heart

In May 2014, a four-year-old, pit bull-hound mix started a journey by car to Jackson, Wyoming to begin a new life with our family. Nine years later - to the day - Bailey began her final, mysterious odyssey.

Before her adoption, Bailey was a stray dog picked up by Animal Control while roaming the streets of North Carolina. She was believed to have been a breeder for fighting dogs, a heartless industry that satiates the bloodlust of the worst of humankind at the expense of animal suffering. She was pulled from a high-kill shelter before they pulled the plug on her, and she was fostered by our east-coast family members before being adopted by my husband and me.

After an 11-hour drive from Seattle, I arrived at the kennel in Jackson to pick up Bailey, tearful with joy and anticipation. Bailey was fatigued by heartworm medication and the long drive from the east coast but was happy and calm. Neither she nor I had any idea how our years together would unfold.

Bailey settled into our home and into our hearts. She was appropriately respectful to our senior dog, a yellow Lab named Blanca. She loved walks and runs and belly rubs (which we coined “Bailey rubs.”) She was watchful, thoughtful, and fierce in her devotion to her human and canine pack. Some pet owners describe their dogs as “all bark and no bite.” Though Bailey never had the chance to confront a prowler or a thief, I am quite sure she was a “bite first, ask questions later” type of guardian.

She was the most adept and athletic creature, blazing around our backyard, a neighborhood park, or the woods at the family cabin with a prowess excelling a gazelle. We knew she was smart just by the way she fixed her hazel eyes on us when we did something nonsensical. But her acumen was confirmed by the boarding kennel we once left her at while we were on vacation. When we picked her up at trip’s end, the attendant said simply, “she knows how to open all the doors in the facility,” which meant that she had had the run of the place while we were gone.

When her big sister Blanca passed away in 2016, Bailey stood staunchly by her side, refusing to leave her. The two dogs had never been cuddly, but Bailey curled up next to Blanca and licked her comfortingly while Blanca endured a wrenching, life-ending cerebral seizure.

Bailey did not decline with grace, even after suffering a slipped disc at age 13. She fought aging with tenacity. She was the bravest, most stoic dog I have ever been around. In her final minutes on May 23, 2023, I wrapped my arms around her and whispered how proud I was of her.

Her passage has broken me. I am filled with a sorrow that begins in my tearful eyes and extends to my downturned lips. From there it runs through my arms which feel like they are holding onto small barbells. My chest is full, just shy of sore, with a weary grief. I find myself reliving her last moments over and over in my mind: her last walk, her final meal, her clean doggy smell as I took naps on the floor with her in her concluding days. I cannot get over the fact that her deep measured breathing has stopped.

The worst of her death is an incalculable void, the perimeter of which is uncharted. I witness its demarcations when I glance at Bailey’s dog bed expecting to see her there, or what sounds like her clicking toenails. Her little brother, Boomer, has glued himself to us, and I cannot fathom that there is only one furry muzzle gazing expectantly at me when I open the refrigerator door. It wrecked me to wash the green towel we used to wipe her feet one last time. I cannot bear to remove her rain jacket that hangs by her leash. The house is achingly quiet.

I catch myself wistfully watching people walking their pets, the simple sweet swagger of doggy tails as their owners speak to them or rest their hands on their heads. I wonder if they can envision a time without their faithful furry friends, and a part of me wants to run to them and remind them that time is precious and short.

For now, I will take a page out of Bailey’s tough girl playbook and stay busy and on task. She would expect nothing less from me. I know that the day will come when the pain of her passing is incrementally exceeded by the joy of my memories of her: her goofy ears that flopped when she trotted, the insistent bark she made when she wanted us all to join her at bedtime, the long hours laying in the sunshine in the backyard.

Run free, sweet girl. A piece of my heart will be with you always.

Grit Quit

            I opened my three-ring binder where I keep hard copies of my blog posts and counted the essays. I knew that I had been blogging for almost four years, which meant I had completed over 200 posts. And I have – 203 to be exact.

             I considered my reasons for writing and publishing on social media. In January 2019, I built a Square Space website, set up a MailChimp account to distribute my writings to readers, and created Facebook and Instagram accounts. I was in the final editing stage of my exercise habit formation book, Daily, and I hired a social media expert to help me navigate those slightly scary waters. My goal was to use social media to sell books, and for the first several months, my posts focused on habit formation, the benefits of daily exercise, and practical tips to make daily exercise easier.

             But one of the mystifying, yet beautiful, learnings about beginning a journey is that it often leads you to unexpected places. And that turned out to be true for me. I began blogging to promote my book, but it evolved into an exercise more exacting and fulfilling than I thought possible. I shared my views about life, marriage, work, and memories of my childhood and young motherhood. I perused my soul, my values, my shortcomings, and my dreams. I became an observer of human nature and Mother Nature in a way that I had not done before.

  I became a better writer. I learned how to start my essay with a hook and end it with a bang. I focused on eliminating repetitive word usage, and I expanded my vocabulary with alternative terms. I struggled with present versus past tense and passive sentence structure, and I won a few of those battles. I strove to strike a balance between a tone that was genuinely authentic without being overly evocative.

  As I paged through my essays, I smiled at several of them. Others irritated me with their simplicity and banality. Occasionally I read one that astounded me with its honesty, its depth, and its sincerity, and my eyes softened.

  I am someone who plans endeavors with industrious detail. Some pursuits have concrete starting and ending points, particularly cleaning projects. In 2012, I challenged myself to clean closets, cupboards, and storage boxes for at least thirty minutes a day for 50 successive days. The pandemic motivated me to clear out and eliminate our storage unit, a weekend task that began on June 20, 2020, and ended right before the fall election. A 15-minute-a-day office clean-up project started at the same time and ended, as planned, 50 days later.

  I began other pursuits without knowing how and where they would end. I spent seven years studying Portuguese every day on the Duolingo app, and I recently quit, as the reason for wanting to learn the language had ceased. I began my Health Coach Institute Life and Heath Coach program in 2019 and finished it on June 15, 2020, diligently studying new materials and completing the homework assignments and practice sessions but being uncertain how long the certification would take.

  I planned my retirement two years ago, scheduling communications with my partners, with staff, and with clients. I followed my agenda with rigorous diligence, knowing that I would regret anything short of assiduousness. I closed cases and transferred files to other attorneys in my law firm. I fully documented every case and created follow-up action items for attorneys and staff. I prepared a detailed management memo, and I trained and mentored the new firm manager. The two of us spent countless hours discussing not just the mechanics of running a business, but the nonquantitative aspects as well.

  Some of my pursuits are permanent: I will work out every day for the rest of my life until I am immobile. But unlike exercise, my blog posts seem to have arrived at a natural conclusion. My life as a working lawyer invigorated but consumed me, leaving little space to respond to beckoning whispers. Similarly, my blogging history was gratifying, yet demanding, in its own deadline-fixated way.

  I post this final article on my website, and I schedule the email for transmission at 10:00 am PST. I am excited, yet nervous, about ending an undertaking that challenged me in so many ways over the past four years. I will miss the heartfelt emails that my readers sent me, reminding me of the commonality of our shared human experience. But if I have learned one thing in life, it is that there are no guaranteed outcomes. You make the decisions that seem best for you, move forward, and adjust your path as new developments lead you.

  I have had a good run.

Facile Facial

                At a recent gathering of female friends, we admired the looks of a mature woman in our group. Her thick, richly colored auburn hair was stunning, and it contrasted with her wise but flawless facial skin. The recipient of our compliments was bemused, uncomfortable as she was being the focus of attention.    

                The conversation shifted to the subject of plastic surgery, which most of the women strongly opposed. They disagreed with artificial, surgical procedures designed to make them look younger – or more attractive – than they would be otherwise. Everyone seemed to have a horror story: botched facelifts, over-accentuated female body parts, and swollen, bulbous lips.

                 I felt ambivalent during the discussion. I believe that in a perfect world, everyone would love and accept their faces and bodies as they are. The toll of gravity, sun exposure, passage of time, and genetics should be embraced just as much as we adore a decades-old leather handbag, which grows softer and more lustrous with time. And yet, we live in a society that reveres beauty and glorifies those who age so subtly that the almost-imperceptible lines on their faces evidence only the richness of their time on earth, not the calculation of it.

                 I thought about the judgment that we harbor. We unequivocally support those who yearn to blend into society when they have disfigurements that subject them to ridicule or bullying. Everyone agrees that someone mutilated in a fire or maimed in an assault is entitled to surgical intervention to help him or her integrate back into their community. But what if the person who was burned is an arsonist? What about artificial limbs that are for esthetics only, not function? What about gastric bypasses for those who are unable to lose weight any other way? Would we ever condemn someone who wants braces to straighten their teeth to improve their smile even if their misaligned teeth are fully functional?

                 The universe of beauty enhancements has expanded. Virtually no one criticizes someone who wears makeup and dyes their hair. The popularity of non-surgical interventions, such as Botox, chemical peels, micro needling, dermal fillers, ultrasound therapies, and laser skin resurfacing has skyrocketed, and with it, the acceptance of those practices. But the battlelines seem to be drawn around surgical procedures that lift and tighten facial skin.  

                 The question is how, as women, we can embrace and love what we see in the mirror and still support those who take steps to change that image. It is disingenuous to swoon over how young someone looks but then fault them for achieving it artificially. Even adjusting for lifestyle such as exercise, diet, and sunlight avoidance, some will, by virtue of genetics, age more gracefully than others. Should we compliment them for their appearance when they have done nothing to achieve it, any more so than applauding someone with birth-given facial beauty, body symmetry, or height?

                 I believe that we cannot have it both ways: we should not admire a person’s looks but criticize them for how they achieved them. If people are naturally beautiful, or if their faces are untouched by the passage of time, then you are rewarding them for congenital traits that do not call for approval.

                 I considered my own boundaries of what is acceptable body enhancement and modification. I generally agree with Dolly Parton’s proclamation that anyone who wants plastic surgery should have it if they have the desire, the money, and guts required to do so. But my non-judgmental attitude is tested by the fringe body modifiers who remove middle fingers, implant horns, split their tongues, and reform ears. I support cultural and personal self-expression, but I still wonder, with concern, whether they will wake up one morning with regret.

                 Perhaps we are viewing people who are drawn to artificial interventions, including cosmetic surgery and even body modification, the wrong way. Maybe they are not trying to conform to social expectation of beauty standards or, in the case of body modifiers, demonstrate their rejection of them. What if, Instead, they are seeking to comport with an image of how they see themselves. People have a right to revise their physical attributes so that their external appearance aligns with their internal self-image.

                 If so, I am going to think seriously about what I can do to become that 5’ 8”, svelte, 20-something lurking inside me.  

Eulogy Tomfoolery

                Towards the end of Cassie Holmes’ book, Happier Hour, she explains an assignment that she gives to her MBA students at UCLA: to write their own eulogy. She believes that by examining one’s life in its entirety, it helps a person design his or her days, and even hours, with purpose. By doing so, the importance of living each moment with visible significance becomes clear.

                 Though the task is aimed at young people, I wondered if the exercise would be valuable for me. Perhaps the mission – to help people view how an overall life is structured through intentional increments – is less important for someone older than the average graduate school student. But even if I learned nothing from it, it would at least be an amusing and easy writing project.

                 I decided on two rules: (1) I would write my eulogy based on what I thought about myself, not how others might view me; and (2) I would script my epitaph as though I had just died, not as if I had lived to a ripe old age.

                 So, here is goes:

                 Thank you for coming here today to celebrate the life of Laurin Schweet. She would be astounded at the turn-out, though she would applaud the good judgment of those who had something more worthwhile to do with their time, like raking leaves or cleaning a closet.

  Laurin was born in Pasadena, California and was blessed with an idyllic childhood, the foundation of which would sustain her through the almost-insurmountable hurdles that lay ahead. Her parents were smart, intellectual, and devoted to each other and their three children. Laurin’s life was filled with camping trips, outdoor play, exposure to the arts and music, and horseback riding. Each child was adored and supported in their passion – younger brother Rick with sports and older sister Lynn with ballet.

                 The tragic, accidental deaths of Laurin’s father when she was 11 years old and Lynn when she was 13 could have destroyed her. For a while her cobbled-together remaining family stumbled through a life filled with anguish interspersed with fragmented reminders of what used to be. And yet, her family regained its footing, and resilience bubbled up in Laurin, a trait that kept her in good stead for the rest of her life.

                 Laurin’s young adulthood was full of fun and included some missteps and mistakes, but each one made her more determined and resolute. She finished her undergraduate degree at the University of Kentucky and then moved to Washington state, eventually graduating from law school at Seattle University.

                 Laurin married a strapping young civil engineer, Don Thompson, during her first year of law school, and in 1986, they welcomed the first of three sons into the world during her third year. Second son Andy arrived in 1989, and third son Evan announced his presence in 1993. Professional and family lives intersected for years with chaotic joyfulness.

                 After becoming a partner at a large Seattle law firm, followed by a five-year stint at a small firm, Laurin took the plunge in 2002 and started her own practice. For reasons she could not fathom, additional lawyers started working with her. At the time of her death, the firm had twelve lawyers and multi-million-dollar revenues. She always considered it the greatest privilege to practice law with talented and ethical lawyers and exceptional support staff. Each member of the team contributed to the firm’s success in incalculable ways, for which she was eternally grateful.

                 Laurin would disavow any innate exemplary characteristics, but with maturity, she agreed with the assessment of a summer camp counselor when she was eight years old. At the end of the summer camp session, she was mortified to receive the Most Persistent Camper award; she would have preferred recognition for Best Snipe Hunter or Most Likely to Frustrate a Camp Counselor. Persistence was her paramount attribute, and she felt it was an honorable substitute for brilliance or creativity.

                 Laurin adored her family, and she was her sons’ biggest fan. She believed that her children turned out well despite her mothering – not because of it. She stayed in her lane as a parent, but she was never at a loss for words if she thought the situation warranted it. Motherhood brought her more delight than she believed was possible.

                 At the time of her death, Laurin and Don had been married for 38 years. Laurin was astonished that she had found someone who loved her despite her temperamental personality – and who never asked how long something would take or what it would cost. The college football season was a bit wearing on the marriage, but otherwise, Don and Laurin complemented each other perfectly.

                 Laurin abhorred being the center of attention, which is why she will no doubt haunt you all in the future for sitting around, thinking well of her, and dabbing at your eyes. But she loved planning events and vacations with others. Those excursions included surprise birthday parties, bike trips through US and European venues, time at the family cabin in Cle Elum, and adventures and races with her running buddies.

                 Laurin liked herself more with maturity than she did in her youth. She became more genuinely kind with age instead of just being nice. She always faced adversity with an unblinking gaze and knew that a structured life is the foundation of satisfaction. She understood that she was responsible for her own happiness, and with age, she was increasingly grateful for the smallest joyful moments. Though I suspect that she is a bit miffed that she died too young to live off the social security dole, I know that she could not have envisioned an existence more beautiful and captivating than the one she had.

                 Feel free to stay and linger with others who knew and loved Laurin. But know that if she were here, she would shoo you out soon to do something more fun like taking a walk outdoors or cuddling with a pet. Thank you all for coming.

                 I always like to make things easy for my family. Maybe I should send this to them in Word, and they can easily update it when the time comes. Unless, of course, they decide to skip the funeral.  If so, they will have no argument from me.

Ninety-Day Rule

                There is a legal concept that lawyers hope to never use: the 90-Day Rule. Under Washington law, if you have a claim that is about to expire due to the running of the statute of limitations, you can extend the limitations period for an additional ninety days. However, you must file your lawsuit before the limitations period expires, and you must serve the defendant with the lawsuit within ninety days thereafter. But if you are not able to serve the defendant, the limitations period expires, and your claim is no longer valid.

                 The 90-Day Rule has an added meaning for me. When I was a young lawyer and mother, it was agonizing but also exciting to return to work after each of my maternity leaves. I would thrust my baby into the arms of a wonderful and loving caregiver and then burst into tears as I scurried back to my car to drive to work. It was an excruciating process but after two or three months, the new normal of leaving my child with someone else and going to work felt right. Hence, I termed it the 90-Day Rule for working mothers of young children.

                 What I learned from the complicated, bittersweet transition from stay-at-home mom to full-time lawyer was multi-fold: that I would survive the painful transformation; that my child would thrive in daycare; and, most importantly, that it takes time for something new and different to feel right.

                 Every unfamiliar occasion in my life reminds me of that going-back-to-work uncertainty. I was always torn when I dropped off a child at college, changed jobs, sold a house, or when an adult child separated from his partner. Serving on boards and executive committees was unsettling; I felt unseen and unacknowledged for a long time. I always felt awkward during new social gatherings: from book clubs to female friend groups, to running groups and volunteer work, feeling included and accepted was a process, not a moment. Being on the perimeter of amiable acceptance is always with me during new ventures or engagements until I mysteriously cross that boundary and begin to feel at home.

                 Momentous change is a cosmic shift, as if Atlas is shrugging his shoulders to reposition the weight of the world. For a while, stability is shattered, commotion drowning out every soft and familiar tune of my daily life. My retirement will be like that. My peaceful and happy daily drive to the office, thoughts of what work is most pressing, what current events co-workers will chit chat about in the hallway, the energy shifts that occur in a vibrant workplace – all will disappear into that inexplicable vacuum of what has become the past.

                 By the time this blog post goes out, I will be on sabbatical from my law practice until the end of the year. At year’s end, I will retire. I know I will be stunned, excited, grateful, and teary eyed on my last day. I will be sad to leave my law firm – my work family – and having unstructured days will make me feel out of sorts.

                 And then I will remind myself that change takes time and trying to speed it up or minimize its impact diminishes the power and the beauty of what came before.

Don't Forgive It - Get Over It.

                When I was a freshman in college, I received a letter at my dormitory from a local, well-known OB/GYN physician. The survey asked me to respond to questions about my experience having an abortion at the physician’s office.

                 I was stunned to receive the letter because I had not had an abortion. I was angry and horrified that someone had used my name to avoid giving the doctor their own. Apparently, you could obtain an abortion and pay with cash and not be asked to provide proof of your identity. A telephone call to the doctor confirmed that someone had used my name for her abortion. I was quite sure it was someone who knew me well; how else would she have known my mailbox number at our dormitory? If that person was afraid to disclose her identity, why didn’t she make one up? I concluded that she deliberately chose my name as an act of revenge, the reasons for which I could not comprehend.

                 I have not thought about that incident for a long time, but I recently read an article concluding that forgiveness is essential for the victim, not for the person being forgiven. Supposedly, doing so allows a person to find greater peace and hope, and increases his or her compassion for the wrongdoer. The theory is that forgiveness allows a person to release anger, revenge, and resentment.

                 There are only a handful of times in my life that I believe I was deliberately wronged or hurt, and I have no intention of pardoning any of the culprits. For example, men who assault and intimidate women do not deserve absolution. When I was a young mother, a naked man in a hot tub stood up and thrust his pelvis towards me, using his masculine physique to bully me. As a college student, I was once confronted by a teenage boy who was slowly riding his bike around the parking lot of a shopping mall while intentionally displaying his erect penis. He was hoping to terrify me; instead, I ran past him and reported him to mall security. A pedophile once stalked me and a girlfriend while we were walking home from the stable, driving slowly around us, block after block, hoping to entice us to get into his car.

                 Those incidents were horrifying, but my outrage eclipsed my fear. Emotional injustices by people I knew were harder to reconcile. When I was a young teen, the stable where I boarded my horse was having a horseshow. It was a small event, designed to display the riding skills of youngsters who took riding lessons there. One of my friends at the barn begged me to ride her mare in the championship class, for which she had qualified. I did not want to; I felt she should have the privilege of performing. My friend told me that she desperately wanted her horse to be showcased, but she felt overwhelmed and could not compete. I was a confident rider, and I knew her horse well, as I was the one that had trained her as a filly.

                 She finally coaxed me into it, and I rode her horse in the show. I do not recall the outcome of the event, as the experience was obliterated by what happened as I dismounted in the barn afterwards. Her parents approached me, screaming at me and accusing me of denying their daughter the chance to ride. I was humiliated and scared by their vociferous language. I knew I had done nothing wrong. I looked at my friend, expecting her to explain the circumstances, but she looked meekly away. I felt betrayed. Her parents had the choice to ask their daughter why she had not ridden the horse herself, but they did not. It was far easier to take out their wrath on me.

                 I remember another painful experience while being driven in a carpool to the stable when I was thirteen years old. My older sister had recently died in a car accident while riding in our family car. One of my carpool mates reported that her father had told her that we should have owned a safer car. I wondered then, and I ponder it now, how that man lacked a vestige of kindness or compassion in making that statement to his daughter. I did not hold a grudge against my friend; she was just dutifully reporting her father’s words. But instead of modeling benevolence in the face of someone’s tragedy, he demonstrated inhumanity.

                 I was fortunate. I was not systematically abused, assaulted, or bullied as a young person. I did not grow up in poverty or where substance abuse dictated the family dynamic. These events were stressful and made me angry and sad, but I do not feel traumatized by them. They have not impeded my pathway to a joyful and grateful life.

                 I have moved on. Which is why, twenty-five years ago, when some women friends hesitantly told me that there was a rumor circulating that I had worked as a stripper prior to going to law school, I could mostly laugh it off.

  But to be clear, I have a message for people who lie about others, or who make up stories to cover their own fears, or who cannot act kindly in the face of someone’s trauma, or who use physical intimidation: I do not excuse you.

                 I may have gotten over it – but I will never forgive it.

Makeup Lowdown

                On Friday this week, I hastily applied makeup in my car while parked in a driveway. It was an odd location for doing so, but my busy day, which started with a 6:00 morning run, followed by volunteer work at the livestock sanctuary, followed by a dash to my brother’s house to meet a plumber, left no time for enhancing my appearance.  Well, I did take a quick shower after scooping poop at the livestock farm, but that was more of an accommodation to the plumber; I did not want to greet him at the door with the odor of horse manure wafting around me.

                 But after the plumbing mission, I had a dentist appointment.  The odds that the plumber would arrive at the start of a two-hour service window and complete his work in time for me to drive home and spruce up were infinitesimal. I am aware that clean teeth are more important for a dental appointment than cosmetic embellishment, and I intended to brush and floss beforehand. But I have known my dentist for over a decade, and I did not wish to alarm him with an unkempt image.

                 It had been some time since I had applied makeup in a car.  Well, unless you count Tuesday this week when I brought some beauty essentials to Bailey’s vet appointment so I could spruce up in the parking lot.  But technically this did not count; the vet techs assured me the appointment would be so quick, I could just wait for Bailey in the waiting room, so there was no time to run back to the car.

                 I am no stranger to applying cosmetics in random places. On the occasional day when I work out at our office gym, the office bathroom and shower is convenient.  When my mother was in an assisted living facility, I would bring a small bag of cosmetics when visiting her. While she was munching on cereal or chatting with my brother, I would dip into her bathroom to tidy up before going to work. Airport restrooms are a natural spot for facial rejuvenation.  I mean, who doesn’t want to refresh at the end of a red-eye flight?

                 I have applied makeup in parking lots numerous times. One event was embarrassing when the mother of one of my son’s friends knocked on the window to tease me. More peculiar is the random traffic signal application. It’s been years since I put on mascara and lipstick during a red light, but it is a task that is easily completed in one minute and thirty seconds. Putting on makeup on the fly can be an efficient use of time.

                 When I was young, I would carry a few beauty essentials in my purse so that I could do touchups in the high school ladies’ room. In those days, powdering my nose was intended to enhance my appearance. These days, it is because I do not want to horrify my children or worry my co-workers.  I have heard far too many comments from others that someone looks awful and must not be feeling well when they appeared au naturel. I frankly thought that they had just neglected to apply undereye concealer and powder blush.  But you get my point.

                 I am all about body positivity and self-acceptance, and there are times when I consider throwing in the towel on facial embellishment.  But unlike letting my gray hair grow out, for which people kindly tell me is lovely, I am not willing to give up enhancing my face artificially even if I am getting diminishing returns as time goes on. It is less about the opinion of others than it is about having to avoid mirrors.

  No one criticizes someone who gets a sharp new haircut or orthodontic braces to improve their smile but women who wear cosmetics can be criticized for not embracing their true self and not accepting their flaws. I do not care whether my friends wear makeup or not; I see them for who they are. I know they feel the same way about me. But if a five-minute makeover makes me feel better about myself, I am going to spend the time to do it. At least until something more compelling calls to me.

                 But I am good at setting beauty boundaries. You will not see me on a run, without or without friends, with a trace of makeup. And my farm animal buddies could care less about whether my eyebrows are penciled in or not. The horses just want to be escorted from their stalls out to pasture, the goats want the small of their backs scratched, and the ducks honk at me indignantly until I feed them. They understand that beauty is on the inside – well, as long as I am at their bidding.

Blindness to Kindness

                I recently saw a middle-aged woman stocking produce in the grocery store display cases. She greeted me cheerily and asked how my day was going. I was in a hurry and not in the mood for idle chitchat. But I replied warmly that it was going well, and I asked her about her day. Her response was not negative or positive; it was sort of non-committal.

                 As I turned my shopping cart and headed out of the produce section, I heard a clatter. Whatever vegetable she was unboxing was packed with ice, and as she grabbed a box off the cart, it fell off. Crushed ice scattered onto the floor like an avalanche of miniature unruly hockey pucks.

                 I could tell the grocery worker was frazzled, and I turned back to her to see how I could help. She muttered under her breath, words that she probably hoped I would not hear.  With remarkably adroit maneuvers, she corralled the wayward ice cubes before I could think of a way to help her. She was irritated, but she clearly had the situation under control.

                 The incident made me think about kindness.

                 I was a sweet girl growing up though I was temperamental. Moodiness was in my blood, and flashes of anger would rip through me, seemingly unprovoked. But my rage was more self-inflicted; I do not remember it being directed at others very often. I was competitive and sensitive, which made me volatile, but I was never a mean girl. In high school, I aspired to be included in a certain peer group, a process that was mostly inconsistent with inclusiveness, but I was not malicious towards others. I spent my college years focused on my social life, boyfriends, and grades. I think I was basically a good friend to people, but I never consciously thought about deliberate goodwill.

                 Then came marriage, law school, and young motherhood. The stress of caring for kids, advancing my career, attending to my aging mother, and managing a household overshadowed the opportunity for introspection. The crush of responsibility and diligence left little time for generosity or compassion. But gossip and malice were absent as well, as my busyness would have disintegrated their footings even if they had existed. The path of least resistance was always through agreeableness even when discourtesy lurked beneath the surface. I scarcely had time to address my own needs, much less the needs of others. It was a period when kindness was not on my radar screen.

                 Maturity has changed me. I have become kinder with age, and it manifests itself in several ways. For one, I have slowed down, allowing myself to really see people: the busy barista behind the counter; the man pushing a baby stroller out of a coffee shop while juggling a hot drink; the woman struggling to hold a rambunctious pup; the masonry worker hurriedly finishing an office building project before rain begins. Noticing people requires that you cease thinking about yourself, the most fundamental tenet of humanity.

  I am increasingly nonjudgmental. I do not know why someone cuts in line in front of me on the highway – perhaps they are late to work and are worried about losing their job. The neighbor with an unkept lawn might be frail and not have the resources to pay someone to maintain it. The parent that never attends his or her child’s school events might be depressed or overwhelmed. The seemingly rude person in the checkout line talking on the telephone might be receiving a health update on an elderly parent.

  I feel more financially generous as time goes on. To be fair, I am not on any charity’s top donor list. But nothing makes me happier than pressing $10 into the hands of someone cleaning an airport bathroom. I regularly pay for the Starbucks order behind me, knowing that it might not mean anything for the recipient, but it fills me with joy. I think it would be fun to stand outside Target and hand out $100 bills to busy families, although it occurs to me that people might be concerned about my mental health.

  Finally, I have become more compassionate about other people’s pain than ever before. A lifetime of delight intermixed with its inevitable heartbreak is one that I know too well. Everyone stumbles through potholes of sorrow, and my heart goes out to them. Pain is humanity’s common denominator.

  My only wish is to react more quickly the next time I see someone fumble a box filled with vegetables. The grocery clerk would probably appreciate that more than me simply admiring the asparagus.

Retirement Pronouncement

                On April 4, 2022, I watched Coach K coach the final college basketball game of his career, an NCAA tournament Final Four loss to archrival University of North Carolina. I saw him stand and walk over to shake the hands of the opposing coaches and players. My eyes filled with tears as he shouldered his way off the court in what must have been his most heartbreaking walk in the past 47 years.

                 I am not a fan of Duke basketball, and I am not easily stirred by March Madness. But for once, my heart was aligned with the passion of a college basketball coach, guiding his team through a final contest. You see, I knew something during that game that none of my clients was aware of: I was retiring from the practice of law at the end of the year.

                 I made my decision in December 2020, knowing that it would take two years to transition to non-lawyer life. For people in other careers and professions, that might seem too long. It would not take years for me to notify clients, close files, and shift cases to other attorneys. It would not take twenty-four months to train a new managing partner, and the sustainability of my 12-attorney firm was not an issue. It was my emotional journey that needed that much time.

                 Forty years ago, I began preparing for the Law School Admission Test, followed quickly by my law school application. Law school absorbed me for the next three years. I passed the Washington State Bar Exam after graduation, and I began a thirty-six-year career working as an attorney in private practice.

                 Twenty years ago, I embraced the thrill and the terror of giving up stable and secure employment, including a partnership at a major Seattle law firm, to start my own fledgling firm. I stumbled my way into sole practitionership as clumsily as I pushed a shopping cart filled with file folders, index cards, yellow pads, pens, and reams of paper through Office Depot. I was convinced that I was destined to practice law by myself forever, but the evolution of my firm proved otherwise. Its growth would have astonished me – if I had had the time to ponder it.

                 Being a lawyer has been fundamental to my identity, my friendships, my financial footing, and the structure of my daily life. It has been a beautiful – and sometimes - excruciating career. I cannot envision a job more absorbing, more challenging, or more gratifying than the one I have had. And choosing who you work with, what the workplace culture will be like, and what clients and cases you will accept is a privilege that I have never taken for granted. I am leaving a partnership with lawyers I love and trust, whose intellect and ethics are incomparable. It is unfathomable that I will no longer linger in the halls with co-workers, celebrating, contemplating, and occasionally commiserating legal case outcomes and triumphs. Giving that up seems unbearable sometimes.

                 But I know something about myself and about life: working full-time leaves no time to discover what comes next. Friends and co-workers tout the benefits of working part-time in an Of Counsel position to soften the jolt into retirement. But for me, that path is not the best one. Pulling off the band-aid quickly and leaping into the unfamiliar land of unemployment alarms me but it also exhilarates me.

                 It is a luxury to have months to process such a major life change. I have spent the duration reading about retirement, ruminating about it, discussing it with others, and journaling about the emotional ups and downs. The change is so profound that there are moments when I wish it would happen tomorrow and occasions when I long for time to slow down to align with my almost imperceptibly deepening breaths. The mysterious beauty of the unknown is an irresistible lure.

                But until my last day of work on November 17th, I need to stay away from social media. Posts of police officers’ closing radio signoffs, pilots’ last announcements, and tennis players’ final waves to the crowd turn me into a blubbering fool. The tough and determined litigator in me will not stand for it.

  Well, at least until I walk away from my office one last time, with traces of farewell wishes and hugs lingering like a comforting embrace.

Hacker Slacker

                I recently got the telephone call that every adult dreads. No, not the one from the auto shop estimator when you have already given them a ridiculously high pre-authorized repair limit. Not the ominous message from the doctor’s office with lab test results. Not an alert from a business security company to let you know that your office building alarm has been triggered.

                 It was a call from a bank representative about a suspicious charge on my credit card for $39.95 to a company I was not familiar with.

                 The customer service agent from the security department asked if the transaction was legitimate. To be honest, I did not know. I did not recognize the company name, but my husband and I both share the card, so it was possible that he had made the charge. I asked her to stay on the line; I was in my car and just pulling into the driveway.

                 I hurried inside and asked Don if he had charged to that company. He didn’t think so, but he hesitated.  Like me, he is sometimes surprised at how transactions show up on our credit card. Charges at one of our local gas stations, for example, come through with a name that is unrelated to a gasoline company.

                 I jumped on the website for the business, and at first it seemed reputable. The business branded itself as an “elite customer care organization,” that would give you access to a “24/7 team of experts.”  But I could not tell from the website what the company did, and its list of services shed no light. When I read that it had “a system of efficiency that rivals any organization on earth,” without explaining what the system was, who it was designed for, and what problems it could solve, I was suspicious. I clicked on the link for an on-line chat, and despite billing itself as having 24/7 support, it said, “sorry, we are closed right now.”  I knew then that our card had been hacked.

                 The banker asked if I wanted the charge declined. I asked if the debit could be rejected without cancelling our card. The answer was no. The agent patiently listened to me complain that cancelling the card would force me to notify vendors who automatically charge to our credit card. Pest control, DISH network, WSDOT Good to Go, Audible subscription – the list was not interminable, but it was not going to be fun, either. The caller listened to me whine for a bit, and then assured me, with practiced professionalism, that our new cards would arrive within three business days.

                 And they did.

                 For next couple of days, I approached the creditor list industriously. I reviewed our card statements, made a list of businesses that had authority to bill automatically, and started the process of alerting them that our card was cancelled and giving them the new card number. The first five were easy - those that had telephone numbers for customer service. And changing my payment method with Amazon for my Prime subscription was simple through my on-line portal.

                 Then I ran out of steam and slacked off. The three remaining vendors seemed less important. For example, we would not need snowplowing at our vacation home for several months, so there was no rush to contact them. Our annual AAA membership had just renewed, so I had almost a year to reach out to them.

                 The next night, I got a mysterious, quickly disappearing message on my phone that my Apple.com iPhone backup cloud storage payment had been declined. I spent the next 35 minutes trying to change the method of payment on my Apple profile. I found the password, but could not find my “Apple ID.”  (It turns out that an Apple ID is what other businesses term a Username.) But after flailing around on my Apple portal for a while, I was able to update my new card number.

                 For the next few days, I kept checking my credit card account to confirm that iCloud payments were, once again, being charged. But they never showed up. I worried that my account would be closed as it was now in default. I logged back into my account on Friday night to see if I could figure out what was wrong, and in a fit of dogged persistence, I called Apple Support to ensure that all was well.

                 I had no idea what I was in for.

                 I spoke with the help desk for over an hour, as they could not determine why my credit card was not being charged, as “Apple should have charged you if your new card is in place.” The support rep and I flitted around between my Apple profile, the settings on my iPhone, and accessing Apple through a web browser. We screen-shared, uttered consoling phrases and encouragements to each other, and complimented each other for our mutual patience. Eventually, the technology gods favored both of us: my new account payment method was confirmed, and the Apple support person was able to move on to another customer. I do not know which one of us was more relieved.

                 At 5:45 yesterday morning, I logged into my credit card account. Lo and behold, an Apple debit transaction for $2.99 appeared.

                 Somewhere, somehow, in an earlier life, I must have done something good.

Devoted to Don

                I stood at the grocery store checkout line the other day with a few items, none of which was out of the ordinary. Directly next to the keypad was a small sampling of greeting cards, and I realized in a flash that I needed one.

                 You see, my sweet husband is about to have a milestone birthday.

                 Low-maintenance Don is delighted that I have not planned anything special for this landmark life event: no surprise parties, no out-of-town trips where the kids show up unexpectedly, no day-long scavenger-hunts, and no expensive presents. It will just be a simple gathering of our adult children and their partners, hanging out at our house watching the Seattle Seahawks game.

                 Planning an uncomplicated celebration for such a significant event is not like me, but I am a bit off my game right now. I have been barraged with social functions large and small (weddings, birthdays, and out of town travel) and incredibly involved in organizing upcoming vacations. My work schedule has been invigorating to the point of demanding. Add to the mix some family relationship challenges, minor health issues, and a beloved pooch undergoing chemotherapy, and I am in a phase where deciding when to wash my hair seems complex.

                 Don is the complete opposite; he is unperturbed to the point of placid and unflappable to the point of unemotional. His personality explains how he can drive to his office late at night, decades ago, while I am in labor with our first child, leaving me outside in the car without a cellphone. But on the plus side, it also means that something earthshattering to me merely gives him pause. Though there are many remarkable attributes about my husband that I could extol – intelligence, wit, work ethic, devotion, kindness, humility, and fearlessness – the fact that I can count on his constant calm is what I adore about him.

                 My hyperactive – and reactive – personality mostly amuses my husband. He does not care when I melt down and decide we must immediately sell our house or when I tell him that I am pulling the trigger on a five-figure extravagance; he merely blinks or shrugs his shoulders. Though to be fair, there have been times when he looks at me afterwards and asks me to confirm what he just heard. He processes my pronouncements briefly before returning his gaze to the sporting event on television or inspecting the latest batch of quarters in his coin collection. Some might interpret his actions as diffidence or disinterest, but I know Don better than that. He accepts my unpredictable nature with steadfast love.

                 I was immediately drawn to one greeting card in the shopping line, even though it was not a birthday card. I was taken by its verbiage, struck by its sentiment. I grabbed it quickly and added it to my purchases before the cashier finished scanning them. The card simply said:

  The best is yet to come.

                Happy birthday, Don. The fact that I found you and kept you, someone who never asks me how long something will take, what it will cost, and why I act this way, is one of the greatest, happiest mysteries of my life.

Diplomatic Fanatic

                On a recent Saturday night, I sat in my husband’s car in a parking lot, with an unenthusiastic but persistent drizzle of rain coming down. I sighed and tried to have a positive outlook about my situation. It could be worse. I was not being held hostage; I was there of my own volition. But it was not exactly my idea of a super fun time, either.

                 Don, on the other hand, was almost ebullient – at least as close to exuberant as Engineer Don can be. His emotional state was similar to other significant life events. For example, he certainly seemed pleased after we said our wedding vows 38 years ago. And while I do not recall his demeanor after the birth of each one of our three children, I think he was chipper.

                 My husband could not be happier; we were listening to the University of Washington Huskies college football team dominate the Michigan State Spartans on the car radio.

                 Don’s devotion to his alma mater football team is legendary. UW football is by far his favorite spectator sport. He has a closet of Husky apparel – t-shirts, sweatshirts, hoodies, and the like. But finding a pair of crisp khaki pants and a decent sports jacket for an upcoming wedding was a huge problem, one that recently required a last-minute trip to a local department store.

                 We knew that we would miss at least the first half of the Michigan State game as we would be driving back from a wedding in Sun Valley, Idaho. I assured Don that I would drive so that he could stream the game and watch it. Several hours into the drive, the game started, and Don pulled out his cell phone to watch the broadcast. The streaming was delayed and often paused and failed, so Don decided it would be better to simply listen to it on the radio. Unfortunately, the only broadcast he could find was that from the Michigan State sportscasters; they disparaged and called foul on every significant UW play and ridiculed each failed Husky maneuver.

                 It was tough to hear, even for someone like me whose fandom is more related to my devotion to my spouse than team loyalty. I am a good sport – pun intended.

                 We were heartened by our arrival at the lovely landmark Geiser Grand Hotel in Baker City, Oregon, our lodging for the night. We checked in quickly and hurried to our room. Don opened the antique cabinet that held the television, turned it on, and began flipping through the channels. I knew something was wrong when he began thumbing through the pages of the hotel guest directory. Don was stunned to learn that our charming historic hotel did not air ABC, the channel that the game was on.

                 We rushed downstairs to the hotel restaurant and bar, certain that such an important Pac 12 contest would be on a television, but no such luck. It was now half time, which gave us twenty minutes to prowl the street and peek in the windows of nearby bars to see if the game was on TV. We briefly flirted with the idea of checking into a cheap hotel to watch the game, although booking a room for just an hour or two could raise some eyebrows. But as it was now the third quarter, we knew we were running out of time.

                 We eventually realized that we would have to sit in the car in the gathering dusk and dampness to listen to the rest of the game. And so, we did.

                 The game had a happy outcome for die-hard fan Don, and he cheerfully related to me that he had been at the game when UW played Michigan State over fifty years ago when he was a college freshman. How he can remember that event when I cannot recall what team the Huskies played a week ago is a mystery to me.

                 After we arrived home the next day, Don puttered around, tending to dogs and luggage. I was delighted to be home, able to relax in familiar surroundings, with a variety of television channel options at my disposal. Don, on the other hand, immediately turned on the Michigan State game that he had recorded and began to watch it from the start.

                 I should have known.

Unease Strategy

                I was in a bad state on a recent Sunday. A couple of family members were going through tough times, I had a headache, and nothing was going right. I was dispirited and out of sorts, and I just wanted things to be happy and easy for a while.

                 I felt sulky and unmotivated. I considered a scenario where I did absolutely nothing, but I knew that flailing around in the quicksand of self-pity doesn’t make me feel better. And yet, I could not muster the pep to carry out a chore as simple as unloading the dishwasher. It was a running rest day but even a brisk morning walk with the dogs did not raise my spirits.

                 A day of deliberate indolence might be in order. Though I am usually full of energy and driven by task completion, no one would criticize me for taking a day off. Lassitude-induced laziness might just be the ticket for soothing my depressed and anxious soul. I could sit in the sun and absorb its healing warmth. I could read mindless fiction and nap when summoned by the sleep gods. HGTV television beckoned beguilingly.

                 But I have learned about myself in the past 67 years, and I do not ignore those teachings: for me, the antidote for doldrums is accomplishment. Maybe it is a band-aid approach, but I needed to focus on something other than how sad and mad I was.

                 I gritted my teeth and composed a to-do list of ten tasks, all of which could easily be done in a day. None of them inspired me; in fact, driving to a mini mart to buy a lottery ticket that was guaranteed to result in a $1,000,00 win was more than I could bear to contemplate. But this was an emotional experiment for me: could intentional achievement of basic and routine duties improve my mood? It was worth a shot, as the day was otherwise destined to be a complete waste.

                 My list included items so mundane, they practically burst with boredom. I made beauty appointments at two different salons for the upcoming week. I downloaded a return label for a pair of shoes that I had bought on-line and forced myself to box them and drop them off at the parcel carrier. I then purchased the same shoe in a smaller size on-line. I ran to the grocery store for food to sustain me for the upcoming work week. I did laundry and cleaned the bathroom in our primary suite.

                 I caught up my daily journal, as I was three weeks behind. I researched air fares for an upcoming trip to Palm Springs.

                 I crafted and emailed family members a communication about a sensitive and distressing issue. It had been on my to do list for several weeks, but I had been procrastinating. I was immediately filled with relief, and the responses from the recipients were understanding and kind.

                 When the day was over, calm had replaced my angst. I still felt a vestige of sadness, but its painful edges had softened. My perspective, though not exactly cheery, had muted to untroubled. I know that busyness can be an avoidance technique, which was not my goal. But I had a choice: either finish the day with doldrums combined with nonachievement or finish the day with a bit of melancholy mixed in with a dash of accomplishment.

                 I’ll take the latter, and maybe add a side of satisfaction.

Events of Abundance

                My husband and I are leaving soon to drive to Sun Valley, Idaho for a wedding of children of family friends. We have known both the bride and the groom for over twenty years, one of the blessings of living in a small community. We are delighted to be going out of town to a stunning locale and ecstatic that we were invited to witness young people beginning their lives as a married couple. We plan to bike and hike when we are not taking part in the wedding festivities.

                 But life’s joys and adventures seem limitless right now among my friends. I do not know if they are post-pandemic blossomings or merely happy coincidences.

                 In addition to the wedding we are attending, two other couples have just watched their offspring get married, one in Mexico (the daughter of traveling and running friends Matt and Annie) and one here in Washington state (the son of biking trip comrades Mark and Heidi). I can only imagine their delight in watching their children take a loving and bold step, one that was no doubt delayed by viral health concerns or travel restrictions. As parents, we know our sons and daughters have a choice in deciding whether a partnership needs a legal stamp or whether love is a sufficient tether. But we adore it when they decide they want both.

                 Active travel is the common footprint of our friends. Ted, a beast of a physical specimen, just left to bike week-long Cycle Oregon, which involves 440+ miles and 35,000 feet of elevation. His wife Jeanne eschewed the week of biking and decided to simply walk eight to ten miles a day, for endless days in a row, on an English National Trail. Friends Jean and Paul left on Saturday this week for the Tour du Mont Blanc Trail hike, a 105 mile, 11-day circumnavigation around the base of Mont Blanc through France, Italy, and Switzerland. So easy! At least for those two.

  Running buddies Jeff and Karen are presently frolicking through Portugal busily and vigorously, polishing off each day with fabulous local cuisine paired with good wine. Friends Patrick and Julie are enjoying an active vacation of a different sort: moving their daughter into a new apartment to begin graduate school. The pleasure of watching your adult child’s ambitious life unfold is both stirring and magnificent for a parent.

  Our own adult children have their share of out-of-town bachelor parties, weddings, and college roommate gatherings to look forward to in the coming weeks. And my talented niece and her husband will be taking their beautiful family on an eastern Washington camping trip in an Airstream trailer. If anyone can manage that trip with a lively soon-to-be three-year-old and a curious almost-one-year-old, they can. (I will keep them in my thoughts; I offered up our vacation home in Cle Elum as a back-up – just in case.)

  I am dazzled by the adventurous spirit of my friends and family because it calls to mind the richness of an abundant existence. The people closest to me have faced life’s disheartening or painful moments with clear eyes and steady hands, even when wiping tears from their faces. They remind me of the underlying goodness of lives well-lived – finding solace within sorrow, peace within turmoil, and joy within difficulty.

  The boundless possibilities of our world – from simple pleasures to extravagant travel – are ours to discover.

Overlook Outlook

                On Wednesday afternoon this week, at about 4:45, I randomly thought about the family dogs. There was nothing unusual about them popping into my consciousness for no apparent reason because they do so all the time. Funny pup pictures crop up in the family group chat almost daily, and our dogs’ antics and schedules are in the back of my mind constantly. 

  But this was different. I was supposed to have gone home during lunch to let the dogs out, and I had forgotten. The dogs are left alone two workdays a week, and Wednesday is my allotted day to drive home from the office to walk or play outdoors with them. Don does the same on Thursdays. Though the schedule is usually imbedded into my mind, I had neglected to put it on my calendar, and the pressures of the day had absorbed me completely.

  I called Don and screeched to him that I had overlooked their care and that I was racing home to let them out. I was horrified. Images of frantic, distressed pups, and a house trashed with the remnants of my carelessness, filled my mind. I counted on my fingers the hours that had passed without a potty break – about ten – and drove home, teethed clenched, remorse and guilt obliterating my frustration over rush hour traffic.

  I consoled myself that at least I hadn’t forgotten to pick up a child.  I read recently that Hillary and Bill Clinton had, for a brief time, left daughter Chelsea at the Kremlin during a state visit to Moscow. Following their meeting with then-president Boris Yeltsin, they were rushed to the security of their limousine to be transported to the airport, before realizing that their daughter was not in the car with them.

  I would never do something like that, as the safety of my children has always been paramount. Well, ok, so I once left middle son Andy at a soccer field when he was seven or eight years old and drove to a nearby town with Evan to join Don at 11-year-old Eric’s baseball game. But at least I abandoned Andy at a sports field in an affluent neighborhood, not in Moscow after conducting grave conversations about Bosnia, arms reduction, NATO enlargement, and international affairs. And to be fair, I did not completely forget about Andy; after a couple of innings, I looked at my husband and asked where Andy was. He turned to me with an expression just shy of concern, and said I thought he was with you.

  The Clintons had assistants, planners, security detail and the like to assist them. I only had my mother, Grandma Shirley, who found Andy cheerfully wandering the playfields by himself. She scooped him up and took him to McDonalds. Afterwards, she showed up at the baseball field with Andy in tow, along with his Happy Meal, and announced that she had found Andy at the soccer field and thought it was a good idea to bring him with her. My mother was the queen of understatement.

  I pulled into the garage at our house, jumped out, and hurried indoors, calculating the damage and hoping no one had pooped or peed on the new living room rug. I wondered what this event must have done to the dogs’ trust in me, how they must have worried and whined in my absence.

  As I opened the door and entered the house, Boomer the Dog tippy tapped his way over to me, tail wagging happily. Bailey did not bother to greet me; she stretched lazily in her bed while she considered whether it was worth the effort to get up. She was certain that I would come over to pet her.

  I hastily scanned the house for signs of canine relief and found none. As I rushed to open the door to the backyard, both pups promptly, if not eagerly, walked outside. Boomer trotted to his favorite potty spot, while Bailey dropped down and rolled around for a bit before retreating behind the bushes. A girl needs her privacy, after all.

  Bailey and Boomer, like Andy, seemed to have suffered no trauma from neglectful parenting. That only leaves me: the somewhat-irresponsible human and dog mom.

Choice Voice

                On Thursday this week, I attended the 30th anniversary celebration of a well-known law firm, the specialty of which is akin to my own practice. It was fun to see my peers, but due to pandemic distancing, it was more like getting reacquainted than just hanging out. We caught up with each other’s lives: family, travel, law practices, and more than a little gossip. And in far too many cases, current health challenges were the topic of conversation.

                 At one point, I greeted the managing member of the firm that hosted the event, and I expressed my gratitude for the successful settlement of a large case in which he had served as the mediator. I told him that his guidance and expertise were exemplary and that it was a case that no one believed could be negotiated and settled. He, in turn, complimented my partner who represented one of the parties and related how helpful he had been.

                 Then he turned to the small group around him and mentioned to it that his firm had asked me to join it decades ago, and that it was a loss when I had declined. I murmured that it would have been a good fit for me and that it would have been a privilege, but that I knew in my heart that starting my own law practice was beckoning. The truth is that had I joined, I would have loved it and flourished, and I would still be there to this day.

                  The exchange made me think about life choices, and how we view them through the backward-facing prism of wisdom and decision making and, sometimes, with regret.

                 Regret is a powerful, all-knowing master, and I learned at its feet. In Daniel Pink’s best-selling book, The Power of Regret, he concludes that a person’s life regrets fall into four major categories: foundational, boldness, moral, and connection. Three of those types of regret give me no pause; I view minor failings in the past like not studying in high school (foundational), flirting with the boyfriend of a good friend (moral), and not staying in touch with relatives for short periods of time (connection) as minor blips on the path to maturity.

                 But I struggled with boldness in the past – not pulling the trigger on adolescent dreams like trying out for the cheerleading squad or, later, not pursuing a career in veterinary medicine because I was afraid of failing. Oddly enough, with each boldness failure, I become incrementally emboldened, realizing that the consequences of inaction were more painful than missteps.

                 I studied for and took the Law School Admissions Test, certain that my scores would prevent admittance to law school. I entered law school confident that I would flunk out. I took a part-time job after graduation because although my grades were excellent, I was on law review, and I had interned at a well-known law firm the summer before my final academic year, being obviously pregnant during job interviews apparently was not a draw for potential employers. But I persevered, and I drove my career to a level that would have astonished me had I taken the time to examine it objectively.

  But when faced with the prospect of joining a new law firm, I was still afraid: the fear of an uncertain future with a fledging firm eclipsed the trying politics that came with my partnership at a large Seattle one. So, I vacillated and ultimately declined the invitation. There was a voice inside my head that my prospects were headed in a different direction, though the destination – and the route – was hazy.

  Some years later, I decided to go out on my own, a decision that terrified me. But starting and growing my practice, through its colicky infancy and prickly adolescence, to financial maturity is one of the most fulfilling and gratifying experiences of my life. There was no better outcome for me: the chance to work and prosper at a company where I got to choose who I worked with, what clients we served, and what culture we embodied was the greatest privilege I could have envisioned.

                 A choice I made years ago that I feared would linger endlessly, tinged with regret, turned out to be the best possible consequence for me. From this I have learned is that it is not the decisions that you make after all. It is what you make of your decisions.

Possibility Discovery

The pedicurist examined my toenails a couple of days ago.  I expected her to say that their condition was shameful, or something of that ilk.  Instead, she said, “you like your toenails short,” in a tone of voice that made me feel as though I should be in church atoning for an original sin.  I explained that I was a runner, and if I do not keep my nails trimmed, they can get bruised. Then they turn black, fall off, and it takes months for them grow back. I predicted that she would sniff and reply that I should consider swimming as an exercise alternative, but rather, she looked at me, and said, “that’s why you are skinny.”

  When I left a half hour later, she told me to keep running.  I patted her arm, and said, “you should try running too, you would love it.”  What I meant to say was that attempting something new opened a world of possibility.  It might turn out that she would fall in love with paddleboarding, not running, or that hiking was the outdoor experience that filled her with bliss.  Well, at least it does for some. But for me, though I feel pretty darn happy after I sit down, drop my backpack, enjoy the view, and drink ridiculously tepid water that for some reason is as delicious as freshly squeezed orange juice, I mostly pray that the rest of the hike is downhill.  But you get my point.

  Possibility - perhaps the most underappreciated emotion in human consideration. Its beauty lies in its expansive infinity.  I relish possibilities more than probabilities, and that serves me well.  Just this morning on a dog walk, I brought along a second poop bag because every sixty or eighty walks is a double poop event.  After Boomer did his business, Good Samaritan Me used the second bag to pick up someone else’s dog poop.  I almost threw both bags away, as our walk was nearly over, but it occurred to me that Boomer might not be done, and sure enough, he was not. That confirmed to me that preparedness is next to godliness.

  I recently purchased my first lottery ticket in over a decade, when it rose to $1.3 billion, because it was fun to think about what I would do if I won. But setting aside infinitesimally small monetary fantasies, my most positive life moments turn on thinking of what might lie ahead.

  My belief in the richness of the world stems from seeing it unfold in inexplicably delightful ways. I watch the parents of a young boy who are enamored with him beyond contemplation, even more so because of the harrowing journey it took to conceive and deliver him to the world. I started my law firm twenty years ago, terrified at the statistical failure rates of new businesses, but lured by the potential of creating a work life that was governed by my values alone. Its success exceeded my wildest fantasies. I timidly asked my cousin and his wife to take a bike trip with me and my husband in southern Vermont in 2014, wondering whether it would be more exhausting than exhilarating, but it launched a magical, active-vacation wanderlust within me.

  And today I will celebrate with others the union of two people whose meeting was statistically minute, virtually unfathomable. Distance, family health tragedy, international travel quagmires, and a world pandemic intervened in a fledging relationship; it seemed inevitable that life events would distract and disrupt their romance.  But it did not. Their love is so obviously apparent, joyful, and generous, that its existence seems grounded in fate not fortuity.

  Which goes to show that the power of possibility lies not just in chance or circumstance, but in absolute certainty.  

Rush Crush

            In the fall of 1973, I began my first year of college at the University of Kentucky. I was happy and excited to begin the timid steps of adulthood by moving out of the family home into a dormitory. I believed that joining a sorority was in the cards for me to bootstrap my fledging social life into something concrete. I had belonged to social clubs in junior high and high school, so a sorority was the logical starting point. A mature 18-year-old might have envisioned that it would further a sense of community and leadership, but I was mostly interested in meeting good-looking fraternity boys.

             Recruitment took place the week before the start of the fall semester. Rush was a systematic matchmaking process, whereby students took part in introductory events and were invited back – or not – by the chapters that believed they were a good fit. The goal was to be accepted into a top tier sorority, one with a well-established reputation, a charming southern Chapter house, and popular and pretty members.

             I do not recall much about my first-round visits to sororities, but I remember choosing my outfit carefully. I wore blue jeans and platform sandals paired with a floral print top with an empire-waist belt that tied in the back. I thought I looked cute, but I was vaguely aware that it did not meet the dress code. Kentucky casual attire for young women was preppy but feminine, and certain brands were in vogue, like Lady Bug and Villager. Those labels were mostly out of reach for me financially, but I had clothes I liked. But first impressions count, and I was not dressed for success.

             Initially, recruits were allowed to visit all chapters, in a busy and blurry series of parties. The first-round events were followed by invitation-only, themed parties. I was devastated to learn that I had been eliminated by every single high-profile sorority that I had hoped to join. But I stoically attended the second-round parties of the few organizations that had extended invitations to me. I remember one in which the theme was “girly girls disguised as tomboys.” I wore a sideways baseball cap and chewed bubble gums, and I recall someone taking my picture. Afterwards, I was anxious to see if I had made the cut for a final social event.

             And then came the telephone call.

             I received a phone call the day following the Tomboy party from someone I did not know from a chapter to which I had not been invited. After introducing herself, the sorority member asked me a question about my high school best friend, who was also going through rush. She wanted to know what my friend’s father did for a living. I replied that he was a professor at the university. The caller thanked me, and the call ended.

             I was filled with confusion, outrage, and more than a bit of resignation. I knew in a heartbeat that I did not have what it took to be a popular pledge of a sought-after sorority chapter. Sororities touted their desire to recruit polished young women with strong academic records, exemplary moral character, and community involvement. I did not stand out in any of those categories; I was, at best, a borderline candidate. But when you added in the fact that I was a fatherless girl with no social standing and no family sorority legacy, I felt I was doomed.  I was just an unsuspecting teenager stumbling into adulthood with no concept of where to step next and with little chance of receiving a bid.

  With a heavy but strong-willed heart, I dropped out of recruitment and resigned myself to being a dorm-girl college student. I was not going to be attending fraternity parties, Greek life mixers, and sisterhood bonding sessions.

             I look back on that decision with curiosity but without regret. Did I give up more than I gained? At the time, I had complicated emotions, shame feathered with indignation. I was proud that I demonstrated a personal protest about a patriarchal Greek system that judged its members, in part, on family socioeconomic ranking and occupational status of their fathers. But I also gave up the chance to be an infinitesimal agent of change.

             I view my young life choices with compassion and peace. Every decision I made had a subtle but extant influence on my life, and the beauty of maturity is appreciating the learning gained by that.

  I loved my college experience, and my social life did not suffer for one minute. It turned out that cheap, fruity wine, cute boys, and parties were all part of the equation - whether or not a Greek letter was one of its variables.

Laidback Comeback

            For someone as tightly wound as I am, I am remarkably laidback about how other people conduct their lives. If people are living a relatively healthy physical and emotional life, and seem happy and reasonably productive, I am good with it. They might be changing jobs every year, partnering but not marrying, travelling without saving, spending retirement in an RV, or working until they drop dead at their desk at age 93.

             It is true that my non-judgmental attitude has never been tested by my family, friends, or co-workers. To my knowledge, none of them has an open marriage, has failed to pay income taxes for many years, forces their dog to sleep alone outdoors at night, or enjoys a furry fandom lifestyle. It might give me pause to find out that they want their heads removed when they die for cryogenic cold storage, but time will tell, I suppose.

             But here’s the quid pro quo: I am not the least bit interested in what others think about how I live my life.

             I am amazed at comments from others when they are not prompted by a “what do you think?” query. For example, one would think that by now, I would be competent to predict that I will be more comfortable in long sleeves inside an air-conditioned restaurant even if it is 80 degrees outside. But some folks challenge my indoor clothing choice as if it is a test of my basic morality.

             How much I work is no one’s business but mine. In the past, I have been criticized by people for working on weekends or not taking enough vacation time – all by commenters that have no first-hand understanding of the commitment that self-employment demands. Retired folks are adamant that I need to stop working; that it is the best decision they have ever made. I am delighted for them; it is just that what makes them joyful may have nothing to do with what makes me brim with happiness. They have plenty of advice about how I should conduct myself when I do retire – how much I should travel, whether I should work part-time, where my husband and I should live, and when we should draw social security.

  Some friends think I run too much, that I am going to get hurt, even though I have been running for 50 years with few injuries. Most folks my age would tell you that their bodies provide an infinite source of feedback about its wellness, endurance, and vulnerability. I know mine does.

             My least favorite advice is the fervor with which people tell me that, “you should try to slow down,” as though energy is a finite resource that I am depleting too rapidly. I feel happy, productive, and positive virtually every day of my life, so I just wonder why I should change. (This reminds me of my favorite story about my oldest son, whom I admonished as a teenager for texting, emailing, listening to music, and talking on the phone while studying. His response, “Mom, I get straight A’s; what would you like me to change?”)           

I have a dear retired friend who raves about how she loves the luxury of drinking wine with her husband in the evening, with nothing pressing her. I cherish that she offered the statement as an expression of what experiences are important to her, but not as lifestyle advice.

             I could do that, I think. Well, except for the wine, and only if the dishes are done, the dogs are fed and walked, I’ve responded to the last family on-line chat, and everyone is taunting me for being lazy.  That would be the perfect comeback.

Equitation Inclination

                For many years in my youth, I was a barn rat. My infatuation with horses knew no bounds. To this day, I regard horses as the most beautiful creatures on earth, their sleek, brilliant coats cloaking their powerful musculature. Their eyes have a deep, limpid quality, their ears flicker, their nostrils flare with inquisitiveness.

                 My horses were stabled near my home in Lexington, Kentucky at a boarding facility, and I spent days hanging out at the barn, cleaning their stalls, grooming and riding them, and feeding them at day’s end. I would stroke their necks and run my hands across their sides, feeling the softness of their coats and their steely muscles, combing errant portions of their manes that had flipped over to the left side of their neck instead of the right. I knew the personalities of my horses better than I understood my own soul.

  I flourished as an equestrian. It is the singular pursuit in my life that I can say that about.

 I practiced riding repetitively, with and without a trainer, walking, trotting, and cantering endlessly. The goal was to have a collected horse, which meant that its energy was contained, or released, through silent cues from the rider. Cantering is entered from a walk, not a trot, with the inside front leg leading when circling an arena. Thus, you cue the horse to lead on the left when cantering counterclockwise and on the right when circling clockwise. If I wanted my horse to canter on the lead-hand lead, I would shift my weight to my right hip, turn the horse’s head slightly to the right, and apply pressure from my right heel behind the girth.

  I rode the county horseshow circuit for several years, and when my mother bought me a horse trailer when I was seventeen years old, I hauled one of my horses in a trailer behind my family’s Jeep Wagoneer. The day before the event was very busy – bathing my horse, shampooing her mane and tail, and trimming her fetlocks and a small part of her mane where the bridle settled behind her ears. At home, I would saddle soap the tack and polish my black riding boots. I would arrive early to the stable the morning of the show to groom my horse, polish her hooves, brush baby oil into her tail to make it shine, and braid ribbons into her forelock.

  Equitation is a competition, like dressage, where the form of the rider is judged, not the horse’s performance. But the aptitude and athleticism of the horse is key to helping the rider look good. It is the invisible control of the horse that is on view, along with the rider’s posture, stillness, and alignment of her head, shoulders, hips and heels.

  I still remember the rhythm of that cantering gait, the rise and fall of the horse’s head, her shoulders moving in time to the almost imperceptible rocking of my own. Sometimes everything around me would disappear – the spectators, the sounds of the organ music, the other competitors - my body coupled to the saddle, my mind quieted with concentrated effort. I knew in those moments how accomplished I was, though to be fair, the judge did not always agree with my self-assessment.

  Horse shows fed my competitive drive, but the quiet, everyday moments with horses were more meaningful. I would run to the pasture where my bay gelding resided during the day and whistle for him. He would stop grazing, look up, gallop towards me with irrepressible enthusiasm, and give me a familiar nuzzle. After leading him to his stall, I would run my hands down his legs, lean into him to pick his hooves for cleaning, and I would get a curious equine snuffle in my neck. There was always a velvety patch of skin to the side of each nostril that was impossible not to kiss.

  And when life as a young girl was too painful to bear, I would stand next to my horse and bury my face into a shoulder and cry; a horse’s steadfast presence and deep breathing was all I ever needed.