Consumption Assumption

           It’s about 1:00 p.m. on a recent weekday.  I’m at work, carefully cloistered in my office and intentionally distanced from a skeleton crew of essential workers.  I’m hungry.  I’ve eaten an abysmal lunch of leftover frozen pizza along with peanut butter toast.

            I feel dissatisfied and deprived.  Though we have oodles of noodles and reams of beans in the pantry, I haven’t had fresh fruit in about five days.  Last night I made a salad with the final remnants of romaine lettuce and a few carrots.  I dredged up leftover string beans (previously frozen) and added some aged croutons and called it good.  Well, I called it the best I could do.

            I have access to a nearby grocery store, and it has implemented COVID-19 health protocols that limit exposure to others.  My husband and I could legitimately shop during senior hours to reduce our risk of contamination.  But we’ve decided not to, instead opting for grocery store pick-up.  Our allotted time slot is still several days away, and though I have a yearning for sweet potato chips, commonsense dictates that I deny my craving.

            I’ve never enjoyed going to the grocery store, its allure akin to picking up dry cleaning or putting gasoline in the car.  Several years ago, I relinquished food procurement to my diligent and cheerful husband.  I’m neither a cook nor a connoisseur; I have a simple diet, mostly healthy, consisting of an abundance of fruit, fresh vegetables, cheese, nuts, and turkey.  Scarcity of supplies has never been something I considered.

            But things have changed.  I’ve become food frugal and, I admit, slightly possessive about dwindling resources.  I recently eyed a solitary Satsuma and briefly pondered offering to split it with my husband.  Instead, I slipped it surreptitiously into my pocket and ate it in another room.  I’ve cooked a turkey burger without considering whether my husband would want one.  I’ve steadfastly eaten wilted cauliflower that was unpalatable.  I’ve Googled whether “best by” dates are mandates or merely marketing ploys by food industry lobbyists. 

            To be clear:  dealing with lack of variety during a pandemic does not compare to hunger fomented by economic distress.  And yet, for the first time, I’ve witnessed a not-so-subtle shift in my relationship with what I eat and how I plan for it.  I freeze leftovers promptly to ensure that they aren’t wasted.  I’ve discovered that steamed, packaged vegetables are tasty.  I eat the heels of bread loaves.  I’ve learned that thawed blackberries maintain enough structural integrity to add to cereal.  I’ve determined that you can combine almost anything with lettuce and create a decent salad.  I’ve uncovered my relationship with sweets and made peace with their temporary absence.   

            I realize that hunger is physical, but deprivation is emotional.  Food variety is a luxury that I’ve taken for granted until now.  Access to nourishing sustenance is a privilege.  In the past, I’ve sneered at a humble apple if it fell below the status of organic Honeycrisp, and I’ve tossed out cucumbers that had so much as a hint of softness.  But I have a new-found respect for unassuming staples.  Well, except, for slices of leftover frozen pizza.

Silver Seams in the the Field of Dreams

            It was June 8, 2001, and our family was at the Woodinville High School baseball field.  It was a weeknight, and I was musing about whether it was time to corral our two youngest sons and take them home, leaving my husband to finish watching our oldest son’s game.  But Eric was brought into the game to pitch, and I decided to linger for another inning.  In hindsight, that was a bad decision.

            I don’t remember what inning it was, the pitch count, or whether there were runners on base.  What I remember is watching him throw -- and witnessing in a fraction of a second -- his right arm bend grotesquely 180 degrees backwards, facing the outfield. 

            An orthopedic specialist diagnosed Eric with a rare spiral fracture, which fortunately did not require surgery.  But our greater concern was whether our son had bone cancer, as did an MLB pitcher with a similar injury.  The physician gave us the less-than-reassuring response that he wouldn’t be able to rule out cancer until he monitored the bone’s healing process.  

           It was a stressful and depressing time.  Concerns about Eric’s health, the end of his summer baseball season, and the uncertainty of future athletics weighed on me.  I promised myself that I would find three benefits from his traumatic injury, though I suspected it would be a struggle.  Much to my surprise, I quit counting at 12 or 13 positives, among them watching my son heal with resilience; admiring his work ethic while working at my office; valuing his allegiance to his team as a player-coach; and understanding the ceaseless toll that competitiveness played in his life.   

            It reminds me that adversity has silver linings if we are earnest in searching for them.  COVID-19 and social distancing presents those opportunities to all of us. An informal survey of my friends reveals they feel enhanced connections with friends and community and gratitude for those they love.  We’re embracing technology to shore up the loss occasioned by the lack of physical interaction.  There is a consensus that routines, whether firmly established or newly implemented, are reliable anchors in an ambiguous time. And we have a shared stoicism that helps us find value and meaning in insecurity and disquiet.

            I’m focusing on daily and weekly goals without predicting when the pandemic’s virulent grasp will unclench.  I’m setting boundaries on how much, and what type, of news media I watch, protecting my emotional life with ferocity.  I’m finding comfort in the richness of an existence humbled by unpredictability.  I am heartened by the relentless banter and camaraderie of my adult children.

            Eric returned to baseball the following Spring, his arm recalcified, and his devotion to the sport augmented by his forced departure from it.  In the arc of our current crisis, I am watchful and patient, waiting for the undiscovered blessings of this experience to reveal themselves.  With time, the wounds of fear and isolation will repair, leaving us stronger, more resolute, and with a heightened appreciation for the simple goodness of our lives.

The Power and Promise of Self-Reliance

            Years ago, a dear friend called me with the happy news that her son and daughter-in-law had welcomed their first child into the world, a baby girl.  She related how she teased her son to start saving money now, because some day he would be paying for a wedding and walking his daughter down the aisle.  The comment irked me because it suggested that a little girl’s major life event is getting married.  But within the social construct of the time, it was a loving and sweet tribute.

            I never thought about getting married when I was growing up.  I had a vague belief that I would marry, but to my parents’ credit, I don’t recall a single statement about the inevitability or desirability of matrimony.  Culturally, I assumed that marriage was in my future, and I was conditioned to understand the qualities I should seek out in a life partner.  Husbands were supposed to be strong, intelligent, responsible, and, of course, good providers.  A successful marriage match was considered the epitome of female achievement; it was the lynchpin of safety and security.

            I accepted that fundamental premise without hesitation until my father died in an airplane crash when I was eleven years old. 

            Shock and disbelief obliterated any emotion other than profound grief.  But the consequential lessons of tragedy aren’t dealt in a single blow; they are dispensed randomly and ruthlessly, without regard for timing or the victim’s ability to assimilate them.  I understood that my mother would be lonely and that we would all be sad for a long time.  But it didn’t occur to me that my social, economic, and emotional safety net had disappeared.  I learned at a young age a cruelly obvious fact:  independence and self-sufficiency are the only substitutes for powerlessness and vulnerability.   

            The expectation of family stability, and the assurance of its continuity, is arbitrarily sprinkled onto the populace.  I grew up with the backdrop of capricious misfortune always hovering at the perimeter of my consciousness.  I shouldered obligations that were not asked of me; I assumed them while wearing the mantle of responsibility.  I developed persistence when aptitude failed me and pluck when misfortune befell me.  Where I lacked advantage, I substituted ambition.  Adversity is a heartless master, but I grew at its feet. 

            I’m proud of who I’ve become, though it’s not tied to net worth, professional reputation, or personal relationships.  For me, success is the knowledge that I am strong and capable. I am blessed with the love and support of family and friends, but I am deeply aware that my survival is not tethered to the existence of anyone other than myself.  That knowledge does not isolate me; it frees me from fear and indecision. I may blink in the face of fear, but I walk a straight line in its path.

            There are times when I wonder what the trajectory of my life would have been in the absence of tragedy.  A drive to succeed always burned inside me, but it was stoked, I suspect, by an insatiable desire for independence.

            In many ways, I became the person that society encouraged me to marry. 

Elective Exposure

           It’s 8:45 a.m. on a recent weekday.  I’ve taken a half hour run (minus random walking minutes mandated by my canine running companion), showered, elbow-bumped my husband, and driven to my office in Seattle – and washed my hands eight times.  Health professionals would applaud all my activities, except the part where I go to work.  But that’s the plight of many small business owners.

            A litigation-based law practice is constrained by statutes, common law, and court rules that dictate how we operate.  Some courts have electronic filing capability; many do not.  Jurisdiction is almost exclusively obtained by physical service of process.  Many legal procedures require notices through the U.S. mail.  The operational side of our business is dependent on processing mail, receiving and depositing payments from clients (most of whom pay in the form of checks), allowing legal messengers access to our office, and interacting with building maintenance vendors. 

            I’m weary of the “just stay at home” rants by people who have the luxury to isolate themselves.  Wealth, power, technology-based employment, and retirement facilitate self-quarantining decision making.  Going to the office or working from home are binary alternatives, but complex issues factor into that choice.  Mathematical analytics, if they were available, might provide helpful algorithms that would supply logical and quantitative answers; they could take into account the ability to work remotely, the sustainability of the business if you do so, the age and health status of employees, state safety mandates, the dependence on personal interactions, and other factors. 

            For our little law practice, we do not have the luxury of shuttering our doors without essentially closing the business.  Our financial model, like many professional service companies, is dependent on allocating administrative and legal tasks along an established hierarchy of skill sets, which clients scrutinize with sophistication.  It’s not defiance on my part to sit at my business desk every day instead of at my home office; it’s a sobering recognition that the buck stops with me.

            As the firm’s founder and senior partner, I have the privilege of choosing where I work from.  But that decision cannot be based solely on personal desire; I have the health, welfare, and financial needs of 15 people to evaluate.  Unless I have a disqualifying health condition, if I seclude myself at home, I am demonstrating a belief that I am more valuable than others and that I fall somewhere else on the expendability continuum than they do.  The ethics of asking someone to come to the workplace while I earn a living in the comforting confines of my home troubles me. 

            My request is that my critics appreciate the meticulous and judicious decisions that business owners make during these troubling times.  Going to the office, while practicing social distancing, reduced staffing, internet connectivity, and obsessive hand washing, is not akin to partying at the beach with dozens of friends. 

            In the angst of anxious times, it is easy to retreat to popular and recognized safety dictates without considering the prudent and exacting deliberations that moral leadership demands.  My objective, and my obligation, is to continually assess the risks and imperatives that align the path of responsibility.  I ask for your support and understanding while I do so.  In return, I promise that if I see you on the street, I will maintain a respectfully safe distance from you. 

Nurtured by Nature

            It’s 7:00 a.m. on Saturday, March 14, 2020.  My running group assembles at its usual meeting point, a local Starbucks.  We are a little rumpled and disheveled, but pre-run grooming is nonsensical and would, in addition, eliminate our joyful and occasionally ruthless commentary about appearances.

            We amble out of the coffeeshop, delaying the inevitable moment when our pace quickens into an initially graceless jog.  We spread apart -- partly due to differing paces, energy levels, and warm-up periods -- and partly due to social distancing mandated by COVID-19 health concerns.  Our conversation centers on health agency updates, working remotely, and managing anxiety during troubling times.  We relay what we know about how the disease spreads, its symptoms, and how to “flatten the curve.”  Washing hands, sanitizing surfaces, stockpiling food, and enhancing immune systems dominate the discourse.

            I’m following all the recommended strategies but focusing on self-care.  I’ve set boundaries on how much virus-related material I read and how often.  I’ve excluded myself from group chats that contain doomsday predictions.  I’m making sleep my highest priority, occasionally taking a quick nap following a morning workout before going to the office.  And, right now, I am exercising exclusively outdoors.

            After ten minutes, our running course flattens out along an eerily quiet paved road.  The conversation lessons as the level of effort increases.  At about mile four, two of us enter a trail demarked by a series of steps and sharp switchbacks that zigzag through a deliciously deciduous forest.  My focus sharpens on the path, discerning precise foot placement among small but sharply angled rocks extruding through the earth.  I crest a hill, grateful for a slight respite from the elevation change, and contemplate the downhill in front of me.  I wonder whether the level of effort necessary to slow my pace on the downward slope is worth it—or whether I should just release potential energy and fly as quickly as my middle-aged legs can muster.

            I approach another, shallower incline, grateful for its gentle leniency.  I slow, and the pain in my legs diminishes.  I forgive the impending mid-size branches and moderate mud puddles that require small leaps; I know they harbor no ill intention in blocking my path.  The fern fronds alongside the trail kindly beckon to me.  The sharp bark of the trees is softened by cushy moss, and a musty, earthen scent fills my consciousness. 

            My soul unfolds, embracing the surrounding natural environment.  Mother Nature is a steadfast and constant running companion, unwavering in her devoted existence.  She never asks more of me than I can give in return, and for that, I remain her faithful fan.  Cushioned by the elements, I am cordoned off from afflictions and infections.  I am safely cocooned from disease or pathogens.  

            I emerge from the woods, stronger and rejuvenated.  Time outdoors has given me a natural boost of immunity, and my anxiety dims.  I am mightier, heartier, tougher, and restored.

Fitness Festivity

           It was March 5, 2010.  I had an upcoming doctor’s appointment necessitated by an application for key member life insurance through my law firm.  I had a vague sense of unease about it.  I was in decent shape, but faint and unsettling concerns about aging were beginning to sniff the perimeter of my consciousness. 

           I had a three-decades-long love affair with fitness:  at times enraptured, occasionally non-existent, but unfailingly dysfunctional.  Consistent aerobic exercise was elusive; diversified strength routines were absent.  An over-arching frustration with lack of conditioning supplanted any semblance of a healthy relationship with my body.

            A fanciful thought flitted through my mind:  why not try to exercise for thirty minutes a day for fifty days in a row?  It would improve my fitness, and maybe it would alleviate the constant internal dialogue about what I should be doing when I was doing something else.  I was afraid that I’d start -- and fail again—like the dance aerobics class that I once tried and quit or the exercise videos that became mind-numbingly mundane.  I was weary of my obsession with fads, and I suspected this resolution, too, would be dropped like a weight at the gym and never picked up again.

           And so, it began.  For the first three or four days, I was thrilled with a sense of devotion and discipline.  I blogged and humblebragged about it, enamored by the attention of friends and family.  Then it got hard – brutally exacting -- not by virtue of physical effort but the mental exertion of knowing that each day it loomed before me. 

            I didn’t know how to create a habit-based routine, and I was oblivious to simple regimes to delay gratification.  I blundered forward, daily, with the thought that I had to find time to work out.  Exercise became a small but persistent dead weight tethered to my perception.  I merely substituted “I have to work out” for “I should work out.” 

            But around Day 20, the process transformed.  I instituted morning workouts to eliminate the insistent awareness that the task was yet to come.  I implemented evening routines to plan exercise for the next day.  I crafted reward-based incentives and created inducements for major accomplishments.  I acquired the knowledge that commitment is its own reward. 

            As the days transpired, it became easier and lighter.  I learned to anticipate non-exercise demands and work around them.  I developed strategies for stressful and difficult days.  I cultivated an appreciation for my mental toughness and my physical capability.  For fifty continuous days, I found a way to work in a workout.  I ran to book club and board meetings.  I walked the boundaries of outfield fences at teen baseball games.  I pedaled stationary bikes while reading gossip magazines.  I jogged and stretched watching reality TV shows.  The landscape of my emotional life became fastened to the physical.

            On Day 51, I woke up, looked outside and thought, why stop now?

________________________

            To Exercise:  Happy 10th Anniversary!  For reasons only you and I know, you probably saved my life.  Actually, I’m sure of it.

Evolution by Revolution

            It’s 5:45 a.m. on a recent Tuesday, and I arrive at the fitness center for my first spin class.  It’s a new form of exercise for me, precipitated by an upcoming biking trip that I want to be ready for.  I’ve taken multi-day biking adventures before, and you need to train.  Sitting on a spartan and unforgiving bike seat without preparation is not a position you ever want to be in.  Screaming lungs and burning quads minimize the beauty and joy of biking outdoors.  

            I’m a bit on edge, having never taken a cycling class before.  I don’t relish indoor group exercise, and I dislike situations where fitness comparison to others is inevitable.  I’m not overly concerned about my aerobic capability, but visions of Peloton commercials with buff thirty-year-olds linger in the back of my mind.   Intellectually, I know there is no leaderboard and that I won’t be called out for riding the Bike of Shame.  But still, standing up on a bike is hard, and sticking up for the pride of a mature, first-time spinner is even harder.

            The bubbly and athletic group leader kindly positions the bike seat for me and encourages me to ride at my own pace and to have fun.  Those around me are warming up by pedaling quickly and vigorously while chatting with each other with the ease of warm familiarity.   My legs twirl slowly and randomly, as if they know they need to save themselves for what lies ahead. 

            The music begins, and the instructor explains what “moves” our ride will entail.  Moves?  What moves?  The only possible move on a bicycle is rotating your legs in a circle.  But ever one who aspires to fit in, I just smile and nod my head like a seasoned spinner, all the while hoping that no one determines I’m a poser.

            The tempo quickens.  I keep pace by lowering the resistance, which I do surreptitiously to save face.  The instructions get louder and faster, and the “stand up” barks become dreaded staccatos reminiscent of a military boot camp.

            Suddenly there’s a hill climb introduced by Aerosmith’s song, Dream On.  I lean physically forward and emotionally inward and watch, mesmerized by the reflection of my legs churning in the mirror in front of me.  The song’s lyrics replace my thoughts:

Every time when I look in the mirror

All these lines in my face getting clearer

The past is gone

It went by, like dusk to dawn.

            My eyes unexpectedly fill with tears.  Abruptly, my fellow bikers drift away, the leader’s directives quiet, and it’s just me and the bike.  I rise and churn, the pain in my legs softened by the fullness of my heart.  I pump vigorously, fueled by endorphins and gratitude.  I no longer care who is around me, who is stronger, or what they think of me.

            I crest the hill and lower the resistance to emulate a downhill segment.  With every turn, the burn in my legs abates and is replaced by an abundance of appreciation.  I grab a small towel and wipe my eyes under the pretense of mopping a sweaty brow.  I am imbued with the potential and promise of this moment:

Sing with me

Sing for the years

Sing for the laughter

Sing for the tears.

Yearn forward, and dream on, my friend.

Transmission Transition

           Several weeks ago, the passenger-side seat belt in my car jammed.  My handy husband was unable to fix it even with the assistance of YouTube videos.  I was more than aggravated about it.  Though I mostly drive in solitude, I was occasionally forced to put a passenger in the back seat and drive while mimicking an uncompensated chauffeur.  I knew seat belt replacement would be a hassle: making the mechanic shop appointment, ordering the part, and waiting for installation, all the while suffering the annoyance of not having the use of my car.  I stewed about the automotive gods heaping ill will on me:  weren’t they aware that I didn’t have time to deal with mechanical repair issues? 

            I bemoaned my fate and the inconvenience of it all and gnashed my teeth.  I surrendered myself to the prospect and process of getting the seat belt replaced.  Then, while driving to work in full-throttle resignation mode, my car suddenly lurched and almost stalled out.  It seemed like the transmission was confused about what gear it was supposed to be in -- the mechanical equivalent of walking into a room while distracted and forgetting why you are there.  In a flash I realized two things: (1) I was about to incur a major car expense; and (2) I would give anything to merely have a seat belt problem.  In that moment I was reminded, once again, of a lesson that I never seem to learn no matter how many times it is taught to me:  be grateful for life’s inconveniences because it could be worse.

            There are more elegant and pithy ways to express this adage.   A famous phrase attributed to several people, including Mahatma Gandhi, describes it as, “I cried because I had no shoes, then I met a man who had no feet.”  Someone more mature than I wrote, “Always look on the bright side of life.  Happiness comes when we stop complaining about the troubles we have and offer thanks for the troubles we don’t have.”

            In the past, I’ve groused about the cost of a new furnace without considering the luxury of living in a warm and inviting home.  I’ve fretted about a family member’s significant other without heeding how devastated he would be if they broke up.  I’ve whined about work without reflecting on the luxury of working with talented and hilarious folks.  I’ve griped about the indignities of health exams without accounting for the blessings of wellness.  I’ve grumbled about running in cold and wet weather without remembering the privilege of being able to move through the world with proficiency.    

            My recent automobile adversities have given rise to an epiphany, and Winnie the Pooh’s character, Eeyore, put it all in perspective:  “It’s snowing still,” said Eeyore gloomily, “and freezing.  However,” he said brightening up a little, “we haven’t had an earthquake lately.” [1]

            With that in mind, I’m going to put on my big girl pants and figure out whether it makes sense to put thousands of dollars into a car with 160,000 odometer miles or cut my losses and buy a new one.  I figure I have a limited window to trade in my car before the engine overheats, and the brakes fail.

__________________________________________

[1] Winnie the Pooh, Milne, A. A. (Alan Alexander), 1882-1956. Winnie-The-Pooh. [New York]: Harper Children's Audio, 2003.s

Vocation Vacation Preparation

            It’s Saturday morning, February 15, 2020, and I’m at my desk.  It’s time to write my weekly blog post.  I have a topic, a title, and a deadline – and nothing else.

            Normally, ideas for my weekly newsletter are actively flitting in and out of my consciousness by mid-week, mostly during runs.  I consider content, size up structure, and evaluate engaging hooks to draw the reader in.  The material’s connection with exercise becomes apparent.  By the end of the week, I’ve amassed notes and text so that the composition process is structured and focused.

            But this week, none of that happened.  For the first time in my 50+ weeks of blogging, my topic was assigned by someone else.  And it’s left me stumped.  I made a commitment to my Health Coach Institute success mentor to write about my coaching program.  Accountability is a hallmark of coaching, and I can’t expect it from my future clients without demonstrating it myself.

            Internet research on combatting writer’s block provided some guidance, but most of the tips were already in my repertoire.  I worked out vigorously ahead of time, settled in with coffee while dressed in comfortable clothes.  I was fully committed to writing my essay, and I possessed the seasoned-writers’ knowledge that the ebb-and-flow of composition can be capricious.  But this time, a creative entry into the subject matter eludes me; it’s like stumbling down a darkened hallway in the middle of the night looking for a pathway back to slumber.

            There is a painless way forward:  simply explain that I’m enrolled in a health and life coaching curriculum to add credibility and support for my belief in a fitness habit-based lifestyle.  Creating Daily: Transforming Your Life with an Everyday Movement Habit was just a start.  My mission is to convince despairing, completely out of shape folks that everyday movement is easier than periodic, and often sporadic, exercise.  And yet, the coaching coursework has become more significant than a way to promote my book’s platform and enhance my own credibility.

            Coaching might be a way out of the practice of law, a transitional encore for a decades-long career advising clients on legal matters.  I don’t have concrete plans for retirement; it remains a vaguely distant venue that currently holds no apparent appeal.  But I’m a planner by both profession and personality.  I feel drawn towards, and captivated by, a vocation rooted in listening and learning, sharing and supporting. 

            I embarked on a life coach training journey uncertain of what I would find along the way. What I’ve experienced is absorbing and engaging.  Mentoring others demands examining myself.  Asking people for accountability without judgment allows me to accept personal responsibility without reprobation when I fall short.  I understand that we each possess everything essential to a joyful and fulfilling life.   Some of us benefit from a sideline coach cheering us on, celebrating our successes, and heeding our perceived failings. 

            My allotted time for literary exploration is over.  It’s time to review, spell-check, and call it good.  I’m reminded that one noteworthy author likens pushing through writer’s block to running through fatigue.  It’s one foot at a time.  Plod, plod, plod -- I’m done!

Content Discontent

            It’s early in the morning on a recent Sunday.  My weekly newsletter/blog post is set for delivery in the next two hours, but I’m racing to the office to stop it.  In the 24 hours since its creation, I’ve become conflicted about its message.

             The shortcomings of the blog post have just become apparent, but not due to lack of effort.  Like every creation, I’ve endlessly massaged word choice and sentence structure.  I’ve incessantly tinkered with themes and substance.  I’ve interminably scoured the essay for the slightest vestige of thoughtless or disrespectful content.  In the hours between scheduling the post for transmission and its distribution, I turn to it periodically to review and reflect. 

             My intentions are pure: to amuse, enlighten, and inspire within the construct of self-revelation.  But I’ve been known to miss the mark, a point that my little band of loyal readers doesn’t hesitate to mention.  I’ve inadvertently offended childless families, retired folks, and women who suffer the pain of infertility.  What I thought was a hilarious story about getting dumped by my friends at the marathon finish line was perceived by one reader as a humblebrag.  The feedback can be hard to read, and the anticipation of disapproval makes me ambivalent.

             A recent article by the New York Times columnist Tim Herrera momentarily assuages my fears by reminding me that needless obsession with perfect writing impedes getting the work done.  I am heartened by his assertion that relentlessly re-writing an essay doesn’t make it any better – it just makes it different.  I am coming to terms with feedback whether I agree with it or not.  I’m grateful for readers who take the time to respond and comment.  I’ve learned that my reaction to suggestions or critiques is infinitely revealing.  My goal is to tiptoe, gracefully, along the creative line between honesty and brashness.  It takes unflinching courage to submit a product to public scrutiny, and I have a newly established admiration for essayists, bloggers, and writers who are willing to do so.

             I’m trying to come to terms with the richness and beauty of imperfection.  I live with the knowledge that disapproval is an inescapable component of literary or artistic work.  The secret, I suspect, is to embrace a natural curiosity about the opinions of others – the origins, culture, and foundation of disagreement.  For someone like me who is continuously clothed in a cloak of indecision, it’s a brutal commitment.

             I situate myself at my desk and pull up my essay.  I refine the prose that, in hindsight, might be viewed as hurtful.  I hear a faintly triumphant brass crescendo as I push past doubt and indecision and save my document.  I am imbued with momentary confidence with only minutes to spare before my newsletter’s scheduled dissemination.

             The ship sails.  I sit on the shore, resolutely surrendering to the knowledge of its inadequacy, but joyfully anticipating ideas for the next voyage.

What the Crash Journalists Accidentally Overlook

           I join the universal mourning and sense of incomprehensible loss about the helicopter crash on January 26, 2020.  The inestimable grief of loving family members, devoted friends, and an adoring public is beyond articulation.  I have read or skimmed countless articles, opinion pieces, and expert analyses about possible crash causes, public devastation, athletic legacy, and the heart-warming tributes from the NBA community. 

            But notable and talented journalists miss an obvious point.  It’s not their fault; it’s a qualification that I wouldn’t visit on anyone.  Most of the reporters lack the critical attribute that would give their articles more depth:  they have never lost a loved one to a death that didn’t have to happen. 

            Families who lose members at the capricious hand of fate are bound together; we’ve won the destiny death lottery where the outcome is based solely on random chance.  A loved one’s car didn’t have to be at the exact point where a drunk driver crossed the center line.  Someone’s daughter wasn’t obligated to stop and help a stranded motorist only to be struck by an on-coming truck.  The basketball game didn’t have to be that day, and the weather didn’t have to be foggy.  A university professor, father of three young children, wasn’t intentionally assigned to the commuter plane that crashed.

            This is not to diminish the excruciating pain that death occasions on every human.  Loss is the ultimate unifier that cuts across race, culture, and socioeconomic status.  A tragic death by cancer, heart disease, overdose, or suicide is no less searing for those left behind than that which occurs by happenstance.  And yet, a death by any other cause than chance obviates the relentlessly repetitive knowledge that our existence is tenuously tied to circumstance.

            Our life trajectories are set in motion not just by intention but also by arbitrary occurrences beyond our control or anticipation.  We are all traumatized by loss; however, accidental deaths pose unique challenges for the survivors.  We are left to grapple with the inescapable understanding that life, or the absence of life, can be a fluke. 

            We try to reconcile the irreconcilable:  that horrible things happen to good people; that misfortune is heaped upon those that don’t deserve it; and that catastrophe is often dealt out in capricious coin tosses.  For those of us inducted into the random-chance fraternity, it is the hideous and incessant re-windings of what-ifs that can annihilate us – if we let them.

            Sorrow enhances empathy, and devastation creates strength.  Survivors of calamity grow, and even flourish, with the knowledge of life’s temporality.  If we know that existence is sometimes tethered to randomness it allows us to celebrate the fragile grace of presence.  We will eternally re-live the catastrophe in our memory, but it also accentuates our humanity for the misfortunes of others. 

            To the beloved families of those in the helicopter, know that there is a vast and compassionate community that walks with you and shares your sorrow.

Keeping Up with the Millennials

            Six or eight years ago, I picked up my youngest son at the airport as he had flown home from college for Spring break.  I cheerfully conveyed to him that his parents were leaving town for the weekend to attend a Maroon 5 concert in Vancouver, B.C.   He paused and then sullenly replied that we’d be the oldest ones there.  (As it turned out, that was not true; there were many people in our age group, most of them grandparents, shepherding wide-eyed pre-teens to the event.) Our son was noticeably relieved that the concert was outside U.S. borders; it was unlikely we’d be seen by any of his friends.

            I’m unapologetic about my taste in music.  I dislike hard rock and heavy metal; “easy listening” bores me to tears; and disco is repeatedly rhythmic with no discernable melody.  But I stayed on my feet for most of a recent Bruno Mars concert, and I almost swooned (suppressed only because I knew it would be creepy) seeing Shawn Mendez live. 

            I’m not exactly a technology rock star, but I have far less resistance to it than I did twenty years ago.  I deposit checks with my bank’s cell phone app, reimburse family members with Venmo, and hail a ride with Uber or Lyft apps.  I communicate with my children almost exclusively through WhatsApp, and I prefer talking to doctors or insurance companies through web-based portals than phone calls. 

            Cross-Fit is not my idea of a fun workout, but aerobic exercise at least five or six days a week, with a couple of walking days thrown in, suits me just fine.  Relaxing by a swimming pool or standing in the buffet line on a cruise ship for vacation appalls me.  I love robust biking or vigorous walking or hiking on holiday, and I maintain a childlike appreciation for foreign travel.   

            I’m vaguely aware that retirement is somewhere on the horizon, mostly due to the incessant questions about it from my friends and peers.  I hope to have my encore career, writing and life coaching, fully launched by that time.  Sleeping late, playing cards, drinking cocktails, and tour bus travel hold little appeal for me.

            There is a body of evidence that people who feel younger than their chronological age have fewer signs of brain aging on MRI scans, perform better on memory tests, and are less likely to feel depressed.  Those who experience youthfulness gravitate towards lifestyles that include exercise, healthy diets, engagement, and purpose – all of which aid mental and physical fitness.  I remind myself to listen to, and appreciate, the beliefs of Millennials even if they are at odds with truisms I’ve held for decades. 

            I’ve heard complaints from younger folks about people who “try to act young,” as though youthfulness is something pried from a miserly grasp at a certain age.  Thoughtful middle-agers simply smile and understand that the complainers will be at the other end of that remark in the future.  But I’m always irritated by that comment, which evidences a certain level of immaturity on my part.   

            Come to think of it, I’ll take immaturity as further evidence that I’m not old.

Limits of Loyalty

            It was October 8, 1995, and I was running my first marathon.  The somewhat ill-conceived concept was to use the Royal Victoria Marathon in Victoria, B.C. as a qualifier for the 100th running of the Boston Marathon the following Spring.  My stalwart running buddies assured me that a marathon was easy to train for and that it was a manageable and attainable goal.  With their supportive and inspiring encouragement, I was all in.  I faithfully took long runs, ran sprints, and increased my weekly mileage for months prior to the marathon.

            I don’t remember much about the marathon itself other than the last agonizing ten or fifteen minutes when the pain of lactic acid build-up paralleled that of being in labor.  I valiantly tried to focus on anything other than the all-encompassing, mind-numbing throbbing of every muscle in my body.  In the last quarter mile, I stumbled blindly forward heartened by the knowledge that my reliable and devoted friends would be waiting at the finish line to hug and congratulate me on my achievement. 

            However, my friends were nowhere to be found.  One was elbowing his way through the cue for bottled water and bananas.  The other one later proffered the flimsy excuse that he had gone to the medical aid tent for an IV.  Eventually they both put forth the cheery explanation that they knew I was fine, that I was fit and prepared, and that anyhow, we’d all wind up at the hotel at about the same time.  They rationalized that we’d regale each other with vivid and hilarious stories about the race at dinner that night.

            The story has become a pillar of my running group’s humorous folklore.  The tale has not acquired, nor required, embellishment with time because its factual accuracy is, by itself, so comical.   

            I am the recipient, and donor, of tough love from my friends and family.  The marathon banana guy is the same person who arrived, unannounced and unrequested, at my office years ago at 6:00 a.m. to help me through a work crisis.  My oldest son, who recently turned down my request for technological help, kindly assuring me that I was completely capable of building my own website, once canceled a trip to his roommate’s bachelor party so that he could fly to Washington to support me when my mother died.  My friends will be there for me in a heartbeat, but they know me well enough to perceive I don’t want to be smothered by concern.

            Friendship allegiance is both bounded by and bonded through an understanding of another’s needs.  Staunch loyalty is circumscribed by an appreciation for someone’s independence and stoicism. 

            My workout comrades know not to circle back to me if I lag behind on a rigorous run.  I’m confident that I won’t fall and get hurt, and I prefer to exercise self-pity in solitude.  And I hope they expect nothing more from me, either. After all, that’s what cell phones are for.

Quest Test

            The email arrived at 1:34 a.m. on January 11, 2020 from Kindle Direct Publishing, and it pronounced, “Congratulations, your paperback book is available to buy on Amazon.”  The message contained other information, such as timelines for product description, linking, and Look Inside the Book, but I couldn’t read it as my vision blurred with gratitude.

            Writing a book seemed like such a simple task.  I knew it would involve hours of research, writing, and revision.  But I loved reading about fitness and habit formation, and I had an unconditional enthusiasm for the task at hand.  I envisioned myself a middle-aged mentor for despairing, not-in-great-shape folks.  I threw myself at the project with the faith and fervor of a reformed exercise resolution-breaker.

            Several interminable developmental edits later, the consensus was in:  the tone of my manuscript was unengaging.  I fancied myself an empathic, but slightly bossy, big sister.  It turns out that I was simply bossy.  The editorial solution was to revise the manuscript to provide more emotional content to help the reader identify with me.  In other words, I had to reveal more of myself. 

            The solitary and inestimable expedition began.  As Ernest Hemingway put it, writing is easy, “just sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”  I examined my motivations, questioned my authenticity, and scrutinized my background.  I peeled back, layer by layer, my resistance to self-disclosure.  I endured endless edits and thoughtful but disconcerting commentary.

            I had the privilege of supportive professionals, loyal friends and loving family members.  And yet, writing is by its nature an independent and, at times, isolating pilgrimage.  I began with the boundless enthusiasm of a first-time marathoner taking selfies at the starting line.  As time went on, I paced myself with ceaseless patience.  In the second half, I reminded myself of my resilience and absolute resolve.  Toward the end, I became a plodding Percheron, bounded by a dwindling reservoir of pride and persistence.

            Having crossed the finish line, I’m more humbled than honored, more appreciative than ecstatic.  Writing, like running, is a voyage of discovery.  At times wearisome and tedious, it culminates into a moving and inspiring excursion.  The gratifying sense of achievement is heightened, not tempered, by the immensity of effort. 

            I remember the final half mile of my first marathon years ago, when the physical pain of exertion practically brought me to my knees.  I promised myself that I would never again subject myself to the incalculable adversity of distance running – and almost immediately began planning the next one at the post-race bagel table.

            The infinite joy of accomplishment is not tethered to acclaim, approval, or accolades.  It is in the sweetly dreamy sense of resolution and closure.  In this moment, I need nothing else than to savor the grateful grace of fruition.  The bliss of fulfillment eviscerates the memory of the at-times wearying tedium of creativity. 

            But wait.  I have an interesting idea for a tangential sequel to my book.  So maybe, just maybe, the journey will begin again.

____________________

Daily: Transforming Your Life with an Everyday Movement Habit is available to buy on Amazon.

Gazing Ahead While Glancing Behind

           It’s New Year’s Eve 2019, and in some ways, it’s just like any other night.  The evening settles in as comfortably as pulling on pajamas.  My husband and I walk the dogs, and afterwards, he hunkers down into bed with the television remote fixed on a predictable channel.  We make time-honored, middle-aged jokes about being too old to do anything other than watch the ball drop in New York City.  I roam the house, placing a random mug into the dishwasher, locking the front door, tossing a paper towel into the recycling bin, and ensuring that the dining room chairs are tucked neatly under the table.

            I’ve always loved the promise of a new year; January 1st inspires me.  I happily anticipate the upcoming year, brimming with objectives, plans, and promises.  I imagine each season with relish and brightly await the events and holidays that each one brings.

            But this year’s eve feels different and somewhat disquieting.  My normally optimistic bent on the new year is tempered, and I’m not certain why.  The junction of the old year and the new one feels bittersweet.  I have memories about 2019 that distress me, and the vestige of uncertainty undermines my self-confidence.  Those reflections mitigate my unbridled enthusiasm for looking forward. 

            And yet, I can’t divorce myself from the hopefulness that stems from renewal.  It’s impossible to distance myself from the joyful expectancy of a year that is reborn in its infancy.  On New Year’s morning, I wake up, pull on my running shoes, and head outdoors.  The reassuring thump of my footsteps aligns my head and my heart.  I know that a bright future is enhanced, not moderated, by the remembrance of a disconcerting past.   

            I approach a crossroad, and I hesitate – for just a moment.  I know that I am where I am, right now, because of decisions and commitments I made in the past, some of which unsettle me and others which encourage me.  I pause, heartened by the knowledge that every juncture presents me with an opportune decision that only I can make. 

            I breathe in the chilly, damp, still-nightly dark air.  I move forward and take a turn.  My eyes are fixed on the path that I selected, which brightens as it comes into focus.  The unchosen route drops away and is cast aside.  The limitless and joyful potential of the future only exists due to its juxtaposition with the past’s disconcerting doubt.  It is the concurrence of familiar and the unknown that fills me with purpose.

            My stride lengthens, and my pace quickens.  I run towards a brightly positive new year.

More Than Better Half

            It was the summer of 1983, and I was thinking about moving in with my boyfriend.  It made a lot of sense:  I was beginning law school that fall, and I needed to save money.  But it was more than economic, as I viewed co-habitation the next logical step in our relationship. 

             As expected, Don was agreeable, and even happy, with the idea.  But I held a vestige of hesitancy.  My Queen Anne apartment was calm and orderly, and I had fashioned a content and peaceful existence there.  I shopped at the local market, swam at the neighborhood pool, and rode a quick and convenient bus into Seattle for work. 

            I mentioned my reluctance to give up swimming to Don, as it was my preferred type of exercise at the time.  Soon after, that sweet fellow presented me with a swim schedule for a pool in his neighborhood – and the deal was sealed.  I don’t just mean a living arrangement; in that moment, I knew he was the fellow for me.  Other men would have simply mentioned that there was a pool nearby and encouraged their girlfriend to check it out.  Not this guy.  He drove to the pool, asked questions, and brought me a copy of the public lap swim calendar.

           This man’s thoughtfulness has never stopped.  Soon after I moved in with him, he converted his laundry room into a study for me.  Through three painful years of law school, he never questioned how much I needed to study or hinted that I should spend more time with him.    These days, if I catch a cold, I’ll come home from work to find a helpful plethora of cold medications on the bathroom counter.  Just recently, he left work mid-day to install an articulating television wall-mount in our house in response to my casual comment that it was hard to watch TV from the living room.  As the temperature drops close to freezing, all-weather tires are generously and mysteriously installed on my car.  His obliging warm hands never flinch when I tuck my icy hands in them.

            His support of my exercise commitment is unflagging.  He good-naturedly stayed home with our oldest son years ago when I flew to the east coast with two male buddies to run the 100th Boston Marathon.  Lolling around in bed on Saturday mornings is non-existent; he knows I have a running group to meet.  He supportively advertises my road-race finish outcomes to our family as though they are triumphant and significant achievements. 

            I’m not certain what Don’s considerate treatment of me gets him in return, but I won’t question the delicate enigma of matrimonial consideration.  Most women are content to have a better half, but I hit the life-partner jackpot with this guy.  My hubby is a comforting combination of warmhearted companion, protective family man, and reassuring partner.  He’s not just my better half – he’s the best half.

Resistance Training

            It was 1968, and the Southern Junior High School faculty meeting convened.  One of the agenda items was Laurin Schweet’s insubordination.  I had lodged a complaint regarding differential treatment applied to me relative to a female cheerleader.  The administration had waived the deportment rules that sanctioned gum chewing in class so that the cheerleader would not be placed on probation, but they would not waive the same rule for me. 

            The upshot of the faculty meeting was that I was correct; the disciplinary rules had been applied unfairly.  The cheerleader was placed on probation.  The edict was not shared with me in an objective, much less apologetic, way.  Instead a teacher yanked my arm, pulled me aside after class, and hissed that she could not believe that I had acted with such defiance.  In that moment, I transitioned from a sweet and deferential young teenager to one that lived the rest of her life refusing to retreat.

              I’ve had ample opportunities to express resistance since then.  As a college freshman, I refused to issue a formal apology to my dormitory housemother for a minor curfew breach.  Only freshman woman had curfews; the freshman men did not, a fact that infuriated me.  I was summoned by the Dean of Students who informed me that he would ensure that I never obtained post-graduation employment in my college town if I did not comply.  I remained steadfast. 

            As a young associate attorney at a large Seattle law firm, I registered a grievance when an important new client was given the firm’s “face book” of resumes to select which attractive young women to staff on his case.  I occasionally horrified my children when they were young; if I demanded access to management for some perceived inequity, they slipped into a mortification crevasse.  I marched proudly with almost 400,000 other protestors in the Women’s March on Washington on January 21, 2017.  I recently lectured a beleaguered traffic control officer that I was, in fact, a grown-up woman not a “little lady.”

            It occurs to me that less vociferous protestations might be more effective, but I’m no less bold in challenging myself than in confronting others.  Defiant opposition is the first cousin of tenacious determination. I cut myself no slack in the face of occasional exercise aversion.  I’m not kind to myself when feeling reluctant about physical effort; I’m all tough love with zero gentle compassion.    

            Perhaps there will come a time when tranquility will supplant intractability and decorum will override disobedience.  I hope not.  I like to envision my future self as a retirement home rebel, petitioning food caterers for humanely raised chicken dinners and upbraiding caregivers when they chide me to behave myself. 

            If so, my conduct will probably create an agenda item for the nursing home staff meeting.  Somewhere, my junior high school teachers are nodding their heads and commiserating.

Don't Do Impromptu

            It was early Spring 1985, and I was having my annual gynecological exam.  It was a busy time in my life.  I was a second-year law student, and I was interviewing for summer jobs.  I hoped to secure an internship at a good law firm for the summer before my final year, which would then transition into a permanent employment offer after graduation.  It was the strategy that most of my classmates envisioned, but mine had one additional complication:  I wanted to start a family.

            Unlike my male classmates, having a child held huge employment implications.  I couldn’t envision taking any significant time off from work for at least several years after starting my career, and I didn’t want to wait to have a child.  The perfect solution was to give birth, if possible, during my third year of law school.

            At the end of my exam, I tentatively asked my doctor how I could maximize the odds of having a baby during the winter break before my final semester of law school.  My physician looked at me sharply and barked that I couldn’t schedule a baby delivery to coincide with a three-week holiday.  I left the examination room feeling admonished but also a little stubborn.  I wasn’t confident I could get pregnant, but I wanted to improve the odds with a formulaic approach.

            You see, I’m a bit of a planner.

            As an undergraduate student I mapped out my coursework assignments so that they were neatly completed right before I needed to study for exams.  Later in my marriage, I kept a large refrigerator calendar on which color-coded family appointments and deadlines were maintained.  My weekends were calculated to maximize every minute; I even scheduled time to relax.  I held periodic summit meetings with my husband to discuss projects, events, and checklists.  I knew what each workday morning would bring from board meetings, caring for my mother, and traffic management. 

            Oddly enough, my exercise life in those days was unscripted and chaotic.  I viewed working out as important, but not essential, and I simply fit it in whenever I could.  I envisioned running a certain number of days per week but invariably failed to execute.  Gym membership fees were mostly squandered; group aerobic classes were intimidating and unappealing.  I was beleaguered by self-disappointment and troubled by lack of self-discipline.  I finally eliminated exercise drama when I created and cemented a daily exercise habit.  It improved my fitness, and, as importantly, freed me from negative internal dialog. 

             On January 7, 1986, our first son was born, as planned, right before my final semester of law school.  When he was two weeks old, I began hauling the feisty and colicky little boy back and forth on my law school commute.  I finished the final semester and graduated on-time with my class. 

            Like habit formation, careful planning doesn’t guaranty success, but it sure beats impulsivity if you have a specific objective.  Now if I could just design a highly reliable course of action to win the lottery, my grand plan would be fulfilled.

Ordinary Thrills

             Several months ago, my husband and I took an SUV-load of material to the local recycling and transfer station.  In the past, we would have called it a dump run.  But these days, we’re more sensitive of the environment and more aware of the power of words.  We recycled an old microwave oven in the appliance area, dropped off carefully flattened cardboard in the paper container, and, reluctantly pitched a small amount of material into the pile that was headed for the landfill.  We pulled out of the transfer/recycling area, rolled onto the weigh station, and paid the cashier.  I felt a distinctly pleasurable thrill driving home in an empty car to a tidier and more spacious garage.  I have to say, the trip might have been the highlight of my week!

             How and when did I become so boring?

             With maturity, the commonplace has much more allure than it used to.  It is gratifying to pay bills promptly, appealing to fold the last load of laundry on Sunday night, and almost intoxicating to come home from work when the yard crew has been there. 

             It hasn’t always been that way.  When I was younger, it seemed that the daily routines of life were mind-numbing.  I couldn’t enjoy the fragrant soapy smell when opening the dishwasher after its drying cycle because it meant that I had to unload and re-load it.  Making my bed each morning was a grumpy little “should,” not a ritual that allowed me to appreciate the smooth texture of the colorful cotton duvet.  Grabbing coffee at the drive through was always laced with impatience due to the complex drink order of the car in front of me.

             I can’t say that the world has slowed down or lessened its stressful grasp on me, but I have become more attuned to little moments of pleasure.  I am exhilarated by the perfect combination of fruit and nuts in my morning bowl of Wheat Chex.  I am amused and heartened by watching our two dogs sort out their doggy drama and curl up in their beds at night.  Listening to the banter of my adult children fills me with cheerful gratitude.

             Exercise, too, has become the comforting routine that I turn to every day.  I never tire of the cleansing scent of the outdoors, the ever-deepening volume of my breathing, or the gradual abatement of effort when I get to the top of an incline.   Walking to my front door from the street with only a semblance of emerging daylight fills me with inspirational calm.  Even the anticipatory thud of dropping my running shoes in the front hall basket is pleasing.

             I suspect that the mundane and commonplace will become increasingly satisfying to me as time goes on.  Perhaps it is a subconscious effort to forestall the pace of time due to a repressed awareness of its finite length.  If so, I’m going to cut myself some slack and experience the unfettered joy of new vacuum cleaner bags being delivered today by Amazon.

Doggedly Self-Confident

            It’s a recent weekday morning, and Boomer the dog and I are back from our run.  I’m in that typical transitional space of relaxed and happy fatigue mixed with the encroaching stress of getting to the office. 

             Boomer has happily positioned himself squarely on the heated tile floor in front of the bathroom sink, a place that directly impedes my morning ritual.  I give him a gentle shove with my foot along with a friendly admonishment to get out of the way, but he simply blinks his warm, dark eyes at me and remains steadfast.  I sigh, marveling at his confident contentment, and give up.  The rest of my ablutions are completed with me standing splay-legged at the sink so as not to disturb or step on him.  I marvel at Boomer’s resolute trust in me.  He is either unflaggingly assured that I won’t step on him or cheerfully optimistic that if I do, it won’t hurt.

             I could take a lesson from that dog.  He is happy, confident, unflappable, and self-assured despite a desperate, life-on-the-streets background that would wither a less resilient canine.  He harbors no concern about his lovability, his current status, or his future prospects, and he manifests a Zen-like ability to live in the moment.

             I envy Boomer.  I’m self-confident, but I can’t say that my self esteem is up to par.  When I reflect on any personal creation or event, it is always tempered by the knowledge that someone else would have done it more quickly and more successfully.  I am aware that I founded what is now a thriving, ten-attorney law firm, but I discount its success.  My husband and I raised three smart, ambitious, honest, and kind young men but I’m convinced that it was despite my mothering of them not because of it.  In two weeks, I’ll run a half-marathon, but I’ll be largely dissatisfied with my finish time.  My book, Daily, is going to the publisher shortly, but I already view its 250 pages with a critical eye.

             But when it comes to daily exercise, it’s hard for me to find fault.  I suppose I could lift weights more often, and I could run faster and longer on weekday mornings.  But at least I have an unwavering confidence that when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll dress for the outdoors and lace up running shoes.  I maintain an unfaltering trust that my legs will carry me through the distance and route that I select and that I will arrive home, upbeat and hopeful about what the day will bring.  I am positive that I won’t skip a workout and substitute a latte and scone at the coffee shop. 

             So maybe I should take a page from Boomer’s playbook.  I could grab a pillow, lay on the heated tile floor for a while, and practice a little mindfulness.  Until, that is, a wet dog nose shoves itself into my neck and reminds me that it’s time for breakfast.