Changing What You Cannot See

            When I was a teenager in the 1970’s, my mother was summoned for jury duty.  Due to adolescent self-absorption, I was not that interested in her experience or the importance of that process.  When voir dire was completed on the second day of trial, my mother was excused from serving as a juror.  Before dinner that night, as she stood in the kitchen of our home, she said simply, “they asked me if I was prejudiced against black people, and you know, I told them that I thought I was.”  Her voice was soft with self-disappointment and more than a hint of shame.

            My mother should have served on a jury panel.  The town of Lexington, Kentucky sat at the confluence of the South and the Midwest, neither region a pillar of racial egalitarianism.  If the defense attorney believed that he was going to find within our community a Caucasian, upper-middle class, middle-aged white woman without a shred of bigotry, he was mistaken.  He should have settled for one who openly acknowledged her intolerance and struggled against it.

            “Racist” is a harsh, non-compromising, binary word, and I am unprepared, and unqualified, to use it unequivocally.  But I know one thing: if you believe you are impartial and blind to racial, ethnic, or physical differences, you are part of the problem. 

            I used to be in that group.  I raised my family in an affluent and progressive neighborhood.  I loved that my youngest son’s friends used to tease him and ask if he had any white friends.  I stood shoulder to shoulder with black and brown mothers at youth sporting events, cheering, and bonding over our unified desire for a winning soccer goal.  I believed in my heart that I lacked prejudice.

            But I know better now.  We are all unconsciously drawn towards those who look like us, and we ascribe value to certain physical attributes.  As white parents, given the choice, we would prefer our children marry someone whose race, religion, culture, sexual orientation, and gender identification conform to ours.  We vote for political leaders we identify with because we believe they align with our values and will divest the powerlessness we feel as a member of society whose physical presence is discounted. 

            I recently took an on-line implicit bias test, and I was horrified at what I learned.  The test required me to make snap judgments between a series of photographs depicting people of different genders, races, dress style, military apparel, and physical disabilities.  The test was designed to be taken quickly, so that you do not have enough time to overcome biased responses, even when you recognize them.  It was humbling.  I know now that working to eliminate social inequality must start with acknowledging the underpinnings of intolerance within me.

            As I walked through my suburban neighborhood recently, I saw a black man approaching me - tall, athletic, 30-something.  His head was down, buried in deep thought or doubtful hesitation, I could not tell which.  I sang out, “good morning” cheerfully.  It was code for, “I want you to know that I see you, I respect you, I am glad you are here.”  He looked up at me and smiled broadly, his cheery demeanor washing over and instantly replacing his first emotion – relief at my reaction to him.

            I have been known to complain that I am discounted for my gender, my age, and my height.  But no one looks at me and perceives that I am potentially dangerous, criminal, lazy, or even just “different.”  No one is afraid to approach me to offer help or to ask directions.  I never worry I will hear a passing slur.

            The essence of white fragility is disclaiming the existence of bias even when you have never walked through the world as a person of color.  It is believing that it is enough to voice outrage for injustice and to vote for those whose platforms demand equality. 

            I bask in the protective coating of white privilege.  My goal is to recognize that I have it so that I can fight it.

Downtrodden in the Untrodden

            It is Saturday morning.  I take a second-rate, hour-long run, a slog through thickly damp air and pervasive disinclination.  My breakfast is pedestrian in all respects.  I sit at my desk and delay the inevitable, scrolling through social media sites, watching videos about heartwarming child adoptions, surprising military family reunions, and unlikely animal friendships.  I read stories that are simultaneously heartbreaking and uplifting, chock-full of pain, loss, redemption, and inspiration.

            It is time to write my blog post, but my mind is empty of anything remotely creative.  Every week for the past 18 months, ideas and storylines fluttered throughout my consciousness, mostly uninvited, during weekday runs and solitary dog walks.  This week was dusty and barren, my imagination cloaked in stifling banality.  I am stuck.

            I have dozens of blog post ideas scratched on notepads and typed into my iPhone Notes app: watching a one-legged man in a wheelchair escorted by his attentive pit bull; a paperback book I owned in college showing up thirty years later in an European Airbnb; tossing grudges while throwing away clutter; how I think I’m busy until I found a calendar from 1996; the searing and ruthless political environment on Facebook; the 100th anniversary of the ratification of the 19th amendment.  The list goes on and on, endlessly arcing past the suffocated segment of my personal creativity. 

            I consider, and cast aside, essay themes as quickly as I sort dirty clothes on laundry day.  The subjects are too trite, sentimental, or emotionally troubling, or they are obviously hackneyed, or blatantly controversial in an electrified national election season.  That ever-present pull to create, to examine, or to amuse is not just elusive or inaccessible, it is non-existent, erased from memory.

            I quell the rising panic that emerges within me: I am done, there is no more, my enthralling creative journey has ended long before I contemplated.  I research writer’s block on the internet and read articles explaining that apathy, anxiety, and self-doubt are at its core.  I briefly ponder what comes next.  I assumed that my passion for writing was a fundamental facet of what drives me.  But now that desire is truncated, an unanticipated impediment cresting an unforeseen hill. 

            I sit, sullenly, shoulder to shoulder with tedium and frustration. 

            And then it comes to me:  this is not just where I am; it is exactly where I am supposed to be.  I breathe deeply and accept feelings of discouragement, disquietude, and indecision.  I allow myself to wonder, without judgment, of what has brought me to this point and without impatience about when it will end.  It is not about selecting a trail through a thicket or deciding on a route through the trees.  It is about occupying space while worries and burdens scurry past me, tripping in their eagerness to gain ground.

            The words of poet George Gordon Byron come to me:  There is pleasure in the pathless woods.  And so, I sit and wait, watchful, soothed by a breathless forest.

Ambition Condition

            When I returned to work after the birth of my second child in 1989, the kindly and nurturing secretary for a senior attorney pulled me aside.  She welcomed me back with a warm hug, and then gazed into my face, searching for both the answer to a question and the words with which to ask it.  “Laurin, congratulations, I am so happy for you.  But are you sure that it is, uhm, right that you are here?”  She shook her head with regret; whether it was because she had the temerity to ask the question or in disapproval of me, I could not ascertain.

            The partners, all but one of whom were male, gave me a cordial but somewhat distant reception as though I were a fragile Christmas tree ornament that would shatter if I stayed late to write a legal brief.  One of the junior managers explained why: I was the first female attorney in the company’s decades-long history that had returned after having a baby, and they did not know what to do with me.

            After the birth of my third son in 1992, my professional life was even more complex.  The timing of having a baby was problematic; I knew that.  I was a sixth-year associate, which meant that in several months, under the unwritten code of large Seattle law firms, I would be considered for partnership.  In those days, the stakes were high; it was an “up or out” environment, which meant that if you did not make partner on schedule, your career with the firm was essentially over.  Fortunately, notwithstanding the occasional quips from men about getting my tubes tied, I got a thumbs up.

            In hindsight, I am annoyed by how differently society viewed ambitious men and women – those who wanted both a career and a robust family life.  In my memory, new fathers were gifted with bottles of scotch and solid back slaps regardless of whether it was their first child or their fifth.  A devoted family man was considered a marketing asset, and jokes abounded about giving him a raise because he had to start another college fund or changing from man-to-man to zone defense at home.  Female attorneys with children at my firm were practically non-existent.  As a result, I understood that my maternal life should be placed on hold as soon as I logged onto my computer each day.  It was easier to blend in with office banter if I pretended that my real life was not happily and chaotically subsumed by potty training, finger paint productions, and Lego creations. 

            People often view professional women who pursue careers for reasons of ambition and not necessity with suspicion.  Committed male employees are rarely accused of lacking parental devotion; in fact, fathers who work long hours to support their family are revered.  Women have told me that I should not have had children; that choosing an absorbing career necessarily meant that I was neglecting my offspring.  The fact that I worked because I felt the inexplicable and uncontrollable pull of achievement was my dirty little secret.  I hid my need for success like a bottle of gin behind boxes of laundry detergent in a rarely used cupboard.

            Looking back, I am filled with gratitude.  I had devoted caregivers that loved my kids and who assured me that they were confident, bright, and on-track.  My husband never questioned my occupational ethic, and he made employment sacrifices for the good of the family.  My adult offspring are seemingly undamaged by early maternal neglect, and, though they lack a valid and reliable yardstick, they regularly assert that I am the world’s greatest mother. 

            I wish that I had brought the same zealous and boundless advocacy to my maternity leave negotiations that I did on behalf of my clients.  If I had, my employers would have quickly capitulated and yielded to my terms. 

            Well, except maybe my demand that the managing partner’s office be converted to a day care center.

Sticker Stock

            As a mother of three young and rambunctious boys in the 1990’s, I urgently needed parenting tips.  My children were smart, fun, and for the most part, completely out of control.  What I believed was a thoughtful spacing between births, designed to get each child out of diapers before the next one arrived, had backfired on me.  Instead, the age and sophistication of each son enhanced the disobedience of his next younger brother. 

            I tried everything:  reading books on discipline; listening to child-rearing experts;  enforcing time-outs; and working with a child psychologist who, after observing our oldest son, opined that his need for control was at the far end of the power continuum.  (When that same power-obsessed child learned to read, he would dip into my parenting books and give me helpful advice such as, “Mom, when I am mean to my brothers you are not supposed to give me attention because it reinforces my negative behavior.”)

            In desperation, I decided to implement sticker charts, a practice that some of my friends used with great success.  The idea was to arrive at a list of specific, reinforceable behaviors, establish a prize for those tasks, and document progress with decals placed on a piece of cardboard.

            My children were enthused by the idea, and their creative little three-, six-, and ten-year-old minds instantly grasped the concept.  Since Evan was about to be kicked out of preschool for behavioral truancy, his list contained prohibitions of running in the classroom, throwing toys at school, and fidgeting at circle time. Middle son Andy wrote out his own list of objectives: (1) take your plate to the sink; (2) pick up your toys; (3) do not jump on the bed; and (4) eat your porkchop, among them.  Intuitive oldest-son Eric immediately pinpointed the activities that would resonate with me, such as removing his shoes when entering the house, completing homework, and not eating on the couch.

            All three kids independently came up with the idea that they should stop using bad language.  Evan called it, “potty language;” Andy listed, “no swaring” [sic] on his table; and Eric, understanding the value of phrasing it in a positive way, identified “good language.”  The two younger boys coveted a trip to Toys R Us for their reward, while our oldest son wanted a N64 controller for 40 stickers, a Nintendo game for 75, and an N64 game for 100. 

            For a time, the delayed gratification exercise worked seamlessly. We had after-dinner conversations about social successes and challenges.  I noted positive actions every day, and my children selected decals from an elaborate and colorful inventory.  The kids counted the days left before they achieved their goals.  The final day was busy, absorbing, and quietly happy as my offspring enjoyed the fruits of their hard work after trips to the store and purchases.  I basked in the glow of maternal contentment, pleased with the effectiveness of my experiment.

            But the misbehaviors cropped up immediately after my sons completed their charts, lapses occurring with increased frequency, almost virulent in their spread.  The solution?  A new performance challenge, of course.  But this time my kids demonstrated less enthusiasm, and the proffered rewards did not inspire them.  In psychological terms, the process offered diminishing returns:  the thrill of the drill decreased after it reached a certain point.  Permanent change did not occur.  My kids failed to establish positive habits; they just delayed the bad ones long enough to reach a goal.  My temporarily embellished ego slunk back into the familiar ranks of second-rate mothering.

            To say that the exercise lacked value is not accurate.  My offspring learned to negotiate a less-stringent behavioral investment for a higher rate of return in the next reward chart.  They also acquired a talent for knowing the minimum level of performance that would result in a sticker. My sons perfected the art of swearing in voices just low enough so that I could not hear.  Most notably, the experience helped cement the sibling brotherhood coalition that exists to this day. 

            All things considered these life skills are probably serving my sons better than eating porkchops at the dining room table.

Efficiency Epiphany

            When I was a young mother, one of my heroes was my cousin’s wife, Stephanie.  She captained a counseling practice, a happy marriage, and three young, energetic children.  Stephanie obtained her master’s degree in social work with exacting time-management precision and discipline.  Though she lived on the east coast, and I did not see or talk to her often, I gleaned that she accomplished goals by having a highly structured and ordered life.

            Stephanie was remarkably efficient.  The laundry room in her home was stationed off the kitchen, and when I visited, she could switch wet clothes from the washer to the dryer without a pause in our conversation.  She fashioned a shopping list in the exact order of the grocery store footprint, ensuring that she never backtracked to grab a loaf of bread.  Her most inspired brainchild was putting just-bathed offspring to bed in clean sweat pant outfits.  In the morning, sleepy children could stumble to breakfast and off to school without the obstacle of dressing, leaving time for brushing teeth, grabbing back packs, and good-bye kisses.   

            Over time, I became infatuated with efficiency, fueled by both necessity and temperament.  I remember dictating legal research memos while driving home from a summer law firm internship.  At one point, I perfected the art of applying make-up while stopped at traffic signals; working full-time, getting kids off to school, and, for several years, caring for my mother in assisted living seemed to necessitate that. Today, like many people, I have perfected the art of working during lunch, brushing off both germy keyboard concerns and work clothes crumbs. 

            I epitomize exercise economy.  Running and vigorous walking are high-return aerobic exercises that can be done anywhere at any time.  Walking is simultaneously relaxing and energizing.  I can multi-task while running by listening to books, podcasts, or music.  But my most productive use of time while exercising is allowing my thoughts to roam freely, either stepping hesitantly along the perimeter of my consciousness or darting boldly through it. 

            I have run to book club gatherings and home from non-profit board meetings.  When my children played high school sports, I sometimes ran to baseball fields or loops around the ballpark.  I would drop little soccer players at the field, and furtively change my clothes in the car for a little pre-game workout.  Today I walk terminals in airports and parking lots at distant hotels.  My running shoes are stalwart, resolute, and at the ready, waiting patiently for me to pull them from darkened hall closets onto my feet.

            With the grace of maturity, and an emerging belief that I can set boundaries on my commitments, I increasingly give myself the gift of time and space.  I pause and stretch after running without hearing the urgent pull of my law practice.  I revel in the occasional luxury of a hot bath even if housecleaning calls.  Recently, I ignored the incoming email of an important client while I finished a personal text message.

            And who knows, if I can talk my husband into pulling weeds while I nap, I can hone my multi-tasking skills to perfection. 

Cessation Preparation

           It is Thanksgiving Day, 2017.  I have assembled my young adult offspring for a family meeting.  They are a reluctant and diffident group, tired from the previous night’s social activities and slightly wary.

            I circulate a two-page handout to my children and announce that it contains a detailed outline of their parent’s finances.  My oldest son flips through it quickly, and then turns his attention to his cell phone.  Middle son Andy gives me a practiced and patient gaze while his mind turns to the lure of college football games.  My number three son sighs and wonders why his mother feels compelled to convey this information.  All three share an insatiable desire to finish so they can commence traditional holiday activities of food, sports, and couch time. 

            I run through the Financial Cheat Sheet quickly, knowing that my audience’s attention span compares unfavorably to six-year-olds at a birthday party.  The document lists bank accounts, credit cards, life and property insurance policies, retirement accounts, real estate information, law firm buyout formulas, health and disability policy information, social security numbers, personal property valuations, automobile VIN numbers, where our wills are, and how to dispose of our remains.  My husband and I are not young, but we are not so old that our financial lives have simplified.  If we died, our kids would spend weeks untangling and ferreting out details of our estate.  My first post-departure gift will be to ease that burden.

            The footsteps of Father Time are more distinct with each passing season.  I am healthy, fit, and optimistic, and it is possible that I possess the longevity gene.  My mother was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer in her early 60’s – and died of pneumonia at age 93.  Her mother lived, and thrived, until 103.  My paternal aunt is patiently waiting out the pandemic and looking forward to celebrating her 99th birthday in a couple of weeks. 

            But there are no guarantees, genetic or otherwise.  The Grim Reaper’s grasp is capricious, and the pandemic’s clasp brings me face to face with my mortality.  I feel driven to organize, sort, and prepare my belongings for the day when they are someone else’s.  It is a daunting challenge to look at my life’s possessions through the lens of someone who does not recognize them and may not want them.

            I have embarked on dual daunting clean-up projects, both at home and at my office.  Self-isolation has resulted in self-imposed tidying up.  I have boxes of my mother’s photographs and bins of her memorabilia.  I have trunks of my children’s schoolwork and containers of their athletic mementos.   Our garage has a more-than-healthy collection of tools, half-filled paint cans, and lumber scraps.  Sorting and condensing are tedious, and the process is exacerbated by the pandemic reality.  Family gatherings to share and give away objects are not possible.  Charitable donation organizations are shuttered or have reduced capacity.

            Intellectually I know that my legacy is not tethered to my personal effects; to the contrary, it seems tied to the absence of clutter.  When my adult children gather and examine my belongings after my passing, I hope their attitude is better than it was on that chilly day in 2017.  Otherwise, they will cast disparaging glances at my chattels, make half-hearted attempts at ascertaining their importance, and decide to junk it all.

            If that is going to be the case, I could save myself a lot of effort and dump it now.

Vocation Volition

            When I was in 6th grade, my English teacher gave our class a creative writing exercise using an inconsequential news article as a prompt.  The piece was about a stolen city bus that had been inexplicably abandoned on the outskirts of town. The police had not identified any suspects nor determined a motive for the theft.

            My classmates fashioned various scenarios to explain the bus’s sojourn.  They wrote stories about criminal escapades and teenage shenanigans.  One inventive teen composed an elaborate narrative about aliens stealing the bus, sucking it into the innards of an extraterrestrial spacecraft, then spewing it back to earth after extracting its available information.

            I had a different story to tell.  In my essay, an elderly man, whose memories from decades ago were brighter than his conversations minutes before, slipped out of a nursing home and roamed the neighborhood.  He stumbled onto the deserted bus, climbed in, and turned the key as the engine roared into service.  The sunshine dappled onto the hood of what he remembered as a yellow and black school bus.  The man drove a well-known neighborhood path, stopping at times and opening the bus’s doors to the imaginary sounds of excited schoolchildren.  He nodded kindly at the memory of grateful parents relinquishing their schoolchildren into his responsible care.  The rhythm and vibration of the bus cloaked him in comforting familiarity, until he was stopped by the police and returned to his anxious caregivers at the Shady Rest Home.  His beloved lifetime career of driving a school bus was, at least temporarily, restored to him.

            My youthful fondness, and even reverence, for the beauty of job commitment surprises me now. When I was young, work consisted of household chores, some of which I got paid for, but most of which I did not.  My mother was convinced that a strong work ethic was the only thing that separated me and my brother from growing up and living in a van down by the river.  During summer vacations from school, she insisted that we arise at 7:00 every morning and toil for an hour around the house cleaning, sweeping, scrubbing, or painting.  When I was 16 years old, I fled chores inside the house for outside employment.  My livelihood has been the supportive foundation of my existence ever since. 

            Several years ago, a high school classmate expressed his retirement joy and encouraged me to do that same.  His voice had the urgent tone of a doctor explaining to her patient that he needed to quit smoking immediately or face dire health consequences.  Friends and professional colleagues make occasional subtle comments to me as well, their well-intentioned suggestions revealing more about their choices than mine. 

            Many older adults are happily preoccupied by their occupations.  I have yet to hear that 79-year-old Dr. Anthony Fauci should resign because of his age.  Those who believe that 87-year-old Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg should relinquish her spot on the U.S. Supreme Court are motivated more by politics than belief of her incapacity.  You may dislike Warren Buffet, but you must admire a wealthy 89-year-old driven and energized by his daily business pursuits.    

            The older I get, the fewer opinions I have about what others around me are doing.  When you retire, and what you do after your exodus from the working world, is of no import.  I am fascinated by people’s impetus and insight into major life decisions, but they do not influence me.  I fully grasp, and identify with, the gratifying embrace of occupational commitment.

            I have developed a highly sophisticated algorithm for knowing that continued professional pursuits are right for me:  when I pull out of my driveway on weekday mornings with the warm aroma of coffee filling the air alongside the amusing prattle of radio talk show hosts, I feel happy.  The day draws me forward with the lure of purpose, accomplishment, and engagement. 

            When those feelings change, I will step down without regret.  Unless, of course, I have to give up coffee.

Unsuitably Attired

            Right before the pandemic foisted itself into our lives, I showed my sister in law my walk-in closet during a quick tour of my home.  She made appreciative and complimentary statements about the master suit and then remarked, “you make me feel like I need to clean my closet.”  It was not that she deemed me unusually tidy; it was that she regarded my clothes collection as austere.

            It did not use to be that way.  I have always loved clothes, but frugality often impeded acquisition.  I learned to sew as a child, and I made some of my own clothes for reasons of economy and adherence to family culture.  As a young teenager, I was given a clothing allowance of $10 per month, which dissipated immediately upon disposition.  My first job, when I turned 16, at a fast food restaurant augmented my apparel investment.  Dressing well in high school was not just about attracting boys; it signaled social status.  The conflict between my fashion obsession and finances continued, unabated, through my college years and through law school.    

            My attire needs took a dramatic detour when I became a lawyer.  Working as an associate attorney required that I wear a suit every single day.  It not just demonstrated commitment to the profession, it signaled my readiness to run to court at any time if a partner walked into my office and slapped motion pleadings on my desk.  I forged the boundaries between full-time employee and devoted mother as best I could, showing up for scores of elementary school functions dressed in business ensembles, my outfit starkly contrasting with the wrinkled t-shirts and sweatpants of my kids.

            With maturity, and tenure, my days of going to court diminished as younger attorneys handled more routine motions.  But I clung to dressing with clout to demonstrate leadership and prerogative.  When I founded my own firm, I began to understand that I had the power to dress with authority – or not.  I still clasped onto to a business casual wardrobe for reasons that had more to do with influence and perception than necessity or imperative.

            But something mysterious happened along the way:  I stopped caring.  I discarded smart khaki pants and sleekly finished dress pants in favor of colored jeans.   Crisp dress shirts and sweater sets morphed into comfy long-sleeved shirts.  Wedges and kitten heels evolved into fashionable but sensible loafers or low-heeled sandals.  I still cling stubbornly to a vestige of formality – make-up every day of the week and blue jeans only on Fridays– but a natural evolution might ordain that I will one day stroll into my office in yoga pants, a t-shirt, and workout shoes.

            I wander through the quietly and beautifully cloistered closet in my home.  I gaze at a simple alignment of pantsuits, unpretentiously graced in muted colors, and I brush off an almost-indistinguishable layer of dust from their shoulders.  I wonder whether the next time I pull them from their hangars I will be going to court – or placing them in a donation bin.  My blazers stand resolutely at the ready to top off black dress pants for deposition duty. I gaze with fondness and a twinge of sadness at my assortment of party dresses that quietly yearn for a wedding dance floor.   

            Gentle but persistent mandates flicker across my mind: I ought to refresh my wardrobe because what I wear demonstrates self-regard and sends surreptitious signals to the outside world.  I briefly ponder a blitz of on-line shopping, the excitement of trying on new clothes, and viewing myself in the latest fashion.  

            I sigh and stretch in the comforting familiarity of stretchy sportswear.  Maybe later.

Pet Pilgrimage

            We drive to a shopping mall just east of Seattle on a recent Monday night and circle around the parking lot with uncertainty.  We do not know where to meet, so we circumvent the asphalt hoping that intuition will signal where to park.  We finally locate a large area in the southeast corner that feels right. 

            We park our car and get out.  As the minutes pass, people begin assembling, glancing at each other hesitantly.  It dawns on us that we are here for the same reason, and an alliance builds among us, tightening with each passing minute.  We wait with a mixture of judicious patience and anxious restlessness.  The pilgrimage from Texas has taken too long, delayed by generator repairs and unexpected traffic.

           At last a large, grubby windowless van rolls into place, and we all let out a relieved but polite cheer.  After a never-ending wait, the roll-up door at the back of the truck opens, and a cacophony of barking, whining, and scratching erupts.  The crowd quiets with anticipation and the air is thick with an expectant hush.   

            The upbeat but fatigued driver emerges from the back of the van with a large manila envelope and a bouncy young hound who strains at his leash and blinks at the brightly fragrant air.  Two people in the crowd rush forward, their eyes bright with relief and joy.  They squat down for a proper and non-threatening introduction, and the dog sniffs them carefully but without inhibition.  Quickly snapped photographs document the adoptive parents’ radiance and the pup’s bewilderment.  The newly formed family makes its way to their car after a short walk through the curbside grass.

            Each new dog is escorted out, one by one, with what feels like an interminable interval in between.  Audible gasps, cheers, and applause greet each new arrival:  a large, white, long-haired mama dog, having recently been separated from her litter; a black and white pit bull who is given a handsome new wide, leather collar; and an old stray with a look of stoic resignation in his eyes.  Two puppies come out, shaking with the stress and uncertainty of the unknown.  A one-eyed pug snuggles immediately into the arms of his adoptive mother, instantly realizing that he has found his forever home.  Universal tail wagging and excited yips abound.

            Vibrant emotions are on evident display.  Young women exhale high-pitched exclamations, and mature couples allow happiness to displace their customary emotional reserve.  A middle-aged tough guy glances downward to disguise the softening in his eyes as he pets and murmurs at an endearing mixed breed mutt.  In an instant, hearts heal, and loneliness is eliminated. 

            I watch the cluster of adopters quietly and happily diminish as the number of pets dwindles, solace replacing canine stress and connection supplanting human isolation.  The tedious expedition that began days earlier and the heartfelt quest to adopt a pet unite in a grateful confluence.  These rescued stray doggies do not know it yet, but their lives just took a permanent and happy pivot that began with the opening screech of the truck’s pull-up door.  The little canines are delivered from an existence of chaos, disruption, or abuse, and their human parents are relieved from lives that feel lonely, restless, or unfulfilled.

            My husband and I look at each other in a moment of perfect understanding as our son cradles a resilient mixed breed puppy in his arms and heads to his car.  Our hearts are full as we are struck by his instant attachment and devotion.

            Salvation for all of us can be as simple as adopting a lovable dog that needs a home.  

Minor Transgressions

            It is a chilly morning in December 2007, and I am in court.  When my case is called, I arise and walk to the podium.  For the first time in my legal career, I am uncertain of what to say to the judge.  The courtroom is practically empty, with only six or eight people, all of whom are adults – except for a teenage boy. 

           I have a few typed up notes, hurriedly thrown into a Word document and printed out late the night before.  Unlike most hearings, I do not have a binder with meticulously organized and tabbed documents:  an outline of my oral argument, copies of moving and opposing pleadings, relevant cases, miscellaneous notes, and proofs of service.

            Today I am appearing in court as a victim’s representative, not as an advocate.  Months ago, my young adolescent son and two of his friends were at a fast food restaurant at an upscale mall before heading to a video store.  My son had his wallet on the dining table when he was approached by a physically imposing young man.  The teen asked my son a question, temporarily distracting him, and then stole his wallet and sprinted outside.  My kid and his loyal buddies immediately, and correctly, surmised that the thief was too adroit and powerful to pursue, so they ran to the mall information desk, and the police were summoned. 

            The young offender was rounded up with dispatch, still with the cash he had taken from my son’s wallet.  He pled guilty in juvenile court to theft in the third degree. My son was invited to be present at his sentencing.  I thought it would provide closure, but my son adamantly refused to attend.  Like most teenage boys, he was all bluster on the outside and vulnerability on the inside.  I suspect he was intimidated by the threat of retaliation – or at least social repercussions for attending.    

            I was uncertain why I wanted to attend and speak at the sentencing.  I had mixed emotions: anger at someone who took advantage of a boy younger and smaller, frustration at my son for not coming with me, and curiosity at why I needed to be there.  I felt that witnessing the offender would help me understand who he was and why he did it.  I also wanted him to know that though he had frightened and taunted my son, I was not afraid of him. 

            But something tugged at and softened my fury.  The young man’s mother sat in the courtroom, her impassive expression masking her heartache and distress.  I wanted her to know that parenting sons is a humbling experience, that our boys were more alike than different, and that we are inextricably bonded by our sole desire that the world treat our children with compassion and that they, in kind, respond with integrity, honesty, and courage.

            I adjust the microphone slightly, swallow hard, and begin to speak: 

            The world is not that forgiving. You cannot take a lot of missteps and expect people to continually support you.  You have let yourself down and have disappointed the people who care most about you.  Events do not happen in isolation; your impromptu decision sparked a chain reaction that ignited your family, my family, and our communities.  But we all have a chance to learn from our mistakes.  You are solely responsible for your life trajectory, which is determined by the decisions you make day by day.  I support the recommendation of the Juvenile Probation Counselor for community supervision and service.  And I expect you to go out into the world and accomplish great things and live up to the promise that all who love you know you possess.

               Years later, I think about that young man and wonder about his juvenile crime conviction.  Had he been white instead of black, had my son been of the same race, had the crime been committed somewhere other than an affluent suburb, would he be sentenced under juvenile law?  Or would he have been removed from the judicial system and redirected into a diversion process that did not have legal implications? 

                  The hazy lens of hindsight is troubling.  But my hopes for him are unequivocally clear – that he is happy and fulfilled, that he has honored the potential his mother knew existed within him, and he understands, and forgives, his youthful defiance and impulsivity. 

Clearing Clutter

            It is Saturday morning, and after a long run, I drive to my workplace in Seattle.  I am not working today, but I have a new project:  I am cleaning my office.  I have a penchant for completing tasks by challenging myself to pursue them every single day.  In this case, I decided to allocate at least 15 minutes a day for 50 days. I have no idea how long this endeavor will take, but setting a goal is the first step in accomplishing it.

            My office appears tidy to an outsider, and I am more organized than most of the attorneys in my firm.  But my filing cabinet and bookcases with doors conceal a multitude of sins: I am a self-confessed paper hoarder.   My case files patiently reside in a file room, so they are not the problem.  I am the managing member of the law firm, and I use this as atonement for harboring more files, binders, and papers than the average attorney.  I also keep personal files of all sorts – real estate, financial, creative writing, and family business matters.

            Attorneys are notorious collectors of briefs, legal research, and notepads.  Those of us of a certain age started our legal careers with only a vestige of technology: smart typewriters and word-processors.  We printed out and photocopied everything; it would be malpractice not to do so.  The successful legacy of a litigation file was not just the legal outcome, but its ordered and structured aftermath consisting of labeled files, tabulated clips, binders fronted with tables of contents, and accordion files.  Management responsibilities mandate a plethora of documents: employee and payroll files, insurance coverage applications and policies, tax returns and source documents, sensitive financial records, and an assemblage of materials for committee and bar association volunteer projects.

            But my paper accumulations are not merely the dispassionate collections of my legal and managerial duties.  I am an apprehensive administrative squirrel, accumulating and storing clutter as though it is food in anticipation of a famine.  I save personnel evaluations long after an employee’s voluntary departure.  I maintain bank statements that date back more than a decade.  I preserve hard copies of management emails to my partners.  I compile files of paperwork as a hedge against the fear that I might need them someday.

            I have enthusiastic and willing staff who would be happy to scan my papers and save them electronically.  But this feels like a pathetic and avoidant solution to the problem.  Preserving papers electronically without confronting their contents is the elusive behavior of a wimp.  Instead, I force myself to pour through the contents of my file drawers and cabinets, reading and reviewing, discerning and distilling, clearing and culling.  It is an all-too familiar process for me: determining whether I am keeping something out of objectivity or due to emotion.

            This blog post has been a wonderful excuse to delay today’s office cleaning assignment.  Time to send it on its way and purge some paper!

Seven Joys in Seven Days

            It is Saturday morning, and I reflect on a psychological landscape that feels painful, perturbing, and surreal.  I am confronting both physical threats to my health due to the pandemic as well as emotional sorrow for a nation seared by loss, misunderstanding, and factionalized tension.  It would be easy to hunker down and pull emotional bedcovers over my head and wait it out.

            But joy is more resilient and persistent than that, akin to crocus blossoms emerging from a late winter snowfall.  Happiness peeps its cheerful head out from beneath a dank curtain of uncertainty and melts the most stalwart negative heart.  And this week was full of pearly gladness.

            On Sunday, I was able to visit, for the first time in months, all three of my kids and their partners outdoors at a dog park.  We threw sticks in the water for the newest grand dog to fetch, cheering at his youthful exuberance and impulsiveness.  Another grand-dog, Lola, was adorable and inquisitive.  For a time, we forgot about fear and celebrated connection.

            On Monday, I settled a legal case that was the longest open file in my law career.  Off and on for 12 years, I had battled on behalf of a client who was deserving, intelligent, and patient.   And we finally won.  As the settlement funds arrived in my law firm’s trust account, my client cried tears of grateful finality.

            Tuesday was my birthday, and against all odds in this chaotic time, it was one of the best birthdays ever.  I was flooded with emails, phone calls, text messages, FaceTime events and Facebook congratulations.  Cards, flowers, gift boxes, and candy arrived with almost overwhelming rapidity.  It was as though my family and friends needed an outlet to party – and my birthday was their excuse.

            Wednesday was a ZOOM call with some of my besties, calls that are always chummy, but this one was somewhat more personal than usual.  We explored, confessed, and laughed about our young married lives and the planned, and unexpected, pregnancies that thrust us into parenthood.  These women are my rock; they are there for me in a heartbeat, and I hope they know I am there for the asking whenever they need me.

            After work on Thursday, my husband and I received a text message from our youngest son, asking if we could drive to his nearby apartment and pick up some boxes to store in our garage.  It was a happy relief to see him, masked and self-assured, and to know that we still represent at least a vestige of parental capability and helpfulness for him.

            Out of the blue on Friday, our daughter in law, a native of Brazil, received notification from the United States Customs and Immigration Service that she had finally been granted a permanent green card, and that her citizenship test will now be scheduled.  Years of impatience, and a current unsettling political climate, had cast doubt on whether this would ever happen.

           On Saturday, as I write this post, I am 24 hours away from completing my Health and Life Coach certification from the Health Coach Institute, a curriculum that I began last fall.  It has been absorbing, educational, enlightening and -- in the last few weeks -- interminable.  I bask in the quiet glow of satisfaction and completion.

            Happiness is a relentless and indefatigable force for the privileged among us that receive its bounty.  I will never take joy for granted; the suffering and despair of others casts a daily shadow that even the brightness of this week could not obscure.  My challenge is to fully open myself and embrace delight so that its most timid wisp does not escape into the ether.   

Integrated But Separated

            It was the fall of 1970, and I was in my sophomore year of high school in Lexington, Kentucky.  Something new was afoot: busing was initiated to achieve integration because clearly segregated residential neighborhoods had resulted in essentially segregated schools.  Subdued and quiescent black students joined our classrooms and filled our hallways.  Overt racial tension was absent, in my view, but was replaced by clear ethnic disconnection.  Blacks and whites isolated themselves into concrete social groups.  It was the implicit code of conduct that commingling was a social death-knell.

            PhysEd class was mandatory and separated by gender. The curriculum changed every several weeks, and basketball was our current sport.  As a warm-up drill, the teacher lined us up into two groups to practice two-handed chest and bounce passes.  Marcia, a muscular and athletic black teenager, elbowed others out of the way so that she could be my warm-up partner.  As the whistle blew, she began volleying basketball passes to me that felt like cannonballs while the hint of a smile graced her dark complexion  At age 14, I was a petite, will-o-the-wisp girl, and my small mass barely sustained the barrage targeted my way.  But I was stoic and stubborn, and I kept an impassive face as I endured stinging ball receptions. 

            I knew Marcia thought of me as a wimpy and entitled white girl, but I did not understand why every aspect of her demeanor was so fierce.  Now I know; she was mad as hell.  Powerless and disenfranchised, she was bused to an all-white high school in an affluent part of town where students who looked like her were in the minority, and teachers who looked like her were non-existent.  To restore a vestige of pride, she resorted to bullying.  I do not blame her.

            Public school integration in Kentucky was met with less volatility and resistance than the Deep South, but it was not particularly smooth either.  I understand now, what I did not comprehend then, is that busing was a painful and troubling solution to a complex problem of lower-quality facilities and lower-paid teachers in black neighborhood schools. 

            My regret about not interacting with people of color in high school borders on shame.  I wish I knew then what I know now:  we are more alike than we are different, and what separates us is not the color of our skin but the exterior veneer of our pain.  I like to think that Marcia and I could have been friends if I had been more understanding, compassionate, and extroverted.  We might not have been best buddies or gone on double dates, but we could have respected and appreciated each other. 

            I could have been chosen to be on her basketball team, serving as her able assistant, dishing up passes so that she could make a game-winning bucket.  I would high-five her, compliment her, and remind her that I was on the team just to make her look good.  In return, she would teach me to toughen up, gently elbowing me while I defended her, standing tall with arms raised to block my shots, and chiding me for bad passes.

            And I suspect, she would occasionally pass the ball to me so I could take an outside shot.  She would respond with a whoop if the law of averages caught up with me and the ball found its way into the net.

Entrance Era

            It is one of the dwindling days of May, and I feel little tugs of emotion: missing out on the puppyhood of a new grand dog, celebrating a legal case victory without face to face office camaraderie, approaching a significant birthday without the family festivity I had envisioned.  Diminished social engagement mandated by the pandemic seems to have impacted me in other ways, as well; the smallest life changes seem substantial, disproportionally blown up within the backdrop of stifling self-isolation. 

            I pick up Boomer, the Boundless Bundle of Canine Exuberance, from his last day of doggy daycare, and I feel familiar, but unexpected, pricks of sentiment beneath my eyelids.  Boomer’s daytime boarding and his playgroup were a necessity during our home remodel in 2019 and a luxury for him, and us, in 2020.  But now the cost seems excessive, as it parallels the food budget for me and my husband.  And yet, I already miss the familiar exclamatory warmth of the staff at his drop off and his exhilaration at my arrival in the evening.  

            If sentiment drives my emotions these days, it is my lifelong discontent with change that fuels it.  Every transformative juncture burns into my memory leaving an emotional blemish, if not an outright scar.  I remember pivotal lifetime moments with my children, and I recall with photographic perfection, the look in their eyes when I dropped them off at preschool, at sleepovers, at middle school and distant colleges, and at new apartments when they launched, post-graduation.  I am forced to embrace the knowledge that at this stage of my life, I need my children more than they need me. 

            My adult choices, even those marked with joy and excitement, similarly carry a bittersweet swell of poignancy:  leaving my office at a large Seattle law firm for the last time, founding my own law firm, trundling boxes of files to a newly purchased commercial building, closing and locking the final door of a home I loved, and investigating encore careers of writing and coaching.

            My friends and confidants are similarly exploring their lives in the quietude of this current environment.  They are gratefully engaging with their soon-to-be-launched young adults whose ascension is temporarily delayed.  Some are reflecting, or planning, the end of careers or revisioning their future work lives, permanently altered by a revised technological and biological landscape.  Others are selling family residences or vacation homes, sorting through memories disguised as personal belongings.  We are all quietly assessing our lives in a territory dampened with the veneer of uncertainty.  We evaluate, in murmurs within the hushed confines of our homes, what we want to do, what we should have done, what we fear we will never be able to do.

            Like a phased public reopening, we search our lives ahead for progress, for shifts, and for passages.  At first, our steps are timid.  We dare ourselves to don masks and warily enter grocery stores for the first time in months.  We plan socially distanced gatherings at parks in sparsely attended areas.  We envision future travel and compile bucket lists, emboldened by a compelling need to believe that innovation and adaptation will be our salvation.  

            We begin to extricate ourselves from the unyielding grasp of impediment and interruption.   We venture out hesitantly into the brightness of a life we once knew, blinking while adapting to its newness yet recognizing its core familiarity.  And as we do so, the ambivalence of change is replaced by the richness of evolution.

Daydreams and Nightmares

            On a recent weekday morning, I awoke jolted by a vivid dream.  In my dream, I was meeting with a residential leasing agent, looking for an apartment close to my office.  I intended to keep my house, a short commute from work, but I thought that a small apartment minutes from my firm’s place of business would optimize efficiency and allow me to bill more hours.    

            We toured an apartment at a perfect location, and I was thrilled with the interior space.  The office in the unit had a beautiful built-in desk with shelving that I envisioned brimming with court rule books, files, and hearing binders so that I could work from my home away from home.  My enthusiasm waned slightly when I inspected the rest of the space and determined that it did not have a living room, bedroom or a kitchen; however, I was still upbeat and convinced it was the perfect spot for me to live, at least during the workweek. 

            I was both horrified and amused when I woke up.  On one level, the dream symbolized that for many, life during the pandemic means working from home.  But for me, my vocation often feels like I live where I work, epidemic or not.  I constantly carry the psychological weight of practicing law and managing a law firm.  That burden often reveals itself during sleep or in the transitional twilight immediately before slumber.

            Scientists do not have a clear understanding of why we dream, other than it stems from electrical brain impulses during the REM (rapid eye movement) sleep stage.  But sleep researchers believe that we are more likely to remember our dreams in times of stress as tension lessens sleep quality.  If you are anxious, the content of your dreams is more likely to be negative or frightening. 

            I have had my share of unnerving dreams in the past:  showing up for an exam that I am unprepared for, walking on a beach with a huge tsunami wave about to break, or being chased while my legs are constrained by quicksand.  But more frequently, my dreams seem to illustrate my feelings about my profession, my relationships, or life transitions.  Early in my law career I dreamed about climbing a ladder and being overtaken and passed by a co-worker.  I understood that I was “climbing the corporate ladder,” but I felt calm and confident with the knowledge that I was ascending at a steady pace.

            Daydreaming these days seems to have taken on an odd but comforting life of its own as pleasant thoughts distract me from an isolated present and an uncertain future.  I find myself wondering how I would spend a $1,000,000 lottery winning, or what it would feel like to walk away, for the last time, from the practice of law.  I envision climbing into a small RV with a dog or two in tow, to meander around the country for a couple of months, decompressing from an exhilarating and absorbing career that at times took its toll.  Such reveries always include destinations, activities, and events, a sign to me that my happiness is inevitability tethered to accomplishment of goals. 

            I wonder what my nighttime dreams will be like at that point, whether they will fill me with anticipation or dread, peace or unrest.  Maybe I will still have nocturnal fantasies about the perfect home office, but now it will be chock-full of books, research, creative writings, and essays instead of laborious legal briefs, tiresome to do lists, and relentless incoming emails.

Master of My Universe

            I just read an impressive story written by Brad Chase, a former Microsoft executive, who led the Windows 95 marketing effort aimed at enhancing consumer demand for personal computers.[1]  Central to those endeavors was his negotiations with the Rolling Stones in connection with acquiring rights to Start Me Up, the proposed back-up music and “hook” for a Windows 95 television ad.  On May 25, 1995, Brad flew to Amsterdam to meet with the Rolling Stones’ concert promoter and discuss possible deal terms.   After the meeting, Brad was invited to attend the Stones’ dress rehearsal concert at the Paradiso, a three-hour performance in which he was one of only two non-Stones personnel in attendance. 

           The negotiations took place over the next month and were ultimately successful, with Microsoft acquiring the rights to the original version of the song.  The ad launch was an immediate sensation; some people think it is one of the most successful television ads in Microsoft history.

            It is humbling to compare my resume with Brad’s, given that this story is just a sample of his remarkable career.  But upon reflection, Brad’s life and mine have some parallels.  For example, like Brad, I have flown coach many times, although to be clear, not while sitting next to Bill Gates as Brad did in the early, frugal Microsoft days.  I have had a familial interaction with Bill through my brother who once hit the Big Guy in the face with an errant tennis ball volley while playing on the next court over. 

            Brad has met many famous people while working at Microsoft.  Not to brag, but I have rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous as well.  When I was a little girl, my parents took me to the airport to meet Vice-President Hubert Humphrey, who shook my hand and appeared genuinely pleased at the interaction.  In the 1970’s, I happened to cross the street with actor Lee Majors of Six Million Dollar Man fame, and I saw the original Colonel Sanders at the Lexington, Kentucky airport.  Some years ago, I saw Ken Griffey, Jr. at a Pizza Hut restaurant, and though he declined to give my baseball-obsessed son an autograph, I am sure the chance meeting was meaningful to him.  In 2007, I had a significant moment at a social event with a Fortune 100 CEO, where we both commiserated about the recent thrashing of our retirement accounts at the hands of a stock market crash.  More recently I saw our veterinarian being interviewed on Good Morning America; even our family dogs include famous folks in their inner circle.

            I have some game, too, when it comes to negotiating skills, just like Brad does.  In the last several weeks, for example, I have insisted that a doctor’s office remove a $3.88 late fee, required a retailer to accept an expired gift certificate, and demanded a grocer refund me for moldy raspberries.  The list of accomplishments goes on and on.

            All things considered, I think Brad will be in good company if our paths ever cross in a coffee shop.  He will no doubt want to buy me a latte, and I suspect our interaction will be featured in his next book.

_______________________________

[1] The story is contained in Mr. Chase’s new book, Strategy First – How Businesses Win Big, available for pre-order through Amazon.

Sole Mate

            It is one of the dwindling days of my 6th grade school year, and all the girls in my elementary school are lined up for the annual girls’ run.  I do not remember the distance of the race – probably less than a mile—but I know my competition.  I have my eye on finishing first, and I conclude that Jamie M. is my only serious challenger.  I do not know how I know this; we are not close friends, and I have never raced her before.  But athleticism, like intellectual aptitude, is not something that has to be proven to you for you to understand it.  It reveals itself in subtle ways, on the playground and during PhysEd flag football and dodge ball games.

            The race begins, and I quickly take a commanding lead.  I stride swiftly and confidently towards the half-way point without discernable effort. I reach the turn-around and head in the direction of the finish line.  Sights around me diminish, and sounds dampen.  I no longer see bystanders, and the footsteps around me disappear.  But then, I hear Janie and her ever-quickening cadence coming up behind me.  I consider, for a fraction of a second, whether she will catch me or whether I will be able to hold her off.  Without conscious intention, I reach down, pull hard, and summon power past the point I believed possible.  For just a moment, the distance between us neither expands nor contracts.  Then, she deferentially drops back, finishing in second place behind me.

            Exercise has been my life’s constant companion but running is my soul mate.  As a child I ran for the sheer joy of movement around the back yard and in games of tag and kickball.  In Junior High, riding and caring for my horse consumed my after-school hours, but a quick-twitch and rapid turnover made me the gym-time shuttle run sprint champion.  Running assuaged my teenage angst in high school, and I sometimes skipped lunch and crept surreptitiously to the track to run, silently thrilled by my institutional disobedience.  Every night during my college dormitory years, I ran the blocks around the campus to quiet the noise inside my head.  Thudding footsteps eclipsed the unsteady rhythm of anxiety and inadequacy.

            My husband introduced me to group running as an exercise in social connection, and it opened a new world for me.    I remember sneaking in a short jog soon after the Cesarian birth of my first son, long before I was given my doctor’s imprimatur.  As a young mother of three, I ran impatiently down hallways and through parking lots as an efficient means of moving from place to place.  In my 40’s and 50’s, I found camaraderie and support in running groups, occasional races, and memorable team relays, but solitary runs anchored me emotionally.

            I run today because I cannot envision a life without it.  Running is a forgiving and accommodating compatriot, requiring nothing but desire and orthopedic approbation.  I admire accomplished golfers and tennis players, skillful bicyclists, and Yoga masters; I lack the skill and athleticism to be accepted into those ranks.  Running, on the other hand, is a tolerant and generous accomplice, there at a moment’s notice, steady and firm; it shows up when I am stamped down.  It stands between me and circumstances I cannot control, strong and resolute, kind and benevolent, certain and stalwart. 

            I have my eye on finishing first, beating out Father Time when I inevitably hear his footsteps behind me.

Processing Progress

           In three days, I will be approximately 93% through my Life Coach studies with the Health Coach Institute.  I started the program in October 2019 and have stayed on track with the curriculum that includes on-line instruction, tests, coaching calls, skills sessions, and practice client role-playing.  The Health Coach Institute makes it easy to monitor advancement with an on-line dashboard and a percent completion graph.  The closer I am to finishing, the more obsessed I am with moving the needle.

            Technology allows us to track health and fitness parameters as well as financial, project management, business development, and educational headway.  Progress chains on bank websites track loan applications, health portals provide medical checklists, and on-line bill payment systems deliver instant gratification that invoices are scheduled.  College tuition savings and retirement planning software projects asset accumulation.  Businesses utilize tools for forecasting sales, refining budgets, and researching markets.  Exercise technology displays daily steps, minutes per mile, calories expended, heart rate, sleep quality, and calorie consumption.

            I do not need technology to keep me moving forward while running.  Decades of running have honed my internal clock so that I know, often within two or three minutes, how long I have been out.  Or maybe it is just that my middle-aged legs and lungs perceive an effort level that coincides with time and distance.   Who knows?  I view signposts along the way: a flowering bush, a change in the pavement texture, a street sign, or a curve in the road, all of which provide feedback about the distance to the finish.

            Research shows that tracking progress is the easiest way to realize objectives.  Unfortunately, complex goals, such as finding and creating a fulfilling career, improving personal relationships, or deciding where and what retirement should look like are complicated and interwoven with subjective and qualitative considerations. Uncertainty stymies goal accomplishment.  Professional mentors advise breaking convoluted aspirations into smaller, more manageable short-term tasks.

            I wish I had a completion graphic for COVID-19.  “Flattening the curve” charts are too elusive and unreliable.  I want to know that there is a point in time when I can hug my children, dine with friends, grocery shop with safety, and enjoy warm, in-person camaraderie with my co-workers.  I need to perceive that our collective society is experiencing continuous forward movement.  If accurate and depictive charts were available, I would not complain even if they showed the most minimal progress. One small step closer is a huge and comforting motivator to stay the course.

            I understand that we will not get definitive predictive evidence of when the virus will be vanquished.  Instead, I will heed the advice of motivational experts and break down uncertainty into manageable, daily steps.  Today, I will wake up after a good night’s sleep, and I will exercise.  I will devote my day to completing concrete tasks.  I will remind my family how much I love them.  And I will surrender myself to the unknowable but take comfort in the conviction that this pestilent journey will end. 

Reframing the Picture

            I arrived home from work on a recent weekday, having just picked up our dog, Boomer, from doggy daycare.  The normal household tranquility is immediately disrupted by a chaotic canine, charging around the house with the exuberance of a five-year-old child coming back from a sugar-filled birthday party.  In dog training terminology, Boomer has the “zoomies,” which means he is racing around the house, jumping on people and furniture, panting with excitement, and hysterical with the unfettered joy of being home.

            Boomer’s happiness at coming home is diametrically opposed to my feelings.  I am frustrated and irritated at his energy.  All I want is a quiet entry into our home followed by a calm and peaceful dog walk and a pleasant dinner.  My husband is oblivious to my tension and exasperation; he is enjoying a snack and a cold drink, watching something unremarkable on television.  This is the best time of Boomer’s day, as well as my husband’s. 

            I allow my resentment to overflow, and I bark at Boomer and snap at my husband that this is the worst point in my day.  They both look confused:  my husband because he is bewildered by my words, and Boomer because he is baffled by the world in general.  I question everything about this moment:  Why isn’t my dog more obedient?  What is wrong with him?  How is it possible that he is so crazy when I have trained him diligently for well over a year?  I even wonder, briefly, why I ever adopted this dog.

            And then I have an epiphany, and it is not really about the dog:  I am asking the wrong questions.  I am viewing the situation from the standpoint of failure and victimization instead of from a perspective of curiosity and compassion.  My current canine challenges have nothing to do with my shortcomings as a dog owner and everything to do with the opportunity for change.

            I look at my disarming pooch through a new lens, a dog abandoned to wander the streets for an indeterminate period and then picked up and dumped at a well-intentioned animal rescue with limited resources.  He lived in cages, crates, and outdoor chain-link dog runs for months, and although he was treated kindly, the circumstances did not foster trust nor a semblance of predictability. Despite the disorder and disruption of his life, Boomer remained cheerful, resilient, and ebullient. 

            My husband and I became Boomer’s forever family, and it is a commitment I will always honor.  I am reinvesting my energy in Boomer’s training with a highly-structured weeknight routine that includes energetic ball chasing and retrieving, a mostly peaceful evening walk, and a half hour of “placing” in a particular spot which allows him to relax and refocus.  Afterwards he is an altogether calmer dog, and I watch and wonder at his comical charm.

            Years ago, someone wrote that they learned the most important life lessons in Kindergarten.  I would say I gleaned most of them from dogs.  Boomer taught me to question my perspective and reevaluate a situation unfettered by the emotion of self-interpretation.  Boomer showed me how to step back and see him as purely lovable; he is free of calculation or motive other than to live life to its fullest.

            He also taught me that if you are persistent, high spirited, and incorrigible, you will usually get what you want!

Pandemic Penance

            It is a recent weekday morning, and I am pulling on my running shoes. I study the engineered fabric next to my left toe and see a small but noticeable hole. On further inspection, I observe that I can almost slip my finger above the sole at the front of the shoe. My runners are disreputable; they are filthy from running through a wet winter and a muddy spring. Time to buy new running shoes! But I resist.

            I am halting discretionary spending, and I am not sure why. The essentials of life – groceries, dog food, and cleaning supplies – are ordered and delivered regularly. Casual on-line shopping could be considered a legitimate form of self-care right now, and no one would criticize me for doing so. I feel fortunate that my income seems secure, so a modest shoe and clothing budget is not irresponsible.

            But what is the point of buying anything right now? Do I need a cute new sweater for a ZOOM phone call with my kids? Are comfy sweatpants important for movie nights with my husband? Does the skeleton crew at my place of business even notice what I am wearing as I slip, almost surreptitiously, into my office and close the door?

            Limiting volitional spending feels appropriate in this environment. My financial behaviors have changed, just as my eating habits have. I am psychologically squirreling away nuts for the winter; it feels right to economize in periods of uncertainty. I am limiting single-use plastics and religiously consuming food leftovers. I am considering sewing up holes in elbows of running shirts instead of tossing them out. Buying a latte at a drive through coffee shop is completely out of the question. I feel a perceived need for self-preservation, and austerity seems oddly linked to biological and emotional survival.

            But it is more than frugality that drives me, and I am puzzled by that. I have a vague feeling that sacrifice benefits me, as though I am appeasing the viral gods. I am making a deal with a higher pandemic power: I will practice denial if you will loosen your grip and allow us to return to the lives we knew before you. I will live a simple life to atone for a wrongdoing that I did not commit. Living amidst an unfamiliar landscape promotes an elaborate form of delayed gratification. My mind is a quiet and attentive shelter right now, and it feels right to offer simplicity while I watch and wait.

            In a future, unfettered juncture, I will roll out new running shoes and slip my grateful feet into them. Until then, I cajole my tootsies and remind them of their inherent strength and reliability regardless of what encloses them. I am remembering, too, that my spirit is innately resilient and resolute, notwithstanding what encompasses me.

            I will outlast this season.