Resolution Solution

             As each year winds down, I ponder what I want to achieve in the next one.  I adore reflecting on the past twelve months, and I love the inspiration of looking ahead.  I keep a calendar journal, and it contains the celebrated highlights as well as the down-in-the-dumps low spots.  I use past events, moods, and desires to motivate me in the New Year.  I love planning, and January 1 feels auspicious and hopeful. 

             But am I a proponent of “on January 1, I will start doing something I am not doing now?”  Not really.  New Year resolutions have no more likelihood of success than self-imposed promises any other day of the year.  That pledge to eliminate simple carbohydrates and work out at the gym often falls by the wayside.

             Resolutions fail for at least three reasons.  First, people plunge into adopting new behaviors without understanding what it takes for them to work.  On average, resolutions break down on Day 17.  Failure results from many things:  unrealistic goals, lack of preparation, inadequate external support, and “good behavior” fatigue.  Instead of focusing on creating a sustainable habit, we believe in the fervent magic of January 1. 

             Second, I think we try to do too much.   What good is exercising if we are eating pizza and fast food?  How can we make time for fitness if we do not improve efficiency and productivity at our jobs?  How is it possible to reduce stress without allocating time for mindfulness?  We feel compelled to do it all:  exercise regularly, eat healthily, and meditate daily.  But research shows that undertaking multiple objectives reduces the chance of achievement.  It is estimated that the success rate for developing one new habit is about 80%, two habits at the same time is less than 35%, and three or more habits nosedives to less than 5%.[1]  Our human desire to improve our health and wellness in one massive kickstart works against us.

             Finally, waiting until January 1st to begin a healthy lifestyle pledge is a very human but artificial device.  Behavioral economists tell us that we all have the desire to reduce self-perception cognitive dissonance.  We want to decrease practices that we dislike, and we yearn to be more like our idealized self.  But change requires commitment, and we may lack the motivation to do so.  Promising to start a beneficial behavior on January 1 when it is only Thanksgiving, for example, is an elaborate form of procrastination.  It assures us that we will cement those routines in the future without having to go through the effort of doing it now.  We feel good about the promises we are making but we do not have to expend the energy to make them happen.

             Scary stuff, huh?  I get that.  I used to be the queen of failed undertakings.  But when it comes to fitness, I found something that is effective:  a habit-based exercise routine that makes the decision to exercise effortless.  So, toss that failed exercise resolution out the window of the gym, and learn what works.  Developing a habit takes time and commitment, but not as much effort as plunging into icy waters on New Years Day. 

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

[1] Fitness Success Secrets:  On Practicing One Strategic Habit at a Time, John Berardi, Ph.D., http://www.precisionnutrition.com/one-habit.

Opposition Procession

            It is Saturday, January 21, 2017, and I am in Washington DC at the Women’s March.  My husband and I had purchased airplane tickets to attend the inauguration of Hillary Clinton and had disconsolately decided to participate in the protest in its place.  To say I was heartbroken at Clinton’s defeat is an understatement.

             If you are male, it is impossible for you to fathom the depths of my despair.  The morning of the election, I had run past a pile of shattered glass.  I was certain it was a portend that the glass ceiling was about to be broken and that a woman would become the most powerful figure in the world.  A female president would be the most demonstrative feminist symbol of authority in national history.  But it was not to be.  My sorrow knew no bounds.

             On the morning of the march, Don and I gathered early with other family members to catch a ride on the Metro.  It quickly became clear that masses of people, many of them women in pink hats, were going to the capitol building and the National Mall. 

             The demonstration exceeded my imagination – powerful in its message, moving in its connection, and riveting in its purpose.  The diversity of the participants was broad, and the causes they espoused sweeping.  People rallied in support of women’s rights, gender, racial, and LGBTQ equality, immigration and healthcare reform, and environmental protection.  But the common thread woven throughout was the aversion for, and distrust of, newly inaugurated President Trump.

             We walked for hours, fortified by packed lunches, bottled water, and common purpose.  The crowd in Washington DC alone was estimated at 500,000; worldwide numbers approached seven million.  The mood was impassioned but peaceful.  It was reported that of the two million protestors in the cities of Washington DC, Chicago, LA, New York, and Seattle, not a single arrest was necessary.  March organizers actively promoted the non-violent ideology of the Civil Rights movement on its website.  I did not witness agitated activity, aggressive language, or the vestiges of vandalism.  The police were present, but other than answering questions about the availability of public restrooms, their presence was unnecessary.

               I cannot reconcile the unifying and peaceful protest in 2017 with the activities of the past week.  On Wednesday demonstrators participated in a rally promoted and attended by President Trump and then marched to the Capitol. The rioters, predominantly male and Caucasian, scaled the walls of the Capitol, pushed open doors, and broke windows to enter the rotunda.  Once inside, they ransacked Congressional offices, incited altercations, and stole or destroyed personal property. 

             How is it that millions can stride in lawful and inspiring solidarity while mere thousands cannot?  I have only one explanation:  this week’s riots were fueled less by passion and unity than by rage and divisiveness.  But what are the origins of such vehemence?  The answer lies in the rioters’ belief that something they were entitled to was unfairly taken from them.  This sentiment was broadcast in one of my favorite signs displayed at the 2017 Women’s March: 

  When You are Accustomed to Privilege, Equality Feels Like Oppression.

            I have news for the people that committed crimes at the Capitol this week: the election was not rigged; the candidate you supported lost fair and square.  It is time for you to acknowledge your disappointment, pay for your crimes, and move on.           

Staycation Vacation

            I woke up on Monday morning this week, heartened by my success at sleeping late.  It is 5:40 a.m., which for 65-year-old me is akin to sleeping until noon as a college student.  I smile and stretch, uplifted and excited by a weekday where I am not going to work.  It is Vacation Day 4.  To be clear, it is not the fourth day of a vacation.  It is the fourth workday of calendar year 2020 where I have not worked. 

             In many ways it is my first real day off in 2020.  I took a day’s leave in February, hosting a luncheon for family members.  It was lovely but hectic.  On Day 2, Don and I rented a small van, unloaded our storage unit, and drove to our cabin in Cle Elum to pick up some boxes temporarily sheltering in our garage.  It was a satisfying day but not exactly relaxing.  Vacation Day 3 was allocated to Don’s foot surgery, a day replete with gratifying tasks such as picking him up from the doctor, placing pain medication on his nightstand, and adjusting pillows under his calf to elevate his foot.  Fun!

             Coronavirus dictates eliminated out of town travel from consideration this year.  Local excursions to our second home were complicated by son Evan, who took up full-time residence there this Spring, renouncing expensive Bellevue apartment rent in favor of parental (and benevolent) landlords.  Taking time off from lawyering to just sit at home made absolutely no sense.  So, I simply went to the office every day this year – unless I had something more pressing to do. 

             Monday was a grand experiment:  just stay local but pretend I am on holiday.  After a pre-dawn run and a hot shower, Don and I go to Starbucks, buying coffee for the car behind us in the drive-through.   We ambled through the morning with a relaxed agenda, mixing in a few errands for structural contrast.  We dropped by middle son Andy’s apartment for a quick birthday visit.  We surveyed a new park that was the proposed venue for an upcoming family tailgate party.  We completed a few banking tasks and mailed two packages at UPS.  Don got behind the wheel of my new all-electric car for the first time and practiced driving it.

             After a casual lunch at home, we turned on the television, resisting the urge to switch to a news channel.  We watched a cute movie about a senior citizen interning at a technology company filled with 20-somethings.  When the show was over, Don asked whether I wanted to watch another one.  I could not have been more stunned than if he had told me he was going to skip a college football game because he wanted to clean our gutters.  Two movies in the same day?  I recall doing that once in my twenties and a couple of times on long international flights, but it just seemed so decadent.  But okay, I am on holiday, so why not?

             The evening wound down into a normal weeknight routine, with dog walking, dinner preparation, and amusing and robust family group chats about whose dog had the worst manners.  One son called Don to discuss a malfunctioning smoke alarm.  I casually scrolled through office emails to confirm that a crisis had not ignited in my absence.  I felt an overwhelming sense of calm – along with a whiff of impatience to get back to my employment schedule.  At bedtime, I leaned back into the comforting security of my bed pillows and reflected on my day.  I was enlightened to discover that I could balance accomplishment with leisure.

             Perhaps 2021 will be a time-off break-out year.  Practice might not make me perfect, but it will be fun trying.

Holiday Hilarity

            It is a recent weeknight, and my offspring and their partners are celebrating.  Alcohol is flowing, pizzas are on their way, and Will Farrell is streaking on TV in the movie, Old School.  The conversational humor is robust:  hilarious stories about peeing while participating in a conference call at work, ZOOM faux paus while believing the audio is mute, and co-workers oversleeping and arriving late to 10:00 a.m. virtual meetings.  Cheers erupt when Evan snatches a beer bottle in mid-air after it is knocked over by an ebullient dog.

             The scene is not from a TGIF event after a hard workweek; it is how our family celebrates one of the holiest national holidays – Christmas.

             When my children were young, I had a different vision about how we would celebrate the yuletide.  Though we are not a religious family, it was one steeped in tradition.  The morning would begin by opening stockings filled with small tokens and treats.  Then I would serve breakfast, a healthy but gala affair.  After eating, we would retire to the living room and gather around the tree which bowed under the weight of lights and ornaments.  We would open one present at a time, and the recipient of each gift would choose and deliver the next present from under the tree.  Opening gifts in series instead of parallel prolonged the unwrapping and inspection of each one.  Gifts would be passed around eliciting admiring exclamations.  The festivities would last for hours.

             But my adult children have a different vision of holiday merriment – something akin to a college fraternity party but with more expensive beer and fewer red SOLO cups.  They are lavish in their gifts for one another—well at least those who have female partners in charge of shopping.  The pets score an orgy of stuffed squeaky toys and a plethora of savory treats, after which they collapse with happy exhaustion.  My job is to sequence and time the festivities and provide snacks and desserts.  I do my share of dog wrangling, as well, to ensure that canine carousing is consistent with some level of decorum.  I am mostly successful; well, except when Bailey opens the back door with her paw to allow her and the youngest member of the pack to escape to the backyard and frolic with nighttime zoomies.  I keep an alert eye out for surreptitious table sniffing – and banish the untrustworthy pup just before he leaps up to snatch someone’s dinner. 

             As the evening winds down, the drinking wanes and coffee brews.  But worrying Mom is part of the fun; my now-sensible adult children cannot resist teasing me about needing to drive home before their buzzes wear off.  My husband and I retire gratefully to bed afterwards, heartfelt appreciation topped with a dash of relief.  If the truth be told, I am heartened that our celebration traditions reflect who we are inside – grounded and unpretentious.  I may grumble, just a bit, about my sons grabbing cookies before the dessert buffet is assembled, but it reminds me that our family is intact and loving.  If I cannot admonish my kids for something, then my precious mother-hen identity would be extinguished.

             I have a few days left to relax and rejuvenate before planning a New Year’s Eve gathering.  Maybe we will close out 2020 in a more formal way than we have in the past, given the solemnity of this year.  I might even cook some portion of the meal, and I will wear my very best blue jeans.

             Given that, I am sure that we will be the classiest tailgate party in the parking lot at the dog park.

Poopy Year

            On a recent weeknight, I sauntered into our dark backyard to accompany the family dogs for their last potty break before bedtime.  To be fair, this is an activity that they handle proficiently without supervision.  But the mother hen in me insists on confirming that they do the deed; heaven forbid they decide to skip it and wake us at 3:00 in the morning for some fresh air relief.

             I wander through the chilly blackness without a flashlight.  Movement will trigger the motion control outdoor lighting in a moment.  There is no need to watch my feet; I know the terrain as I know the comforting familiarity of an old pair of shoes.  I do not worry about what is on the ground; I stay on the trimly mowed grass, away from ornamental shrubs and rocks.

             After the pups do their business, I corral them back inside for their final treat of the night which they earn for peeing outdoors.  (Well, that and because they are irresistibly cute.)  I walk to the panty to pull out Alpo T-Bonz, and as I do, I notice the muddy – and smelly – footprints I am leaving in my wake.  To my horror, I realize that I have tracked dog poop into the house.

             I am inexplicably livid.  My husband and I are meticulous dog walkers, and I monitor dog eliminations as carefully as accountants total tax deductions.   If errant dog feces show up in our yard, they are bagged up and trotted to the garbage before they can even adjust to the outdoor temperature.  But in recent weeks, the pups have gone into the back yard unsupervised as my husband’s foot surgery prohibited him from escorting them.

             I clench my teeth and utter words that I have the luxury of using now that my adult children no longer live with us.  I complain bitterly as I wash the floors at an hour when I wish to be cozied up in bed watching forgettable television.  I take my poop-encrusted shoes outdoors and heave them into the trash can.

             I seethe for reasons unrelated to puppy poop.  I am tired.  The relentless to do list of this year has been more exacting than ever before.  My impatient temperament, barely manageable in a non-pandemic environment, is completely unbridled.  The wearying dictates of work, finances, fitness, cooking, housecleaning, groceries, dog walking, and health have relentlessly eroded my emotional capacity.  Everything demands more time and effort than I am willing to give. 

             I feel like a viral god puppeteer is manipulating my life, drumming his fingertips, and chuckling with evil.  Ha-ha!  Laurin hates to grocery shop and cook, so let us decide that her husband needs foot surgery, so it falls on her shoulders for six weeks.  Hee-hee!  Laurin is tired when she comes home from work.  Why not have her walk both dogs at night, one at a time, and throw in darkness, rain, and maybe blustery wind for good measure?  Is law firm management extra painful this year?  Hmmm…well, we could add in new partners and a tax deduction complexity to deal with.  And let us mess with the election, shall we?  No point in making it a simple 24-hour process when it can grind on, interminably, for weeks on end.

             While we are at it, let us cancel all travel.  Since Laurin cannot leave her home, she will not bother to take time off work. We will shorten her vacation to only four days this calendar year, and make sure that only a couple of those are remotely fun.  We will let her participate in a few family gatherings, but we will add a layer of guilt and socially distant awkwardness to take the edge off joyfulness.  That should do her in. 

             I retreat to the bedroom and pull grumpy bedcovers over my head.

             The next morning, I wake up and though I nod deferentially to the COVID avatar, I feel happy and inspired.  The day is youthful with possibility and prospect.  My mood elevates as I consider the implausible brightness of a daybreak run, the comfort of warm coffee, and the upcoming quiet but friendly cheer of my co-workers.

             But first I stride sheepishly out to the garbage can and lift open the hinged cover.  I retrieve my poopy shoes with remorse, and hose them off.  The embryonic glow of an improbably sunny winter day shifts in my direction.  

Solo Slog

            At 6:20 a.m. yesterday morning, I get out of my car to start my Saturday run.  It is pitch black and just shy of bitterly cold.  I am filled with an emotion that I am not used to:  I am afraid of what the next couple of hours will bring.

             The anticipation of extreme exertion is complex.  At the start of a half-marathon race, I feel excited, committed, and hopeful.  I am resigned that it will be demanding but the energy of the event overshadows everything else.  I prepare with structure and discipline – long, slow runs and quarter mile splits at the local middle school track.  The idea that I will not win my age and gender group haunts me.

             It is silly to care about winning because I am slow.  My years of 8-minute-mile marathons are decades behind me.  These days, the footsteps of Father Time are right behind me, and their cadence is quicker, and their strides longer, each year.  But pride and competitiveness are not easy to extricate yourself from – even if I wanted to. 

             Knowing that the pandemic had extinguished the possibility of an organized race left me in a quandary.  It would be easy to cast off the event like so many other discarded rituals and conventions.  Gone are the days of professional hair care, luxuriant pedicures, and recreational mall shopping.  The assumption that special holidays and events will be shared with friends and family has disappeared.  I have eliminated extravagances and pared the accoutrements of life down to their core.  But in the face of external and self-imposed austerity, I cling to the vestige of what is still controllable.  I can still run a long distance; well, at least what is long for a 65-year-old. 

             I prepared for my solo half marathon with diligence and determination but without exactitude.  In September, I started increasing my Saturday runs by ten minutes each week.  I ran a couple of two hour runs, heartened not by my speed but by the fact that I did not get injured.   I picked a Saturday in December that coincided with familiar races in past years.  I got a reasonably good night’s sleep before my solitary slog, but I still feel ill-prepared.

             As I begin to run, I open my Audible app and pray that the story will engross me more than the distance will exert me.  My legs feel solid in an elderly sort of way.  Within minutes, the chilly air mysteriously morphs to refreshing.  After the first hour, the breaking dawn allows me to turn off my flashlight, and the newness of the morning elevates my spirit.  The path is familiar and comforting; I have run portions of the route hundreds of times.

             I welcome the unfaltering rhythm of my footsteps, though they slow and shorten with the miles.  I feel solid and confident at two hours, so I select a longer route than I intended.  But within minutes, my self-confidence drains with mind-numbing exertion, and I still have a long way to go.  In the final half hour, my body begins to ache with glycogen depletion coined “bonking” by extreme athletes.  I begin to bend over with fatigue, and I cannot wait to be done.

             It occurs to me that I could walk, but that only delays completion.  So, I slog forward, my feet barely elevating above the pavement.  I finally round the final bend in the road, searching for my parked car with desperation fueled by physical anguish.  I curse my age, my lack of athleticism, and my belief that this was a good idea.  With my final steps, I fumble in my pocket for my car keys, relief eclipsing agony.  I am done.

             Hours later, when I am fully hydrated and fueled, I bask in the glow of accomplishment fortified by Advil.  My run was longer than I had intended by a couple of miles.  I am disappointed with my time but heartened that a fifteen-mile run is still within my grasp.  Long distant running has always been about possibility and attainment for me.  It reminds me that what seems unlikely or even impossible is achievable. 

             Though to be fair, it takes a lot longer to get there than it used to.

Scorched-Earth Worth

            On Tuesday afternoon this week, I reviewed an email from an out of state attorney that I had a case with.  I opened the attachment and began reading.  In typical litigious-lawyer fashion, the missive contained factual allegations, argumentative assertions, and thinly veiled suggestions of unethical conduct.  I was shocked and dismayed at the tone.  I am thick-skinned after decades in the courtroom, but this one stung.  You see, the author of the email was not opposing counsel, but my own client.

             The attorney was appreciative of my firm’s work – until she received our invoice.  The fire and brimstone letter I received from her concluded that I had grossly and unethically over-billed her in an amount less than $1000.

             Our firm’s hourly rates and billing practices are principled, and our legal outcomes are usually positive.  My practice is largely commercial, which means I mostly represent either institutional or private lenders.  Representing “real people” clients requires emotional as well as legal challenges.  Fortunately, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of clients extremely dissatisfied with my representation, although in fairness to the disgruntled, my memory is probably not as good as it might be. 

             I immediately emailed my client and expressed regret that she felt the need to write a three-page letter about her bill.  I encouraged her to call to discuss her concerns.  I reiterated confidence in a conflict-free resolution.   But I was frustrated by the communication and shaken that she could so swiftly convert from alliance to adversary.

             As I was collecting myself and soldiering my way back into confidence about my professional competence, I received a call from a client I had not spoken to in several years.  We had pursued his employer, a now-disbarred lawyer, for unpaid wages.  The lengthy battle that ensued ultimately resulted in an involuntary receivership in which my client received robust reimbursement.  My client began the phone call thanking me for my excellent representation.  His tone changed, and he reflected on how his case came at a dark time in his life and what a difficult client he had been.  He was replete with gratitude and sincerity, not just for my litigation and strategic acumen, but for my tolerance and calm during his emotional and financial turbulence.

             After the call, I reflected on the disparate ways that clients react to threats to their financial security.  Some are hostile and aggressive.  Others are needy and insistent.  Attorneys are counselors; our job is not just to find the fastest track to successful resolution but to advise and listen, holding space for client confidences and fears.  The client that was enraged with her legal bill was no doubt worried about something more insidious than the $1000 that she felt she was over-charged.   I accepted her proffered resolution quickly, and in doing so, I de-escalated the exponential energy of her stress and anger. 

             Who knows, years from now she might call me, hat in hand, and express recognition for my efforts on her behalf and acknowledge how challenging she was to represent.  If she does, it will benefit me much more than $1000 paid to me today. 

All Hands on the Dental Deck

            It is Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving.  I am at my desk at the office, pondering an unmanageable and unrealistic to do list.  I sooth my nerves with a piece of candy, a sugar-filled vestige from Halloween.  As I chew and contemplate reallocating tasks to align with reality, I feel the sharp confluence of a molar crown with amorphous caramel.  Darn it!  Amid a very busy day, I have inserted a totally avoidable disruption. 

             Dental drama is one of the hallmarks of our family.  All three kids required orthodontic braces, the total cost of which roughly approximated the price of a serviceable new car.  My husband and I did not have dental insurance, so we paid by the month.  Each son’s orthodontic debt was extinguished at approximately the same time the next child’s debt arose.

             But braces were the least of our dental debacles.  Fifteen years ago, middle son Andy crashed into the unpadded base of our driveway basketball hoop.  He valued the jubilation of an imaginary game-winning shot more than he cherished his front teeth.  The miracle of modern dentistry, combined with the blessing of our credit card, preserved his smile.

             Andy’s reconstructive good fortune turned to misfortune several years later when we were in Pasadena on New Year’s Eve.  The Mercer Island High School band was invited to march in the Rose Bowl parade.  We were happy and excited with anticipation.  However, one of Andy’s crowns decided it was the opportune time to escape the confines of his mouth.    We spent New Year’s Eve frantically searching for an emergency dentist to place a temporary crown to ease the pain.  The timing could not have been worse; I attribute it to payback for a sin I must have committed in a previous life.

             Ten years ago, third son Evan was newly ensconced as a college freshman in southern California when I received a call that he had a searing toothache.  The student health center referred him to an emergency dentist, who informed him that the infection in his tooth was so severe that it needed to be treated immediately.  The ensuing root canal was just the start of the solution; for weeks afterwards, the infection would flare up unexpectedly, requiring him to miss class and trudge to the dentist’s office.

             A couple of months ago, Evan’s tooth precipitated another emergency.  He had an endodontic appointment the next morning for a root canal, but the pain was excruciating.  The entire family mobilized in concert, a finely tuned and perfectly executed response to catastrophe.  Daughter in law Flavia researched nearby emergency clinics in his small town east of the Cascade mountains.  Brother Andy generously offered his girlfriend to babysit Evan’s puppy.  (Chelsey kindly agreed.)  The walk-in clinic gave Evan a painkiller strong enough to topple a rhino, which meant that he could not drive to Seattle for his appointment.  The Best Dad in the World gamely drove to Cle Elum late at night to pick Evan up and bring him home. 

             All things considered, losing a crown in the middle of the week with an accommodating dentist less than ten miles away is not so bad.  The doctor gently chastised me for eating caramels, reminding me that this was the second time that the same kind of candy had pulled a crown loose.  I sheepishly acknowledged his statement and slunk out of his office like a five- year-old with a tummy ache, having been warned against eating too many cookies. 

             It has been years since the tooth fairy visited our house.  The next time she does, I will ask her to divest us of dental demons.  In return, I will swear off caramels for the rest of my life. 

             Well, at least until next Halloween.

Livelihood Loyalty

            It is almost midnight on January 6, 1986.  I am sitting in a car outside my husband’s office building in the Denny Regrade area of Seattle.  Don has run inside to leave a couple of project memos for co-workers.  I am physically and emotionally uncomfortable.  Internet and cell phones do not exist yet.  I make sure the doors are locked, and I hope my husband returns quickly.

             I am in labor with our first child.    

             My labor pains started four or five hours ago, and the hospital advised me to come in when they were about eight minutes apart.  Don snoozes a bit, knowing that it is going to be a long night.  I prepare a sandwich and snacks and keep one eye on my watch.  The pains increase in frequency and intensity.

             At about 11:00, I wake Don up and tell him that it is time to go to the hospital, a half hour’s drive away.  My husband is cheerful and calm and looking forward to our new adventure as parents.  But first, he just needs to dash into the office.  I am not thrilled at the prospect, but I agree that job commitments are important.  Fortunately, our son is not born in the dark in a white Subaru parked on Fourth Avenue.

             I am still in labor the next morning as Don’s co-workers arrive at his engineering firm.  Don takes time off from holding my hand and watching the tocodynamometer monitor to call one of his engineering colleagues.  The conversation goes like this:

 (Unintelligible engineering gibberish) (Pause). Oh, I’m sorry, I have to go, my wife says I need to get off the phone. (Pause) No, I probably won’t come to work today.  I am at the hospital. (Pause) Yes, my wife is about to have a baby.

My husband’s voice is calm and measured despite the inescapable eventuality that a baby was about to arrive.  I suspect that the same deliberate tone would deliver an opinion that a newly discovered fault in the foundation of a large concrete dam could cause imminent failure.  For Don, cataclysmic events of all kinds are approached with thoughtful consideration, patience, and preparation. 

  Several days later, with a newborn son at home, Don returns to work.  Our child’s arrival predated accommodations for paternity leave.  Occupational devotion and dependability shaped a young professional’s progress.  As for me, I take two weeks off from law school and then return to finish my final semester. 

  Not much has changed since that day in 1986.  Don’s steadfast commitment to his career is unending.  I recall him taking a couple of days off thirty years ago for rotator cuff surgery.  Recent foot surgery prohibited him from reading emails for at least one day.  But in the almost forty years that I have known him, I do not recall Don ever missing work because of illness.

  Come to think of it, I have not taken an unplanned day off work in my entire career, either, except for five days in 1992 when my obstetrician ordered bedrest when our third baby threatened an early arrival.  I spent an impatient week in bed and then called it good and waddled back into the office. 

  In fairness to Don, I cannot fault him for stranding me in a parked car late at night. I made good use of the time.  I practiced my Lamaze breathing.  I scanned my surroundings for police cars in case I needed emergency transportation.  I had six or seven minutes between contractions to protest Don’s incessant occupational allegiance.

When it comes to careers – and each other - my husband and I are cut from the same troth cloth.

Timesheet Retreat

            It is Tuesday morning, and I am starting the day off with failure.  I am staring at six unfinished timesheets.  It is our billing paralegal’s day in the office, a pandemic response rotation that we instituted in March.  To avoid scanning and emailing her the reports to input into billing software, I need to finish them this morning.

             In April 2019, I confronted my time records procrastination head on, like a tax dodger hell-bent on coming clean with the IRS.  I vowed to create a timesheet completion routine.  As I wrote in my April 13, 2019 blog post:       

 This week’s epiphany was that completing and turning in a timesheet every single day was just a habit I needed to establish.  SO easy, right?  It’s just a matter of deciding to do it, setting up a trigger to make sure it gets done, recording my daily accomplishment to encourage the routine, and, of course, rewarding myself for doing it.  Like any other habit, it will take a while before it becomes automatic, but I’ll get there.

             I am a self-proclaimed queen of habit.  I have studied the science of habit formation, and I have assiduously practiced healthy and efficient lifestyle routines.  It has been decades since I failed to brush and floss my teeth at night or gone to bed with an untidy kitchen.  I have written a blog post every Saturday for almost two years.  I have worked out (or moved around actively) for at least thirty minutes every day for over ten years.  But for whatever reason, after recording my billing entries diligently every day for over 90 working days in a row, I fell off the wagon.

             Habit formation researchers have a phrase for what happened next, the What the Hell Effect.  The dismay of defeat promotes a freefall from a strict regime, a relapse of mammoth proportions.  For dieters, it might mean over-indulging on pizza and cookies with a nightcap of nachos.  For exercisers, it might mean laying on the couch for days in a row binging on Seasons 1 through 6 of Downton Abbey.  For me, the disappointment of failing caused me to stop trying, half-heartedly jotting down cases and administrative tasks on paper and post-its, comforting myself that my email inbox would remind me of everything I had worked on over a period of days.

             I was back to where I had been before – or worse.  Like a dieter who regains all the lost weight plus an extra five pounds, I ignored timesheets like worn out towels crammed into a seldom used linen closet.  I would round them all up in time for monthly client invoicing, of course, apathetically filling out details gleaned from memory, calendars, and cryptic notations like “conference call with” or “edit pleadings.” 

             I now solidly identify with broken-promise keepers, searching for meaning in failure as the means to finding success.  I have a couple of clues.  I botched the most basic formula; I did not create a trigger, I did not set a time of day to do it, I did not log my success, and I did not reward myself.  I merely aspired to do something disagreeable every single day.  If aspiration equaled accomplishment, we would all be fit, trim, and debt free, with fully funded 401(k)’s.  Our diets would be nutritiously balanced, our closets tidy, and our thank you notes timely.

             Come to think of it, that sounds boring.  Maybe my timesheet procrastination is a karma-like reminder of the beauty of imperfection. 

             If so, I am looking more gorgeous by the day.

On the Mend

            It is Saturday morning, and I begin to run.  My legs are wooden pillars, glued to the earth.  My soul is exhausted, driven into the ground by the weight of the endless sea of tasks that follows me wherever I go.  My husband’s recent foot surgery has doubled the everlasting cadence of housework, grocery shopping, and meal preparation.  I am having to walk both dogs now – in series, not parallel.  I am mourning the familiar and frequent camaraderie of my young adult children.  And the relentless drone of electoral indecision pulls at me, follows me, flattens my normally bubbly effervescence. 

             I am in trouble.  I had planned a two-hour run today to ready myself for a December half marathon race that will not be held.  My maladaptive response is to prepare anyhow, as if readiness will magically change the parameters of a global pandemic.  Pre-race conditioning allows me to focus on the here and now, delaying the acknowledgement that the world has changed.    

             I thrust my legs onward, confident that the joy of movement will invigorate me.  I deliberately lengthen my stride and quicken my pace, waiting for adrenaline to enhance my motivation.  I am as certain of this inevitable moment as I am confident in the sturdiness of my limbs and the comforting beat of my heart.

             But it does not happen.  I am tired for reasons unrelated to fitness or physiology.  The normally beguiling fall foliage fails to beckon me.  The irresistibly mossy rocks lining the trail do not draw me forward.  The refreshingly chilly breeze does not cool me.  I plod onward, pulled by resolute stubbornness, bereft of energy, athleticism, or endurance.  Persisting is a more viable option than quitting – but just barely.

             An hour and a half into my run, my Audible book narration is disrupted by excited text messages and the quiet but rapid boom of WhatsApp communications.  I glance down, and I catch my breath, reading that the networks have called the election outcome.  I momentarily stumble, my feet caught up in an emotional tangle of relief, solace, and deliverance. 

             I pause to regain my jumbled footing and my psychological bearings. I start to respond to text messages. As I do, my cell phone inexplicably shuts down, a mystifying event from my trusty cellular device that was fully charged this morning.  I cannot communicate with the outside world, read the news, or even know what time it is. 

             I move forward, my pace accelerating.  The sunshine snuggles its way between leafy branches and breaks free, brightening the world with its robust gladness.  People emerge onto the park pathways, dogs bark, a woman laughs.  Parents gently admonish a child on a bicycle to slow down, to wait for them. 

             The world is mysteriously renewed and so am I.  My laggard tempo perceptibly quickens, effort dissipating, as I search out a course back to my car.  Enthusiasm supplants fatigue, and I move freely, darting alongside bushes and almost skipping through gravel footpaths. 

             I return to my car, spent but oddly restored.  I slip inside and plug in my phone.  The elapsed time is exactly two hours from when I began. Thirty-seven happy messages blast onto my screen from family, friends, and co-workers.  My knees feel tight, my quads sore, and there is a slight knot between my shoulder blades.  I stretch and roll my neck as I scroll through electrifying posts of exhilaration and elation, the celebrations of a fractured nation.

             Let the healing begin.

(More Than) Enough Stuff

            Yesterday morning I made a final swoop through the Seattle Goodwill donation cue, dropping off a large gym bag filled with athletic gear.  Today is the final day of a twenty-week project that began in June when my husband and I loaded up a cargo van and emptied our rented storage unit.  At essentially the same time, I initiated a 50-day office clean-up challenge. 

             People approach the fear and isolation of a pandemic in different ways.  I spent March terrified that my business would fail and that Life as I knew it would cease.  I gritted through April and May bargaining with the viral gods, promising penance in the form of deprivation if life would return to normal.  I hunkered down, squirreled away money like nuts for an approaching famine and only occasionally crept into open air for brief and socially distanced interactions. 

             In June, my childish belief that personal austerity and discipline could influence the course of a world-wide plague dissipated.  My behavior mirrored that of a petulant five-year-old forced to take a timeout to reflect on her conduct.  Okay, fine, so I am not master of my infantile universe after all.  I moved on but with the immature attitude of a teenager whose cell phone has been taken from her.

             Confronted with contagion forces beyond my dominion, I felt compelled to control what was still mine to command.  I pursued cleaning with the passion normally reserved for responding to frivolous defenses from opposing counsel.  My goal was to clear clutter and create an organized and attractive garage and a spotless and welcoming office space.  Little did I know that the culminating gifts of my undertakings would be more psychological than tangible.

             My five-month assault on untidiness taught me far more than an equal amount of counseling would have revealed.  I now recognize that I retain objects out of sentiment and allegiance.  I am aware that keeping things shields me from the fear that I will forget the people and events that they symbolize.  I understand that it is easier to maintain files and boxes than it is to make decisions about their contents. 

             And so, it began.  I photographed possessions that I no longer wanted to retain.  I read, and then destroyed, printed out emails memorializing family squabbles and adult misunderstandings.  I cast away remnants that no longer fit with my vision of an ordered and organized existence.  I tossed away grudges and heartaches as I threw away clutter.

             My eyes filled with tears when I donated little boy ice skates, consoling myself that someone’s child can pursue a sport he or she loves at a price their parents can afford.  I reminded myself that cherishing a departed dog does not mean you keep their cremated ashes in a cardboard carton in a dark closet; it means you celebrate them by spreading their ashes in a favorite park.

             I learned that the reason you start a journey is not necessarily why you persist at it; that its lessons reveal themselves along the way, layer by layer.  Letting go of possessions is not about pretending you should not have kept them in the first place.  It is accepting their importance and deciding whether their significance continues to deserve a physical, as well as an emotional, space. 

             My youngest son, Evan, applauded me from the sidelines.  He jokingly remarked that organized and labelled personal effects would be my legacy and that he would remember to highlight it in my obituary.  So much for believing that my professional career, founding a law firm, committing to fitness, writing a book, creating a lovely and loving family, and living a life of joy and gratitude will be of import. 

             Instead, my lifetime accomplishment will apparently be:

She kept too much stuff, but at least she got rid of a lot of it.

Messages from Mom

            On Friday afternoon last week, I received a box of photographs from someone I did not know.  The mailer contained images taken by my mother, a part time professional photographer, during a prolific and creative time in her life, roughly 1960 to 1980.  The collection was an eclectic mix of nature studies, university students listening to a lecture, construction workers sanding wood, ballet dancers performing, and formal portraits.  I had seen some of them before, but many I had not.

            The collection had been maintained by the sender for a decade.  She had received them from a sculptor friend who had salvaged them from a dumpster years ago in an artistic area in downtown Cincinnati.   How they ended up in the trash decades after their creation is a mystery.  The kindly conservator tracked me down from my mother’s obituary and then direct messaged me on Facebook.  I am new to both Facebook and Messenger; if she had looked for me six months, she would not have found me.

           I am not a spiritual person; however, there are times when my deceased mother speaks clearly to me.  In the days before and after her death in 2014, her missives were unmistakable. 

            My mom lost the power of speech about a year prior to her death due to cognitive decline, although her expressive face would convey responses to my cheerful chatter.  On July 28, 2014, when I met her for our almost-daily visits, she smiled at me, and cheerfully asked, “how are the boys?”  I almost fell off my chair.  We had a short, but clear conversation that day.  I asked her how she was doing, and she responded with sincerity that she was fine, her tone implying that her answer should have been obvious to me.  I did not know it, but she was saying goodbye.

            My mother died suddenly two days later.

           The day after her passing, my brother and I cleared out her room at the assisted living center.  We carted her furnishings, and those stored in my garage, into a rented cargo van.  After donating what we could, and keeping what we loved, we dumped the rest at the local transfer station.  When we were done, we pulled onto the weigh station to check out.  The cashier rang up the charges and informed us we owed $23.00.  We searched my mother’s fanny pack, a decrepit accessory that she favored in lieu of a purse, and opened her wallet.  It contained exactly $23.00 cash.  My brother and I exchanged a long look.  We knew Shirley:  she never wanted her children to pay for anything that involved her.  She left us the cash to pay her way.

            Two months later, we held my mother’s life celebration.  I was touched that the devoted nursing home caregiver who was holding her hand as she gently slipped away attended.  He had been a constant and gentle figure in her final months.

            Later that night, my young adult children connected and celebrated with their cousins at a downtown Seattle bar.  At the end of the evening, they summoned an Uber car.  As they climbed gratefully inside after a long and emotional day, my daughter in law looked at the driver and said, “you were at Shirley’s life celebration today!”  He nodded, yes, that he had, and that he drove for Uber at night to supplement his income. 

            The odds that my mother’s caregiver drove for Uber, that he was working on the night of her life celebration, that he was in the area where Shirley’s grandchildren were assembled, and that his car was randomly selected as the one of countless Saturday night Uber cars is infinitesimal.  Unless, of course, Shirley had a hand in it.

            The timing of receiving my mother’s long misplaced photographs was not lost on me.  They arrived on the final weekend of a 20-week project I initiated when I gave up my rented storage unit.  One of my primary goals was to curtail the massive volume of my mother’s photographs into a manageable universe of carefully curated and labeled storage bins so that my brother and I could sort, archive, and give them to family members.  Shirley knew there was inventory that we were not aware of, and she initiated in some mysterious and oblique way, their delivery to me. 

            I know that the gifts we are given by our loved ones survive the givers’ earthy presence, but it never occurred to me that they might be delivered in a box via the US Postal service.

Midway Gourmet

                It is the spider season, a short period of time squeezed in between the dwindling days of summer and the emerging weeks before the holidays. I am more taken with these creatures than I have been in the past, as I now oddly identify with their industrious busyness. That said, I prefer arachnids to be outdoor residents, not indoor inhabitants.  Fortunately, I do not see a lot of spiders inside my house.  But three days ago, I noticed an intricate web on a kitchen shelf, the one that contains my cookbooks. 

                The symbolism was not lost on me. I am not a gourmet cook, nor even a proficient one.  I possess a minimally adequate palate, one that recognizes delicious fare, but I am at a loss when it comes to food preparation.  I am humbled by my friends who can flit around a kitchen, adroitly whipping up culinary delights while sipping a glass of crisp, white wine and never missing a conversational beat.  I would rather prepare for trial than host a dinner party.  And to be clear:  I despise getting ready for trial.

                There was a time in my life when emergent cooking skills simmered.  As a newlywed, my husband and I began our after-work hours standing around the small but functional kitchen in our cozy, two-bedroom rambler.  The conversation revolved around what to concoct for dinner while we savored the highlights of the day and a cold drink.  Trips to the grocery store almost every night were the norm.

                All that changed when I started law school and devoted almost every waking moment to attending class or reading endless case law studies.  Welcoming a baby in my third year of law school eliminated any pretense of fixing fancy fare.  It was full-on survival mode, decades before meal delivery services existed even if we had the budget to contemplate that. 

                When my children were young, I had a vestigial understanding that nutrition was important for youthful minds and bodies, and I vigorously chopped fresh fruits and veggies for snacks.  On pizza nights, I threw together a green salad to ease my conscience; well, unless the pizza was topped with green pepper and mushrooms, in which case I called it good.

                My sons complained that I was not a “Costco Mom,” one who bought bountiful bags and boxes of snacks and frozen delights.  Our pantry contained a lame assortment of pasta, crackers, and dry cereal.  The canned goods were approximately equal parts soup and wet dog food. 

                I used home-cooked meals as an inducement, hoping that rambunctious boys would stop torturing each other if I wooed them to the table with a spaghetti dinner.  Once, in a fit of sovereignty, I threatened to substitute Top Ramen at the kitchen counter for nourishing fare that required a lot of work.  My ultimatum was met with silence -- until middle son Andy happily replied that he liked Top Ramen at the counter.  That was the end of my naïve belief that my epicurean skills could alter my kids’ behavior.

                When my children left home, I had time to improve my culinary skills, but something always seemed to get in the way.  I was briefly infatuated with Blue Apron delivery, as it allowed me to eat delicious meals without requiring me to grocery shop.  But preparing the subscription-mandated two meals a week  became just another obligation I should be doing when I wanted to be doing something else.  It got in the way of watching television to see if that nice couple was going to love it or list it, or, more importantly, downloading and learning how to use the Uber Eats app.

                I still occasionally and wistfully daydream about effortlessly churning out meals of creative full-flavored delights, chockful of farmer’s market vegetables, fresh, wild-caught salmon, and crusty, home-baked bread.  But I have decided that my efforts are better spent befriending those with proficiencies I will never possess, which means my husband and I are free for dinner pretty much any time.

                I will bear flowers, a bottle of wine, and a robust appetite.  I will even bring a side dish, so long as I can buy it fully prepared from the local grocery store.

Moving On? Or Hanging On...

            A few days ago, I read a long-running thread on Facebook that criticized minority communities for not thinking of themselves as Americans first.  The writers disparaged various social movements, like Black Lives Matter, for focusing on racial differences instead of acknowledging commonality.  Even politically liberal commentators remarked wistfully that instilling a belief that we are more alike than different would help heal constantly erupting social pain.

            I, too, yearn for cohesion and unity but I respect the powerful forces that pull people into bounded, archetypal groups. 

            I recently read a stirring article about the Worst Club with the Best Members, a group focused on female infertility trauma. Though now a mother of two, the author says that infertility will always be a part of her, and that the heartache she suffered will never go away.  She proudly proclaims that she is never leaving that club even though she is now a mother.  

            The concept of belonging to a club resonated with me.  I will forever identify with others who endured family tragedy as a young person.  I am triggered by ringing telephones at odd hours or the silence of one of my kids during family on-line chats.  If my husband does not text me, “Just landed” when expected, it is all I can do to convince myself that his cell phone is inaccessible or out of battery.  I wait, sometimes with a pounding heart, my mind racing through agonizing scenarios.

            Does the fear of calamity define me?  Not exactly, but it is inextricably woven into the chain-mail fabric in my suit of armor.  My identity is fashioned from a calico quilt of events, encounters, occurrences, choices, and circumstances.  My individuality is formed by the combination of what I can control and what is thrust upon me without invitation.  Ignoring the impact of trauma and dysfunction gives them the opportunity to sneak in the back door and wreak havoc with an otherwise cheerful emotional life. 

            I do not believe that our character is the summation of our life experiences, but the goal is not to cast them aside, either.  I do not know what it is like to live as a person of color or one who confronts physical challenges or one who faces a predominately binary, heterosexual culture as a LGBTQ member.

            It is not a matter of moving on instead of hanging on.  None of this is an excuse to jettison hard work, discipline, or personal accountability, but it is an acknowledgement that my perspective on life, longevity, and the fragility of my existence might not align with yours.  The goal is not to shed your identity but to use it to fuel your compassion, humanity, and kindness. It is managing the competing drivers in our lives, those that we bring forth with intention and those that linger despite our best efforts.  What presently angers people the most is rooted in what wounded them in their past. 

            I do not possess the privilege, or the arrogance, to prioritize the justifiable passions or genuine heartaches of others.  Remembering our trauma, our loss, and our outrage should not be a barrier between us but rather a bridge that connects us.  Pain is pain -- whether rooted in childhood loss, economic fragility, disparate treatment, or capricious cruelty. 

            My goal is to appreciate that the underpinnings of fury and indignation are different for me than anyone else.  My experience is not universal.  The common bond of humanity is not what we have weathered or how we have suffered.  It is, instead, using our pain for greater understanding and compassion.

Sully the Bully

            It is December 1968, and I am at my first formal school dance as an 8th grade student.  My date is a nice young man, clean-cut, and polite.  We are not a couple; we have never been out together before, and we have never even flirted.  We are just two young teenagers on the cusp of acknowledging our attraction to the opposite sex but pausing at the sheer terror of what that involves. 

            I am demurely pleased about what I am wearing:  a lemon-yellow satin Empire-waist gown.  For reasons of female family culture and frugality, I made the dress myself.  It was a challenging project. The slippery fabric repeatedly threatened to run amuck as I threaded it through my entry-level Singer sewing machine.  I hand sewed an embroidered daisy chain at the top of the high waist and eased elastic into the cuffs at the end of billowy sleeves.

            Even with my hypercritical eye, I loved the way I looked in that dress.  The gown had a scoop neck that swooped demurely half-way between my collar bone and the top of my bosom.   The skirt skimmed my trim figure and made me feel feminine and pretty.

            I do not remember much about the evening.  Most of the girls huddled together on the dance floor and gazed at the older, more sophisticated couples draping their arms around each other, their bodies arcing into each other’s curves.  The boys hung out in another group, their conversation presumably centering on something more interesting than the girls.  My date and I swayed to a couple of slow dances, our bodies as far apart as the length of our arms could accommodate. 

            During one of the band’s breaks, I wandered into the refreshment area outside the gym where the chaperones gathered behind tables of soft drinks.  I turned past them to head to the restroom.  As I passed by, I heard a chaperone, the mother of one of my classmates, remark to someone else that, “Laurin is too flat-chested to be wearing a dress like that.” 

            I was devastated.  I rushed to the bathroom and pretended to fix my hair and make-up as I blinked back humiliated tears of shame.  I was crushed and inconsolable, and the happy anticipation of the evening was demolished.  My budding vestige of adult self-esteem surfaced just enough to know that the woman was heartless and cruel, and I that I did not deserve her judgment.

            My tormentor needed to belittle me for reasons that I could not fathom.  I did not pose a threat to her daughter’s social standing.  My classmate was pretty and popular and, for a young girl, had an enviable decolletage.  If the woman needed to disparage someone to elevate her offspring’s status, she should have set her sights higher.  I was an emotionally fragile young person endowed with not just the standard teenage insecurities but also bludgeoned by recent tragic losses of my father and my sister.  As a target, I was low-hanging fruit.

            I wish I had known then what I know now:  bullies come in all shapes and sizes.  The need to denigrate says far more about the insecurity of the bully than the attributes of his or her target.  Intimidation is a passive aggressive way to inflate an ego that is lessened by loss, dysfunction, or trauma.  Powerlessness is the foundation of a vulnerable veneer of domination, superiority, and malice. 

            Heartlessness is grounded in broken heartedness.   I understand that my tormentor harbored pain that I could not see.  Her callous comment revealed more about her than it did a young girl in a homemade fancy dress.  She may have ruined my evening, but she did not tarnish the soul residing in a sunny yellow dress. 

In the Moment - In Just a Minute

            When I was an associate attorney years ago, I mentioned to one of my co-workers that I could not wait for the weekend.  I was emotionally and intellectually drained by the practice of law and its constant demands.  My much wiser and grounded friend gently admonished me and told me never to wish for what lies ahead, that I should be fully experiencing this day instead.

            That was my first introduction to mindfulness.  Days later, I saw a framed quote at the desk of a paralegal that said, “Put down the Duckie if you want to play the saxophone.”  I asked her what it meant.  She said it meant that if you want to honor the existence of a feeling or an instinct, you must let go of anything else you are doing.  I was mystified.

            Years later, I was taken aback when asked if I was pausing to stop and smell the roses.  The question came from a well to do couple, only one of whom worked outside the home, while the other cared for their child and managed the household.  I bristled at the suggestion that there was something wrong with how I allocated my time among compelling demands.

            A couple of days ago, I was delicately chastised for fretting about the future instead of channeling my energy into the present.  It reminded me that the study and practice of mindfulness is one of those things I promised I would do – when I had the time.  But despite my best intentions, I never get around to it.    

            I wonder why I regularly spurn understanding and practicing mindfulness.  If I am honest, it is because hopefulness of futurity brings me so much joy.  Anticipating a stint off from work and household responsibilities is almost as fun as being on vacation.  Fantasizing about a perfectly tidy garage while amid a massive clean-up project is what I dream about almost every night before I fall asleep.  I love planning a special dinner for the day tax returns are filed.  Nothing makes me happier on a dark and windy morning than the expectation of a hot shower after a run.  And although my well-adjusted friends might take me to task for it, I cannot wait for the expectancy of the New Year.

            In other words, the joy of my present is inseparably coupled with my eagerness for the future.

            This is not to say that I do not appreciate the immediate.  Some of my brightest moments occur while pounding through the woods, picking a path by intention or happenstance, reveling in the gratitude of motion.  My muffled steps mimic glad-filled heartbeats, solid, rhythmic, and comforting.  I trust the surety of my steps, the movement of my arms, and rise and fall of my chest.  The woods whisper softly, welcoming me, never judging.  My soul lightens and opens.  In these minutes, I need nothing else.

            I research the basic tenets of mindfulness on the internet, and I am stunned when I re-read the last paragraph.  Living in the moment, self-acceptance, trusting yourself, and focusing on breathing, patience, and gratitude – it is all there, I just did not know it.

            Perhaps that is why I am drawn to solitary exercise – so that I can softly shut the door on the noisy distraction of people and competition.  So that the relentless list of life obligations is erased by the soulful bliss of movement and effort. If I have that, I can let go of the idea that the way I spend my time is not what it should be.  I am giving myself permission to fashion a life, and an existence, that is perfect for me.

            There may come a point when experiencing the present becomes more desirable than anticipating the future.  But for now, I have the breathless urge to look just around the corner, or down the road, or over the crest of a hill. 

            I will live in the moment when that moment is right for me.

Sanguinity Affinity

            On this day six years ago, I spoke at my mother’s life celebration.  I told stories of her childhood and young adult years, her marriage to my father, and how she raised her family.  Her devotion to her grandchildren was legendary; her stoicism in the face of heartbreak was absolute.  But the singular attribute that impacted me the most was her joyfulness.  As I related at her memorial:

The truth is that I continued to learn from my mother to the very end of her life.  I learned from her strength and her courage, her stoicism, and her grace.  But most of all, I learned from her joyfulness.  She understood that, fundamentally, you are responsible for your own happiness, and being happy is a choice you make every day.  She made that choice, day after day.  As a result, she created a life that was joyful, interesting, engaged, and very, very busy.

             In a year that has scorched me with pain, I am blistered raw with another blow, the death of the Honorable Ruth Bader Ginsburg.  I had intended to devote this blog post to her but knew that I would be dissatisfied with the finished product and that it would not do her justice.  Instead I bowed my head in defeatist resignation.  To add to today’s mayhem, the U.S. coronavirus deaths now exceed 200,000, horrific itself but also a grim reminder of what lies ahead.  I feel like the world is catapulting chaotically like a horse without a rider, reins flapping and stirrups slapping. 

             It would be easy to give myself a pass today.  I could walk instead of taking a long run.  I could skip the tedium of writing a blog post and settle for a simple statement that the world is a kilter and that I am powerless to do anything except pause and reflect.  And yet, the stubborn shadow of resilience shades me from bright hot pain.

             Happiness is not a choice for people burdened with clinical, neurochemical depression and anxiety.  I am vastly grateful that I am not in that group.  I have the privilege of considering the insipid lure of self-pity, and I decline its insincere invitation. I bolster myself with boundary-setting limits on social media, and I allow myself the luxury of running at a pace my exercise buddies would chide me for.  I focus on cleaning and work projects that are gratifying and achievable.  I set aside the relentless pursuit of writing exaction and remind myself that perfection is the enemy of good.

              I reassure myself that happiness is there for the asking, quietly waiting its turn to be freed from the confines of despair.  The buoyant, hopeful bounce of positivity is just below the surface. 

              I release the pressured part of me that finds comfort in discomfiture, and good cheer bobs its unflagging head.

Skip the Skip Show

            When I wake up on September 11, 2020, I know it is going to be a hard day.  I have shouldered the burdens of this year with resolute stubbornness.  At times I feel like a diminutive Atlas bearing the weight of a blistered economy, a tragic pandemic, racial injustice, devastating wildfires, vicious politics, and the painful anniversary of 911. 

            I counter them all with perky, optimistic-by-nature energy.  I support local businesses as best I can, and I am proud that my employees’ jobs are secure.  I exercise social distancing, wash my hands incessantly, and wear a face mask at all recommended times.  I read about implicit bias and align myself with minority causes.  I contribute to political candidates whose platforms include combatting climate change.  I respond to mean-spirited social media posts with patience and restraint and provide links to respected news sources.  I pause, and remember, the events of 911 -- the lives lost and those battling illnesses caused by exposure to dust, smoke, and asbestos. 

            I think I am doing okay.  Each day beckons with the promise of engagement, curiosity, and accomplishment.  The comforting drape of habit envelopes me as I work out, shower, drive to the office, and strive for productivity.  When I arrive home at the end of the day, I walk a dog and chat with my husband as we make dinner together.  Our days always end with companionable bedtime rituals.

            But today I am drawn to sports news for reasons I cannot fathom.  Perhaps it is because the NFL season started last night, providing a consoling and familiar reminder of fall.  I stumble upon a replay of Skip Bayless, a highly paid Fox Sports analyst, voicing an opinion about whether Dallas Cowboys quarterback, Dak Prescott, should have “gone public” about his experience with depression.  In a nutshell, Bayless opined that admitting emotional vulnerability conflicted with the leadership image required of a professional football quarterback.  He stated unequivocally that he had “no sympathy for [Dak Prescott] going public with depression.” 

           My outrage is boundless.  Though Fox Sports quickly tried to distance itself from Skip’s commentary by issuing a statement it “did not agree with Skip’s comments,” it did not require an apology from Skip, nor was one proffered. 

            Dak Prescott’s brother died by suicide in April, and September is National Suicide Prevention Awareness month.  I have read that the shroud of shame accompanying depression and anxiety is a primary reason why people do not seek help, often with tragic results.  Divulging your emotional life takes courage.  Skip Bayless’ remarks send the inexcusable macho message that real men suppress their feelings and that vulnerability conflicts with the auspices of authority.

            Unlike the barrage of other social, economic, health, and politic ills thrown my way, I am helpless to combat this one.  I cannot find a way to give feedback to Fox Sports.  I search the FS1 website for a viewer portal but cannot find one.  I plead with my Twitter-savvy children to send a tweet that the reputation of Bayless’ show, Undisputed, is now permanently mired in disrepute.  I gnash my teeth and rail at the cowardice of Fox Sports who places ratings over the lives of vulnerable young people, some of whom will find accordance with the belief that silence equates to strength.

            We will never know if Bayless’ statements sway the delicate balance between life and death for one person battling depression.  But if so, I am guessing that Skip Bayless’ purported $5,000,000 per year salary will more than compensate him for any momentary twinges of remorse. 

            I am grateful I live in a country where people are free to state their opinions.  But if those opinions feel dangerous or at odds with your personal beliefs, demonstrate it. 

            Note to Fox Sports viewers:  Skip the Skip show – just bail out on the clueless Bayless.

Cargo and Car Go

            On Tuesday this week, my new all-electric Mini Cooper was loaded onto a transport trailer for its journey from southern California to Tacoma, Washington.  As nearly as I can tell, my beloved 2007 BMW X3 was simultaneously driven up the ramp of a tow truck to start its voyage into the arms of a well-respected charity.

            The excitement of a new car was overshadowed by the loss of my old one.  My eyes filled with tears when my husband texted me a picture of my old SUV sitting atop the tow truck.  The rational part of my brain knew that I should not invest thousands of repair dollars into a high-mileage, 13-year-old car, but the irrational tug of my heart could not stand to give it up.  I felt somehow disloyal to my clunker, which had reliably carried me around for years.

            And the truth is, I am not a new car person. 

            The portend of my clunker’s demise occurred last winter with the ominous signs of an imminent transmission failure.  But Denial is my middle name, contrary to the intentions of my parents who named me at birth.  Though I test-drove a gas-powered Mini Cooper and placed a fully refundable deposit on its all-electric cousin, I pretended a new car purchase moment would never arrive.

            COVID-19 was just what I was looking for, at least in terms of a desperately sought-after delay.  The Oxford, UK automotive plant shut down.  An apologetic salesman kept in touch with me, assuring me that once production began again, my vehicle would be built in a matter of weeks.  He had no idea that delay is denial’s bosom buddy.  While I voiced disappointment with the setback, I was secretly filled with relief.

            My X3 was far more mature and sensible about its prognosis than I.  Mechanical failures, engine whistles, and frequent overheating became the norm.  The car became undriveable, stubbornly and stoically signaling to me it was time to let go. 

            I finally said goodbye, sitting in the driver’s seat, thinking of happy forays to our cabin in the mountains, or securely navigating icy roads.  My SUV carried its share of exuberant dogs, though my husband carefully removed all vestiges of dog hair from the carpet and canine snuffles from windows before its departure.  I remembered hundreds of days driving to the office, the welcoming warmth of the driver’s seat like a cozy embrace.

            Two days ago, my brilliant and accomplished all-electric brother drove me to the dealership.  My attitude was noticeably better than arriving at the endodontist for a root canal but not by a significant margin.  My new auto was parked in the showroom in resplendent glory, and the salesman enthusiastically waved me towards it with obvious pride.  I pretended to be enamored with it, but the Mini seemed to know better.  It reminded me of an expensive handbag in a designer boutique – something that vaguely-defined “other people” buy.

            I restlessly finished the purchase paperwork and took a test drive.  Despite myself, I giggled as I repeatedly removed my foot off the electric accelerator too early, stopping twenty feet before I intended to.  The Mini hummed patiently at its fledging driver.  My fancy little go-cart sped through the streets, quietly wooing me with its performance and handling.  User-friendly technology for phone calls, navigation, and Audible were there for the asking. 

            My resistance softened with my new car’s perky persistence and pluck.  I dreamed that my X3 was finding a home with a retired veteran who would bring it back to mechanical life in a way that I could not.  The moment I had been waiting for – a sense that the world was unfolding in the way that it should – was once again upon me.