The roads we travel

Every time I drive to Portland, I can't help but think of the more winding STP bike route. Flying past the exit signs along the freeway, I never knew the small towns of Winlock and Vader before riding through them more slowly. Never knew how perfectly Centralia was named until it was the overnight, halfway point for the two day ride.

I drove to Hillsboro outside of Portland for car shopping on Sunday, and all those great moments and memories were right there with me. On the way home, the GPS routed me along Highway 30 to Longview, likely to avoid a traffic logjam through Portland, so I got to see that part of the course, headed in the opposite direction. I remember the hotter years, the harder years, the moments we didn't think we could go on, and those glorious moments of triumph. Not sure I knew how high the Longview bridge was until I saw it in profile, but the narrow shoulder and long climb are burned into memory.

Sometimes we travel roads together, sometimes alone. Each time is a little different. Just the city of Longview has meant something new nearly every time through since that first ride more than 20 years ago, and it was different yet again yesterday. Each time down the path informs the next, memories providing texture to the present.

It was a long, tiring, but beautiful day on Sunday, and it will add another element to the road next time through.

It will be new, different, and familiar at every turn.

Honoring Mom once more

 After a year delay from Covid, we were finally able to gather in a larger group last weekend to celebrate Mom's life, and all that she meant to us. It was at once a difficult day, but also a day filled with the warmth of love and friendship. The day seemed to fly by as we hugged and shared stories, saw friends old and new, and feel joy in the midst of grief. The day was a blessing, much like she was. 

Some words I shared at the memorial.

Grief and loss are never easy burdens to bear. It is at once so universal, yet so specific a feeling it can be isolating. We gather today to share both our feelings of loss, and also to celebrate the joy we all have had in knowing Beverly, Bev, Aunt Bev, and Mom in our lives. I thank you all for being here today. It means so much to us, and Mom was blessed by your love and friendship.

I want to thank Nick once again for putting together the lovely slideshow. It is such a great way to see the various parts of her life, and we will have it running in the background later in case you want to catch parts of it again. 

I also want to thank all of the family members who sent us pictures for the slideshow, and for us to have for our own memories. Some of the photos I had never seen, and some were wonderful reminders. It was great to be able to walk through various points of mom's life. What a gift.

Mom herself was a diligent photographer and scrapbooker. She had bookshelves filed with albums with careful notes of dates and places. As she was often the one behind the camera, there were more pictures of her family than of herself. Of course most of her time taking pictures pre-dates the selfie, and even if it had been around, I don't know how often she would have pointed the lens at herself to capture a moment. Thankfully she was not camera shy though, and she joined me in the recent tradition of selfies at Crescent Bar. I wish that the selfie tradition had been a thing much earlier, so that I could look back on those forty years of Sun Lakes and then Crescent Bar, a year at time.

One of the great things about these photos is to remind us of moments and the stories behind them. We of course have shared many stories with each other over the past year. Some are big moments like the road trip to the Rose Bowl, or the sketchy flight into the Grand Canyon, but most of them are smaller moments. There is a great story behind the picture of Mom jumping off the boat at Sun Lakes that is in the slideshow and on the photo board. The moment was etched in Corey's mind since he snapped the picture when he was just seven years old, but it was just a random moment for Mom until she got to hear the story many years later. 

Another moment I vividly remember Mom wasn't physically there, but boy was she present. I was up camping outside of Salmon La Sac some thirty years ago. I was crossing a river alone, and got swept away. I was flying down the river trying to swim or find my feet, and the only thing in my head besides panic was, "Mom is going to be so pissed if I die." She must have read something about the snowpack, melting run off, or some other person getting swept away in another river, but she had warned me to be careful before I left for the trip. I had not been careful. 

It took what felt like an eternity to make my way across the river, but I was still moving fast downstream. When I got close to the opposite shore, I saw a branch extended out over the river like something in a movie and lunged for it. The force of the river twisted me around and dislocated a finger, but I was safe. I walked a mile down river to a bridge and then back upstream to camp, soaking wet and ready to start listening to good advice again. When I told Mom the story later, she was of course more thankful that I was OK than mad that I had done something stupid, but she may have given me a good Nanny-like shake of the finger. 

My last story takes us back to Sun Lakes again, and it lives in my memory even though this time it was me who wasn't really there. One morning Mom hiked up the cliff with Dan and a few others. I was invited along, but I couldn't be bothered to get out of bed any earlier than absolutely necessary because I was a teenager. This "old" lady and Dan came back with animated stories of their adventures and all the fun they had. You could see the light in Mom's eyes as she relived the tough but rewarding climb. There was no way my extra hour of sleep had been worth missing out. I have taken that to heart, and have been much more likely to say "count me in!" instead of talking myself out of things. To spend time with people I care for, and to create a new memory.

Our lives end up being these stories. Our lives are about who we create these stories with, and who we get to tell them too. Our lives are even the stories we don't know we are a part of. These seemingly throw away moments that impacted others, and left them better for it. 

At the graveside service I mentioned Mom' s habit of collecting rocks when she hiked. Each one held a memory. When I recently went looking for the rocks, I found that the old Lucerne ice cream bucket she piled them into did not make it through their last move. Dad also mentioned that Mom had used some of the rocks to line the garden at their previous home, which seemed a lovely way to share those memories instead of tucking them away. Even so, she had collected so many rocks that there are still ones left over. We encourage you to take one of her memory rocks home with you if you like, to remember her, and to remind ourselves that memories can be sometimes be found in the strangest places.  

Mom left this world a better place through her love, her actions and her words. She will live on in our memories, in the recipe cards she passed along, in the cross-stitch keepsakes she created, in the kindness we show each other, and in our stories.

May the stories we tell and retell keep her alive in our hearts. May those little reminders and stories bring us joy, even when we still miss her so. 

I love you Mom, and I miss you so. You will always be with me.

Click to enlarge

Something'll happen

 Back when I was building decks, we would often come across issues where we had to figure out how to make something work. Though the general construction was basically the same, every design was a little different, and every house presented different challenges. When the solution wasn't immediately obvious, we would let the problem sit in the back of our minds. Sometimes your brain keeps that problem running in the background and a solution will pop up while you are working on something else. Other times you just need to step away to come back with a fresh set of eyes. 

Occasionally a customer would see the problem themselves and would ask us how we were going to solve it. If we didn't yet have the answer, we would say, "Something'll happen". It was shorthand for "We haven't figured it out yet, but are confident that we will. Just give it/us some time."

"Something'll happen" has been the theme of the last few days. 

When I landed in Paris, my bike did not. The cardboard box that held my panniers and other bags showed up, but the bike box was nowhere to be found. I talked to the people in baggage claim and called Iceland Air, but their answer was basically, "Don't call us, we'll call you". Unfortunately, they mistyped my email address, got my home address wrong, and even put down my last name as "Dan" rather than "Day". It took an additional twenty minute call to get that fixed. It didn't inspire confidence. 

Since I had planned to ride my bike everywhere, I had to take an Uber while Rick and Liz rode to hotel from the airport, then another Uber on to the hotel in Paris the following day. Every next move and plan was prefaced by, "Well, if you get your bike..." There was one plan with, and one plan without a bike. We tried to stay positive, stay in the moment, and continued to work the plan as variables kept changing. Something'll happen.

We had planned for one full down day in Paris to let me recover some sleep, finish getting set up, and race by a few touristy spots. When we hadn't heard from the airline at the end of that second day, we spent an additional day looking around to see if I could rent a bike for two weeks. We struck out in Paris. Not only was it a long holiday weekend, but there was also a championship soccer/football final that weekend. The city was more overrun than normal, and everything was more expensive. Our already expensive hotel was due to double in price the second day, but Liz was able to sweet talk them into letting us stay on another day at the original price. 

We looked at taking a train to a smaller town on the route to see if we could pick up a bike there, but still no luck. As each hour and day ticked by, I became less and less confident my bike would ever show up, much less late, or that we would be able to figure out a work around. 

Before arriving, I had worried about throwing a wrench in their trip if my hip made it too difficult to keep up. The last thing I wanted to do was show up and screw up this epic trip they were on. Now I didn't even have a bike to fail on. I told Rick and Liz that I was planning to go home early, to let them continue the trip and ride without me. It broke my heart. They understood how I felt, but we set aside any final decisions until the next day. We went out and had a wonderful dinner, then slept on it. 

I could have shifted gears and made a new vacation plan for myself. After all, I was in Europe for the first time in thirty years. Why not spend some time, see the sights. But that wasn't what this trip was going to be about. It was about riding along rivers and through countrysides. It was about spending time with family I love, and finding small places and moments together that would be missed on a normal journey. I travel by myself all the time, but again this wasn't what this trip was about. I was pretty crushed, but still ready to make the difficult call to go home. 

I woke up at 3:30 and couldn't fall back asleep. I looked at changing my flight ($540 charge), for hotels anywhere between Paris and the airport (nothing under $200), our previously planned route and other things while fighting insomnia. I was finally able to sleep for an hour and then met Rick and Liz for breakfast. My new suggested plan was to take a train to Rouen (which was on our planned route), to spend another day with them before finding my way home. Paris had been a mess, and I just wanted to see a smaller town, and have a day where we didn't have to come up with any contingency plans. We found  an apartment in Rouen where we could stay for two nights. 

I had not heard a peep from the airport or the airline in all this time, even though I had corrected all the information they took down (except my last name was still Dan since that was somehow unchangeable). There was however a website where I could log in to see if they had found my bag. I had checked it every couple of hours over the three days, and checked it again in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. Still no sign of my bag.

I checked the website one more time after breakfast. The bike was now at the airport. 

Liz had finalized the reservation in Rouen just minutes before, so the train was still the plan. Scrambling ensued. Rick and I took an Uber to the airport, grabbed the bike, and took a taxi back, taking about three hours in the process. We assembled the bike in the street, loaded up our gear and rode to the train station. Another three hours later, we were in Rouen. The trip was back on. 

I am thankful that Rick and Liz are so flexible in the way they travel, always ready to figure out the next solution to the next problem. Even after I had given up hope, they were ready to roll with what came next. 

 Something'll happen.

Oh how I have missed this stupid box

Ready to ride

But first, a train. 

Two wheeled adventure

I have this weird thing with vacations, and maybe anticipation in general. 

For vacations, it isn't real until I check in at the airport, or drive away with a loaded up car. Something can always go wrong I suppose, so don't spend the energy on anticipation. But once vacation brain is turned on, I am all in. A switch is thrown and living in the moment is where I want to be. 

This trip is a little different, while being more of the same for my pre-vacation brain. 

There is much more planning involved this time around, though to be fair a lot of it is being done by the people I am joining. This time I can't wait until the last minute to run to the store, pack my bag, procrastinate as is my habit. There are just too many boxes to be checked, and small boxes to squeeze into. 

I am going on a two week bicycle trip through France. I leave in about a week. 

My cousins have been planning this trip for quite some time. I can't remember when they first told me about it, but in the first sentence or two they said, "You should join us!"

Yes, yes I should. 

There have been other opportunities to join friends on some cool trips before. I went on a number of them, but I have passed on couple I definitely regret, like the trips to Hawaii and Ireland. There were valid or semi-valid reasons to not go at the time, but I didn't want to let this one slip by and live to regret it. This trip is one I know I will love, but probably wouldn't have planned on my own, and I am so excited to travel with Rick and Liz. 

Their ride started in Portugal and they have been biking for almost a month now. They are currently in France, biking from Bordeaux to Paris, which is where I will join them. After a day in the city, we will ride west to the Normandy area on the coast. We will then head north along the coastline toward Dunkirk. There are general plans, but no set schedule of how far we will ride each day, or where we will stop each night. My sense is that they have been planning a few days out, but remaining flexible to hiccups and joys that make them pause or change their plans. I am not sure of how far I will get in the two weeks I will be with them, but at some point I will have to peel off and hop a train back to Paris to fly home. They will continue on to eventually finish in Amsterdam. 

Even though there has been planning in the background, I didn't tell a lot of people about the trip. Beyond the usual things that can throw a wrench in your plans, Covid has kept its two-plus year hold on things. Add to that my arthritic hip, and I wasn't sure how getting on the bike would feel. The answer is not great so far, but that is a story for another post. 

The hurdles can still trip me up, but the excitement is building. I have been fortunate to travel to some cool places in my life, and have even taken week-long and two-week-long bike trips in the past. However, it has been fifteen years since the last long bike ride, and it will be almost exactly 30 years since I was last in Europe. It feels crazy when I say things like "it has been 30 years since I...", but getting older doesn't mean getting old (just yet). Right? 

For at least a couple of weeks, the Views From Two Wheels blog will be a bit more literal. 

A eulogy for Mom, a first of many

 In the Leaving by Jan Richardson

In the leaving,
in the letting go,
let there be this
to hold onto
at the last:

the enduring of love,
the persisting of hope,
the remembering of joy.

the offering of gratitude,
the receiving of grace,
the blessing of peace.

When I first started to think about what I would say here today, it was just overwhelming. How do you sum up a person in a few paragraphs or pages? It is a difficult thing to look for the light in dark times, but there have been some small blessings in the past week or two. As part of this process, we were encouraged to tell stories. One story led to another, and it was just nice to talk about Mom, and what she meant to me, and to our family.

There are a few memories that have stuck with me always, but in getting to talk about Mom over the past week, random stories would pop up that I hadn't thought about in years. And while I was thinking of stories to tell, little coincidences would pop up to provide a little wonder and mystery.

One of the silly memories that Jim mentioned was about the bucket of rocks. Mom and Dad would take us on hikes as kids. We of course grumbled about it most of the time, because we were kids. But more than the aluminum frame backpacks, and the false promise that the lake was just over the next hill, the thing that I remember most is Mom coming back with a pocket full of rocks. It was like she was bringing back a little talisman that carried the memory of the time and the place. Soon there were a couple of gallon-sized, plastic ice cream tubs full of them sitting in the garage. She could no longer match a rock to a memory, but I don't suppose that really mattered. The collection of rocks was just a way of marking days well spent.

Mom was not big on speeches or hitting you over the head with spelled-out lessons. She was more subtle, making you sort of work them out for yourself. I remember her somehow weaving in a lesson on empathy when she was teaching me how to drive. Consider others always, see things that they are seeing. But she mostly taught me things by example, by living in a caring way. She had this calm presence, a grounded way that I have tried to emulate.

I was walking through a park an hour or two before she passed, looking at bare trees, gathering my thoughts, and listening to a podcast. Toward the end of the episode, Sister Helen said, "The only way I know what I really believe, is by keeping watch over what I do."

Don’t get me wrong, Mom was no Buddha always floating on a sea of Zen. I remember her chewing out a theater manager when a scene was cut out of the movie The Fiddler on the Roof, and she could write a letter of complaint with the best of them. But she didn’t seem to seek out irritation, and even when she found it, she didn’t hang onto it for very long.

There is one memory that has always stuck with me. It was Christmastime several years ago, when Mom and Dad were living in their house above Eastgate. I was over at the house, Mom was working on something in the kitchen, and "It's A Wonderful Life" was on in the family room. This movie always hits me right in the feels, and I try and watch it every season. I don't remember what scene it was, or exactly what Mom said, but the gist of it was "I don't think when I look back on my life, that I will have had that much of an impact."

I know I said something to the effect that impacts can seem small and hardly noticed at the time, but that all those little moments add up. You can never know what chain of events can be set off with the simplest of actions or moments of kindness. And of course that is the lesson of the movie. George Bailey has no idea what a hole there would be if he had never existed.

While this memory was running through my head, I walked into Mom’s room at hospice. The TV was typically tuned to a station of relaxing music with occasional quotes popping up on the screen, but the TV was off when I walked in. When I turned it on the first quote read, "To the world you may be just one person, but to one person you may be the world."

I know Mom had an impact on far more people than she could have imagined, but of course I will always remember what she did for me specifically in all those small moments. Everything she did to make me who I am. All the strength that she gave me. I knew no matter how I faltered in this life, Mom would be there in my corner, believing in me when I simply couldn't.

She will live on in the way that I walk through this life. She will be there in every decision I make, every time I offer a small kindness, every time I try to see the world through someone else’s eyes.

One of the things she taught me in that pile of rocks was that if a rock had a band of different colored minerals encircling it, that it was considered a wish rock. Though I have Mom's tendency to be a sentimental packrat, I have resisted collecting a bucket full myself, but when I am hiking these days I will occasionally pick up a rock, and I have a few wish rocks on a shelf at home.

My wish is that we keep our hearts and minds open, and not shut off in pain. May we continue to see those little reminders and strange coincidences that bring her to mind. May the stories we tell and retell keep her alive in the hearts of those she loved, and those that loved her. May those little reminders and stories bring us joy, even when we don't feel like we are ready for it.

May she have felt love in all her days, and may that love sustain us in all of ours.

There is a saying that goes "Every dog owner thinks that their dog is the best. And they are all correct."

I suppose the same goes for Moms. My Mom was the best.

Mom

 This is a post I have been avoiding writing. In a similar way, when my marriage was crumbling I didn't write about it publicly, maybe hoping to put off the inevitable outcome, and keeping it to myself in the meantime. But like so many things I have written about here, avoidance and trying to go it alone only leads to deeper troubles. Unable to see most of you in person these days, I will start the process here, beginning to work through it by getting it out of my head and down on paper.

Mom has cancer.

My brothers and I have been meeting once a month off and on over the last couple of years to grab a beer and catch up on life. This has obviously been paused during the pandemic, but in late October a gathering was called, and we were told about the diagnosis. 

She has been diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a cancer that forms in white blood/plasma cells. It accumulates in, and attacks your bone marrow. It was discovered when my mom was having back pain. After a couple of appointments, they discovered she had some broken ribs. This made them look a little closer, and they found the cancer, which had been basically dissolving the bones. As a strange coincidence, though multiple myeloma is a relatively uncommon cancer, this is the same type of cancer that my former father in law had. 

The cancer is in the later stages, and the outlook did not look good on initial diagnosis. Mom was put on a chemo regimen, taking a pill once a day in three week cycles. In the beginning, Mom was in a lot of pain due to the broken ribs. Every movement seemed to hurt, and she was very frustrated. Unfortunately, a few days before Thanksgiving Mom went downhill rapidly. She was lethargic, somewhat unresponsive and been sleeping most of the day. 

She was taken to the hospital the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and was there for a week. We brought her back home, hired in-home healthcare to help during the daytime, and I moved in to help out in the evenings. She briefly improved, but a couple of weeks later she was back in the hospital for another two weeks, coming home the evening of Christmas Day. 

Of course, since this is all happening in a pandemic, she couldn't have any visitors while she was in the hospital. We weren't even allowed in the building, so she was going through this all alone. I can't fully understand what that was like for her. They released her on Christmas, not because she had improved much, but because they weren't getting anywhere in improving her physical health. She was too weak to be moved to skilled nursing care, so home was the only real option.

She has been home again for almost a month now. On one hand, being at home is better for her mental state, and her ribs seem to be mostly healed. However, she is still weak, unable to do much more than lie on the couch during the day, and often has difficulty following trains of thought. Strangely, her decline does not seem to be directly related to the cancer, as those numbers seem to be responding to the chemo. It has basically been diagnosed as "failure to thrive", a phrase that seems to put it all on her (and us). She definitely isn't eating or drinking enough, and that is contributing to the inability to get better. I don't know if it is a confluence of the multiple drugs she is on that is making her not want to eat, or if it is something else.

We are trying our best. There is still a healthcare worker there during the day, and one of the brothers is over there every evening to see Mom, and help Dad out with her evening care. But we are at a loss right now. We aren't seeing any real progress, have fewer answers, and we just generally feel helpless. 

There is much more to process and work through, more detailed stories to tell, but this is a starting point of where we are right now. Thanks for reading, for being a part of my circle, and for being part of the conversation.

As always, hug your humans (when it is safe to do so). 

Treading water

I have had some form of depression for much of my adult life. It manifests at different levels, and in different ways at different times, but it is always there running in the background.

It has overall been less powerful over the last decade, primarily a result of the counseling I went through as a part of my divorce. Though you cannot rationalize your way out, talking about it nonetheless helped (and helps) tremendously. Just having someone on the outside, looking at it with you, can alter your perspective.

Two other things came out of the counseling that have helped in the intervening years. One was the realization of the effect my depression has on others. This thing I thought lived only in my head, and only made my own life miserable, had toxic effects on those around me. I know this should have been obvious, but in the thick of it, it wasn't. I was surprised to see how this misery I thought I was internalizing, brought others down with me despite my best efforts to spare them. There were many contributors to my divorce, most of which I can only speculate on, but I have no doubt that my depression was a big factor.

The other somewhat related lesson was that trying to internalize everything, to try and go it on your own is a short-sighted response. Depression can make you feel isolated and unworthy, but you are cheapening your connections and relationships by not trusting those that love you. They believe in you, even when you cannot. Where a decade ago I would not think to share my internal spiraling thoughts, I now let people know when I am struggling. Not always, but certainly more than before. I have not been to a counselor in almost a decade, but now I am more honest with my friends and share a larger part of my head and heart with them. I do this in person and also here online.

In sharing stories here someone recently reached out to me to talk about depression. That same night, YouTube coincidentally suggested a couple of videos about depression. The following morning I was crying uncontrollably in the shower.

Depression has hit me in waves before, often feeling like a physical weight on my chest, but I have never felt so out of control as I did that morning about a month ago. I know for many, depression is a chemical thing. Though I had read this and believed it to be true, I had never experienced it a way that made that knowledge felt, made it real. There were thoughts running through my head as the wave crashed, but it didn't feel like they were the quake that set off the tsunami. This felt very different, something apart from thought. And I felt helpless.

One thing that made the helpless feeling a bit stronger was I felt that I had lost one of one of my ways to respond to it. This breakdown in the shower was about a week after throwing out my back, and I could not turn to running as an outlet. There would be no solace on the road where I could try to sort things out. The feeling of being physically broken as well only added to the height of the wave. Also adding to it were the long hours of work in the month and a half ahead. How was I going to get through them feeling this broken.

The tide eventually washed out and I pulled myself together enough to continue getting ready for work.

How the rest of that March day went will follow in the next post.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...

It was the day before Christmas last year and I was over at my friend's house. His daughter, also my great friend, had gotten engaged just days before, to someone who is also a great friend (so many interconnected friends). These three have all brought me in like family, and this was one of several times they have included me in holiday celebrations. 

We were toasting the newly engaged and listening to the proposal story. After a bit, the couple pulled me aside in the kitchen to talk. They said they had something to ask, but then hesitated a bit, looking at each other. The soon-to-be-bride had some tears welling up and told the groom-to-be to do the asking. I had been in weddings before so I thought maybe they were going to ask me to be one of the groomsmen. 

They surprised me by asking me to perform the ceremony.

I was stunned, confused, honored, touched, and even mildly freaking out, all in the span of a couple of seconds. They continued by saying that when they had previously talked about hypothetically getting married, that for at least a couple of years they had known they wanted me to perform the ceremony. At hearing this, I was beyond moved. After some hugs and excited chatter, I half joked that I would need to have a stiff drink before the ceremony to be able to speak in front of a crowd. Whenever I have had to do a speech or make a presentation, I have spoken too fast and stumbled over words in a rush to get off stage. But that was the problem for ten months-from-now-Sean. 

Over the next several months, I would jot down thoughts as they came to me - "Shower Thoughts" as one of the bridesmaids called them.  I would copy down good turns of phrase from videos or books, save pictures from Instagram that had thoughts about love and relationships, and bookmark web pages with good wedding poems. Themes appeared but it was nothing close to coherent writing, much less a wedding ceremony. 

A month or two before the wedding, Matt, Jenica and I went away for a weekend. We took the dogs and stayed in a family cabin on Vashon Island. There was good food, drink and conversation. We talked about the ceremony in general terms, but what I would say was pretty much up to me. They did not want to hear it ahead of time. They trusted me, which was awesome, but again a little scary being the only one who would shape it. 

We also took a trip to Bellingham a few weeks out to check out some vendors and so I could see the venue. Like previous road trips with these two it was a fun adventure, but like the cabin trip before, it was just so wonderful to be part of the process. I had been to a wedding back in April. It was a wonderful ceremony and a joy to be there to witness the excitement and possibility of this new beginning for a friend. Matt and Jenica's wedding was always going to be different though.

Of course both the bride and groom were very important to me, but I had forgotten how different the experience is when you are a member of the wedding party. You are sort of in the inner circle, getting to help with all the behind the scene details, witness the small moments, and maybe lend a voice or ear when needed. As honored as I was to be asked, the actual experience of being a part of it was that much better. 

Now the wedding was a week away and for all the note taking, I had yet to put pen to paper on the actual ceremony. Part of it was my normal procrastination habit, but I think an even greater part was the feeling that I can never quite adequately translate the thoughts in my head to the word on the page. There is always a disconnect. While the thoughts remain only in my head, they are perfect, so I hesitated to shatter that illusion. 

But you can't re-write a blank page.

I combed through the snippets and phrases. Certain ones worked, others felt important but I couldn't get them to fit. Once I got going though I re-discovered a bit of love for writing. The past year or so has been one of malaise and stagnation, but in this wedding and writing the ceremony I found excitement again. It was the first thing I had written in years that I cared so much about getting right. Not since finishing my book really, and at one point I realized that what I was writing for the wedding would probably be heard by more people than had read my book. 

I revised each day, cutting and pasting, winnowing and sharpening. Many versions were saved. A few days out, I was randomly scrolling through my Instagram saves and found a forgotten piece that helped tie together part of what I was trying to say. The day before and the day of there were multiple trips to coffee shops to write, and to Fed Ex/Kinkos to print out the latest version. Even an hour before the ceremony when I was sitting in my car rehearsing, things were being crossed out and moved. Given the chance I would endlessly keep re-writing, but it is never really done, you just run into a deadline. 

But what a beautiful deadline. 

Though I was still re-writing an hour before the ceremony, I was pretty happy with what I had written. It was heartfelt, at times personal but it also touched on love and connection in general. I felt reasonably comfortable up in front of everyone and did my best to speak slowly and be in the moment. Mostly I focused on the happy couple and pretended it was just them I was talking to. 

People were very kind after the ceremony, complementing me on what I had written and several were surprised this was my first time. I don't know if I will ever perform another ceremony, but you never know.

At any rate, with this being my first, and for my connection to the couple, this one would be a tough one to top.

Wedding Presents

I was recently at a wedding. The groom was the son of a friend of mine. Though the groom and I don't hang out independent of the rest of his family, I would consider him a friend as well. He is one of the people I go with on the annual four day backpacking trip, and we figured out that I have known him since he was three years old. His mom, then a single mom with multiple jobs and school on her schedule, would sometimes bring him to our work where he would sit and color until his grandparents came to pick him up. Many of the restaurant staff got to see this young boy grow into a wonderful man, and some were there to celebrate his step into a new life with his wife. Beautiful, wonderful.

A week ahead of the wedding (cause I like to procrastinate) I was shopping for the traditional wedding present online. So easy these days. The present could even be shipped directly to them so they wouldn't have to gather them all up after the wedding. One less moving part on the day of the ceremony.

They are in their mid-twenties, creating a brand new home so every dish and fork is a piece of that. Though I am sure everything is greatly appreciated and all one small piece of the whole, it is always odd to buy a single dish, place setting or towel. I opted for a divided sauté pan that I had not seen before, if only because I thought it was cool.

My own wedding was more than seventeen years ago. We have now been apart for about as much time as we were together, and it is hard to wrap my head around the amount of time that has passed. All these years later I am still eating off our dishes, brewing coffee in our coffee pot, and having pancakes stick on our Teflon weary pan. They were long ago left to me so they are no longer "our" things. There are plenty of talismans that remind me of our marriage, but the kitchen things are now just kitchen things. I had a hand in picking them out and I still quite like them.

I am sorry to say that I don't remember who was nice enough to give us each item on that September day, but know that your gifts are still being used and appreciated almost two decades later.

Before the recent wedding I had been thinking about wedding presents in a different way. You bring not only yourself to each new relationship, but also your friends, family and all the history you have created together. Jennifer and I had a few mutual friends when we began, and over the years many more became "our" friends. I would say that most of mine became ours, but for some reason there were a few that remained distinctly hers. I don't know why this was, but not everyone is going to like you.

When we split, friends could have been caught in the middle. I am sure many divorcing couples try to avoid this, but I feel that we made a special effort to try and prevent it from happening. Ultimately I don't know how successful we were, and I honestly don't know what the relationships with our friends and Jennifer have been like in the intervening years. However I have the sense that I was left with most of the friends, as I was with the household goods.

Something sort of odd but wonderful has happened in these post-marriage days. I have become good friends with a few of "her" friends. Some I know better now than I did then, and I am blessed that the failure in one relationship did not take out another. For a while I felt the oddity of this gift, but now I am only reminded of it when someone asks, "so how do you know each other?"

The event that started this rambling train of thoughts was an invitation from a friend who was coming to town. She began as a friend of Jenn, then she was ours, but then I hadn't seen her much recently. She now lives in another state so our connection is very Facebook dependent. Anyway, she was going to be in town and rather than trying to coordinate multiple meetings, she planned a gathering at a local brewery and invited a bunch of people. Tax season was not in its full abusive mode yet, and thankfully the brewery was near work, so I was able to join them for an hour and a half. It was wonderful seeing her, meeting her new(ish) husband, and catching up on things awesome and trivial.

There was another couple there that I had met a couple of times but didn't know all that well. When the guy said, "I think the last time I saw you was at your wedding," elephants were acknowledged, so initial connections could be recognized and forgotten. We settled in for a great evening and sort met for the first time, for the second time. It was one of those evenings where I just sat back and enjoyed the mystery and beauty of it all.

Since that evening, and while this post has been rattling around in my head when I was too busy/tired to put pen to paper, I found out that Jennifer re-married. She had reached out to me previously to let me know she was engaged, but I didn't know when the wedding was, and last weekend I noticed her last name had changed on Facebook. Though I knew it was coming, and we have been a long time apart, I was still hit with a deep sadness. A reminder of all that I lost when the thing that was Us came to an end.

It was great seeing Dalton getting married earlier this month - to see the love in the room and to bear witness the start of a new life. I don't know if this is strange or not, but I continue to say (and believe) that my wedding day was one of the best days of my life. So many friends and family brought together in a single place to celebrate hope, love and community. Even all these years later, after all that has changed, I am reminded of the gifts that it brought, and occasionally still get to open a present.

Chuck

I have always been blessed by my family. We not only love each other, we actually like spending time together. Growing up, all the cousins, aunts and uncles gathered each month to celebrate one of our birthdays. As the family moved into another generation, and the number of children and birthdays grew, we found less time to be able to gather. But as the visits became less frequent, and probably as I grew older to know better, they became more important.

And there was always the week together in the summer. For a couple of decades the annual trip was to Sun Lakes, and now it has been about as long in Crescent Bar along the Columbia River. Thirty or so of family and friends carving out a week to spend with each other. Because we wanted to.

As time passed, less time was spent skiing on the water and more time sitting on the shore just talking. Since we saw each other less often, that was just about perfect. 

Chuck was sort of my third brother growing up. Chuck was just a couple of months older than me, and my own brother was just a year younger. Our other siblings were a good five years older or more (a chasm at that age) so it was always us three hanging out together when the family gathered. I can remember playing pool in his basement, hoops in our backyard, or playing on our bitchin' Atari 2600. I suppose what I see now looking back is that he was guy that allowed my brother and I to get along for a brief period. 

Chuck also gave me my family nickname, "Na" when he couldn't pronounce Sean as a toddler. The name has stuck and my Dad or brothers will still occasionally call me Na fifty years later. When I was younger and my friends would hear this nickname, they would begin to tease as kids often do. I liked the name and when I told them so, the teasing stopped when they saw they couldn't get a rise out of me. I suppose Chuck's nickname taught me an early and valuable lesson.

Though he was just a couple of months older, Chuck seemed to always be more together in high school and a step or two ahead of me on life's schedule. He got married, had three boys and got a responsible job with adult things like health insurance and retirement benefits. His boys are now grown and it has been nice getting to know them as adults the past few years, and not just as Chuck's kids. 

Chuck found out he had lung cancer not long after our Crescent Bar trip last summer. The cancer had progressed quite far, and though he fought it with all he had, Chuck passed away yesterday. He leaves behind his three boys now men, but all too young to have to say goodbye to their father. He leaves behind his four siblings, their closeness I have always admired and have tried my best to emulate, and their spouses who are just so much Chuck's brothers and sisters as well. And he leaves behind his extended family and other friends who will feel this loss and hole in their heart and lives in a hundred different ways great and small.

I know there will be more specific memories popping up in the days and years to come that will remind me of Chuck and what his loss means, but this morning it is just tears on the keyboard. 

Na

Brotherhood 2.0

Though I don't have cable, my tv is still on for a number of hours in the evening. Through the magic (science) of apps and the little Roku box, I get to watch a lot of internet content on the big screen. There is of course Netflix and Hulu for movies and shows, but I now spend as much or more time watching YouTube videos. Some of the YouTube content is actually tv (nightly check-ins with Stephen Colbert and Seth Meyers) so this is all starting to loop in on itself and the distinctions are sort of meaningless.

Much of the YouTube stuff is from individual creators though. Some people take me along while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail (Homemade Wanderlust, Whimsical Woman), while others are random people who had an idea that found an audience for a goofy show (My Drunk Kitchen, for example). That is the brilliance of an open internet and net neutrality. People can get their quirky, funny, brilliant, creative ideas out there without going through network executives or slipping Comcast some money so that people are allowed to find you. Call your congressman/woman.

The one YouTube channel that I enjoy the most is The Vlogbrothers. The channel was originally inspired by two brothers (John and Hank) wanting to get to know each other better. Yes, they grew up in the same household, but there was enough of an age gap that they didn't really grow up "together". They also now lived in different parts of the country, so they didn't see each other all that much.

The channel was created with the challenge to send each other a short video on alternate days on whatever topic crossed their mind. Each video opened with "Good morning Hank/John" and ended with "I'll see you on Tuesday, etc." Through daily contact, they wanted to create a better relationship while stretching their creative legs. The channel was originally titled "Brotherhood 2.0".

The channel is now ten years old. They are down to two videos a week, but they have kept building on this relationship while entertaining us along the way. Their videos are at turns funny, educational, deeply personal and nearly always worth the entire time spent watching them. I have spent many an evening falling down the rabbit hole of the internet as one video led to another.

I have two brothers of my own, one just a year younger and the other nine years my senior. I obviously grew up side by side with my younger brother, but I think he would agree that we did not like each other that much, or probably more accurately, we did not at all understand each other. Once grown and out of the house, we discovered /created a new relationship as adults. We have at times actually chosen to live with each other, and we've found some common ground that escaped us as children.

My older brother and I grew up in different eras under the same roof. Nine years is a chasm at those early ages, and he was more an occasional reluctant baby-sitter than a compatriot. However, that age gap enabled an ability to teach and he definitely sparked an interest in working with my hands, particularly in fixing cars while flipping through a Chilton Auto Repair Manual with greasy thumbs.

Time passes and relationships change. My younger brother has lived at times on the other side of the country or on the other side of the world, and my older brother has been off in marriage and raising two daughters. I am blessed with a family that enjoys time together, but occasional holiday dinners are often not enough to sustain or build strong connections.

At fifty, I seem to be pre-senile so I don't recall whose idea it was, but someone started the habit of the brothers meeting for dinner and drinks every month or so. It has been going on for about a year now, and it has been a great thing. We discuss things great and small, but most importantly just spend time together. It has been wonderful getting to know each of them better, in particular my older brother. He is no longer married, and he is a much happier human being. and I feel like I am just getting to really know him. The nine year gap so massive in youth is barely noticeable now.

We are experiencing our own Brotherhood 2.0, and this is one of the things I am very thankful for this year.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Missed connections

My cousin Liz wrote a beautiful post the other day.  She and her husband Rick (OK, he is technically the cousin) are in Thailand for a couple of years, and Liz is a counselor at an international school there. Now that their own kids are grown, they sold their house and took this two-year left turn on their path because they could.

Rick is headed back stateside for a month to attend to some family matters and Liz wrote her post about the coming separation. It is longer than they have ever been apart, and the foreign residence must certainly add to the disconnected feeling she will experience. She wrote honestly about what she is feeling, and sharing these vulnerable moments is what brings people closer together.

I don't think I have ever felt this sort of separation, and that is my loss. I think I am a little too comfortable being alone. I also don't know that I have ever shared my whole being with someone, at least not at a time when it mattered. I am always sort of disconnected.

I am a pretty classic introvert. I am that nerd that flags passages in books with sticky note flags and carries a tiny notebook in my jacket pocket in case a good moment or phrase crosses my path. I am more comfortable in the company of a few than in a crowd. I have no problem spending the day doing things by myself. I go to restaurants, movies, hikes, etc. flying solo. I seem to run out of social energy if I hang out with others for too long. I can be awkward at times, saying the wrong thing or not saying enough. At parties, I will gravitate toward the dog.

I have been sick the past few days, holed up at home with Nyquil and a Neti Pot. I typically get sick very slowly, recover just as slowly, but the sick doesn't usually hit me all that hard. Basically it is a long shallow curve, but this one has taken me down for four days so far. Living alone of course has its advantages and disadvantages. I am not currently grossing anyone out with my pile of Kleenex or by washing out my sinuses over the kitchen sink. I have never really wanted anyone to "take care" of me when I am sick, but I do find the lack of human interaction creating some cabin fever. Even a brief conversation with a barista would give a boost of energy making the $2 cost of a cup of coffee more palatable.

I guess I am sort of a social introvert now. A man that at times keeps people at arm's length, yet somehow maintains close connections. I have been blessed with having a number of good friends in my life. Much of this can be traced/attributed to my time in restaurants. The work atmosphere not only brings lots of different people together, it seems to encourage closeness as you engage in the daily battle. And of course you are forced to speak to strangers on a regular basis. Through practice and exposure, you are brought out of your shell.

I was at a surprise birthday party a month or so ago for a longtime friend. We have worked together, lived together, been a part of each other's weddings, but more recently we see each other only once a year or so. Another great friend with the same longtime connection would be there along with his wife and son, and I couldn't recall the last time I had seen him. It had obviously been a while since his son was now about five and I recalled him as a toddler.

It was a great evening. All the years faded away as we fell into funny and meaningful conversation. I got to know one of the wives a bit better, and I enjoyed talking to the little boy. When it was time to go, my friend and I were exchanging a hug. I have a reputation for giving a good strong hug, but when I went to pull away, by friend held on and said, "I'm not done yet."In that simple phrase and moment I felt the beauty of deeper connections.  I still struggle with keeping people at arm's length, but I also know I am doing better, and light years from where I used to be.

Earlier, while the adults were chatting away, sharing stories under a tarp cozied up to heat lamps, the little boy came up and asked his mother if there was any paper he could draw on. We weren't at their house so she said she wasn't sure. I reached into my pocket and handed him my pen and little notebook, saying it was sort of small but he was welcome to it. When he returned the notebook later in the evening, it came with a gift.

Sometimes it pays to be a little nerdy.

Happy Birthday Mom

Today is my mom's birthday. Her 80th.

80!

One of those nice round numbers that makes it mean something more. Every time you venture into another decade, somehow everything feels a little different, even if you are just 24 hours older than when you woke up the safe side of calendar marker. Imaginary or not, 40 does seem older than 39, 50 older than 49.

In our family there is this running theme started by one of my cousins, "you're not old until you're 80." It started with my grandmother, a woman who was not only the classic grandma to her family, but seemed to be this matronly anchor to friends as well. Not many people called her by her given name, Gladys, but more often by her family moniker, Nannie. Mom is now the matriarch of the extended family, and is "Aunt Bev" to most.

Time of course smooths out the edges on memory, mine especially, most of which seem to be clouded in movie flashback fog. Anyway, Nannie at 80 seemed much older than Mom at 80. Part of it is difference in scale of course. As a young kid, everyone seems so old. My parents were in their mid to late thirties when I was growing through my pre-teen years, and they seemed much older than I feel even now at 47. We are also living longer these days, and I think my Mom has been more active in trying to stay healthy, making 80 not what it used to be.

Still another part of it is lifestyle, and how you spend your time. In my head, Nannie stayed at home most of the time, though of course that probably isn't true. I am more tuned into what my Mom is up to. There is water aerobics, bridge and book club with friends, plays and the occasional opera with other friends, lectures at the UW, and of course their travel. I am happy to see her and my Dad (just a month shy of his own 80th birthday) doing those big trips to Europe that weren't feasible while raising four kids.

80 though.

Still hard to wrap my head around all that they have seen in that time. Beyond the whole string of historical events and technological advances, there are all the (not so) little day to day things like building a career, creating a home, raising a family, and doing right by friends, family and the world. Though we tend to look back at the "big" events when rewinding a life, it is those million tiny moments that make up who you are and where you have been. And growing up, there were few big lectures about being a good person, just a thousand little demonstrations on how to be one.

I am eternally grateful for my family, and most of all for you Mom. I am blessed to be able to spend the big days and random Tuesdays at the dinner table with you and Dad. Mostly, though, I am just so happy that you both are still off discovering new lands and building a life when you've supposedly reached "old."

I think the notion that 80 is when you become old is being re-written. By you two.

Happy birthday Mom.

Love always,

Sean

Merry Christmas

The Christmas season has extended to more than a month these days. At once I rail against it backing up into Thanksgiving, and in the next breath I wonder where the time went.

There have been parties and gatherings sprinkled throughout the month, and that is a wonderful part of extending the season. Even last night, I was invited to a friend's house for a family gathering to celebrate Christmas Eve. I was essentially the one non-family member in attendance, and it is part of the wonder of the season that I was invited to take part.

Yet as I was driving home last night from the party, still warmed by the generosity of spirit, it felt strange that I wouldn't see these and other friends on the actual day of Christmas. It is of course it is logistically unfeasible to see everyone you love on the day itself, but mere mathematical impossibility does not dissuade the heart from wanting what it wants.

I wish I could be there in person to wish you a Merry Christmas, but you will be with me in (Christmas) spirit.

Merry Christmas everybody!

Ghosts of Christmas Past

A friend wrote recently, "Every year I debate whether or not to get a Christmas tree. But I never regret putting one up." It is something I have often said about going out on a run. I am rarely, "Woohoo, let's do this thing," but again, I never regret it.

I go through a similar battle to my friend each year with the Christmas tree. I wrote a bit about it a few years ago, and in some ways that feeling remains. When you live by yourself, it strangely seems like a wasted effort to put up a tree. Like any part of the season, or much of anything really, activities seem to grow in meaning by more than a simple factor of two when shared. Is it really worth going through the effort to get a tree, drag it upstairs, get the boxes out of storage and decorate for just you?

Yes.

Yet I still debated again this year. I wasn't going to be able to make it happen until the 14th, so it seemed almost doubly silly to do it that late in the season. But I did, and once again, I do not regret the effort.

Every tree tells a story, and each ornament is a passage. In 2008 when things were beginning to come apart at the seams, I walked around my tree and wrote about what some of the ornaments meant (The Twelve Ornaments of Christmas). Everyone's tree has its own family history on display, but unless you know the story behind them, they are mostly just shiny baubles. If you were to listen to the stories told by your host, you would realize that the tree is more than a decoration, and it is really a telling of their lives, and of Christmases past. I was trying to share some of those stories, but I was also trying to anchor myself in family and tradition when I felt it slipping away.

You unpack these story totems but just once a year, so each time you see them, your brain rewrites the connection. There are a few that are a small surprise as the memory of where they came from fades. Some ornaments are second or third string, and some years don't make the cut, while others you could never forget and always get a special place on the tree. Then there are a few that don't come out of the box because their memory isn't what it used to be.

I obviously have ornaments that were from when I was married. Most of them come out each year, but there are certain ones that have remained tucked away. They are the ones with pictures or our names on them as a couple. Their meaning had changed significantly, and I just couldn't bring myself to put them on the tree. I also have more recent picture ornaments from Kristy, and their meaning has changed as well.

This year for the first time, I unwrapped those ornaments. I looked at them and tried to decide what they meant to me a year further down the road. I set them back in the box again, but less decisively. I met a friend the next night, and somehow the subject came up. As I explained it, I began to feel like it was time to put them back out.

I still think the ending was poorly written, but it is part of my story. I suppose if I were with someone now, it might be harder to explain why they belong on the tree, but maybe in telling the story, I would come to know better how I feel. If I keep these things in my too-large box of regrets, they seem to hold more power than if I just have them out in the open.

So my tree is up again, it is my story, and I am sticking to it.

Sisters and Brothers From a Different Mother

I recently received a congratulations email from LinkedIn. It was marking the two-year anniversary of when I started working for the CPA firm. I had in the back of my mind that I moved back up here in November, but really hadn’t connected the dots that it has already been two years.

When I decided to leave California, the main factor was to be close to my family again. As the decision came in late summer/early fall, the target became to be back by Thanksgiving. I see Thanksgiving as that perfect family holiday. There are no cursory traditions that seem like requirements. No presents to buy, cards to exchange, services to attend – it is just a day to spend with family and give thanks for all the wonderful (and even not so wonderful) things and people in your life.

It was difficult to say goodbye to everyone in San Diego. People I knew before moving down became deeper friends, and friends became family. What would it be like now that we couldn’t just meet for a drink or share an impromptu dinner? Well, it would be like what happened when I moved away from my set of Washington friends, and I knew how hard that had become.

For all the knocks against Facebook and other social media, it does give you a tether into the lives of those that you care about. Even if they are just a few towns over, lives can get so busy that it is difficult to coordinate a meeting in person. For those that are too far away for a quick visit, it can feel like a lifeline.

But of course, it can be and feel superficial. Lost are the deeper discussions about the sort of things that don’t make the highlight reel. One friend over Facebook suggested making every tenth posting about something you’re less likely to share. A problem that crept up, a struggle that has been nagging, or just a feeling of sadness that you can’t trace to its source. Most find it difficult to reach out in this way in person, so doing it online is that much more of a barrier.

Now that I am back, in some ways it feels like I was never gone. I don’t know how common it is, but I feel very fortunate to have friends that I can sort of pick up where I left off. Many I have known for the better part of twenty years, and most can be traced back to one of two restaurants – McDonald’s or The Keg. I assign this closeness and longevity to working together in that sort of job. My mom recently commented how fortunate it is that I had these kinds of friends. She thought it was because of the type of person I am, but she may be a bit biased.

Of course I was gone, and I feel like I was a bit different when I returned, but my friends welcomed me back with few questions asked. It is a true blessing. It may be presumptuous, but I feel like my California friends would be the same way. They are those sorts of cherished people as well, friends that are family.

I met up with some friends over the weekend. On Friday it was with some in the twenty-year class that I don’t get to see nearly enough. There was so much to catch up on, but much of the feeling was communicated in the long hugs of greeting. On Saturday and Sunday, it was with people I have known for only a couple of years, but we already consider ourselves a biking “family”.

My actual family (you know, those that I am related to) is amazing. Growing up, we saw our extended family almost every month, to gather for a birthday or some other occasion. As time passed and the kids were having their own kids, we reached some sort of critical mass, and the monthly gatherings fell to a few times during the year. We still gather for a week in eastern Washington, though we missed out for the first time in decades this summer when the river ran dry.

A couple weeks ago, we came together to celebrate an 80th birthday, and it was a room filled love and conversation. Sure there is a little familial obligation anchored by holidays, but there was no question that we all were excited to see each other after too long a drought. We not only love each other, but we really like each other as well.

I have tried to see friends this week to extend the Thanksgiving holiday. I miss seeing everyone face-to-face for those deeper moments and connections. I need to find a way to get down to San Diego for a visit. To grab that drink, to walk the beach, or run that race. To connect like family.

Family that are friends, and friends that are like family. For this I am truly thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody.

Father's Day

There are many reasons Father's Day seems to play second fiddle to Mother's Day. First, the stereotype that moms are much more involved with the children holds true in my made up figure of 89.3% of American families. Moms do more, so they deserve more of our thanks. Another is that (again stereotypically) guys are not as easy with expressing or receiving gratitude and emotion. Just doing my job folks, no need to make a big deal out of it, and save the money, it doesn't grow on trees you know.

I have mentioned several times here and elsewhere how fortunate I am in my family, and I was reminded about it over breakfast this morning. I still haven't stocked the fridge after house/dog sitting for three weeks, so I went out to the local breakfast joint. I sat at the counter as I always do. Many families were out to celebrate over pancakes and bacon, but at my end of the counter, it was mostly single guys. 

The guy to my left was a bit younger than me. He appeared to be a regular, and was also named Sean. Many knew his name, so I kept looking up whenever he was greeted. To my right was a man not quite my Dad's age, but definitely a generation up. Where Sean was pleasant and engaging, the older man was brusque and gloomy. He swatted away normal conversation like circling flies, and talked over the waitress as if she were an impediment. 

When the waitress brought Sean his bill, she asked him if he was doing anything with his dad later in the day. Sean sort of chuckled a "no" and went on to explain that he hadn't spoken to his dad in years. He thought for a moment, and said the last time he called his dad was 1999, and the conversation did not encourage another call. I felt bad for Sean, and wondered if the clipped speech of the man to my right was avoiding the mention of Father's Day for a similar reason. 

So much of who I am is tied up in my parents. No need to discuss nature vs. nurture, as they were the major players in both. As is often the case, as I get older it is easier to see myself in my folks, or really them in me. Traits, mannerisms, ways of thought and speech. It is a common trope to freak out when you end up becoming like your parents, but I do not have those kinds of fears. 

I see in him my critical thinking, not satisfied with the trite answer. He gave me my love of books, though it did take a while to sink in. I see in him my belief in the system, as flawed as it may be at times. That it is not this separate entity, but an amalgamation of all of us, and that it fails principally when we don't take part. 

I think my love of the outdoors can be traced back to Dad as well. We went camping before I can remember, and on hikes when I was old enough to climb up a hillside (though probably not without a little whining). I have this flicker of a memory of him trying to cook Huevos Rancheros over a tiny pack stove, though I can't swear whether it was real or of the freeze-dried variety. He won't lay claim to any of the "crazy" running or biking I do, but I think the seeds of just getting outside were planted early. 

And my desire to write came from Dad. I can't exactly trace this one, but I know it is there. I didn't grow up reading anything he wrote (that didn't come until blogging took hold), but somehow I knew he wrote, and that it was important. He may be why I wrote journals in my twenties, and blogged in my forties. The desire to write a book someday may have started with him, and I was glad to have him as one of my first readers. 

There have been other influences that tweaked the path I have taken, and who I have become. Some may have been improvements, while other pieces probably aren't as good as the original version. I don't know what it is like to be a parent, and I can't swear to how it all gets passed down, but I feel pretty proud to be a blend of both Mom and Dad.

I was trying to take some notes on my phone at a stop light, and used the voice recognition to do the typing. When I said "Father's Day", the choices I was given were "Mothers Day", Mother's Day" and "Mother's Day in the UK." We are all a bit better at thanking mom, and apparently the database needs a bit of updating. Maybe Father's Day is more important in that respect. A spot on the calendar to say what we don't always say, and maybe things that dads would normally shrug off so as not to get all deep and fuzzy. 

So, we'll keep it simple. Happy Father's Day Dad. You are one of a kind, and I am glad you are mine. 

Holiday hangover

Christmas time is the most wonderful time of the year. With that sort of expectation, it can be a tough time for some. Sort of like going to Disneyland, "The happiest place on Earth." It is a lot to live up to, and if you end up not having a good time, it is your fault, right?

Christmastime can be this contrast. Amazing joy of time with friends and family, and darker moments of reflection as the end of another year draws close. Christmas rarely lives up to the magic it had as a child, but there are definitely years that mean more than others. Especially with the cold and darker days of winter, it can be easy to slip into a funk and fall prey to believing that there is more darkness than light as you compare what is, with what was, or with what "should" be.

I decided at (almost) the last minute to send out Christmas cards. As I mentioned elsewhere, it seemed sort of a silly thing to do as a single guy. No family photos or letters about what the kids are up to this year, but a reader called me out on it and sent one out a few years ago. After looking over so many pictures when I was deciding on what to put on the walls, I started to see that I had some great adventures this past year. I figured I'd send out five or ten, but the list grew as I thought of all the people I want to stay in touch with in the new year. I suppose the Christmas card is a way of saying that you are in my thoughts, and I want to do better at staying in touch in the new year.

Christmas Day was a blessed day of family. My brother and I gathered at my parents house in the morning, and then met up with a crowd of about 30 of extended family in the evening. When I have told people over the years how a large group of us still gather for holidays and a week together in the summer, and actually enjoy the time together, it is clear that it is a rare thing. I feel very lucky indeed. There is a funny transition as you get older. As families grow and life gets more complicated, you see each other less. At the same time, the age differences mean less, and you have more common ground having years in your own tank. It is a double blessing to have family as friends.

On the other side, friends as family, a group of us gathered together once again for the 42nd annual Dunsire Sleepover Party. Actually, each year is labeled the "42nd annual", and though it hasn't been forty-two just yet, it has probably been a good fifteen or twenty years of annual gatherings. We get together to celebrate the season, and to celebrate our continuing friendship, built off a chance choice to work at the same restaurant so many years ago. There are more kids these days, some who are now adults, and the party is a little less crazy, but it still goes into the wee hours of the morning, and many of us pull up some floor and stay the night. With lives again more complicated, this is the anchor that gets us together for an evening of catching up, and reliving old stories.

After all this great activity in the span of a few days, there is a letdown afterward. The hangover is both figurative and literal,.The heavy drink, volumes of food, and little sleep catches up with you and leaves you feeling a bit miserable. The emotional hangover of the quiet after the chaos hits you as well, and it is perfectly apt to walk into the next week ready to make changes in the new year.

These days, the holiday hangover seems to come earlier and more often. I don't think it is a secret anymore that depression is a guest that never quite leaves my life. She'll hide in a corner now and then, but I will come upon her and she will take my hand and walk with me for a spell. The holiday season makes me think of years and people that have passed by, and even with all the wonderful friends and family, Christmas is missing that one close connection that makes it personal and real.

I took a few days extra days off in December, using up some comp time built up from the long hours of tax season. I was able to go out on a random Monday run outside after being relegated to the treadmill in the days of working dark to dark. It was cool but not freezing, and a dense fog clouded my glasses, so it was soon easier to see without them. A few bike commuters zipped by, and an occasional runner passed in the opposite direction, but the trail was largely mine.

I most often run and drive listening to podcasts. I enjoy them a great deal, but I get to the point of letting music slip out of my life. When I break the cycle and shut off the chatter in favor of music, it feels like a beam of light to my soul. I had dialed up my marathon playlist on the drive home the night before, and took it along as company on my run.

A song came on the playlist, "Swim" by Jack's Mannequin. I actually found this song when the artist performed on the Daily Show of all places. The singer/songwriter described how the song came out of his battle with cancer. The song grabbed me then, and I think the live version was even better than the studio version I found later.

Songs and poems are usually left to our own interpretation, and we tend to tailor them to our own lives. Even though I knew the story behind this song, I think it speaks to other things as well. I find that the lyrics and the spirit of the song lends itself to any sort of struggle, and as I ran that morning, it spoke to me about the battle against depression.

Christmastime is still one of the most wonderful times of the year. It is a time to celebrate with the ones you love, family, friends and everything in between. It doesn't always live up to the hype, but there is still a little magic each year. It is warmth in a cold time of year, a realization that there is much more light than dark, and a reminder of how truly blessed I am.

Even though I stumble now and then, I find the horizon, and realize it's not as far as I think.

You've gotta swim
Swim for your life
Swim for the music
That saves you
When you're not so sure you'll survive
You gotta swim
And swim when it hurts
The whole world is watching
You haven't come this far
To fall off the earth
The currents will pull you
Away from your love
Just keep your head above

I found a tidal wave
Begging to tear down the dawn
Memories like bullets
They fired at me from a gun
A crack in the armor
I swim to brighter days
Despite the absence of sun
Choking on salt water
I'm not giving in
I swim

You gotta swim
Through nights that won't end
Swim for your families
Your lovers your sisters
And brothers and friends
Yeah you've gotta swim
Through wars without cause
Swim for the lost politicians
Who don't see their greed as a flaw

The currents will pull us
Away from our love
Just keep your head above

I found a tidal wave
Begging to tear down the dawn
Memories like bullets
They fired at me from a gun
Cracking me open now
I swim for brighter days
Despite the absence of sun
Choking on salt water
I'm not giving in
Well I'm not giving in
I swim

You gotta swim
Swim in the dark
There's no shame in drifting
Feel the tide shifting and wait for the spark
Yeah you've gotta swim
Don't let yourself sink
Just find the horizon
I promise you it's not as far as you think
The currents will drag us away from our love
Just keep your head above
Just keep your head above
Swim
Just keep your head above
Swim, swim
Just keep your head above
Swim