August

"I don't know who I've been all year.

I'm glad you're still here."

~ Alana Matty - "33 (The End)"

Kid stuff

Yesterday, leaving breakfast, there was a back-up to get out of the parking lot and onto Gilman Blvd. To my right we're 7 or 8 kids, standing outside of a Baskin-Robins. They were amped, and not just because of the sugar.

When we were kids, riding in the back seat of our parent's car, passing a semi, we would make the motion of pulling a cord to try and get the driver to honk. It rarely worked, but when it did it was this little spark of joy. The kids on Sunday were doing the same motion. What could I do but honk.

Instant elation, dancing in victory. Two moms were sitting on a bench twenty feet away, smiling. The line of cars still wasn't moving, and the kids kept giving me the thumbs up for participating. Then one shouted that I was the twentieth car to honk.

Pure unadulterated joy, and it kept this adult smiling for the rest of the morning. 

Change is good, every decade or so

I bought my first car 39 years ago. In that span of time I've owned four cars. My guess is that one car every decade is below the national average, but I tend to hang onto things, for better or worse. Not that I planned it this way, but as I move into my fifth decade of car ownership, I bought car number five in May. 

I bought my first car, a '67 Mustang the day after I graduated high school. Though the Mustang is a classic car, this one was more of a mutt. Mostly green, but with a red door, out of place mag wheels, and an engine size it didn't start with. But it was my mutt. 

Several years in, I spent a summer with my friend Buzz, taking over his mom's garage and driveway, each of us putting a new engine in our cars (returning the car to the V8 it was born with). Over the years I replaced brakes, clutches, did tune ups and learned all about working on cars. Eventually I got a cheap paint job from Earl Scheib so it was finally one color. I had that car for fifteen years. 

My next car was my favorite (so far), though I only had it for a couple of years. It was a Volkswagen Corrado, which was the sportier successor to the Scirocco (not that this reference helps these days). Man that was a fun car to drive. I started working in construction not long after buying the car, so this kinda-nice car was going to get beat up, and what I really needed was a truck to haul tools and materials. Hated to see it go. 

I bought my one and only new car, a 2000 Dodge Dakota in the fall of 1999. It was more boring and practical, but it was my daily driver for another fifteen year stretch, half of its life after I no longer needed it for construction. It was basically on its last legs when it was replaced. Transmission failing, heater core bypassed because it was leaking, any major repair more expensive than it was worth. I got $200 trade in value for it when I bought my next and most recent car, a 2003 Honda Element.

moving stuff from old to new(er) car

The Element has been another favorite. It is the swiss army knife of vehicles. The suicide doors make it easy to throw people, gear or dogs in the back seat. If you have more to haul, the back seats can be flipped up to the walls, or removed entirely, making it a mini cargo van. Nearly every surface is easy to clean rubber or plastic, a car you can take anywhere and not worry about ruining it. The perfect dog, camping, bike rack kind of vehicle.

On that note, I haven't ever purchased a really "nice" car, a status or luxury car. All but the truck have been years or decades old when I got them, and generally missing the technology of the times. When people would talk about the bells, whistles and screens in their cars, I would often say, "My car has power windows" in my best Ralph Wigum voice. 

While shopping for cars, this picture came up in my feed. Random opinion of a random guy, but all of my cars have been on the "Has no Money" side, and on both the "Fun to be Around" and "Insufferable" quadrants. 

The new car will keep to that pattern.

The Element was getting tired. It has about 248,000 miles on it, and it is more than twenty years old. The engine has always been underpowered, but recently it has become so gutless as to be a roadblock to other cars as it struggled to get up over the mountain passes. I love everything about the Element, except it feeling like the engine is powered by a couple of hamsters running on a treadmill. 

I have been looking at the car to replace it for two to three years now. I hesitated to buy a new car first because the pandemic pushed used car prices through the roof. Then last year, all my money went to medical bills. The Element struggling to get over the hills on the way back from eastern Washington earlier this month finally made me take the plunge. I wanted to choose when to replace it, and not have to scramble if it finally broke down. 

Even though having a fancy or status car is not important to me, each time I bought a car, I was looking for a specific car, so cars are definitely important to me on some level. I did not go to a dealership, Autotrader or Craigslist looking for a sedan, hatchback, SUV, etc. I went looking for a specific model, if not a specific year. I wanted a Mustang, and I wanted the 1967 version. I wanted this sort of unknown Volkswagen (I always had to explain what the Corrado was). I wanted the Element, which was this unique car that I found had a bit of a cult following. Even the truck, which was the most generic of all, I wanted a Dakota, and I wanted a stick shift. 

Since I narrow my search before I even start, cars can be hard to find. My last two vehicles I had to go to Oregon, because I could not find anything local. Even though Dakotas were everywhere, I had to go to Oregon to get a stick shift, and Element owners hang onto their cars forever so I had to broaden my search area to find one in decent shape for sale.  

The new car will keep to that car from Oregon pattern. 

So here she is, a 2021 Subaru Crosstrek Sport.

Crosstreks have had some nice colors over the years, but 90% of the used ones for sale were either white or black, neither of which I was too excited about. The one I ended up with appears to be a love it or hate it color, but I am a fan, and after driving an orange car for the last nine years, I guess I am a fan of distinctive colors. 

Buying the car in Oregon was a bit of a hassle, and it was my own version of planes, trains and automobiles to pick it up a week and a half later, but now that I have it, I am pretty happy with it. Still learning what all these buttons and screens do, but I have lots of time to learn. If the pattern holds, it should be around for another decade.

And the Element is still around, but more on that later. 

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.

Accidental beginnings, and more intentional habits.

 Three weeks into January seems a little early for a resolution/habit check in, but since it is a 2022 resolution, it is probably a bit late. 

As I wrote in this January 2022 post, the habit started a bit by accident. Partially due to a hibernation week, staying home in the snow after a possible Covid exposure, and partially due to Amazon tracking my reading days on the Kindle (thanks big data), halfway through January I found out that I had read thirty-one days in a row. Since I had the streak going already, I resolved to read every day of 2022.

I made it through 2022 successfully, reading at least a few pages every day of the year. Then I continued the streak through every day of 2023 and into another January. After a bit of math, I have figured that I have now read 765 days in a row. 

As I written about previously, I was not much of a reader growing up. Though both of my parents were consistent readers, I barely cracked a book until I was in my twenties. For the past thirty plus years though, reading has been a semi-consistent part of my life. I've found insight, relief, solace, joy, and other worlds on and between the pages. The amount I read changed year to year, falling in and out of the habit. My mental health seemed to improve when I was a consistent reader, but like any other habit it was hard to re-start when I drifted away from it. Failing at re-starting became its own mental struggle. 

Like most of us, I have probably failed more than succeeded at resolutions, New Year's or otherwise. In 2011 I put a twist on it and had a different resolution each month. It was an interesting exercise in habit development and was a relative success. Part of the lesson, which should be obvious but isn't always, is that developing the habit is much more important to your success than your desire for the resolution's outcome. I can resolve and desire all I want, but until I put the work in through the development of a habit, then there is no path that will get me there. 

To keep the reading streak alive, I obviously put the work in each day, but the simplest of tricks is what made it actually happen. I have a reminder on my phone that goes off at 9:00 each night asking, "Did you read yet?" The reminder sits on my phone until I clear it. Sometimes it gets cleared at 11:45pm, and sometimes only a few pages are read, but for 765 days in a row I have answered "yes" to the reminder. 

So, how did the habit change the amount I read? Below are the recaps from Goodreads for 2021 (pre-habit), and then 2022 and 2023:

I plan to keep the streak alive again through 2024. I have set my arbitrary goal of reading 30 books again this year, and I hope to reach it again, but maybe not hit 40 this time around. There are some other goals, habits and hobbies I'd like to add (back) this year and spend time with. The past couple of years have been difficult, but I am seeing a bit of light again. This challenge and habit formation shows that I can still find some focus, even when my brain seems to be rebelling. Reading has felt like a bit of self-care when things feel noisy inside. I want to find more things that bring me a bit of peace.

Another 2024 resolution - more reminders set on my phone this year. 

By any other name

Like many of us, I have had a number of nicknames over the years. Fortunately, most have been kind, or at least I have forgotten any mean ones in those awkward days of growing up. A lot of them came from work friends, one of which I have hung onto for myself, even though no one calls me it anymore, but my first nickname and my latest nickname have the same sort of origin story. 

When I was an infant/toddler, I had a cousin who was just three months older than I was. Charlie (soon to be Chuck) couldn't pronounce the name Sean, so I became "Na". My brother Kevin came a long a year later, and it was another name Charlie couldn't pronounce, so Kevin became "Beebee" for baby. The name Na stuck, Beebee did not (which I think Kevin is grateful for). 

The name Na was most enthusiastically used by my Uncle Jim, Charlie's dad. To be honest, I can't really remember him calling me Sean, but I can still hear his voice saying my nickname, always punctuated with an exclamation point, every time we saw each other well into adulthood. My dad and my brothers still use the name Na regularly, and I have been signing my emails to them with Na for several years now. 

I can remember when neighborhood kids or kids from school would hear the nickname, and try to tease me with it. When my only reaction was that I liked the nickname, the teasing stopped. I would like to think I was clever to steal their thunder, but I was honestly just, "Yeah? And?" There were plenty of teasing opportunities, because kids can be cruel sometimes, but this was not what I was self-conscious about.

My latest nickname, more than fifty years later, is from another young child who hasn't quite figured out how to say Sean. It would be even worse if I showed him how my name is spelled. I don't get the pronunciation out of that spelling either buddy. 

My friends Matt and Jenica's son Connor has started calling me "Uncle Han", and I love it. I mean, I already love this kid, and whatever he wants to call me is fine by me, but to be (accidentally) paired up with this guy is pretty great.

My Honda Element is a rather distinctive looking car, and apparently a red one has been semi-regularly parking across the street from Matt and Jenica's house, and Connor will point out the window and say, "Uncle Han!". So freaking adorable. A few week ago, I was over at their house for Jenica's birthday, and as Connor was going to bed, he asked Uncle Han to read him a bedtime story. 

It could melt a heart frozen in carbonite. 

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

When I radiate more heat than light

 I am so f*cking angry right now.

I don't exactly know why.

My fuse is exceptionally short these days. My dog pisses me off, mostly for just being a dog. Everything seems to break when I touch it. Everything seems to hurt. When things go wrong, I launch into a swearing tirade, whether I am in public or not. I can't calm myself down. It all feels so out of control right now. 

It isn't one thing. Maybe part pandemic and all that keeps meaning. Part dread, a tax season that was previously looming and is now here. Part missing my Mom. Part worry for Dad. Part general loneliness. Part my arthritic hip, pain and weakness. Part feeling like a failure. Parts I haven't been able to figure out. None of it seems to add up to the manifesting anger.

I feel worn thin.

Fractured and brittle.

Snapping.

Lashing out.

Fighting against phantoms. 

Punching at shadows. 

Spiraling.

Spiraling.

Pulling back on the yoke to try and pull out of the tailspin.

Lights are flashing, alarms going off. 

Maybe there is a clear field nearby where I can safely land and touch down for a while.

Walk it off. 

Gain perspective.

Find the horizon.

Douse the fuse.

Stop shouting at clouds.

Going to need some time.

Please be patient. 

Not ready to talk.

I don't know what I would say.

It is not you, it is me.

Sorry I yelled.

Moments of light in a rather dark, two-year-long year

 2021 felt like a terrible sequel to an already bad movie. 

Inspired by a post a friend put up at the end of 2020, I tried to come up with a list of good things that happened during the year. It was a nice exercise to find the good in a year when everything was turned upside down for everyone, the whole world really. While I didn't expect that things would be back to "normal" in 2021, I guess I figured it would at least be a little better. 

Yeah, no. Every dumpster fire can burn a little brighter.

I do my best to focus on the positive, but man it is tough sometimes, in some years. Beyond the *gestures broadly* of all we have been going through the past two years, there were more personal struggles and losses this year. Life will never be the same in a lot of ways.

Pain should not be compared, but my year was a blip compared to others. I worry about a friend struggling through long-Covid, while so, many, people bitch about the smallest inconvenience. Essential workers, once praised, are now just stretched thin, mostly forgotten. Homes lost to fires and floods amplified by climate change. Science and reality denied. Democracy seems more fragile than ever before. The ability to find common ground and any light at the end of the tunnel seems so far off. I don't want to bright-side any of it.

But I also don't want to focus on the darkness. None of the things below are about finding silver linings in adapting to the new normal. Just small moments that I would like to remember. 

In February I tuned in to "watch" the rover land on Mars. I was certainly interested in it, but didn't feel all that invested. However, when it touched down safely, I wept at my desk. February was really hard watching Mom go downhill so fast, and somehow all the things going just right, millions of miles away, to make the Perseverance land safely, broke me in the best way.

There were a couple of times that music grabbed my heart when I wasn't expecting it. I was watching a virtual concert put on by Brandi Carlile and the twins. It was a casual thing, the three of them set up in her house. She played through the album "The Story" and the last/hidden track (remember hidden tracks?) is "Hiding My Heart". I had listened to the album and song many times, but listening to it 'live' made me hear it for the first time. It cracked me open for some reason that night.

The other time was with the song "Ablaze" by Alanis Morrisette. It is a song about a mother and her kids, and I had always listened to it as an imagined parent. I mentioned to it my friend when she was pregnant and hoped it resonated with her. Then it happened to come on the day before Mom's memorial while I was walking Izzy on a work break. It was the first time I listened to the song as a child rather than as an imagined parent. A song I already loved hit me in a new way. I was weeping again, needing to take Izzy on a longer walk than planned. 

To my boy, my precious, gentle warrior
To your sweetness and your strength in exploring
May this bond stay with you through all your days
My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze

And of course, a big bright spot of the year was seeing those great friends have their first baby. We shared in their excitement as the day approached, and it has been wonderful to see their new family form and grow. Love and hope. And the cutest kid by the way. 

There were other good moments like my trip to San Diego. Seeing friends after years apart. So much to catch up on, but picking up like no time had passed. The walks by myself in the sunshine and remembered beauty. Seeing different people finding the same favorite spot on consecutive days to let the waves wash them clean.

 Vaccines, boosters, the North Bend Beer Runners, family at Crescent Bar, golf with friends, music on Twitch, walking in the snow, and a friend's engagement on New Year's Eve. So many good things. Lights holding back the darkness.

May there be moments large and small that make 2022 a little bit brighter for all of us.

9/9/2021

Twenty years ago today was the day I got married. Still one of the better, in the moment, days of my life, surrounded by family and friends. Of course the nation would change two days later, and then a much smaller part of it some seven years later.

Twenty years further down the road, feelings and lives have changed. Gray hairs, new friends, regrets, adventures, new memories. But that time will always be part of me, in those old memories, in the lessons and discovery as our two roads diverged, in the hope we will always do better each time we try. 

No illusions

Sometimes I like to say out loud, "I am about to make a bad decision," just to hang a lantern of self-awareness on it, even if it is just my dog and myself that hears it, before I press on through. 

You belong, among the wallflowers

 This popped up in the old Facebook memory feed today.

Yep, still awkward. 

Natural introvert, I have done my best to feel more comfortable with people and crowds by jumping in feet first (on rare occasions to be honest). I have been blessed for my efforts almost every time. I guess the first major plunge was the charity bike ride down the Pacific Coast back in 2006. Didn't know a soul, but ended the two week ride feeling like I had known many of the riders most of my life. 

The more recent one is the North Bend Beer Runners. Again, didn't know a soul, but showed up alone, ready to run, less ready to mingle. As per usual, I built it up in my head, it is a totally welcoming group, and I have been rewarded over and over with community and friendship for just showing up that first time. I feel comfortable most of the time, but still almost every Thursday in the time before we start running, and the first fifteen minutes of gathering together afterward, I am the picture of the awkward wallflower. I don't know why this feeling persists, but it does.

If you see me in the corner, know I am doing my best to work my way out of it.

Dry spells

A friend of mine announced in December that she was pregnant. A few of us were at their house to have a sort of a pod-safe gathering ahead of Christmas when they told us the news. After some cheering and rule-breaking hugging, we talked about what life would be like for them in the year ahead.

This being our biking group, we quickly recognized that the due date was right around the time we were signed up to ride Ramrod in July. The soon-to-be father was obviously out, and the rest of us more or less decided that we would train, but if the baby decided to show up on race day, we would skip the ride to be at the hospital. 

As we continued to chat, the mom-to-be mentioned that she had been filling the fridge with new non-alcoholic beverages to replace the wine and beer she was giving up, and she asked for other drink suggestions. I suggested we all give up drinking for January as a small show of support. 

I have participated in "Dry January", no alcohol for the month, a number of times. It is a reset after the holiday indulgence, and a check-in to make sure that setting drinking aside is as easy as it should be. This time around, even though it followed nine months of sheltering in place where drinking was more of a temptation, it was remarkably easy. 

I did have one slip up mid-month. My brothers and I had found a restaurant with an open outdoor patio, and we got together to discuss Mom's current condition, and I suppose to check in on each other as well. We were about an hour in when I shared that I had given up drinking for January. I said this while taking a sip of my second beer. 

I had just completely spaced, falling into a routine, I suppose highlighting that habits run along in the background unless we consciously make the effort to change them. I wasn't giving into a craving, just drinking without thinking. I added on four or five "dry" days at the beginning of February to offset the slip up. 

Unfortunately, three better habits have also gone dry this year. A slight modification of the grade school three Rs they are Reading, Writing and Running. These three habits are a big part of what keeps me healthy in both body and mind. My writing has obviously been neglected for quite some time, but through the 2020 part of the pandemic, I managed to keep up the other two when the world was turned upside down and making less and less sense. I was able to read 26 books last year, and though I had grander plans, I ran semi-regularly and covered a little over 500 miles. 

2021 has been an absolute struggle on all three fronts, and to be honest I am just plain struggling. I'll pick up on the running dry spell in the next post. 

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.

That time I could've died young

There are times in our lives where you dodge the worst, and wonder if there isn't someone out there looking out for you. If you had left your house a moment earlier or later, you would have been in that car crash you narrowly missed. If you hadn't caught your balance at the last minute, you could have pitched off the roof. If someone hadn't grabbed your collar, you would have walked mindlessly into traffic.

One of those moments was when I was a kid, flying a kite. I don't remember why I was flying a kite on that day. I don't have any solid memories of flying one before this day, or any day after it. Anyway, some random afternoon I was in my neighborhood having some stereotypical Leave it to Beaver childhood fun. 

It surprises me to remember that I ever got that kite off the ground. My limited memory of kite flying is that it is a massive pain in the butt to get the thing airborne, and I can't imagine how I did it alone. Somehow I did, and it took me down the street and up into a nearby cul-de-sac. And then into the power lines. 

Rather than walk away from a ten dollar toy, or more likely not wanting to leave trash behind, I tried to figure out how to get it down. Then I remembered that we had a tree pruner in the garage. If you don't know what a tree pruner is, it is a sevenish foot pole with a long cord attached to a set of pruners to cut branches that are far out of reach. If the branches are are too thick for the pruner, there is a large saw blade on the end. 

When I went to the Home Depot website to swipe this picture, I found out the poles are made of fiberglass now. Back then, the pole was metal. People are smarter now (sometimes). 

I first grabbed a ladder and then went back for the tree pruner. I remember trying to manage this heavy and unwieldy tool, ready to cut the kite string away from the power lines. I assumed the power lines were wrapped in some form of insulation. It seemed ridiculous that they wouldn't be, and of course I had seen birds on the lines all my life. I did not understand electricity, or what grounding meant. Truth be told, I still don't totally understand it.

Anyway, there I was, ready to extend this metal pole to touch the live wire. Then someone stopped me. A neighbor not quite ran out of his house, but did a solid power walk to stop me. He didn't yell, didn't make me feel stupid, didn't grab me by the shoulders and shake into me how dangerous and possibly deadly this was. In what seemed a perfect dad-like delivery he said something like, "looks like you got your kite stuck up there."

He also didn't tell me to just go home and call the kite a loss. He had me put down the tree pruner and we walked to his garage. He grabbed a fishing pole, some duct tape, and a steak knife. He duct taped the steak knife to the end of the fishing pole, and then taped the bamboo fishing pole to the tree pruner. Back to the ladder, he rather deftly cut away the kite string from the power line with this now fifteen foot contraption, and sent me away. If it was Leave it to Beaver, he would have tousled my hair. 

I didn't understand the bullet I had dodged until many years later when I found out that power lines are unprotected, and birds can die if they ground themselves by touching something other than the power line. I didn't recall ever meeting this neighbor before this day, and I don't know that I ever saw him again, but he may have saved my life that afternoon. Since I didn't understand the significance of what had just happened, I doubt I even told my parents about it.

I don't know what the odds were that this mystery neighbor would have been looking out the window at just the right time. I don't believe in guardian angels, destiny or fate, but I also don't want to look too hard behind the veil. Happy to have a little mystery, and be thankful when story ends happily.

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). 

Looking back on parts of 2020

A friend of mine recently posted this on Facebook:

Name a good thing that happened during 2020.

For me I made a bunch of new friends that I would have never known were it not for this year.

I drew a blank when trying to answer this seemingly easy question. After reading through the many responses, small and good things that had happened to people I didn't know, my comment to the post was simply, "this thread" because I appreciated so much the question and the answers. 

Our memories seemed pre-disposed to remember our struggles more than our victories, the bad over the good. On top of that, my memory is chronically poor so 2020 (maybe more so than other years) is all just a haze. But on this last day of the year I sat down and tried to remember some of the more positive things that happened this year among all the general suffering. Since my memory is terrible, this is by no means a complete list, and I look forward to people reminding me of things I forgot. 

• When the shelter-in-place orders came in, so many were stuck at home. Some were fortunate to be able to work from home and thus keep their jobs. However, cabin fever still exists and with few places open and many outlets restricted, many took to walking around the neighborhood. Many seemed to adopt dogs to give them an excuse to get outdoors. Since they were now home more than ever, it was also a great time to help the new pups adjust. While walking around the neighborhood, most everyone was more friendly, exchanging waves and greetings from a distance, deftly maneuvering off and onto the sidewalks to give each other space. The neighborhood felt more neighborly this year.
  
  
• The neighborly feeling also extended beyond the neighborhood. There are obviously endless stories of how people are not taking Covid seriously, and just generally behaving as if providing even the smallest amount of concern for their fellow man is beyond them. However, I have seen so many small gestures of kindness that made me see the care in other people. All the small things that said that though were are not all in the same boat, that we see that we are all weathering the same storm. That we are all in this together. 
  
  
• This was to be a huge fitness year for me. My 2020 schedule included Ramrod, two Half Ironman events, and my first full Ironman. All were ultimately postponed to 2021. As I have mentioned here previously, having an event on the calendar provides the motivation to get out there running, biking and now swimming. The literal finish line gives me something to shoot for, and a proper deadline to make sure the workouts happen. Without the deadlines this year, it was easier to stay on the couch, but various virtual challenges helped keep me from falling too far off the wagon. My regular Thursday night running group the North Bend Beer Runners stuck together all year online. People posted pictures and stories of their runs, as well as pictures of them toasting each other, now at a distance instead of gathered in local pub or brewery. Northwest Trails also held a trail running challenge over the summer. Each week there were new routes and scavenger hunts that kept us outdoors and engaged. Even the silly challenges on Strava (workout four days a week, run a solo 5k or half marathon, etc.) helped keep me moving forward. While I definitely missed the atmosphere and comradery of in-person events, the virtual version definitely did some good.
  
  
• And speaking of virtual communities, it was the year of Zoom and the like. For a number of weeks in the summer, several long time friends from the Keg Restaurant would have a weekly Zoom gathering on Fridays. It was nice to see all the faces and hear their stories once a week. My biking group also "gathered" somewhat less formally on the Marco Polo app. The app lets you send short video messages to individuals and groups. Sometimes we would send random clips of what we were doing, but there would also be semi-regular gatherings with Jenica kicking things off with a "Roll call, watcha drinking?" Of course nothing will replace being able to see each other in person, but in this strange year of distancing, there was still some connection.
  
  
• For about a month I did a "Friends in Photos" project on Facebook and Instagram. I posted a photo each day of a different friend, most often a picture of the two of us side by side. The project was intended to run until we could gather in person once again, but of course this has gone on longer than most of us anticipated. Sometimes I would write a little note with the picture, sometimes they were posted with little context, but it was great to revisit all the faces and places and remind myself how fortunate I am. 
  
  
• At the end of last year I purchased something called a Five Year Journal. The journal is set up with a page for each day, but with room on the page for entries for five consecutive years. My writing habit has obviously been neglected these past few years, and I suppose I decided to begin using this journal to jump start it a bit. It was also meant for me to pay more attention. As noted above, I often have trouble recalling the smaller things that brought me joy in the moment. In previous years I have tried writing the smaller things down on strips of paper and putting them in a jar to read back again at the new year, but after the first month or two I would forget and lose the habit. This journal has been more successful, but again there are weeks here and there where nothing was written down. I finally put a daily reminder on my calendar so at 8:00 each night it pings me to recall the day. It ended up being a very strange year, and I am glad to have this journal as a small window into all that that 2020 was, and to have it continue to keep me paying attention in the years ahead. 

This was such a terrible year in so many respects. Global and personal suffering. Hardships for friends and myself. People we have lost, and beliefs that have been fractured. 2020 is a year that we will all be glad to have in our rearview mirror. However, a flip of the calendar page will not wash it all away, and 2021 will also be difficult for many of the same reasons. The light at the end of the tunnel can seem far off, but I will continue the effort to look for the small joys that bring us light. 

Favorite Christmas Memory

The holidays in 2020 may go down as the least memorable. Well, they may be memorable, but not in a positive way. I was recently reminded of one of my favorite Christmas memories, so I thought I would share it here. 

I was living in my first apartment with a buddy of mine. It was a two bedroom in the Crossroads area, with a shared laundry in another part of the building, and had this strange rollaway dishwasher that you connected to the sink with a hose. I remember the messy lesson that you when you are out of dishwashing soap, you shouldn't substitute dish soap. I can still picture the soap suds pouring out of the dishwasher and filling the kitchen. 

We both worked at the McDonald's down the hill. We could walk, or in my roommate's case skateboard, to work. We worked early morning shifts to open up the place, unloaded the delivery trucks each week, and had closing shifts where we were there past midnight. I remember I started at $3.35 an hour and we couldn't have been making much more than four or five dollars an hour when we moved in together. Things were obviously cheaper back then, but we were still just scraping by. We took advantage of the free meal each day we were at work, and our cupboards were filled with Top Ramen and Campbells soup. There was certainly no money for much of a Christmas. 

We were both working the night shift a day or two before Christmas. When we arrived home, there was a Christmas tree set up and decorated in our living room. Our girlfriends had sweet-talked a guy at a Christmas tree lot into giving them a Christmas tree for free or nearly so. Since it was almost Christmas, maybe he wasn't going to sell any more trees anyway. Maybe the trees were all headed to the woodchipper by that point. Maybe our girlfriends were particularly charming or told a great story. Somehow they made it happen even though they were about as broke as we were. 

They decorated the tree with ornaments and tinsel they had swiped from their parent's trees. It was probably a bit of mess of mismatched and sparse decoration, but even then all I could see was the beautiful tree through Charlie Brown eyes, and fill my lungs with that wonderful fresh pine tree smell. It was such a wonderful gesture, and one of those little Christmas miracles. 

I have had grander Christmases, and many special moments shared with wonderful friends and family who I love. There have been other gifts that were perfectly chosen, sometimes revealing how well someone knows me. Still, I cannot recall a Christmas gift or moment that meant quite as much as that one thirty five years ago. 

On invisible forces and rabbits

This is a continuation to part one, so it might make more sense to start there first.

On my drive into work a podcast was coincidentally queued up to make sure I didn't tuck this incident away and ignore it. The podcast in question was an episode of "The Anthropocene Reviewed". The premise of the show is "John Green reviews facets of the human-centered planet on a five-star scale."

Each episode has two parts. I had already listened to the bit on velociraptors and the confusion Michael Crichton created with the Jurassic Park movies, so the second half about the movie "Harvey" was waiting for me. I had actually heard John perform this episode live at PodCon in January, but now it was up in the feed for me to experience again.

In the Harvey segment John talks about when he was in his twenties and worked for Booklist in Chicago, and he was having a crushing episode of depression. Alone in his apartment, feeling unable to even feed himself properly, much less pull himself out of the tailspin, he reached out to his parents. Thankfully they were at his doorstep twelve hours later, and he would return with them to Florida to get the help he needed.

But first he had to go into work and quit. After breaking down in tears in front of his boss, the boss was quiet for a moment before telling John to consider this a leave of absence. His job would be there when he felt better.

Later in the day as he was packing up his desk he found a note his boss had dropped off after their discussion. Along with the well wishes and confidence that he would be back, he told John "now more than ever, watch Harvey."

After discussing the movie and its part in his recovery, John said something to the effect of "I hope you never find yourself on the floor of your kitchen, I hope you never cry in front of your boss desperate with pain, but I hope that if you do, you find those in your life are understanding and will give you the help you need."

Just a few hours later, I was crying in front of my boss.

He had come into my office to discuss the workload, which files to focus on, etc. At the end of this he must of recognized something, because he asked if I was doing OK. I couldn't get a word out before I was sobbing uncontrollably once again. He was kind about it, offering what he could, mostly just listening and staying with me until I had pulled the pieces back together.

I shared the story of this March day with a few people in person shortly after it happened, partly to be more open, partly to try and understand my story in the telling. They were all very kind, offering their time and support. I made it through the next month and a half of crazy work hours and now find myself with more time and energy to think. I told my boss in the moment that I didn't think counseling was the answer. It really did feel different that day, something beyond words to fix, but now I don't know. The episode was obviously primed by fatigue, recent sadness, and a few things outside myself bringing depression to the top of my mind. Was it just the dam breaking and unleashing a torrent, or was it something more chemical.

Next post we'll be back to running for a bit, but there is more to think about, more to talk about.

If you want to listen to the episode of The Anthropocene Reviewed, there is a little web player below.

Oh, and I have been waiting in line since PodCon in January to borrow Harvey from the library. I guess the movie is too old to show up on Netflix or Amazon Prime.

I get to pick it up tomorrow.

Spring

This barrel was here when I moved in. In four years I have done nothing to it but watch it fall apart.

Yet every spring, the flowers appear. Planted by someone else, they return each year, reborn.

You never know all the beauty you leave in your wake, or who it may help when you've long forgotten the small seeds you dropped.