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The Gorge is stunning, built into the natural landscape of rock, descending sharply from bluffs to canyon. It gathers a huge collective of fans, united around the music and a shared love of the performers. It is a dream of many artists, including those iconic acts on stage for this concert, to play the venue, to reach that many people in a single performance, to look up the face of the crowds perched in the tiers of rock, and to enjoy the acoustics made possible by the Earth and several well-placed speakers.

The amphitheater holds more people than the suburb where I live and is more than 20 miles away from the nearest hotels. Traffic getting to the venue is notoriously slow with the only route down a two-lane highway. The venue quotes 2-4 hours to park and enter the venue, but social media was abuzz with warnings about local construction and recent delays.

With the traffic concerns and my desire to save a little money, I booked a spot in the onsite festival-style campground, found my tent, bought some essentials and planned to rough it for the weekend.

I want to tell you about it – all of it, but how?

I’ve written an essay four times longer than my normal. I could split it up into four installments sharing one a week. However, it’s been so long since I’ve published anything, I’ve decided to share it all at once… with a table of contents.

1. The first beginning

2. The second beginning

3. The music

4. The ending

There’s a beginning that goes like this…

I’m in my tent – on my knees – because even at its tallest, it’s not enough for my 5’7” frame, even when I bend at the waist.

My knees complain on a good day – about stairs, hills and standing too long, let alone the impact of kneeling and crawling in the tent. But right now, my concern is not my knees.

It is the tent itself, flapping and dipping violently as if being assaulted by a family of bears. No, that’s not quite right either. My concern is not the thin mesh and fabric of the tent, its rain flap or even the titanium poles I connected just a couple hours earlier.

I set up camp solo, without poking out an eye or scratching my nearby car. Assembly felt like a significant achievement. The last time I went camping was seven years ago and my oldest daughter shouldered almost all the responsibility for setting up camp.

This time, I laid out the footprint, puzzled over the poles, wondered why in the world a tent comes without directions, and watched a YouTube video of a guy setting up a duplicate of my tent. I paused the video to follow along, stretched out the tent, watched a little more of the video, placed the long titanium poles into the grommets on each corner of the tent, watched a little more of the video, clipped the body of the tent onto the poles – a satisfying snap, snap, snap – before realizing when I got to the top, I had the crown of the dome upside down.

I sat down in my camp chair and took one, two, three deep breaths before rising to unsnap the clasps, release the taut poles from the grommets, and turn it over to stretch, attach, snap, and clip, careful again to avoid nearby vehicles and people. I found my new mallet – it was listed on my Ultimate Camping Checklist, and yet I debated the purchase at Bass Pro Shops. Did I really need it? I pounded each tent stake securely into the hard, compressed dirt of high desert. I paused, deciding it was worth the $8.99. I stretched the rain cover over the top, clipped it to each of the stakes. Success. As I folded the tent bag up to put in my car, I found the instructions sewn into the interior of the bag.

Makes sense.

I loaded my cot, sleeping bag, lantern, duffel bag, CPAP, CPAP battery, magnesium, Advil, pillow, and blanket into the tent. My knees demanded a break, beginning to swell in protest. I sat and ate a salad from the cooler, thankful I could wait until the following day to set up the new cookstove. I admired my accomplishment, thinking, I’m a camper.

I registered the darkened skies, the lightning above the mountains on the horizon. I was not surprised; I had watched the weather app on my phone for days, wondering if I should wait until the following morning to arrive, calling to ask about storm shelters (no answer from the campground), debating the pros and cons. Ultimately, my impatience to get started outweighed my cautious nature so I drove the five hours from my home to the campground, where a working dog and its handler sniffed the contents of my vehicle for contraband before waving me through. I felt a small amount of guilt that the working dog had to miss out on the steak and sausages in my cooler.

Over dinner, I watched the lightning that had been a 60% chance turn into a sure thing.

A crew came around, telling us to all take cover – either in vehicles or tents. Which is better? I wondered. My car is metal. My tent is on the ground. Dirt is a good grounding material, I reasoned. I chose the tent. I now have it on good authority that I made the wrong choice.

Which brings me back to the moment when I’m on my knees in my tent, not smart enough to pray while I’m there. I arrange my home away from home, deciding finally to lie down on my cot, not to sleep, but maybe to leverage my weight and length to further stabilize my tent. The winds gust forcibly from every direction. The lightweight nylon of my tent dips, meeting my shoulder before snapping back, the other side of the tent taking its turn to sway in the howling wind. I keep the rain flap “door” open to watch the wind, the rain, the lightning. I see chairs rolling by like metal tumbleweeds, thankful I took the time to collapse mine. A nearby car alarm goes off. Behind me, a canopy slaps helplessly against an RV’s exterior.

Could I die in this tent, waiting for the storm to pass?

I don’t think so but concede it is possible, more likely from flying debris than lightning. I send my kids a video and chuckle as I realize I would scold them for this behavior. Why take the risk? Here I am doing the thing I tell my kids not to. I consider moving to my car, moving around the food and supplies to make room for my sleeping bag, CPAP, and CPAP battery. It seems like so much arranging to do when it’s so very wet and windy outside. I choose to stay where I am.

For two hours, I wait, watch the lightning, hear the howling wind. I make a mental note to complete a review of the tent and the mallet – five stars. I stay dry, the tent stays put. The storm blows over. I sleep.

The sun rises early; people emerge from their RVs and SUVs to demolished canopies and missing campsite items. At 6 am, campers check on each other in outdoor voices that make sleeping impossible. My neighbors express astonishment that I stayed in the tent they watched get pummeled back and forth through the night.

There’s also a beginning that goes like this…

“You are exceptionally skilled at communicating a narrative,” she said as I told the story of waiting in line to get into the concert venue. As the gates opened, I found myself surrounded by a swarm of people, their energy not infectious but overwhelming. I am a large person, yet I felt dwarfed by the crowd, too slow and too hesitant to make progress forward, a fallen log in the river, any forward progress an outcome of the surrounding momentum, not of my own doing.

The comment would be a compliment if said within my writing group, but it was from my therapist, who was signaling for more interiority. What did that feel like? How did your body, your mind, your soul respond?

My therapist is very good at cutting through my presentation to the soft, tender pulp at my core.

Does a fallen log feel powerless, helpless, unseen, abandoned? Does a fallen log wish it could excuse itself, exiting the mass, mumbling sorry, pardon me, if I could just scoot by? Does it long for the safety of the shore, barren and steady, without progress or momentum?

It’s what I did. I felt the stinging irony of feeling so alone in the middle of thousands of people, standing to the side as they shuffled past. Some of them looked for any space to wiggle forward, others laughed and gestured broadly, regardless of those around them. They seemed wholly unfazed by the unrelenting heat of the afternoon, the altitude bringing us too close to the sun’s rays. They must not have felt a sharp pain in their back and shoulders or a deep, hollow ache in their hip and knee joints. They showed no hint of exhaustion, despair, surrender.

I retreated, sat on my blanket among the sharp weedy burrs in the smallest of shadows cast by the customer service booth. As I cooled down in temperature and temperament, I watched those coming to ask for assistance. A teenager hoped her phone had been found from the week before. Her patience rewarded – after a long wait – with a reunion of sorts.

I considered going back to the campsite, where my daughter rested, to skip the evening’s concert even though this was the night I most wanted to see, the line-up (Bonnie Raitt, Sara Bareilles, Brandi Carlile) that months ago drove my mouse finger to choose buy now.

The concert venue had won, breaking me, pronouncing me not worthy of the evening’s show. I was weak, tired, slow. Survival of the fittest deemed me expendable. I prepared to concede defeat and retreat to my short tent and narrow cot, the fallen log transformed into an injured dog wanting solitude to lick its wounds.

I observed a family come up to request accessibility for their mother. I heard the description of a shuttle down the rocky hillside to the relatively flat viewing area. A glimmer of possibility. That’s what I needed to make the concert possible. To forego the pushing masses of people up hills and down the rocky path, down the stone stairs to find a lawn seat, to have the luxury of slower movement, a little more air and space to think, to pause, to rest. Less pushing. More support. Relief from the aches and pains of my tender body.

But I am not disabled. I couldn’t ask for the help designed for others more deserving than me. I saw that family’s mother. She was about my age, about my size, her face showed the stress of navigating a day not meant for her. In her face, in her posture, in her gait, I saw myself. In my compassion for her and my gratitude that her family found a way to make the day possible for her, I wondered if the same might be available to me.

I considered what I might say at the customer service tent. I consulted the event website from my phone, what accessibility included, what was required. I summoned the courage to ask, then sat back down, chiding myself for my folly. How dare I ask for a shuttle? I needed to buckle up, toughen up and do it the right way. The empathy that came so easily for the mother who needed help vanished when it was my turn.

I hemmed. I hawed. I resigned myself to taking the bus back to the campsite.

An inner voice interrupted me, NO. Just ask.

I rose, brushed off my rear end and walked up to the available staff person. I began to explain, “I don’t have a handicap placard on my car, but I’m really struggling with this venue.”

She reached for the wristband, wrapped it around my arm, her unspoken “Say less…”. What she did say was, “You don’t have to explain a thing. Here you go. When your daughter gets here, have her check in here for her companion band.”

In disbelief, I went through Security, waited for the shuttle and rode down to the seating area. I found an empty area next to the spotlight platform and wedged myself next to the scaffolding, not wanting to take up any more space than absolutely necessary. I looked around. There was still room for others. No one was missing out as a result of my choice. My daughter joined me there, with concern in her eyes about the designated area, wondering at our entitlement. She went for water refills, for food. At the end of the concert, she walked back to the campground. I took one of the last shuttles, thankful for the ride.

On Sunday, after my daughter left for her home and work shift, the accessible area gave me the space and support I needed to enjoy the final night of music, even in the heat of the sun. A vendor came by regularly to sell water. A porta-potty nearby reduced the pain of the steps.

I’m still not convinced I deserved access to the ADA area. But I know it’s what I needed, and I’m incredibly thankful it was available to me.

I could tell you about the music.

When people ask about my concert festival weekend, I don’t think they want to hear about the time I thought I might die or the time I felt broken by the enormity of it all. I assume they’re interested in the music I went to see. The headliner, the throwback act, the discovery. They want to hear about the transformative power of music against the backdrop of the canyon, new friends met along the way, beautiful sunsets, breathtaking acoustics and the power of possibility. The highlight reel.

But how much can I tell you about the sunsets? They are the same color as the ones you’ve seen and taken photos of, wondering why the camera lens never matches the original. The words I use can’t do justice to the hazy peach and white streaks across a pale blue sky. My words can’t illustrate the golden hour bathing the Indigo Girls and their nostalgic harmonies in an angelic glow. My photos can’t capture the spectacle of a Bonnie Raitt guitar solo stretched on towering video screens flanking an imposing stage, the view of big sky and dramatic bluffs a backdrop to her music. The peach deepened to orange, the pale blue turned a deep cadet blue as the white streaks thickened into dark pillows, the light of the sky finally dimming to the stage lights. Darkness held the space when Brandi Carlile and her band performed with heart and an intensity that Spotify could never replicate.

To see a band live is to experience their music as it is intended – powerful, emotional, imperfect, dynamic. You feel the vibration of the guitar, the drums, the strings as much as you hear them.

How do I tell you about the connection between performer and audience when Sara Bareilles takes the stage? The communion of mourning a best friend lost to this world, the unspoken knowledge that her grief is also fueled by a difficult journey to become a mother. Her music connected us in this moment of grief, hope and resolve.

How do I tell you of the loving celebration that took place on that stage – one big birthday party to which we were all invited – as the women in Brandi Carlile’s orbit took to the stage with her. Wynonna Judd, Sheryl Crow and Brittany Spencer were officially on Sunday’s setlist, but we also had guest appearances by Allison Russell, Linda Perry and Bonnie Raitt when the Highwomen took the stage (Maren Morris, Natalie Hemby, Amanda Shires and Brandi Carlile). The dichotomy of being alone yet included in the party wasn’t lost on me.

I added Brittany Spencer and Wynonna Judd to my phone playlists. I considered the possibility of being a country music fan, not those who listen from the back of a pickup truck, but those who lift up women, people of color and LGBTQIA+, the stories not of shotguns and cheatin’ women, but those sung of families, loss and community.

How do I explain the power of Lynda Perry leading thousands of people in singing What’s Up? (better known as What’s Going On?) louder and louder until it was more of a collective scream, funneling rage at a world we don’t understand, looking for a way through this crisis together.

It was a light in the darkness. Women celebrating each other, taking care of each other, loving each other, shining their light on each other, showing the way. Men there to support, not control, to play bass or drums while the microphones and the lead guitars were shared among the women.

Magic. Love. Tears. Laughter. Gratitude. I wish you could have been there. I wish I could wrap up every emotion I felt and share it with you. You deserve to feel every bit of it.

How do I end this story?

The desert – even the high desert of Oregon and Washington – is a place of extremes. Without the shade of trees, heat bears down with an intensity that fries eggs, burns freckled skin and evaporates the moisture in a body, then with only the warning of a technicolor sunset gives way to a sharp, cold wind rushing through the canyon, cutting through your cotton sweater, laughing at the wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders. It is not for the faint of heart or constitution.

Will I go again?

No.

The Gorge is exhausting – it’s too much for me now. I don’t know how I’ll feel in two years or five or ten. I would factor in the sheer size of the venue, the ruggedness of the terrain and the potential extreme heat/cold before doing it again.

I overestimated my resilience, my ability to do hard things. I felt mad, abandoned, lonely.

I don’t like to receive help. I felt resentful that I needed it. It weighed heavily on my psyche for weeks.

While my daughter joined me for most of the weekend, I started and ended the weekend alone. I often choose to be alone. Sometimes I’m happiest alone. On this trip though, I felt the longing for connection. The need to have someone on the journey with me. The wish for someone to argue about whether I was putting the tent poles together correctly (again, I wasn’t) or whether we should make steak or sausage for dinner. Someone to lean into or wrap their arms around me when the music prompts tears, joy, connection.

There are times it’s dangerous to be alone. I ignore this fact, but the festival forced me to acknowledge both my vulnerability and my weaknesses. I felt my stubborn pride and judgment.

Sitting with those uncomfortable feelings, I experienced a weekend that many would call life changing. I call it transformative. Maybe they mean the same thing, but we change our life in many ways, large and small. By choosing the discomfort, I experienced something I never have before. I gave myself the care and support I’ve withheld in the past.

I will car camp again, find a campsite surrounded by trees, a tent where I can stand up, replace my cot with something inflatable, pack my $8.99 mallet, take my dogs for company (heaven help me) and make the same marinated steak dinner and breakfast burritos on my camp stove.

Am I glad I did it?

Yes.

Am I sure I wouldn’t do it again?

Well…

I would admit I have limitations due to my age, health and physical fitness. I would make a plan for how to handle those. I can’t bully my way through life with an expectation of success anymore. I need a realistic plan and a backup plan.

I love being older – most of the time. It’s ok that a music festival with more than 20,000 people is not one of those times.

I love being alone – most of the time. But it’s ok to admit that some things are easier, safer and more fun with someone else.

I love being independent – most of the time. And yet, it’s ok to ask for help, grace and accommodation when it’s needed.

I would want that for you. I’m learning to accept it for myself.

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In If the title fits, I’ll wear it, I told you about the blood tests that were less than ideal. I expected the more/less conversation – more walking, fewer drive-thrus, more green vegetables, fewer chocolate chip cookies, more movement, less recliner time. And I did get that talk, but this time with a referral to a specialist and an elastography ultrasound.

Don’t worry, I looked it up so you don’t have to. It’s medical imaging that maps the elasticity of soft tissue. In this case, it’s to see if my liver is diseased or just irritated. I have lived on this earth for more than fifty years of relatively low alcohol consumption. Sure, there was a time in my 20s when I’d go out with co-workers from the television station, but that was short-lived. Most of the time, I’m relatively close to a tee-totaller. I did dry January all year long and before it was a thing. I used to make a few co-workers nervous that I didn’t use alcohol as a social lubricant at business dinners. Maybe they thought they’d say too much and I’d remember it all. They didn’t – usually – and I didn’t – ever.

But I am obese and, as a result, at risk for fatty liver. My progression of doctors watched my liver levels with a wait and see you again in a year kind of detachment. But not my new primary care doc – who reminds me of Dr. Mel King from The Pitt, in part because of a very hazy physical resemblance and mostly because she seems to really pay attention and care about how I'm doing. And my version of Dr. Mel did not like what she was seeing in my blood work and routine ultrasound.

So here I am trying to pronounce a type of test I’ve never heard of to a woman who kindly said it clearly and easily. Only one place in the Portland area takes my insurance and does this specific thing. I agree to an 11 am appointment for this test, which will require 8 hours of fasting, when she asks,

“Can you walk without assistance?”

And that’s when a whoosh of gratitude and splash of joy enter the room, because the answer is definitely yes.

The annoyance and self-recrimination disappear. Gratitude and privilege enter the room and won’t relinquish one square inch of space for anything else.

Even when the doctor’s office calls with the referral to Hepatology. I pause, concerned it sounds suspiciously similar to Herpetology – the study of reptiles and amphibians. I ask what it is and sigh with relief when she informs me it’s the specialty focusing on the liver, gallbladder and pancreas. Which isn’t good news, but at least there won’t be snakes or lizards involved. Maybe your mind doesn’t work this way, but mine does and it usually amuses me. Welcome in, it’s fine, you’re fine, we’re fine.

I eat some broccoli and chicken at lunch. I walk a couple laps at the dog park. It may be too late, but it can’t hurt.

What does the Internet have to say about this?

I do a little research. Psychology Today tells me a third of Americans have non-alcoholic fatty liver disease - one in three! Shock, awe. I check the sources from the article and can’t validate his numbers, but the prognosis is still that it’s incredibly common and increasing over time. The American Liver Association estimates 25% of Americans have the condition and now refers to it as metabolic dysfunction-associated steatotic liver disease.

I’m not sure that has much of a ring to it, but they’re likely trying to help people understand it isn’t just an obesity issue. Exhibit A: “Studies show up to 20% of people with NAFLD are not overweight.”

And it isn’t just an adult issue.

The world wide web reminds me the liver detoxifies our blood. If the liver is compromised, toxins can reach the brain, affecting concentration, memory, mood and stress management.

That tracks.

And also… the liver is the organ connected to anger.

I’m sensing a theme here.

Recently in my weekly therapy session, we talked about how I view anger as a physical threat. I have assigned pain to anger. It is not neutral in my body, although we explored that it could be. I could see it as a warning sign, a clue to pay attention, the opportunity to make a decision. Anger, in and of itself, is not action. Coincidence that I’m working through suppressed anger issues when my blood shows elevated liver results? Maybe, maybe not.

In my writing circle, our facilitator offers a prompt for rage vs. outrage, based on Sue Monk Kidd’s book, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter: A Woman's Journey from Christian Tradition to the Sacred Feminine.

“The transfiguration of anger is a movement from rage to outrage. Rage implies an internalized emotion, a tempest within, Rage, or what might be called un-transfigured anger, can become a calcified bitterness. What rage wants and needs is to move outward toward positive social purpose, to become a creative force or energy…
Outrage is love’s wild and unacknowledged sister.”

Beautiful quote.

Coincidence that I’m invited to explore transmuting an internalized emotion into action through writing? Maybe, maybe not.

What am I doing for my liver?

I’m looking for ways to be outraged, to take action, find forward movement.

I’m eating three meat-less meals a week, more green vegetables.

I’m walking two laps at the dog park.

It’s a start. My therapist seemed very excited with my willingness to take these two baby steps. Her enthusiasm made it feel like actual progress, which it is. I just don’t normally give myself credit for baby steps. As it happens, it is time to start.

She also told me about a community-based acupuncture resource, much more affordable than the amazing person I saw when I was making corporate money. I made an appointment. Baby step.

The good news – beyond the reminder that I can walk without assistance, which is no small thing – is that the liver regenerates. Damage can be repaired, to an extent.

That’s where I start. With hope, a plan and several consistent baby steps.

Beth

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When I write, I almost always do so in my office overlooking my container garden and the green space across the street. I open the window, inviting the breeze to bring in inspiration and clarity. This invariably allows my attention to drift away from words and paragraphs, revisions and expert presenters, distracted by the activity of the world.

I’m pretty sure you know all this from previous essays, but I remind you because this is relevant today.

It is a joy I take seriously – this communion with nature.

This week I received some bad – not terrible, not catastrophic – news. A piece that I submitted to a big fiction contest didn’t even make the long list. My entry was one of 15,000 entries, and the long list was less than 1%, but I had hopes, I had dreams. A writer’s journey is filled with rejection, regardless of how promising the work is, but I’m not used to this quite yet. I gave myself 24 hours to pout, sulk, and recheck my email in case I missed the notification before moving on to what’s next. I celebrated the experience as part of the many steps toward eventual publication. I moved on with the help of my view out the front window.

Flowers console me. The lavender is impressive in this, its sophomore year. The pansies the color of dandelions and sunshine, the bright pink flowers I can’t name, the oregano eager for planter domination, the strawberry plant hugging the corner, slow to bloom – all compete for my attention.

This week as I researched my historical fiction work-in-progress, I found new information deep in a YouTube rabbit hole, revelations that break the premise of everything I’ve written so far. The discovery threatens not just the work, but my confidence in writing about this subject. I feel somewhat betrayed by the new information, as if my book’s protagonist has been lying to me the entire time. She died in the 1970s, I doubt I can hold her responsible for this one. I enjoyed writing the current storyline and now I must abandon it, in favor of something that fits within the facts I know. I gave myself 24 hours to pout, sulk, and consider throwing in the towel, before moving on to solving the problem of where the story goes now.

A squirrel audits many of my writing workshops, sitting on the fence rail just outside my open window, cocking its head and twitching its tail at the day’s lesson before losing focus and running back to the grass swaying gently in the wind. It amuses me to think of a squirrel learning how to write, pitch his debut project, and turn disappointment into content.

At my doctor’s appointment this week, she requested a little more blood, a few more tests, just to see which direction we’re trending before deciding our next course of action. It seemed like a precaution. I rolled up my sleeves, wishing I chugged more water before the appointment.

My test results from three months ago were high, nowhere near ideal. This week’s results came back even higher, not the desired result. Again, this is not terrible, catastrophic news. It’s disappointing. It points to lifestyle changes, additional tests, adjustments. Another 24 hours to pout, sulk and consult internet “experts” about non-pharmaceutical interventions, before the inevitable call for a follow-up appointment.

In the midst of this, I helped my mother move into my neighborhood, setting up utilities, insurance, internet.

In the midst of this, I disappointed someone I love with a lack of responsiveness and insufficient regret.

In the midst of this, I wondered if it was time to get a job with a paycheck and benefits, enough to pay the mortgage, but not so much that I would lose my ability to sit at my window in the morning, writing and watching, researching and listening, allowing the breeze to usher in joy.

I return to my laptop, eyes distracted by the slope of branches, ears alert for the chorus outside. When enough birds chime in, I take a break to open my Merlin app to identify their distinct voices. I wonder if that, in fact, is a chipping sparrow when my well-fed robin friend – the one who delights in pooping on my planters, porch and any vehicle in the area – flies to the fence. In his beak, a long, fat worm, likely plucked from the planter, loops as if a lasso. I watch the robin as he watches me, hopping around as if to show off.

“Look at your worm, Robin! Good job,” I praise the bird, loudly enough for him to hear through the screen.

As it turns out, my voice exclaims loudly enough for my new neighbor to hear as he walks his dog up the sidewalk, past my yard. The traitorous robin with his worm flew away, leaving no evidence. My neighbor smiles and waves, I smile, wave and blurt, “Good morning!”

What else is there to do besides laugh?

And accept that I am now the lady who talks to birds.

The neighbor might say I’m the lady who talks to birds that aren’t even there.

At least I keep showing up at my window, looking for the words, inspiration and perseverance. Failure is in the giving up, not the trying.

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My brain – at an imaginary chalkboard – tried to solve problems with my memoir draft.

My impatience wondered how many more revisions ready would take.

My inner accountant recalculated how long my savings could stretch without new income.

My defeatist argued maybe none of it matters anyway.

And yet, here I am at my keyboard, ready to start anew.

Daisy, 60 pounds of goofy golden doodle the color of obsidian, rests her head on my left foot, keeping me stationary, grounded. Her blonde sister, Lucy, groans quietly just beside the wheels of my chair, lost in the first of many naps today.

The open window invites me to witness morning greetings from the sparrows, finches and robins, chattering of the squirrels, the whirring of an occasional hummingbird, a flyover by a fat bumblebee, the first I’ve seen this season. According to my Merlin app for birdwatching, even the brown-headed cowbirds and yellow-rumped warblers have something to say in this early light of spring.

I can’t even be mad at the plump robin who poops on my porch, planters and fence as he visits in search of a morning meal in the midst of delicate splashes of fuscia, yellow and lavender in the front yard.

In this hour of the day, every moment is joy, a blessing.

The combination is clear. Be here now. Nothing else is guaranteed. Be here.

Inspired by the activity outside my window, I will write for the next few hours, because it’s what I do now.

Today, I will reject the relentless worry, the pull of productivity, the demands of the world.

I will focus on one thing.

When priority came to the English language, it was singular. From the Latin, first in rank or importance. It was not meant to be plural, overwhelming, fractured, unfocused.

When everything’s a priority, nothing is.

Like an air traffic controller, I will focus on one thing I can control, and when that is complete, I will approach the next thing. If I can’t control it, it may not be mine to bear. If I get bored or tired, I will take a break, maybe go for a walk, grab a snack or have a conversation. I will come back refreshed and ready to do the one darn thing.

This may not seem like a big deal, and maybe it’s not. But when things get overwhelming (the news, anyone?), I come back to the same clarifying questions:

Is it in my control (my actions, reactions, thoughts, emotions)? Can I produce change?

Most of my energy should focus here.

Is it within my influence – outside my control, but within my ability to bring about change?

I can – and from my perspective, should – spend time and energy here, recognizing I can control my actions, but perhaps not the outcome.

If I can’t control it and can’t influence it, I try to let go, redirecting that time and energy into things I can.

Easier than said than done these days, when everything seems to want my fickle attention, but more important than ever.

And so today, I will write. I will call my son. I will eat ham salad on wheat bread, because I am in the mood for it. I will smile because a woman noticed the bright pinks of my planter and smiled first. I will take the dogs to the dog park. Yes, I will read the news – once and when I’m ready. Not yet.

I will take a deep clarifying breath and release the mental cobwebs first.

I will let the birds serenade me first.

I will dance with inspiration first.

I will smile first.

Above all things, I will feel the joy of this day first.

That is my priority.

From the garden

Both lavender plants are back, stretching their bright purple buds to the sky, welcoming the bees to their corners of the yard. The rosemary blooms delicate whitish-blue flowers and shares its scent with my fingertips as I take a cutting. The parsley, oregano and catnip are back, eager to overwhelm the planter. Perhaps I’ll actually harvest and dry some this year, without the guilt of last year’s waste. It’s too early, too cool for the spinach and romaine to indicate whether they’ll come back for an encore. They didn’t grow large enough for a harvest last year. It’s a season of anticipation, hope and caution. Too cool overnight to feel confident that the early growth will prevail, but promising nonetheless.

From the draft

The memoir survived multiple beta readers and two significant rounds of edits. It is my focus most days, only ceding control to my fiction project and Substack under protest. I currently am working on the third draft I plan to shop to agents and publishers in the weeks/months to come. First, I am focused on individual verbs and sentences to make sure they’re working. Then I plan an overall read for one last look before updating my query letter for agents (please represent me!) and my book proposal (people will buy my book, I promise!). Then it’s time to become an entrepreneur where the product is my book and I am the salesperson.

All of it is taking so much longer than I thought. All of it is harder than I expected.

And I love all of it.

Thanks for being here. Thanks for your patience.

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I will not add to the volume. I’m just here to sit with you in silence for the time it would normally take for you to read my essay. Ready?

Let’s start with a deep breath together. And the release.

How are you doing? I’m right here.

Still here.

Thanks for sharing space with me. You can go back to the noise or you can sit with me a little longer.

Thanks for being here. Thanks for being you.

Here’s a baby flower for your week.

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Like the Mr. Rogers of my childhood, I change into this cardigan with its ribbed cuffs and cotton waffle knit, specifically when I head into my office. You may remember my white desk overlooks my shallow front yard, a sidewalk, a residential street, and then finally the trees and grass and birds and squirrels of a natural area.

This cardigan holds a spare tissue on the mornings when I need it. It buffers me from the chill of the open blinds on a cool winter morning.

You won’t see this cardigan when I’m at the grocery store or meeting a friend for lunch.

Because the real secret of this cardigan is that it’s just and only a writer’s cardigan.

I made it so.

I put it on – or in a pinch, its chestnut-colored twin – before I sit down to write every morning at 9 am. I no longer make morning plans – although I honor a few preceding commitments.

I write. Rain or shine, every morning, I write for 25-minute sprints with a 5-minute break in between. Sprint, break, sprint, break, sprint, break, sprint, done. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other writers on zoom.

Sundays? Yes. Holidays? Yes, I write. Surely not Christmas, you ask. Yes, I write.

I took a break when my kids were here. As soon as I dropped off my son at the airport, I returned to my keyboard and cardigan. I wrote next to the window, amused by the birds outside my window and the stories inside my head.

It’s the power of routine, of course. The markers and boundaries around that routine support it, provide reinforcement. I don’t have to debate, decide or deliberate. I just do.

When I wear the sweater, the dogs know to settle in – one under my desk and the other at the doorway – while I write. They’re ready to leap up for the inevitable bathroom break or water refill.

The ordinariness of it all makes room for creativity.

No news, no doom-scrolling, no socializing before writing. I live alone, so that last part is relatively easy. Even if I didn’t, it would be worth setting that boundary on the time between waking, breakfast, getting dressed, writing and finally lunch.

My sweater becomes shorthand for that transition. The routine begins when I put it on and walk into my office to open my laptop. The routine ends when I change out of my cardigan and into whatever layer makes sense for the next thing – sweatshirt or jacket for the dog park, outdoor sweater for social things or errands.

Lunch is the celebration of a productive morning, a chance to stretch my legs with the pups at the local dog park, time to integrate the morning’s lessons. The afternoon can be anything – more writing, classes, appointments and chores.

But the morning is mine. Just me and my sweater.

The good news about a consistent routine is that it’s boring. There’s no novelty so our brains look for something new. As a writer, I can direct that need for creativity onto a blank page.

It sounds silly, I get it. But it works. It gets me in the writer’s mindset when writing is hard. It keeps me in the zone longer than questioning how long, when I can stop. I know when I stop because it’s the same time Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday (and so on, you get it).

If my focus was working out instead of writing, it would be my leggings. Maybe if I’m very careful, I can layer my routines to include one and then the other. But I’ve learned something about myself. Build one solid routine first. Let it work. Then maybe, when it’s very solid and established, think about the second one.

Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good. Don’t let perfection get in the way of progress.

This sweater and I delivered the first revised draft of my memoir to a critique group yesterday. My stomach quaked, my hands shook, my eyes watered after pressing send. I had a minor panic attack while sitting in a restaurant’s parking lot, waiting for them to open.

Who was I to write a book? What if it’s horrible? What if it’s not? Am I going to share the stories of my childhood with everyone? How do authors do this? It’s like waking up from a dream where you’re naked at the front of the classroom, except it’s real and there are no take-backs.

I took deep breaths, read funny comments in my Writers’ Group, and eventually felt human again. I remembered it’s a huge accomplishment, even if it’s horrible.

While they are reading and making notes in the margins, I will be back here in Substack.

I’d love to apologize for my long absence, but I can’t. I love that I was off writing a book for the very first time. Doing what it took to get it to a place where I can let other people read it.

I do thank you for your patience while I was off wallowing in my own life, looking for meaning in it all.

Will it ever be a published book you can read? I hope so, even though at this moment that’s a terrifying prospect. For now, it’s all I can do to patiently wait as it’s being read by a group of fellow writers. My history is being read.

In the meantime, I started the project I planned to write before my 15-year-old self highjacked my pen in favor of the memoir. This new project is historical fiction about an heiress who forged her own path. Time evaporates when I’m researching it. That’s a great sign.

I’m not sure what will replace the cardigan when summer temperatures make it impractical to wear in the mornings. What I do know is that if I lose my way, I’ll check to see if my routine is in place. Because when it is, it is magic.

One thing I know for sure – I learned how to write a book. My sweater helped me realize I have the discipline, routine and creativity needed to do it.

And I can’t wait to do it again.

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From the garden:

I couldn’t resist the pansies at the grocery store. I justified the purchase by saying it was for the hummingbirds, but, let’s be honest, I have no idea if they’re a hummingbird flower. They’re bright and happy and hopeful, and don’t we all need a little of that in our morning?

That sounds so dramatic, doesn’t it?

Maybe I haven’t been a recluse as much as the writerly-equivalent to a method actor, so deep within my own past, it’s been hard to appear as my normal self.

I’m actually not sure who my normal self is these days.

As it turns out, writing a memoir serves as a deeply cathartic process. For example, as I edited the sections when I was in my twenties, I relived the activities, experiences, and emotions of that decade, but with the perspective of my post-menopausal self.

It may sound self-absorbed, but how often do we allow ourselves time and attention to learn from our life?

Through the experience, I sometimes withdrew from my current day life. The kitchen counter and full laundry hamper often provided evidence. Don’t worry, the dogs, cats and bills still got the appropriate level of attention.

Here’s the thing… I did it! I finished the revisions of my first draft. It took so much longer than I expected. I processed emotions I don’t recall feeling before. I recovered.

There is more to do – more revisions, a feedback loop, more revisions, and then a decision about what happens to these 350 pages. Do I work toward publishing or like “Raiders of the Lost Ark” store them deep within a nondescript warehouse?

First, I take a break, return to Substack, play with an idea for my next project.

It’s like I’m stepping into sunlight after being in that remote cave for months. Except I live in Oregon and it’s February, so it’s less sunlight and more a thin, gray haze flirting with clouds and threatening rain. Daffodils, confused by the mild winter, peek their cheery golden heads up to proclaim spring far too early.

And the news. It’s not like I’ve been totally oblivious, but I haven’t engaged. But now that I peek my head out, I’ll ask this. How are you doing? You’ve been subject to incredibly bad news for a very long time. That wears on our nervous systems, our bodies, our minds. Are we getting enough sleep? Are we eating well? Are we drinking enough water?

Because we know this will not get better soon, right?

Like the controlling father of my memoir, the system failed us a long time ago, and like good kids, we tried to make it work. We made accommodations. We did our part - and more! - to prop up a relationship, a system that hasn’t worked.

I’m going to share an unpopular opinion, one that is directly oppositional to what I would have said a decade ago.

I don’t want peace.

Not in the middle times.

I don’t want “can’t we all just get along?”

No.

I will not bend a knee, apologize or compromise with those associated with deportations, child abuse of any kind and an economy that values return on investment over human well-being. I will not support politicians who do or who are quiet and inactive in their opposition.

This isn’t just politics, it’s morality. It’s justice.

The people of our country have done some incredible things. But the people of our country have also done horrific things. And right now, we have the responsibility to hold them accountable.

Once we get honest about that, we can find our way forward.

Now is not the time to look away. (Yes, speaking to all of my fellow hermits.)

Now is not the time to panic. (Yes, it feels natural.)

Now is the time to visualize the future we want. We can get really clear as we focus on what we want for the earth, for our community. What values are important to us?

Does that seem too ethereal? Too woo-woo? Elite athletes and business leaders visualize success. It clarifies, it focuses, it motivates, it prepares us for what’s next.

Now is the time to take a step in that direction. One small step. Today, tomorrow, the next day. Keep going one step at a time until we’re there.

In the meantime, if a system that no longer serves the people falls, I’m willing to let it go. I won’t idolize a system that condoned containment camps, discrimination, theft. That’s not just the current administration. It’s a country that stole land, resources and lives from its native people. It’s a country built on the backs of slaves, whether formally or through an unjust prison system. It’s a country that relies on an unfair class system to serve the wealthiest, the most powerful.

In one of my favorite Broadway musicals, Hamilton, there’s a line that Lin Manual Miranda wrote for The Schuyler Sisters that gets repeated through the show, “Look around, look around, how lucky we are to be alive right now.”

They could have been scared. It was a time of turmoil, after all. The line repeats later when they’re in the middle of the Revolutionary War. They were brave enough, daring enough, determined enough to create a time of radical change, a rebellion against the monarchy. Ideals triumphed over the establishment,

We could say the same in modern-day America.

Look around, look around. How lucky we are to be alive right now.

Let’s sleep well.

Let’s eat well.

Let’s hydrate.

Let’s dream.

Let’s create.

Let’s go.

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From the Garden

I know it’s too early for an update. You know what doesn’t know that? This Mona Lisa Anemone that’s blooming in her magenta glory. She says it’s time to shine. It’s time to express joy.

Yes, it’s still winter.

Yes, she’s early.

And yet, she’s right on time.

She’s calling the hummingbirds to the yard, where they swirl and battle. The robins join in the jousting, scattering the hummingbirds for the moment. The lavender and parsley sway in the breeze, waiting for their time to bloom. I consider putting the tulip planters out, but decide to wait a little longer so there are blossoms to enjoy in March.

One Small Step

If you’re looking for one small step, consider the next No Kings protest scheduled for March 28. To find a location in your area and sign up:

https://www.nokings.org/

https://www.mobilize.us/

If protesting isn’t your thing, Mobilize publishes other opportunities to get involved.

Having been at several protests so far, it’s also amazing to have people drive by and honk in support.

In my long-ago days in corporate communications, I’d write and edit as I went. Always on a deadline, I knew the formula for employee communications and regularly delivered first drafts ready for client or executive approval. When I started writing essays for Substack, I automatically used the same process.

I used the same iterative process for the first 20,000 words of my memoir until I ran into an impenetrable – think concrete slab – wall. I didn’t know how to keep going, what my ending would be or how to get there.

I was lost.

I asked for help. Not to any one person in particular, but more in general to the force that is driving my creativity. I was still in the midst of The Artist’s Way, which supports the idea that all creativity is God*-given (*higher power).

And wouldn’t you know it? Help arrived in the form of Novel November.

Some of you may remember it as NaNoWriMo. ProWritingAid filled the gap of the now defunct NaNoWriMo with the free Novel November (NovNov). NovNov encourages novelists to write their first draft of 50,000 words over 30 days with author-driven workshops, daily writing sprints and a community stretching around the globe. Since memoirs use the same structure as novels, I signed up, ready for inspiration, structure and accountability.

The daily Zoom sprints used the Pomodoro method of focused work for 25 minutes and then a 5 minute break to get up, trot to the restroom, grab a water refill and check the silenced phone for texts before starting the second 25-minute focused effort without interruption. Somehow writing my own content silently alongside hundreds of writers helped my focus, productivity and sense of community. I wasn’t working alone, I was creating silently with hundreds of writers.

In the NovNov workshops, I kept hearing the same message loud and clear: Write a fast first draft – forward progress only. Don’t go back for misspelled words or jumbled thoughts or errors. Keep going. As Dory from Finding Nemo would say, “just keep swimming.”

It’s how professional authors do it. Anne Lamott calls it a “sh#*y first draft.” Stephen King calls it the CFD or “crummy first draft.” I wonder what Jane Austen called her scraps of paper and nub of a pencil. She was known for her fast drafting and multiple revisions. Even The Artist’s Way said to focus on the quantity and let your Higher Power worry about the quality. Someone in a workshop called it “word vomit.” Um, gross.

I led a quality team once upon a time so that hit my forehead like a brick. Quantity, not quality? Blasphemous!

All resistance showed up. My brain didn’t make it easy for me.

I didn’t want to write ugly. I hated the squiggly lines in my Word doc, telling me something is misspelled or awkward. I like playing with the words and phrases until they make sense to me. I thought I was a slow and somewhat spare writer. Of course I was! I was writing and editing at the same time.

I didn’t want to change. I have a long history of words carefully captured in notebooks, typewriters, college computer labs and now a laptop. No, thank you.

But…

Who am I to argue with the legend of Stephen King? I wouldn’t dare contradict the genius of Jane Austen. I’ve never written a book. And I was STUCK behind that concrete wall.

Have you ever realized that while you’re pretty good at something, you can get to a point where that habit, belief or process no longer serves your path forward? Resistance doesn’t help. The only way through is to painstakingly confront your belief or approach and just try the darn thing differently.

It worked. In writing fast, I found my way forward, out of the inertia and into new territory. I found a middle. In a sudden flash on a rainy Wednesday, I even found an ending. I discovered I can be a prolific writer.

My fear and self-doubt couldn’t keep up with the speed I was writing. They couldn’t interrupt me with worst case scenarios or second-guessing. They were back on the first 500 words, while I barreled forward into the thousands. I was free.

The freedom from those inner voices became the reward. I enjoyed ending a sprint with completed pages. I found myself seeking additional sprints, wanting to drive fast and loose with my memories.

Some days I wrote 1,000 words, a few days I wrote more than 2,000. I finished my entire planned outline just a week after I started. I just kept writing – my memories of Iowa on a summer day, my move to Texas at 15, learning to drive on the four-lane interstates with Indy 500 wannabes, remembering the dry August heat stealing my breath and drying my sweat before it could bead up on my skin.

On the last day I squeaked out only 565 nouns, verbs and adjectives, bored with my own voice and satisfied that I already surpassed the goal – 50,709 clunky, messy, in-need-of-a-makeover words. When added to what I had already written, I had enough words for an actual book.

No one will see the first draft. It is mine alone. It is a baby, not ready for judgmental eyes. It gets to be pampered, wooed, coaxed into a logical, passable second draft. I am looking forward to playing with those messy words, arranging them, changing them, finding the truth in phrases and sentences, even deleting them with the heartlessness I can definitely manage.

December should be a treat. And all because I admitted I needed to change. I’m not too old to write a book, but it does require a willingness to change, acceptance that I’m a beginner and the discomfort of doing familiar things in new ways. Oof, isn’t that tough, but oh so worth it.

Thanks for your patience while I was writing my way through my wilderness. I am ever so thankful for your presence and encouragement.

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Once upon a time in corporate America, my boss at the time – let’s call her Teri, since that was, in fact, her name – shared this with a hiring manager in her recommendation of me: “She’s great, but don’t let her get bored.” This comment stayed with me more than any performance review. It serves as the warning label that comes on my box, just like “don’t feed Gremlins after midnight.”

The hiring manager confused idleness with boredom and assured Teri it certainly wouldn’t be a problem. Her mistake was understandable since boredom can be tricky to define.

For most of us, boredom occurs when we are missing purpose or meaning, when we don’t see the connection between activity and outcome. Boredom is typically a signal that we’re ready for change and greater fulfillment.

“Boredom: the desire for desires.” — Leo Tolstoy

This week, I’m bored on purpose. I eliminated external entertainment for one week – reading (books, magazines, newspapers, online articles), television*, music, what’s left of my social media (Substack and Bluesky) and YouTube.

*I allowed myself one college and one professional football game.

You might be shaking your head and wondering what in the world I’m up to now. It’s a question I ask myself regularly.

In my quest to become a more creative writer. I signed up for a group workshop dedicated to The Artist’s Way. The book was published 30 years ago as a “12-week journey to discover the inextricable link between [our] spiritual and creative selves.”

Just a month in, the author, Julia Cameron, dares to prescribe a week of reading deprivation as a “jump-start.” It’s a chance to better hear the inner voice, write inspired and blah, blah, blah. My reaction involved metaphorically slamming a door and digging my heels into the carpet with deep rivets. I’m not doing THAT. I have a book club selection to finish, required reading for my memoir class – and I just checked out five books from the library. (Yes, I know that’s too many.) I am busy learning and being inspired and soaking in the brilliance of other authors! I am too busy for this nonsense. No, nope, not happening.

After an outburst in our weekly group meeting and a week of inner debate, I realized how often I compare my own rough drafts to highly acclaimed, published authors. I remembered the writing block of the past six weeks. And then the realization - I needed to take a break from other people’s words, to rest from the standard they set, to interrupt the song lyrics on repeat in my brain, to clear out all the clutter.

Ever in need of control, I scheduled it for a week that wouldn’t conflict with existing commitments. I finished reading the book club novel. I completed my assigned homework in advance. I extended my library check-outs.

Then I turned off the TV. I put away the books. I closed Spotify.

It’s just a week, I told myself. Here’s how it went:

Day 1 – generally cranky

• I dyed my hair orange. The box said copper, and yes, it’s temporary.

• I drove to Portland and quickly experienced road rage. My singer-songwriter playlist usually keeps me upbeat on the highway. So when a driver stayed firmly next to me as she tried to merge onto the highway while I tried to exit in the same lane, my soundtrack was not there to keep me even keeled. Her failure to move out of my blind spot inspired a string of expletives I rarely use. I’m too embarrassed to quote them here. I did apologize to her and to the God I invoked.

• At lunch, I found a large puddle of orange copper hair dye in the hollow of my ear. Cute.

• I started researching RV living. I fantasized about renting out my house and travelling the continent for a year with two large dogs and a cat in less than 400 ft².

• I did not write.

Day 2 – in over my head

• I baked a cake from scratch. It was lumpy, clumpy and frumpy but tasted pretty good. The kitchen was a disaster, with cocoa powder, flour and powdered sugar on the counter, the floor and the sink. I don’t understand why people love baking. It’s exhausting.

• The college football team lost.

• I purged three sacks of clothes from my closet and dresser.

• I checked to see how much RV sites on the Oregon coast cost per night.

• How is it only 8 p.m.? It was dark and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I did crossword puzzles until after midnight.

• I asked a higher power for help.

• I still did not write.

Day 3 – put the credit card away

• I decided I needed a stand mixer to make cakes without lumps. It wasn’t my fault; my hand-held mixer was clearly not up to the assignment. And they were on sale. I wondered where I would put the stand mixer in the RV. I drew a blank, so I reluctantly decided not to splurge on the cute pink 5-quart model.

• The pro football team lost. I felt the need to cleanse the palate from the loss, but how?

• I rearranged my dresser drawers in the midst of a busy day because sweatpants should be t-shirt adjacent, not next to sheets. And it had to happen that exact moment.

• Still, I did not write.

Day 4-5 – Becca’s home!

• My youngest daughter spontaneously came home for a few days. An answered prayer? She helped distract me from the things I wasn’t doing. We found the best Monte Cristo sandwich in Oregon. We pored over the ancient photo albums I brought back from Ohio. I showed her the genealogy I’ve researched so far. She inspired a new interest in collaging, which (synchronicity!) is a task in this week’s The Artist’s Way chapter.

• I reconsidered the stand mixer but instead bought a cute quilt I found while collaging. It will fit in an imaginary RV.

• I accidentally read a click-bait article during some online research. As soon as I realized I was READING (!!), I closed it as if I had been caught watching porn.

• Aha! I finally wrote something.

Day 6 – introspective

• As I look forward to consuming content again, I hope I’ll do it with discernment, more conscious of my choices and the balance of creating vs. consuming. I hope I’ll choose a walk in the neighborhood admiring the colors and textures of the leaves instead of watching YouTube videos of earwax cleanings, pimple popping and pedicure makeovers (don’t judge me, they’re all incredibly popular).

• But couldn’t I watch just one video? I peeked on YouTube to see what I was missing and sighed as I closed the app without watching anything.

• I realized I was bored before this week started. Going down YouTube rabbit holes was boring. Reading online articles that were nothing more than clickbait - tempting but boring. Watching a day of football regardless of team and then listening to talking heads debate hot takes - boring. I just didn’t see it before.

• But then I watched Bette Midler serenade Steven Colbert, and it made my heart happy. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again. But not this week.

• I wrote a little more.

Day 7 – a busy finale

• Fortunately, my schedule for my last deprivation day didn’t allow much time to miss entertainment.

• I still ruminated on the RV plan, ran the numbers, contemplated pros and cons.

• Does the stand mixer seem more reasonable if I get it in blue instead of pink?

• I wondered if I should get a tattoo.

• I wrote a little more.

Reentry - everything is so loud

• I’m not ready to turn it all back on. In the car, I started listening to Spotify and turned it off. I tried a football video and turned it off. I went back to silence.

I feel like I should have some grand conclusion from this experience. I don’t. Just an acknowledgment that I live in a world where I can read everything, watch anything, and consume as much as I want. And that is, frankly, overwhelming. Learning to be quiet, still and content was exactly what I needed. Next time I feel the pressure, the noise and the clutter, I can turn it all off.

And I’ll know to deactivate my credit cards before I do.

What’s your YouTube rabbit hole? C’mon, you can tell me.

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It transported me to when I was sick and needed to stay home from school – home in this case being my grandparents’ house. My grandmother arranged a supply of saltine crackers, 7Up in my favorite plastic cup with a straw and a bell on the bedside table.

She spread VapoRub over my chest, placed a cool washcloth on my forehead and gently smoothed my hair back off my face. She tucked me in securely under the ivory crocheted bedspread and told me to ring the bell loudly if I needed anything.

The very same bedspread is now in my aunt’s guest room. I resisted the urge to curl up beneath its perfectly preserved squares of snowballs and diagonals, to retreat into the love I felt from my grandmother’s care, the nostalgia of a simpler time when she was within walking distance of my elementary school, with the basement stairs a perfect place for Slinky races, the backyard a wonder of snapdragons and iris, and the playroom a sanctuary with its volumes of Grimm Fairy Tales and Hans Christian Anderson.

Instead, I sat on the nubby texture of the coverlet, surrounded by the history of those grandparents, their parents and grandparents. Next to me, a family Bible with the careful cursive script capturing the births, marriages and deaths of generations, its spine disintegrating from even the gentlest touch. A thick volume of US History published in 1875. On the floor at my side, the hand-carved cradle I was inheriting, continuing the chain of women who have passed it from mother to daughter, and now aunt to niece. I do not know yet if my daughters will become mothers, but I’m committed to the care and ongoing legacy of this matrilineal (through the female line) journey through time and space.

Sitting in the midst of this family history, I open a clasped manila envelope containing a book about my great-great grandfather from 1938, photographs and a “descendency chart.” The chart begins in 1888 with Elmer Glen and Susie Anna, their nine children (including my grandfather). Under each child’s name, it shows their spouses and children (including my father, aunts and uncle). Under each grandchild’s name, it includes their respective spouses and children (my cousins). It’s quite a group.

My three step-mothers are listed - even the one who lasted less than a year. My father’s first wife, my mother, is not listed. My brother is not listed.

I am not listed.

The tears start. There is no pause for logic or rational thought. The emotions are fully in charge, and they choose the shape of a waterfall.

I tap into a deep wound. In that moment, I feel at my core I have always been and still am now completely and utterly…

Alone.

I didn’t know that feeling was there. I wonder how often and how much I distract myself from its presence.

As my brain starts to catch up with my body, I wonder who created this list, why would we have been left off. I have no worries that I was secretly adopted or born from a different father. This was either an intentional omission or an accidental oversight.

I remember that I like being alone. I often choose it. I moved to Oregon alone, driven by topophilia (simply, love of place), without friends or family in the area. I write best when I’m alone. I luxuriate in the quiet of my empty nest. I forget to invite people to join me for a show or event. That person in the restaurant or the movies by themself? That’s me. And I’m happy. I am very good company.

I pull myself together and continue reviewing the documents.

My aunt comes in to check on my progress. I tell her about the chart. She assures me I’m on there, until she looks and realizes I’m not. My tears begin again. She comforts me, frustrated that she doesn’t know whose mistake led us here.

I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s fine.

I am a part of this family. This cradle is still going home with me. She is meant to be with me for a time, until she finds her home in the next generation.

I drive from Ohio to Oregon, stopping in Iowa on the way, my SUV loaded to absolute capacity with ancient photo albums, books published in 1875, pieces of my grandmother’s wedding china from 1941, a knitting basket, tins with sewing notions. All from a grandmother who even after death reminds me I’m actually not alone. Her proxy, now my aunt, continues the connection. She sends her love home with me in jars – her homemade spaghetti sauce, salsa and pesto, all fresh from her garden.

Once I am home and place the cradle in my living room to hold quilts and blankets (and occasionally a happy gray cat), I sign up for ancestry.com. I add my parents and my grandparents. I find other relatives who have done the same, and I add links to their charts. In some places, my family tree stretches back six or seven generations. Other branches wait their turn for the research needed to connect us.

I find Quakers, both a Union soldier and a Confederate soldier from the Civil War, a fifer and a militia-man from the Revolutionary War, and a Cherokee chief. My heart drops as I find a slaveowner, hoping it’s not the right relation and am disappointed when he is.

I put myself back into the story.

This family tree survives separation. It survives life and death and heartbreak and reunions. It outlasts shame. It persists despite cross-country moves, losing touch over time and an incomplete “descendency chart” from a 1995 dot-matrix printer.

And because I’m very, very lucky, branches of my family tree show up in real life in the form of hugs I didn’t know I needed, stories about relatives I’ve never met and freshly made ketchup from an Ohio garden.

The tree is alive. It has a story to tell. I just need the perseverance, forgiveness and strength to find it.

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From the garden:

During my travels, I took the mild weather with me. I rejoiced in it. I counted my blessings at my good fortune. I returned home to realize the late August heat and dryness lingered in Oregon during my lengthy absence, frying the delicate pea shoots, withering the herbs and even decimating the prolific cucumber vine. While my pet sitter watered as requested, it just wasn’t enough. I mourned the loss of the fall harvest, knowing I could easily replace the crop with a trip to the grocery store. Yet I was disappointed. Honestly it was more than that, but I don’t want to be dramatic and say heartbroken, even if I was.

As I write, I overlook the front yard where the u-shaped arrangement of raised beds holds this garden. Day after day of disapproving looks from neighbors walking by still didn’t motivate me to clean it up. It took weeks for me to clear the dried vines and dead leaves, to admit an early end to the oregano, the loss of the peas and the disappointment of the cucumbers. I still haven’t figured out what to do with the tomato plant and the romaine shoots that survived although they are far from any harvest production this year.

If I have learned a lesson (I haven’t), I suppose I should begrudgingly admit I was told to start small. (I didn’t.) I don’t know what I’ll do next spring besides not plant carrots or squash. I don’t really like them and growing them myself will not change that. (So I did learn something.) I might scale back (but probably not). I better figure out an irrigation and shading system that can withstand the fierce August heat and sun.

For now, I’ll thank the garden for the enjoyment it brought me, for the tiny strawberries with the huge flavor, for the herbs and for the realization that I can fail at growing vegetables and still be just fine.

As they say in writer’s class, every failure is content.

I love American football, although I’m often hard-pressed to explain why. Last weekend made it easier. I watched four games and found life lessons in each of them. The games were the stories of heroes.

And in one, I found inspiration: Jake Tonges.

Most people have never heard his name unless they’re a die-hard San Francisco 49ers fan. I’ll be honest, I hadn’t thought much about him before last Sunday. He’s third on the depth chart, meaning he’s the back-up to the back-up.

The primary player – George Kittle – is funny and talented with a larger-than-life personality. He went to the University of Iowa (Go Hawkeyes!), married his college sweetheart, texts with his grandma, and is a star. You may have seen him on commercials for Little Caesar’s (pizza, pizza!), Directv and Ritz crackers. If you listen to the sports guys on YouTube, he’s one of the best at his position of tight end. (Swifties might prefer Travis Kelce at that particular position.)

When things get tough in the game and options are limited, the quarterback looks for the tight end. He can be counted on to keep the other team from tackling the quarterback and then still run downfield to catch the ball when everyone else is unavailable. As an added benefit, George Kittle entertains as if it’s his mission to remind everyone that football is supposed to be fun. In last week’s game, he was having a good day. He caught several passes, including one on the edge of the end zone for a touchdown.

And then he got hurt. Not the excruciating injury where a player is lying on the field, trainers gathered around him, with sports guys replaying the critical play in slow motion. This was a quiet limping off to the sideline while the cameras focused elsewhere.

The game plan was off. The team would have to rely on the backups, neither of whom had caught a touchdown pass in their careers.

Late in the game, Jake Tonges came in. Jake has played professional football for three years. He’s not a superstar. You won’t see his jersey on display in the stadium, unless you’re sitting behind his parents. In his first three professional seasons, he hadn’t caught a single pass in a game, let alone a touchdown pass.

Back in 2022, on the big day when college players put on their best - or borrowed - suits and waited to be drafted by the professional team they’ve dreamed of since their first game of pick-up ball, Jake went through every round without hearing his name. He finished the draft weekend without a job. Chicago contacted him later, offering a short-term deal to practice with the Bears. He made the team, only to be released in November and then hired for the team’s practice squad. (The practice squad helps the team get ready for that week’s game.)

He was let go in August 2023. The next month, the San Francisco 49ers signed him to their practice squad. And last month, he made the season’s roster.

If I had been an apprentice for the first three years of my corporate career, I would have been discouraged, resentful, a malcontent. I would have left for greener pastures with more long-term security. Of course, I wasn’t doing a job I loved, just one I was reasonably good at.

Now I have a job I love. Last week I was ready to quit after 11 months of learning the craft, playing with verbs and phrases, writing and publishing personal things. I was having yet another crisis of confidence with this work that I love, terrified of failing. I really hate that feeling. But at least it doesn’t require the special diets, elaborate training and complete dedication of a physically elite athlete.

I wonder if Jake has ever felt discouraged. Does he question why he shows up in the heat of the summer for practice, repeating the same drills day after day, only to see shiny new recruits show up and hit the field immediately? Does he get tired of his chicken and broccoli (or whatever football players eat) and wish he could just eat a pepperoni pizza or an ice cream sundae? If he ever did, it didn’t matter. Jake showed up, did the work, looked at his third-place spot and said, “yep, I’m ready.”

As the sports guys say, “Get ready. Stay ready.”

On Sunday, the first game of the season, under bright sunny skies at Lumen Field in Seattle, with his team behind by 3 and less than 2 minutes left on the game clock, it was time to test his preparation.

Jake later said he thought the quarterback might be throwing the ball out of bounds, a wasted play. But the ball was coming toward him, high in the end zone. He leapt to his highest possible point between two Seattle defenders who were just as determined to catch it and save the day.

Jake practiced this jump every week of his professional career, every week of his California Golden Bears college career, and probably every week of his high school career.

This time, he came down with the 14 ounce football and the victory.

Now, Jake has three completed catches in his career, one for a touchdown. He didn’t even think the ball was meant for him. But he summoned every ounce of his body into an improbable vertical jump for the ball. Not because it was easy, but because he had trained for it. He was prepared. He believed in himself even when it was hard. And he reminded me how important determination and confidence are to success.

On Tuesday, after a well-earned day off, he’ll go back to work. He’ll work as hard as ever; he’ll eat the chicken with no skin and the broccoli without butter. He’ll run the drills backwards and sideways. He’ll get hit by very large men with the force and intensity of a Mack truck - repeatedly. And when he goes home, he’ll see the game ball from his moment of glory mounted above his mantle.

And it will be enough.

Way to go, Jake.

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From the garden will be back with my next essay.

I drove north through Portland before the morning commute clogged the interstate and turned east in time for the sun to break through the clouds and illuminate the individual ripples of the Columbia River on my left, rocky bluffs jutting up through the trees on my right and cheerful summer sky peeking out through cozy clouds above – a good omen for the journey and a reminder of the welcome I’ll receive when I come back home.

For the first day of my two-week road trip, I efficiently munched on Uncrustables and Funyuns for lunch as I sped through the arid plateaus of southern Idaho and snacked on grapes and cookies through the northeast corner of Utah. Throughout the day, I made great time as I alternated between water (my drink of choice) and Coca-Cola (for the jolt of caffeine).

There’s nothing particularly scenic about my choice for the first stop of the trip, but Rock Springs, Wyoming, was a welcome sight after driving 926 miles.

The next day was decidedly less productive as my entire body rebelled against the junk food from the day before. I visited many, many rest stops and many, many gas stations in Wyoming, Nebraska and Missouri. Shame on whomever decided to close so many rest stops without updates to road signage and/or map apps. If the highway sign says there’s a rest stop in 34 miles, I’m going to expect – you guessed it – a rest stop in 34 miles. I credit those people with the need for two wardrobe changes before finding a spot east of Kansas City to stop for the night. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. And I made terrible, horrible, no good, very bad time. But — and this is the most important thing — I made it safely.

After spending a couple days in St. Louis with my oldest daughter (so fun!), I made my way to Indiana for a WNBA game (also fun!) before continuing on my way to Ohio.

Just before my junior year in high school, I moved from my very small town in Iowa to a very big suburb in Texas. On the first day at my new and very large school, my trigonometry teacher seated me in front of another new student who moved from Ohio. In her unsuccessful attempts to keep Iowa and Ohio straight, she mused – in front of the whole class – if we married and had kids, they’d be Ohio-Iowans.

I get it, it’s fun to say out loud. It’s not often you get to say that many vowel syllables sequentially; however, hypothetical matchmaking was not the kind of attention either of us wanted on the first day of class. Jon was a nice enough guy, but he was a Buckeye and at the time I was a Hawkeye. Anyone who knows the Big 10 knows that’s not a good start.

I’ve had a grudge against the state of Ohio ever since.

Now my aunt and cousins live in Ohio, and it’s been far too long since I’ve seen them. I could fly, but my aunt plans to send some family heirlooms home with me. Driving through the Midwest gives me the chance to see my afore-mentioned daughter, go to that Indiana Fever home game, and then on the return route, swing through Iowa to do memoir research at local libraries and connect with friends.

Plus, I love a good road trip.

In addition to a cooler full of snacks, my toothbrush and underwear, I have some less traditional items on this trip:

1. Atlas – I bought a U.S. atlas, justifying it with the thought that sometimes my Maps app leads me astray, and sometimes cell service isn’t available in Wyoming. In reality, I love the idea of having it in my car. I’m prepared. I’m resourceful. I’m not lost even if I’m wildly off-track.

2. Scanner – My aunt has the repository of family photos and memorabilia that we’ll digitize and preserve. The tedious work of scanning will be easier in her company as we tell stories and reminisce.

3. Not yet vintage t-shirts – I’ve been storing my daughter’s old t-shirts and look forward to returning them to their proper owner. Many of them are more than 20 years old, but I’m not quite willing to consider them vintage. Wouldn’t that make me second generation vintage? Don’t answer that…

4. Questions – Since I’m writing a memoir, I have plenty of research I’d like to do. I’ll interview my aunt, review old newspaper articles in local libraries, and visit my childhood neighborhoods.

This is not a trip for traveling light.

It is a time to gather close with my family – both alive and deceased.

It is a time to scrutinize the past in order to better understand it.

It is a time to explore, reflect and celebrate.

It is a time to let my mind wander, in search of possibilities and meaning.

I plan to return home with a carload of antiques and a bushel of Iowa sweetcorn. Truth be told, I expect to return with facts, insights and memories I can inject into my memoir.

If those come at the cost of driving several days, staying in slightly questionable hotels and acquiring1,804 itchy mosquito bites, it is worth it.

May travelling mercies be upon me so that I return safely, with more stories, fewer questions and the conviction to never ever eat another Funyun in my whole entire life.

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For those of you who have pledged or asked how to contribute, thank you. I want to clarify why I’m not turning on paid subscriptions at this point and why I just removed the pledging feature.

I do believe writers deserve to be paid. A friend of mine edits my essays, making them clearer, dragging me out of passive into active voice (e.g. from ‘it was written by me’ to ‘I wrote it’) and pushing me to be a stronger writer. She deserves to be paid. When I started Substack, it was with the intention that my essays would be a revenue stream for both of us at some point.

Then I realized I like my Substack essays to be a changing room of sorts. I can show up, try some silly (or serious) things and have fun without obligation. I can get feedback through readership levels, likes, shares and comments – and then decide if I want to make changes (like keeping the From the Garden section even when I am a beginner).

I can take a week or two or three off without feeling like I’m letting you down. I hope you’ll miss me a little, eagerly waiting to see the next one, but I haven’t cheated you out of your hard-earned money. I can write a clunker or two without you racing to find the unsubscribe button.

Most importantly, I can focus on my memoir. I’m excited about what’s in the works.

I’m about 15% of my way through, based on word count. I’ve wrestled with memories, interviewed family members and friends, researched details and surprised myself with epiphanies along the way.

It is slow going.

I looked for a reputable source to validate that memoirs are the hardest genre to write. I did not find one. I did, however, find many sources that confirmed it’s very hard to do well. We take our life experience and find a way to make it a compelling story. I would add we also have to find the truth in moments when our memories may not be reliable.

I’ll give you an example:

Writing advice/critique: How did you feel when you were seven and a fire destroyed your home?

Me: I was sad. Let’s go to the next chapter.

Writing advice/critique: Don’t tell me you were sad, show me.

Me: I don’t remember. I was seven.

Writing advice/critique: That’s not good enough. Dig deeper.

I call my mom. She confirms I was in fact sad but also describes my reaction when we went into the house the first time. So I write this:

As my father spoke to the fire marshal, Mom, Glen and I wandered through the basement, where piles of ash replaced the couch, the craft table and the everyday evidence of our life from just hours earlier. My breath quickened, my thin frame tightened, and my mind tried to understand how everything could be completely and irreversibly gone.

I labor over the words and search for the truth, hoping I’m doing it right, doing the story justice. I will rewrite those sentences at least five more times before I’m happy with them. I know even if it’s never published (it will be), the experience is worth it.

As I write about the events of my childhood, I soothe hurts I didn’t know I had. I poke around to find the hot spots, then scrape away scar tissue to the tender damage underneath. I let the pain evaporate, release the old aches and lovingly stitch the clean wound back up. I process it from the safety and experience of my adult brain, in the comfort of my beautiful home, with the realization that nothing is permanent and even when things are hard, we move forward.

I can forgive others. I can forgive myself.

And I heal, one memory at a time.

So really, I am becoming free. And not just on Substack.

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From the garden:

The heat and unrelenting sun took their toll on my garden beds, despite daily watering. The cucumber blossoms are fading, with only a single baby cucumber making an appearance. Half of the sugar snap peas vines dried to a fragile wheat brown. A number of green pods vanished, leaving my prospective yield to just a handful.

The caffeinated tomato finally stretches toward the wooden trellis for support but still has a long way to go before it produces anything.

At a writers’ conference earlier this month, I learned that after planting carrots from seed, you need to thin them out so a few have the chance to grow without being crowded. It turns out that a lot of writers are also gardeners.

As I prepare for a long road trip, I worry about my garden in my absence. I am confident that my pet/house sitter will faithfully water the babies, but will she tell them how cute they look and how miraculous they are? Will they remember without the daily reminders?

For that matter, do you remember how smart and miraculous and extraordinary you are? If not, I’m here to remind you there is not another soul like you – for a reason. You are part of this great and wonderful world to help in your own way, adding your unique gifts to our collective and common experience. Thanks for showing up. We need you.

Oregon doesn’t accept digital proof of a license so I made a DMV appointment to replace that small square of plastic that allows me to operate a motor vehicle. I have things to do, people to see, places to go. It was past time for me to get a REAL ID after all. And my existing license - the one hiding from my gaze - showed an old address (even though the DMV has my current one on file).

The natural conclusion is the Universe in its infinite wisdom was telling me to get a new ID. After making the appointment and researching the documents I’d need for it, I confidently chose my passport, a piece of mail and my insurance card as proof I am who I say I am and live where I say I live. I started gathering those documents.

My passport was not in its assigned spot. I keep it there, so I always know where it is. Now, instead of looking for my lost license, I was looking for the documentation needed to replace the lost license. I twisted up in an swirl of frustration, anxiety and self-recrimination. I lost things, meaning I was a loser.

I took a break. I meditated.

It didn’t help me find my license or my passport (or my missing toothbrush charger that I moved from my bathroom when I had company last week). It did help slow the rising flood of blame and shame that comes with losing an important or needed thing.

They say lost items are most often where you expect them to be and so you are best off spending most of your time looking in that spot.

But I didn’t know where I expected them to be, because in each case, I moved them from their regular place to a new temporary place without deliberation, without focus and without the forethought that they’d eventually be missing.

On some level, I knew this happens to other people, not just me. I knew I shouldn’t waste time or energy chiding myself for my inattention, berating myself for my lack of organization and comparing myself to all of you who clearly know where your proof of identity is right now.

So instead, I wrote. I let my frustrations flow through the keyboard to you, feeling soothed in advance by your empathy, calmed by your advice, reassured by your stories of what you’ve lost and then found just when you had given up.

I could let this be about our collective feelings of frustration and not being enough.

After all, if you told me you had lost your license because you didn’t want to carry your purse to the dog park, I would be confident that you are still smart and funny and kind. I wouldn’t need your license to prove that for me. I would have no clue where you should look besides that uncomfortable crevice around your car seat where you will find old napkins, a pen and a petrified French fry. I would not begin to tell you that perhaps you need a better system. What kind of Saturn retrograde crap advice is that for a friend?

No, I would listen to your frustration, nod in understanding, cheer you on. I’d be confident that you could still go on solving life’s bigger problems, while remembering to admire the sun filtered through the trees and laugh at the dog snoring under your desk.

I’d know that you’ll find those things when you give your shoulders permission to drop, your brain the freedom to wander and your heart the space for compassion.

All is not lost, my friend. Just a few things. And while they are important, they are not everything.

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From the garden

I am worried, my friends. The cucumber is taking over the garden, wrapping its way around the basil, choking the lavender and climbing the trellis. I have not yet found any proof that the flowers will yield to fruit, but they threaten a bumper crop of a thing that I like only a little. And yet the flowers persist, teasing me with the eventuality of too much.

The peas are continuing to grow up, and the spinach, tomatoes and romaine stay stubbornly small. A neighbor who knows things about gardening recommends coffee water for the tomato. Because I don’t drink coffee, she caffeinates it for me. How fortunate am I?

An update from the world of lost things

Less than a day after I realized things were lost, I have a new REAL ID. I should be clear that I think the Universe actually has more important things to deal with besides my (proof of) identity crisis.

My passport is back in its drawer after playing hide and seek in the cross-body bag that I prefer for most travel days.

I started moving my office back into its normal configuration after everything was shoved against the wall to accommodate an inflatable mattress I used for the week. As I moved my desk chair back, the reflection of a hologram caught my eye. That license had been directly under me THE ENTIRE TIME I wrote about it being lost.

I just can’t stand the irony.

Even the toothbrush charger is back where it belongs tonight, after I found it under the hair straightener that I almost never use but did today.

All is not right with the whole world, but in my corner, I feel the peace and quiet of found things. For that, I am grateful.

I thought about telling you about the hawk who visited my front garden, a mere foot away from me when I first noticed it and it noticed me, right before I made a high-pitched sound that wasn’t a scream but might have sounded like one to my neighbors. I ran into the house. The hawk flew to a neighbor’s roof. I kept thinking it might give me a second chance and return to the garden.

It did not.

As it turns out, the hawk had recently been released from rehab and wasn’t quite ready for life in these wooded suburbs. After an ill-advised detour through the neighborhood dog park, it is now back in rehab, and I hope it’s enjoying a steady diet of small rodents and birds in the company of caring humans and new raptor friends. It’s important to note that no damage was done by the dogs at the aforementioned park, but that’s where a human noticed the hawk wasn’t behaving as they are known to do. I know all of this because my neighbor is nice enough to screenshot the updates from Facebook and text them to me.

It’s safe to say I’m invested in the hawk’s success.

I considered telling you about my own two dogs at the city dog park. But then I’d have to explain why I drive across town instead of walking down the street, which has nothing to do with hawks just out of rehab and everything to do with space for big dogs to run, more playmates and a walking track around the perimeter that makes me feel like I got enough activity to sit down and write for a spell.

This particular dog park is where my dogs learned about a ball that has a specific smell and a specific texture and a specific squeak, and now they can’t possibly enjoy any other ball on the planet. Unless it’s another dog’s ball. As Lucy and Daisy are notorious ball thieves at the dog park, I now must bring a couple of these balls as a distraction so they won’t interrupt the border collie’s game of fetch. The balls also serve as entertainment when the park is empty and a bribe when calling their names isn’t enough to convince them to leave when I’m ready.

When I give them one ball to share, they wrestle and fight and chew each other’s ears over possession of the ball. Obviously, the answer is to take two balls, one for each of them. Except, after just minutes of being pleased with their own squishy, squeaky, smelly ball, they become so obsessed with the other dog’s ball that they drop theirs and fight for the other one. Invariably either I or another dog will pick up the discarded ball. And then both dogs want that one and drop the one they have. Repeat again and again until both balls are gone and we leave the dog park empty-handed.

It seems remarkably like human nature, but who am I to say?

Finally I thought to tell you about the process of writing a memoir, which can be really strange and disorienting. One moment, I’m on Zoom learning how to pitch agents and publishers, the next I’m searching for old yearbooks and photos, summoning ghosts from my past to help tell the stories when my memory is struggling. I find that the memoir has asserted itself into the primary position in my writing life, so if my Substack posts seem less frequent, I apologize. Don’t worry, I’m just sifting through the past, finding meaning and grappling with lessons I’m just now learning.

Better forty years late than never.

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From the garden

The hawk was the big news in the garden this week. Hard to top that.

I did “mow down” the strawberries, which means I said farewell to the leaves and sprouts so they can fortify for next year’s growth.

I harvested the catnip which is drying out, in preparation for making a batch for the cats in my life.

The cucumber was aggressive in its takeover of neighboring plants, so I’ve redirected it skyward, extending its vines around a wooden trellis. If every bloom turns into a fruit, I’m going to be inundated with cukes. My promotional campaign with neighbors and walkers has begun, inviting them to help themselves when the crop ripens. Perhaps I will make pickles, even though I personally hate them and therefore won’t know if they are any good. My youngest daughter has volunteered to taste any future pickles and take possession of any acceptable batches.

The snap peas are growing quickly, with no signs of the missing romaine seeds popping through. The tomatoes, romaine and spinach are taking their time, making slow and imperceptible progress.

Since starting this experiment, I’ve noticed more butterflies, bees and birds in my front yard, which is both super entertaining and very distracting when I’m writing.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The daughter was about four years old, with glossy brown hair cut in a short bob and brightly shining hazel eyes. She was excitedly flitting about as her mother and a friend chatted while pushing strollers through the neighborhood.

The mom took a break from their conversation to recall the young girl to her side when her daughter instead dashed into my driveway… just as I pulled out of my garage. My patio column obscured the women; my fence blocked the line of sight to the girl until just before she popped onto my driveway.

I was leaving the house for the dog park with my two large, energetic dogs. Some days, I’m still fastening my seatbelt or choosing a playlist as I roll into the driveway. I always pause at the sidewalk, although some days that pause is shorter than others.

Once when my son was about the same age, he abandoned his toy cars where he had been playing contentedly and wandered toward our busy street while my mother and I were temporarily distracted by our yard work. A passing motorist honked, I ran for Noah and the crisis was averted. It took moments to unfold, but hours for my heart to stop racing. I’ve never forgotten or forgiven myself for what could have happened, haunted by “What if?”.

Maybe that’s why I back my car into my garage, although I suspect it has more to do with lining my driver’s side door up with the door to the house.

On this day, I’m thankful for that habit. Because if I were backing up, I don’t think I – or my backup camera – would have seen the girl in time. Maybe it wouldn’t have been worst case scenario, but it could have been a lot scarier than what happened – calmly stopping to let them pass followed by a friendly conversation.

I could tell the mom was experiencing the panic I felt 20 years ago. She thanked me. I briefly shared my experience, and we were both on our way.

Russ Martin, the senior director of policy and government relations at the Governors Highway Safety Association told NPR, “There are more pedestrians being killed today than in decades."

…despite backup cameras, sensors and the like.

It was a good reminder to take care of business – seatbelt, music, dogs – before shifting into drive, to make the stop at the sidewalk a little more defined and to stay present while driving in my neighborhood, especially through the summer months.

And to be oh so very thankful when things work out for the best.

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From the garden

I miss the strawberries.

The carrots are slowly starting to poke their shoulders up through the soil. In anticipation, I twisted and pulled three of them. They are very small (like the strawberries were) although that may be expected for first year plants or container gardens or being picked just a little too soon by an impatient gardener. I tried one, ready to love it, but it’s possible I’m just not a carrot person even when they’re homegrown with beautiful leafy foliage.

The cucumber vine is stretching its vines ambitiously but showing no signs of the flowers that precede the fruits.

I finally planted spinach and green pea seeds. According to the seed packets, I’m still within the allowable timeframe although I felt the stress of a missed deadline. I meant to plant romaine seeds as well, but they went missing. Gone. I looked everywhere. And looked everywhere again.

I’ve given this mystery a great deal of thought and have a theory. When I dumped a large bag of soil in the raised bed, I could have swept the seed packets from the top of the adjacent soil under the foot of black dirt without noticing.

This presents a predicament. Do I dig up what I just planted, excavating the newly planted seeds in search of what may be deeply buried underneath? Or do leave it as is, hoping for surprise romaine springing up among the peas?

I chose the latter, hedging my bets with some romaine starter plants where the seeds were supposed to go.

Now I wait. And water.

There are more pedestrians being killed today than in decades," Russ Martin, the senior director of policy and government relations at the Governors Highway Safety Association, told NPR.

He looked blankly at us, not perturbed or concerned. The word fascism didn’t seem to mean much to him. It made me wonder what they’re teaching in history and government these days. Does he know of Mussolini, Stalin, Hitler? Does he believe in the widespread repression and deaths that came with their respective regimes? Were those just names and dates memorized for a test and then quickly forgotten? Or did he just disagree with the comparison and didn’t want a debate?

So I looked blankly back at him, trying to puzzle out his lack of a reaction.

And then the stoplight turned green and they were off.

I’ve wondered how I could have responded in those seconds, that might have made a difference. I wish I had a more effective elevator – or in this case, stoplight – speech that summarizes the concerns I have with the current administration.

A friend and I avoided the crowd of 50,000 marching in downtown Portland and instead joined a smaller gathering in a nearby suburb. As we arrived, we were surprised by the lack of available parking, walking almost a mile to the event. We soon learned why as we joined several hundred others, lining a long stretch of busy highway that cuts through a bustling commercial area. The mood was upbeat and friendly. People of all ages complimented each other’s signs, sometimes taking pictures together. Smiles were plentiful. Traffic was steady, with most of the motorists offering waves, thumbs up and supportive honking. Of course, there were those who just drove through without interaction or eye contact. As expected, a few openly expressed their displeasure or disagreement, but honestly that was a very, very small minority.

Whether I can describe it or not, this experience connected me with something happening in our country. Momentum is building. And that’s what the protest was about for me – visibility and momentum.

More that 13 million people peacefully protested last weekend.

It’s a great start. I’m looking forward to the Day of Community planned for July 4 and the Good Trouble Lives On protest on July 17.

It’s easier to stay ready than to get ready. Going to the first protest makes it much easier to go to the next one and then the next one.

I’m gradually testing how to let go of my love of convenience and comfort for a life more aligned to my values. I am learning to speak up when I see others’ rights stripped away without our permission.

It’s important to me that I’m clear where I stand on this. The government should serve the people, not rule them. I believe in democracy. I’ll quote the sign in my neighbor’s yard, because I can’t summarize it any better:

Black lives matter.

Women’s rights are human rights.

No human is illegal.

Science is real.

Love is love.

Kindness is everything.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

Hate has no home here.”

I’ll add:

Brown lives matter.

Religious freedom must be guaranteed.

Public lands cannot be sold (although we could consider returning them to native people or at least provide reparations for them).

The military and law enforcement should not be used to restrict or bully the rights of people living in this country without legitimate cause or due process.

I recognize that many of the issues facing our country are incredibly complex and require experience and knowledge beyond my expertise. But I’m watching and learning. The present and future of this country – and our world – are important to me, even when most weeks I choose to write about things seemingly unrelated.

Maybe the guy in the convertible was unimpressed by the lack of specificity or demands from the protest. After all, what did we specifically want to change? Today, maybe I would tell him, it’s to remember government is meant to be “of the people, by the people, for the people.” And I’m not willing to relinquish participation in this democracy.

Thanks for being here,

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For the most part, things are going great, but last week, I stayed up too late, binge-watched tv, played a new and very addictive phone game, drank Coke and ate things that were not nourishing in any of the important ways.

Each morning, I woke up tired and cranky with a headache and one question on my mind: Why?

• When everything is going so well, why am I regressing?

• When the new behaviors feel great, why am I rebelling against them?

• When I enjoy writing, why am I procrastinating?

My phone tempted me. It was easier to play that goofy game than it was to write an essay. One level became two, and then I was lost to the world of pretend productivity.

My email box beckoned. It gave a sense of empty accomplishment as I deleted ads and junk.

The news of the day was always just a browser tab away, waiting to distract me from my inner inquiry.

All ready and willing to buffer me from the harder work, the work I wanted deep down to do.

I was self-sabotaging. But this time, instead of berating myself for my lack of discipline, I just noticed what I was doing. I got curious.

It turns out that we all self-sabotage from time to time. The key is not to expect perfection, but to find simple steps to move forward.

I started by writing this to myself. (Forgive the pronouns, they’re tricky when you’re talking to yourself.)

Dear Beth,

I am your fear. I’ve become really good at helping you forget to take care of ourself. The first step? I rob you of sleep. When you’re tired, you have less energy to make good choices, you’re less creative, you’re slower. Once I’ve compromised our sleep, it’s relatively easy to steer you to fast food. Then our body has to sort through all the sugar, animal fat and chemicals to find even a morsel of nutrition. Without fuel, our body needs to conserve energy so instead of a walk, we find the couch. And the remote. We drift along with the storyline, propelling us to just watch one more. And then, we pick up the phone and start playing that new game. It’s nice of the game to reward us with unlimited play for the next hour. And before we know it, it’s late. We tell ourself we can sleep late tomorrow, forgetting the commitment at 9. It’s ok, we can just skip meditating to save some time in the morning.

Repeat.

Now I’ve kept you from doing anything risky. No big successes, no big failures. Status quo, just the way fear likes it. I’m just trying to keep you safe.

Sincerely,

Fear

That then led to writing this, again to myself.

Dear Beth,

I am your self-love and I’m here to tell you that I love you. I know you’re frustrated and tired and just worn down. It’s ok. We know how to fix this. We’ve done it before. We know, deep-down, what it takes to do it again.

First, tonight we will sleep. We will assign a bedtime that allows nine hours before the inevitable 5:30 am wake up call by the pets. We will re-start our sleep routine. We know it works because we were brave enough, determined enough, smart enough to do it before. We will stop eating and drinking and watching tv and using our phone two hours before. We will clean the kitchen, water the plants, take a bath and meditate our way to dreamland.

Tomorrow morning, we will wake up the first time. We will let the pets out, feed them and then feed ourselves.

This means we will go to the grocery store today for protein, fiber, sustenance. Nothing fancy, nothing complex, just easily prepared, repeatable, and preferably green.

We will drink water.

We will write down our dreams from last night. We will do a morning meditation.

Then we will get out of the house and move our body, either by walking the dogs at the dog park or going to water aerobics.

We will drink more water.

We will get dressed for the day ahead, including the under-eye cream. We will put on clothes that feel good on our body. We will smile at ourselves in the mirror, happy that we’re showing up for ourself.

Yep, more water.

Now we’re ready for the writing. We can show up for it when we show up for ourself.

It’s ok that we’re not doing it perfectly. This is part of the process. We are learning important things here, like resetting when we forget to take good care of ourself.

Repeat.

Now, go delete that game off your phone. I know, I know. But it’s designed to help you forget yourself.

You can do this. I’m rooting for you.

Sincerely,

Love

I felt different, more hopeful, more capable.

I took a break from writing. I deleted the game from my phone. I focused on sleeping, eating, moving and being well. It’s amazing how fast it works.

I’m not weak for failing. It’s natural to self-sabotage in various large and small ways. Now I’m learning not to push through weakness, but to interrupt and reset with love.

Unfortunately, I still miss that dumb game. It makes me mad that people intentionally create content to be addictive. (In fact, it’s seen as a positive attribute of a game.) But as Ferris Bueller said,

And I’m not ready to miss this moment.

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From the garden

I’m up to sixteen delicious, tiny, ripe strawberries as we start to wrap up their season. I savor each one as a rare and precious burst of flavor. I am abundantly grateful that none of my berries have included a protein surprise (bug, worm, etc.) since I’m organically gardening.

The cucumber plant finally started to spread now that I gave it a new neighboring tomato plant. I gave the new basil its own pot out of necessity and optimism. The chives and cilantro are seriously outpacing my consumption so I’m running out of space.

I wish we had scratch and sniff for this oregano. The fresh stuff in the store comes nowhere close to the magical fragrance I have on my hand after saying hello.

When I went to buy the replacement basil, I was tempted by these cute new perennials even though I had nowhere to put them. The dirt in the side yard is too poor to support much without some serious remediation, so I’m relying on the pots for now. This daisy is thriving in the space so I have hope. We had a really hot week so I’m praying they survive until I get to that project.

The irony is not lost on me as my very last essay was on the importance of a sleep routine.

And most of the time, the routine works for me.

But tonight, I am in the beautiful city of Vancouver, surrounded by the grace and good will of Canadians. Tomorrow, I will take an early morning train back home, along the Pacific Ocean and through the cities and trees of British Columbia, Washington and Oregon. Once in Portland, I’ll reclaim my car and drive the last bit back to my pets, my garden, my perfect pillow and my favorite sheets – my happy place.

But tonight…

The hotel pillow is too thick. The room is too hot and then too cold. The traffic is disruptive, even 26 floors up. My stomach complains so loudly of malnutrition I am forced to pull my leftovers out of the tiny fridge for an encore of spicy wontons and garlicky green beans.

That’s funny. Last night, I had zero irritation with any of those things.

But tonight…

My mind is busy. My heart is busy. I suspect my soul or psyche or whatever is also equally occupied – processing at hyperspeed.

The weekend’s seminar on creativity and inspiration stirred up so much more than my aspirations to be a more imaginative writer. I excavated fears. I examined what enchants me. I wrote a letter to my deceased father and then authored one from him to me as well. I faced my inevitable mortality and was thankful for it. And I shared all of it with a series of caring strangers, some of whom I now consider friends. In the end, I promised myself to keep having fun, to find the light, to keep going.

But tonight…

I look at myself in the mirror . As far as I can tell, I appear to be the same as last night and the night before. I am not. The big magic of Elizabeth Gilbert happened. As a willing and eager participant, I somehow renovated my internal landscape in just four hours over two days. It’s chaos in here. A good chaos, but still.

Please excuse my language, but just WTF do I do now?

And more immediately, how in the world do I quiet the buzz of activity in my head and heart long enough to get to sleep?

To be honest, I know the answer to the first question.

Here it is in five lines:

The Door is Open

What I love is what makes me interesting. What enchants me becomes my map forward.

I welcome fear to the road trip, knowing it will come with or without an invitation. But I’ll let curiosity navigate and choose the music.

I travel the journey happily, freely alone.

Tides flow, plans change, and life moves. I will let them – and see the beauty in their rhythms.

Let’s get into some good fun.

I’m thankful that I listened to the inner voice that said to book the trip, make it happen. That’s a smart voice. I should trust it more often.

Even if it means a restless night or two.

An update from my garden (upon my return home):

I harvested my first strawberries of the season! While I won’t be making jam any time soon, there are another dozen small green berries on the plants. It will be fun to add homegrown strawberries to my breakfast tomorrow.

The parsley, oregano and carrots are doing well despite the cilantro and lemon catnip trying to take over the space. I may need to start gifting some cilantro and remove the catnip. The rosemary is asking for more sun and less water. Fortunately, our extended forecast seems to be fine with that request.

I love these bright pink Brachyscome in with the yellow pansies.

It’s getting warm enough to plant the basil and tomatoes this week. I’ll be adding spinach and romaine as well.

Finally, here are some pictures from my time in Vancouver. The hotel elevators featured these large scale photos, so each time I was in a new one, I took a selfie.

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