We all are codependent to some degree. We may react by staying away from needy people out of fear that their pain will somehow swallow us, drag us down, or simply place undue demands. We are afraid we won’t know how to set a healthy boundary.

To be a saint, don’t I have to give up all I have and have worked for: money, safety, time. Anything less is only a drop in the bucket, right? Some version of this is playing in the background of my thoughts as I hear the cries.

I get overwhelmed and retreat to “my lane.” Stay busy! Hey, there are already people in my life who need help. I signed up for partners, friends, and family, not strangers.

Fast forward to now. I drive down Seventh Street and must pass at least a handful of unhoused people here and there every day. People in rags push purloined shopping carts full of their worldly goods; sunburnt people sit slumped on bus benches; rolls of dirty blanket are tucked up around the body of a person sleeping on the door of a business for shelter. I see people under tarps and other makeshift coverings, their corners tied to bike racks, fences, and anything else they can find. They don’t have a house to go to, and it messes with my mind.

I drive by them on the way to work, feeling bad. There are too many! Sometimes I do something. A month ago, on the way to my doctor’s office, I saw a woman lying on hot cement next to her walker. When I stopped the car and got closer, she was using the items on her walker seat for shade. There were trees with real shade about 25 feet away. I asked if she was okay; she said she didn’t know. I gave her water and called 911. Then went to my appointment and about my day; this is where we are in Long Beach. I didn’t even mention it at dinner to my wife; it was that unremarkable.

I used to wonder how India could live with itself. “Don’t they see all these human beings just lying around? Malnourished humans who have limbs missing, begging for food, obviously in distress. How can well-dressed people just walk by? Where was their government in all this?

Now I know. The situation is overwhelming, and by the way, isn’t this someone else’s job? Where is our government? Those who work for “government” are frustrated too. How we react is a decision.

Sometimes the urge is to move away and go somewhere that has “solved” the homeless problem. There are places further south of us that are beautiful. Through targeted law enforcement, anti-camping laws, fences, gated communities, and unfriendly architecture, you can live somewhere “clean” and pretend the problem does not exist. You can be part of a community that will assure you those people are not like you. They are: mentally ill, drug addicted, alcoholic, lazy, or otherwise not our problem, as they are beyond our help; what can any individual do? We have our own problems. Some will say “they made bad choices.” If we are to change the situation, we need to change our perspective. : This is somebody’s child.

Again, the situation in Los Angeles County is so bad that it is beyond what we might call an emergency. The red lights have been flashing for so long and the sirens blaring for so long that we no longer see or hear them. For those of us with a house and a job, we are stressed ourselves, and it is easy to shut down.

What changed me is other people who have their hearts open. They aren’t running for office; they are quietly working to eliminate homelessness. The key word is COMMUNITY. Everyone around us is a part of our community. Each of us has feet; look down and see where they are. Who lives around you? Who do you drive by every day? This is your community.

But isn’t this the purview of Government? News flash: Government is not interested right now; there is a big “Out of Order” sign on that solution door. Currently, the US is run by a man who cannot stand anything that is not Ritz-Carlton quality around him and cannot stand what he sees as “imperfection,” even though he is the epitome of that. He even paved over unruly grass in the Rose Garden, wants to build a golden ballroom.

We will not find a savior in the Democratic Party either; we are too busy fighting each other. Billions have already been thrown at the “problem” in California by democrats to no avail. We don’t even know where it all went. Yet, systems of housing and mental health delivery need to be changed/created by the government-so do keep voting and working in that area. We do need an economy that “works for everyone.” Yes, yes, yes, but what do we do right now as individuals?

First, you don’t have to reinvent the wheel or start your own nonprofit. Like Mr. Rogers said, “Look for the helpers.” There are those already doing the work. In Long Beach, we have (mostly people of faith) who have come together to offer temporary shelter, showers, food, and other kinds of care. Don’t get picky about a church doing something if you are an atheist or of a faith that isn’t yours—whatever the motivation, they’re part of the solution. I have a list of resources if you can’t find one, and you can message me if you are in the area. Volunteer. Be a small part of a larger body of people who are all rowing toward a solution. Stay out of blame. Yes, there is tons to go around, and sometimes I get lost there too. It is a waste of time.

We are in the middle of either the complete demise of society or the rebirthing of awareness, which will take us into the new enlightenment. It is hard living through the falling apart before things come together but here we are. This work does not have to be heavy; it does not have to empty your bank account or end with you pushing your own cart down Ocean Blvd.

I started this article talking about codependence because jumping in this work with awareness and intention is a great way to learn how to care for yourself and set better boundaries. Say no sometimes but do say yes to what you are comfortable with, then maybe do a little more. Peace follows when you know you have done what you can. Only you can say what that is. If we all do a little, it will make a great difference.

I used to work for a priest in Laguna Beach as a church secretary while going to law school. He loved telling the starfish story. It goes like this.

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August 8, 2026

Would you let an eight-year-old drive your car? Of course not. Yet, we let her rule our emotions and decisions for many days; no wonder our self-esteem is up for grabs.

There you are, a chronologically grown-ass woman, asking everyone around you if you are “okay,” in one way or another. Putting your self-esteem up for grabs means you are literally walking out of your house in the morning, handing your power to anyone with an opinion about you.

Sometimes, those people around us are nice, and we make our world small and only hang with them, which is a way of giving up. Sometimes we go the other way and accept abuse, as it only confirms we aren’t as good as other women, which is a lie. Sadly, there are many who happily volunteer to keep you down and reinforce your low self-esteem. Acting like a child when we are an adult can make us unreliable and exhausting to be around.

Want to know how to get back in the driver’s seat and assure your inner child it is safe for her to let go of the wheel? It is easier than you think.

If you have a pulse and breath, it’s not “too late,” whatever that is. There may be immediate things you want to change along with this new mindset, and that’s okay. Even surface-ey stuff like a new haircut or clothing that is your size instead of punishing yourself for not being thin. And talk to yourself, “I am healing every day.” and “I align myself with what is good and relax into it.”

There may be pushback. People around us get nervous if dynamics change. THIS IS NOT YOUR PROBLEM.

Alignment. This word caught my attention as people talk about the Lion’s Gate, an annual spiritual event which invites us to step into the women we are meant to be. I know, I know. Every moon, whether full or new, seems to carry this same message. “Invite in what you want.” Wooo Wooo

This is not that.

This is . . .

Knowing. Get quiet and be by yourself in silence. Say, “This I know to be true” and name some good things about yourself.

Presence. If you have a belief in something bigger than yourself, no matter what (angels, the universe, Shirley Kramer) ask for support.

Breathe. When all else fails, you have control over that.

Align yourself with the good. Align with it. It is instant. We don’t have to reinvent the wheel. We don’t need to send money to some Post Office Box for a charm; this is free. You have been held hostage by delusions, and your inner child is in charge, that is all. Talk to her and let her know (gently) that you are solid now; she can trust you.

Do this while we have the support of Lion’s Gate, with the Universe saying “Yes gurl!” (My guardian angel is a drag queen).

All you need is willingness and desire to drop the 800-pound rock you have carried around all these years.

One small note that helped me make it real.

Physically: Posture, and this is important. Throw those shoulders back and see how it feels. Raise your chest to its proper place. Take up space. You will feel awkward at first, but keep doing it. Do not stoop or scrape before anyone.

We are aligning with what is, with love and light, and that is enough. This life is supposed to be fun, not anxiety day after day.

If you do this, you will begin to care more about what you think of you than what others may think of you.

This little article is your invitation. The key is in your pocket. Let’s go.

The next morning, we are in a room awaiting the sure to be overly cheery sales rep that will capture us for our strictly contracted time. They will then dazzle us with fluffy vacation pictures of some Garden of Eden spot with a killer view. “Do you like vacations?” They will ask. “Don't you love to golf?”

We are late. Time difference and sketchy directions have put us ten minutes behind schedule. We arrive in our rental car and a woman who pronounces her one syllable name with two syllables invites us to “hop on” her golf cart. She'll take us there!

She takes us up a flight of stairs and we enter through the back door. Fleeting thought “because we are a same sex couple?” We are seated in a place where they put their marks to get us organized and match us with the best rep. We see one couple after another be taken away by a hyper-friendly sales rep. We are last. They are short-handed, so we get . . .

Daniel. A dapper black man in a Brooks Brothers shirt and bow tie, eelskin shoes and a killer smile.

“Uh oh, they gave us the closer.” We both recognize it and it turns out he is the manager, stepping in.

We are first encouraged to gorge ourselves on sugar, carbs and caffeine. Before we leave the food area, I had threatened my wife with a plastic knife. “If you ever sign up for one of these things again I will cut you.” She does not look scared.

Finally, we are seated at an overly lacquered table, clutching brochures for local attractions. The place is air conditioned and Sarah McLaughlin is playing.

I hear the quintessential timeshare press language from the table behind us. The loud, brash combo sales pitch laugh and upbeat talk of weeks and points and rollovers. For some reason, my mind drifts to Enya, who is filthy rich and lives alone in a castle in Ireland with cats. Sounds good.

The closer is coming.

I’m ready. I am the “no” girl. My wife, who could sell cats to mice, enjoys the dance. She loves sparkle and possibility and the sizzle on the steak. My Capricorn rising and frugal upbringing are the counterweight. She does win sometimes. We do have one timeshare in Hawaii.

Daniel returns and I am surprised. After only a few questions, he gets the whole scenario. He is expert at this. You don't get to be the head shark without being good at reading people like a mob boss. To do otherwise is to waste time.

He Looked at us, smiled, and said, “Let me go tell them to get your gift ready.” We both hugged him.

We get our gift and all interest, compliments and pressure ceases. We are free and I thank the Time Share Goddess, Shirley Kramer, for the start to this day. We are off now in search of Sweet tea and grits.

I’m not stupid; there is just so much wrong in the world, but. I’m alive, relatively healthy, and have a roof over my head. Many people cannot say this.

Reflecting back on what made it a good day, I guess it was this miraculous timing thing, a feeling of synchronicity. In search of a peanut butter banana protein shake, by chance I parked right in front of a place I’ve been needing to go. Surely they will be out to lunch or not working today, thought I, buzzing the buzzer. No, the right people I needed to talk to were there and available to talk to me. Bam. This always makes me feel like I’m on the right path.

Other things fell into place too. Oh, I did have to call 911. On the way to the doctor’s office, I saw a woman on the very hot sidewalk lying down next to her walker. She was a bit disoriented and said she was hot. There was shade about twenty-five feet away, but she was trying to use her walker to shade her head. I gave her some water from the car and told her help (which she was not sure she wanted) was on the way. It is weird to forget calling 911, but it is part of being downtown. Part of everywhere these days. The Gilded Age we are supposed to be in. Ha!

Finally, I was home. Lola took me across the street looking for the person that ALWAYS puts out treats. She was very disappointed when we got there. The lights were out. No treats. On our way back, I saw THE VAN.

[If you didn’t read part one, here are the cliff notes: I suspect a woman and dog are living in this van.]

Not only did I see it tonight, but there was motion, a flash of a person and dog, and then a quickly closed driver’s side door. I made a beeline over there and tapped on the window. There was a pause, and I suspect a decision was being made on the other side of the glass. A small woman finally opened the door a crack, and her dog, actually much bigger and shaggier than Lola, put her big face in front of mine.
”Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?” I learned this is a good opener recently from a woman who works with unhoused people. She reminded me, “They are not having a good time.”

“Are you living in your car?”

“Just for now.” Worried. “How did you see me?”

“I walk a lot at night.”

“I’ve seen your husband, I think, walking the dog.”

“That was me, short hair.” I held my own hair up and smiled. “What’s your name?”

She told me. And I told her mine. I said, “You are safe with me.”

“I know they have neighborhood watch. I don’t want anyone to call the police.”

“Don’t worry, I sure won’t. Can I help you with anything?”

“You live there? Do other people live there?” She asked, pointing at my house.

“Yes.” Not giving out too much information. “Do you need anything? If you do, you can put a note in my mailbox.”

“Water for my dog.” She handed me a gallon-sized jug, nearly empty.

“Be right back.” I put Lola inside and brought water and some poo bags.

“Thank you.”

“Good night.”

She smiled. “Good night.”

Unsure where we go from here. I will pray for her and hope you do too.

.

My friend was on a gurney in the ER in an altered state and couldn’t remember her own birthday. A nurse walks in and asks me, I tell her. “Are you a relative?” “No.” “Who are you to her?” “Her Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare.” Most people babble; I did not, and my answer does not satisfy her.

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September 2025. It started with a call from a dear friend who moved up north decades ago. “You’ll never believe who is coming to play in one of our backyard concerts!”

“Who?”

[I’ll withhold the name for now, lol, but she thought of me because I used to open my coffee house sets with one of this folk-punk icon’s songs. A personal idol.]

“Wow! How did that happen?”

She then relayed the story of how the backyard COVID concerts she and her wife started in 2020 kept going after the lockdowns ended. Very popular, the gatherings have grown through word of mouth. Her son met this musician in NYC and just thought she “was cool.” Having no idea of who she was back in the day: “You should play in my mom’s backyard concert in California.”

Intrigued, she did call, and the connection was made. It was enough to bring me out of musical retirement when my friend asked would I, or, if the band is still around, the band want to open for her?

“Hell yes.” Several responses would work here. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

After hanging up, reality followed. I have been in many bands since the 1980s; this was a job for some of the original Dykes on Mics. Kellyann Conway (not that one) was a bright shining light managing Different Drummer, a feminist bookstore (you may sigh now if you remember these magical places). Kellyann invited individual singers, poets, duos, comedians, and anyone else to perform in the store after hours. What a heady experience. A little space was carved out in the corner, cords snaking through folding chairs, the smell of books. And lesbians. Lots of them.

It was at DOM that I met Chris Rose and Mimi Gephardt. Some of us used stage names because being this out could get you fired at the time. I was “Becky Black.” Chris and I wrote original songs, and Mimi has music in her soul. We came together, sometimes as a duo or a trio when everyone is available, as “Beachtown Poets.” Like me, when they heard who the headliner was, they were in.

Only one problem.

It had been so many years, we had little time to get back in musical sync. My guitar was dusty and needed new strings. Where was my set list? The original concert date floated was March 2026, and between September 2025 and March we all had vacations planned, holidays, work. “We need to practice,” said Mimi.

“Yes of course, okay, but not this week,” we said. The first gift— this invitation brought us together again.

At our first meeting, we mostly caught up—so many stories! These are musicians and friends I have known for forty years. There is a lot of water under that bridge, and that is part of the point of this story. We all get busy as adults and sometimes leave precious things behind; Chris is in the middle of a PhD program, Mimi has projects, and I work eight to ten hours a day. The first night we had a reunion at my house, and I played a song on my old guitar. We agreed to start practice at Mimi’s house because it would be ridiculous to tear down a drum kit, transport it, and repack it unless you have a really good reason.

That dusty guitar. After moving practice to Mimi’s house, Chris and I quickly realized we needed to upgrade our old equipment. Chris and I both bought beautiful Gretsch guitars with our adult money. Here is a picture of us a million years ago.

Now I needed an amp and got chatty about it. My friend George’s wife saw this on Facebook and she reached out. I had breakfast with her and she told me George had to stop playing after his stroke. This generous, talented man gave me the most perfect vintage Fender Twin amp, with just the right sound, cords, a small Vox amp for home practice, stands, and other things that are vital. It isn’t just that it saved me money; it is at the heart of this whole experience. George will always be a part of the musical community I love. He didn’t play with DOM, but he has that heart. DOM musicians usually played Gay Pride festivals, coffeehouses, protests, parties, and wherever music would take the event to the next level. George shared that vibe that performing is about all of us. It is the opposite of cynical, as gigs are not judged by how much money you make, but how many people smile. George’s good energy will be a part of us anytime we perform. Gift. My wife understands all of this and bought me a new tuner; a friend showed up with a new strap. Gift, gift, gift.

Let’s talk about health now. Reality check: We are not in our twenties anymore. Far from it. The good news is we don’t really have a shelf life, unless it is death. It’s about creativity, connection, the power of the word put to music. We practice every Wednesday night, unless someone is unwell or too sore to sit for an extended period. Our sessions surprise us. “Damn, that was a good song! Did I write that?” It can be therapy, and I realize these precious souls carry memories I do not, and I remember things that filled in holes for them. A lot of water under that bridge. Remember when we got Chris on a plane to play Chico Pride? How about when Kellyanne booked us to play at Club Post Nuclear which was a hilarious mismatch. We remember our dead. Sharon Kutcher, that gig in Huntington Beach with Alix Dobkin. We laugh a lot. How about that woman who made horn sounds with her lips? We played through the times, through our breakups, school schedules, moving house, then stopped.

“Why?” I don’t know. It happens slowly. Back to the backyard concert. At first Chris and Mimi were all “What have you heard? Do we have a new date?” I would call my friend up north. There are real reasons, this performer is big in our world, and has had their own health issues. There is also the issue of coming back to the US with all that is going on here. The date keeps moving back; we are still looking forward to it but kinda don’t care if it ever happens. Right now we are thinking November in Oakland.

Coping with the void. Waiting for Godot was about looking forward to something that would be life-changing. Important. The two friends wait for a third mysterious figure, who (spoiler alert) never comes. The audience realizes that the story is how we spend our time, waiting. I am so happy to reclaim these two old friends as we pass the time.

I have a house.

My head is often full of events from the day and what must be done for tomorrow and I remember a random thought. “I hope they don’t leave that dog in the car too long.” I justified letting it go with “not my business,” “its only been there a little bit,” they are probably visiting someone,” Lord knows I leave Lola in the car when I must duck in somewhere.

Then last evening. Same neighborhood. Different street. Walking the dog I probably looked at the car a couple of seconds to long, trying to place it. After walking by, a woman in the car started the ignition and moved it to the other side of the street a distance down. I saw a flash of the dog which appeared to be a small, white, poodlish thing, just like Lola.

I went inside, now realizing this woman and her dog were probably living in her minivan. I am no Sherlock Holmes, but reading the clues, she is someone who has recently lost her housing. Maybe even still has a job. Frantic for what to do next. Worried she may have to give up her beloved dog. It gets worse.

This morning was trash day and quite involved. A person put tons of trash into our recycle bin, and I went out in my pajamas to try and fix that by borrowing a trash can from the neighbors who have been gone all week. While doing this, I heard an engine start across the street—the van! She drove away.

The agony: She is in there, desperate, wanting to be in a safe neighborhood and sees me all over the place, probably thinking I will turn her in. My meandering gaze and regular appearance must have alarmed her, scared her off. What can I do for her? I don’t know, but something. At least find out her story. If the van comes back, she will get a note on her car with my cell number, asking her not to be afraid. Our world is slipping. People are falling into the cracks.

Please pray for this woman. Something tells me this story is not done

.

It’s the day after the 250th anniversary of the 4th of July in the USA, and I am mulling over Jefferson’s words. In conversation with friends yesterday, we talked about how old we are and how much things have changed just during our lives. Here are some things from the past that we associated with being “free.”

Driving a car without GPS, using cash, and no one knowing where you were.

Unless you told someone before you left, or stopped to find a pay phone and call them, you were a free-range chicken. If you had cash in your pocket, even better. You could stop and buy what you could afford, largely without being caught on video.

Smoking. We are not debating whether it was good for you (it wasn’t), but that feeling. Taking a break, trying to look cool or glamorous like James Dean or Marilyn Monroe or Lauren Bacall (that smoky voice). You could do it practically anywhere back in the day. We went one step further with this one, talking about how you used to be able to smoke on a plane! In a restaurant! No, really, kids. I think the smoking section was in the back of the plane, like, the last few rows by the bathroom. Even now, when I walk my dog, sometimes I catch a whiff of someone smoking outside, and it doesn’t smell awful. (It smells like freedom, lol).

There are other things too, like the reliance on the US Postal Service. For less than a dollar, you can still send an unhackable written message to anyone. This last one is still with us, but it is on its way out. The tech bros: Palentir, META, Google, and others have given our government the tools to know how much we make, where we are at all times, and even who we talk to. They hate US mail. From where my feet are, and I am not privy to any special information, we are monitored by our own government in so many ways. National Security, they say.

We watched fireworks from the Bluff in our neighborhood last night. The Queen Mary puts on a great show, and last night was no exception. Because it was the semiquincentennial, the park was packed. I am sure there were thousands of dots on somebody’s screen from all the smartphones in the park, one for each person. Now, we love our conveniences. I love my smartphone. It entertains me, allows posts like this, and is a calculator and access to email. It is also the window to my digital banking world and listens to me 24/7. I have no control over it other than using it and paying the bill.

So here we are, all 342.6 million of us, living within the borders of the USA. We have our bread and circuses, and Social Media. It fires us up, feeds us shock and gossip. I am addicted.

I could tell you that it’s all about my love of picture-taking (where else am I going to store all that?) and keeping connected with friends and family, which is all true. But it is also an arena where I am confronted by those who say outrageous things, or simply rail against “the left” or repeat Fox “news” nonsense uncritically. I sometimes find myself arguing with strangers who don’t know the difference between communism and a social democracy. (Please watch Heather Cox Richardson’s YouTube video on this; she explains it more clearly and succinctly than I ever could).

So let’s review where we are as a young country. By comparison, China has been in continuous existence for 3,500 years. Fun fact: they invented fireworks. How are we doing on the Life, Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness Scale?

Alex Pretti and Renee Good don’t have life anymore, and all they did was exercise one of the so-called inalienable rights. Happiness? Sure. We love people and there will always be moments which make us smile, no matter the circumstances. But pulling the camera back a bit, there is a difficulty factor if you are living a bare-bones pursuit (can I feed my children today?) versus being in the upper part of the K-shaped economy. Poor people cannot jump on a plane to a pretty place to regroup, buy new clothes, or make nutritious meals each night. Pursuing happiness is technically open to everyone, but to be fair, when you don’t have enough money to go grocery shopping after paying rent, you need to be a saint to live on “but I’m happy just being alive.”

But that liberty. Mmmm, mmmm, mmm. I have heard rumblings for over a year about how martial law is coming. I hope not. I have heard this since Project 2025, which strongly urged the President to use the Insurrection Act of 1807, which would allow him to use American soldiers on US soil to control our own citizens physically.

Summing it up:

Benjamin Franklin, when asked in 1787 by Elizabeth Willing Powell what kind of government the Constitutional Convention came up with, famously said: We have a Republic, if we can keep it.”

A Republic is a representative democracy where PEOPLE hold the power and exercise it through representatives they elect.

On July 4, 2026, white nationalists marched through Washington, D.C., wearing masks. Just like ICE agents, the largest police force in the United States, there is something psychological that happens to men in big groups with guns wearing masks. They are a force, a thing. Individual accountability is subsumed in the belief (as they look left and right and see others doing what they are doing) that whatever large, government-sponsored groups do is right. Maybe not good like their momma taught them, but necessary. A new enemy has been named, and it might be immigrants today, and it might be anyone who doesn’t kiss the ring tomorrow.

Some interesting reading. There is nothing new under the sun.

A recipe: Mix the sin of greed, add the eye-popping profits from Big Oil, add in more money from Tech Bros and the book of Revelation (see Peter Thiel’s apocalyptic beliefs), and stir in the catalyst, the most corrupt President since Warren G. Harding. What we have is the Teapot Dome redux, supercharged by all the toys tech can provide.

I love my inalienable rights and see them under attack; there is no tin foil on my head, but I do pay attention. Here is an idea. Hold your nose and VOTE FOR DEMOCRATS in the Midterms, even if you don’t like Democrats. At least you can work with them; they will listen. Me, a Democrat, would consider voting for a Thomas Massey or a Liz Cheney; it is about sanity and common sense, not identity politics. This is not the time for litmus tests on your pet issue; it is the time for our democracy to survive.

I really don’t need an analog car or to take up smoking again to feel free, but I do want a middle class that can buy groceries without worry and a path forward for immigrants. We can do this. Don’t give up.

Last night on Lola’s walk we encountered a man dressed in Red, White and Blue. He was an older white male (yes it is a stereotype) but come on, his t-shirt said in all caps “SORRY I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER MY FREEDOM.”

I won’t be around in 2076; that is a fact. But I was around for the 200th Anniversary of our Liberal Democracy in 1976, and it was awesome.

This year is not awesome. You know why.

So let’s fast forward to the future, after the 1/3 that voted for white nationalism and the 1/3 that didn’t vote at all realized what they unleashed by taking a second bite of a shit sandwich.

Here are the remarks from the fully restored Rose Garden at the White House, at our 300th Anniversary July 4th Celebration. Introducing President Amy Jones, a black Democratic Socialist:

“Today we celebrate the American Revolution, and the rebirth of Democracy! But that is not all. On this day we have a double joy. Today we welcome Puerto Rico, as our fifty-first state [cheers] and American Samoa as our fifty-second state.” Cheehoo! Cheehoo erupts from the Samoan contingent. President Jones continues after things settle down a bit. “Governor Bunny, Governor Leota, the full protections embodied in our United States Constitution are now wrapped around your people’s shoulders.” Each Governor is on the big screen before their own roaring crowds.

“To our NATO friends, watching around the world, and our Galactic friends, we humbly thank you for joining us today to celebrate the healing of the USA. Notice I did not say healed, as if we are done with our work, but rather the healing from a country who learns from the past, and strives, always, to form a more perfect union.”

She pauses; images are silently collected and disseminated to every portion of the Earth and beyond. A holographic image of a desecrated White House, an MMA cage on the torn-up lawn, garbage everywhere in the Presidential bedroom, a demolished East Wing, a green, algae-covered reflecting pool, and silence blankets the crowd. “We must remember what it was like to truly appreciate how far we have come.”

The images are devastating. Images of the school full of little girls bombed in Iran follow along with American soldiers who died in the war. Poverty in inner cities, unhoused people, rural farmers with bankruptcy for sale signs on their family farms.

“It takes time to recover from government corruption. We are still collectively recovering from the shameful time, but much progress has been made. We got rid of the Electoral College. [Cheers from the joyful crowd spilling into the streets of DC, gathered around the restored reflecting pool, and watching on holographic screens across the world.] President Jones is smiling broadly at the love. “That’s right! One person, one vote.”

“Our farms are again producing food, we are not at war, our Canadian and Mexican neighbors are speaking to us again.” Laughter.

“Yes, let us laugh for this is indeed a joyous day. And, in addition to being a bigger and better USA, today we celebrate the passage of the Twenty-Eighth Amendment, which finally puts women as equal to men in this country.”

A moving tribute: music plays as a collage of the suffragists, hunger strikers, and key dates float in the air on the screen behind the president. “It only took 300 years!”

“I chose to stand here in the Rose Garden at the White House for my remarks, as a visual connection to the decent past. To me, these vibrant roses, taking their rightful place after literally being ripped out violently by their roots, are here again due to all of your efforts. They are a representation that our country is alive, these roses. A symbol that our Constitution can also grow to include everyone. Let’s talk about this place.” She sweeps an arm toward the fully refurbished White House. Never forget this building was built by slaves who were not considered full citizens of our great country. They are now!” [Thunderous applause.]

“Yes, the concrete is gone from this lovely garden, the tacky gold everywhere is gone, but most important of all, we plan to keep it that way. The work our Congress has done to put teeth in what used to be “norms” will forever prevent another President from using his or her or their (more cheers) power, foreign connections and great wealth to bypass the checks and balances that are the bedrock of our democracy. I shall not sully this joyful day by mentioning the con man’s name who almost brought the USA and global economy down; he is dead and buried. He was our lesson we shall never forget. But it was after his shameful time that President Buttigieg and his V.P. Chris Murphy achieved what once was thought to be impossible. Along with abolishing the electoral college, they increased the number of Justices on our Supreme Court.

“We are grateful that our newly expanded Supreme Court finally overturned Citizens United and said for all to hear: ‘A corporation’s money is not the same as an actual citizen’s voice. Corporate money is no longer considered speech protected by the First Amendment.’ This leveled the playing field and turned down the outsized voice of corporate interests. One person, one vote. Freedom of speech for our human citizens. We the people.”

Some grumbling can be heard. President Jones pauses, then concludes:

“To our robotic friends, I hear you out there. You will have your time. It took three hundred years to make women equal; it will not take another 300, but I ask patience.” President Jones turns to the camera, “To our Galactic friends, I hear you too, and we add your names to those who saved our Earth during the nuclear threat of 2028. Folks, the United States of America is an ongoing experiment, and it is still unfolding. I urge everyone to stay with us and be a part of the story. We have learned we cannot cut out, exclude, or imprison anyone we don’t like and still move forward. Everyone- thoughtful pause- every being has something to contribute to the future of the USA. That’s enough out of me; let’s enjoy the fireworks provided by our friends in China.”

Humpty Dumpty had a Great Fall

All the King’s Horses and

All the King’s Men

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

The origin of this nursery rhyme is lost in the mists of time. Some say it’s about a British cannon; some say it’s about the defeat of King Richard III on the Bosworth battlefield on August 22, 1485. He was the last British Monarch to die in battle.

Fairy tales are often common truths or open secrets that must be obscured n a child’s tale for safety. Sometimes they are cautionary tales.

Imagine the leader of a country, mounting a desperate battle;

He has lied, cheated, and holds ego, jealousy, and hatred in his heart.

He enriches his own family, treating the people’s money as his own,

He defiles the seat of government. The King of course.

Behind him are unpaid investors and creditors, dead bodies, and ghosts of poor who died for lack of food; broken young women.

So writers walk on eggshells, not wanting to be punished for saying out loud what every sane person knows.

He has dragged us down,

he has shown us our shadow selves,

he has fulfilled his mission. What we do from here is on us

.

Hell’s Valley Update: (There are five books to read in the meantime.) I am frantically working on Book #6, which is super fun, and am amazed at how she caught the flavor in this video. Nailed it.

In the meantime! More books to read! Pick up Lee Sato’s First Book: HORNETS NEST, AND Book Two: FORBIDDEN, you will not be sorry

.

Yesterday, I was at an assisted living facility with a client to navigate a possible move (not mine yet, haha). We were on our best behavior and walked the shiny halls with our tour guide, a young woman, who said she had worked there for more than twenty years. She was cheery and puzzling; we sized each other up. I knew she was giving the facility its best face, as we put on ours. I did overhear one interesting, quiet exchange she had with a staff member, but pretended not to listen. I tucked the phrase “drunk man in a wheelchair with a cat” in the nosy part of my brain to think about later. She turned to us, “now, where were we. . .” with a big smile and we saw a couple of carefully staged rooms.

At the end of the tour, while we waited for her to “run some numbers” in the quiet lobby in the brand-new chairs, excited employees, mostly Mexican, started rushing down the halls. My first thought was, Code blue? But they were smiling. Housekeepers, orderlies, a lady pushing a cart way too fast. Then it got loud, happy loud. Turns out they were headed for the TV room. Soccer. FIFA game, Mexico won! Relief spread through me that it was not a medical emergency, and my own concerns went away for a minute. Sometimes, in miraculous fashion, spontaneous organic good can emerge from a muddy swamp like a lotus flower.

It gives me hope. I’m not from Mexico and don’t seriously follow soccer, but I was sharing in something real, a break in the fourth wall, if you will, from our scripted tour. You can’t fake the sound of Joy, and that’s what we were hearing.

FIFA is a global enterprise founded in 1904, and its headquarters are in, of all places, Zurich. I say that because I got to go to Zurich last July and found it to be an orderly society of quiet, polite people. There were some quirky fun things, but I would not think “Zurich” in the midst of the raucous celebration we experienced yesterday.

On the way back to the office, outside Buen Provecho, our newish Mexican restaurant, some (not a lot) people were still actually dancing in the street, well, on the sidewalk. I couldn’t get my phone up while driving to take a picture, but it actually made my eyes water with emotion. Just anonymous people, celebrating the moment.

In a time when power is being concentrated in fewer hands, people are struggling financially, and immigrants are vilified, spirits can still be lifted.

If you Google FIFA, you will find a history of controversy and some real corruption, which is why I titled this FIFA FO FUM; they haven’t been a shining example of all that is good in sports.

But it’s not really about the guys at the top squeezing out every dime from the event and getting richer than they already are. When the rubber hits the road, this is about the athletes on the field, the people who took off work to line up, and a couple dancing on Broadway. It is about the employees at the assisted living leaving their duties to cheer, and a Mexican child somewhere watching the win on a screen, dreaming. My prayer is that the good parts grow as the next generation comes up. More Bad Bunny and less Corruption at the Top. ¡Qué gran victoria!

Five books, one world hidden inside ours — and a sixth on the way

A personal note from the author

If you’ve been here a while, you know I don’t send many of these. But I wanted to sit down and properly introduce you — or reintroduce you — to the Hercynian Forest series, because all five books are out in the world now, the fifth just won a Titan Literary Award, and I’m deep in Book Six. It feels like the right moment.

At the center of everything are Panda and Mitzi Fowler — a married couple living in Merryville, California, who discover that the ordinary world is much thinner than it looks. On the other side: elves, portals, magic, and a patriarchal empire called Lupus Imperium cloaks its hunger for power in wolf-god religion. The free creatures of the Hercynian Forest stand against them. So do Panda and Mitzi.

Here’s where to start — and what’s waiting for you on the other side.

Book 1

Floodlight

It starts with an elf crouched in the bushes and a link to a magical world hidden in Mitzi’s own heritage. When Mitzi is kidnapped, Panda and their friend Juniper Gooden — curator at the Merryville Art Museum — follow the trail to Schwartzwald Castle in Germany. Along the way, they meet creatures they never could have imagined and discover that the world they thought they knew has a parallel life running quietly alongside it. This is where everything begins.

Book 2

Words on a Plate

Panda has never stopped wondering what happened to her parents, who vanished in Peru decades ago. Mitzi convinces Panda to join Panda’s sister Puddle — to find out. But the bad guys have formed a volatile alliance with women from the Amazonian jungle and are already there. Ekk’s Peruvian cousin Juju joins the fray, and it all builds to a revelatory showdown at a magical portal deep in the jungle.

Book 3

The Wolf You Feed

The enemy doesn’t always arrive from another world. Sometimes it pitches a tent downtown. When an evangelical preacher rolls into Merryville with an anti-gay message, the Lupus Imperium’s own Wolfrum reinvents himself as “Pastor Wolfrum” and joins forces with him — using religion to spread fear and division. The people of Merryville, of every faith and background, find themselves at the center of the fight. The denouement takes place at the Lutheran church. Love wins.

Book 4

Circle of Stones

Ralph and Aurora Brown run Taggart’s Emporium — a downtown Merryville shop the Fowlers have always loved. When it comes to light that corrupt former City Councilman Gary Smithers has been extorting Ralph for years, we soon find that is only the tip of the iceberg; Smithers has been connected to Lupus Imperium all along! When his use of magic activates the Winter Stone, all hell breaks loose in Merryville, which becomes blanketed in ice and snow. There is a violent confrontation in this book — I want to be honest about that — and it takes the combined efforts of guardian elves, a half-griffin, and all the lovable but imperfect characters to prevail. The Fowlers discover that Magic has been in Merryville far longer than they knew.

Book 5

Titan Literary Award winner

Search for the Summer Stone

This one moves fast. Before Mitzi and Panda go undercover in Africa on a fact-finding mission, Panda travels to a Ute reservation to learn to call the Ravens. Since Wolf Raven’s breakup, the Ravens have been reaching out to her. Fickle birds! While Panda is away, Mitzi picks up the Fowlers’ guardian elves Ekk and Elsa from LAX, and things take a very unexpected turn. Enemies are like whack-a-mole. Wolfrum may be gone—for now— but Lupus Imperium has sent the dangerous Viktor Volkov in his place. Panda and Mitzi reunite in Namibia, each playing their planned undercover roles, until everything explodes when their tour bus is hijacked. The award, I think, speaks for itself.

I’m currently writing Hell’s Valley, Book Six, and the world keeps expanding in ways that surprise even me. If you’ve been waiting to start the series, now is a good moment — all five books are out, and you can read straight through without waiting.

MAGIC PORTAL TO BUY BOOKS

CLICK HERE TO BUY

From where my feet are, it seems Pride Month, Pride Parades, and Pride Festivals annoy some people. This article is for them.

Adult queers are like salmon. Those of us born in the late 1950’s had to swim against a current that tried really hard to funnel us into proper societal roles. For females, the choices were secretary, mom, wife, nurse. Going to college, I was told, was a good place to earn an M.R.S. degree.

Except for Mr. Nichols. My fifth-grade teacher at Good Shepherd Lutheran School in Bellflower was a helper. I was already uncomfortable with many of the things I was being told and asked questions. Mr. Nichols, no dashing lefty, was that one teacher who gave me hope. He had dandruff, and some of the kids made fun of him for that. He also wore heavy black-framed glasses, a tie, and a coat, and was a tad plump. But he was kind. I remember him telling me, “You can be a brain surgeon if you want to,” with a smile. This was said quietly to calm a troubled kid at recess. I held onto that affirmation like a gold coin tucked secretly in my pocket.

Navigating the awkward years, which have lasted into my sixties, lol, there have been many times when I have come up against the gap between how I feel inside (normal) and forgetting I have failed to meet some men’s expectations. That role thing. Three years ago, a man in Long Beach told me at a heteronormative social event that he was mystified as to why my beautiful wife was with me. I was stunned, and my response was lame. Now that I’ve replayed it in my mind far too many times, I should have said, “That is a wildly inappropriate statement; what would make you say such a thing?” Or simply, “What an asshole you are.” The fact is I can wear a dress, but the vibe is different. I am different.

His comment revealed more about him than about me, of course, and it is something that does happen when you are “out.” You are a lightning rod for men who have expectations about women, but it is still better than being closeted.

Flashback. In my twenties, I got a poster from the local video store of the movie Desert Hearts and spent $80 to have it framed, an outrageous expenditure at the time. It was that important to me, a lesbian love story with a positive ending! I had gone to the Orange County Gay Center rap group and met a woman, and was trying to figure out how to make this life work. Times were different then. When my son’s Cub Scout group came over, we created a fake room for her, and she left for the night. I think I took the poster off the wall. My son learned to keep secrets.

This was a time kids played “Smear the Queer” on schoolyards, and the whole world judged women by the male gaze (they still do). At my work, I changed pronouns with coworkers to describe how the weekend went and I drank. A lot. The first Gay Pride in OC was held at the UCI campus, and we went to see what it was about. Police in riot gear showed up, and fear ran on both sides of the fence. We were being our colorful, silly selves and ended up (some of us) huddled in front of the stage area with a trans woman at the mic, keeping things calm. We cried, but we got through it. The protestors holding signs we had to walk by, urging us to repent, saying God Hates Fags and telling us how we were going to Hell, hit their mark. Message received.

Getting back to annoying people. There are some folks with seemingly golden lives. They never had a same sex attraction, and hit all the heterosexual milestones. To them, loving a person of the same sex or being trans is straight-up rebellion. Why would you do that? They have a church they attend with like-minded folks and see their faith as the right religion. Life works for them. Society has well-carved paths to follow and ready-made support for the “meet-cute,” dating rituals, promise rings (not sure they are a thing anymore), engagement, the wedding, and the baby shower. There are even little songs about it:

“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage!”

Why are we being difficult? Dressing the way we do, swimming upstream.

To describe how this looks through smeared glass from the outside, I turn to a scene from the 1987 movie Maurice, by Merchant and Ivory. In the scene, Ada (Maurice’s sister) bubbles about her upcoming marriage to Chapman as her family listens. Maurice looks out the window at his forbidden love (the male groundsman) and says quietly, “Oh, that must be so jolly.” His sadness is palpable, although he loves his sister. He knows that there is no path forward for him like this, no family-supported jolly marriage to be had. The others in the room are oblivious to his despair.

It was not until 1973 that homosexuality was removed as a mental illness from the DSM. Until the late nineties, we had no Registered Domestic Partnership. Marriage was an unexpected surprise for us in California in 2008. After we married, the right was foreclosed to others by voters until the Supreme Court Decision in 2015 brought it back. No telling what this Supreme Court will do in the future (Remember the “well-settled” law Roe v Wade anyone?) Imagine if you had to worry about whether your marriage would be invalidated?

So we made our own rituals back then, in parks, in community rooms, and in secret. We exchanged rings, kept track of dates with no legal status attached, and went on with our lives. When we broke up, there was no court process. You took your books, Desert Hearts poster, VHS tapes, and moved on. The only time we could be open with our love was in a gay bar or at a Pride festival. I was lucky to have that. The Happy Hour in Garden Grove, Peanuts in Hollywood, the Dummy Up, Que Sera Sera, and Hoops Coop in Long Beach.

But not everyone lives in tolerant cities like Long Beach or has places to go to hang out with others on the rainbow spectrum. Some kids in unwelcoming states just die. When my wife and I went back to Richmond, Virginia, where she lived as a child, we were told a story about a thirteen-year-old local boy, the son of a neighbor, who had committed suicide. It was part of a stream of facts my wife caught up on with the neighbor, about events from previous decades. We sat quietly and listened to how sensitive the young man was, how he loved to dance. To us, these facts strongly suggested a young LGBTQ person. Yet they were mystified. “He was so smart. He was so happy when he danced. He hung himself out of the blue for no reason. It must have been some undiagnosed depression,” she repeated, “no one could have seen it coming.” Unsaid was “It’s not our fault.”

To be clear: Everyone around him loved that boy, but we do not know the messages about being gay he may have received. His family certainly didn’t want him to die, but in a place where the subject is avoided, he would have been very alone. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.

This is why we need Pride events.

Parades and Gay Pride Festivals make us visible; they remind the larger society that we are still here. It gives open-minded organizations opportunities to publicly show their support for our lives, and that matters. We Rainbow People are a minority and need the hegemony to voluntarily carve out space for us. They will not do this if they forget we exist. They will not do this if we are silent.

Listen to “Pink Pony Club,” a story song written and sung by Chappell Roan about leaving Tennessee for Santa Monica. Many rainbow people leave their small towns when they cannot find a space to be their authentic selves and immigrate to California, Oregon, Washington, and New York. New Mexico and Illinois are pretty good too, as are “blue spots” of compassion and democracy in almost every state. Right now, however, Washington State is overwhelmed with the trans diaspora. As the rhetoric from this administration has emboldened bigots, transgender folx are the canary in the coal mine. They are taking the most heat, and too many have even lost their lives. Trans people of color are especially vulnerable; they are literally not safe.

Just so you know, in 2026 queer people don’t cruise Zillow like hetrosexual’s do. We don’t just pick a place based on price and cuteness of house. We must do a complex, deep dive into not only “that cute home” but also the neighborhood’s demographics. This is nothing new for Black people, who have done this since Zillow and other real property search engines like it were invented. When you are gay, or black, you can’t just find a house in a small town in the South without studying it under a microscope. To avoid this step can result in being shunned, unemployed, or even killed. Seriously. This is the stress minorities live with. The larger society has great power to affect our lives.

Note: If you are white and can pass as hetero and stay quiet, you have more options. If you are a trans man or woman, or a particularly butch woman or feminine man, your choices of where to live get harder. If you are a young or old person without money, unhoused, and carrying the trauma of being rejected by family, add a little drug or alcohol abuse, and the only safe place is beacons of queerness. In 2026. You may not see it, but these pockets of LGBTQ people cling to each other for sheer survival.

“Is that your sister?” I have been asked by strangers in other places, trying to quickly determine the nature of our relationship, as if it were their business. “You look alike,” they say, which may be true a little bit. You buy the same kind of clothes and have the same vibe. But we know what it means. “I sense you are different. Explain.”

I am old and gnarly now and have survived the gauntlet. This salmon has made it almost all the way upstream. Educated, the veteran of many, many Pride festivals, I haven’t had a cocktail “to get by” for forty years. In California, I belong to a mainstream church that gave me my God back. To get here, I owe much to those who came before me and organized Pride Festivals and Parades. I have many good memories from these events. Even though I don’t need them like I used to, many still do. We must keep it going for them, although we need to ask Gen Z and beyond what they want it to look like. So, we will keep annoying you, but it is for a good reason. If you didn’t understand before, “Another Pride? Jeesh,” I hope this article helped. It takes nothing to be kind like Mr. Nichols.

There were fireworks displays, revolutionary war reenactments, and a tasteful national tour of American Revolution artifacts. And those red, white, and blue tassels at every graduation. The Rose garden was still beautiful.

A special Bicentennial Silver coin set was minted in 1976, which included an Eisenhower silver dollar, a Kennedy half dollar, and a Washington Quarter. You can still buy one today for $88.00. The celebration lasted all year and was for all of us.

200 years before that, in 1776, there were no fireworks, only a bloody war grinding to a halt. The Second Continental Congress voted to pass Richard Henry Lee’s Resolution to sever ties with Great Britain on July 2, 1776. It was then written down and formally adopted as the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776.

Some Facts: By the 1770s, the colonial population had grown to approximately 2.5 million. Approximately 25,000 died in the Revolutionary War. “Only” 6,800 died in actual combat, and the rest died from disease, starvation, and conditions after being captured by the British. The price of freedom was high.

The British lost a similar number of soldiers, bringing the total to approximately fifty thousand souls. These are important and somber numbers for our country. Each death represents a family torn, a person (usually male) who literally gave his life for the idea of an independent and free country. This is what we celebrate.

Not all were worthy of their uniform. Unlike most soldiers, who were not rich, shopkeepers and farmers (the working poor) Benedict Arnold was a commander in the Continental Army and had an impressive career. You can read about his success fat the Battle of Saratoga in 1777 or his role in leading the attack on Canada. By all accounts, he used brilliant and bold war strategies. Sadly, this was not enough for Benedict Arnold’s ego.

Over time, Benedict Arnold became embittered after being passed over for promotions he believed were his due. Decorated, rich, privileged, none of this was enough. He lived high on the hog in Philadelphia and was involved in several questionable businesses. He ran up debt. In August 1780, he requested and secured a position at West Point and immediately started weakening the garrison while secretly communicating with British Major John Andre. This, my friends, is called treason. The plot was uncovered when a militia man captured Major Andre, who had the detailed scheme written down and on his person. With an uncanny knack such people have for saving their own skin, Benedict Arnold fled to the British before facing justice and was never punished for his treason. He eventually died of natural causes in London in 1801, probably (I imagine) still thinking himself the victim.

Benedict Arnold sold out George Washington, sold out the men who died, and sold out the new country vying for freedom for the sum of twenty thousand pounds, about five million dollars in today’s money. Who does that?

What would President George Washington think of our 2026 celebration or the man now called president?

Let’s review:

In 2026, the East Wing (the women’s wing) of the White House is a ruin, demolished. The historic rose garden has been cemented over. The Lincoln Memorial, reflecting pool, no longer reflects. The bottom has been painted a Miami-style pool blue. The White House lawn, in a sick twist of irony, holds a cage to “celebrate” our freedom.

I miss George Washington. Millions of Americans see what is happening and engage in literal No Kings marches. I’m sure he would approve. Other countries see it and shake their heads as the leaders of the free world do a U-turn. This mockery, this sad and cringeworthy “celebration” of one man’s vanity and the complicity of the fools who still believe he cares about their American lives is almost unspeakable.

I gotta say I’m no fan of China’s policies and politics, but President Xi Jinping gets the prize for subtlety and Southern Lady Style burn when he gave Trump seeds from rare roses that Melania had admired when visiting his country.

Rose seeds. They speak louder in symbol than the hyperbolic announcements that MMA fighters slammed. I must stop here as my blood pressure is rising. Stay sane, people. Have your own celebration. Read George Washington’s Farewell Address after the Declaration of Independence and teach your children about the ideas and vision upon which this country was founded. Light a candle with friends and let the spirit of 1776 burn inside of you. When oppressed, know you are not defeated. Those who are crushed under the boot of misused governmental power are actually seeds. Never forget the garden, water the seeds. This too shall pass.

They really don’t cost that much. You can buy a tamale pot at Walmart for about $45.00, or cheaper if you shop around. I never gave it any thought before becoming an estate planner. My practice has brought me into contact with many Mexican-American families, and I have learned from them that a tamale pot is not just a pot. When it comes to tangible personal property, this is a prized possession. No pot you could just buy could compete with “the one” used by Abuelita or Momma to make tamales for the family.

Side trip: Making tamales is a lot of work, and the process takes hours and hours. The kitchen can be steamy hot, and the pot is the focal point. Picture tired, flour-covered women laughing over the thing, being silly, telling stories, sweating. Maybe they share gossip or get advice while cooking, then rest for a moment, hands propped up behind them on a counter. After a death, that pot can conjure images of a beloved aunt wiping her hands on her favorite apron, or a silly sister blowing her hair out of her eyes rather than touching it with all that masa on her fingers.

The tamale pot for them has become a family relic, imprinted with love, time, family, and memory. They will fight over it, or, if they get along, might pass it from one to the other on holidays, their magic caldron.

In our family its a gun. My father was born in a log cabin and, as the eldest of eight children, hunted for food with it for his mom and siblings. Before he died, he gave my wife and me each a rifle. Mine is a Browning from the 1940’s, which came in its own case. I took it to a gunsmith to have it cleaned and to get advice on whether it was still safe to shoot. The craftsman studied the rifle, rubbed his fingers over the engraved metal, and nodded in appreciation at the high-grade walnut as he extolled the features of a gun “you don’t see every day.” When he casually mentioned he could sand the wear marks out of the wood on the buttstock, I said “No!” perhaps more forcefully than I needed to. He looked at me puzzled, and I said hesitantly, “This was my dad’s . . .Those are his scratches.” He smiled. We may never shoot these guns, but they are a link to the past and part of our family story. I’m keeping it.

What is precious to you?

As an estate planner, I sometimes feel like a travel agent. We are all going to go on the “ultimate journey,” the only open question is when. What do you pack? Who do you leave behind?

Well, we all know there is no U-Haul behind a hearse, but there are things we can take with us: the knowledge that we did our best, and plans to keep our loved ones out of court. What not to leave: Regret, unhealed relationships, messes for others to clean up.

This brings us back to the stuff. While there are a few precious things to pass on, there is a job to do now, while living, to reduce stress on those left behind. I have seen the worst. We have had probates where we roll up a garage and find almost a solid wall of tangible personal property. Boxes from old moves filled with who knows what, bikes with flat tires and sagging chains, garbage bags filled with clothes they meant to donate but didn’t, we all have collected stuff to varying degrees.

I am aware of, but not immune to, this very human failing, and need to give our garage a serious clean. We have bins full of VHS tapes and another full of CD’s. The original plan was to turn them into different media, but it will never happen. It is hard to accept that sometimes things are just trash now. There are picture books and rusting golf clubs, and it’s easier to just close the door and not look at it. Tina Tessina, a wonderful local psychologist, told me once that often the inability to let go of items is unprocessed grief. I think she is right. What motivates me now as I approach the task (I’m hiring an organizer) is thinking of my son opening the door after I am gone.

I don’t want to do that to him. He would have to do what I have put off and that’s not fair. There may be things he keeps, things that bring good memories, but so much more that can be dealt with now while I am on this side of the grass.

Where my feet are: On earth today, doing grown-up stuff. Advice? Travel light.

Longer version:

The sun was setting, and our boat with the all-female crew was waiting at the end of the dock. After putting on wetsuits, our guide gave us final instructions:

“Manta Rays have a thin protective mucus film that protects them from parasites and provides a frictionless experience as they swim. They may bump up against you, but even though it’s super tempting, don’t touch them.”

“Oh, stripper rules.” My redheaded friend.

“Er, yes.” There was laughter. The mood was one of excited anticipation as we walked to the boat as darkness descended. I had done the Manta Ray dive before, where you sit on the bottom of the ocean floor and wait for the manta rays to arrive. The “fire pit” (you always need a light source) was a barrel filled with upwards-facing flashlights and attracted plankton. The rays came to feast, and we had a fabulous nature show which took no time at all. This time, we were taken out on a boat and connected on top of the water like skydivers, our hands grasped light boards, and our feet were kept on the surface of the ocean with pool noodles. Not the most comfortable thing for necks and backs, but it was efficient for creating a pool of light for the plankton and keeping our bodies out of the way.

My wife and our friend had looked forward to this mightily. I put my masked and snorkeled face in the water and kept my ears above to hear the manta ray facts and silly jokes the guides used to pass the time.

My view was the ocean floor. The pretty much empty ocean floor as we waited. . . and waited. The banter between the two guides from different light boards was a bit strained as they said “well, these are wild animals and they have a mind of their own, we’ll give it just a bit more time.” Meanwhile the surge made it difficult to hold onto my GoPro and the light board. My neck ached.

Over time, with no other stimuli, I began watching the plankton. These are millions of tiny animals that swim, wiggle, and float in the light. After a time my disappointment shifted to wonder. Isn’t this blue atmosphere a mirror of the night sky? The plankton itself were bioluminescent, and there were many different kinds, much like stars and comets. I guess our lightboard was their sun.

I lifted my head above water, removed the mouthpiece to my snorkel and asked when they were going to call it. Suddenly the snorkelers on the light board one or two down made noise and I quickly put my face into the water again. The Manta Rays were at first murky movement on the bottom of the sea, but soon were beneath us doing barrel rolls and swimming gracefully. They are extremely intelligent creatures, and can recognize themselves in a mirror. Each one has markings unlike any other ray, their “fingerprint.” They live for decades, have no maternal instinct and return to the same spot they first appeared in the 1950s when invited by the light show. Remarkable.

We had been in the water at night longer than usual; the wild animals do not work on our schedule, so we were tired and sore. The feeling afterward was almost numbing. I felt drunk, although I do not drink. We stumbled down the pier and found our sandals, then wandered back to where hot chocolate and ginger tea were offered. I love the experiences that allow complete strangers, even for a moment, to see each other as “the same.” There were tourists from other countries, male, female, young, old, but we all felt and needed to speak to someone, anyone, about what we had seen.

Just now, I wondered whether someone seeing a miracle 2000 years ago (which would have been even more stunning) would have felt the same. As it was, I left thinking of aliens in space; they must be there somewhere, moving frictionless in some other atmosphere we would need special equipment to endure. I felt tiny on the eternal conveyor belt of time and progress, humbled and in awe of things greater than myself. Thank you for letting me share this experience. I would love to hear what makes you remember we are not “all that,” although being human is wonderful too. I guess it’s just that we are not the ONLY thing. I hugged cows on this vacation, too, which is messing me up with eating meat. Onward.

My wife bought us all plastic manta rays on a string. The three of us wore them to dinner and joked we were now “Sisters of the Manta Ray.” You can join our sisterhood, too; just let the stress of holding the entire universe together go. When I’m right-sized, and my adrenal glands are not working overtime, I know even plankton have a part to play, and that even after the light boards get packed back on the boat, some creatures carry their own light, however tiny. All of us together can do miraculous things.

This article is for the rest of us. Some of us had an up-and-down relationship with our moms for one reason or another, and it’s not always tied to whether we grew up rich or poor. [short detour]: I recently went off in a FB post about the Met Gala, where rich people are parading around in costumes while the world is on fire. Later, I picked up one of my meditation books, opened it at random, and came across a paragraph that said, “rich people suffer too.” Sometimes more than anyone else, because while their material needs are met, mental suffering, such as anxiety and loneliness, can’t be solved with money. I deleted it. We can’t just delete memories so neatly, but we can forgive ourselves. Maya Angelou said, “When we know better, we do better.”

My old (and near-dirt-poor) granddaddy even knew this. I must have been born jealous of rich people because as a youth I said, “So and so was born with a silver spoon in his mouth!,” and he responded, “Honey, after a while, a silver spoon is just a spoon.” I was blessed with both a father and a grandfather who were wise.

So what am I talking about? This Sunday has been set aside to honor our moms. Dad gets his day too, and we all have our birthdays. Whether these made-up holidays are simply to sell us stuff or not, I still think they are good because everyone should feel special at least once a year. It’s also a day for us to reflect on how much that person means to us and get right with our relationship. If you are already clean and clear with that person, like I said, celebrate!

My mother was a complex woman. She was born in 1925 and had to wait until the 1970s to have credit in her own name. She was a blue-eyed, black-haired beauty, and held up her end of each social contract given to her, only to seem to get the losing end of the stick. She raised three kids, wrote poetry, and encouraged my sister and me to be independent. Then, the divorce occurred after twenty-seven years of marriage, following the death of her twenty-three-year-old daughter, then had to grapple with a daughter who was queer. This must have been the small print in that contract no one explained. The “gotcha.” As a kicker, she was so happy my brother turned out as expected, but then he married a woman who seemed to despise us.

She loved the Olive Garden, and that’s where we went on Mother’s Day. My son and I (yes, ironically, I am the one who had a child) would take her, and my brother would join without his wife. We would eat endless breadsticks and talk about what everyone was up to. Our family was so far into uncharted territory, where is the script for this? But I’m glad we had it. She eventually moved into assisted living, still beautiful, still writing poetry. But I never got over the feeling she chased inner peace and only very intermittently found it. It wasn’t all bad. She and I learned to laugh together; she could be quite funny. Her grandson came and played guitar for her. My brother’s wife even eventually started decorating her door at the assisted living for every holiday. Not perfect, we were not (are not) perfect people. We loved each other, and she knew that. Be kind to yourself in hindsight. You did the best you could at the time.

I think back and wish I had been less judgmental and reactive. As you go into this Mother’s Day, the only advice I have is to let old, unresolved hurts go and to forgive and love, even if the rest of the family is not in that space. Like Cat Stevens said, “We are only dancing on this earth for a short while.” Love fiercely, for this all ends.