Now Offering: Humanity

Based on the ads I'm seeing lately, I have to conclude: "We really hate ourselves, don't we?" Two recent examples: 

A bus rumbled by me on 19th Avenue the other day with the words "STOP HIRING HUMANS" emblazoned on the side. I both chuckled and cringed. And then got a little depressed about the fact that some of my fellow humans came up with the anti-human ad campaign.

On a recent walk to the grocery store, I passed a doctor's office with a huge banner hanging in front: "NOW OFFERING THE SKINNY SHOT."

Stop hiring humans, because they are messy, and flawed, and problematic, and you have to take time to work with them. You have to consider their humanity and their propensity to make mistakes. Bypass all of that inconvenience by using AI instead. Skip right over the time and energy it takes to give feedback, hold someone accountable, receive feedback yourself, and wait for sometimes slow change to occur. If you use an AI assistant instead of a human, you will save time and MONEY. Humans are too expensive and frustrating. Skip that entire experience by eliminating the need to relate. 

Get that skinny shot because let's face it, you need it. Why do you need it? Because you don't look like the filtered and sculpted version of personhood we all see online. Why does that matter? Because we all live so much online now, you can't be anything but ugly unless you get that shot, tuck that pocket of skin, lift your eyelids, and basically flatten the humanity out of your face, skin, and body. 

Humans are messy. That's what makes us so great. The forces telling us otherwise are big, like "how can we ever hope to take them" on big. 

We remember the lonely Vietnam protestor who stood in front of the White House (back when one could stand in front of the White House) with his candle, usually alone, to say NOPE, not in my name, I don't endorse this, this SUCKS. When asked why he bothers standing there, when it's such a minuscule gesture against the behemoth war machine, he said (and I paraphrase): "I don't stand here to change the war. I stand here so the war doesn't change me."

That's what we have to do. Stand somewhere so that the forces of evil—or in this case, the forces that would erase humanity—don't change us.

Embrace messy. Embrace imperfect. Embrace non-conformity. Embrace the dignity present in every person. Embrace the time and energy that all this embracing takes.

Now offering the humanity shot: line up for yours today.

Staking One Small Claim

Yesterday, we joined an impromptu protest at the Sonoma Plaza. It was not particularly well attended, maybe 100 people. But for those of us who were there, it felt necessary. We needed a place to be, a place to stand, at this moment of insanity. It was a strange little gathering: sort of festive, which felt odd, because we were there because Alex Pretti was murdered. Sort of somber. Sort of awkward. I didn't know anyone there, although I saw some familiar faces.

Here are some things I observed.

Almost every single person there was white. Not all. The gregarious mother who chatted with us about how there were only four people on the sidewalk when she first got there with her kids—she was a woman of color. And one young Latina stood near the back. She didn't have a sign. She was alone. She did not put herself forward, which meant that all of the folks chatting and waving at the cars driving by did not see her. She stood still, arms at her side, with her bleach blond hair, her thick turquoise eye shadow, her dramatic lashes. I couldn't shake the fact that no one spoke to her.

Almost all of the cars that drove by honked and waved, gave us thumbs ups, or powerful fists. Not all. Two people flipped us off. A huge red truck—possibly fueled by straight testosterone—turned in front of the crowd, idled for a moment, and then revved his engine, pouring thick black exhaust smoke onto the retirees in lawn chairs holding their signs of solidarity.

We arrived at Noon, and stood and waved for an hour. Rick and I stood together, cringing at the near misses unfolding in the intersection in front of us; protests are excellent fodder for distracted driving. We took turns holding our cardboard sign lettered with: RESIST FOR PRETTI, RESIST FOR GOOD. 

At a few minutes to 1, people started peeling away. The young mom promised her restless daughter lunch at Burgers and Vine. We had all given up one hour to stand on a sidewalk and hold a sign. Just one hour to stand, because Alex Pretti and Renee Good will never stand again. 

I expected a bit more chatting amongst the crowd. That didn't really happen. People who knew each other talked to each other. I guess I expected more people to say "Hi, I'm so and so, what's your name?" Maybe we've all forgotten how. Maybe that's another reason to stand on a sidewalk with other people for just one hour.

Eventually, we also drifted off. Rick walked towards home; I started to make my way to meet a friend for a previously planned walk. As I was leaving, I noticed that the young Latina was still there. Still by herself, and still no one talked to her. I stood near her for a little while, trying to think of something to say to engage her and make her feel like it mattered that she showed up. Eventually, I figured out a way in:

"Excuse me? Hi, I'm curious: We are kind of new to town, and I'm wondering if people gather here often like this?"

With a sweet smile and a kind face, she turned and said hesitantly, "I think they're here every...Friday?" 

I actually knew this already. And I'm not really new to town. But I wanted to talk to her. I nodded and said: "Oh, OK, got it. And today, because of what happened yesterday?" 

She nodded quietly. 

"Have you been to these before? Is this about how many people usually come?" I said, trying to keep the conversation going. 

With a shrug and again, that sweet smile, she responded: "This is my first time."

"Oh, that's great," I said. "It feels important to be here, doesn't it?" 

She nodded.

And with that, I felt like maybe trying to keep the conversation going could get weird. So I just said: "Well, I hope to see you here next time too; have a good rest of your day." She smiled and said "you too," and I walked in the other direction.

Being there felt tiny in the face of what's happening in Minneapolis. We did our awkward part. We got flipped off and fumigated. Children got restless and hungry. And then we all went back to the rest of our lives.

I can't make sense of any of this, and I can't say we made a difference out there with our sign. But it was one small attempt to claim a little space for humanity and put our feet in it. Does that still matter these days? God, I hope so.

Another thing that happened this weekend? Trump hosted a bunch of billionaires at the White House to watch the Amazon-produced documentary about his immigrant wife. When we were both home from the protest, we canceled our Amazon Prime account.

The Joy of Talking to a Ram at Dusk

"I don't use my free will enough." 

So said my daughter, as our car sped through the golden hour light of a wintry wine county evening. The bright green fields, the gnarled vines stretching in rows both wild and rigid, the cows and mustard mingling quietly...the scene was mesmerizing. We alternated between silent awe in response to our surroundings and chattery exclamations of "look!" and "wow" and "I can't believe we live here!"

She asked if we could pull over to say hello to some animals. She's 19, but has never lost her childhood glee over seeing animals on the side of the road. Horses, cows, sheep, heron, dogs, goats, red-tailed hawks, red-winged blackbirds... salamanders. I think the creatures speak to her, actually. 

So when we passed two sheep in a field bordered by a white fence, she wanted to stop and talk. I found a place to turn around, drove back, and let her out. Giddy, she said "Do you think they'll come to me?" She did not wait for a response. Thanks to the recent and dramatic rains, climbing up to the fence line was a muddy affair. Undeterred, she scrambled up, and was rewarded at the top by one of the sheep ambling over to meet her.

The sky was growing purply and dark, slivers of light still on the western horizon. I stayed in the car, because it was cold outside and because I don't share her spunk. She—of course—conversed with the sheep for way longer than I had expected. Really, I should have been ready for that; I've known her for 19 years and she is not me. 

We were there for so long that we captured the attention of the farmer and her daughter. In the growing darkness, we saw them walking down their long driveway to investigate this car parked in their driveway and this girl talking to their animals. 

Instinctively, I got nervous. Was the farmer suspicious of us? Would she be mad? Tell us to get the hell off her property? I wanted to drive away before they reached the gate. But then, I figured that would be embarrassingly immature, so I stayed where I was and rolled down the window. 

In the half darkness, the farmer called out: "Is everyone OK?" She wasn't suspicious, she was care-taking. 

What followed was the loveliest interaction between us and the mom and daughter who owned the farm and the sheep, who turned out to not be sheep at all. They were rams. The mom told us that more than a few people had crashed into her fence, or ended up in some kind of pickle there at the end of her driveway. She has gotten used to checking on cars and seeing if anyone needed assistance. Tallulah asked if the rams had names. And of course they did: Rammy Davis Junior and Little Guy. Perfect names! Her daughter, all of 5 years or so, piped up: "I named them!" We told her she had done an excellent job. 

It was the kind of conversation — the pleasant kind — that is all too rare these days, so rare that my first impulse had been to turn and run away from it. It felt downright old-fashioned to be out on a country road making conversation with strangers, smiling and laughing. I wished we were neighbors, or that we could be friends. I imagined their warm and inviting kitchen and almost wanted to arrange a playdate for...our two daughters? Those days are long behind me. But these two did remind me of us, of me and my daughter, from 15 years ago. Me, taking care and her, naming things and loving animals. 

As we drove away, my daughter expressed her great satisfaction that we had taken the time to stop. That's what prompted her to say "I don't use my free will enough," by which she meant she doesn't always pursue the things that interest her, doesn't always take the time to step outside of routine or expectation.

I think she does, though. Because of her, I have stopped the car in the middle of the night on an empty country road, so we could listen to the frogs and owls and crickets, and look at the stars. Because of her, I have met more salamanders than one woman deserves. Because of her, we met Rammy Davis Junior. 

She is a good reminder, in this new year, to use our free will to do the things we want to do, to seize the moment and follow those impulses that lead us towards animals, stars, mud, farms, and whatever else calls to us from beyond our screens and limits.

There is joy in talking to a ram at dusk.

The Mayor of 31st Avenue

We painted this rock for Emmett during the pandemic,
featuring his beloved pup, Little Fellow.

Rick and I lived next door to Emmett P. Lynch for over 20 years. He died a few weeks ago.

Our kids, especially the two youngest, Elizabeth and Tallulah, spent a lot of time at his house. I used to worry that the kids might bother him. I imagined they would knock on his door and he would groan internally about the interruption. I told him that once and he guffawed, assuring me he was 100% comfortable turning them away or kicking them out if it wasn’t a good time. It was always a good time.

He kept his eye on them too: if we weren’t home, and Samuel or Vincenzo, our boys, needed something, they could always go to him. He enjoyed peeking over the fence and talking to them about the wooden teepees and forts they were constructing.

Emmett and Tallulah – always LuLu to him – had a special bond. He kept a small wooden safe in his house, and gave her the combination. He would put treasures in it, trinkets, sweet treats, rocks, letters, anything he thought she would like. The first thing she did on her visits was to check the “mailbox” for goodies. Then she’d stay, and visit, and talk, and help him with his grocery list, and learn all kinds of interesting things from him.

After most visits, she and Elizabeth would come home with drawings, books, jars of applesauce, a bottle of wine for mom. We would try to return the favor with pie, biscotti, a serving from the dinner we made that night. It never seemed to match his generosity of spirit.

I remember once when we “lost” our oldest daughter, Lola: she was there one minute and gone the next. Emmett’s truck must have been in the shop or something, because it wasn’t out front and we assumed he wasn’t home. We got other neighbors involved in roaming the neighborhood looking for her; I was getting ready for a full blown melt down when Lola emerged from Emmett’s with a mini-can of rootbeer and a smile on her face. All of 8 years old, she told us our family was too loud that day and she needed a break. She went to Emmett’s.

Safe to say, with five kids, we were often a little overwhelmed, between school, homework, soccer practices, events,... Emmett had a sixth sense for knowing just when to send that most appreciated text: “Is it a good night for a pizza?” Half an hour later, a steaming hot pizza would be at our door and our evening with a big, busy family would have gotten just a little easier.

Emmett and I had very different politics. He would amble over to our front yard when I was working in the garden and opine on something from the news – and 10 out of 10 times we would have a completely different take on whatever it was. I would rail against corporate greed and oppression; he would champion individual freedom and free markets. I’m sure he thought I was a naive, bleeding-heart leftie, but he never stopped engaging or inviting me to do the same. These days in our country and culture, this is one of the rarest finds: kindness and care between people who disagree. I never doubted his heart and his feelings for people. He is one of the most generous, big-hearted people I’ve ever met, and I saw examples of that all the time: the way he cared for his friends or looked for ways to make things “just a little easier” for others; the beverages he left out for mail and package carriers; how he looked out for our entire block.

Ever since Emmett died, I’ve been thinking about how we take for granted the small, daily interactions that actually matter more than anything else in the world. How could I have possibly thought that Emmett would be with us forever? But my behavior suggests that I actually did think that, and took for granted that my next visit with him was surely going to be in just a few days or next week or as soon as work settled down. I’ll try to remember that, in his honor, for the rest of my life.

I went to Target with him once, where he chatted up nearly every person we came across and I saw, in action, something he was fond of observing: “Dogs and children love me!” We all do too, Emmett. We will miss you and all you brought to this neighborhood and to our family. 

Go ahead of us, Mayor Lynch. You kept the keys to all of our houses on a row of hooks in the back of your house. I'm counting on you to have the keys to the Kingdom when I arrive.

ISDK (I Still Don't Know)

Repost from February, 2011 – I came across this post the other day looking for something else on my lil blog. I enjoyed reading about the kinds of things the kids asked back then, and I really loved being reminded about their sleeping chests rising and falling, and the murmurs and whimpers of slow waking.  Morning is still rich with promise and possibility, although the questions they ask now are harder. 

On Christmas Day, we went for a walk somewhere pretty, and they let me take this photo. When I look at it, I think I could answer their questions all day long for the rest of my life and call it a life well spent.

Here is the 2011 post:

Kids come with a lot of questions. Most of them, I cannot answer, or at least not without research. Here are all the things to which I said "I don't know" this weekend:

• How far does a bullet fly?
• Why are white people called Caucasian? Why does it sound so much like Asian?
• What does the 'A' stand for in double A batteries?
• Is Hosni Mubarak a good person?
• Would you wear a burka if it was part of your religion and you lived in a country where the president made it illegal to wear one?
• What is the difference between a vegan and a vegetarian? Yeah, I thought I knew that one until I utterly failed to explain it coherently and ended up with an IDK.
• When was the last time a volcano erupted?
• Is Justin Timberlake nervous right now?
• Why can African American people use the n-word but no one else can, and why would they want to?
• How are you going to fix your computer? (This after the power cord prong thingy snapped off inside my laptop, rendering it un-power-up-able.)
• Can I go to the skate park tomorrow?
• Why do women always say other women are beautiful but men don't talk about how other men look? Actually, I did come up with a pretty decent answer for this one...but went with the IDK at first.
• Can you make us some popcorn? I was so brain dead by the time this question came up that I literally answered: I don't know.

I pondered all of these questions, as well as the ones I was able to answer more fully, as the cold morning light shifted from grey to bright across my bedroom this morning. Pinned as I was between a four year old knee in my back and an eight year old arm across my chest, I considered how many questions these little warm breathing bodies have. They are quiet now, the only time they will be all day. This is my chance to recharge, to get ready for another day full of words and questions, endless chatter and conversation. And probably some yelling.

Morning is rich with promise and possibility. My overwhelming love for my children pours out of me as I watch their sleeping chests rise and fall, and listen to the small sucking noises and the murmurs and whimpers of slow waking. Can I freeze time for awhile just to watch them sleep, where they literally look like angels who miraculously grace my presence every day? I try. I want to stay in this warm and quiet little world, where love protects me like the heavy homemade quilt that covers us. I want to live here forever. But at my back I always hear, time's winged chariot drawing near, and I know that in a precious few moments, they will be awake and asking question after question, and they will at some point in the next few hours seem more like demons bent on breaking my spirit than the angels they are in the quiet early spaces of each day.

Will I live up to their expectations and their questions today?

IDK.

* * *

Never Enough Words

When I was little, in our house in San Francisco, my parents – the wonderful Larry and Rose – hung a banner on the wall. This was the 70’s: it was probably canvas, or burlap, or felt, or some other hippie fabric. It said: “Each one beautiful in God’s eyes.”

Because of that banner, I went out into the world believing that there is beauty to be found in every single person, no matter their circumstance or story. As an adult, I had an a-ha moment, when I realized that that banner was responsible for my world-view and for the kind of person I strive to be. Each one beautiful in God’s eyes. The implication being: behave accordingly. I am grateful to my parents for hanging that banner on the wall and launching me into the world steeped in that message of love and hope. 

So that’s the first thing I am thankful for, about being Larry’s daughter. There is a whole lot more. And since I wish he were here right now, I think I’ll just address this next part of what I want to say directly to him.

Dad, thank you for creativity. Thank you for giving me a lifelong appreciation for art and for people who make art. Your pottery, painting, music, storytelling, hospitality and more are present in every single one of your three kids and seven grandkids, and we will forever remember the ways you have inspired us to pursue our own creativity. We will forever remember your boundless enthusiasm for our artistic endeavors.

Thank you for your bleeding heart. For always noticing what other people were going through, for recognizing injustice and not accepting it, for making other people feel better in whatever way you could. I hope that I learn to put others first in the way that I’ve seen you do so many times. I know you felt the suffering of the world acutely, and I’m even grateful for that. You gave me a living example of a person who stands up for what he believes in and stands with the outcast, the ignored, the oppressed, the suffering.

Thank you for making me, and virtually everyone you encountered, feel special. This week, I’ve heard many stories of how you made people feel seen and heard. The pot of coffee you brewed for a heart to heart with this person; the amazon package that appeared on the porch of another; the way you never forgot this person’s birthday; the way you recognized a student who felt overlooked. Your special gift was making all of us feel like the most important person in the room, and I for one will wear that gift like a warm blanket for the rest of my life.

Thank you for being so damn funny. It has been a gift and a joy to grow up in a house that rocked with laughter. You will be proud to know – or likely you already do – that Katy and Tony and I have handled the past week, our first without you, with copious amounts of joking, teasing, and laughing. I only wish you were here to enjoy some of the truly excellent sarcasm flying around 43 France Street. You would approve. 

I could go on all day about things I’m thankful for, but there is Guinness waiting for us at the big party we are having in your honor, so I will wrap this up.

There will never be enough words in the English language to capture your life or your spirit. I will never be done saying thank you. I don’t have any idea how to say goodbye, so instead of doing that, I will learn how to carry you with me from this day forward, to hear your voice when I need it and feel your presence with me. You were and are beautiful in God’s eyes, and in mine.

Open A Drawer

Today's 15 minute writing exercise, from The Observation Deck: A Tool Kit for Writers, by Naomi Epel

______________________

I thrust my hand into the deep well of life -- in this case, the drawer of my office filing cabinet -- and came out with a parking ticket. That I have not paid.

Ah, the metaphor right there. The things not attended to. The niggling pieces of life that cause shame and denial. Shame, you say? Denial? It's a parking ticket. Pay it and move on.

Why does a slip of paper like a parking ticket, or the memory of getting it (read: not paying attention enough to realize I couldn't park in the miracle spot I thought I found), evoke such negativity and self reproach?

Option 1: It really is representative of the ways I don't pay attention, the ways I let life's small responsibilities and annoying demands pile up in ways that come back to bite me.

Option 2: It actually represents the ways in which "the man" is working every day, in every way, to keep. us. down. Control. Rules. Restrictions that thwart us at every turn. The capitalistic enterprise, squeezing pennies and dollars out of us every chance it gets.

Either way, this particular slip of paper makes me mad. Mad at myself, mad at the SFMTA, mad at inflation. Plenty of anger to go around, thank you very much.

What to do in the face of that anger? How to navigate the downward pull of self and municipal loathing?

RESIST. Everything is resistance. Instead of giving in to the loathing, ground myself in the sure knowledge that I am more than the profit I generate for the state, that I am more than a cog in the economic machine, that the parking ticket does not define me. Seems silly, no? Seems silly, yes. But it's the little things, man, that pile up and bite us, the little things that layer one on top the other. 

So what is the work? The work is to be the artisan, laying other, better things one on top the other. Do not let the parking tickets, and the missed train, and the leaking tire, and the Christmas tree decaying in the corner of the yard be the things that build up on your precious frame. Decide what belongs there. Make creative choices. Choose colors, forms, mediums that you love. You don't have to say why you love them. You don't have to justify a single choice, because it's your precious frame and your wild, precious canvas, and you can layer on these things: paella. fire in the hearth. goal in the back of the net. fiddle callouses. children. carmelized onions. music. crunchy gravel. all the things that reveal the great beauty all around you, in you, breathing between you and the ones you love.

Do not let T*ump or the utterly, shockingly, mind-numbingly disappointing political landscape occupy a single centimeter of your canvas. Layer beauty upon beauty and watch the slings and arrows -- and parking tickets -- bounce and slide right off.

* * * 

My Mother Gave Me Permission

This memory exists in sharp detail: Nine-year-old me, lying on my bed in a sweltering attic bedroom with sun-yellow walls and a nubby, multicolored rug. I'm listening to the radio: country music of course. I don't recall the name of the song that was playing, just that it was incredibly sad. A story of lost love, heartbreak, and loneliness. 

I felt all of it. I felt the devastation and the overwhelming grief. The pain of loving and losing. The longing in the singer's voice. At 9 years old, years away from truly understanding a broken heart, that song made me deeply, massively sad.

I dissolved into tears, weeping little girl tears over grown-up heartbreak, tears of recognition that the world--and specific people within it-could stomp on my heart. I remember drenching my pillow and feeling bewildered. Where was this strong reaction coming from? I knew I was too little to really get it, but my heart went on that journey anyway. And once I started, I couldn't stop: the wailing went on far longer than the song.

My mother must have heard me. Suddenly, there she was, sitting on the bed beside me, concern on her face. 

"What's wrong, Mon?" 

I told her I had just listened to a really, really sad song and it made me cry. As a mother now myself, I imagine she might have been relieved. No broken bones, no blood, no trauma, just good old-fashioned sadness. She asked what the song was about.

I felt silly, but blurted: "Someone broke up with the girl, the singer, and she was really sad about it, and the song was the story, and it was SO SAD!" Fresh tears erupted, rendering me a puddle once more.

She hugged me, rubbed my back, and let me be sad. She told me she understood, that songs can really make us feel things. I felt silly telling her why I was crying, but she didn't treat me like I or my feelings were silly. From a mother's point of view, she did a mundane mom thing: made a kid feel better about something kind of small. But this small thing has stayed with me my entire life.

I have often wondered why. It was a tiny moment in a busy, loud, sarcastic household. It was a blip, a sliver, a shred. There was no postscript or profound conclusion. It remains just a snapshot of a moment in time.

But the little girl who felt so much in response to a song? That's who I have always been. I've always been a crier. Tears come easily and I treasure them, knowing and trusting their cleansing power. My heart is stirred by the tiniest slivers of things: curtains lifted by a breeze, revealing a wall of family portraits; trash collected at the side of a freeway on-ramp, items once used, or loved, or needed by someone; a broken down barn on the side of a road. Always, I yearn to know the stories hidden in these blips and slivers, and frequently, I'm stirred to strong emotions by them. That's who I am, and that's who I was as a little girl.

My mom let me be that girl that day. As I grew up, I took pride in being "a feeler." It became, and still is, a big part of my identity. Being a feeler has helped me forge strong connections with my wonderful network of dear and plentiful friends. It has helped me be a mom when I see strong emotions in my kids. It has always been a portal to understanding other people. 

So maybe I remember that tiny moment because it was a memory of me being just 100% me, all in my feels and wailing away, and because my mom's response was to let me be 100% that person. Maybe I remember it because her hand on my back, and her soothing words, told me I could let myself feel everything, that I could just be myself. Maybe each time I remember that day, and see that 70's snapshot in my mind, she is still telling me to be exactly who I am.

Life is lived in the slivers and shreds that stay with us.

Happy Mother's Day, mom.

Antidotes

Take comfort.

Those things that make you breathe again are happening, even as your pulse quickens and your chest tightens. Even as gelatinous anxiety looms and threatens. The smallest, most important things are taking place right now.

Somewhere, a scruffy-headed kid squinches her face to the sun as she stretches for a blackberry.

Somewhere, a high creek rushes past, sweeping nettles downstream.

Somewhere, a single-engine airplane rumbles through a warm and cloudless sky, coating the land with suspended time.

Waves paint white foam on massive rocks. Onions sizzle and carmelize over a fire. A cellist draws his bow, steady and sweet, across a C string. 

These things exist. You can breathe again. 

Why Books Matter

On Mother's Day several years ago, Rick gave me a Nook e-reader. Before that, I was a “real book” snob. “But the feel of turning the pages!” I said. “The smell of the paper and the binding!” I said. I eschewed e-readers like any self-respecting purist should.

But that summer, my new Nook in its lovely green case delivered voracious reading to me at a furious and satisfying pace. From its glowing screen, I read All the Light We Cannot See, the House on Mango Street, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, Where’d You Go, Bernadette, Just Mercy, several New Yorker articles, and other things I can’t remember. As long as I charged that magic device every night, I had the world at my fingertips. I discovered the joy of carrying an entire library around in one slim volume. When my kids were small, one of our favorite bedtime stories was a book called (aptly) “Always Room for One More.” The title echoed in my brain: there is always room for one more way to read!

Years have gone by since that summer, and my relationship with my Nook has seen fewer peaks and more valleys. I can go months without even knowing where it is. I wish I could say this is because physical books and I got hot and heavy, but it’s more honest to say that my iPhone and I have been caught in a co-dependent spiral, spending far too much time together, both of us getting some kind of sick benefit from the countless wasted hours.

And so, in an effort to re-kindle (pun intended) my love of reading, I recently charged up the Nook and re-read Just Mercy. Even the second time around, it was definitely a can’t-put-it-down experience. I quickly tumbled into one of those delicious, all-consuming reads that take up residence in your mind and command all your attention. And along the way, I figured out the price we pay for reading on e-readers instead of with books in our hands.  

While I was devouring this book as if it were manna from heaven, like it was oxygen, water, life itself, no one in my family could tell what I was reading. No one could see it. I realized this when Bryan Stevenson’s name came up by chance with one of my daughters (probably prompted by NPR), and I jumped at the opportunity to talk about Just Mercy with her.  

She returned my enthusiasm with a blank stare, having no idea what I was talking about. I had to stop and explain that I was reading Mr. Stevenson’s book, and that it was amazing, and that she should read it. It was incredulous to me that she wasn’t familiar with the book that had been looming so large in my world. Here I was, reading a book that felt life-changing and urgent and essential, but because I was using an e-reader, my family was utterly clueless. Sure, they could tell that I was reading, but no one could tell what I was reading.  

If I were reading the physical edition of Just Mercy, they would know. The book would be living beside us, taking up space. It would sprawl on the couch next to a throw blanket, linger on my bedside table, sit patiently on the kitchen counter while I cooked. It would be visible. The title, the cover, the promo blurbs–all of those would seep into my children's brains. That’s what we lose when an entire library exists in one slim volume. If all the books stored in my nook were instead on my shelves, my kids would know more authors’ names and see more book titles around them. They would be surrounded by more possibilities for how to spend their time, each book peppering their consciousness with so many seeds.  

It’s not that my kids have not grown up around books; they have. My youngest takes pride in the fact that every year in school, when her English teachers assign new books, we rarely have to buy them. We usually already own them. But when it comes to Just Mercy, I was saddened that that book, in particular, was not on our shelves, helping me raise my children just by being there. It felt like a loss. 

The Red Pony. The Accidental Tourist. Amityville Horror. The Cracker Factory. Where the Red Fern Grows. James Joyce. William Butler Yeats. Erma Bombeck. Charles Dickens. Agatha Christie. Those are just some of the books and authors who raised me from their perches on bookshelves and coffee tables. Their presence signaled to me that the words they contained were valuable because my parents valued them. And now, they are part of the fabric of my childhood, part of my memories and my own family narrative.

So bring me real books please, and lots of them! Because as much as I love the convenience of my e-reader, taking up physical space matters. Real books actually live in our homes. They talk to us in conversations that begin before we ever crack their bindings and echo for decades. They help us raise our children and stay with us for our entire lives. Therein lies the difference: E-readers are fabulous for individual, solitary reading, while the books we hold in our hands shape the living, breathing communities we live in. 

I guess I’m still a “real book” snob after all. I do enjoy my Nook, but my physical books are family.

3 Cheers for New Neural Pathways!

Anxiety, thou art everywhere, all at once. 

Everywhere we turn, people are talking about anxiety, stress, and uncertainty.  Pick your topic:  The economy: Will it tank? The country: Will it collapse? The next election: Will we survive it? The pandemic: WTF?

Racism. Guns. Abortion. Masks. Vaccines. Police violence. 

Being alive right now, well, it's a doozy.

As the mother of a passel of Gen Z-ers, I see how much the cluster f--- that is our culture is weighing on young people. Many are cynical about the world and the future, and boy, do they have a right to be. I desperately wish I could convince my own offspring that there are reasons to be hopeful, but I also know I cannot relate to what they have experienced in the past 6 years. Us older adults have been through those same years, but from a vastly different vantage point. The formative years of young adults -- those years between 10 and 25 when we are weaving together so many notions about how the world operates -- have been steeped in a soup of chaos, vitriol, racism, opportunism, violence, and too many other confusing and scary things. I cannot imagine what it is like to grow into adulthood right now.

It is a privilege to have emerged from my teenage years with optimism; this is not a privilege many young adults share—or come by easily. 

I sometimes feel at a loss for how to help my kids navigate the anxiety that comes with waking up each day in this fraught and frightful world. I got a little help this week from, of all places, the Marketplace Morning Report on NPR. I say "of all places" because Marketplace (morning and afternoon) is a money, economy, NASDAQ, stocks, bonds, financial program, and I'm not a money, economy, NASDAQ, stock, bond, financial kinda girl. Most things econ-related are like mysterious black boxes to me. Even so, I've long appreciated Marketplace and its hosts for talking about the economy in ways that are interesting even for non-business-y people. This week, I appreciate it even more for a little segment on recession anxiety and for their guest Angela Sasseville, a Denver-based psychotherapist and executive coach. She captured the essence of what I see right now among young adults in this quote:

"Over the past 6 years the American public has experienced an unprecedented number of circumstances that have created uncertainty and caused them to feel anxious." 

THANK YOU! Yes, we sure as hell have and it's distressing in the extreme. She goes on: "Current data indicates that upward of 40% of American adults are currently feeling anxious or depressed, . . .a 29% increase from pre-pandemic levels." Yup. I feel that. I see it in the people around me. I bet for young adults, the numbers are even higher. 

Even better than just naming the elephant in the middle of the country, Ms. Sasseville offers us a way forward: "Fortunately, the strategies that are effective [in addressing anxiety] will work for the recession or any other issue that you're feeling anxious about. You can use the same neuroscience principle to install a new neural pathway that helps you experience a positive emotion instead."

We can create new neural pathways to fight anxiety! While not new information, it was the reminder I needed. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops, and also tell my kids and get them as excited as I am about this good news.  

I tried. I got blank stares, eye rolls, and garden variety annoyance. They are still close enough to their teenage years that I am perhaps not the best messenger for life-changing strategies. So I guess I'll just have to use this wise advice on myself instead.  If I can't save the next generation, at least I can save myself. Here's my grand plan to build those neural pathways:

• Play the fiddle more. (Remind me to tell you about the new band I'm in!)
• Exercise more. Use it or lose it is becoming uncomfortably relevant to me of late.
• Read and write more. Also known as, those things I say I'm all about but don't do nearly enough.
• Put. My. Phone. Down.  

I've never been more convinced that art -- making it, enjoying it, spending time with it -- is resistance. I know we are all finding ways to create the world we want, even if only in our little human-sized plots of space and time, and I'd love to hear yours. Sharing these small acts can only help us collectively stand against the machine that seems intent on grinding us all to a pulp. What are you doing to resist the prevailing culture of dread and fear? How are you creating optimism for yourself? What new neural pathways are you building day by day?

Right now, I am picturing a tiny, badass, all-female construction crew in my brain, energetically building new roads and connecting isolated sparks of creativity and consciousness. They seem like a trustworthy bunch: I'm sticking with them.

My kids may not be ready to listen to me, but the ones who still live here can't avoid listening to my fiddle. I do love a captive audience.

Link to Marketplace Morning Report segment

I AM FROM

My daughter Tallulah is our guest writer today! Please enjoy this poem she wrote last November, as well as the art she made to go with it.

I AM FROM

by Tallulah Alatorre

I am from long days in the yard lost in my imagination.

I am from a minivan stuffed full with 5 whirly children and two exhausted parents.

I am from the sound of NPR echoing in the halls on Sunday morning.

I am from apples and peanut butter served on a smooth wooden cutting board.

I am from trips to the beach with hot cocoa.

I am from hikes and creek explorations.

I am from long nights spent on a soccer field with the feel of an icy chill on my face.

I am from the evening sun hitting the yellowish walls of my home, illuminating the living room.

I am from the warm sweet smell of dinner preparing in the oven.

I am from walks to the corner store and soccer tennis at the park.

I am from hand-me-downs and everything used and loved before me.

I am from the crackling of the fireplace during winter time.

I am from doing my homework at a table splattered with paint and carved initials.

I am from lemonade stands and making cookies.

I am from warmth, love, and devotion. 

-----

Maybe we got some things right.  Thank you, Tallulah!

Tiny Rituals

Dateline, 2015. We rise early in the morning, my feisty 8-year-old and I, and head out to a soccer field.  As the youngest of five, she is all in for this gig, having tagged along to her older siblings' games and tournaments since she was born. Now it's her turn and she is beyond enthusiastic. Rabid might be a better word.

Early mornings are her favorite time to head out to a field, and games at least an hour away are the best. She loves to get up while it's still dark, pile her soccer backpack, pillows, and blankets into the car, and doze on our way to a game, holding a warm cup of hot chocolate and watching the sky lighten through half-closed eyes. We trundle down I-80. As we come around the wide curve in Albany, Golden Gate Fields appears, floating on the edge of the bay off to the right.  She perks up, stretches her body as high as she can, and starts to look for horses.

Golden Gate Fields is the local race track and in the early morning, trainers and jockeys are busy. From the freeway, we catch glimpses of horses practicing on the track, walking amidst the stables, or circling around a hot walker. We count as many as we can and as we pass the fields mere minutes later, we announce our findings: A 4 horse morning! A 2 horse morning!  A 9 horse morning!

Zero horse mornings are always a disappointment.  

On mornings we aren't together for her drive to a game, she excitedly reports the total to me later.  Her siblings – older, cooler – roll their eyes. I gush with enthusiasm and tell her how many I saw on my travels that day too.

-----

Dateline, 2019.  It's way too early in the morning. I'm trying to get my 12-year-old out the door. Turns out, she did not, as she assured me last night, have her entire soccer uniform and she still needs to find one blue sock. Frustrated, I growl something about how it's her responsibility to be ready for her game and it's not me who will be late to warm-up. She growls something that may or may not be actual language. She doesn't eat the food I made. I don't have any encouraging words to share. We each glare and fume and think uncharitable thoughts.

The car is thick with silence, and neither of us so much as glances at Golden Gate Fields as we drive by. This is most definitely a zero horse morning of our own making. Forty minutes later, she slams the door without a word and disappears into the misty morning. I sit in the car grateful to be by myself and generally annoyed that she's such a bi–– ...bitter little pre-teen.  What happened to my sweet girl? When did we become adversaries? Why did we stop counting horses?

-----

Dateline, 2022. My fifteen-year-old leaves in the morning with her older sister, who is now her main chauffeur. That precious car time we used to have so much of vanished one day without warning, and it turns out that I miss it. Mommy Brain has blissfully erased the frustrating mornings from my memory bank. I have time for other things now, but I know that her high school years will break the sound barrier as they whoosh past me. So as the car pulls away, I am both grateful for a quiet house and also a little melancholy about the nearly grown girls speeding down the street and away from me. Being a mom is confusing that way: always two competing emotions at once.

I settle into a comfortable chair with a hot cup of coffee and my laptop. I'll get some work done this morning and then take the dog for a walk, or play my fiddle, or binge-watch All Creatures Great and Small. I am positively giddy at the options. All my kids are old enough to do their own thing now and they need me less. Or at least differently.

Thirty minutes later, I am absorbed in a good book, when my phone pings with a quick text from my youngest. 

Time stands still and then rewinds, back to those lovely early mornings, back to the simple fun of counting horses and sharing the numbers with each other. Who knew it would stick?  Just for a moment, there are no competing emotions, just gratitude: for horses, for her, and for the tiny little rituals that bind us together. Smiling, I turn back to the good book. All is right in my world. 

-----

Note: Shoutout to Hideout and Suede, the handsome boys in the photo at the top; photo cred to my friend Janelle who is busy every day with these two.

The Truth is True, Even When It's Not

I have been cleaning up my laptop lately and finding really old files of all kinds of things. Today, I am posting one of the things I found. I have absolutely zero recollection of writing this piece, but apparently, I wrote it in 2018, during Lent.  2018 was a shit show: not only did it follow the single worst year of my life (2017), but our entire country was dripping with Trump droppings. Maybe that's why I don't remember writing it – I may have tried to erase that year entirely from my brain. 

Anyway, this is what I wrote back then.  It is imperfect and sloppy and not entirely sensical.  And it was good to find it today.

----------------------------------------------

The truth is true, even when it’s not.

I have been praying the rosary every weekday morning during this Lent.  The first time I did it, I was flooded with relief.  Spending time so differently—without noise and clamor and news and the distress that comes through my radio and my smartphone—felt like a gift to myself.

The quiet, the repetition, the reverence for things eternal: all of those seemed to bring me back to myself in a way that actually made me cry.  It felt right and just to be spending my time in that way.

I know why I thought of doing this in the first place: because of Ann.  She loved the rosary, loved Mary.  She had what is called a “devotion” to Mary – a special connection to the Blessed Mother that buoyed her and sustained her.  When she was sick, she and her family visited Lourdes, looking I’m sure partly for a cure and also for peace.  She didn’t find the cure.

I started doing the Rosary to feel closer to Ann.  Or maybe to be Ann.  When I am feeling the weakest and the least confident, I try to channel the people I love who have qualities or characteristics that I aspire to, like my dad’s ability to charm people and make them feel special.  When I’m feeling socially awkward or overly self-conscious, I think: “Channel Larry.”  And sometimes, I find a way to turn it around and focus my attention on other people.  It’s not a nice thing to do for others: it’s a survival mechanism for myself, a self-care strategy that has the added benefit of making other people feel good.

When I’m feeling disconnected and lonely, I think: “Channel Ann.”  And sometimes, I find a way to imitate the way she radiated love and goodness and made other people feel just plain blessed in her presence.

So I started doing the Rosary, so that I could maybe start to understand why Ann loved it so much.  To find in the repetition something of the deep peace she radiated.  

As the days have gone by, I have struggled a bit with the practice.  It feels odd to be repeating words like “save us from the fires of hell” and “pray for us sinners,” even though I have no problem with the idea of sin.  It feels both out of touch and relevant at the same time—a dissonance that is sometimes OK with me and sometimes, for lack of a better word, really weird.

It makes me wonder what Ann would say if I could ask her: “Why do you love the Rosary so much?”  But of course, I cannot ask her that, and realizing that I can’t ask her that, or any other question, ever again, brings on waves and waves of regret and sorrow.  That I didn’t ask her more questions when she was here, that I took for granted our friendship, that I behaved as if she would always be there for me.

She isn’t here anymore.

Yesterday, as I was saying the Rosary, I kept thinking about something the priest said at Ann’s Rosary, the night before her funeral Mass. He was describing her, and he talked about how our gathering to pray the Rosary was so fitting, because of Ann’s special devotion to Mary and her own love of the Rosary prayer. An unwelcome thought crossed my mind: “Was Ann perfect?  No one is perfect, but the way this guy is talking, it sure sounds like she was perfect.” I’m don't know why I had that thought. I think it all felt unreal to me: Ann dying. Us being gathered there, participating in a death ritual.  And it felt like we were celebrating a saint, a mystic...a unicorn. But the truth is, Ann was better than anyone I've ever met at actively, purposefully loving the people in her life.

And then I thought about eulogies in general, and how when we talk about the people we lose, we talk about their perfections. It is true that Ann was perfect. She was perfectly Ann. 

Did she have annoying qualities? Was she ever impatient with her kids, or too tired to do one more thing for them? Did she and Eric fight, or did she ever feel like a failure, or did she ever give in to weakness? I’m sure some or all of those things are true.  And still, she was perfect.  The truth is true, even when it’s not.

Not sure if I'll keep the rosary thing in my life, but I'm grateful for all the things doing it each day has made me think about, and especially grateful for the ways it is keeping Ann present and close.

Daybook: 9 January, 2022

Outside my window, the sky is piercing blue, the air is sharply chill. The planting beds are heavy with recent rains and replete with weeds that I should be pulling.

I am thinking about many many things: Aren't we all? I'll share the first five I can think of. (1) the stupid pandemic and how radically it has altered all of our lives; (2) the pile of laundry I need to get through; (3) my goal (at work) to raise $375,000 this year from individual donors; (4) the three large manual typewriters on my dining room table that have been there for two weeks (rendering the table unusable) and how I want to sell them so I can get rid of them and so I can use my table again; (5) the fact that I can never seem to get up early anymore. I used to get up at 6 or 6:30, and now I can barely crawl out of bed on the weekends before 9 or 10. Is it the cold winter weather? Is it the pandemic? 

I am thankful for the beignets my husband brought home this morning for all of us to enjoy, from Devils Teeth Baking in San Francisco.

From the kitchen: Coffee and beignets.

I am wearing grey yoga pants and a long-sleeve black shirt. So, basically, my uniform.

I am creating space. Always, forever, trying like hell to create space.

I am going to play my fiddle today if it's the last thing I do before head hits pillow tonight.

I am reading About a Boy, by Nick Hornby, a light-hearted fun read after the much heavier book I just finished: Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann. I recommend them both!

I am hoping that my two adult sons get their own place soon. They moved back to the Bay Area and into my tiny house three weeks ago. They/we are actively looking for an apartment for them, and we all need it to happen soon.

I am hearing the beeper on my microwave going off every 60 seconds, indicating that someone heated something up for themselves and then forgot to retrieve it.  It's anyone's guess how long we all just let the beeper go before one of us deals with it.

Around the house, there are too many piles of my two adult sons' belongings.

One of my favorite things: My dog.  She's not a thing, but she's my favorite.  She is sitting on my feet right now as I type.

A few plans for the rest of the week: figure out how to practice my fiddle and get exercise while also working full time.  It's very challenging to do it all.

And a picture: My daughter sent me a photo of her desk at college; she goes to the University of California, Santa Cruz.  I absolutely love this photograph: it is so her.  :)

Ahhh, college life!

I invite you to join me by posting your own daybook; the text in italics are your categories (or you can make up your own).

From the Flagstone

From the flagstone in the far corner of the garden
All I see are flames leaping from the copper pit and
Manzanita branches, sketching dark lines against the not-yet-night sky.

I’ve been sitting here for hours, finally just sitting,
Letting night descend, letting plants seep and mingle into darkness.
Listening to the irises and the ribes.

The dog runs back and forth, shimmying in the November air,
Tearing through fallen leaves,
Dancing in the disappearing light.
She has taken over for the bees, dashing from plant to plant
while they sleep and wait for the sun to rise again.

This patch of earth and stones and trees and grasses,
Is ours. Our place apart from concrete and cars, electrical lines and insatiable billboards.
Our place to sit, to stare, to listen.
At rest in a world of bees and flowers and shifting light.

Rope Swing Summer

 

Image by bednuts from Pixabay

Near the far end of the back forty,

Off to the right,

A space opens up in the brambles that line the creek.

He swishes through high grasses to the opening and enters. 

From the top of the slope, he can see the rock slab at the water's edge and

the thick worn rope hanging from a branch stretching across the creek. 

He climbs down to it, reaches out, grabs hold.  The sturdy length gives him enough slack 

to pull it all the way back up the slope.

The worn path at the top makes room for two or three steps before push off.

 

He flies through the summer day.

Air rushes by, smelling of dust, heat and dry grass.

He feels the rough hew of the rope in his hands; 

It catches the grooves of his calluses, promising to hold on.

He glides back and forth, again and again,

Over the sweet blackberries on the slope,

Over the water tumbling across the creek bed rocks.

 

This is not the day the branch will give way and snap, 

landing beside him with a crack on the hard slab.

This is the day he snacks on garden apples and blackberries, 

snags his jeans on thorny branches as he pushes further in

to snatch the plump ones just out of reach.

 

This is the day he enters the opening and disappears for hours,

So far away he’s in another world, free to be anything, do anything.

It’s up to him when he finally drops the rope.

 

And when that moment comes, he watches it swing a few times before coming to stillness again.  

Sweaty, purple fingertips, he climbs back up and into the back forty.

Crosses the dry grasses and salutes the garden apple trees. 

He slams the screen door on the way in.

Knuckleheads, Home From the Dance

My parents were the cool parents: they let me drive around in our sleepy one-horse town before I was officially licensed. Emphasis on sleepy. Nothing ever happened there, so they figured nothing would ever happen to me.

And they were right...until they weren't. Until one night at 2 am, when my friend Samantha and I returned home from a dance in the next town over. No, they had not let me drive that far, but they did say I could take Samantha home once the friend who had driven us there dropped us both at my house. So we had enjoyed the dance and then a party afterward–no alcohol for me–and then arrived back at mom and dad’s.  

We hopped in the orange and white Volkswagon van I learned to drive on and headed across town. She lived up in the hills, relatively far away (but still: sleepy town, nothing going on, you get the idea). I had never actually been to her house, so did not know that she lived at the top of a very long, very steep driveway. We pulled up to the bottom, and I pondered the hill before me, one hand on the gear shift of the van. 

Now, the smart thing to do would have been to have Samantha hoof it up that hill. We were both quite smart teenagers, so let’s just say it was a glitch in the fabric of the universe that we did not use our smarts to make the decision in front of us.

Let’s do it, I suggested gamely, and up we went. 

The driveway had wide curves in it, and I did fine through the first one. On either side of us, the brown grasses of the Valley of the Moon waved in a gentle nighttime breeze, their carpet punctuated by scrub oaks here and there. I had enough speed going to be fine...at first. As the slope continued, and the second curve was upon me, I couldn’t keep the speed up. The van stalled, shuddered, and died, with little ole unlicensed, inexperienced me, gripping the steering wheel. A flush of panic headed up my spine, my hands trembled.  

We looked at each other. Nothing to do but try to start this bad boy up again, so I gave it a go. But after I started the engine, there was the small matter of needing to take my foot off the brake in order to give it some gas. Years later, I would become a bad-ass San Francisco driver who would have scoffed at the challenge, but I was not yet that driver by a long shot. I tried; I failed; I panicked. And the van started to roll backward.  

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I wailed, completely unsure which way to turn the wheel to stay on the driveway.  

“Go forward, go forward!” Samantha screamed. “I’m trying!” I screamed back.

Mayhem ensued as the van gained speed. I had no idea what to do, so naturally, I did nothing. I let the van go where its heart would take it, which happened to be off the left-hand side of the driveway, down over the waving brown grasses, faster and faster, until halted in its trajectory by an oak tree, that keeper of the California hills.

We stopped with a bang. Not injured. Not harmed in the slightest. Just completely freaked out, with the specific intensity of teenage girls. I burst into tears, while Samantha looked stunned and frozen, both of us entirely dreading whatever might come next.

Way up at the top of the driveway, a light went on. We looked up to see the silhouettes of her parents, pajama-clad, shoulders bunched-up against the cold night air, staring down at the Orange Blossom Special resting against one of their trees.  

Sleepless in the Kitchen

From her perch on the landing at the top of the stairs, she listened to the grown ups enjoying their dinner. Between the three couples, several courses, and many bottles of wine, there was a lot to listen to. With the nubby orange-brown carpet beneath her and her pink flannel nightgown pulled tight over her knees, she reveled in every minute of her eavesdropping.

They talked about small town news: “Did you hear that Jim is drinking again? I don’t think Susan will put up with that anymore.”

About the upcoming election: “Will you be at Kathy and Bob's election night party?” “Of course! We wouldn’t miss it–can’t wait to see Reagan lose!”

About their kids: “Yeah, we tried telling him not to go out, but what can we do? He’s a teenage boy, and he’s just not listening to us! Little bastard!”

Sometimes they laughed so hard the walls shook, their voices building off of each other and blending in raucous shouts that filled the whole house. She loved listening to them like that: happy parents, enjoying their friends, in a warm house. Spying on the dinner party gave her hope for her life and future.

After they left, all six of them spilling out into the night for a late cocktail, she tip-toed downstairs in the suddenly quiet house. Dishes and serving platters filled the table. Used cloth napkins, empty wine glasses, and mismatched silverware splayed everywhere. The adjacent kitchen looked as if it had fed an army, with dirty pots and pans, used measuring cups and ingredients occupying every surface.

She didn’t want to go to sleep, as her siblings had done hours ago. She wanted to inhabit the space where all those noisy, happy grownups had been until a few moments ago. She trailed her finger on the table, glanced at the sink full of dishes. And then she started to clean. It took her a long time and she did it with care. She wasn’t normally one to volunteer for extra chores, but cleaning up on this night seemed like the best way to say thank you to her mom and dad for hosting the happy dinner party, for creating a soundtrack of friendship for her to grow up with. She put away all the food, scraped the leftovers off of the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, and gathered the table linens and started a load of laundry. She wiped down the dining room table and all the kitchen counters. Saving the best for last, she finished up by polishing the chrome on the old Wedgewood until it gleamed.

When the kitchen was finally clean, it was very late. Her parents would be home soon, she knew. Flicking off the downstairs lights, she climbed back up the stairs to the landing and sat down in her usual spot. Pulling her nightgown back over her knees, she smiled in anticipation and waited for them to walk in and find her thank you gift.

Daybook for 21 June 2021

Outside my window: there is a hazy blue sky that cannot decide if it is presiding over an uncomfortably hot day or a strangely cool one.

I am thinking about: my job. I work in development and communications for a charter school network, and the summer is always a time of reflection and planning. What did I and my team do well last year? Where can we improve? Remember the beginning of each new school year, when you had sharp pencils, fresh binders, and big plans to "be better" this year? Working for a school system means that I still have that experience. The big plans part starts early...that's what's on my mind these days.

I am thankful for: the beautiful game. We had an epically long, hot weekend of soccer with our youngest child, a weekend like we haven't had since before the pandemic.  Between Thursday night and Sunday night, we traveled many miles, ate lots of takeout, watched 320 minutes of girls pounding up and down the pitch, took one dip in a hotel pool, used many bags of ice to soothe sore muscles and to battle the 100-degree heat, talked soccer, watched soccer, thought about soccer, planned for soccer,...you get the idea.  On Sunday night, finally home and drifting off to sleep, when I closed my eyes I saw shadowy figures zig-zagging back and forth in my vision.  And all three of us -- myself, my husband and my badass 14-year-old soccer player -- enjoyed every angled minute.  We keep talking about how much fun it was. We are grateful for this thing that has pretty much taken over our lives, so I guess that makes us very fortunate indeed.  

From the kitchen: sadly, nothing special. I am trying to plan for a better kitchen week.

I am wearing: black yoga pants and a dark purple and black striped shirt.  And really clean shoes, because my husband oxy-cleaned my favorite tennis shoes for me after they had been on one too many hikes.

I am creating: epic to-do lists for my week.  My to-do lists are divided into four categories: (1) work stuff, (2) household and family tasks, (3) stuff for me, that makes me feel good, and (4) cooking and grocery shopping. Lists pretty much keep the whole AIRY-5 enterprise careening through the universe.

I am going: to pick up my daughter from her first day of high school summer school. Hoping we get along better on the way home than we did on the way there.

I am reading: too much Twitter, not enough actual books.

I am hoping: that my daughter gets the Trader Joe's job that she interviewed for!

I am hearing: an Amtrak train as it blows its whistle and barrels through West Oakland.

Around the house: sooooo many messes.  Too much dog hair on the floor; too much laundry to fold, too many projects left unfinished by too many people.  Must muster the strength to get them all to help me.

One of my favorite things: I'm going to repeat myself with this one and say soccer.  We really did have a great weekend, and I can't wait for more.

A few plans for the rest of the week: I plan to celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary with my favorite person in the world!  Good thing that person is also my spouse. 

And a picture:

Sunflowers next to one of our
soccer fields this weekend.

I invite you to join me by posting your own daybook!