In praise of the pivot

I write today with one simple idea: It's fine to change your mind, to flip flop, to revise course.

I say this for myself as I contemplate the infinite variety of choices I might make for my next chapter of life.

I say it for you and your loved ones, because the best gift we can give ourselves or someone we love may be permission to change direction, even in matters as big as political persuasion, religious affiliation, sexuality, or career.

And I say it for our country and our world because brinksmanship and inflexibility are inhumane. There's always another way forward, even if some will choose to call it a retreat.

When we pay attention, we can see the power of principled, thoughtful course correction (or at least the possibility of it) around us every day, even among people whose views may be vastly different from our own. I heard two examples in 15 minutes of radio news this morning. In the first, a Republican strategist urged the president to pivot away from his demand to build a wall on the U.S.-Mexico border and explained how he could save face doing so. In the second, a Christian writer who penned a bestselling book on saving sex for marriage has asked his publisher to stop printing new copies of it. He hasn't turned his back on his beliefs, but he's seen the harm and heartbreak that an inflexible approach to life and love can cause. 

We can see examples among friends and family, too. One of my dear ones was leaning toward getting a new job in 2019 until a heartfelt talk with his boss made him realize how much he values his current working relationship and how much he might contribute in the coming year. Of course, new facts and feelings could make him change his mind again--and that's OK, too. When we feel free to change our minds based on new evidence, the happier we can be.

Personally, the only thing I know with certainty is that I'll be moving again in a few months. I'm eager to leave a house that really only felt like home to me while Tom was here--and I am inclined to leave (at least in winter) a region that is cold and damp and sees only eight hours of daylight this time of year.

With my portable career and love for new vistas, I am truly spoiled for choice. One day, one hour, one minute, I think I know exactly where I want to go and what I want to do first, then I see another possibility and think "hmmmm ..." And there are certainly other opportunities of which I'm not yet aware, too.

At some point, I will need to decide where I want to be, at least for a while. The beautiful thing is that need not be my final decision. And whatever choices you make today need not be your final decisions, either.

Mind the gaps

My sweetheart Tom used to tell a story about a near-death experience he had shortly after his diagnosis with multiple myeloma. To paraphrase: He was on his way to an oncology appointment, driving on Interstate 5 near downtown Seattle, when his windshield shattered. He still made it to his appointment; he was a get-it-done guy. But later that day, a police officer examining the vehicle handed Tom a metal rod, several inches long. It had flown off a truck into Tom's car--and had its trajectory been just a little different, it would have struck Tom's head after it hit the windshield. Yet it didn't, and Tom didn't die that day. His cancer went into remission, he saw his kids graduate from high school, he helped launch a new radio station while working his day job in music, and he fell in love with me.

I've spent much of this year since June 30 cleaning out Tom's stuff, and I came across a longer, written account of that day that he gave as a talk at Toastmasters shortly before Thanksgiving a year or two after it happened. His message, of course, was that you never know when something might fly through your windshield and kill you, so be happy and grateful--and Tom usually was.

Five years ago this morning, I met Tom at the Oakland airport. He'd flown down from Seattle on Thanksgiving morning to spend the holiday with my brother and his husband and me. The next day, we packed up a small rental truck and set off for Seattle, where I'd decided to move to be closer to Tom. We'd only been together a few months at that point, but when you fall in love with someone who has cancer, you don't want to waste a lot of time.

Tom and I had another four-and-a-half years together. It would be more than two years before his cancer returned in early 2016. We spent Thanksgiving that year in a hospital room, three weeks after his autologous stem cell transplant and four days after Tom's oxygen dropped and his temperature spiked to 106.8 as his body briefly rebelled against his re-infused cells. He'd nearly died again, but with quick action from his medical team, Tom pulled through--and a few days later, we noshed on a not-bad hospital Thanksgiving meal while listening to Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant and Paul Simon's The Boy in the Bubble. Two days later, we were home.

"... these are the days of miracles and wonders ..."

A few weeks after that Thanksgiving, Tom would watch his son graduate from college via a streaming site on the Internet. He'd live another 19 months, regain his strength to work hard (mostly from home) and travel several more times, launch another radio station, see his daughter turn 21, and marry me on his 62nd birthday.

Eleven days after that, he was gone.

I'm tempted to say I've written off this Thanksgiving--and likely the whole holiday season. But that's not really true. Last weekend, I joined in an early celebration with my daughter and her dad and my brother and his husband. Later today, I'll volunteer on the reception team for Thanksgiving dinner at the Union Gospel Mission homeless shelter. At this point in my life, it's often easier to be with strangers than grieve with kin, though I look forward to spending time with family and friends, too.

After Tom's death, I started experiencing some serious health challenges. I don't find it useful to post about such things online; some people gain strength from sharing, but I find it draining, so I've kept the details mostly to myself and a few friends and family. Suffice it to say, I'm feeling better now than I did a few months ago and I'm doing what I need to do to address the remaining issues--even as I do the work of settling Tom's estate and as much paid editorial work as I can manage. (I'm lucky to manage four hours a day of the latter, but for now, that's enough.)

Next Thanksgiving, I hope I'll be doing something similar to what I did on Thanksgiving in 2000, when I sat enjoying a plate of pasta at a waterfront restaurant in Melbourne, Australia, ahead of Lonely Planet's Authors Week. Maybe I'll be in Mexico; maybe I'll be in Vietnam. I'll have no fixed address, living nowhere and everywhere (though I'll get back to the Northwest for Christmas). I plan to travel for at least a few years with my portable editing and writing career, and I hope to teach English as a foreign language, too. I've started the process to learn TEFL and will ramp up that plan in the new year once I've concluded my estate duties.

Meanwhile, this is a season of living while we wait to resume life. I have low expectations for myself and everyone around me. We all still miss Tom. Good days and bad. Yes, I'm shedding a few tears as I write this. Mostly, I'm giving thanks for what we had.

____

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Living with death

Halloween has never been my favorite holiday. I don't like to play dress up and I'm not drawn to the macabre; when my daughter and I visited Paris, the catacombs were high on her to-see list and I couldn't have cared less--so I skipped them, took a walk while she waited in the two-hour line, then sat in a sunny park and read a book.

I tried to go back to church in August for the first time since Tom died. I was doing OK until a woman wearing a black-and-white skull motif sweater materialized in front of me and suddenly I had to follow her along the narrow path--a person going to church, in August, wearing a sweater with skulls. Some people really like Halloween.

But not me. So I didn't plan to watch A Ghost Story last night. But I did, and I'm glad, and if you miss someone you loved very much, you might like it, too.

A 2017 release, A Ghost Story is directed by David Lowery and stars Casey Affleck; the two of them teamed up again this year on The Old Man & The Gun, which I saw earlier this week. There's a lot to like about The Old Man & The Gun: its attention to detail, its occasional meandering talkiness (since the character played by star Robert Redford is the taciturn sort, sidekick Tom Waits gets to deliver the movie's best monologue), and above all its meditative quality--yes, a movie that's ostensibly about robbing banks is really about knowing what makes life worth living.

I looked up what else Lowery has made, and I remembered hearing that there was more to A Ghost Story than its title and Halloween-costumed title character. I decided to watch, and I fell into it immediately. Imagine the most perfect moments you ever had with the person you loved, and how those perfect moments lived in an imperfect love that was still far more than enough. Imagine trying to reclaim those moments and--along the way--being of comfort as your beloved deals with your loss. This is what A Ghost Story seems to be about.

I went to bed right after watching A Ghost Story. A soft Seattle rain fell outside the window, and I could imagine having Tom there with me, curled up together as we had been so many times, just like that.

It'll never happen again. What matters is that it happened.

Steady joy

This a a wonderful day. I've never seen this one before. -- Maya Angelou on Twitter, May 17, 2013 *

It's a hard time for so many. My nation is bruised as badly as it's ever been. I have spent a little more time than I usually do with the news because I want to empathize with what others are feeling and thinking at this raw time. But as usual, I feel it's best to consciously ration my media consumption. (Here's an essay I wrote about that for 3rd Act Magazine.)

It's a sour and confusing season we're living through. I feel this keenly, as personal grief over the loss of my beloved and brilliant Tom suffuses my days and nights--and yet amid this cultural acrimony and wrenching personal loss, I can still seek and I find the steady hand of joy. Maybe not every minute or every hour, but every day, often enough.

I named this blog for Henry David Thoreau's affirmation that "surely joy is the condition of life." But another quote about joy speaks to me now: Brother David Steindl-Rast's observation that joy "is the happiness that doesn't depend on what happens." This is steady joy, and it's a gift to be treasured--and a practice to be cultivated--especially at a time like the one we find ourselves in.

That's all the wisdom I have to offer right now, but you might enjoy this lovely "On Being" conversation about gratitude between Brother David and Krista Tippett.

* The great poet Angelou indeed made a "mistake" in this tweet; of course, she meant "This is a wonderful day." For whatever reason, she never edited her tweet, and I won't, either, even though I make my living as an editor. OK, one more thought, courtesy the Rev. Lindasusan Ulrich of BraverWiser: "Spirit of Compassion, remind us that our task as humans is not perfection." Amen to that.

Appletree Cove, Kingston, Washington. Photo by Julie Fanselow

Here's to the working people

That's most of us, right? I am going to work a bit today, but that's because I took an early holiday weekend Thursday through Saturday. Being my own boss means having the flexibility to time-shift my time off. But since today is Labor Day, I'm also thinking about the other people who are working today, especially in low-wage jobs and contract labor with no benefits.

I shy far away from politics these days, but today I want to salute organized labor. For two years (2010-2012), I worked alongside and on behalf of thousands of educators in Idaho during a time when they were fighting several pitched battles on behalf of their students and themselves. These were amazing people who put in long hours on their jobs as teachers and coaches and counselors, and who knew the power of spending a bit more time to organize and negotiate good working conditions, wages, and benefits for themselves and their colleagues.

Missouri voters recently said no to a "right-to-work-for-less" proposition on their ballot. This was one of the best developments for American working people in many years. Organizing takes time, people, and money. It's only fair that all the workers who benefit from the fruits of labor negotiations help pay for them.

Those of us who work for ourselves--who've created our own jobs--can take advantage of the Affordable Care Act (which was a brilliant job-creation bill) and grant ourselves time off as we need it. For teachers and nurses and police officers and firefighters and skilled craftspeople--not to mention retail and service and healthcare workers who need advocacy more than most--organizing is one way employers and employees can work together to be sure hard work is valued and recognized.

It'll be great if we can one day live in a world where all work--including the work of parenting and caregiving--were justly valued and fairly compensated, and where we all enjoy healthcare, paid time off, guaranteed retirement income, and the other rewards of hard work. Until then, happy day of remembering that unions built the American middle class and the 40-hour workweek. And don't forget to vote.

Make it up as we go along

I have a habit that's developed over the past two weeks: Since I need to wait at least a half-hour between taking the pill for my mysterious new medical condition and drinking my morning coffee, I fetch my phone--which I try to leave outside the bedroom; I usually sleep better that way--and listen to SPACE 101 in bed for a while. It's a low-power Seattle radio station that my husband helped launch during the year before he died.

Often, I'll hear Tom's voice lingering on in station IDs. Always, I'll hear his music: the thousands of inspired, eclectic tracks he programmed for the times of day when there's no one live on the air. This morning, I heard R.E.M.'s "Driver 8" and "40 Years in the Wilderness" by Bruce Cockburn, "Festina" by Thomas Bartlett and Nico Muhly, "Call the Police" by LCD Soundsystem, and "Blue Juice" by Jimmy McGriff.

The random automation occasionally drops a heart bomb. "This Must be the Place" has been a favorite song of mine for decades, and I remember playing the Talking Heads' track as the highly symbolic first song I listened to in a few new apartments over the years, from small-town Ohio in my 20s to Oakland, California, in my 50s. This summer, when I heard it a few days after Tom died--again, early in the morning on SPACE, knowing he'd programmed it--I knew it had been ruined for me forever, if ruining a song means that tears will start flowing whenever I hear it from now on, and that those tears will be sad and welcome at the same time.

I gave it a good go this morning. Maybe I'll try to sing along, I thought. I sat up, got out of bed, choked out a few phrases as I pulled the shades open and poured my coffee. I made it most of the way, but I had dissolved into tears by the time David Byrne sang "Did I find you or you find me?"

In his excellent book The Wild Edge of Sorrow, Francis Weller describes the intersection of joy and grief, which William Blake summed up as "the deeper the sorrow, the greater the joy." "On my visit to Africa, I remarked to one woman that she had a lot of joy," Weller writes. "Her response stunned me: 'That's because I cry a lot.'" She wasn't happy because she worked a lot or shopped a lot or watched a lot of TV, but because she cried a lot.

I am crying a lot. Some days go by with no tears, but it's better when I cry. I am hopeful that however and whenever and wherever the tears come, they will wash away whatever silt has built up in my bloodstream and organs and pores over the past few months--that music can heal me, cover up the blank spots, and eventually let me find the next place I'm meant to be.

Listen to SPACE 101fm

The core of discovery

Sometime soon,  a six-year-old boy named Henry and his dad will head west on the Oregon Trail--and I'll be their guide.

Well, sort of. As writer B.J. Hollars began preparing for this journey, he found a copy of my Oregon Trail book. As he writes on his work-in-progress website for Go West Young Man:

When selecting our guide, Henry and I go with what seems simple and practical.  Something that steers me clear of coordinates and paces and other pitfalls that might mean a world of trouble for a navigationally-challenged person such as myself.  Upon cracking wide Julie Fanselow’s Traveling the Oregon Trail, I know I’ve found my guide. 
Originally published in 1992, Julie’s account offers more than distances to destinations.  Interspersed throughout its more informational pages are glimpses of memoir, flashes of personal experience that bring her journey to life.  In its opening pages, I come across Julie’s most memorable moment on the Oregon Trail, which just so happens to have involved her six-year-old daughter.

B.J. reached out to me for a phone call about my experiences traveling on the trail, first on my own in the early 1990s and later that decade with my young daughter as I updated the book. I love B.J.'s recounting of our talk, which you can read here. Here's my favorite part:

As our conversation winds down, I relay to Julie the question Henry most wanted me to ask.
“How do you not get bit by a rattlesnake?”
She laughs.
“The key is seeing and hearing and being aware of your surroundings,” she says, explaining that this means keeping my attention on the moment rather than peering zombie-eyed at my phone or listening to the music in my ear buds.    
This seems like sound advice.
But there’s another key she tells me: we can’t let ourselves be afraid.
“Going out and seeing the world is the absolute most fun thing you can do,” she says.

Indeed. If I've learned anything in my life beyond the wonder of loving and being loved, it's this: Travel is by far the best way to spend your time and money, and it's both more possible and more important now than ever before.

It's possible because even if you're living with limited means, you can fly to another continent and back for a few hundred bucks; sleep in hostels or Airbnbs (with the occasional splurge on a modest hotel); and eat like the locals do, with farmers market food and trips to the grocery store. Or you can pack up the car like Henry and his dad will--or hop on a bus or train--and make memories with people you love.

It's important because we live at a time when people starting a trip hear "safe travels" more often than "bon voyage!" Simply put, travel trumps fear. It gets us out of our comfort zones and into places where we can witness our common humanity.  I could write for days about this, but I'll let Rick tell you more. Travel is at the core of discovery: of yourself and of our amazing world.

In another chapter of his pre-trip writings,  B.J. writes about playing the classic Oregon Trail computer game with Henry. Among the game's lessons: When shooting buffalo, "never kill more than you can carry." I don't have a gun when I travel (or anytime else, for that matter), so my trip motto is always "Never pack more than you can carry." That's another post. I'll write it soon.

Meanwhile, I'd like to bid Henry and his dad glad tidings for a memorable, meaningful journey--and leave you, dear reader, with my wish that you, too, will take a trip somewhere soon, even if you've just returned from one. Because going out and seeing the world is the absolute most fun thing you can do.

P.S. Traveling the Oregon Trail went out of print a few years ago, but there are still plenty of used paperback copies floating around--or you can buy the e-book version and I'll get a small royalty.  Either way, happy trails!

An April 15 to remember

April 15, 1947, was the day Jackie Robinson started for the Brooklyn Dodgers, becoming the first black man to play Major League Baseball in the modern era. The day has become an annual celebration of inclusion and diversity in baseball, and I can't imagine a better one than we had yesterday--at least for the teams whose games were not snowed or rained out amid this spring's tempestuous weather.

At about the same time political junkies were glued to ABC News (and I'll get around to reading the George Stephanopoulos-James Comey transcript later today), baseball fans were riveted by a pitching duel for the ages on ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball. On one side, the Texas Rangers and journeyman pitcher Bartolo Colon, who will be 45 years old next month. On the other, the Houston Astros and Justin Verlander, the longtime Detroit Tigers ace who joined the eventual World Series champs during their playoffs push last summer.

Colon took a perfect game into the eighth inning before giving up a walk and a double in that frame. He would have been the oldest pitcher ever to hurl a no-hitter; it was thrilling to see him get that close. Meanwhile, Verlander surrendered just one hit, a home run, while striking out 11 batters over eight innings. The final score is almost superfluous in a game like this one, but the Rangers prevailed 3-1 in 10 innings.

Earlier in the day, the Seattle Mariners played the Oakland A's at Safeco Field. Both teams had battled in long games on Friday and Saturday nights, so their offense was sleepy. But it was a fun day at the ballpark, as always, and an especially exciting day for me: The seating host line-up card had me down on the dugout for sections 122-123, a plum post I'd never had. (The regular host, Jill, had the day off.)  I got close-up views of our guys all wearing number 42--Robinson's number--and I got to dance with the Mariner Moose and his mascot buddies atop the dugout during the 7th-inning stretch. There's a pretty good chance I was on TV a time or two, right behind Nelson Cruz's shoulder.

Before the game, I had a good conversation with a longtime fan, Kitty, who handed me a stack of baseball cards to pass along. She'd just had her own Ichiro Suzuki card signed by the great outfielder who has recently rejoined the Mariners (and who signed autographs for a good 15 minutes after his workout). We traded notes on growing up as baseball fans--her Tacoma Giants, my Pittsburgh Pirates. On top of all that, the Rockford Peaches were in the house, too, or at least their 2018 doubles: a group of fans dressed up as the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League team made famous in the movie A League of Their Own.

Baseball is a wonderful game, with layers upon layers of history and achievement and human drama. It attracts generous people, on and off the field, and it makes my heart glad. If you love baseball, too, you know what I mean. And if you don't, thanks for reading this anyway.

The Hall of Fame plaque for Ken Griffey Jr., who led the way to create baseball's annual Jackie Robinson Day. Griffey, who usually wore number 24 for the Seattle Mariners, wore Robinson's number 42 on April 15, 1997, to raise awareness of Robinson's achievements. The number has since been retired throughout Major League Baseball--except when all players wear it on the annual Jackie Robinson Day games on April 15. 

'Melancholy: A Way to Happiness'

That's the title of a chapter I read this morning in Ageless Soul: The Lifelong Journey Toward Meaning and Joy by Thomas Moore. I'm enjoying this book. In it, Moore notes how we age throughout our lives--and about how it's natural for melancholy to increase as we get older and see more illness and death in our lives.

Mom, me, Dad

Today marks the sixth anniversary of my dad's death, so it's naturally a melancholy time of year--especially since my mom also died in early spring. As difficult as it is to face the loss of loved ones, I've always felt grateful that my parents both passed from this Earth in its time of rebirth. Spring softened the blow in both cases, even though their deaths could not have been more different. I was just 25 when I suddenly lost my mom; I was 50 when my dad died after years of decline. Both deaths helped prepare me for future losses, but my father's much more gradual passage was much more profound to me because I was old enough to process it in all its complexity.

I remember how, when I was living through my dad's difficult final months, I sometimes referred to the experience as my "holy days of obligation." As his daughter, of course I felt bound to help him through his final days as he and my mom cared for me as a child. That was the obligatory part, the often-difficult work of tending to the ever-shifting needs of someone wrestling with cognitive decline and physical pain he frequently could not articulate.

But it was an unbelievably holy time, too. I remember one evening when I wearily left Dad's apartment, crossing the parking lot to catch my bus on a nearby corner. A full moon had risen and I spontaneously broke into song:

Spirit of life, come unto me, sing in my heart, all the stirrings of compassion ... *

It was a preview of even more profound times to come, culminating in the day Dad said goodbye, three days before Easter 2012. On that day, as my brother and I sat vigil knowing the end was near, the stirrings of compassion became more real. With the help of an angel from hospice, we learned what it means to have a good death.

Moore writes how sadness is part of growing older. We don't need to rage against it; in fact, if we can sit with our melancholy, it need not turn into existential dread or depression "but instead only one strand of mood among others." And that is how I feel this rainy April day: As the best-laid plans sometimes shift and some long-held dreams recede, we learn acceptance and perspective. Or, as Moore says, "If you can allow melancholy its place, you have a better chance to be deeply happy."

* Spirit of Life, a beloved Unitarian Universalist hymn. Words and music by Carolyn Dade.

Easter as a decision

Last in a series for #UULent2018.

Easter is a decision to live with hope -- fully, recklessly, courageously -- even in the face of death and despair itself. --The Rev. Scott Alexander 

Today's #UULent word is anticipation. I grew up Lutheran, so it seems to me this would be a better word for tomorrow, the day before Easter. As a kid hearing the story of Jesus dying on the cross on what came to be called Good Friday, I sometimes wondered what was so good about it. Then again, we knew that the story had a happy ending on the way.

We can't always know that in real life, and the fact that Easter 2018 falls on April 1 gives the whole idea of happy endings a sardonic edge. But for decades now, I've thought of Easter as more of a verb--an idea introduced to me about 20 years ago in a wonderful sermon by the Rev. Scott Alexander. To Easter means to live in hope, particularly in troubled times.

And here I'd like to say a few words about baseball. The 2018 Major League Baseball season began yesterday, ushering in a six-month, 162-game odyssey that tests the hopes of its players and fans like no other sport. Baseball's Opening Day always brings huge anticipation that this year might be different (or the same, if you're the Houston Astros). But as I've written before, although a World Series ring is always the goal, a more realistic hope is to win more games than you lose--and have a good time along the way.

I finally made it to Cooperstown and the National Baseball Hall of Fame last fall, a few weeks after the 2017 regular season wound down. It was a bucket-list trip for me, and I  spent two days wandering its galleries and took hundreds of photos. (See more here, if you'd like.) Here are two I'd like to post today: a picture of the gorgeous spiritual home of baseball, Doubleday Field, and the hand-written lyrics of baseball's most famous song.

No matter what you anticipate in this season of resurrection and possibility, may you always experience joy in the journey.

Many, many thanks

Sixth in a series for #UULent2018.

Today's UULent word is gratitude. As I've noted a few times, I'm taking part in UU Wellspring--Spiritual Practices at my church. As befits our spacious Unitarian Universalist faith, we are encouraged to try any number of practices to see which ones work best in our lives. Back in January, we were encouraged to begin a gratitude journal: basically, to take time every night before bed to write down five things for which we were grateful that day.

I've fitfully kept gratitude journals before, as far back as 2005. This time, though, I've done it faithfully nearly every day since starting January 3. Two weeks after I started, I wrote, "This was a good exercise. It helped me recognize how grateful I am for my life as it is right now and that little things mean the most."

I like the idea of going to sleep with a grateful heart, but I've found that it's easier for me to write my gratitudes as part of the quiet mornings I enjoy most days: often before I read a while, sometimes after. Either way, it helps set the stage for a grateful day.

Gratitude journals past and present

The waiting is the hardest part

Fifth in a series for #UULent2018.

Today's UU Lent word is patience. Lord, it's a long, long road.

I had the privilege of seeing Tom Petty perform live twice: once back in the 1980s with Bob Dylan and again last summer at Safeco Field. None of us there for his concert last August knew that he had fewer than 10 shows remaining and that he'd be gone six weeks later. It was all about the moment and the power of music. I'm sure it was the same five weeks later for the people who saw his very last show at the Hollywood Bowl.

Petty's death, especially coming hours after the heartbreaking day in Las Vegas, was a wake-up call for many of us. That's a cliche, but it's true. Stop waiting. Start living.

I've been doing a lot of waiting lately. The client that gave me the largest amount of editing work last year won't need any freelance help for a bit (and even that's not guaranteed). Meanwhile, I've been sending out article queries and essays and letters of interest. It usually feels like these are going into a void and, given the amount of email most of us get these days, I rarely expect a reply.

I have exactly one assignment at the moment, and it's not going well. I need to interview a handful of people in their 50s or 60s who've moved to Edmonds, Washington, from beyond the Seattle area, and I've sent several dozen inquiries to people who might know of such folks. So far, I have found none. Fortunately, I still have about a month until my deadline, so I'll start walking the streets of Edmonds soon in hopes of randomly finding my people. It's not a big place, and wandering its charming downtown is a fine way to spend time, so this isn't exactly a problem--and my inquiries elsewhere may yet bear fruit. Still ... it's more waiting. (And if you or someone you know recently relocated to Edmonds from outside the Seattle area, please raise your hand.)

So my writing and editing work is a big ball of waiting right now. But many other things are just fine. Baseball starts soon, and I'll be back for a third season as an usher at the ballpark. I've had more time to meditate, read books, run errands, do spring cleaning, help my partner, and take long walks. I also have more time to do my favorite thing in the world, and that's travel. My sweetheart and I have a train trip planned soon, and I'll be going to the wild edge of Scotland a month after that, volunteering to get garden beds ready for spring and taking inexpensive room and board in trade for my efforts.

I left full-time work again just over two years ago because I value time more than money. It's a hard way to live at times, and patience has never been my strongest virtue. I get better at it all the time, though, and I'll keep practicing--and living like there may be no tomorrow, or thousands of tomorrows.

I want to be in the room where it happens

Fourth in a series for #UULent2018

We’re living in a time when it’s possible to experience anything from a concert to a face-to-face conversation with friends in real time online, no matter where we are.

It’s amazing, but it’s still not the same as being there in person, without a screen as intermediary. Of course, I am writing this on my phone while sitting on the bus. But I’ve been blessed to have a few indelible in-person experiences in the past few weeks.

I traveled to Twin Falls, Idaho, earlier this month for the 25th anniversary party of the Unitarian Universalist fellowship I helped start there in 1993. It was a joy to see people I hadn’t seen in years—both from the Magic Valley UU Fellowship and from the Boise UU Fellowship, which brought its choir and other congregants along to help celebrate.

Earlier that day, I was able to check in on a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. She was diagnosed several years ago with cognitive decline, so I wondered whether she’d remember me. She did, and we had a lovely visit—one we couldn't have enjoyed on the phone. It’s true her short-term memory is gone; she asked me the same questions over and over, as I expected she would. But she has sweet memories from decades gone by, and she is able to appreciate a favorite painting as much as she ever could. And interestingly, she told me how much less stressed I seem these days than when I was younger and always in a hurry. Hmmmm ...

Later that same wonderful week, I finally saw Hamilton onstage at Seattle’s Paramount Theater. It was all I’d hoped it would be; I still have earworms 10 days later. For weeks before the show, I'd been enjoying the original cast recording, but hearing and seeing this landmark musical in person was one of the best entertainment experiences of my life—made all the sweeter because I was able to share it with people I love.

Technology is a fine way to reach out to people and to experience the world. But being physically present—at least some of the time—is priceless.

More will be revealed

Third in a series for #UULent2018.

Sometimes in life, we choose things without really knowing why, trusting that we'll figure it out as we go along. Such was the case for me when I signed up for another year of UU Wellspring--a program for spiritual deepening--late last summer.

The first time I applied to be in Wellspring, for the 2015-2016 session, I was extremely intentional about it. I'd heard great things about the program from past participants, and I went into it feeling it might be useful as a discernment tool. Wellspring was helpful as I addressed the question of whether to stay in a job I liked but did not love, and it wound up being valuable in many other ways.

Still, when I got an email last spring asking whether I wanted to sign up for a year of further inquiry into spiritual practices, I demurred. I didn't think I'd have time enough to focus on what Wellspring ideally requires (a friend likens it to "graduate school for the soul," albeit without tests and student loans), and I was thinking about taking part as a mentor in my congregation's Coming of Age program. But another call for Wellspring went out late last summer. They needed a few more people to sign up if it was to proceed. I decided to go for it, and I'm glad I did.

Two-thirds into this year's program, Wellspring continues to give me a widening and deepening palette of spiritual tools. My final project for the 2015-2016 year was a collage featuring a "palette of practice," on which I included the many components I use on my eclectic spiritual path. (You can see it at the bottom of this blog's home page.) They include gratitude, nature, partnership, music, community, walking, meditation, attention, hospitality, and discernment.

Those are all still in play for me, but it's interesting to watch how they wax and wane. For example, two months ago, our Wellspring assignment was to begin a gratitude journal--something I've done occasionally over the years, but never faithfully. For whatever reason, I'm able to do it more regularly now, and I'm getting a lot out of it.  If I had to redo my palette now, I think I'd add one practice that doesn't seem to fit in with those I drew two years ago, and I'd call it "possibility"--as in, being open to possibility. In fact, I'd probably rename my work a "palette of practice and possibility."

In addition to our twice-monthly sessions and in-between homework of various kinds, Wellspring participants are asked to meet at least monthly with a spiritual mentor. At each session, my mentor asks whether I want to choose a little angel heart stone from a basket she has nearby. Most have words on the back, but the one I chose last week had no words: just the angel, arms outstretched, with a spark for the heart. It's the stone of unlimited possibilities, my mentor said.

Possibility is something I've written about before and something I sense stirring for me again. As a writer and editor, I must constantly think about where to place my professional energy and whether or not I'll earn money in the exchange. (That's not something the average mechanic or doctor or plumber needs to consider when plying their skills.) At times, this makes me resentful when I choose to write for no pay (as I do here on this blog, for example), or for less than I ought to earn. I also know that as someone who has freelanced most of my adult life and as someone of modest means, I'll need to use these main skills of mine for many years to come, for love or for money, ideally for both.

It's here that the sense of possibility keeps me going--that, and the flexibility I have as a self-employed person. Hearkening ahead to another word coming up on the UU Lent calendar, I find myself more curious than I've been in a while about where my writing may take me, and I feel open to possibilities I have not considered.

Learn more about UU Wellspring here. And if you'd like to support my work, consider buying a copy of Surely Joy (the book!) or even hiring me as a writer or editor for your project. You can learn more and reach me via LinkedIn. 

In defense of surrender

Second in a series for #UULent2018. 

Today's #UULent word is surrender, a word that has such a negative connotation in our culture: of defeat, of compromise, of being wrong, of giving up and giving in.

I've come to defend surrender.

I've been thinking a lot this winter about the Buddhist concept of "not knowing." It arose in the wonderful book my UU Zen group has been reading over many months, If You're Lucky, Your Heart Will Break by James Ishmael Ford. It came up again in my book club's February selection, This Is How It Always Is by Laurie Frankel. Not knowing. The middle way. Comfort with ambiguity. Deep agnosticism, as Ford put it.

In this context, surrender needn't mean defeat. It can mean acknowledging that you don't have all the answers. Should I leave my job with benefits to start a business? Should I marry this person? Should I participate in this clinical drug trial?

Surrender can mean moving ahead without having all the information you'd need to make what many people would call a rational decision. No matter how many Google searches you do, no matter how many friends you consult (on Facebook and face to face), no matter how many studies and self-help books and op-eds you read, no matter how many TED talks and YouTube videos you watch, no matter how many pro-con lists you make, sometimes you need to--or you might simply want to--follow your gut or your heart or your soul and move forward, despite the not-knowing.

Surrender can also mean giving up the idea that you must have an opinion on everything. It's the realization that you need not judge every person, every situation, and every circumstance you encounter. That form of surrender can be incredibly freeing, especially in the political and cultural climate we have today.

If you're reading this blog, odds are good you've read or heard "The Guest House" by the 13th century Persian mystic Rumi, but I'll include it here to refresh your memory (and if it's somehow new to you, you're welcome!):

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival. 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, 
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all! 
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out 
for some new delight. 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing, 
and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes, 
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond. 

In other words, if I'm understanding Rumi (as translated by Coleman Barks), you don't need to rail against every politician with whom you vehemently disagree or curse every jerk who makes your life miserable. Nor do you need to sacrifice your ideals and values. But judicious acts of surrender can free you to have new insights, new experiences, and new delights that you may not be open to if you are consumed by the unhappy dogmas, habits, and plagues that are continually being visited upon us as part of being human.

Being comfortable with ambiguity, uncertainty, and surrender takes practice. (I figure I'll be practicing it for the rest of my life.) Since this is Lent, I'll end with a few more verses from Rumi (these are from "A Necessary Autumn in Each"):

There's a necessary dying, and then Jesus is breathing again.
Very little grows on jagged

rock. Be ground. Be crumbled, so wildflowers will come up
where you are. You've been 

stony for too many years. Try something different. Surrender.

Humility, humanity, and the art of adulthood

"It's hard to be humble when you're as great as I am." -- Muhammad Ali

I really hate making mistakes, and I recently made a bad one: In a book review, I relayed another author's quote about the work, but I mistakenly wrote that the person I was quoting had died last summer. My goof was the result of seeing an obituary in a too-quick Google check of the person's name. It didn't help that the still-alive author had the same name and birth year as the person who'd died, never mind the fact they both lived in the same city. Oy.

Mistakes will be made. They're never easy. I'm human, and I admit I goofed here.

Speaking of obituaries, John Perry Barlow died a few weeks ago and I enjoyed reading about his life. The one-time lyricist for the Grateful Dead was also the co-founder of the Electronic Frontier Foundation. Among the artifacts that circulated in remembrances of his life was a 25-point typewritten document titled "Principles of Adult Behavior."

A healthy ego is a good thing, especially leavened with a sense of humor. I can be full of myself at times, and also full of it, so it's a useful corrective to be proven wrong once in a while.

Here's Barlow's list ...

P.S. Thanks for reading. This is the first of what I hope will be weekly posts over the next few weeks in observance of #UULent 2018.

In the name of love

Today is the day we honor the life and work of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, born January 15, 1929. What would he make of what we've made of our country?

Winter's dark days give us ample time for reflection, and an excuse to make the most of the light. Here in Seattle, we've had a spectacular holiday weekend: dry, clear, warm all three days. Such a gift.

For a long time, Tom and I have wanted to make the short trip to Whidbey Island to hear our friend the Rev. Dennis Reynolds preach at the Unitarian Universalist congregation he serves there. Yesterday was the day we finally made it, and it felt like we were meant to be there. Dennis was likely not the only minister who'd planned a sermon about Dr. King and found himself rewriting it late last week in the wake of words spoken in the White House.

But the bones of Dennis' message remained intact, and they were the bones and sinew and soul of Dr. King and other prophets, ancient and modern, who tell the truth. "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that," King wrote. More than ever, King's words urge us on toward commitment, and Dennis spoke of modern prophets, including the Rev. William J. Barber, who continue to carry a message of nonviolence, justice, and advocacy for the poor. Dennis finished his sermon with the entirety of Langston Hughes' "Let America Be America Again." Starkly juxtaposed against the past week -- but in fact the past year, the past decade, our entire history as a nation -- the 1935 poem is as relevant as ever.

America will be, but we're not there yet.

And yet hopeful signs abound. Here are a few others I've found just in the past week:

I read the Rolling Stone interview with Bono, then sat down to listen to Songs of Experience. My favorite song on the new U2 record remains the first single, "Get Out of Your Own Way." It starts as a plea for a woman to leave her abuser; it ends (in the segue to "American Soul") as a call for a singular country to fulfill its destiny. It's #metoo meets man-splaining, perhaps, but it's also the world begging America to become America.

Rick Steves has a new blog post about how his own family immigrated to America from Norway--at the time, "a miserable place to live...a land without promise." They arrived in Duluth, Minnesota, with $20 and thought of it as the Promised Land. We are and always have been a nation of immigrants, Rick adds, noting that while we may have a leader who fears and loathes immigrants, "I believe America is more American than that -- and that we're waking up." (Disclosure: I am a contract editor for Rick's guidebook division, and I feel blessed to be aligned with his company and his world view. Travel is the best way to trump ignorance and fear.)

Finally, after seeing it on so many Best-of-2017 lists, Tom and I watched the movie Mudbound last week. Based on a novel by Hillary Jordan and directed by Dee Rees, this Netflix original film is the story of two families living in the Mississippi Delta in the middle of the 20th century. I loved it on many levels, but especially for its rich detail of the inherent worth and dignity of nearly all of its many characters--and for how it shows us the possibility of leaving our bondage, not just the shackles of slavery, but the chains of thought and habit that keep us spiritually enslaved.

On this MLK Day, I believe we can rise up. I believe we can keep bending the arc of the moral universe toward justice. I believe that together, we can help America be America again.

Happy new year