Pandemic postcard #36: Thanks for the memories

This week's post comes a little early as we usher in this strange holiday season. I wish you all as happy a Thanksgiving as your current circumstances allow.

In 2010, I reflected on the most memorable Thanksgivings I'd had so far and was surprised to realize they'd all been in my 20s. What a difference 10 years makes. Today, I can easily remember how I spent  every single Thanksgiving from the past decade. This feels good at a time of life when my memory is supposed to be fading. 

It's 2011, the first of several in a string of Thanksgivings spent in San Francisco with my brother Jeff and his partner Kevin, both skilled and loving cooks. Such good food, such good company. On Friday, Jeff and Kevin treat Bruce and Natalie and me to a visit to the California Academy of Sciences. A butterfly briefly rests on Kevin's hand. He is the butterfly whisperer.

2012. I have lived in the Bay Area for seven months, decamping there from Idaho just after Dad died. The job I've moved here for is a disappointment, but I absolutely love California: the light, the people, the diversity. I am living a long-held dream of not needing to own a car, but I rent one to fetch Natalie at Humboldt State for her Thanksgiving break. We join Jeff and Kevin and Bruce for another memorable meal. 

Thanksgiving morning 2013. I am at the Oakland airport, nearly giddy with anticipation at seeing Tom for the first time in a few weeks. We share Thanksgiving with Jeff and Kevin and sleep at their place, since my Oakland apartment is packed up. The next morning, Tom and I pick up a small rental truck, meet a packing crew, and get on the road to Seattle, where I've rented an apartment to be closer to my love.

2014. It's just Tom and me this year. We take a morning train to Centralia, WA, and enjoy a leisurely midday dinner at McMenamins' Olympic Club, where the buffet is spread out over several pool tables. We retire to our room upstairs and take a long nap. It is a perfect day. 

Tom and I get two Thanksgivings in 2015. The first is in the Denver suburbs on Sunday, with Tom's brother Marty and his family and a bunch of people from the bar Marty owns. Tom plays his dad's old banjo. On Tuesday, Tom and I board Amtrak's California Zephyr at Denver's Union Station and ride over the Rockies for Thanksgiving #2, with Jeff and Kevin plus Natalie, who has flown down from Boise. 

Thanksgiving 2016 comes a few weeks after Tom's stem cell transplant, and it's just the two of us celebrating at Swedish Hospital. Considering that he had almost died from engraftment syndrome four days before the holiday, Tom is doing much better. I dial up Paul Simon ("These are the days of miracles and wonders ...") and Arlo Guthrie on Spotify, we eat the not-too-bad-for-hospital-food Thanksgiving dinner, and we are grateful. 

2017. I don't have specific memories of this holiday--my most recent one in San Francisco--apart from the warm embrace of family, of building a collaborative playlist, and of gathering around the table for another amazing meal. Of course, we watch Love Actually afterward. This will be Tom's last Thanksgiving. We don't know that yet, but after the wild ride of Thanksgiving Week 2016, I don't take anything for granted.  

2018. It's a weird year. Tom has been gone four four months. Kevin and Natalie both work in the plant-care field and Thanksgiving season means poinsettia distribution. We decide to make it easy on Natalie this year and meet at a rented Airbnb near Boise to mark an early Thanksgiving. I spend the actual holiday handing out food and socks at the Union Gospel Mission in downtown Seattle. 

2019. I have plans to see Natalie in Boise just before Christmas, my extended family in Chicago on December 24 and 25 (for the first time in decades), and Jeff and Kevin in San Francisco for New Year's, so I'm at loose ends on Thanksgiving Day. I consider a solo trip somewhere, but I stay home and make myself a simple dinner. I'm OK company, but I'm grateful that I'll be with family for Thanksgiving 2020. 

2020. Except I won't. And neither will most of you.  

Sigh. And yet, and yet. This past decade has shown me that a rich storehouse of memories and an attitude of gratitude can serve us well in times of loss. Meister Eckhart said, "If the only prayer you say in your life is thank you, that would suffice." And a day before he died, Tom mused to me, "Maybe just being grateful and happy is enough. So thank you." 

I'll leave it at that for now. I am grateful for shared Thanksgivings past, I look forward to making more memories in person with my beloveds in the 2020s, and I wish the same for us all. 

P.S. If you are new to Surely Joy, or even if you're not, you may want to revisit my post from this week in 2018, when I wrote, "This is a season of living while we wait to resume life." Those words, true for me in 2018, are true for us all this year. There will be better days--and yet these are the days we'll remember. 

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Pandemic postcard #29: Turning into my dad

Today is my father's birthday, and if all goes well, my brother and his husband and I will be toasting Dad's memory on a San Francisco beach, not far from where we scattered his ashes. Dad has been gone almost a decade, but--as I wrote a few weeks ago--my parents' memories have been strong with me this fall. I miss them both as much as I ever have, and I think I may be turning into my dad.

I know that many women worry they'll turn into their mother, but that was never going to happen for me. Like many mothers and daughters do, we clashed during my adolescence, and I was just starting to know and appreciate Mom as a fellow adult when she died at age 62. By then, I'd been away from home for eight years.   

Dad was also 62 when Mom died. That's the same age my husband, Tom, was when he died in 2018, and the same age my stepchildrens' maternal grandfather was when he passed on. I'm just a few years shy of that mark, and as 62 looms ever closer, it hurts to be "losing" a year the way we are in 2020. 

Yet it's likely I'll live far beyond 62, as my dad did; he was 87 when he passed away in 2012. He lived long enough to see my ill-advised first marriage end, and to see me meet a good man and marry again, and to see my brother find a loving partner, and to spend lots of time with his only grandchild when she was young. At the end of his life, he gave me the sacred experience of helping a loved one have a good death. Today, on his birthday, let me tell you a little more about my dad. 

Sparrow, #14

Byron Fanselow started out a little guy, and his nickname was "Sparrow," but he still played baseball and basketball. His high school yearbook reports that he was usually laughing. After graduation, he grew several inches, so his nickname went away--until the 1970s, when Dad (and my brother and sometimes I) became "Fonz." Thank you, Happy Days, for helping America finally learn how to say our last name.

Dad went to Illinois Tech for mechanical engineering, then he joined the Navy near the end of World War II. After that, he became a salesman--the natural job for someone with his personality. He started out selling windows and went on to rep several metal building companies in the Midwest. He was offered a transfer to San Francisco but wound up taking one to Pittsburgh instead so he and my mom would remain reasonably close to their families in Chicago, where most of my extended kin still live.

For a short time when I was in elementary school, Dad had an office in a downtown Pittsburgh high-rise, which was fun. But usually, he worked from home and on the road, calling on clients across the Mid-Atlantic states, eating lots of dinners at Howard Johnson's and racking up plenty of points at Holiday Inns. He loved to travel and he loved meeting people, and my brother and I both found careers that incorporated those things.  

Dad worked on commission, money was sometimes tight, and Mom loved to shop. She meant well; she loved to give people gifts, but she'd lose track of what she'd already bought, so we always had lots of stuff but never much extra money. Mom went to work at a fast-food place to help send me to college. That's where she had her first fall, on a slick floor at Wendy's. I took the call on the hallway phone in the dorm my freshman year at Ohio University. Mom had broken her hip, and soon after that, she got cancer, too. I doubled down at school, maxing out my course loads so I could graduate in three years.

Thankfully, Mom beat lymphoma and she and Dad were able to travel a bit. They went to Tokyo and Hawaii mostly for free with all those points from Holiday Inn. But her hip replacement hadn't healed especially well, and one day, her cane caught on the top step of the basement stairs. She fell and hit her head, and we had to let her go. Dad was heartbroken at the loss of his wife of 37 years, and I cannot imagine his grief, even after losing the love of my life. But he'd go on to live another two-and-a-half decades, most of them in a healthy, happy retirement.

You're probably wondering by now: How am I turning into my dad?

I find myself cracking really bad jokes. For example: On my camping trip to Olympic National Park this summer, I arrived at Rialto Beach first thing one morning and found three bored teenagers sitting at a picnic table, ignoring the Pacific Ocean. I tried to get them excited. "It's going to be a great sunrise!" I said. "Too bad we're on the wrong side!"

I find myself wanting to talk to everybody. I'm sure the pandemic and living alone are driving this, but when I see other humans, especially in person but even on Zoom, it's sometimes hard to contain myself. I genuinely miss people at this point. Dad was the same way. I think he was happy living alone--he never had a serious romantic relationship after Mom, that I know of, and he knew how to entertain himself. But the longer he was alone, the more he missed seeing people, and that manifested in wanting to talk a lot when he saw them.

Dad in 1993

What I most admired about my dad was his curiosity about everything. We always had plenty of books around, of course, plus stacks of newspapers and magazines. Dad had no serious lifelong hobbies other than photography, but he'd get interested in something--astronomy, astrology, CB radios, ice cream making, magic tricks, meditation, computers, physics--and he'd learn all he could (or all he cared to), then he'd move on to something else.      

Dad did get downright cranky for a while in the early 2000s, when he started watching too much Lou Dobbs on CNN and briefly, alarmingly, became rabidly anti-immigrant. Fortunately, this xenophobia didn't last long, since it clashed with his moderate politics and his liberal Christianity.

Dad ultimately developed dementia and had a rough last few years, though the course of his disease was fairly swift. The cognitive reserve theory suggests that people who spend a lifetime keeping their brain active may die faster once in the later stages of dementia, and that mercifully seemed to be true for Dad. Unfortunately, his sharp decline came at the very same time I had soul-taxing political work and a teen daughter and a marriage that was showing some strain. I'm adopted, so it's anyone's guess what my fate might be in the brain health department, but the heartache of Dad's final few years is gradually fading for me, and I am not afraid.

I am not afraid. I think that's something else I got from my parents, and something I've tried to pass on to my daughter. Love was our family's default position, and Mom and Dad showed it in their volunteer work, in their friendships and family ties, and at the ballot box. And they showed it to each other; they had a rule that they'd never go to bed holding a grudge. 

Although things are unsettled in our country right now, I believe that love and reason and liberty and justice will prevail, though perhaps not without a fight. I miss my parents, but I'm not sorry they're missing this--and I am grateful for their legacy of valuing love over fear. 

Thank you, Dad. You too, Mom. Keep sending those good vibes, for we surely need them.

My parents on their Havana honeymoon.

 

 

Pandemic postcard #26: Practicing for winter

It's been nine days since I've been outside for more than about five minutes. Six months ago, I stayed home on March 13, the day the seriousness of the pandemic really hit home in the United States. But once I knew that it was safe and even smart to continue walking outside every day amid COVID-19, I did exactly that, every morning--until the middle of last week, when the air quality here in the Northwest became too dangerous to venture outside.

The first few days of the air-quality quarantine were the worst, but as I heard more about what was happening in Oregon, I could not feel anything but gratitude for what I have: for the roof over my head, for food to eat, for breathable air inside my apartment--and for plenty of time to read, think, and learn. I've had that all year, of course, but making the best of this homebound week-and-a-half, I've leaned into it a bit more.

"I am fortunate because I have been able to spend my life in the study of the world," says Alma Whittaker, the main character in Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things, which I read with uncharacteristic speed over just a few days this past week. Indeed, that is why I became a journalist: because I am curious about just about everything. I, too, am an avid lifelong student of the world, and while I may not be getting paid for my curiosity very often these days, I can indulge it more than ever.

Online conferences, webinars, classes, lectures, and concerts have helped me get through these past six months, and I've taken especially great advantage of them during these recent smoky days. Since last weekend, I've attended three online church services, a real-time film screening and post-movie discussion, a lecture on the presidential race, a virtual walking tour of Seattle's Denny Regrade, and a "Moth"-like program of stories about the pandemic and the fight for racial justice.

I have relished personal connection, too. A college classmate has convened a Zoom happy hour every few weeks, and it's been fun catching up with a fascinating, opinionated group of folks, even if everyone but me is in the Eastern time zone, ready to raise their glasses when it's still mid-afternoon in Seattle. I've talked with a few friends on the phone, including one whose daughter-in-law is the acting ranger on one of the hardest-hit forests in Oregon. I haven't seen anybody in person since my last shift volunteering at the food bank two weeks ago, but I don't feel as isolated as I might.

It sounds like the rain will start tonight and we may have clean air again sometime tomorrow. I look forward to walking outside and to opening my windows again.

Autumn arrives in a few days, and lately, it's always been a season of introspection for me, ahead of our long, dark, wet winters in Seattle. I know this pandemic winter won't be easy, but after the past nine days, I feel better prepared for the many months of interior life ahead.

 

Pandemic postcard #21: Summer reading report

All my life, I have dreamed of having endless time to read, and I've always figured I'd need to wait until retirement for that dream to come true. Then 2020 happened. I have had plenty of time to get lost in a book these past many months. 

Here's a selection of books I've enjoyed so far during the pandemic. All are available via The Optimist, my online independent bookstore at Bookshop.org, and if you enjoy Surely Joy, it'd mean a lot to me if you'd buy a book, any book. Your purchase will help me...and small bricks-and-mortar bookstores, too. As I write this, Bookshop.org says it has raised nearly $6 million for indie bookshops. I'm still working on my first $25. Still, every little bit helps, especially now that the CARES Act unemployment pay is gone.

So without further begging or ado ... 

How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy by Jenny Odell. This book captivated me from its first pages, where Odell describes one of her favorite parks in Oakland. (I know it, too.) Odell's mission is to help us pay attention, not to the endless clatter of commerce, but to our heart and soul's delight. This is my favorite book of the year so far. 

The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl is part memoir, part travelogue, part meditation on loss. We can't justify distant travel this summer, but we can travel via books. Hampl ranges widely in this volume, from Iron Curtain-era Eastern Europe to Montaigne's France, but I was most captivated by the trip she took closest to home on the upper stretches of the Mississippi River. Like Odell, Hampl understands the inherent value of day-dreaming and drift.

The Vanishing Half  by Brit Bennett. "I've been reading too much non-fiction this summer," I told my daughter. "I really want to read a novel." So this was a birthday gift from her to me, fitting because this is also a story about family love: in our families of origin, families of choice, and families lost and found. It's also timely with its themes of racial and gender identity.

The Hummingbird's Daughter by Luis Alberto Urrea. This had been on my to-read list a long time, and it was the very first book I was able to check out of my local library once it reopened for curbside service last month. Urrea, who spent a few decades researching this satisfying historical novel, has a knack for creating big, well-drawn casts of characters. I look forward to reading the sequel to this, too, as well as The Devil's Highway, Urrea's nonfiction book about U.S.-Mexican border culture. The latter should be a good companion to something else I read earlier this summer, On the Plain of Snakes, a warts-and-all love letter to Mexico by Paul Theroux.

Old in Art School by Nell Irvin Painter. The author is best-known as an acclaimed historian (The History of White People), but she always wanted to paint, so she chased that dream into her 60s while also looking after her elderly parents, who lived 3,000 miles away. An inspiring, illuminating look at one woman disregarding ageism and racism.

The Cactus League by Emily Nemens. One of two fine baseball novels released this year, both written by women. Nemens turns an unassisted triple play with her debut, deftly wrangling multiple plot lines, indelible characters, and strong sense of place. I also enjoyed The Resisters, an anti-authoritarian tale by Gish Jen.

Becoming Wise: An Inquiry Into the Art & Mystery of Living by Krista Tippett. The On Being Project created a new position this summer, Audience Editor. I wanted it so bad, but I'm sure they've hired someone brilliant to help amplify the project's mix of thoughtful voices and practical wisdom for tumultuous times. I've been an On Being fan forever, listened to this on CD when it came out a while back, and recently revisited it via a copy in a Little Free Library.

Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad by Austin Kleon. I bought this when it came out last year, then it sat on my shelf until May. It was time...and it still is.

When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times by Pema Chodron. Another book that merits re-reading, with short chapters that share Buddhist wisdom on how to sit with uncertainty. 

Atlas Obscura Explorer's Journal. I used this for what turned out to be Volume One of my Pandemic Journal. (I started Volume Three last week.) It's too big to use as a travel journal, but it was perfect for documenting the weird inner journey that is 2020.

Next up on my reading list ...

I've been dipping in and out of The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America's Great Migration for the past month. I'll finish it this weekend, and I look forward to author Isabel Wilkerson's brand-new book, Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents.

Next up is my library book of On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, another novel I've been meaning to read for a while.

I also just ordered a copy of Jailed for Freedom: A First-Person Account of the Militant Fight for Women's Rights. This little-known book by Doris Stevens is the source material for Suffragist, a new Broadway musical that was to premiere in league with this summer's centennial of the 19th Amendment. The production is delayed now, but just hearing creator Shaina Taub describe her discovery of this book was enough to make me want to read it.

Pandemic postcard #8: Freedom from choice

One thing that defines Americans is we love choices. The COVID-19 pandemic is testing that characteristic, and the test is playing out in mundane and profound ways in which we attempt to have it as many ways as we can, because that's who we are.

One obvious example: I dislike wearing a mask because, yes, I'm an American who chafes at being told what to do and because even a snug-fitting one fogs up my glasses. So I compromise. I wear a neck scarf on early morning walks through deserted streets where I rarely get close to anyone; that way, I have a face covering handy if I need it. And when I go to any enclosed public place or walk on a crowded sidewalk, of course I wear a mask. I do it as an act of solidarity as well as one of protection. My mask protects you; your mask protects me. It seems like it's going to be that way for a while, so we may as well get used to it.

Although freedom of choice and an abundance of options are the American way, the pandemic is giving us time to practice having fewer choices or even no choice--a theme explored in this week's episode of the Hidden Brain podcast. Psychologist Sheena Iyengar describes cultural differences in how people perceive choice. One study she did involved parents of children born with a rare brain disease. In France, doctors routinely remove such babies from life support, sparing parents the decision. In the United States, parents are asked to choose. Most American parents do opt to let their babies die rather than let them linger without brain function, but--unlike the French parents--they remain wracked with guilt and more "what-if's."

Certainly, many families are now experiencing the agony of seeing loved ones suffer in isolation. Many have to decide whether to let a beloved person go, often with no goodbyes. (For the record, I've had an awesome life and I have no interest in going on a ventilator or any other extreme means of keeping myself alive.)

Many choices are far less stark, but they can still feel fraught. Most of my freelance editorial work is gone, so naturally I am inclined to fret about what I will do once the special COVID-19 unemployment pay runs out in late July. But the fact is I may not have a whole lot of choice as an older adult in a compressed job market, and---blessed with some savings, no debt, and a simple lifestyle--I feel myself finding some peace with that.

There's freedom in not being defined nor limited by past choices, and perhaps in surrendering to fate and the freedom of not having so many options. What new ways will emerge to make ourselves useful?

P.S. You've likely seen this bedtime story-from-the-future video by now, but if not, enjoy. Also, if you need help getting back to sleep some night, here's a link to the lovely "spiritual book club" installment of On Being, in which Krista Tippett and Devendra Banhart share their mutual love of When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön.

I am a teacher!

One of the things I love about travel is how it helps me be creative and solve problems as they arise. Sometimes, I’ve had to decode a mysterious European lock or appliance, or find well-hidden light switches. Once, I had to use an impromptu game of charades to locate a late-night pharmacy. 

In my 12 days (so far) in Guadalajara, I’ve had many moments of thinking I’ve finally gotten in over my head. I am in a big, intense, unfamiliar city (Mexico’s second largest). Last week, I joined a beginner immersive Spanish class a week after it had started, and it was muy stressful, especially since I had a cold and wasn’t sleeping well. This week, I have begun a four-week course in Teaching English as a Foreign Language, and I am by far the oldest person in my class. (There was one other “mature” student in our cohort, but he bailed out today, on Day 3.) Amazingly, you teach your first class on the third day. That was today. 

For my first class, I had to help the students review future passive tense, which I rarely use myself. I had to look it up to remember what it means. To top it off, I had to do lesson plans today for my first two classes since the second is at 8 a.m. tomorrow.

It’s been an anxious week. But now I feel like, OK, I’ve got this. 

Mr. Ruiz, a really popular and good teacher, observed my first class, the one on future perfect, for an intermediate-level class of young adults. The theme was outer space, and over the course of the class, the students needed to decide who among them would be sent back to Earth. I’d written a lesson plan for a class of seven students, but when I arrived,  there were only five, so I had to adapt on the fly—and I did. 

In the first part of the class, I had the students talk about the positives and negatives of being an astronaut. Risk was one factor they cited, and I was able to tell them the sad story of the Challenger—as well as introduce the word “quarantine,” an experience the early astronauts had upon their return to Earth, and a concept in the news again now with the coronavirus. 

Next, I had the students talk in two groups to justify their jobs. As they talked, I had an idea to hold a secret ballot among the whole group, since it was so small. All five voted to jettison the psychologist rather than the engineer or the captain— so I got to teach the word unanimous! It was interesting to see how the class became a blend of activities I’d planned and spontaneous actions. 

At my review session, Mr. Ruiz asked how I’d rate myself and I said about a 6. “Why so low?” he asked. I mainly felt like I had plenty of room to improve. So I was a little surprised but very happy when he gave me a score of 9 out of 10! He was very complimentary of my classroom management, board use, demeanor, my low TTT (teacher talk time)—even my handwriting! One of my students, Cynthia, said it was a great class, which Mr. Ruiz said is the best compliment you can get. 

Mr. Ruiz noted that my future scores will go up and down since some classes are harder than others. His main piece of advice was that I could rely on students in a higher-level class to explain even more—to paraphrase instructions instead of simply reading them, for example. 

So my first class is behind me—and by lunchtime tomorrow, I will have taught another, and then about a dozen more over the next three weeks. I have no idea what I might do with my TEFL credential, or where I will wind up using it. But even with just one day of teaching behind me, I feel newly confident that this was a good idea. I will do something good with this new skill, something to help people achieve their goals—and something to give my own life new purpose and meaning. 

Live and learn

My theme word for 2020 is learn. I was inspired to pick a word for the year by Tim Atkins, who wrote about how he's chosen one each year for a few years now. "I started this practice five years ago, and it’s changed my life," he says. "It becomes a mantra I meditate on throughout the year. When I’m questioning what’s the right thing to do, I will look to my word of the year for guidance."

Learn was an easy choice for me for this year. Later this month, I'll be traveling to Mexico to learn how to teach English as a foreign language. It's an intensive program and I haven't been in a classroom for a long time. I have to admit I'm feeling a little intimidated; although I have made a living as a writer and editor for many decades, I am not the world's greatest grammarian. I think I missed the day we learned how to diagram sentences back in middle school, and I'm not at all sure I can explain the finer points of adverbs. But that's why I am taking the TEFL class. I look forward to learning more about my own language so I can help others learn it, too.

On January 1, I walked the Golden Gate Bridge with my brother and several friends. One of them, Felicia, compiles a list each year of new experiences she wants to try in her beloved Bay Area region. With that as an inspiration, I am making a list, too. Here are eight* experiences and activities I plan to try in 2020:

Learning to teach English as a foreign language. 
Improving my Spanish.
Trying a new art activity.
Volunteering at Treefort, Boise's big spring music festival.
Going to a professional soccer game.
Seeing a concert at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley, Calif. (which will give me another excuse to visit my Bay Area family).
Taking a solo road trip around the Olympic Peninsula.

*This is a bonus one: I may go to Alaska. (If not in 2020, I'll aim for 2021.) I've been to all 50 states but four: Alaska, Alabama, Mississippi, and South Carolina. I want to get to them all by the time I turn 60. 

Before I close, I'd also like to celebrate a few things I did in 2019: I re-read all the Harry Potter books, learned to make Greek yogurt in a crockpot, went camping by myself for the first time in decades, walked an average of four miles a day, visited Ireland for the first time, saw my cousins at Christmas for the first time in decades, spent 10 nights on a train, and made progress in mending a broken heart. It was a good year.

I wish you a bright new year of living and learning.

Laugh is another word I plan to hold close for 2020. The older I get, the more comfortable I am not taking things so seriously--especially myself.

Hindsight is 20/20

As this year winds down, we're also wrapping up a decade. I'm seeing lots of lists recounting the best music, movies, and more of the past 10 years. Right now, I feel most compelled to reflect on the best decisions I made over the 20-tens. I think these are the main ones for me, and I'd be interested to hear yours.

I decided to live debt-free. During the first iteration of my freelance career, I had a big fat line of credit and I used it, amassing debt to write travel guidebooks and magazine articles for publishers who rarely paid expenses. I figured that unreimbursed expenses and interest were all deductible. But paying off the steep interest meant I couldn't save as much as I'd have liked toward my daughter's college fund nor for my then-far-off retirement.

Ten years ago this month, I made my last payment on my business credit card and closed it for good. Since then, I've continued to use credit to earn travel points, but I pay off my balances every month. After owning two homes and settling two estates, I've decided I prefer being a renter. Property is a good investment for many people--but it ties you down; it's not my American dream. I like the freedom and flexibility of letting someone else make and manage that investment. 

I followed my heart. This meant leaving Idaho (and family and friends) for the chance to live among people able to elect leaders who could advance the values I hold deeply--of prizing human diversity, of living more sustainably, of practicing generosity on a civic as well as a personal level. Our country's future is murky, but I feel blessed that I live in the city, state, and region that I do. I also feel great affection for the places and people I left behind; I know people have many reasons for staying where they do.

Following my heart also meant leaving a long and good-enough marriage for a new relationship that showed me a new level of what love could be--both the highs of finding a true companion and the lows of illness and death. It was a painful journey in many ways, yet I am grateful to both men for the love and understanding they gave me and thankful that I was able to be part of their lives.

I distanced myself from politics. Anguished by an unnecessary war in Iraq and inspired by examples of civic imagination, I spent most of the first dozen years of this century enmeshed in politics, trying my best to help candidates and causes from Howard Dean to strong public schools to a sustainable climate. It was time well spent, but I ultimately felt I needed to return to the objective stance I'd learned as a young adult--to my roots as a journalist.

It's funny: I was drawn into journalism by one impeachment--a national crisis that saw a president resign before he could be fired. Now, with another impeachment unfolding, I feel intensely lucky that I've found ways to make a living as a writer and editor that don't require me to cover politics. As I outlined in this essay last year, I pay attention to the news, but as a matter of self-preservation, I'm no longer obsessed by it. I'm inspired by people who act with integrity, saddened that facts are considered malleable, and certain we will get the government we deserve in these distracted, disrupted times. But I know that individually, we don't have to be defined by that government.

Hindsight is 20/20, and the three decisions above are ones that I see giving shape to other decisions I'll be making over the next 10 years--as much as any of us can really decide anything anymore in a future that seems to be spiraling out of control.

I don't want to look away; I want to stay on top of what's going on. I want to see the good as well as the bad and the uncertain. I want to keep bearing witness to the idea that our small daily decisions for joy and kindness and responsibility to and love for others and ourselves may somehow add up to ... something.

Writing down the days

This morning, I am grateful for the wonderful day Tom and I had yesterday (and for Tom's mindfulness in mentioning several times how wonderful it was).

This is a sentence from my journal a year ago today. I mentioned a while back that although I post infrequently here, I write every day in my journal. I'm grateful that I have this practice and I can revisit where I was--physically, emotionally, and/or spiritually--at times in my past.

I've been in a grief and loss group at church this spring, and one of the other participants asked whether I could have coffee to talk about journaling, something she'd like to do more of. We haven't had a chance to do that yet, and I figure other people may be interested, too, so I'm writing some thoughts here.

Although I've kept journals off and on most of my life, I've become much more intentional about it over the past few years. I don't think your journal needs to take any special form, and mixing them up is fine. Mine is often a gratitude journal; I often write first thing in the morning and recount what I was grateful for the previous day. I know other people do the same thing just before bed--write about what they loved in the day just ending, and that seems like a lovely way to finish one's day.

In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron advocates for writing three free-form, loose-leaf "morning pages" first thing each day, basically as a way to get whatever's on your mind out of your head and onto the page so you can go about the rest of your day. I've done these occasionally, and I think they can be helpful as a creative exercise. For me, though, one of the best parts of journaling is storing my thoughts bound in a beautiful book, either one I've found that I love or one I've made. (I enjoy taking a plain old composition book and pasting stuff on it.)

Art by William S. Rice

Art by Hannah Viano

A trip journal

I have "home" journals for my everyday writing and "away" journals for when I travel; the latter are wonderful souvenirs. I always bring a glue stick when I travel so I can paste in ticket stubs and other mementos. I leave empty pages for adding other things later, such as photos or even an empty packet of seeds from Monet's garden in Giverny. (Here's a lovely essay from Rick Steves on why he journals as he travels.) I also have an especially nice journal in which I write only once a year, on or near my birthday.

Some people journal online, and if that's the best way for you, why not? Although I do most of my journaling on paper, I use my phone's notes app when I'm out and about and want to capture some thoughts. One digital journaling tool I especially love is the FutureMe website, which allows you to write a letter to yourself to be delivered via email in the future; you specify the date you'd like to receive it, whether a few months or a few years down the road. I've written about a dozen letters to myself via this site, usually when I am going through periods of transition and need to think about how things can and will get better.

Journals can be tools of optimism. In February 2018, Tom started on a clinical drug trial that we hoped would help him beat back another recurrence of cancer. That month, my Valentine's Day gift to both of us was a guided journal, One Question a Day for You & Me, with room for three years' worth of daily reflections. We only got a few months, but I treasure this book--both for what's in it and the memory of how, each night before bed, I'd ask the day's question and write down our answers.

A year ago, as Tom was caught in a swirl of medical procedures and I helplessly went along for the ride, journaling nearly every day helped me vent my fear and frustration and keep sight of what was good, even in difficult times. "I'm counting up the days and nights I get to spend with this remarkable man," I wrote a year ago today in my "everyday" journal, not knowing how much time we had left ... days, weeks, months, years?

One more thought: Although social media has its downsides, it is a record of your life. Many of us now have a decade's worth of Facebook posts documenting our days, and that is a journal of sorts, too. I try to use my social media time in this way, so if Instagram still exists 10 years from now, I'll remember this beautiful flower I saw on my way home from work one May day in 2019.

Life can be a blur, but if you take some time to write every day, you can see a bit of the shape of your life--where you've been, where you are now, where you may be going.

'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.

How may I help you?

The 2016 Seattle International Film Festival is winding down. Among several good films Tom and I caught this year was Norman Lear: Just Another Version of You. This new documentary had a big take-away for me beyond its entertaining look at Lear's genius as a pop culture provocateur. The a-ha moment came as Lear described why, in 1981, he pivoted from his focus on producing hit TV shows to founding a political advocacy organization, People for the American Way. As he tells filmmakers Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady, it was simply time to exercise some different muscles.

I can relate. As I near the midpoint of my 50s, I'm close to the age Lear was when he felt that pull. After three-plus decades of work in communications, I find myself wanting to stretch different muscles, all while I keep my writing and editing mojo working, too.

My customer service muscle is the main one I'm working like never before. When I decided to leave my magazine editing job, I timed the departure for late winter for one big reason: I wanted to work at the ballpark this season. I left my job on Feb. 26 and successfully interviewed with the team on Feb. 29 (leap year, baby!), and now I'm a seating host in one of the most beautiful yards in Major League Baseball.

But wait, it gets better: I work the sections right behind home plate and my home team's dugout. A fan said to me last night, "You must have a lot of seniority to get to work where you do." No, I told her; I'm actually a rookie this year, and I'm just lucky.

Yes, I do get to actually watch much of each game. Mainly, though, our job as seating hosts is to be sure that all our guests have a great experience. We lost last night, as we've done quite a bit at home (despite having one of the best road records in baseball). People were naturally disappointed, but as I said farewell to folks on their way up the aisle, most had smiles on their faces. Our star had just struck out with two men on base, true, but he'd clobbered two homers earlier in the game. We win some, we lose some, and there's never a truly awful day at the ballpark.

I got to tie a baby's shoe. I got to talk with a proud dad whose son is playing college ball. And while it's true that I'm making way, way less money than I did as an editor in chief, I'm having a blast. I like customer service so much, in fact, that I've taken a second part-time job at a bookstore that also sells travel gear. Nearly everyone who comes in is excited about a trip they have planned, so it's a fun, energetic place to be.

Of course, these jobs are also giving me a renewed appreciation for how hard people are working at or near the minimum wage, and how many people work multiple jobs to make ends meet. That's another post, perhaps for around Labor Day, but I'll put in a plug here for the book a college classmate of mine wrote about her detour from journalism into the floral department at Kroger. Best $6 you'll spend this year. 

I've also been stretching my inner artist muscle. I'll write about that next post, or the one after that. Meanwhile, thanks for reading, and keep seeing the bright side.

Space of infinite possibility

Today's #UULent word was fear. As a professional writer for 30+ years, I have no fear of the blank page. But blank calendar pages? That's another story.

I'm leaving my current job a week from tomorrow. I gave notice back in November, and my last day is almost here. This photo is of my planner a month from now, the third week of March, a time of the month I've been in production as a magazine editor these past two years. But next month, I'll have no deadline to meet. My successor will be putting her first issue to bed, and I'll be three weeks into not having a paycheck.

My challenge will be this: Can I overcome my fear of having nothing to do ... of hitting up my savings account ... of sitting with the blessed but somewhat scary spaciousness of the independent life?


I had a dream last night. I dreamt I was doing one of those little plastic puzzles we used to get in birthday party goodie bags when I was a kid. You'd slide little tiles around to get the numbers in order, which meant there had to be an empty space so the tiles could slide. But in my dream, there was no empty space, so there was no room to maneuver.

I love my planners, and these past two years, I've used something called the Passion Planner. Its creator, Angelia, is an amazing, inspirational -- and very young -- success story. But I found myself writing "NO" next to her tip of the week last week: "This week, try to fill as many time slots as possible. Schedule out everything from sleep, to meals, to time for yourself." The idea, she continued, is to track where your time is going, "allowing you to assess your productivity and truly be present during each moment."

No.

I've been keeping lists and scheduling my time and and assessing my productivity for decades. I'm at a point in my life where I just want to live. These days, being truly present means putting aside my compulsions to make endless to-do lists and plan every last thing.

There's something else on each page of my 2016 planner, something that resonates much truer for me. It's the Space of Infinite Possibility. Angelia is speaking my language here.

I am confident that, a month from now, these pages won't be blank. But my wish today is that I not fear the open spaces ... that I embrace these spaces of infinite possibility and not be in a rush to fill every last spot on my agenda. Because I have a feeling that it's through sitting in the so-called empty spaces that I will find the work -- and the play and the leisure and the meaning -- that is most true for me.

Back to the top of the stack

One of my favorite books of this year (and last) is Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much by Anne Wilson Schaef. And because I truly do need a lot of help and reinforcement in this area, I'll be starting it over again on New Year's Day.

I found the book in the mid-1990s as a busy writer and the mother of a toddler, when its title appealed to me. (The inside flap shows I got it used for $5.) But honestly, it's only been in the last year or two that I started taking it seriously, because I continue to do too much, think too much, worry too much, work too much and sometimes care too much, even amid a life of intentional simplicity. The 365 dated entries are full of wisdom and gentle encouragement for overcoming workaholism.

The book was first published in 1990 and I've sometimes found it just a little bit dated. Let's face it: A quarter century ago, our lives were a lot simpler than they were even a decade ago. And yet, the tools that have made it more complicated have also helped me learn that Anne is still very much at work; that a new edition of Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much appeared two years ago; and that, with one click, I was able to download it to my Kindle for three bucks less than the used copy I bought 20 years ago. (The fact that such a priceless book costs a mere $1.99 is a matter worth another blog post ... another time ...)

Chances are I'll order a paperback copy, too. Because this is a valuable book -- and because, frankly, part of getting over the "too much" in our lives is getting offline.