ON ATTENTION and the GOOD WOLF

Have you heard of the book, How to Do Nothing, by Jenny Odell? Have you read it? The title caught my attention—is worthy of my attention, Odell may say. I bought a copy and took it with me on a restorative holiday last fall. Succeeding from the get-go, I didn’t even crack it open.

Amid the January-February peak in chaos and brutality of Operation Metro Surge in Minnesota and Minneapolis, especially, Odell’s book caught my eye. Doing nothing was the opposite of how I wanted to respond to what was happening around me, emotional exhaustion notwithstanding. Maybe my subconscious writer-self suspected that her book wasn’t about doing nothing, per se. It is subtitled Resisting the Attention Economy; it’s more about the life-changing consequences of how we direct our attention.

Have you heard the story about the battle between the “good wolf” and the “bad wolf” of our inner selves? And how the “wolf” who thrives is the one who gets fed? In other words, we are what we eat—what we feed ourselves—and this applies to attention. If our attention is constantly disrupted by and/or focused on the shitshow and disasters of the moment, we tend to become a messy mix of overwhelm and anxiety. If we can mitigate that by focusing on what brings us joy, boosts our energy, and nourishes our passions, we come alive again. When our attention is focused on our breath, we decompress and reground.

Odell, like a lot of mental resilience and wellness enthusiasts, extols on the importance of time spent in natural settings (a city park will do fine) and with face-to-face interactions. Those things have the power to center us. Our attention resets, like when a puppy runs into an office setting.

Conscientiously directing our attention is challenging in this age of attention commodification. The collective attention of Minneapolis and beyond was hijacked by the frenzy of social media and news coverage of the Surge. But locally, attention was then realigned toward strategizing counter responses to threats against immigrants and brown-skinned citizens who were (are) afraid to leave their homes for work, school, medical care, and groceries. And amid all that, imaginative folks turned their attention to creating profound, humorous, and healing expressions of art and action that promoted restoration and community-building. How we utilize the power of attention can change how we experience the world.

I recently saw a Gandhi quote on the back of a sweatshirt that read: Our ability to reach unity in diversity will be the beauty and the test of our civilization. I want to add and would enable it to thrive, though I struggle to believe that day will come. Humanity as a whole doesn’t agree on which wolf to feed. We see folks who are passionate about sharing, thrilled by variety, and inspired to evolve together. On the flipside, we’ve witnessed how certain folks are fearful about there not being enough to go around in this abundant country, on this abundant planet, and are insecure when faced with unfamiliarity, differences, and change. It’s as if sometime in their past, someone they trusted made them feel weak and/or powerless and they can’t shake the sense that they’re unworthy. They lust for wealth and perform for attention. Your attention.

One of my brown friends recently told me to “stay positive” (about our country). Last year, around this same time, I read an explanation by a Black activist of why Black (let’s say BIPOC and LGBTQIA+) people don’t have the option, the privilege, to feel hopeless. They know from their experiences that not being able to rise from burnout and hopelessness isn’t an option for longevity. (How ass-backward is it that good white folks overextend their energy, combust in anger, and burn out?)

I’m not tuning out, but I’ve turned down the volume. Throughout the day, I’m actively realigning my attention to what nurtures and respects my dignity and delight. Feeding the good wolf is a choice. And it’s a powerful one, y’all.

Another book about attention: The End of Bias, by Jessica Nordell.

Recently discovered music: Kennedy. Her songs “I Need Your Lovin” and “Salt” are two of my favs. The song “Eating Scooby Snacks Made Me Pregnant” by deaffrasier is loads of fun.

QUIET, please

In 2023, my husband and I traveled to a teeny town in Maine for a self-guided mental health and wellness retreat. It’s become an annual tradition (or necessity, depending on the year). We wrapped up last year’s road trip retreat at a B-n-B on a horse farm in Wisconsin and there, I made an equine friend. She renewed my enthusiasm for an idea I’d had during the emotional aftermath of blowing my ACL in a mountain biking wreck back in 2012: equine-assisted therapy. Over a decade later, I still hadn’t figured out how to manifest the idea, but the grounding effect of my thrice daily interactions with my Wisconsin friend were inspiring.

I mentioned horse therapy to my husband, who did a little research before suggesting possibilities for me to track on Instagram. In the meantime, I made a list of ideal features for where we might restore our psyches this year: a place under female leadership; with little or no gun violence; with a humane level of peace and quiet. Did such a place exist?

Within two months, a post for a riding retreat popped up from Icelandic Horseworld, an hour east of Reykjavik. It included a three-night stay with room and board plus private lessons and a trail ride, and a lagoon and waterfall visit because, Iceland. My research confirmed that Iceland’s prime minister and president are both women. Its police patrol doesn’t carry guns. Even in Reykjavik, to a degree, peace and quiet is a given when it’s not “The Season” (of tourists). The expanse of the countryside otherwise invites the mind and body to harmonize. Yes, please.

I was first in Iceland in 2019 for the annual Iceland Writers Retreat. Iceland and the Retreat both left a lasting impression; I knew I would return. My husband and I slept on the horseback riding retreat deal and put down a deposit the next day. Impulsive, sure. But it felt fated. We crossed our fingers that the world would be aligned enough for us to attend… ten months in the future.

As our departure date approached, the American government shut down, unpaid TSA workers became less likely to show for work, Delta quit flying its seasonal nonstop route, and flight cancellations were forthcoming, but our two-week trip went off without a hitch. Sort of. (Does anything significant go off without a hitch?) Our adventure began after five minute’s sleep—literally—on an overnight flight. I played Tash Sultana’s Notion EP on repeat to drown out the chatty person behind us, but it didn’t work. Miraculously, we stayed awake for the scenic drive to our first overnight stop in Borgarnes.

That night, I purged the chaos and uncertainty of the year. Or maybe I ate something funky. Either way, I woke feeling funny. I had a similar sensation back when I figured out that I can’t digest beef. (I grew up vegetarian.) It’s the sense that everything inside your body is about to be outside it and you’re not sure which is the business end. (Luckily, I guessed right.) I went back to bed and woke up an hour later with the same feeling. The third round hit so fast, I puked into my hands on the way to the bathroom sink (the toilet was three steps further). I thought I might pass out and intended to lay my head on the floor, but apparently hit my head instead, because my forehead was tender for the next few days. I woke a final time and after that, I was good to go.

I wouldn’t call it a hitch, but I also had no inclination to write. My original intention was—at the very least—to write one line a day in a notebook. Iceland is, after all, a country of prolific writers. When I admitted to my husband how I was failing, he suggested, “Just write anything. Write ‘barf barf barf’ if that’s all you got.”

Following my husband’s suggestion, I wrote this:

Puking

at night

in Iceland.

Barf barf barf.

Blackbird greeting.

Fuzzy horse posing.

Kesha woke up feeling like P Diddy.

Before you judge, know that I haven’t taken time to revise. The blackbird landed across from my husband and I as we relaxed in a geothermal hot tub on that first day. She watched us and chatted, complementing my mismatched swimsuit top and bottom. The fuzzy ombré horse and her herd watched tourists drive by on the highway that led to our second overnight stop, in Arnarstapi. The Kesha line was added two days later, after her song played at breakfast. (FYI: P Diddy, aka Sean Combs, recently served a stint in jail for being a scumbag.) After that, I settled for buying books—the second-best thing I could do as a writer.

Those horses, though. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be a puppy in the middle of a group of teenage girls eager to cuddle and smother you with kisses? We visited a herd of mares and foals. Not trained for riding, their impression of people isn’t formed by that. Instead, they’re “curious.” We strolled up the road toward them and they sauntered toward us. As we came together, the horses surrounded us and pressed in, smelling, lipping, and nuzzling. A mare we nicknamed “Stalker” followed close enough to maintain contact as we walked to greet other horses. A foal followed me and nudged for attention. Her mom chased off the other mares, but allowed my proximity. It was pure, therapeutic bliss, not to mention the other activities of the riding retreat, each restorative in their way. When had I last felt so carefree?

We were treated to the northern lights, twice. We hiked in fresh snow, pulled ocean air into our lungs from the edge of a black sand beach, drove a wintry, ethereal mountain pass, and basked in a transporting Icelandic music performance. We made friends along the way—Icelandic, Polish, Greek—and none asked about U.S. politics. We caught up with a founder of the Iceland Writers Retreat and author of Secrets of the Sprakkar and Death of a Diplomat, Eliza Reid. I won’t claim I’m inspired to return to writing yet, but this post is, at least, a start.

That state of carefree slips away if I don’t nurture it. It’s also contagious. For the sake of global mental health and wellness, I hope we all feel moments of carefree in this and the New Year.

commUNity

So, I went to a rap concert. Living in the Twin Cities now, where all the big performers stop on tour, I’ve wondered what it would be like to attend a big-name concert. Even better, what would it be like to see a major rap artist? Not Kendrick Lamar big, but maybe 2 Chainz.

I hadn’t done it for several reasons. First, I wasn’t willing to pay hundreds of dollars to fight a massive crowd into an arena and then spend another hour in midnight traffic to get back out. Paying a little less for a general admission ticket to stand and wait forever for a performer to take the stage as I’m pressed into someone’s armpit isn’t my jam, either. What if I needed to pee? And, who knows—things could get wild. I’m 50-something and only 4-foot-nine; standing crowds can be dicey for me.

The weekend before last, local Minneapolis hip-hop performer Nur-D, who’s brilliant, performed at the free Taste of Minnesota event located close enough to where I live that I could easily ride my bike there. Ludacris was the headliner. He’s one of what’s known as the Dirty South rappers, a style popular in the early 2000s, when I was listening to more rap. A free, outdoor event I could get to by bike, with a phenomenal opener and a big-name headliner? Hellz Yeah!

My husband went with me, so we grabbed drinks and made our way toward the stage 30 minutes before Nur-D was scheduled to start. We stopped in the middle about eight rows from the front. The party amped up as Nur-D performed, especially for his last song, “Glorious,” with everyone singing along. My husband, who doesn’t do large, tight crowds, looked around and then said to me, “It’s totally filled in behind us.” A few minutes later, he told me he would wait for me in the back.

During intermission, Lizzo’s DJ Sophia Eris entertained the now sea of people waiting for Ludacris. Folks pushed their way through an already packed crowd. One woman forced her two young sons ahead of her with a nod and expression of, “I’m just doing it for them.” More people tried with, “I need to get to my friends.” A couple rows in front of me, a fight almost broke out between a woman and someone I couldn’t see. We were so close to go time—my safety sensor was on alert. But I waited and sure enough, everyone nearby convinced them to back down.

A group of younger Hmong fans to my right were busting all the good moves; they knew the words to every song. The Black thirty- and forty-ish friends to my left sang along and chatted among each other. The white lady in front of me—about my age—must have had a spectacular view; she was close to six-foot. (It was her armpit I was pressed into.) The two thirty-ish-year-old white guys behind me were quiet. Wearing earplugs, reflective blue aviator sunglasses, and a ball cap turned sideways to block the sun, I was in my element. (It’s occurring to me now that I sung the loudest and danced the most of any white person around me.)

When the DJ for Ludacris took the stage, the energy of the crowd spiked high, and I impulsively laughed. I felt it here—that sense of community I’ve experienced at live concerts, art exhibitions, and women’s sports events lately—that reminds me how we’re all in this together. It seems like we’ve otherwise forgotten that since the pandemic.

Ludacris worked the crowd in standard ways: “This side is the loudest!”; “Damn, the ladies of Minneapolis are fine!” He sang the hits (“Yeah!” by Usher featuring Ludacris), the raunchy songs (“Get Low” by Lil Jon featuring Ludacris), and his originals (“What’s Your Fantasy”). In the 18 square inches I barely held, I was pressed by the woman on my left and bumped by the guy to my right as we all danced. Singing, dancing, and sweating distracted me from considering whether I needed to pee. It was all thrilling.

After Ludacris encouraged the crowd to take liquor shots and to “Party hard!” I decided it was my cue to back out. I spun around, ducked down, and weaved my way to the back to find my husband. As we exited the gate, we noticed armored guards. We later learned the event had reached capacity before Ludacris even took the stage and that people had been turned away or blocked from jumping the barriers to get in.

With every cell of my body popping, I pedaled through the summer sunset and a refreshing breeze. At home, I washed down an electrolyte tablet with a full glass of water, took a fast cold shower, rubbed Arnica gel on my knees, and chased a bowl of popcorn with a glass of wine. After watching a few minutes of the Tour de France stage replay on TV to unwind, I collapsed into bed. Glancing at the clock, I noticed it wasn’t even 11 P.M.

#rushLess

“Inhale to mountain pose; exhale deeply to forward fold. You’ve been here before,” my yoga instructor told the class. I’ve been here a thousand times, I thought. What of it?

I generally rush to arrive at anything with a fixed start time. Not just for the journey there, but for the whole getting-ready process: rush to shower, rush to eat, rush to get to an appointment. I don’t want to be late or miss a dental appointment—seriously—but I’ve done my Appointment Day routine a couple hundred times. I’ve “been here” dozens of times. Why do I feel the need to rush? You might argue that anything could happen in traffic, but does my rushing help me to avoid that? I’m still going to leave the house at around the same time. Yet my behavior hints otherwise.

The other day, I was recklessly rushing through my morning routine to set up for my Zoom co-writing session, when the implication hit me. I have been here before! In fact, I’d been there three times a week for almost every week for a few years, now. Here, too, the routine is the same. And I’m almost always on time except for the day my hairdryer made a pop! sound followed by a burning smell. (The last time I ignored that and kept drying, I shocked myself. Otherwise, it was an unpredictable circumstance out of my control.)

I won’t get into how I “overprepare” here—just know that I was able to skip a minor detail to assess the hairdryer situation and still make it to my Zoom session on time. If I’ve been “here” before, there’s a familiarity about it. I’ve worked out the details and smoothed over the rough patches. What my yoga instructor was conveying was, when something is familiar, it makes us more confident, more trusting of the process. The situation typically doesn’t involve surprises and if they arise, we’re better equipped to handle them.

Back when I was a sportswriter, I asked professional bull rider Ty Murray how he handled his nerves in the moment before he and the bull left the chute. He told me that by then, he knows he’s done every single thing he possibly can to prepare for that very moment. When it arrives and the gate opens, he’s confident because he’s done everything in his control. (He might have overprepared—I didn’t ask.) After that, what happens, happens. Alpine ski racer Mikaela Shiffrin recently said something similar in an interview, about how she practices runs as much as she can and then, during the race, she knows she’s done the work and whatever happens, happens. In other words, both Ty and Mikaela have been at the start gate or chute many times before. They know what to expect. They trust the process.

The relevance of those examples for me now (in addition to the epiphany that I have no good excuse not to rush less) may be a stretch, so I hope you’ll stretch with me. I’m struggling to write a synopsis for my memoir. I’ve completed several revisions of my manuscript over the years, so I can’t use older versions of the synopsis for my current book proposal for agents and small publishers. But even writing a synopsis, I’ve been here before; I should be confident about it. I have a lot of practice. But it’s exceptionally difficult this time around.

As with my hairdryer situation, I’ve decided to pivot my strategy. Rather than force it, I’m honoring a suggestion in a recent Free Will Astrology horoscope. (Free Will Astrology if you’re curious. I’m not big into astrology, but these horoscopes are exceptional.) I’ve stepped back to take what it referred to as a “productive pause.” For me, that means setting the synopsis task aside to experiment with more creative, literary writing. Fingers crossed, when I return, my confidence will too, and along with my feeling refreshed, the familiarity of the task will enable me to bust out a brilliant synopsis. After I send it to agents and publishers, whatever happens, happens. (For the love of a writers goddess, let it happen.)

In the meantime, I’m watching for more complex situations to apply the assurance of You’ve been here before; trust that. Hopefully, it’s allowing me to conserve energy for when I’ll need to respond bravely and energetically to less familiar, less predictable circumstances of the future.

still DREAMing

I almost unfollowed writer Morgan Jerkins on Instagram. I logged in yesterday and there she was, resplendent and joyous in her photos and a post about how she had been worried that only industry folks cared about her new book—her fourth in seven years. She also wrote that because it took her four years to write her most recent novel, she’d had doubts about whether she had the skill to pull it off and that she used to be insecure; she’s still “ferocious” and “brave.” She ended her post with, This author life may not always get easier but it sure gets better.

After I read it, I sobbed.

That was the second time I’ve had an ugly cry about Jerkins. (In fairness to her, the first time was also because of Roxane Gay.) At a writers conference in Albuquerque back in 2018, I had explained to a white male agent that my memoir was about my eccentric upbringing and transforming adulthood dealing with a narcissistic mother. The agent gave me a look I interpreted as, That ain’t gonna cut it before telling me that I needed to write essays more like Jerkins and Gay did and that I should use their books as my “comparable titles” instead of The Glass Castle. (I mention that he was a white male because I believe a woman would have understood the inauthenticity of my doing that.)

Back then, I hadn’t yet heard of Jerkins or Gay, so I went home and googled them, and the agent’s point became clear: Jerkins and Gay had boatloads of brilliance. Jerkins graduated from Princeton and the book she’d just published in 2018, This Will Be My Undoing, was about social, cultural, and historical Black female oppression. Gay, whose writing often addresses racial and feminist issues, attended Yale (until she dropped out her junior year) and finished her master’s at the University of Nebraska. She published two books in 2017 and an anthology in 2018. After discovering all that, I sat on the stairwell of my home and sobbed because I was a middle-aged white lady who graduated from the University of West Florida and in 2018, had been slogging on my book for over six years. For me to evolve into a bold writer the caliber of Jerkins or Gay could take a lifetime.

Jerkins and I shared a dream, and she had made hers come true, so I did the least effective thing to be like her: I followed her on Instagram. Still, I don’t want to unfollow her now. I want to be brave. I want to feel the joy of her successes. I am supportive of other writers; I am supportive of women writers; I am supportive of BIPOC writers. I don’t want to be so envious that I can’t bear to see someone publish their fourth book before the age of 34 even though I’m 56 and (still) haven’t published my first one. So I’m hanging on, and on, and on, because if I give up, my book may never be published and my author life probably won’t get better like Jerkins’s author life has.

This morning, I pulled myself together and curled my eyelashes to look resplendent as I make this plea on behalf of all writers—apparently, we all have our insecurities—that if you know one, well-published or otherwise, give them a hug (ask permission, of course). Maybe find anyone who has an unrealized dream and ask if they need a hug. I’m betting they do.

HealIng

On March 5 of 2020, I sat in my therapist’s office thanking him for all the work we’d done together. I told him something like, “I think I have the tools I’ll need to be okay from here on.” And then I moved cross-country to Minneapolis from Albuquerque during Covid-19 lockdown.

I wasn’t okay, of course. (Was any of us okay?) I did pretty well for a couple of months because my husband and I were both busy working and even during a pandemic, Minneapolis was new and intriguing and wonderful to us in the few ways we were able to confirm. I cried during Zoom yoga with my beloved Albuquerque instructor and the other participants I missed, but we all did. And then George Floyd was murdered. And then as summer arrived, the stench of three dead rats behind the walls of my newly purchased condo manifested and caused a panic response. And then a bunch of other stuff happened that was less significant but created the pile-on effect the pandemic had for just about everyone.

In 2021, I was forced to acknowledge how not okay I was. I was waking up sad. I was breaking down over decisions. I was crying at the coffee shop over whichever book I was reading. (I still do that.) But in a phone conversation with my sister, I chided myself for complaining. In March, she sent me a card, writing, “Please be kind to yourself now. Feelings you weren’t able to process during the move may be catching up with you. . . . Let yourself have a window to come to terms with everything you’ve been through.”

Honestly, I’m not sure I’d ever given myself the chance to process much of anything I’d been through until the sixth or so revision of my memoir, which I tackled in 2020. To quit therapy that year may have been one of the most naïve decisions of my life. What I didn’t recognize was the importance of healing from the trauma I started therapy for in the first place. (So obvious now, right?) Back then, I needed someone to help me with boundary setting, and my therapist did. All good, yes? (Nope.)

Lately, I’m drawn to books about how to heal. Initially, I didn’t consciously understand why. I first dabbled by reading A Renaissance of Our Own by Rachel E. Cargle and used it to write my personal manifesto. A few months and a little awareness later, I bought What It Takes to Heal by Prentis Hemphill. For my husband, I bought Rewire by Nicole Vignola, but it turned out to be perfect for me, too. Now, I’m about to start It’s Not You by Ramani Durvasula. That’s a lot of heavy reading. But what I’ve learned thus far is how critical it is for all of us to make the time to heal—from whatever—in order to better connect with each other and have the stamina to face what comes next.

I’ve been meditating and doing Pilates and yoga for years, but I’m also back in therapy. Finding a new (local) therapist has not been easy, but at least I’ve taken a step off the start line. The jacket of What It Takes to Heal asks, “As we emerge from the past few years of collective upheaval, are we ready to face the complexities of our time with joy, authenticity, and connection?” Right now, my reply is that there will be days when I’ll do it by curling into a ball and crying, but maybe not—if I keep doing this work.

I’m intrigued by how our bodies store our experiences and with the neuroscience that shows how our brains and autobehaviors can be changed. On the ground level, I’m experimenting with physiological sighs and breathing through the pores of my skin. (Try it!) I’ve been listening to the tones of mammoth windchimes and sound bowls and the song “alive & well” by Jhené Aiko. Think what you will, but I’m breathing more deeply and feeling more relaxed. I have moments of optimism. I hope you’re having them, too.

 

EAgeR

[2-min read] My upstairs neighbor is deep into a rollicking grand piano practice session just above my desk space. (Ah, yes—it’s Spring Break.) Thank goodness they’re talented. Nevertheless, they flub a few notes now and then and I’m struggling to get any work done that requires concentration, so, here we are.

Instead, I’m contemplating the word “eager.” Generally, it makes me cringe, but maybe that’s just me and my history with it. My mom and her two sisters use the word often: “I’m so eager to hear that you feel better,” is perhaps the most common way. (Does anyone else interpret that sentiment as pressure to feel better sooner, or is it just me?) Sometimes, one of them will tell me how eager they are to hear about a trip I’ve taken or an event I’ll be doing. Their use of eager sounds to me like there’s some expectation for me to fulfill.

What got me started with this is that an editor recently labeled me eager. (Oh no you didn’t.) As you can now imagine, I flinched. However, she sandwiched it in what was otherwise a compliment: You’re so open and eager, and you have a lot of heart and soul… so I didn’t get caught up in it. Being open and having heart and soul sounds lovely to me. I focused on those qualities.

I interpret eager as having a negative connotation, perhaps even as a sort of desperation. I’ll speak for everyone when I say, no one wants to be desperate. But in further defense of the person who said I was eager, honestly, she was perceptive. The material I was working with was edgy enough that it made me somewhat distressed, and I was indeed eager to do great work and earn her approval—and that of other readers.

Coincidentally, a newsletter with this quote from Susan Sontag’s poignant 2003 commencement speech landed in my email inbox last week: Pay attention. It’s all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager. That sounds like a positive spin on eager. Vitality and connection are important, and Sontag was a brilliant writer, so, should I reconsider my stance and “stay eager” for the sake of focused attention?

Fellow Minneapolitan Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew put it similarly, writing in her recent Brevity Blog post, “I most treasure how writing wakes me up. The practice asks me to look closely at what is, … to be fully present … and like any contemplative practice it brings me more alive.” I’m realizing now how this business of being eager is a writerly thing. So, that editor attributed a quality to me that fellow writers apparently strive for (how cool is that?) and one with the power to make a writer’s writing vivid.

My neighbor has stepped away from the piano and I’m eager to get back to other writing. (See what I did there?) After my dad passed away, I wrote a personal manifesto in which I stated, “I am here to connect.” Now that I’ve had this time of contemplation—with a fitting soundtrack in the background—I can see how my manifesto relates to this and agree that we, my friends, should stay eager. My hunch is that it will provoke not only better writing, but deeper living.

i NEED a CAT

[3-min read] I think my dad might be a gnat. It’s sitting on the upper right corner of my laptop screen as I type this, flicking its gnat wings and scrubbing together its rear gnat legs. It’s also keeping me company. (I don’t have a cat.) A couple times, I’ve tried to smash it and once I tried to catch and release it outdoors, but so far, it’s alluded me. My husband tried to kill it this morning and was unsuccessful, as well.

The lifespan of a gnat is only a week or two and my dad has been lurking in gnat form for over a week now. (I concluded that his spirit was “lurking” after I read a Facebook post of my half-sister’s.) I consider it a point of evidence that it’s my dad. Further evidence came from Spare. In the epilogue of his memoir, Prince Harry implied that a hummingbird inside his home may have been a visit from his “granny,” Queen Elizabeth, who had recently passed away. (Harry’s granny was The Queen, so she’s a hummingbird. My dad was a Buddhist and musician but also an opioids addict, so he’s a gnat.)

Actually, I haven’t been able to confirm my dad’s passing. However, there have been several coincidences. In August, I coincidentally read a second Facebook post by my sister in which she wrote that it was the one-year anniversary since she received the news that our dad was likely dead. I immediately called my stepmom (who divorced my dad decades ago) and asked her if there was any physical confirmation. She told me no, but that she could feel my dad was gone.

Recently, I coincidentally read a section in the book Hear Yourself: How to Find Peace in a Noisy World, by Prem Rawat, about “when our loved ones die.” In the moment, I didn’t think that section applied to me because I hadn’t read my sister’s posts yet. Also, I didn’t love my dad.

I only knew my dad a little; I didn’t grow up living with him. For seventh grade, I lived in California with my stepmom, my two half-sisters, and my dad after spending the previous three summers there. Since then, I’d only seen my dad a handful of times. He had reached out to me, mostly in letters, during his sober days and had typically been generous with praise for whatever I was up to. But he hadn’t been emotionally available to me. I know that a lot of folks, especially people my age and older, would describe their dads that way. But with mine, it wasn’t that he didn’t talk about his feelings. It was that he had done enough hard drugs from an early age (his teens) that his emotions were chemically blunted. The final time I saw him, in 2019, it was evident that he didn’t possess the emotional depth for an interactive relationship.

Coincidentally, what I would be working on this very moment if my gnat-dad wasn’t sitting on my screen—still watching me—is editing the last chapter of my memoir, in which I wrote about that final visit with my dad. Now, I’m wrangling with the decision of whether to let him watch me write about him in my memoir or watch me write to you about him in a blog post.

Blog post it is.

As I was reading about loved ones dying, I had the thought that I was lucky to not have lost a loved one during the height of the pandemic. Coincidentally, it’s suddenly apparent that while I didn’t lose a loved one, per se, I certainly lost a person of significance—much as I try to deny my dad that status. And now I’m grieving a little.

I’ve just looked up and the gnat is still there, still keeping me company as dad-gnat has been all this past week and through the draft of this essay. Of course I can’t kill him at this point. I guess he’ll just go when he’s seen enough of me.

I bought a journal to write down thoughts and reactions to prompts I found after googling “death of a father I never knew.” I’m not a journaler, but I’m (finally) enlightened enough to know that I would be better served if I respected my dad’s passing enough to take time to process it.

I’m getting oddly attached to the gnat, though. If gnat-dad flies away in the next moment, I might choke up. (I choked up as I typed that. Clearly, I have feelings I need to acknowledge.) Wait—another gnat just flew past and landed on the rim of my latte mug. Who the heck could that be?

EARTH day

[3-min read] Was it middle school when I first learned that the earth wouldn’t exist after the death of the sun? Back then—in the early 1980s—and for several years after hearing that apocalyptic fact, I assumed human beings could still be earth inhabitants on the very day the sun died. I had imagined what that might look like if I were still alive then: a spectacular, cosmic flash of the final solar moment followed by a sentient flash just before my demise and then . . . nothing.

Inspired by a catastrophic oil spill in the Santa Barbara, California, Channel the previous year, the first official Earth Day took place on April 22, 1970. The event involved a nationwide demonstration with twenty million people organized by then Wisconsin Democratic senator and environmental and social activist, Gaylord Nelson, and Harvard grad student Denis Hayes. Nelson had worked with presidents Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon to usher in a decade of conservation efforts. That would eventually bash headlong into the wall of the Reagan era, which played out partly as a reversal of conservation policy coupled with ecological deception that included the fossil fuel industry running ads to assure Americans that what earth needed was more carbon dioxide.

(If only that were true, given a single bitcoin transaction releases about 402 kg of CO2 and annually, transactions release around thirty-seven megatons of carbon dioxide, which is comparable to the emissions of certain cities and smaller countries. U.S. gaming platforms—think PlayStation—are reputed to be equally polluting.)

In 1986, I paid four hundred dollars for my first car, a used 1974 Datsun B-210. It needed new rings and burned through a quart of oil in a week and whenever I started the engine, an ominous cloud of black smoke would billow out. I don’t remember learning of Earth Day, but I knew of greenhouse gasses and the ozone hole, and I was ashamed of my contribution to what we were about to call global warming. I even quit using aerosol hairspray, which was a significant sacrifice for a teenager in the 80s. But the Datsun was all I could afford. Thankfully, by the time I read Al Gore’s 1992 book, Earth in the Balance, I was driving a newer (more efficient), small-model pickup truck.

Though Earth Day gained enough traction to eventually be celebrated by a billion citizens worldwide, in industrial and political arenas, policy and action didn’t keep pace with environmental degradation. When Nelson passed away in 2005, environmental activist Greta Thunberg was two years old. Originally notorious for her “school strike for climate,” Thunberg, continues to challenge world leaders and tirelessly advocate for change with assurance for the rest of us that, “Hope comes from action.” My effort to reduce household food waste and the reusable bags and cups I carry with me are steps I’ve been assured that if we all took, would significantly help the environment.

In 2012, I bought a new Mini Cooper. Its gas mileage was improved from the pickup truck. (Full disclosure: Anyone who knows how not tall I am knows I belong behind the wheel of a Mini.) Still, I was a member of a car culture and a two-person, two-vehicle family in a state plagued by drought and wildfires.

Between 2017 and 2021, an unprecedented number of environmental and climate policies were reversed. Meanwhile, in 2020, a record-breaking twenty-two climate disasters occurred in the U.S. alone, causing $95 billion worth of damage. That was also the year I sold my Mini (we’re now a one-vehicle family) and moved to Minneapolis in large part because it was a walkable-bikeable city. As a climate migrant, I also believed it to be a region where I could better-tolerate climate change. That felt like significant action. I can buy groceries, a latte (in a reusable cup), and get a chiropractic adjustment within walking distance from where I live. I can spend lazy Sunday afternoons visiting any of several local breweries all within an easy bike ride.

I’m less naïve and more in awe than when I first learned of the sun’s classification as a finite star. To loosely paraphrase astrophysicist Don Brownlee, co-author of The Life and Death of Planet Earth, it’s beneficial for us to not only protect, but also acknowledge the unique treasure that is our fabulous planet. In the profound words of William Shatner on his return from space, “What I understood, in the clearest possible way, was that we were living on a tiny oasis of life.” What an honor.

DUality

[3.5-min read] I’ve been sifting through a folder of iconic high school knickknacks. I’m pretty sure my mom secretly abandoned it guilt-free in my garage on one of the times she passed through my city en route to living in a new town. It takes me back to a conversation I had about Simple Minds. Their song, “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” is on the soundtrack for the 1985 film, The Breakfast Club, which is about a motley sampling of high school students. They both have a distinct vibe—the movie and the band. I’m not one to dwell in nostalgia, but that’s what they make me feel.

One recent Saturday morning, I walked into my original favorite Minneapolis coffee shop and “Alive and Kicking” was playing over the sound system. “Oooh. I love this song. Wow. This takes me back,” I said to the barista. “I’m a little older than you and it was on the soundtrack to the 1980s classic film, The Breakfast Club and I graduated in the 1980s,” I blurted. She smiled and walked over to an iPad, looked down at it and read aloud, “Simple Minds.”

“I could have told you that,” I gushed.

“So, what do you miss most about the ‘80s?” she asked.

“The limitless energy of youth,” I said, laughing and waiving my arm above my head in a dramatic gesture. After a pause, I added, “That’s a hard one. I’ll have to think about it.”

Hers was a timely question for me. If you have parents (and stepparents and aunts and family-like friends) who are in their 70s, you’ve likely come into the possession of whatever it is they can’t bear to part with—other than to pass it along (or back) to you. “These are important! Don’t throw them away!” my mom has instructed for sentimental items that she’s forwarded to me because she apparently can’t trash them herself.

The *important* items tucked into the folder are: a school paper I wrote while attending seventh grade in Berkeley, California. It’s titled, “Marijuana and Legalization,” and the opening paragraph states, “All of what I say throughout this composition just depends on what kind of person you are. You will understand after you read it.”; *priceless* pictures of band members of Mötley Crüe and Van Halen that I cut out of music magazines and then taped onto the college-ruled pages of a notebook; a computer printout with my name (misspelled) and “FRESHMAN” at the top, followed by the explanation, “Here they are at last!!! The computer has, after cogitating at great length, produced the names you have been waiting for.” Following that is a list of “ten best boys,” their class, and a number representing their compatibility score. At the bottom of the page, it reads, “The computer match is sponsored by student government”; a handwritten account of a span of time during which my closest girlfriends and I first experimented with partying and fooling around with boys, including the names of who fooled around with whom. (Side note: I had to Google the meaning of cogitated. None of the names of the boys I fooled around with appears on that “cogitated” list and for the record, the word was used incorrectly, the computer anthropomorphized.)

Now for the answer to what I miss most about the ‘80s. The folder items listed above are fertile with implicit options such as an obscene amount of free time, David Lee Roth, and boys. (Not.) But during that era, there was also a degree of cultural absurdity and ignorance that has since been topped to an extent I couldn’t have imagined. What I miss most is my dashed assumption that we wouldn’t repeat history because we had learned it. Decades later, I know from experience that history most certainly repeats itself. I also recognize that what I learned in history classes in the late ‘80s was grossly incomplete and even inaccurate. Several positive standards of society that I was (naively) optimistic were unshakable, have proven to be vulnerable, along with my unflinching optimism.

I wouldn’t call it a resolution, per se, but I am leaning into an evolution from what I grew up with as magical thinking, toxic positivity, and spiritual bypassing, to an exploration of the paradox of living as both ebb and flow, positive and negative, heartbreaking and joyful. It’s a hot topic in some circles, this learning to work within the tension of duality, as Brené Brown discussed during an interview with Barack Obama. They described it as a skill: to be able to exist in—not flee—a space where two seemingly conflicting elements are concurrently true.

I’m not encouraging my older friends and family to unload their precious memorabilia on me—I now live in a condo, so it would take up space I need for furniture. I will say, however, that marveling over personal evidence of the absurdity of a decade has been fun. It’s the sort of fun I haven’t had since, well, the 1980s.