UP A CREEK

I dreamed that I was attempting to cross a very wide river in a kayak, but instead of having a paddle, all I had was a tennis racket. I can’t say that a tennis racket is absolutely useless as a paddle. Thanks to it’s shape and net dimensions it does provide some water resistance for propelling a small craft, just not a lot of it. So I was making little headway getting across this very wide river. I don’t know if I ever made it across because I woke up pretty soon after realizing my paddle was a tennis racket.

On Saturday, Lauren and I attended Community Defense Training in a church packed with concerned community members. I learned a lot and took copious notes. We’re being discretionary with the information while trying to spread it around (please feel free to message me with questions). If anything, it was helpful to know my legal rights and what I can do if I see ICE Agents. Monday morning, Jenn sent a group text to me and Lauren that she had spotted ICE agents in our neighborhood. Lauren immediately had Jenn call the local helpline while I sent her information on what she needed to tell the people on the helpline. The helpline sends out people to get more information on who and where people are being taken by the agents. They also help get legal aid to those being detained. Legal aid is very important since 89% of cases fail without legal representation.

Team work activism!

After the training, Lauren took me home and we sat in her car in my driveway talking about grace and how we tend to not give ourselves enough of it. We tell ourselves we are not enough while trying to do all of the things while being socially and ecologically responsible, but the thing is, it is not physically sustainable or possible to do all of the things and then some. Recent studies of autoimmune diseases show that women are more likely to be susceptible to autoimmune disorders because they are trying to do all the things while ignoring their own discomfort. Instead of saying “wait…I’m not feeling well…I can’t do all of the things?” we like to pat ourselves on the backs for doing all of the things in spite of not feeling well. In turn, the body’s immune system starts attacking you because you have been unkind to your own body.

We must give ourselves some grace.

Lately, I have felt paralyzed over knowing that I needed to help my community is some way but not having any idea how to help my community. I thought for sure that I was not doing enough because I was not doing anything other than blogging about ways to help. Record scratch…sharing ways to help is doing something. Community Defense Training also gave me clear instructions and ways that I can do more. Getting training is doing something. Am I buying the most ethically caught shrimp from Costco? Probably not, but my soap comes from the refill station. That’s gotta cancel something out. I am doing what I can, in this moment.

Even if it feels like I’m paddling a kayak with a tennis racket.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

The ground is blanketed with a layer of snow from last weekends storms. There are a few patches, here and there, where the brown winter grass is showing. Those are the places that have seen more direct sunlight, but the temperatures have remained too frigid for much thawing. The table in our backyard is usually a good measure for the amount of snow fallen at a time. No one was willing to trudge out there this time with a ruler. My guess would be that by last Sunday morning, we received about six inches of snow. Hardly unmanageable. Each day, I’ve watched that snow dwindling from that table top.

There’s still just a tiny bit left.

I’ve been waiting for this, bracing myself for the months of bitter cold. December was practically balmy here, a rare occurrence and one that immediately put me on guard for the coming months. I live in the midwest. Winters are cold and miserable. I want to say that I am made of the hearty stock of ancestors who pioneered their way across the prairies here and carved out homesteads in the plains. My ancestors were hearty enough to survive a boat trip across the Atlantic and then made their way directly south. I was not born to endure this kind of weather, but we are adaptable by nature. I have better winter clothing, enough fleece lined pants for a week and thick wool socks. I do not have to endure anything.

I only have to tolerate it.

I know I should be taking advantage of being stuck inside. There are a number of projects I could work on while sitting on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket. The other night, I woke up from a dream and couldn’t go back to sleep because the dream was a story that could be written. I proceeded to mental write this story until I finally forced myself back to sleep. What I should have done was just gotten out of bed and physically write that story down or at least a synopsis of the story so that it could be added to the pile of unfinished bits of fiction I have worked on off and on over the years. Instead, I laid there with my eyes closed and focused my attention on the space at the top of my head between my brain and skull, mentally telling myself to go to sleep.

Winter is so strange.

There’s a reason so many horror stories and thrillers take place during winter months. The hours of darkness are longer than the hours of light and things lurk in the dark. The stories are meant to encourage us to stay inside, safe and warm. But it is a Catch 22. While we’re inside, safe and warm, our minds are free to wander and our imaginations can exaggerate the dangers of the darkness. The medium sized wolf from a tale, can easily morph into beast standing on hind legs, razor sharp teeth bared, ready to rip out a throat. We often channel our imaginations to exaggerate the worst things about the dark and forget all about the goodness of darkness. I like to think about what’s happening in the soil in the darkness right now. I like to imagine seeds vibrating with the energy they’re storing up, waiting for the right time to start sprouting. So much happens before a plant from a seed even gets a glimpse of the sun. Roots start and then the epicotyl emerges. That’s the part that turns into stems and leaves, but it doesn’t do that until it pokes through the earth.

Growth happens in the dark.

I know this. I know that this is the time of year for gathering the energy required for sprouting. I know that there’s more good to be found in the dark than we think there is. Good things happened this week. The National Guard deployed in Minnesota joyfully handed out hot drinks and donuts to protestors in Minneapolis. Tracy Wong, a local restaurant owner, opened her doors to protestors and press after they’d been tear gasses. She opened her doors saying “Come in. Come in!” and then offered up water and hot tea. Government officials are stepping down and reducing the number of ICE agents in Minnesota. Change may be happening at a snail’s pace, but it is happening.

While good things can happen in the dark, like growing roots, the epicotyl is pushing up in search of the light. Which is kind of like what’s happening with this post. I’m grateful for the rest and good things that happen in the dark cold months of winter, but I am always reaching out for the light.

TACKLE ONE THING

I woke up Saturday morning early even though I had no where to be or errands to take care of. My usual Saturday morning routine had been disrupted. Instead of creative journalling with coffee and a breakfast sandwich at Heirloom, I ate malt-o-meal with dried fruit and nuts while watching TV. Instead of grocery shopping after breakfast, I dusted and de-cluttered the house. Then I settled in on the floor in front of my filing cabinet. I pulled every thing out and started sorting. Most of the files are labelled with appropriate labels. The contents of those files, on the other hand, may or may not match up with the label. Many files had just become dump places for random bits of paper that we thought might be important enough to keep. One file, unlabeled, contained a mix of typed and hand written stories from Chris. Of course, I saved these and maybe someday I’ll be able to read them.

Not right now.

While I sat on the floor surrounded by old bank statements, twenty year-old tax documents, stacks of manuals for appliance (half of witch I do not even own anymore), and a very thick folder containing all of my research data for my unpublished thesis paper from 2000, news was rolling in from Minneapolis. ICE Agents had executed yet another American Citizen. Alex Pretti, an ICU nurse for the Veterans Affairs Hospital, was executed by ICE while helping another bystander up from the ground. The bystander had been violently shoved to the ground by an ICE agent. He was carrying a gun along with his open carry license. The gun never left it’s holster. In fact, it was removed from Alex Pretti by ICE before ICE shot Alex Pretti ten times. When other countries report this in their news, they call these repeated ICE attacks ‘executions’.

Because that is exactly what they are.

I have heard from the opposition that none of these people would be hurt or killed if they would just follow instructions from whatever ICE agent is yelling at them. So let’s play a game. I’m going to give you a series of orders. You’re job is to follow those orders. I’m also going to point a semi-automatic weapon at you while yelling these orders. Ready? Hands behind your back show me your ID on your knees stand next to your car don’t move on the ground hands where I can see them. Okay…how’d you do? Where those clear instructions for you? This is the worse game of Simon Says anyone is ever going to ‘play’. First and for most, I do not have to comply with anything ICE ‘orders’ me to do. They are not law enforcement. They only have jurisdiction over immigration.

What they are doing is illegal and unconstitutional.

Ways to help Minnesota:

• Senneh Foundation

• Joyce Uptown Food Shelf

• Keystone Community Services and Food Shelf

• Immigration Deense Network

• Community Aid Network MN

• MN Immigration Rights Action Committee

• ACLU Minnesota

• Mid-Minnesota Legal Aid

• Immigrant Law Center of Minnesota

Acts of kindness are acts of protest.

Give where you can, but I also recommend seeking out similar organizations in your community. Food banks. Legal Aid. Every city has them and they could all use a little help. You might be thinking “Well….ICE doesn’t seem to be a big presence in my area.” Right now, that might be true, but we can’t be naive enough to the idea that this is only happening in Minnesota. Nor can we be naive enough to believe this is not going to get worse. Also “your area” may be a small bubble. You would probably see more activity if you stepped outside of that small bubble. I’m attending Community Defense Training on Saturday. I found the perfect keychain whistle while decluttering my desk. Michael and I have started making a list of questions for defense training, like how to live stream video and how to support protestors with meal trains and eye wash stations.

We are preparing for battle.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Wednesday night, I was sitting on the couch working on our meal plan and grocery list for next week, when Michael said “Oh…we need to talk about this weekend.” I got really suspicious and replied “What do you mean?” While I’ve spent most of the week in a cold medicine haze, the rest of the country has been hearing weather reports. I can’t truly use cold medicine as my excuse since I am generally clueless about the state of the weather and often in denial about predictions of extreme cold and snow. So I was not surprised when Michael said that it would start snowing Friday night and not stop until Sunday morning. I wasn’t surprised, but I still threw a tantrum because I hate snow dumps and below temperatures and not being able to leave my driveway. I may not want to leave my house under normal circumstance, but Mother Nature forcing me to stay put creates anxiety and rage.

We’ve done all the hunting and gathering on Thursday, which truly felt like hunting and gathering. We are prepared for the hunkering down the baby weather reporter who dresses like PeeWee has told us all to do.

To be fair, this winter has been kind of mild. There might as well have not been a first week back to school/work last year because we were buried under snow. I think Michael had one snow day last year and it was just after Thanksgiving. I knew this meant that late January through March would probably be intolerable, but I’m grateful for delay we’ve had in actual winter temps. I could also use a weekend where I’m forced to stay at home, but also feeling better because it is a good opportunity to take care of some neglected house cleaning chores. I have this vision of cleaning out my house as if I were going to move. I know this will require storage containers and maybe even a yard sale, but in the meantime I can tackle the stuff that can just be trashed. For instance: Do I really need to hang onto a hard copy of my Masters Thesis from 2000? If a twenty six year old thesis paper (that never received a publication because my thesis advisor died) is still hanging out in my filing cabinet, you can be sure there are other documents worth trashing. This sounds like a perfect snow day activity.

I am thankful that I am feeling better just in time for our snow apocalypse.

I am also thankful to all of you who have wished me a happy birthday. I truly believe that leaving happy birthday messages is one of the easiest ways to spread joy. Each wish of happiness filled my heart. So, Thank you!

THIS IS FIFTY

Michael said when he woke up on his fiftieth birthday, he felt fifty. I woke up Tuesday on my fiftieth birthday, feeling like a sick little kid with a sore throat and a headache. Melissa dropped off a box of birthday macarons. So I spent the day in a cold medicine haze on the couch, eating macarons. All in all, maybe not such bad way to spend a birthday. I treated myself to two sick days. On the second day, I finally took a shower and started feeling less little kid sick and maybe more my actual age?

People make such a big deal about so called milestone birthdays. Sweet sixteen. Twenty one shots for your twenty first. Dirty Thirty. Actually…I’m not so sure what dirty thirty means or is all about and I’m not clear on forty. Like forty is the milestone we sneak through because our forties are so heavy with adulting. In my case, I’d already done some heavy lifting adulting in my thirties. So forty was just more of the same. Fifty is the threshold, too old for childish things. Except, eventually we’ll be retirement age and just the right age for nothing but childish things.

My birthday has never really been a big deal for me. It has always felt overshadowed. Inaugurations. Christmas hangovers. Dying husbands. Knowing that this year would be fifty, I spent a number of hours in 2025 contemplating what turning fifty means to me. I’ve grasped ahold of some idea that fifty should mean something; feel different. Like I should have woken up wiser and sophisticated with age. Instead, I woke up achy and feverish and definitely not in the mood for deciding any feelings about turning fifty.

I think I can finally spend a moment to reflect on turning the big fifty and here’s the thing. It’s nothing. It’s just another year, like turning thirty or forty. I don’t feel older or wiser. I don’t feel suddenly enlightened. I feel the same as I did last week, but with a head cold. Someone said to me “Fifty! You’re half way there!” and I laughed. Maybe fifty is my ‘middle’ age even though my genetic history says otherwise. I still want the same things for myself as I did in my thirties and forties. Travel and shenanigans. Roller skating and bike rides. Last week, everyone was revisiting 2016 and as I gathered pictures to join in, I noticed there was a lot more whimsy in life in 2016. Have I lost whimsy because I’m now fifty? That’s not true. Whimsy has been missing for some time now.

My friend, Deborah sent me a text welcoming me to my ‘feral fifties’ and I think ‘feral’ is a perfect description for turning fifty.

fe-ral:

(especially of an animal) in a wild state, especially after escape from captivity or domestication. - Oxford Dictionary

I’ve been held captive by the adulting of my forties and now I’m ready to run wild. I can’t say that turning fifty changed my state of mind. I was already in a zero fucks to give place. Now, I no longer give zero fucks but I do what I want. Last week I bought a very pink, not so practical, dress because I’ve been eyeing it and it was on sale. Will I be wearing it with boots and leggings this week? Of course I will. I took two sick days this week when I’m usually “oh, no, really….I must go to work. Cough cough cough.” Micheal accidentally broke my gin teacup and I ordered a replacement from a not so sure website. My credit card was stolen, but it’s been replaced and all is fixed. And I just got a notice that my new gin teacup is being shipped. I’ve been the most responsible human you’ve ever met and now I’m ready to be irresponsible.

I don’t know what irresponsibility is going to look like for me, but I sure hope it brings some whimsy back into my life.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Thursday was my mother’s birthday. This evening, I will drive to Tulsa to spend the night at my brother’s house so that I can get up the next morning to spend an hour or two with her before driving home. This is not un-similar to how my visits with my dad used to go. The differences are minor. Dad was still a three hour drive away from Tulsa and the last time I saw him, he still knew who I was. Now, I don’t have to drive as far but my mother doesn’t know me. Our visits are short ones, like the one’s with Dad, because Mom tires quickly. It also has to be confusing for her and maybe a little stressful. At this point, I’m not sure why I’m going. Guilt? Respect? Maybe my presence brightens her day?

My feelings are a sushi roll.

I went in on Tuesday for my regularly scheduled chiropractor visit. We chatted and laughed while Dr. Fran popped my body back into place. She basically reset me from the four weeks of plane flights, car rides and sleeping on unfamiliar pillows. I walked out of the office with a bounce in my step, then got in my car and started crying. I cried all the way back to work while asking myself “What are you even crying about?!” Apparently some of that pop pop released some pent up grief, stuff I’ve been holding onto since Thanksgiving. Probably stuff I’ve been holding onto a lot longer than Thanksgiving.

I keep telling myself that after this weekend, things will slow down. I will have time for myself, time for developing a plan to get myself back on my yoga mat on the regular. I’ll have time to really really clean the house. I’ll finally start clearing out all of the things that no longer serve me. I have a need to clear some space in the house, probably left over trauma from cleaning out Mom’s houses. I’ve given myself a start date in February to get the ball rolling on all of the above, but on Wednesday morning as I drove into work, I felt that old familiar feeling creeping in, whispering “you know you don’t do well during this time of the year.” If those whispers were lies, I might just be able to ignore them, but the whispers are telling the truth.

Winter is not good for me.

There’s an extra layer of heaviness this year. A fleet of ICE vehicles are parked in a lot north of the river and we’ve had conversations about what that means for the people I work with. One of those people said that they aren’t too worried since they live on the Kansas side. That’s a republican state. He said they really seemed to be more concerned with the democrat areas and he’s right. This is not about immigration. This is all about intimidation and retaliation on those who do not support the Trump agenda. On top of my usual winter layer of grief, I now have an added layer of worry for the people I care for and respect in my community. When I talk about community, I am referring to all of the people in it. White, brown, black, LGTBQ+. These are the people who make up my community and what makes my community such a great one to be a part of.

So…how do I find gratitude under these circumstances?

‘Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I would not care as much if I did not have love. I would not worry if I did not have a connection with this community. All of this would mean nothing to me if I did not believe that we are meant to care for one another. I am grateful for the love, the connections and the strong belief in kindness. It is my gratitude for those things that make me want to fight to keep them safe, to keep this conversation going, to do my part in sharing correct (multi-sourced) information. I am also very aware that these ICE tactics are part of the distraction being used by Trump. If you are spending time being outraged by ICE’s illegal activities, maybe you won’t know how much of your tax dollars he’s funneling into programs that only benefit those making a million dollars or more a year. What’s your representative doing right now that is beneficial to you and your community? Holding our government officials accountable is a never ending responsibility.

Someday, I won’t have the need to be compelled to write about all of this. This is my belief, my hope, my wish. While my little flame of hope feels more like an ember right now, it’s still glowing, still giving off just enough light to keep me going. I am grateful for that.

UNCERTAINTY

The Saturday morning after our return from Paris, I met Jenn for breakfast so we could chat about the things I missed while I was away. At some point Jenn said something about her upcoming trip to Mexico and how she was a little worried about getting back into this country. She asked me about our experience with customs and I told her how it went for us and also what I witnessed for others.

When Michael and I landed in Detroit, we had to go through customs. This involved a long line, border patrol, collecting checked bags and rechecking those bags. The line was slow moving and we got really stressed about missing our connecting flight. We saw people being rigorously questioned by border control, sometimes a person would be pulled from the line at random and held to one side. When it was our turn with border control, Michael and I walked up, they scanned our faces, asked us if we had any fruits or vegetables and then sent us on our way. They didn’t give a flip about my eight pounds of butter.

Every one of those people getting the extra questioning were people with brown skin. Every white person with zero ethnic qualities breezed right through. Our bags were not opened and riffled through. We were not pressed about how much money we’ve spent or how long we’ve been American citizens. So when Jenn asked me about getting through customs, I said “Look at your face. They will not even question you.” It’s sickening and unfair and gross. And at the time I said it, it was true. Systemic Racism has led us to believe that being white protects you. Thirty two people were murdered by ICE agents last year. Keith Porter was killed by an ICE agent on New Year’s Eve. But it is the murder of Renee Nicole Good takes away any illusion of safety. Not a single person in this country is safe from the harassment of Trump’s Thugs. ICE agents are nothing more than thugs. They are not law enforcement. They only have jurisdiction over immigration, but they continue to take lives in the name of the ‘law’.

Nothing about what they’re doing is legal.

I spent half of my week chaperoning teenagers at a thespian conference. Thousands of Missouri high school students gathered at the Union Station in St. Louis to attend various workshop and competitions. The second day of the conference, Michael and I were sitting at a table waiting for our group to check in from their morning activities and suddenly my eyes filled with tears as I watched all these kids moving about. It was Character Day and half of them were dressed up in various costumes. All I could think was how much we have failed them. Yet here they were walking around dressed as random theater characters as if we haven’t failed them. I’ve listened to them talk of their future plans and what’s next for them and I am floored by their innocence and hope. None of these kids have a look of terror to them even though the bubble we’ve placed them in is filled with holes. They can pretend they are safe and there was a time when I believed they were safe. “That would never happen here”, insert whatever terror for ‘that’, is something we can no longer say or believe. Because we know it can happen here.

Do not let them change a part of your souls that sees a fellow human being when you look at your neighbor. - Brandon Johnson, Mayor of Chicago

We cannot afford to stand by silently while this administration continues to rip families apart and murder innocent people. If you see ICE detaining people in your community, REPORT it. You are legally allowed to film ICE agents. Call out to those being deported and remind them of their rights to remain silent and that they don’t have to sign anything. If ICE are detaining someone ask for a signed official warrant with the right name and date. Our role is to document; take note of the size, activity, location, unit and time of the event. If you can get family contact information from the person being deported, do so and then contact that family. These are small acts, but we all know about snowballs.

We owe it to those kids to fill the holes in their bubble so they can truly feel safe.

IT'S 2026

It’s 2026 and I never even really celebrated the good things from 2025. I pulled some photos together to start making a year in pictures video to share, but I came across too many pictures that made me cry, like the last picture of Mom as a coherent, mobile human being. 2025 was depressing as fuck and thank the goddesses that I have Jenn constantly reminding me that January is for hibernation or I’d already be in a panic about 2026. It’s hard not to be in a panic about 2026 and that’s without even considering any personal goals (ie resolutions). All of us were hoping we would just move quietly into the new year, instead the year chose Wrecking Ball for a theme.

Meanwhile, I am being commercially bombarded with ways to lose weight, the healthiest meal kits and how I can organize/micromanage my life. It’s easy to let myself think that I’ve creeped into this new year without any thoughts on what it is I want for this year. This simply is not true. I just know that January is not the time to start new projects. Particularly this January where I’ve had commitments scheduled since well before the new year, like the fifty something slides I’m supposed to image for a project. I’m chaperoning a gaggle of teenagers from Michael’s school for a thespian conference this week. So I have two days to image fifty four slides before I spend the rest of the week herding kids from point A to point B. I am also scheduled to image more slides next week, plus make time for the orthodontist, the chiropractor and taking Josephine to the groomers. Then I leave Friday for a quick overnight trip to see my mom. I’ll be home in time for Family Dinner on Sunday.

Like I said, I have goals for this year. I’m just not ready to start working on them.

For the last four nights, Michael and I have looked at each other at the same time, usually around 8:30 PM and confessed to each other that we would not make it to 9:00. I have started melting on the couch at 8:00 every evening, forcing myself to stay awake at least until 8:30. Last night, as Michael was putting me to bed, I asked “Why am I so sleepy?!?!” He shrugged and replied “I don’t know. Maybe this is who we are now.” Part of me thinks that’s fine. I’ve always been an early to bed early to rise person, but this feels a bit extreme even for me. While I know that I will eventually get back to my usual sleeping schedule, jumping right back into work has not been helpful.

So if I had to come up with a word for myself for the year, I think it would be ‘patience’.

The first thing I need to do is be patient with myself. Then, I need to really look at my daily calendar. Where am I wasting time? How can I make room for the things I really want to be doing, without quitting my job? What would my schedule look like if I actually set a goddamn boundary instead of always saying “Sure, I can do that now!”? That’s how I end up with multiple things at the same time on my calendar. This is also the reason my yoga practice went to trash. I said ‘yes’ when I should have said ‘no’ and wedged myself out of the picture. This is also how I ended up chaperoning teenagers, but if I just have a little bit of patience and grace with myself, I think I can manage to say ‘yes’ less often.

For now, I’m leaning into January as my hibernation time.

KNOWING THE ASSIGNMENT

Michael is my spotter when we are traveling together. It isn’t an easy job. I am a dangerous photographer, often standing in the middle of a street or climbing out the sunroof of his truck. But he knows the assignment and he executes it well. Mostly he performs the job because he’s terrified for me and I’m going to do these things with or without a spotter. He always gives me a count down for how long I can stay in a dangerous moment. The only times he has stepped away from his job are the moments when I’m leaving Chris somewhere. He says he’s giving me space, but I suspect part of it comes from it being uncomfortable for him. There’s just so much about death that makes people uncomfortable from the human remains to the reminder of the temporary state of life.

This time, I didn’t give him a choice. I used the magic words: “I need you.”

On our first real day in Paris, we went to the Musee d’Orsay and was met with a Disneyland-esq sized line. I made a half hearted attempt to buy online tickets, but they were sold out for the day. So we wandered over to Jardin Des Tuileries. I had read that Victor Hugo was sitting in this park when he heard the gunshots that was the beginning of the June Rebellion in 1932. This would inspire him to write Les Miserables. Les Miserables happened to be one of Chris’s favorites, both the book and musical inspired by the book. So when I started thinking about where I would leave Chris in Paris, this seemed like the most fitting place. A park that birthed the story of rebellion, loss and love seemed ideal.

We wandered into the park and I started scanning the area. I thought maybe a park bench with a nice view would be a good choice, but the park was filled with people. I needed a quiet, isolated spot. We ended up near the Musee de l’Orangerie on a wide walking path. There’s a sculpture there by Paul Maximilien Landowski called The Sons of Cain.

Is this not all of mankind? The man of the fields, the poet, the city worker. - Paul Maximilien Landowski

Michael pointed it out because Michael is a plaque reader. He’s the guy holding up traffic in museums reading all of the plaques. It was an easy decision that this would be Chris’s view. Michael helped me find a secluded spot at the base of a tree that would give Chris his view , as well as good lighting for the photo I would take. Then he kept watch while I poured out my little bag of ashes and gave me a countdown for how long I had to take a photo without people walking through. These events have to move quickly and I’ve become adept at pouring out ashes and taking photos. When I stood up, Michael said “That’s some Gonzo shit right there.” and I turned to him and said “Thank you.” Actually, I said more than that. I told him that I really had needed him this time and that I was grateful for his help. I managed to get this out before my voice cracked with the tears that were starting. Then he held me while I cried. I’ve done this a number of times, enough to become used to it and not get emotional. But this one…this was a big one.

This was Paris.

And Michael understood the assignment.

DON'T FORGET PARIS

New Year’s Eve, I went to bed at 9 PM exhausted from over twenty hours of traveling. I dreamed that we were still walking the streets of Paris and then was jolted awake by the sounds of my neighborhood exploding with fireworks and gunfire. For a moment, I was confused, thinking I was still in the apartment in the 5th Arrondissement. I listened to the explosions for only a minute before quickly falling back to sleep, waking again at 4 in the morning. Then I laid in bed wide awake, but unwilling to move from the bed. So I watched Stranger Things on my iPad until Michael opened my door around 8. It has taken us about two days to reset our sleep schedules and feel slightly normal.

I have so much I could tell you and so little. I haven’t decided yet on where to even start. At the end of each day, Michael and I sat at the dining table and I wrote down notes about our day, each one filling up a page in my notebook. We quickly realized that we would not be going to any of the museums. I had made a tentative daily schedule for us before we left. Our mornings would be spent at market and our afternoons at a museum, but my plan was so tentative that I did not pre-purchase tickets to any thing. I didn’t want a timed vacation. The only timed ticket I managed to purchase for us was for the Arc de Triomphe. So we walked up to the museums, saw the endless lines of people and promptly turned around. By our third day, we started leaving the apartment with no plans at all.

And it was one of the best vacations I’ve had in years.

We strolled the neighborhoods of Paris. We started each morning by saying “today, we’ll take it easy, do less walking.” Then we’d walk from one end of the city to the other. We found our markets. We bought ingredients for evening meals and sometimes breakfast. We bought eight blocks of butter and twenty scarves. One day, on our way to find the Marie Curie museum, we stumbled upon the Pantheon. We hopped in line to buy tickets to go inside and while we waited, the internet gods blessed Michael’s phone long enough for him to purchase tickets online. We hopped out of line and walked right on in. Then I immediately started crying because it was so devastatingly beautiful. There was ethereal choral music echoing through the building and the walls were painted with epic scenes. We made our way down to the catacombs to pay our respects to Marie Curie, Voltaire and Robert Badinter.

We looked for Banksy art and stopped into various cafes for snacks and drinks. I took dozens of photos of the Eiffel Tower and every dog I passed on the street. We laughed. We cried. We drank too much wine, ate so much cheese and butter, and before we were ready, we were back home. Our second day home, Michael and I made an attempt to sort of recreate Paris and ended up at a local French restaurant/market. We ended up just pointing out all the things that wrong with the place. The food was not quite right. The crowded restaurant was too loud. We’re struggling to return to our usual lives and I’m not sure we ever will.

Paris changed us.

There will be more to come. I just need some time to reorganize my thoughts. I need to write about leaving Chris. I need to tell you about a kind woman we met on the street. I have silly moments to share. Those stories will come in time.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Tuesday night, we had what I’m calling Family Dinner night at Jenn and Wade’s. My plan is to make this a monthly potluck like gathering. This isn’t a big party or a hoopla. It is a simple gathering around the table and sharing an evening meal together, a chance to catch up on things and bolster each other. Every Sunday, for a loooong time, my family would meet for a big lunch at my parents’ home and we’d all sit around the large dining table. This was our time for my family to see each other’s faces and catch up. It may not have always been pleasant, but it was necessary. This was my vision around building a Family Dinner night, except make it pleasant all the time.

And I think it worked.

I needed this week’s family dinner. I needed to see those faces and laugh about dumb stuff. Michael and I have spent the last two Christmas Days with Jenn and Wade’s family. That will not be happening this year (for good reasons) and I really needed see their faces before we left. I also needed the ease of such an evening. Christmas day at their house is all soft pants and lazy game play. Dinner is something easy that requires little effort and minimal cleanup. This should be the same for family dinner nights, which it was. The focus is not the food, but the company.

Today is my last day of work before a two week vacation. Most of that vacation will be in Paris and all week, I have struggled to stay present in my daily tasks. One day this week, I was teaching a grad-student how to set up a complicated imaging experiment and at one point she asked “how do you remember all of this stuff?!?!” The experiment had been on my calendar for weeks and the day before I had to walk down to her lab and ask her for a reminder of why we were on the microscope. So my answer to her question was “I make sacrifices.” I may not know what day of the week it is but I can train you to set up a multi-channel, tiled z-stack based off of a specific region of interest created in a sample navigation preview in the Nikon Elements software. My enthusiasm for performing such tasks is waning and this week, with a real vacation in site, being present and enthusiastic has been a challenge.

Family dinner was something that helped me stay grounded this week. Maybe it didn’t do much to improve my enthusiasm for my daily tasks, but it did help to keep me present in this week. I’ve been lighting the Hanukkah candles by myself this week because Michael has been working late with the HS theater department. After I’ve lit all of the necessary candles, I’ve said the blessing out loud for myself and Josephine. There’s a part of the blessing about gratitude for sustaining us so that we can be here to light the Hanukkah lights. It is said on the first night, but I think about it every night as I’m lighting each candle. Then I am reminded of the things and people who sustain me. Every hug I received at family dinner was a lit candle in my menorah.

At the end of this day, I’m closing this laptop and may not open it again until we get back. I’m still on the fence about compiling a Year in Pictures video for this year. If I get it together before Christmas, I’ll post it, but don’t hold your breath. In the meantime, I hope you have moments that ground you and sustain you through the end of the year.

THE PORTLAND OF THE PLAINS

Years ago, Chris and I took a trip with our friends, Amy and Brian, to Portland Oregon. This was our second vacation in hunt for our future home. We had started vacationing to places we thought we might want to live one day. The first trip we made was to Seattle and we loved it, but Portland won our hearts. I still remember standing in the airport, waiting to board our plane back to OK and looking down at Amy with tears brimming in my eyes. A lot happened in that trip and I was feeling emotional. I didn’t want to say goodbye to Amy, even though she lived two hours from us, and I didn’t want to say goodbye to Portland. Chris and I left parts of our souls there and had every intention of finding our way back.

Then I got a job offer from a pretty amazing research institute in Kansas City.

We didn’t know much about this city. Chris and I had been to Kansas City for concerts, but those trips had been short weekend trips that didn’t involve much beyond the concert we were attending. We did notice that Kansas City had some things that checked some boxes on our requirements list and the job offer was too good to say ‘no’ to. So, we packed everything up and moved to Kansas City, the Missouri side, and for almost a year, Chris and I spent our spare time getting to know this city. We discovered very quickly that this place had Portland like qualities and that we would be very happy here.

We were very happy and I am still very happy here.

I think though, that I might have forgotten how Portland like this place can be. Maybe I’ve just forgotten to look for those quirky kinds of things. Saturday started out just like any other Saturday. I had my writing/breakfast time and finished up our weekly grocery shopping. We had plans to go to Costco and one other store to finish up Christmas stocking stuffers. So, when Michael got up, we went to lunch and then started making our way to Costco. Along the way, I mentioned something about World Market and Michael said we should stop on the way. Except there was total chaos in Westport and the World Market parking lot was full. Michael just circled through and we continued on to Costco, but then I saw three people dressed as Santas on bicycles. I pointed them out just as a whole new gaggle of Santa bicyclists turned the corner.

I didn’t even have to tell Michael to turn around. He was already on it and turning into the direction where we were seeing the bicyclists. They were all headed to Browns Irish Market and as we pulled up, Michael said “get out and start taking pictures while I find a parking space!” He understood the assignment without needing to be given the assignment. I jumped out and started taking pictures. Michael walked up and we followed the crowd into the backyard seating area of the market. We kind of just stood there in awe for a moment and then I walked up to someone dressed in a Santa business suit giving off ‘leader’ vibes. I looked this business suit Santa square in the eye and said “What is this and how do we get in on it?” The business suit Santa said we were welcome to join them right now, but then told us how to find the group for next year’s ride. I stood there in the cold, and it was really cold here on Saturday, and I committed to dressing in some kind of Santa outfit and riding around the city in December on my bicycle.

We ended up inside the market where Michael found a hat and we waited in a long line with all of the people from the ride. By the time I had an Irish coffee in my hand and Michael had paid for his new hat, I knew that this event would be going on our calendars for next year. Then we headed on over to Costco. At one point Michael was scrolling through the facebook page for the bicycling Santas and I looked over his shoulder and said “Today was one of the most Portland like moments I’ve had in a long time.” He nodded his head in agreement “Oh yeah, that was a complete Portland moment.” I’ve dragged Michael to Portland in hopes that he would see what Chris and I saw in the place. It is the only time Michael has not complained about the food or the service. I don’t know if he left part of his soul there, but he does still talk about some kind meatball he ate while he was there. Anyway, Michael gets it. He sees the value in these weird, fun moments.

He’s already figuring out our bicycle decorations for the ride next year.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

There was a time when if you told someone you’d met your boyfriend online, people would gasp and immediately become concerned for your safety. The internet just seemed like an inconceivable way to meet a great love. How can you trust that person? What do you really know about them? Suddenly the term ‘catfished’ appeared in our vocabulary and there became a new fear. What if it was a scam? What if it was all a way to lure you to your demise? When Jen met Turayis online, it was shocking! We were shocked! We were stupid and naive and small. They’ve had the longest, most stable relationship of all of us.

By the time I entered the dating scene, online dating was normal. The digital age requires digital connections, but all of those above concerns lingered. What did I really know about the men I was texting with? There’s no tone in text. Dating profiles are designed for vagueness. There’s not much authenticity in those descriptions. Eventually you’re going to have to meet face to face. Michael did this old school thing and called me. Maybe that’s why I agreed to a meet-up, even though I hate talking on the phone. Hearing a voice is different from reading a voice. Even though online dating is the norm, I still think of our meeting as unconventional.

I have a big group of loves who I met in unconventional ways. Like Chad. I love it when someone asks me how we know each other. A random commenter on photos in Flickr takes a road trip across America and from one simple dinner, ends up becoming family. Now I have a group of women in my life that I love and when asked how we met, I say “We all met at Adult Summer Camp.” First of all Adult Summer Camp conjures all kinds of imagery and how could that possibly lead to great loving friendships. I attended many a summer a camp as a kid. None of those camp friends lasted more than two letters. But there’s something to be said about meeting people when you’re older, more comfortable in your own skin, a fully formed person. My friendship with Jenn came out of summer camp and Jenn introduced me to Lauren and Sadie. We’ve formed our own coven of rollerskating crafters and my heart literally swells with love when I look at these women.

Amani is also an Adult Summer Camp find.

I took one look at Amani and knew I wanted her in my life. Love at first sight, but distance is a bitch. She’s in Seattle. We are regular postcard pals and text often, but it’s not the same as being able to see each other’s face and squeeze each other. It has been two years since I’ve hugged Amani, two years since we’ve linked arms and skipped down a sidewalk together, two years since we’ve dissolved into a pile of giggles together. Some how the stars aligned and we ended up in Philly at the same time for different things and we had two glorious evenings of hugs, giggles and shenanigans. We over ordered at a delightfully charming French restaurant where the sommelier flirted outrageously with Amani. I’m surprised he didn’t come home with us. I snuck her into a nerdy science party at the Franklin Institute where we were cornered by Benjamin Franklin who went on and on about lightening and lightening rods and the armonica. We finally managed to peel ourselves away with an excuse about coat check. We jumped to various heights on different planets, made our own light art, and even snuck into a closed exhibit on the brain. It was fascinating. Here’s the thing. I would have desperately wanted to sneak into that closed exhibit, but would never have actually done it without Amani. She gives me the courage to do rebellious things.

At the end of our last evening together, we stood outside waiting for the cab that would take Amani back to her hotel. For once, we were grateful for the bitter cold that made it impossible to actually shed real tears. Both of us agreed that two years was too much time and made promises to see each other sooner. All in all, the conference was better than I expected and the company was phenomenal. The only downside was not getting a chance to see my dear friend, Talaura. We talked on the phone and also promised to find a way to see each other in the next year and I hope she’s feeling better. Sometimes I joke that I collect interesting people. But the thing is, I do collect interesting people.

And I’m pretty grateful for that collection.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

The yard behind my house is home to two giant and ancient oak trees and every year, all of the leaves from those trees land in my backyard. My backyard is surprising large for the size of my house. You could fit another house back there and in fact, we’ve toyed with the idea of extending the house into the backyard. Open up the kitchen. Add on a master bed and bath. We could do this but have yet to find the right financial motivation to actually do this. Any way, my giant backyard ends up completely covered in a layer of oak leaves at the end of every Fall. I leave them there until the Spring and then mulch them with the mower, but sometimes I think about raking them up into one giant pile. Then I’d host a leaf jumping party where people could throw themselves into the pile of leaves.

A thing I never did as a kid.

Oklahoma is not know for it’s tall ancient trees. The land is prairie with low, wind tolerant trees or invasive cedar. If we had piles of anything to jump into it was usually hay. Every Halloween, the town I grew up in would have Halloween activities at our tiny fairgrounds. There were the usual games like bobbing for apples, but there was also the game of finding money in a haystack. I only have vague memories of getting to dive into the hay bale to search for coin because every time I’d do it, I’d come out itchy and sneezy. The next day would find me at my pediatrician’s office covered in hives and getting an allergy shot. But I’ve seen people, children, on TV jumping into giant leaf piles and have always thought “What carefree joy!”

I do not rake the backyard. Sure, part of it is laziness, but it really is better for the environment to leave them. Also, I have no doubts that jumping in a leaf pile would be just like jumping into the hay bale. I will end up in urgent care covered in hives. Instead, I just stare out my kitchen window and marvel at the amount of leaves that can come from one tree. At first, I started thinking of those leaves as moments in time that I have squandered this year. It’s already December and I feel like I didn’t do much of anything this year except complain. I spent almost the whole first half of the year stressed about my job and depressed by a feeling of hopelessness for the fate of science in this country, really for the fate of everything good in this country. It took me a while to just accept that there is very little I can do on a grand scale. There is a lot I can do on a local scale. It’s taken me a while to reconcile with a government that gives zero shits about it’s citizens, but planning an eventual retirement outside of this country has actually helped to lift my spirits.

I feel a little bad for my grouchy attitude this year.

December tends to be a month of reflection and a time for thinking about what’s next. In reflecting on this past year, I will not apologize for my grouchy attitude. When we talk about living authentically it does not mean to only live authentically happy and optimistic all the the time. I lived authentically this year, not masking my grouchy feelings. I am deserving of that attitude because while that grouch has been out, the sunny side of myself has been resting. Those who truly know me, know that I tend to lean in to a Pollyanna state of mind and I will own that I am generally a bright, optimistic bouncy ball. But you should know that maintaining that state of being can be exhausting. I’m waving the white flag now and saying that this year has been a challenge.

Those leaves are now currently buried under a layer of snow. You can see bits of them poking through here and there. If you took a cross-section of my yard it would resemble a seven layer bean dip or some pudding/jello layered dessert. My life is a simple life. Even so, it is layered with all kinds of feelings and moments of feeling. Just like my backyard or that seven layer bean dip. I’m thankful for all of the layers. The layer of leaves are not squandered moments of time. They’re just a layer of leaves and as I look back on this year, I’ll think of 2025 as the year I allowed myself live authentically even if it wasn’t always pretty.

SECRET BIRD

“No one here has a secret bird, but me.” My mother whispered as we sat at a table in a diner, eating our Thanksgiving meal. I can’t help but think of how far we’ve fallen from the family that gathered around the dining room table set with the good china and laden with serving bowls of steaming lima beans, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole and a giant turkey carved to perfection by Dad. My dad worked in a butcher shop in his teens. He was the one who cut up our chickens and deboned them. He was the one who would get out the ancient electric knife and carve the turkey. We haven’t gathered as a family around that table in more than twelve years. The family has shrunk from age and deaths, leaving behind a shell of what we used to be.

But Mom was whispering about secret birds.

Whenever my mom starts saying something that sounds fantastical, I lean in. “Ooh, tell me more!” I respond, giddily. It’s almost like I’m about to get some really dishy and juicy gossip. But also, Mom was never the fantastical one when I was growing up. Practical and serious. The silliness was left for Dad. On this day, I lean in and ask more about this secret bird. What kind of bird is it? Where does it sit? As per usual, she doesn’t give me an answer other than it’s “a kind of bird”. Mom was also not one to answer a question. She has always answered around the question. My mother is the bird.

The last time I saw Mom was in August and now I was shocked by the change in her. Just a few months ago, she was still walking and speaking clearly. We sat outside and watched the terrapins roaming around the yard. She even stood up at one point to reach under a table and grab a tiny baby terrapin for us to hold and inspect. In just a few short months, my mother’s mobility has greatly declined, requiring a wheelchair and a chauffeur. She is in a constant state of resistance, always attempting to slide out of her chair, but she lacks the strength to hold her body up for walking. So she crawls. Her voice comes out of her mouth in whispers and slurs, often sticking on a word and repeating it like a skipping record. And she doesn’t remember me.

By order of my birth, I have drawn the short straw of memory.

She was happy to see my face but my name had to be prompted from her mouth. Even then, I am not sure she ever truly grasped our connection to each other. I often caught a look of suspicion in her eyes when she looked at me. It was almost like she was thinking “I think I should know who this person is, but I don’t.” Later, I helped my sister move Mom from her chair to her bed. We’d worn her out with all of our morning activities. Showering and dressing and going out to dinner is a lot for her. My sister and I got her settled in her bed and Mom asked about going to see her dad. “We go see Daddy?” she asked. I wasn’t sure what she meant and asked “Do you mean Pepaw?” She nodded and I said “Yeah, we used to always go and see him this time of year.” We spent so many Thanksgivings in Mississippi with my Mom’s family. I told my mother that we wouldn’t see him this year and then left her sleeping.

There was a moment when I was driving to the diner. Tulsa feels unfamiliar to me now and I followed my brother-in-law. Breakfast at Tiffany’s was playing on the radio, a song that Chris and I would poke fun at. It is disconcerting to be someplace that is no longer familiar, yet so full of memories. It felt like walking through a field of stinging nettle. We stopped at a stop light and the car in front to my left sported a sticker that read “Every thing is going to be okay.” I eyed it suspiciously and wondered if that were true. Some days, I feel like maybe I’m some sort of immortal, stuck at age thirty four while those around me grow old (and or sick) and pass on from this world. I don’t change while every thing around me is shrinking and aging. This isn’t true, but seeing my mother’s rapid decline in a matter of months makes it feel true.

On my drive home, I tried distracting myself form the state that is my mother. I listened to a podcast about salt, attempted a French lesson, and flipped through music. But it’s a long drive and my brain couldn’t help but flick and pick over earlier moments of the day. I kept looping over the moment when my name was prompted and how my mother doesn’t know me. I kept seeing the state of her, shrunken and frail. Unrecognizable. Now I realize that we don’t know each other. She doesn’t know me as her daughter and I no longer know her has my mother. While she’s become a stranger to me, I’ve become some tiny memory that barely tugs at her brain.

Maybe…maybe I’m her secret bird.

A WEEK OF THANKS

Those of us who are working this week are most likely half present in whatever job they are having to do. I know that I am phoning it in at least today. I have too much on the calendar to just pretend to work for the next couple of days. But Monday’s calendar is light and airy, a rare treat from the last few months and I’ll take it with my arms open wide in acceptance.

Saturday evening was the annual Friendsgiving night at Jenn and Wade’s. As per usual, there was a crowd and way too much food. As per usual, there was more than enough laughter and good conversations. I spent some time rearranging backyard rocks with the most lovely toddler who had very decisive opinions on which rock goes where. She will be in charge of important things some day. We sat around the fire pit and I had an enlightening conversation with a nine-month old. It was delightful, but as per usual, I barely talked to Jenn the whole evening. The morning after, she sent a text about having a family dinner night on Monday. Family dinner nights are less chaotic than Friendsgiving. This also gives a chance to spend more time with another one of our favorites, Sadie, who is in town for general Thanksgiving stuff. We ended up skipping out on family night to avoid spreading whatever cold bug Michael’s getting. But as I sit here typing about Family Dinner nights, I can’t help but think this needs to be a weekly thing.

If not weekly, why aren’t we doing this at least once a month?

There’s this scene in The Big Chill where they’re all gathered around the dining room table and Glenn Close’s character, Sarah says “I know this is all so familiar and I love you all so much; I know that sounds gross doesn’t it? I was at my best when I was with you people.” That scene has always resonated with me because it is a mirror reflection of my own feeling when I have been in the presence of my dearest and closest friends. There is nothing like being in a room filled with people who embrace all of the person I am. I chose to not have children of my own, but I still managed to build a beautiful family.

Wednesday afternoon, I’ll drive to Tulsa and have a very short visit with my mother and driving back on Thursday. Friday, we’ll spend the afternoon with Michael’s moms and Saturday, Michael wants us all to go shopping for shoes and or pants. I will spend Sunday doing craft projects and playing catch-up on all things and with that, my Thanksgiving holiday will be over. Then I’m right back to work with things already booked up for December 1st. I leave on the 5th for a conference and then in a blink, Michael and I will be boarding an airplane to Paris. Time is moving quickly. Too quickly. I’m going to savor the quiet moments of this week, the hours spent alone driving in my car to Oklahoma and back. I’ll use the space between to calm myself to the present. But I will also remember to have gratitude for the chaos that is this season and this beautiful family I’ve built.

Happy Week of Thanks.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

On Wednesday this week, Michael turned the big five-o. His invitation to join AARP arrived earlier in the week. I mentioned this to a co-worker who immediately complained about how receiving this makes people feel so old. I was all “No way, Jose!” I can’t wait for my AARP card. I was also raised by a man who could hold onto a coin tighter than Midas and loved every senior citizen discount he could get his hands on. To me, the AARP card doesn’t say “Old Lady”. It says “You’re finally old enough for extra treats!” Who does not want extra treats?!?! It’s like a bonus for surviving.

But then again, I don’t consider fifty to be old.

Michael thought he’d be dead by now and I can’t tell if he’s happy to have made it to fifty or just surprised to have made it to fifty. Either way, he’s still here and we’ve planned a big fancy vacation to celebrate both of us. He may be the stand-up comic in this pairing, but he is also the most serious person in this pairing. I am truly surprised by just how many ridiculous things I can talk him into. Someone at work was giving away a dog bike trailer and I claimed that thing faster than people even really had time to read the post. I told Michael that I promise that I’m not collecting bike trailers, because it does look like I’m starting a collection. But this one is MADE for a dog. I don’t have to make any adjustments. So on top of all the texts and emails about this Paris restaurant or that Paris cheese shop, I am now sending him texts for paved bike trails in Minnesota and links to bike racks. He doesn’t seem overly excited about any of this but it’s probably just that he’s a little overwhelmed with all the opportunities ahead.

There is just SO MUCH LIFE TO BE LIVED!

I think he actually believes he’s going to be walking around on this planet for a while longer. He talks about retirement and his job opportunities during retirement. He’s torn between math tutor and hotdog cart vendor, but either way, he’s planning ahead and envisioning a future for himself. That has to count for something. And even though there are times I’d like to lock him in the basement, he always finds a way to help me implement whatever big idea I come up with. He is the Pinky to my Brain. He tolerates more than some men in relationships have to tolerate, like the ghost of my dead husband. I think of this when I’m considering locking him in the basement.

It helps me stay empathetic.

ANOTHER INSTALLMENT

In yet another installment of What The Internets Is Trying to Sell Me, I bring to you planners. I’m still getting tons of car camping and camper van ads, but coming in hot right now are all the various ways I can journal and plan my way through 2026. But wait! They’re not just daily planners. They’re scrap books and goal books and coloring books and journals all wrapped up in one easy to cary book. Some of them even come with stickers! It’s like the internet just noticed that I’ve been spending this year juggling three different calendars and decided that I needed to add another calendar to make my life more organized. I was lured in at first. I won’t lie. Seeing these images of beautifully curated journal entries with pictures and drawings all corresponding to that particular day, made my heart leap in my chest with a belief that I could do that. I could sit and journal with pretty colored pencils and neat handwriting. I have time and patience to do this and stay on top of this for an entire year. This will make me be more creative while being more organized.

Then I had my Cher in Moonlight moment and came to my senses.

I have a calendar attached to my work email and all work related things are there, but I also put work related things in my Google calendar, which is bit more user friendly than the work one. I’ve got things color coded with red for work, yellow for social events and purple for health and body related appointments. This calendar is linked up to my Apple calendar on my phone, which is sometimes easier for me get to when I’m quickly needing to add something. I also have a dry-erase calendar that fill out every month with stuff that both Michael and I are doing so he has an easy visual of why I may not be home. This month, I drew silly little turkeys on some of the blocks. That’s creative. For the most part, all of this is working for me and I do not miss appointments or forget that I have to run a batch of fifty slides on the new microscope. The dry-erase calendar is probably over kill, especially since I usually have to tell Michael every day that I will be out of town starting the week before going out of town. The times when this doesn’t work for me are usually those days where I have said “yes, I can do this for you” one too many times and have filled may day with back to back to back commitments. This is not a failure of my calendar.

This is a failure to set boundaries.

Those ads I’m getting for the journal/planners offend me. First of all, stop trying to capitalize on my anxiety. Secondly, don’t assume that I am unorganized or uncommitted to goals. Thirdly, my life doesn’t need to be hyper organized, and fourthly, I don’t have the time or patience to make a beautifully curated journal/planner. I have always been disappointed with the outcome from an attempt at artful journaling, with the exception of the Fortune Cookie journal where I filled the pages with tiny stories of fiction. I have many many notebooks where the pages are filled with yoga classes. I always write out an outline for each class I teach. Now that I have an iPad with an Apple pen, I write those outlines in an app and this has worked well for me for years. In the early years, those outlines included stick figures doing poses. This is probably why I’ve never thrown those notebooks away. Many years from now, when the Cabbage has to sort through all my crap, they’re going to find at least five notebooks filled with stick figures doing yoga, like hieroglyphs.

They for sure will not find years of artfully journaled planners.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but people could really see the Aurora Borealis on Tuesday night. I was getting ready for bed when my phone started buzzing with texts from friends telling me to “GET OUTSIDE NOW!” So I grabbed my phone and ran out the front door to a lovely view of…trees. I walked to the end of my block and still could see nothing and since I was already ready for bed, I did not jump in a vehicle and attempt to drive to some place to see it. I might have some regrets but I also need to respect the human that I am. And that is not a night time human. I am not a nighttime photographer for a number of reasons:

1. My bedtime is 9 PM

2. I am sensitive to temperatures

3. I lack the patience required for setting up the gear and messing with the camera settings

4. I am lazy

5. My bedtime is 9 PM!

I have made attempts to get out there to see meteor showers and comets, but if it takes more than ten minutes for an event to happen, I’m out.

So Tuesday night I got a picture of the night sky with a faint hint of purple visible in a swirl while half the people texted me their pictures of full on night rainbows from the their front yards. I had almost decided that I was okay with this until the rumors started going around that Wednesday’s night showing was going to be even better than Tuesdays. I made a plan, choosing a park that sits on a cliff above the river just north of downtown. The locals refer to this park as murder park, but I was not deterred. I let Lauren and Jenn know I was going out at around 8:30 and they were welcome. It ended up being me, Jenn, Wade and Lauren in my car Wednesday night, driving to murder park, in search of the northern lights.

And we saw nothing.

I should be really mad and upset for not getting any good images from the night rainbow display this week, but I’m not. Wednesday night, I drove all of us out to murder park and the whole time we gabbed and joked and sang old songs at the top of our lungs. We were nearly side swiped by a car suddenly passing us and we had one of those terrifying moments of ‘we could have died!’ but then we all starting laughing our heads off. We had a good time and it jogged memories. It was like those times when I’d been out late with friends after football games and we’d end up speeding down country roads, radio blaring. It was like all of those times when Chris wanted to go out and chase tornadoes or head out to a dark skies area to stare up at the stars. The destinations never mattered. It was always a car full of friends with gabbing and laughter and scream singing to the radio. Wednesday night was just like all those silly shenanigans we did in our youth. My gas tank was even sitting near empty.

As I near fifty, I keep thinking that I should feel different, feel older or mature. My examples of what a woman in their fifties should look like are all based on sitcoms like Designing Women or Golden Girls or Maude. The entertainment industry has always exaggerated age, but my own mother didn’t look any different at age fifty than she did in her thirties. It wasn’t until maybe the last ten years that my mother really started to look aged and now that she’s nearing eighty five, she looks like what I would expect for an elderly person. Sort of, but that’s another story. Wednesday night’s shenanigans made me feel like I was no where close to my actual age. I am not against the concept of aging. Every year I survive is a freaking miracle. But I am against the concept of age defined behavior, that you must look and behave a certain way in relation to your age group.

I like to think that I almost purposefully go against the social construct of age, with the exception of the nine o’clock bedtime, but I’ve been that way since I was small. I can’t believe that I let impromptu adventures fall to the wayside or even take a moment to be grateful for all those times before. There were times when Chris was gathering people for one of those adventures and I would decline to go for some various reason. Now, I have regrets. But those regrets make me even more grateful for the times I did get in that car.

WHAT IF GAME, NEW LEVEL

Chad and I stood outside a ramen shop in Falmouth MA, waiting for a to-go order and talking about all the stuff. At one point, confessions were made. I confessed to just not caring for or about anything right now. Chad’s response to this was “I’m just dancing to the music until the Titanic sinks.” I nodded my head in agreement. At the time of our conversation it did feel a bit like being on a sinking ship without adequate life rafts, surrounded by the chaos brought on by panic. It’s sort of an out of body feeling, doing nothing or feeling like you’re doing nothing while watching people fighting over life rafts and flotation devices. I could easily picture Chad in a tuxedo, holding out a glass of champagne with his other arm wrapped around an imaginary dance partner, obliviously dancing and swaying to the songs playing in his head.

I could easily see myself tapping the imaginary dancer and asking if I could cut in.

A few weeks later, things shifted and I woke up feeling hopeful. I texted Chad with “What if the Titanic didn’t sink?” Chad thinks the Titanic is still going to sink. My response was “Okay, but what if we build more life boats?” If he was in the room with me at this moment, he would have patted my head and told me that I was adorable. Instead he just texted that appreciated my earnestness, but then the idea of the Titanic not sinking got stuck in my head. I started falling down the paradox rabbit hole not unlike the one I still sometimes travel when I think about what if Chris hadn’t died. What ensues is a fictional wonderland where nothing bad has happened in the last fourteen years. I’ve never attempted to extend this thinking game beyond one human, but why not?

There were 2,224 people on board the Titanic when it set sail for the United States. More than half of those people died. Three hundred and eight seven of those people were in third class, planning to immigrate to the US. In the grand scheme of tragic mass deaths, this isn’t a huge number. Though it is still a larger number than the third class passengers who died on the Lusitania. Except not by much since the Lusitania was a smaller ship. See how easy it is minimize large casualties of war and incompetence? Any way, to play the What If game, you have to image what today would be like if none of those people had died, the rich ones or poor ones.

There’s a paper that came out in 2023 from the Stanford Institute of Economic Policy Research that used US patent applications to look at immigrant contributions to innovation in the US. Between 1990 and 2006, nearly 880,000 people patented inventions in the US and 23% of those were issued to immigrants.

The average immigrant is substantially more productive than the average U.S.-born inventor - SIEPR Senior Fellow Rebecca Diamond and colleagues

My first thought when it comes to inventions and patents is mechanical inventions, but that’s a limited view. Inventions and patents are applicable to medical discoveries, life saving technologies. We’re talking about inventions that make our health better, our lives better and easier. So, it’s easy to say that this administration’s attack on immigrants is an attack on innovation. They are not just forcefully dragging people who are any shade of brown from their cars, homes and jobs. They have made it more expensive and difficult for foreign students and postdocs to be here to do innovative work. People I work with are stressed and worried because they’ve been put on a very short timescale to wrap up very complicated science experiments before their VISAS run out.

Innovation is a chain reaction that leads to jobs and an improved economy. But it doesn’t happen in a vacuum.

It’s not hard to feel like I am currently on a sinking Titanic. Instead of playing a game of What If in regards to a sinking Titanic, I am now playing the game of How Much. How much can we get accomplished before it sinks? How much can we save before we have to jump ship? I joke every Saturday with the cashier at Trader Joes about how much I can fit in my reusable grocery bag and I how I end playing pack mule to get it out of the car and into the house. I can carry a lot. I can hold a lot. But I can’t hold onto everything. In four years and with some hope, this will be a salvage mission, skimming the waters for all the things we can salvage from a sunken ship.

Maybe I’m better off just dancing to the music.