THREE THINGS I OVERHEARD AT THE ZOO

Okay, so first of all, I am the last person to correct or say anything about grammar. My writing is full of typos and run-on sentences. I am a terrible proof reader and often leave out transitional words. I will notice an error after posting and go back and edit. I know that I am about to throw stones while living in a glass house, but phrasing matters and as we walked towards the giraffes, I heard a mom say “Look! They’re eating Sadie.” This of course confused her precious three year old because now that child thinks the giraffes are eating her or are going to eat her. That child, understandably, wanted nothing to do with the giraffes.

Later, I noticed two women dressed like a Ralph Loren ad with their sweaters tied perfectly around their shoulders. There were similarly dressed men with them and one of them parked their child wagon horizontally across the side walk. I was taking pictures of butterflies when I heard one of the women say “Wait, what was I talking about? Oh….day drinking.” Well, this explained the child wagon parking and how perfectly wrapped packages can also contain hot messes.

By far, the very best thing I overheard at the zoo was “My sister has a pet ostrich named Becky.” And for the rest of my time at the zoo, all I could think about was an ostrich named Becky and what her life is like. What kinds of shenanigans does Becky get up too? Why is no one writing a whole series of children’s books about Becky the ostrich? Why am I not writing a whole series of children’s books about Becky the ostrich?! Does she have children? Can I write a whole book about sitting on a giant egg? This also reminds me about a fundraiser that the OKC Zoo does every year for Mother’s Day. Every year they serve up ostrich egg omelettes, though i’ve heard that they’ve stopped using actual ostrich eggs. I’m sure Becky would have a lot of opinions about her egg being taken and turned into an omelette.

Any way…I’m on vacation. I’ve visited two zoos and two states and have spent a majority of my time in the company of women I love and adore. I’ve laughed more in the last few days than I have in months. I’m still laughing at myself from when I confidently and slightly aggressively opened the passenger door of the wrong vehicle and surprised the driver who was sitting there eating on a chicken wing. Part of my vacation is playing ‘nurse’ for Heather as she recovers from her hip replacement, but really that just means driving her around places and sitting on the couch watching garbage TV. We’ve eaten a lot of cheese and french pastries and neither of us are mad about any of it.

I’ve also had a lot of time to ponder some changes I’d like to make for myself. Nothing drastic. Just some simple changes towards a healthier me. It’s nice to have this time to think and plan.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Michael told me that Monday would not be a scooter day for me, but when I got up that morning and looked outside, the sky looked mostly clear. I checked my weather app and did not see anything that would keep me from riding my scooter. Part of me thought it was just Michael not wanting to move vehicles around because he needed his truck that day. So, I moved my car out of his way and then hopped on the scooter to head to work. There were some ominous looking clouds to my east, remnants of the storm that had moved through during the early morning hours and I had to admit that there were some pretty dark and ominous clouds to my west. But in that moment, where I was, the sky was clear and not a drop fell on me as I rode to work.

A few hours later, the sky turned grey dark and rain poured down. There was thunder and lightening and strong winds. Everyones’ phones alerted them to flash flood warnings. A woman even died while walking a trail that Michael and I ride bikes on because of a flash flood. The sky remained grey and heavy with rain for most of the day. I don’t know when I noticed that the rain had stopped. Sometime after lunchish? The sky remained cloud covered but the sun was making an appearance here and there. When my work was done for the day, I hopped on my scooter, once again riding in dry conditions. Michael just shook his head at me when I got home. “I can’t believe you rode your scooter today.” he said. His tone did not shows signs that he was impressed, but more ‘you should know better’.

In those moments when I was riding, the sky was clear.

In those moments.

There’s a story my yoga teacher told me years ago about Yogananda where he was scheduled to be speaking at some conference. The person in charge of picking him up from the airport and getting him to the conference was stressed because things were not going as planned. The flight had been delayed. Everything was taking more time than necessary. She was sure that he was going to be late for his speaking engagement. But after waiting forever for his bag and rushing through traffic, Yogananda stepped out onto the stage at exactly the right time for his talk. The lesson was “Do not worry about being late until you are actually late.”

While this story is something I think about whenever I’m feeling anxious about time, it is also a commentary on being present in the moment.

A friend shared a TikTok video of a a young woman discussing how she has embraced being a slow cyclist. She said that she realized her mindset while riding a bicycle was the same as being in a car. When you’re in a car, you expect to go faster, get there quicker. There’s a hurry hurry mental thing that happens to our brains once we’re behind the wheel. This is not true for bicycles. No one cares how fast you’re not going. I confessed that I had very similar feelings and thoughts about cycling, but I’ve fully embraced my lah-dee-dah style of riding. I stay present on the road in front of me and the activities on my left and right. I smile and say ‘good morning’ to people I pass waiting at the bus stops. There are times when riding the scooter or the bicycle has produced anxiety for me. I might not ride the scooter because I’m afraid of being caught in the rain. I might skip riding the bicycle because I’m worried about being late. Yet, both of these activities do something to soften the hard edges of me. For one thing, neither of them have a digital clock display. Valerie, the scooter, has a digital clock, but I never bothered figuring out how to set it when I replaced my battery. It’s always noon or midnight on Valerie. So when I am on the bike or scooter, I have no sense of time. I just get there when I get there.

This is most true if I’m on the bicycle because I’m a slow cyclist.

These activities provide me with moments of mindfulness that I should have while driving. Let’s face it, we all should be driving our cars as if we were on bicycles. I mean, just this week someone ran the stop sign at the end of our block and two cars were flipped around, windows shattered. One car was full of small children and they all exited the vehicle crying and whaling. Thankfully, no one was hurt. This happens at least once a year at that intersection and by now all of us know the drill of checking that 911 has been called and making sure no one is bleeding out or trapped in a car. We do what we can, even if it’s just sweeping up the broken bits of cars from the street. In most cases, all of these accidents were a result of unmindfulness. But, I also think that mindfulness is an over simplified word. I am not just being mindful of what is happening in my surroundings. I am being present in it.

Michael likes to say that I ride between raindrops and every time he says it, I imagine hummingbirds zig zagging through a rain shower. My imaginings are in slow motion and I can see the wings of the tiny bird moving up and down. I can see each individual drop of rain as it falls. I am not a hummingbird and the reality is my actions is not a slow motion version of Animal Planet, but being present and mindful kind of makes it feel that way. Anyone can ride between raindrops. I’ve just told you how to do it and I’m sure you’ll master it in no time. It’s a skill, not a super power.

A skill I’m thankful to have mastered.

Mostly.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Andrea Gibson, a master of spoken-word poetry who cultivated legions of admirers with intensely personal, often political works exploring gender, love and a personal four-year fight with terminal ovarian cancer, died on Monday in Longmont, Colo. Gibson, who used the pronouns they and them and did not use an honorific, was 49. - Clay Risen, New York Times Obituaries

I know that this is quite the lead in for a gratitude post, quoting an obituary, but Andrea Gibson has been on my mind all week. I do not lean into poetry. In every English class where we were forced to read a poem and then explain the meaning in the poem made me cringe. But I do love a good poetry slam and Andrea Gibson truly was a master of both written and spoken word. Their poems can split open the hardest of hearts and her voice will be greatly missed. The thing that has been most on my mind though is the graceful and most beautiful way they left this planet. In Love Letter from the Afterlife, a poem that Andrea wrote to their wife, they write “Why did no one tell us that to die is to be reincarnated in those we love while they are still alive?” I have been fixated on that line because it says everything that I have been saying for years about Chris’s own death. I was recently tagged in a ‘get-to-know me’ thing on Substack and one of the questions was asking for the last thing I’d read that made me feel seen. I had completely forgotten about this poem. Except I don’t know if ‘seen’ is the right description; maybe the right word to describe how this sentence makes me feel is ‘validated’. Their recognition of how they will never truly be gone is a lesson in death that I want for all of us to study.

The living are here to absorb the souls of our lost loves.

It has taken a lot of time and work to find gratitude in being a vessel for Chris’s soul and knowing that he will always lay claim to a large portion of my heart. It has taken a lot of time and work to release the guilt that comes with that. It has taken a lot of time and work to see this as a gift rather than a curse or a haunting. Because it truly is a gift. From what I have learned about my Chris before he became my Chris, he was not open to love, not even to the idea of it. He was closed off from it, bitter and cranky over the very concept of love. He was very much a Mr. Darcy. I was the one that changed all of that for him. Me. There is something very honorable to being chosen as the collector of the soul at the end. He chose me. But there are also others. Dad. J. I contain bits of them as well.

I’d like to take a moment to address the way Andrea Gibson chose to live while dying. They created a writing space titled “Things that Don’t Suck” where they shared poems and things they loved and beauty. By all means, dying from cancer is far from easy. It is messy and painful and fucking horrible. But They made a choice to live with all of that pain and mess while seeking out and sharing joy and beauty. This is a most beautiful lesson in the art of dying. I have heard so many times that death is hardest on the living. This is true, but I don’t think this saying truly encompasses the complexity of death. You are still alive while you are dying and the knowledge of your demise is an almost impossible thing to comprehend or to make sense of. When Chris and I were handed the pamphlet for hospice care, we were stunned. I sat blinking and looking at our doctor with my head tilted like a curious puppy and I wasn’t even the one dying. Nothing the doctor said made sense to me. Chris had all of that plus the knowledge that his life was over. There are so many choices to make in how one deals with such knowledge. In this world, where it is so easy to see the gross and negative all around, to choose to see the beauty and loveliness a challenge. Choosing to do this while dying is heroic.

But aren’t we all in the process of dying? Isn’t is all just a matter of when? What if we started the practice of seeking out the beauty now?

I have a list of things that do not suck from this week alone, a list of good things that I did or I saw. There were bicycle rides and scooter rides and skate night. There were sacred moments on my yoga mat and cuddles with the sweetest puppy dog. There were many things that did not suck this week and I’m grateful for this.

BISCUITS

I dreamt that I was making biscuits, but not the ordinary kind. These biscuits were going to be like the ones that come in the can that are all layered. I believe the process is called lamination, where you roll and layer the dough over and over again. This was the part where I was stuck. I just kept rolling out dough and folding it over, turning and shaping it before more rolling and folding. I never made it to the part where I actually cut out circular bits of dough and when I attempted to pre-heat an oven, there was not an oven to be found. I was working in a kitchen without a working oven.

This is better than the dream I had last week where I was trying to run two different time lapse experiments on the same microscope at the same time.

I am not a baker. I have baked. I can bake. I just don’t bake. It is a task that seems like it always requires more effort than I am willing to spend in my tiny kitchen. I’m not one of those who find it a joyful hobby. Yes, I know I am keeping a sourdough starter alive in my fridge, but this is mostly for pizza and sometimes ciabatta. Both of those things require minimal effort. You stir together some stuff and poke at the dough ever so often before forming it into a shape and placing it into the oven. This for sure doesn’t happen in the summer months when turning on an oven is just irresponsible. So I don’t know why I’m dreaming of baking. The dream was probably sparked by a TikTok I watched recently of nothing but various breads rising and baking in an oven.

It was fairly hypnotic.

My dad was the biscuit maker in our house. My mother has a superstitious streak in her and declared that she had lost the ability to make biscuits the day her mother died. Every attempt yielded a dry crumbling wet puck of dough. Her biscuits became a joke Dad and I would giggle about at breakfast times. Her cornbread, though, was top notch and legit. I learned most of my kitchen skills through osmosis while standing next to Mom in the kitchen, but making a good biscuit was never a lesson. That was a skill learned from countless hours of practicing a demonstration speech for 4-H on the wonders and values of Master Mix, basically homemade Bisquik. It was a team demonstration and we made biscuits and blueberry muffins. Except, now that I think about it, we didn’t bake anything. There wasn’t a portable oven at the speech competitions. We added ingredients together and spooned wet dough into muffin tins, but had pre-baked goods to show at the end. Like TV. Or my dream.

Maybe the biscuit dream is leftover trauma from speech competitions.

I think about calling my mom and asking her for specific recipes. “Hey Mom, I’m trying to make pimento and cheese and I don’t know what I’m doing?” This is true. We bought some ‘homemade’ pimento and cheese from a specific cheese store and I was so disappointed. It most certainly did not taste like my mother’s. In fact, it went straight into the garbage after we all agreed that this did not taste like my mom’s pimento and cheese. Her version has ruined all of us who have eaten it. I did not absorb the knowledge of the pimento and cheese in all the years of standing next to her in the kitchen. There’s a number of things like that. Banana Pudding. The pea-pickin’ cake, a cake that does not have anything to do peas. Her cornbread recipe even if contains lard. But I don’t ask for these recipes because I am afraid of the answers I’ll get from her. Maybe it’s just easier to not know.

I’m thinking of all of this now because I know where I was in that dream. I know the kitchen without the working oven. I know I was in my mother’s kitchen or at least a collaged version of the different kitchens she has had over the years. The one she has now doesn’t have a stove or oven. It is a kitchenette, meaning there’s a small dorm fridge and a microwave. The tiny counter is already cluttered with a coffee maker and kitchen things she has yet to put into the cabinets. The last time I was there, she had a plastic grocery bag filled with the dishes we had gathered for her to take with her. I know we put those away, but Mom is in a constant state of packing and unpacking. This bag was probably a leftover from the last time she packed up all her things and waited for one of us to go get her. It’s fine really. She doesn’t actually need those dishes anyway. I spy on her through the Facebook page for her assisted living place. I notice what activities she’s participating in and when she’s participating. I know she has a regular table group at meal times and that she attends bible study classes held by one of the other people that live there. I know she’s enjoying herself more than she wants to let on to any of us or even herself.

I didn’t know that when I sat down to write about my dream that I’d end up writing about my mother, but this is how the therapy works. It’s why so many of us sit down and put pen to pages, so to speak.

WHAT I'LL LOOK LIKE IN RETIREMENT

After lunch on Saturday, Michael and I had a few non-urgent errands to run. Nothing serious. Michael needed to pick up a prescription. I needed cotton balls. I also wanted a really good tomato to eat with dinner. You know the kind, one of those craggy weird shaped Heirloom tomatoes, chopped and sprinkled with salt and pepper. Really, this and watermelon are the only things I have any interest in eating during the summer. I mix it up by the addition of cheeses. Crumbled feta on watermelon is delicious. Any way, we didn’t need much so we decided to take our scooters. Which for the most part, really made the excursion. I was wearing a billowing summer dress with shorts and at one point the dress blew up dangerously high like it was going to go over my head. I had to pullover and tuck my dress in. I didn’t mind so much the show I was giving as much as I minded the thought of being blinded my own clothing and wrecking. That was the exception.

Note to self: do not wear billowing clothing while driving 45 mph on a Vespa.

The two of us zipped and zagged our way around town and after our final stop Michael suggested ice cream. He told me to lead the way and I headed off towards a place on Troost that we tend to forget about. We had to get through Brookside to get to the ice cream place and all the shops in the area were having a sidewalk sale. I looked longingly at one shop and Michael asked if I wanted to stop. I did and so we pulled a u-turn right into an open parking spot in front of the shop. Baskin Robins happens to be up the street and Michael said “Why don’t we just walk up there?” But as we walked, we passed Bella Napoli’s and I stopped. “Do you think they have gelato?” and the next thing we know we’re sitting at a table in Bella Napoli’s eating giant bowls of gelato.

And it was pretty close to perfect.

We browsed through the sales and rummaged through the cheese bin at Whole Paycheck. Then we scooted home, but I think it was right at the moment we did the u-turn where I thought “This is what my life is going to look like when I retire.” My days will be filled with puttering. Puttering around the house. Puttering around the neighborhood. Puttering around the yard. I will be an expert putterer. I will wear billowy summer things and ride the scooter to all of my puttering errands. I will pause mid-putter for giant bowls of gelato or ice cream. I will make slightly reckless u-turns to browse shops where I have no intention of actually buying anything. I have been thinking about this more and more as I get closer to fifty. Which also feels strange. There was a time when I never thought I’d retire, not because of age, but because of affordability. The more I think about my eventual retirement the more I see myself (and Michael) not staying here. Our puttering will happen around a village in Italy or Portugal. Maybe Spain. We’ve talked about Costa Rica, but I really think Michael would be too uncomfortable with that heat. The vacations we take after Paris will be ones where we travel to the places we may want to retire to someday.

At one point during our travels, we were stopped at a stoplight next to one of those expensive boxy Mercedes SUVs. The young man driving, rolled down his window and said to us “That’s some real relationship goals right there.” Michael looked over and said “I know, right!” The guy had a young woman, presumably his girlfriend, sitting in the passenger seat. I looked at them both and said “This is the best money I have ever spent in my life.” Then this young guy in his ridiculously expensive vehicle said “You two are living the dream.” The light changed and we took off, but I thought about this through out the day because the day itself had a dreamy quality to it.

This is what the weekend is for, turning dreams into practice for the future.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I have zero plans for the weekend. There is not a long list of run-around errands that must happen or obligations. I will go to Trader Joe’s in the morning and the car wash, but since I’ve been really good about chores during the week, I don’t need to clean my house. I am sure there’s some organizing or cleaning out that I could do. My desk drawers are getting a little full of catch-alls. But I am refraining from making a to-do list. Thursday, I made it onto my mat for personal yoga time and allowed myself a fifteen minute savasana. I was very fidgety at first but by the end of the final bell, I was peeling myself off the mat and opening my eyes to see that I was facing completely opposite of what I thought I was facing. I sunk deep into that savasana, something I haven’t done in a really long time. Maybe my weekend will include more of this.

Last weekend, we were sitting in my brother’s truck at a gas station trying to decide what kind of adventure we wanted for the day, when I said “Let’s drive over to Eureka Springs". This is a quaint little artsy town in Arkansas, about an hour’s drive from my brother’s cabin. We’ve done this adventure together on other visits. It’s a pretty good option for when you want nothing to do with Branson. We took a vote and headed off for the winding roads that lead you to Eureka Springs and it was lovely. We all had a nice time. Then later on Michael said something about how we should have packed our own snacks because we ended up stopping for snacks. Then I mentioned how I could have used some sunscreen, but then I said something about how the idea of going to Eureka Springs for the day was completely spontaneous. If that had been our plan all along, I would have packed snacks and sunscreen. I told Michael that this was why I was not good at spontaneity.

But today, I’d like to revise that statement.

Spontaneous moments require a certain amount of sacrifice to the Goddess of Whimsy. In our case, this came in form of snacks and sunscreen. Not really a big sacrifice. It is an added expense to purchase those things, of course, but we are in a position where we don’t need to go without. Previous experience with spontaneity for me have leaned towards the negative. So being spontaneous in general tends to create some anxiety. The what-if game starts playing in my head. What if I can’t find a parking space? What if it’s too crowded? What if I am uncomfortable in any way possible? Sometimes the Goddess of Whimsy requires you to sacrifice your need for control. I will gladly hand over all the snacks before handing over any control. So, I don’t always (mostly) do well with unplanned activities because I am unwilling to make the sacrifices required.

I experienced zero anxiety with last weekend’s spontaneous adventure. The what-if games never even entered my head and I didn’t once consider the sacrifice needs of the Goddess of Whimsy. This is probably because I was technically on vacation even though I did waste a lot of brain space on the chores that needed to be taken care of before Monday. My day was wide open to possibilities. Which is very much how I have left tomorrow. Today, I’m grateful for taking care of stupid adulting tasks so that I have space for unplanned activities.

But only the joyful ones.

SUMMER TIME AND THE LIVING IS SWEATY

My first summer in KCMO, I kept walking around saying “This is great!” while everyone else was wilting around me. “It’s not the heat. It’s the humidity.” they’d whine. My response would be “I love it! I’m a hot house flower! Bring on the steam!” I had lived thirty something years through dry one hundred and ten degree summers. The humidity felt like a spa treatment. The first warm day in my house, I went to turn on the AC only to realize I did not have AC, I shrugged but called my landlord. He installed a window unit and I lived with this for years not bothered one bit by the unit’s inability to cool my entire house. My brother was talking about the impossibility of living off grid because of the need for AC. I told him that I think there’s a guy in NYC who lives off grid. Then my brother said “Well, you don’t need an air conditioner in NY.” I shook my head and said “Au contraire mon frere.” (I’m learning French!) Summer in New York City is brutal. While we were having this conversation, it was actually hotter in NYC than it was in MO.

Each year, as the human impact on this planet increases the planet’s temperatures, I’ve started to notice how uncomfortable our summers with all that humidity have gotten. Now, I understand completely what it was that everyone was whining about. It is uncomfortable and for the first time in a long time, the heat/humidity leaves me motivated for nothing more than a lounge chair and a drink with ice in it. I want to ride my bicycle to work, but good lordy, all I can think of is the ride home in the evenings. I wear layers to work because parts of my office are meat locker temperatures, but how many layers can I get away with stripping off my body before it becomes inappropriate? I suppose, technically, my lack of clothing is a you problem or social construct problem, but I also don’t have enough bike storage to carry all the extra layers I will peel off of my body.

We spent the weekend with my brother and sister-in-law at their cabin near Branson and the whole lead up to this trip was filled with dread over the temperature. Michael and I were testing out new tents. Mine turns my car into a camper, while his is small enough to carry on his bicycle. We’ve decided that camping trips do not need to involve the two of us sleeping in the same tent. This set up also allows for more flexibility. He can do trips alone. I can do trips alone. We can do trips together. He can ride his bicycle to a campground and I can meet him there. I’m trying to figure out if I can fit my bicycle with my camp gear in the car. Most likely no, but maybe later on I can get a bike rack. Anyway, this was our weekend for testing. We each had to set up our tents without help from each other and once I figured out where to attach the tent to my car, I had shelter. The rest of the time, I thought for sure would be spent just sitting around in pools of our own sweat, flicking ticks off of ourselves.

It was relatively nice temps this weekend. Which was a pleasant surprise.

We did do a lot of tick flicking. Ticks are bad, people. Protect yourself! I have a harder time doing that since I am allergic to DEET. I feel lucky that I ended our weekend with only two tick bites. That’s how bad it is out there. While we were doing all this tick flicking, we were also laughing. A lot. I can honestly say that this last weekend was probably the nicest weekend I’ve had with the two of them since we moved Mom. It made me realize how strained we’ve all been. I think all three of us struggle with not just finding the time, but navigating how to visit with our mom. We have gone from spending day(s) at a time with Mom to spending hours at a time with Mom. But also the dynamic of those visits are different because most of the time it is only one of us there. Visits with Mom are not like what the three of us are used to after years of family meals on Sundays. The three of us are navigating our way through our own feelings around all of this and this has left us with little time for just being present with each other.

It was nice to spend a weekend together in a way that we used to spend time together. Familiar. Comforting. We barely mentioned our mother. And we laughed in the way we used to laugh with each other. This was probably the best medicine I could have asked for.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Among the headlines presented to me this week from the New York Times Well section include A User’s Guide to Midlife, Happiness Doesn’t Have To Be A Heavy Lift, How Stress Masks the Symptoms of Chronic Disease, and It’s Probably Time To Clean Your Water Bottle. I only clicked to read one of these and that was the one on happiness. While the information in the article didn’t really tell me something I didn’t already know, I did learn some new terms for a practice that I try to do every day. Things like micro-moments of positivity and tiny little joys (T.L.J.s). One of my favorite take-aways was the reverse pet peeve.

a ‘reverse pet peeve’ is something small that brings you disproportionate joy. -Bree Groff, author of the upcoming book Today Was Fun.

I’ve not ever used those words to describe my practice of seeking out the tiniest moments of joy, but the reverse pet peeve seems the most appropriate way to describe this thing I’ve been practicing and writing about for years in my Thankful Friday entries. I’ve been preaching the concept that joy doesn’t always have to come from big moments for a long time now.

This week, I had a summer scholar ask me what microscope system is my favorite of all time. I paused before answering because this felt like a choose your happiest moment question. Our technology center has many types of microscopes and they all serve different purposes. I finally answered “The Zeiss LSM-510.” I know this means nothing to many of you. It means nothing to that summer student or even to the postdoc she’s working with. Zeiss no longer makes the 510 and the software that ran that system has long ago been upgraded into something completely unrecognizable. The 510 was/is slow and clunky. Microscopy has come a long way since the development of the 510. The microscope systems I have access to now are so much nicer and friendly to use. I have said many times that I would love to re-image the experiments we imaged on the 510 with the new technology that is available to me now. So why would I choose this as my favorite of all time? The LSM 510 is the first confocal microscope I ever learned to use. I spent hours sitting in the dark with my boss, watching cells crawl across the screen eating bacteria or yeast or whatever we decided feed them. The LSM 510 is the microscope that sparked me. This is where I felt like I had finally chosen the correct scientific path for myself and there were many many moments of reverse pet peeves that happened while watching those cells.

Later on, I was working with the postdoc who is mentoring that summer scholar. His experiment is new and potentially messy so I set him up on a microscope that we recently moved into ‘retirement’. The two of us spent an afternoon working out ways to image this sample and finally managed to capture a short video of goblet cells actively taking in fluorescent dye. We both cheered and highfived each other. It was the most fun I’ve had in the lab in while. When the postdoc thanked me for my help, I shoved his gratitude aside because first of all, I was doing my job. But secondly, I was really happy to be asked for help on this project. This was bigger than T.L.J.

This is a reverse pet peeve that I’m going to savor for a long time.

WHO'S THAT GIRL

Our friends, Jenn and Wade, installed a small above-ground pool in their backyard and Friday night was the inaugural pool party. It was a perfectly simple affair, small and intimate. There were five of us in total and two of those were the men we put to work grilling our dinner. Lauren, Jenn and I made the most spectacular whirlpool and then we just floated in circles chatting about all things and no things. Eventually, we made our way to the screened in back porch. I had slathered Jenn’s magic mosquito repelling essential oil lotion on my legs and I mentioned to Lauren, who was sitting next to me, that I couldn’t seem to stop touching my legs after putting that lotion all over them. Then she said “Now say it sultry.” and I opened my mouth to comply, but nothing came out but bubbles of laughter. Then we all proceeded to laugh for a good number of minutes.

I could never pull myself together enough to “say it sultry”.

Later, when it was just Michael and I, he said “You once told me that Chris said your laugh was infectious. I think that I finally heard the infectious laugh tonight.” We’ve been together for twelve years. It feels impossible that in the last twelve years I have not truly laughed, but completely possible that I haven’t done so in his presence or while he was paying attention. I also don’t want to believe that I have not laughed my true infectious laugh since Chris. That possibility is disappointing and more than a bit sad. Without even realizing it, I went from “the girl who knew sadness” to “the girl who is sadness”. Or maybe just “the girl who doesn’t laugh.” I chuckle. I smile at things. I bark out a decent “ha!”. Rarely do I dissolve into the kind of laughing that leaves me breathless.

Those days have passed.

As we sat across the table from one another slurping noodles at one of our favorite Vietnamese places, I took a moment to tell Michael that I really do appreciate the effort he’s been making not just to get us to Paris in December, but in most things. It is his summer break time and he’s taken over all of the grocery shopping. There’s a wall of sticky notes containing tasks that he wants to complete in the summer months. He has been diligently removing those notes. Like every summer break, he has taken on the task of cooking our evening meals and not allowing me to wash the dishes. Though, sometimes I do it anyway. His goal is to make my summer as task free as possible and I let him know that this is appreciated. Then I said “I know that I have not been my best self this year.” but then I was a little surprised by his response. He said “I know that you’ve been really stressed about work.”

This also made me pause. Mostly, he’s not wrong. It’s just that my stress level around work is more complicated than the day to day of running microscopes that cost half a million dollars each and making sure that people feel safe and comfortable using those microscopes. The day to day stress of my job has been compounded by this administration’s war on science and their determination to make this country dumber. But I also know that I can’t blame my lack luster mood solely on what it means for me and my science friends when the budget cuts to the NIH mean less grant money and fewer scientific discoveries. My lack luster mood is more of a layered bean dip and the spiciest layer is probably a result of my changing body. This is the layer that people eat around. The result is that this layer sticks around longer and ferments in spice, just making things hotter…angrier. I tell Michael that I’m trying, but I’m not convinced. Though, in that moment on a porch with friends, I caught a glimpse of “the girl who knew sadness”.

Years ago, there were almost zero fireflies in my backyard. I can remember lamenting over their absence. “What ever happened to fireflies?” I’d ask. Then when I finally saw the blink of light from one, I clapped my hands and squealed like a toddler. I’ve watched each summer as the population of fireflies has increased and it feels like my backyard is nothing but blinking insects. Those glimpses of the girl I used to be, the one who wasn’t sad all the time, are like those fireflies. It might be a rare sighting in this moment. I’m sure that in time, those sightings won’t be so rare. Okay. Maybe I’m not sure, but I know that this is something I want and need. Which is funny because that’s kind of been my shopping mantra lately. I tend to me more likely to say yes to something I want and need or finding a way to get those things.

This time, when I say “I’m trying”, I really truly mean it.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

With each day, I am finding my gratitude practice increasing in difficulty. I used the excuse of travel for not even writing anything for last week’s Thankful Friday. This week, work has consumed me, leaving me little brain space for paying attention to much else. I even dream about work, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night in a panic about not turning something off or warning so and so about this thing that’s happening with a camera setting on a microscope or why the slide loader is still not functional. This all comes with a side of patriarchal bullshit that I didn’t see coming, but I’m taking it and being a “team player”.

Earlier in the week, Talaura sent me a text to tell me that her little dog, Sarge, had passed away. She said that his little heart just gave out. I immediately started crying when I read this. I skipped right over the shock and straight onto sad. And if this news hits me this hard, I can assure you that those feelings are quadrupled for Talaura. Sarge was the smallest dog with the biggest personality I have ever known. He could be aloof and particular with his affection. Josephine was IN LOVE with him. Every time they were in the same room together, Josephine would try to get close to Sarge and he would just turn his head away from her. I feel lucky that he chose me to cuddle up next too during my visits with Talaura. While he could be aloof with others, there was no doubt in his love and loyalty for Talaura. They were a team, the two of them, together against the world. There will not be a day when Sarge is not thought of, for he will be with Talaura forever in her heart…and mine.

Losses such as this tend to leave me questioning. How do you find gratitude under such conditions? It’s not just about losing a dear, loyal puppy friend, but other losses as well. My friend Melissa had to replace her car this week which sounds simple enough, but she’s a paraplegic. She uses hand controls to drive her car. Those controls have to be transferred to the new car with an added fee of almost $7,000. That’s $7,000 she doesn’t have, especially up front. Being able to drive in the midwest is essential to independent living and it feels criminal to be charged extra for that independence. The stress is almost visibly radiating from her right now and all I can do is be an empathetic listener. In these moments when I cannot actively help the people I care so deeply for, I struggle in my search for gratitude.

I’m grateful that Talaura was able to have Sarge in her life for as long as she did. There was a very real moment last year (?) when she almost lost him because of a viscous dog attack. I know that she still has mental scars from the trauma of that event. Sarge proved the veterinarian wrong and survived with his sass and charm intact. All of this happened at the beginning of an extremely difficult time for Talaura. So I’m grateful she was able to have more time with him. I am grateful that Melissa made it home from her mother’s house on the other side of the state in her limpy barely hanging on old car. Every time Melissa gets out of her car, she has to build her wheel chair. She has to basically build her legs. Getting out of a vehicle parked on the shoulder of a freeway is treacherous for an able bodied human. I don’t think I need to point out how doing this and building your wheelchair is even more dangerous. So, I’m grateful she made it back safely. She’ll figure out the financial side of this. Maybe I could take pictures of her feet to sell on the internet. I don’t know, but we’re trying to remain hopeful. And finally, I am grateful to have a job to obsess over. Yes, it consumes me, but I still love it.

I am grateful for every morning walk I have had with Josephine this week (four!). I am grateful for the times where I was able to get on my yoga mat (five!). I am grateful for sunscreen and scooter rides.

WHERE WE ARE

Last week, there was an incident with Mom at the assisted living center. She’s fine. Everyone is fine. It was just one of those stupid scary moments that had us all going “What the actual Fuck, Mom!” I had already planned to drive down to see her that Friday and of all the things she chatted about, the incident was not on topic. She did say that she was on a ‘bad’ list and can’t go on the outside activities, but she doesn’t know why she’s on the ‘bad’ list. This time, I took Josephine with me and we sat outside for a bit with some of the other people who live there with Mom. Josephine was very popular and drew a bit of crowd. I sat with Mom while she held my hand and we listened to the elder man across from us tell us about his chow dogs. Which he repeated on a loop. I finally declared it to be too hot for Josephine and took us all inside.

I did a lot of head nodding and responding to things with “huh”, “Oh my “, “Is that so?” and “that’s very interesting.” I don’t do the talking on these visits. I let Mom talk about whatever she wants to talk about. My mother thinks she just moved in a couple of weeks ago. She said that she just walked in and people had already moved all of her things in. She said “I’ve been told that this is my home now.” She also told me that my sister starts working there on Monday (she does not). When others ask me about how my mother is, I have to say that she is physically well. This is true. It is her brain that is unwell. There has been some discussions on moving her to a memory care center, but after sitting with her and her cronies, I don’t think she’s any different from them. They’re all on about the same level of dementia.

My mother is just a little more ornery than the others.

We left Mom’s to spend a day or two with my friends Robin and Summer. I hadn’t seen them in a year and we were due for some actual face time. Most of that was spent in the pool and Michael and I came home with sunburns, mine in weird patterns from poorly applied sunscreen. The sky was a blinding blue all weekend with a constant wind that blew away pool floaties and knocked over potted plants. That wind stayed with us as I drove us home through the Flint Hills, struggling to keep the car steady in the lane. I cried while Michael slept in the passenger seat, Josephine sacked out at his feet. Why was I crying? I do this every time I leave that state.

For so many reasons.

My heart and soul are split up into before and afters. Oh, the years I spent plotting and planning my escape from there. I never wanted to stay and yet there is a part of me that never can leave even while everything is so different. Old haunts are now unrecognizable, major streets have even been shifted over in some form or fashion. I built a life there with someone who was truly my best friend and we created our own chosen family there. Nothing came of that plotting and planning for so long. We just settled in and figured that maybe we didn’t truly want to leave. And then we left. We left and it killed part us. Okay, so it wasn’t the move or the transplanting us six hours away from that life we had settled into that killed him. But sometimes it feels like that is the truth.

The wind whispers “if you had stayed, he’d still be alive.”

The hot Oklahoma wind is the devil and it lies.

So I cry as I drive away because I am reluctantly happy in this life and where my planning and plotting has taken me. I cry because of my good fortune. Then the tears fall for the what ifs. What if we had stayed and I no longer had to drive six hours to be with my chosen family? What if staying meant Chris living? If we had stayed, I’d hate my job and be tolerating my daily life, but Chris would still be here. Now, I like my job and I am more than tolerating my daily life, but I’m sharing that life with someone else. When these thoughts come into play, I cry over how stupid I am for thinking such things and for dwelling on the past. I cry for not being strong enough without Chris to hold together the family we created. So I look out the window and cry even more over the stark beauty of the seemingly endless rolling plains. Then just before leaving the Flint Hills, my tears dry up like the sudden downpours that roll through the prairies.

I forgive myself for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. I hold gratitude for the time spent with the chosen family I have managed to hold onto. I let go of my guilt over not spending enough time with every person I could have spent time with, including my mother. I shove away possible regrets and turn my thoughts and focus to the now and my reluctantly happy life.

THE MORNING WALKS

The sun was just up and lighting the sky with orange and gold as Josephine and I headed out for our morning walk. The sun is up earlier now and even though it is 5:30 in the morning, we are not walking in the dark now during our morning walks. The early walk time is necessary for me to get to work on time and to beat the heat of summer. This particular morning was cool, but with the thick heavy air of the rains and storms predicted for later in the day. It was the kind of air that makes the connected space between your fingers feel sticky. Our walk route for this day was the neighborhood walk. For this, we have to cross our street at Lydia and 77th tends to be a busy street during the seven AM rush hour, but not usually at 5:30. Yet, Josephine and I had to wait for a number of cars to pass before crossing. I was surprised by the amount of traffic for that time in the morning.

Eventually, we made our way to the park that’s just east of our house. There was a middle aged couple passed out and tightly spooned together on the pavement in front of one of the park benches. This was the first time I’d seen them in the park. Recently I had noticed a path from the sidewalk leading into the thick overgrown edge of the park. I could tell that someone was living back there; the hint of a blue tarp visible through the overgrowth. But the inhabitants were like the fox family that lived in the same area a few years earlier. They were elusive. I don’t know if the middle age spooning couple were the ones living there, but on this day, a pile of mostly folded and clean clothes laid on the ground near the path. The clothes looked like they had been folded, ready to be put away before someone came along and dumped them out of the laundry basket. I thought about the spooning couple as I saw the clothes, how they were passed out cold, but tightly clinging to each other. It’s as if their argument started with the clothes and ended with a reconciliation a few yards away.

Josephine and I walked the loop of the park, passing another couple with their dog. Again, something rare, seeing other dog walkers at that time of the morning. The couple looked new to dog walking. One of them was wearing a sweater even. Josephine can be reactive towards large dogs on leashes. I kept her relatively controlled on my side while they kept their large dog barely restrained. Still, we managed to pass each other with a nod and a smile without incident. As Josephine and I exited the park, we passed by the spooning couple again, noticing that they had not moved. I briefly wondered if I should check for pulses, but decided against it. From the park, Josephine and I walk up the street to a bus stop. There’s a trash can there and a good place to toss the poop bags. This street is the Paseo, a major and historic boulevard. Across from the bus stop, in the wide grassy median, there’s a fountain. You know…because we’re the city of fountains. On this morning four or five teens were perched around the fountain. The air around them smelled like soap as if they had all just bathed in the fountain. I heard one of them say something about getting back to the hotel. Their conversation made it seem like they were lost but knew exactly where they were all at the same time.

We turned down the street that takes us back home and passed the house that always has random piles of crap in their front yard. Today, there was a shopping cart there and a young man sorting through the contents. A block from the house, a young trans woman passed us, smoking on her vape. We smiled at each other and said good morning at the same time. Then Josephine and I were home and I felt like I had dreamed the whole walk. Never have I seen my neighborhood so active at that time of the morning. I’m used to seeing possums and raccoons at that hour, not people. There is usually the same old man sitting at the bus stop who always exuberantly wishes me a good morning and I pause to have a small chat with about the weather or his health. But now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him there in months. It’s possible that he no longer rides the bus anywhere any more.

I’m used to seeing people on the morning walks in Tower Park. This is the time of year when there are more people sleeping in this park. Most of them congregate on the picnic tables in the large pavilion. There’s a scattered few on benches throughout the park. Some times, there’s tent set up next to the two trees that remind me of lovers with the way their branches reach towards each other. No one is stirring when we walk through. This morning, we heard actual snores from someone sleeping so soundly. There was a time during the pandemic when the park was full of unhoused. I walked carrying a backpack filled granola bars that I would leave next to sleeping humans. I got out of this habit when officials cleared the park. Now our unhoused are seasonal, showing up after the last freeze before drifting off to hopefully someplace warmer when the temperatures drop. Most likely though, they are moved involuntarily after the complaints from the neighborhood start to pile up. Even in my blue bubble, there are those who are unsympathetic when it comes to our unhoused. They know about it and feel bad about it, but don’t want to see it.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A number of our seasonal unhoused are teens. They are either tossed out for the summer, unsupervised during the summer and or the park is safer than their homes. Those who ask ‘why can’t they just a job?’ are oblivious to the complexity of being unhoused. It’s not easy filling out applications when you don’t have an address or doing an interviewing knowing you look like you took a sink bath at the gas station because you did take a sink bath at the gas station. It’s not easy to just stop doing the drug you’re addicted to and can even be deadly to stop cold turkey. Not every one has health insurance or access to mental health care. It is not hard for me to be empathetic here.

It might be time to start walking with a backpack full of granola bars again.

WOULD YOU

I was scrolling through the front page of the New York Times and there it was, an oversized pink square highlighting an Ideas article with the title “Would You Want to Know If Your Baby Had an Incurable Disease?” I did not click on the bait to read the article, but I could imagine that it reads like an editorial with some factual research on genetic testing thrown in. It is one of those think pieces that are meant to prepare you for tough decisions, but it is not a new to me think piece. This kind of question is the basis for Twilight of the Golds, a play by Jonathan Tolins.

A thousand years ago, during that idyllic college time, Chris was in a production of Twilight of the Golds along with Talaura, Misti, Kirk and John. The story revolves around the couple Suzanne (Talaura) and her husband Rob (Chris) discovering through genetic testing that their baby boy will probably be born gay. Suzanne’s brother, David (Kirk), is gay and all of this leads to family discussions about the trials of raising a gay child and whether or not Suzanne should abort the fetus. In 1993, the “incurable disease” was(is) homosexuality. As Chris’s theater support, I found myself in his dorm room during show seasons running lines with him in between my class schedule. I am not, nor was I then, interested in being in any of the plays. I am not talented in this way, but Chris… well it was his talent in this way that made me notice him to begin with. Most of the time, running lines was a fun activity, but this play was awful. Chris’s character was moody and angry and most of the character’s interactions was with his wife. Their discussions were hard and complicated and heart breaking. I couldn’t wait to be done with this play. The only good thing that came out of it is one picture I have framed and hanging in the family section of prints in my house. The photo is a family photo of Misti, John, Talaura and Kirk taken as a prop for the set.

It is a cherished photo.

It is no surprise to anyone that I am and always have been pro-choice. It is none of mine or your business of what any woman does with her body. I know that if I found myself pregnant today, I would have an abortion scheduled for the very next day. I don’t need to tell you the many reasons I have for that choice and I would not wait around for genetic testing to make this decision. This play gave me a list of one reason for not getting an abortion. Because I would never once even consider the tiniest of thought of ending a pregnancy if my child was going to be LGBTQ+ in some way. Yet…I know people who would. I know that their hate for the LGTBQ+ community is so great, that if genetic testing made it possible for them to know this about the child they were having, they would immediately abort. I know people who have no place in their hearts for love and acceptance, not even for their own child. I am not friends with these people, but I know them and at the very root of this “would you?” question is the reality of knowing that there are people who would say ‘yes’ to aborting their child for this reason.

And that knowledge has put a dark smudge on my heart.

I was off camping in the woods the weekend KCMO was celebrating Pride. I missed the parade and seeing people walking together in love and solidarity. I am the biggest softie when it comes to seeing two people together who are so obviously in love and who have realized that they have found their person. I think I have more LGTBQ+ friends who are in long term relationships than straight friends. I recognize the difficulty in finding your person when the odds of doing so are so stacked against you and I so respect and admire those people have beaten the odds. And so, I turn straight to mush over it. My heart swells up at the sight of it and I will rip out the throats of anyone that tries to come in to hurt or destroy that love. My dark smudge has made me deeply protective of love, mostly because I know what it feels like to have found my person only for him to be cruelly taken away.

I think about this every Pride month. I think about that awful play and I even get a little mad at Chris for the role he played in that play. I think about how rotten a human has to be in order for sexual orientation to be the reason to have the abortion. Then I look over at the people and friends who show me every damn day that love is always the winner.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

The omelet is my go-to left-to my-own-devices dinner choice when I feel like I should do more than just eat a can of tuna. I usually always have at least two eggs in the fridge and you can fill an omelet with whatever. There’s always some kind of greens in the crisper and a variety of cheeses in the cheese bin. If I’m feeling a bit extra, I might rehydrate some dried fancy mushrooms to add in. Do not be fooled. The omelet is only an option if I’m left to my own devices on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Not Wednesday because that’s kitchari night every week and takes only the effort of putting ingredients into the Instapot. If it’s a Friday night, I’m eating a can of tuna with a sleeve of crackers while drinking wine. This is a long and drawn out way to tell you about the last time I was on my own for dinner and made myself an omelet.

Omelets always make me think about my dad.

When my sister moved out of the family house right after graduating high school, I was just ending eighth grade. So I was like thirteen or fourteen and the last kid left in the house with two adults who bickered every single day of their lives together. They left me out of their squabbles for the most part, though that was also the summer I lived with my brother and sister-in-law because of the severity of said squabbles. Eventually the two of them agreed to minimize the amount of bickering and I came home. I don’t know how breakfasts in bed got started, but I suspect that summer was the catalyst. Every Sunday morning, before Mom and I got out of bed to get ready for church, Dad would bring us both breakfast in bed. Like for real. I would get a tray with a plate of breakfast and glass of orange juice sat down on my lap with my back propped up against the headboard of my bed.

Like a complete princess.

Dad was very good at cooking a handful of things. Eggs were his specialty and often he would make me a cheese omelet. Dad’s cheese omelets were off the hook. He would put so much cheese in it that sometimes it was more cheese than egg. I often wonder if he was having a competition with himself over how cheesy he could make an omelet. It should be no surprise to anyone that I was an irregular pooper when I lived with my parents, but mostly because of that omelet. That amount of cheese on a Sunday set the tone for the week, but I never said a single discouraging word about the omelet. I greeted every breakfast tray with enthusiasm and gratitude.

I never once asked for breakfast in bed. This was something Dad just decided to do. It was one of his ways of showing love. The three of us, my brother, sister and me, all grew up with different versions of our dad. Some versions of Dad were not great. He could get angry at the tiniest of things, but as he aged, he mellowed. Sometimes I feel a little guilty because I got more of the mellowed out Dad version. By the time my sister moved out, Dad had less things to worry about. I didn’t require much parenting and less time was needed for keeping me alive, leaving more time for the fun stuff. And Dad reveled in the fun stuff. He loved being involved with all of my extracurricular activities. Dad practically lived at the Christmas tree lot for the band boosters every season. He loved selling those trees and making popcorn for the concession stand at a Friday night football game. Dad was into all of it and he met every task with joy and enthusiasm. There were times when I just wasn’t into something, but then Dad would get so hyped up about it that it would change my mind. His enthusiasm was infectious.

I miss that.

I was fortunate to have had that.

Celebrating Fathers’ Day is complicated when your Father is no longer here. I am grateful to have had a dad who taught me to meet tasks with joy and enthusiasm.

And how to make really cheesy omelets.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Last year, I had a goal to put together a car camping kit for solo camp trips. I completed that goal and then never went on any camp trips, solo or other wise. But I have gear for two all organized into bins, ready for adventuring. Michael and I have not been tent camping together since 2016. That’s when we slept on a leaky air mattress in the almost freezing summer conditions of northern Wisconsin. That air mattress didn’t even make it home. It went right on into the campground dumpster when we packed up to leave. This was the camping trip that led to the purchase of the camper. The two of us figured that maybe our bodies were no longer the kind of bodies that could sleep on the ground.

So we upgraded to a tent on wheels and that served us pretty well for a number of years. Then the act of packing and unpacking the pop-up, along with the constant stress and worry over possibly damaging the camper, finally took its toll on us. We sold the camper a couple of years ago and have not been camping since. We’ve stayed in cabins in remote places, but actual camping with campfires and camp stove cooking has been a no go. Frankly, I miss it. I miss hanging out in my hammock chair with a book and the wilderness. I miss the big hike that always takes places while camping. I miss the rustic camp dinners that get made that always seem to taste like the best meal you’ve ever eaten even though it is only a hotdog. This is the longest stretch of time in my entire life where I have not spent at least one night in a campground.

We’re taking the Cabbage to their summer camp tomorrow. This year’s camp is basically college. They will be staying for three weeks at Truman State, taking a college class and living the dorm life. I think they are equally excited and nervous. Camp is usually a week long thing for them, so this will be the longest time spent away from parents. Since I was that kid who spent 80% of their summers at some sort of sleep-away camp, I’m excited for the Cabbage. Those independent “study” summers helped shape me into the grownup I am today. I think the Cabbage is going to love this time of freedom and independence. And since we’re driving them all the way over to Kirksville, Michael and I decided to find a nearby campground for a couple of nights of camping.

Old school.

In a tent.

With a better air mattress.

At the beginning of this week, the very thought of lugging my camp gear out of the basement and planing and prepping meals felt exhausting. Wednesday evening, I pulled my camp kitchen box and a bag of random camp needs out of the basement. I opened up the kitchen box to check my inventory and was pleasantly surprised by how well I had organized myself for camping. One tote contained all of my kitchen needs, including my two burner stove. Then I remembered how I used to have to pack the pop-up trailer just for the kitchen. I took a three-tiered wheeling tool chest and converted it into a camp kitchen that I called Fat Max. Fat Max fit perfectly into the storage rack on the front of the camper, but was heavy lifting. We would load Fat Max, the ice chest, our camp chairs and another bin of camp supplies all into that front rack. Then it would all have be unloaded to set up the camper. Very little could be packed inside the camper because folding it up took up any floor space and made the refrigerator inaccessible. Now, I have one bin, two bags (one for bedding, one for camp supplies), one tent, one air mattress and one ice chest, which is how I camped before the camper. I have simplified our camping and in doing so, I have gotten very excited about our camp trip this weekend.

For the life of me, I cannot understand how I let the simplicity of camping become so complicated. I created more work for myself and this soured the experience. But, I think, in general, this is something we all do to ourselves. We overcomplicate all aspects of our lives. Some of this is because many of us were taught that life is a struggle, that it even has to be a struggle. If you’re not struggling, you’re not working hard enough for success. We should be struggling to make ends meet. Our jobs should be a daily struggle. It’s called work because it is supposed to be work. The concept of life being a struggle leaks into every aspect of living and we need permission for ease and simplicity. This idea has fueled businesses selling concepts of health and wellness. Feel the burn, but unplug for self care. Its hard to separate the things that are going to be work from the things that don’t have to be work.

I remember a camping trip once with Chris, Traci and James where Traci had purchased a new tent. The tent was supposed to be really easy to set up. All that was required was to push up from the center of the tent and the poles would lock into place. Easy peasy. Except it wasn’t. Traci was too short to press up far enough for the poles to lock. Even then, it turned out that it required quite a bit of force to lock the poles into place. Finally, after a whole lot of swearing and sweating, they finally got that tent up with the poles locked into place. At the end of that trip, Traci pulled down that tent and threw it into the dumpster. She thought she had bought a tent that would make camping easier. It did not and so she got rid of it and moved onto something else. While it is a memory I will never forget (that whole weekend was filled them), it was also a lesson I should have been paying attention too. Those activities that we like doing should not be something that requires so much work.

Camping shouldn’t be work.

I’m grateful to be able to test out that theory this weekend.

AVOID

I’m not avoiding you. I am avoiding me. I came back from Woods Hole with a stack of forty-ish pictures to process from my Nikon and every single one of them turned out to be a whole mood. There are many in the stack that I like a lot. They’re the kind of images I’d want to make really large prints of and hang in a minimalist modern house that has more windows than walls. I also came home with four seashells that I hastily threw into my backpack without really cleaning. My backpack now holds all the usual things like wallet, travel Kleenex, Invisalign storage container, a random feather and now four seashells and some sand. Oh…I think I have two protein bars tucked away in an inside pocket for emergencies.

The feather will end up being the thing that saves my life someday.

I also came home to a dead scooter. The battery on Valerie got zapped by our winter. I did put it on a charger and the battery charged. We had a good month of riding in between bad weather. Then she sat for two weeks because of weather and me being out of town. Michael had to push her up the driveway for me on Saturday because I got to the bottom of the drive and the engine would not turnover. I put her back on the charger and rode to work without incident on Monday. I didn’t ride on Tuesday because of tornados (everyone is fine here). Then on Wednesday, I put the key in the ignition and tried starting the scooter in the garage because I have learned my lesson. But nothing. So this summer, not only am I going to learn to do my own oil changes, but I’m also replacing a battery.

So. Exciting.

This is yet another reminder of how somethings can be very much the same while also very different. And I’m doing my best to not make comparisons, but what I want to say is that V (my original Vespa) wouldn’t be having this issue. I also had a magic battery for V that lasted over ten years. I only replaced it because Michael said I needed to replace it. Something about battery lives and blah blah blah. If I sit to long with the thoughts, V becomes more of an identity than a scooter and I feel myself shifting over into a comparison of losses and founds. We all do it some unintentional way. We can’t help ourselves. It’s part of being in a society of too many choices and the disposability of some of those choices.

Chris used to buy up toiletry bags like candy, each one purchased after the previous failed to meet expectations.

This comparison of losses and founds is not delegated to just things. We apply it to people more often then anyone wants to fess up to. I am so over conscientious of doing this, but I gave V a human identity. She was the first scooter, the one that broke open my soul with joy, the one linked to Chris, the one that held all of those memories of scooter rides with Chris. This scooter, Valerie, is just a new scooter model without all of those memories or links. This scooter is an easy target for my angst and pouts over how my life was better when…fill in the blank. I give myself a few moments to wallow in all of that before shaking it off like a dog. The line from that Natalie Merchant song floats through my brain.

Your mamma is a bitter bride. She’ll never be satisfied. - Natalie Merchant, Life is Sweet

I tell myself "You are not that person.” Except…

Sometimes, I am.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Today is a travel day as I make my way home from Woods Hole. I’ve been here for most of the whole week and when I scheduled this trip, I thought I would be spending some time orienting new visitors to our lab space. The scientists spending their summer here were delayed with their paperwork. So I’ve had the lab space mostly to myself, which was good. I believe that I got everything in order in the lab so that it will be ready for our visiting scientists this summer.

The last time I was I here, I joked that I had never been to the Cape when it was warm. I thought by pushing this year’s visit to a little bit later date, I would at least be able to leave my coat behind. The weather was lovely on my first full day here but I spent the day organizing the lab space. The rest of the week felt more like walking around inside someone’s cold wet sneeze. At this point, I’ve come to terms with just embracing the weather in what ever form it comes in when I’m in this area. At least I don’t have to be here in the middle of winter.

This trip, I got invited to tour a bit of the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute (WHOI). A former colleague was given her own lab space and she walked me through her very new lab while discussing her plans for the future. I didn’t know her well when she was in Kansas City, but I could not help gushing with pride and joy as I do with all of our graduate students and postdocs who go on to be successful scientists. This is such a scary time to be starting out as scientist and this young scientist admitted that she’s worried about finances, but she’s taking each day as it comes right now. Which is really all any of us can do. We had a depressing conversation about funding cuts where I confessed that we had new graduates and postdocs who had jobs lined up, but then rescinded after this administration put a halt to funding scientific research. One of those postdocs confessed to me that she was applying outside of the US because she couldn’t see a future for her scientific research in this country.

I interrupted this part of our conversation to move the focus back to her success because being offered your very own lab any where, let alone at some place as prestigious as WHOI is a big freakin’ deal. Getting the opportunity to witness, in person, this success is a gift that I needed right now. Because while it is bleak and pretty awful what this administration has and is doing to our scientific community, there is hope. The take-away here is to take each day as it comes and being grateful for small successes in this moment.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

At the end of today, people will head out of the office and into a long weekend of BBQs and maybe even a little get-away. They will celebrate the beginning of summer which is marked by Memorial Day. Everything summer opens up Memorial Day weekend. School’s out for summer. Except here. We had too many snow days this year. Michael’s last day of school is the 29th. The Cabbage’s last day of middle school is a half day on a Monday, June 2. They are so mad and have spent weeks complaining about having to go in for half a day on a Monday on the first day of summer. They’ve been petitioning an out, but their mom thinks they shouldn’t miss their last day of middle school. I am Switzerland on the subject, but honestly, the Cabbage has been over middle school since December. They’re ready to move on.

We have plans for attending a BBQ on Sunday with Jenn and Wade and some other friends. We’ll do the typical Memorial Day stuff even though Memorial Day has not been typical for me or my family in a really long time. This August will mark twenty years without my nephew, J. For those of you knew to my blog, we lost J to a car bomb in Iraq, August 1st 2005. My family is a small one and J was more little brother then nephew thanks to our four year age gap. Despite having a wife and two little boys (who are now grown adults), he did what a number of young people did after the attacks of Sept 11. He joined the Marine reserves as a way to serve and honor his country. We were all a bit delusional in thinking that because he was part of the reserves and had a young family, the government wouldn’t send him to Afghanistan. And they didn’t. They sent him to Iraq and two weeks before he was supposed to come home, his unit was hit with a car bomb. J came home to us in pieces and this broke my tiny family.

My tiny broken family has changed quite a bit in the last twenty years. J’s young boys are now grown men with wives. His young wife remarried and has two more boys, who I guess are not so much boys anymore as they are young teenage men. My tiny family grew a little bit with the addition of these people but then shrunk a bit with the loss of Chris and Dad. We’ve all moved forward. I no longer visibly cringe when someone thanks me for my sacrifice. It has taken me twenty years to understand that what I really sacrificed was naivety and innocence. I did not willing offer up my nephew to be a sacrificial lamb for this country. Instead, I sacrificed the idea that such tragedy could ever happen to my family. I sacrificed a belief that my country would ever allow such tragedy to happen to any family.

Twenty years later and I still don’t understand how J’s presence in Iraq helped this country.

My so called sacrifice shapes my vote, as I meticulously research candidates and their stance on veteran affairs and support of military families. It is one of the many reasons I did not vote for Josh Hawley (MO. Rep). He voted against supporting expanded health care for our veterans. The DOGE, set up by Trump, cut thousands of jobs for the Department of Veteran Affairs, a department that was already understaffed and implemented a hiring freeze. Veterans will now have longer wait times for health care, disability claims, burial and funeral expenses and the Veteran’s Crisis Line. As a citizen, it’s not like I didn’t care about these issues before this country wrongfully sent J to Iraq. It just made me care more and because of that, Memorial Day is more than BBQs and sales events. It’s about remembering those who died in service for this country, one that doesn’t truly support them.

I am grateful to those who support our military with more than words and accolades. I am grateful for those who still choose to serve in spite of the lack of support they will receive from this administration. I am grateful J turned out to be the kind of person who believed in doing good deeds and a man of integrity. I am grateful to the young ROTC group who decorated J’s grave site this morning by raising the American flag, something the group does every year. I am grateful to spend some time with friends this weekend and I’m grateful for the start of summer.

I SHOULD WRITE THIS SHIT DOWN

Saturday morning after my usual breakfast sandwich and journal writing time, I was driving to Trader Joe’s along Ward Parkway. Kansas City is a city of boulevards and parkways. Ward Parkway is particularly lovely, lined with tall trees and old mansions. There is a wide lush median with an the occasional fountain (we’re also the city of fountains). At the intersection of Meyer and Ward there is a large roundabout that circles the Meyer Circle Sea Horse Fountain which was just refinished last year. The stones that make up the fountain now shine a bright white. It’s a really pretty fountain. Any hoo…as I made my way half way around the circle, I noticed the sun reflecting off the water and the people jogging up and down the sidewalks and I sighed with the loveliness of the day. Then something entered my brain and I thought “Ooh…I should write about that thing! That would be something not depressing to write about.”

Now I’ve completely forgotten what it was that entered my brain.

You see? Nice things float around inside my head. It is not all doom and gloom in there. I just seem to be misplacing those thoughts at the moment. I seem to be misplacing a number of things at the moment. Thoughts. Appointments in the calendar. Reasons for why I got up from the couch or why I walked with purpose into the kitchen. Did I feed the dog? I think maybe I did? Josephine got two dinners that night. Lucky dog. It’s like I only have a brain for science and as soon as I step out of the work space, someone blows a thick smoke into my ears. This does sort of happen to me when I’m on two wheels. The number of times I end up behind a car containing heavily pot smoking passengers (new band name?) while I am on my scooter has become immeasurable. I’m more likely to pull into the driveway with a contact high than not.

But no. This fog isn’t pot fog. I know that it is the hazy brain of an aging female mixed in with a brain that tends to be the keeper of the locations of all the things. It is a combination of hormones and just asking too much of my brain. I’m learning French (if you can call it that). I’m reading a book that I checked out digitally from the library which means it will be yanked out of my digital reader when the time is up. I’m learning how to build code to run a slide loading robot. That shit is hard. And all of those reasons above are why I might sit in the driveway in my car, scrolling through Instagram for fifteen minutes before taking the groceries inside or forget to sub that yoga class (yeah..that happened). I have things on my work calendar that I only see in when I have Outlook open. I have things on my google calendar that only see when I have my gmail open. I have stuff on my phone calendar that I never really even look at it.

My calendar situation is a mess.

I spent fifteen minutes this morning fixing all of that and combining my calendars into something that makes more sense. At least for now. I went with combining it all to my google calendar because I have everything color coded and I feel like my brain appreciates this. In fact I just moved a red work block activity scheduled for a previous day to an earlier day because of an unexpected opening on the microscope I need to use for this project. I found great pleasure in this action, but also that red work block was wedged into a full column of other work blocks. It was nice to visually clear that space and now I may be able to actually finish a cup of coffee that morning.

Even still, I forgot to take my Tuesday block of pills and Wednesday morning I stared at my pill box for a long time convincing myself that this day is Wednesday.

Not Tuesday.

DIRECTION

I have this superpower that I genetically inherited from dad. It’s nothing major. I can’t fly or shoot lasers out my eyes (yet). It is a relatively simple little superpower. Heather calls it my party trick. The trick or superpower is the ability to point to north or south under any situation. For instance, if I’m inside a building and someone asks “which way is west?”, I can point them in the right direction. There’s only been one exception and that was in Portland OR. Apparently that place is my kryptonite because every time I visit I lose all sense of direction. Someone told me that it was probably because Portland has two norths, a regular compass one and a magnetic one. Anyway, directions and map reading and the ability to know where I am on the planet was something my dad did very well.

This internal compass might also have something do with life trajectories. Though it felt a little stronger in my youth. I was always heading in a particular life direction. Every extra curricular activity was a stepping stone in that life direction. My inner mantra back then was “must get to college.” It was only once I got to college where I finally allowed myself to ignore the straight line of the compass. I was never completely without direction until Chris died. Then, understandably, I spent some time just wandering around the forest of life. It took some time and making some really dumb (and at times dangerous) choices before I finally had my sense of life direction back. I’ve been thinking about this a lot because of my stagnant nature of late.

Is my compass broken?

Someone sent me a cartoon once depicting how someone in science receives information versus others. The non-science person’s bubble read “Yeah, I saw it on TikTok. It must be true.” while the science person is surrounded by a stacks of journal articles researching the validity behind the TikTok video. It would be funny if it were not true. During the pandemic, a number of people contacted me with questions and I spent a lot of time reading articles about what we knew then and what we know now so I could reply with a clear answer that would include what I knew personally at the time. In a way, we are still experiencing a pandemic. This one threatens the validity of our news sources like NPR and PBS, sources for the public (it says so in their names).

The distance between what is said and what is known to be true has become an abyss. Of all the things at risk, the loss of an objective reality is perhaps the most dangerous. - Mon Mothma, Andor

Trying to shrink that abyss is exhausting.

I read something recently about how we change over the years and the author said something about setting down the things she was not ment to carry or had become too heavy to carry. This made me pause. Who the fuck do I think I am?!? Why on earth do I feel like I need to carry the entire weight of a rebellion? I don’t! I can’t! I learned a long time ago that people will only listen to facts and truth if they are open and willing for listening. I no longer waste my time on such people who are not open for listening. I mean, many of them fell for that whole anti-abortion propaganda that was circulated in the early 70s that claims women use abortion as birth control. I can think of four reasons for why a woman would have an abortion. None. Of. Your. Business. Those are the four reasons, but also abortion as birth control is simply not true. Yet there is no reasoning or argument to persuade them otherwise.

I have been attempting to pull myself out of melancholy for months now and get back into the routine of doing things that I enjoy doing. Winter was hard. My country has been turned to garbage. We’ve had one of our grad students all ready denied for a VISA and some of our other grad students terrified of going home to try to renew their VISAS. I am very busy at work, but in that whole ‘hurry up and wait’ busy that usually happens in science. I’ve felt overwhelmed with feelings of inadequacy in aiding the rebellion. I realize that my inability to pull myself out of this funk is directly related to my unwillingness to stop carrying the things that are too heavy or not entirely my thing to carry. There’s so much stuff and the enormity of it all is what has me feeling lost. Where do I put my focus? My time? My energy? Perhaps my compass is not broken and I have not lost my direction. Maybe I don’t need to be heading into anything while carrying heavy things. I’ve never been into the idea of pack-in camping.

My compass is telling me to set some things down so I can move in a direction I want to move into.