Defeated & The Scream

This morning I woke up in Oslo and had a new realization about my travel debacle from the day before: I felt defeated. I didn’t go into the city of Copenhagen because I didn’t want to inadvertently mess up an already exceptionally challenging travel day. My logic was particularly flawed: just because one thing got royally messed up (see: Flight 1438) doesn’t mean that everything else was going to get botched. I am a human, not a robot, and my emotions and level of fatigue do impact my level of performance. 

Overall, I felt defeated. I already had been through the travel wringer and I didn’t need to feel worse if I couldn’t connect with Claire-Adele. 

This morning, I saw Munch’s The Scream. What impressed me the most was the number of people who wanted to seen it, like it was the local Mona Lisa. Can all of these people so deeply relate to the angst and agony? Can I?

Flight 1438

First of all, I’m fine in Oslo. Nothing bad happened, technically. Just a scare where an abundance of caution took place. 

I had flown in from Seattle to Copenhagen this morning and was scheduled to take a flight from Copenhagen to Oslo. The plane took off, and when the landing gear pulled up, it made odd noises. Like, I’m not a pro when it comes to how an airplane should sound, but I’ve been on enough flights in my life to know that this rising of the landing gear was much longer and screechier than usual. 

After the gear went up, I conked out. I was exhausted from the international flight from Seattle. Plus there were two guys sitting next to me who I did not want to engage in conversation because I’m a judgmental snob. The guy next to me was sweating. Not a little. A lot. Like a sweating disorder kind of sweat. No one else on the plane was sweating. (There were also a couple of rednecky looking guys on the plane that I recognized from the Seattle flight who I also dodged.)

Halfway through the flight, the pilot comes on speaking some Scandinavian language and I understand “circling” and “holding pattern” and “Oslo.” I figured we were circling Oslo.

Nope.

The pilot came on in English and said one of three hydraulic systems were broken and we were circling Copenhagen, dumping fuel, preparing for an emergency landing.

That was not what I was expecting. 

I suddenly decided to be nice and chatting to the dudes next to me.

“You missed the flight attendants running to the cockpit earlier,” the sweaty guy said.

The flight attendants then gave us instructions on how to brace for an emergency landing. I saw the movie “Sully” where the flight attendants were yelling “Brace! Brace! Brace!” as that plane landed on the Hudson River.

“Prepare to brace,” the flight attendant said, “and prepare to evacuate. If we need to evacuate, we will yell ‘Evacuate! Evacuate! Evacuate!’”  

I have flown a lot over my life—mostly for work—but I’ve never had an emergency landing because the plane was malfunctioning.  

The flight attendant was standing next to my row, and the sweaty guy and his friend (both chatty souls from Wisconsin, god bless them) asked the stewardess what to do. She pointed to the bracing image in the safety card.

She seemed calm, but her hand was shaking.

Oh shit, I thought. This could be rough. There are times in one’s life where all there is to do is pray. That was all I had power over.  

Then I realized I could put my passport, phone and wallet in my pocket so if I did need to evacuate the plane, I could call people, get a hotel, and get back home.

Then I prayed for the pilots to land the plane safely. I prayed for the flight attendants. I prayed for the other passengers, including the sweaty guy and his 23 friends from the Wisconsin Norway Historical Society. I prayed for the rednecks.

The plane landed fine. Firetrucks and safety crews were parked next to the runaway. They checked out the plane before they let it back in barn with the other planes to make sure it wasn’t going to burst into a ball of flames at the terminal with a bajillion gallons of jet fuel nearby.

Back in the day when my ex was a medical resident, he earned extra cash by going on medical flights. Once he was on a Lear jet that prepared for an emergency landing when they thought the landing gear was stuck. The plane landed fine, but the fire trucks were waiting on standby in case something bad happened. Jack initially wasn’t worried about the landing gear or thought he was in danger until he saw the firetrucks on standby.

Planes have redundant systems for these exact reasons, and the good thing is that they usually work. I have a friend whose grandfather was a Boeing engineer. Decades ago, someone wanted to put in five redundant wing operations systems. That idea was scrapped.

“If you are in a situation where you need to go to the fifth system,” the grandfather had told my friend Lance years ago, “you are going to have a way bigger problem.” Like the plane would be heading to the ground in a ball of flames or something.

Once we landed, then came the challenge of getting a full flight of people to Oslo. I was supposed to meet Claire-Adele there at 12:50 in the afternoon. That wasn’t going to happen. I called her to discuss the situation. She had been looking up my flight information, but couldn’t find anything. 

One of the challenges Claire-Adele and I faced was should I try to take a flight to Bodo directly the next day, or should I swing through Oslo. I waited for a while to get an answer. The answer was no. If I changed my Oslo flight to Bodo, my return trip to Seattle would be cancelled, which would not have been good.

After this experience, I can see why rich people have private jets.

Then I was hungry and then I went to get my boarding pass.

Claire-Adele suggested I get out of the airport and go it to Copenhagen. When I was planning this trip, I had no plans to visit Copenhagen and I had no idea where to start. I texted my friend from high school who has friends and relatives in Denmark and the Netherlands. 

By the time the dust settled, I would have had two hours to explore, but I was fried. Let me put it into context how tired I was: I missed the Wordle today, not because it was a hard word, but because my brain was firing on 20%. I didn’t feel confident navigating a new city on the fly and have to make it back to the airport in time. Plus I was seriously afraid I’d get on a train, fall asleep, and wake up three hours away from the airport. I needed to rest. But believe me, there was lots of inner conflict: should I rest and drink hot chocolate and work on an embroidery project at the airport or should I have an adventure? Rest won.

My HS friend understood. “If we were there together and we got stranded, at least we’d be stranded together.” Yeah.

At the Oslo airport baggage claim around 11:00 pm, I saw the rednecks from the Seattle and first Oslo flight. I said hello. They were three guys from Bend, Oregon on a dudes vacation. They showed me how to take the train into downtown Oslo, which I appreciated. I was going to take an Uber, but they said the train was safe, fast and clean.

“It’s Norway,” they said.

I asked if they went into Copenhagen.

“It was awesome,” one of the guys said. “The Ironman race was going through town. There were 100,000 people out and about.”

I need to be nicer to strangers while traveling, especially my fellow Americans, no matter how annoying they might be. I should have befriended strangers before and after this chaos. Who knew that sweaty guy was actually kind to flight attendants, and got us good information?Maybe I could have joined another group on an adventure into Copenhagen when I was afraid to go by myself.

Boats versus Fire & Wheels

My daughter and I are going to spend seven days on a sailboat cruising the fjords of Norway at the end of the summer. The boat will be a 45 or 50 footer, with three crew members and nine guests. This will be a working boat ride -- the guests will be expected to help with meal prep and sail the boat. 

Claire-Adele insisted I take at least one sailing lesson before the big trip. I was nervous about it, so I waited until the last possible moment to take a class at Sail Sandpoint. I scheduled the class for last night, less than a week before I leave for Norway.

It was fun. Lots of fun. It was a beautiful, warm night and we rode small catamarans. We never got going fast enough to get up on one side, but still it was a blast, even if I was on a boat with a 20-something mansplainer* who was otherwise very nice.

As the boat was floating on the water, I was amazed. As a civilization, we think that fire and the wheel were the top inventions of ancient worlds.

I think the boat should be up there with fire and wheels. Seriously. Who thought of the way to get across large expanses of water on a vehicle? Why would anyone want to do that? Did it start out as something practical, or did someone try it out for fun? Did our distance ancestors know how to play? Puppies and kittens and lion and bear cubs know how to play. Why not humans from thousands of years ago?

I digress. I can't believe I've lived in Seattle--a city surrounded by water--for decades, and I never learned to sail. Since I can't go back to my thirty year old self and take those lessons, I am taking them now.

*Note to mansplaining men: Sometimes when a woman says "I don't know what to do" or asks for help, it means she is processing or perhaps lacks 100% confidence in the task at hand. It does not mean she is a helpless, clueless idiot who would be lost without your guidance. She is simply looking for an opinion, which she may or may not take. Since biblical times (see: The Red Tent by Anita Diamant, which NGL I never finished), women needed collaboration skills to survive motherhood. I believe asking for support is wired into our DNA as a survival mechanism so the results of the pains of childbirth could survive into adulthood. It was a matter of life and death: Should I feed my baby a raw egg, or should I cook it? Honey? My baby is barfing uncontrollably. What should I do? I know you don't mean to mansplain, but that was probably how you were socialized. Likewise, many women today were socialized to doubt themselves.

Inner Peace is the Cure for Addiction, and Addiction is a Sign of Lack of Inner Peace

I was going to title this essay "My Struggle," but unfortunately Hitler already used it up. Yeah. Can't recycle that title without sounding like a Nazi. 

Anyhow...

I have recently become reacquainted with my unmanageable life, which--not gonna lie--has not been fun. With this most recent bout of mind spinning, I have learned a bunch of new things since my last mind spinning caused me to emotionally crash in 2019.

Here is a visual of what happens:

It Starts with Inner Peace, and Lauren's Flower

I've had a couple of rough weeks with work, Fox, my health, and relationships. All the cylinders in my engine were down. It was hard.

For the past six years, I focused on my spiritual and emotional growth as part of my effort to take care of my mental health. About a year ago, I started a new job. My focus of my spiritual growth decreased as I had to make time to adjust to my new role. And the new job was a struggle. There were some personality clashes that made learning my new role a challenge. Instead of doubling down my on my spiritual practice, I slowed down. I had thought I had a solid base of serenity. I wasn't wrong, but I didn't realize over time my sense of inner peace was wearing down, and imperceptibly becoming depleted. 

Last week, my life had become unmanageable. It wasn't nearly as bad as the rock bottom that I hit in 2019, but the familiar feeling of dread was coming back. I realized I needed help. My spiritual practice discusses calling upon a higher power when we are struggling. We are supposed to turn our will and our lives over to care of a god of our understanding. 

This is easier said than done. 

This week, I realize I was turning my problems over to my near and dear friends instead of my higher power. As I discussed my problems over and over with my friends, I realized I wasn't feeling better. It isn't that my friends aren't good listeners or full of compassion and concern -- they are. It is wonderful to connect with them, but for some reason I wasn't feeling healed or at peace. I am a verbal processor, and while talking to my friends can help me clarify my thoughts and feelings, I still need to turn my problems over to my HP, and therein was my problem.

A dear friend of mine and I were discussing Maslow's hierarchy of needs today. At the bottom are physiological needs, like air, food, water and shelter. At the top is self-actualization and self-acceptance.

I think this needs to be changed. Inner peace needs to be the base, the center, the foundation of survival. 

I have several friends right now who are struggling post-divorce. Some are struggling financially, trying to figure out their livelihood in middle age. Others are struggling in new relationships.

When I think of the opposite of self-actualization or inner peace, I think of anxiety or worry. I can't imagine 500 years ago a hunter in the forest, tracking a deer, being able to successfully hunt if he was spinning out or full of worry. The fisherman needs to stay calm. I see women knitting sweaters or scarves or mittens find themselves in a zen or mediative state as their needles click and the yarn floats through their fingers. Our sleep can be disrupted when our mind is chattering and whirring. 

Inner peace is what allows survival. I think of Viktor Frankl who wrote of his life in a Nazi concentration camp in Man's Search for Meaning, and how his sense of inner peace helped him to survive horrific conditions.

Instead of a pyramid, I've created Lauren's Flower of Inner Peace. Inner peace is at the center, and everything else flows out from there. 

Inner peace allows us to thrive, and thriving helps us survive. Pediatricians have a general bucket for infants who aren't growing or hitting their developmental milestones: failure to thrive. Even babies can experience inner peace and its absence. Abused children don't have it, and they are frightened for their survival, which makes it harder for them to thrive.

When I have inner peace:

• I am a better friend
• I am a better parent
• I am a better worker
• I think more clearly
• I can make better decisions
• I find clarity that eludes me when my mind spins
• I solutions to my problems find me
• I sleep better
• I eat better
• I seek exercise

When I don't have inner peace or serenity, I have a harder time with life.

Saving for a Sunny Day, or Art is my Sports Car

I don't think I am having a middle life crisis, but I just dropped an insane amount on a painting this weekend. In. Sane. More money than I have ever paid for a painting before. 

Why am I vexing over this? 

Art History was my favorite class in college. If I haven't so conventional, I probably would have majored in it. I loved modern art, and studied Mondrian. My daughter has a keener eye for art than I do. She is a New York girlie, and loves museums.

This new painting is different than any other painting I have. It is not a variation of a landscape or a still life or a picture of birds. It is painting by a Japanese artist and called Picnic on the Moon. It is wild and daring and bold. It is beautiful and sweet and sensual and pretty. It is filled with colors that remind me of my late childhood and early adolescence. It makes me wonder and ponder and smile.

I like it.

Yet, why do I feel bad from dropping a large chunk of change on something so cool?

One friend suggested I have enough art (true), and that I should donate the money to charity instead. I used to donate lots of money to charity back when I was married. I still do, but I am starting to think that buying art isn't that different. I am not buying paintings that are so expensive that they are putting the artists or the gallery owners in the 1%. I am hopefully helping someone continue to afford their artistic lifestyle, and buy groceries and pay rent. People who create beautiful things that make people feel deserve to get paid.

I was at my Pilates class this Sunday when I got the call from the gallery. I stepped outside to take the call. The gallery gave the right of first refusal the day before, meaning I could go home, measure my walls, and sleep on it before I bought it. They were calling because a potential buyer was driving down from Vancouver, B.C., to look at it. I had already spent the morning texting a friend discussing if I should buy it. 

"You've already picked out where you are going to hang it," she said. "I think you have made your decision."

And so I said yes when the dealer called, but not without a pit in my stomach.

I went back to class. There were only three of us there: me, the teacher and Roberto. The teacher asked what I paid for the painting, and I told him. I also told him I had a pit in my stomach for this size of purchase. 

"I know the feeling," said Roberto. "I just dropped the same amount for World Cup tickets for next year."

Man, it was so nice to hear that someone could relate to my angst.

I grew up learning to save for a rainy day. I learned the importance of compound interest and living beneath your means and how to reinvest dividends. I knew the importance of an emergency fund, six months or more in savings in case I were to lose my job and needed to pay rent or the mortgage or now my HOA dues.

I didn't learn the art of saving for a sunny, to spend money on special things you love, that bring you joy. I am good at some sunny day spending, like traveling with my kids. I am good at going out to eat with friends. 

Art is my sports car. Some people like Porsches. Some people like fancy handbags or shoes. 

I like art. It is my sports car, my Porsche, my Birkin bag.

The Dog

I love my dog, and I am afraid he is going to die. Not because he is acting like he is going to die, but because he is old. 

"He's at life expectancy," said the vet last week. Pomeranian-Chihuahuas can live as long as eighteen, but not all. We don't know how old he really is, as he was a rescue. I've had him for twelve years, so he's at least thirteen as he wasn't a puppy when we got him.

It took the pup to the vet because he was having some loose stools. Nothing major, but it would come and go and not really get better. 

At the vet, they decided to do a chest x-tay because he has a cough that hasn't gone away for a year. They wants to see if he had fluid in his lungs and would need a diuretic. (He doesn't.) He has a floppy trachea, a slightly enlarged heart, and a few compressed vertebrae near his tail. Nothing too epic or noteworthy for a dog his age, which is good.

The worst part was the trauma of the x-ray for Fox Dog. I asked if he needed sedation, and they said nope, he would be fine. Did they want me in the room? Nope, not worth exposing me to excess radiation. That's all well and good.

The worst part was the aftermath of the x-ray. I imagine they had to manhandle my eleven pound lapdog who isn't used to rough-housing like big dogs who like to wrestle. Fox was exhausted. I have never seem him so tired and stressed. The torture wore him out, and I was worried. I stayed home Friday night, with him on my lap.

Fox is the only remaining part of my old family. A few years ago, I had two kids, a husband and a dog. 

Now I have a dog, and he is so dear to me. I wish to release my fear of his dying to the universe, so I can enjoy him as he is today, while I have him.

Forty-eight hours after his x-ray, he bounced back to his usual cheerful and chipper self.

The Center of the Universe

Some Seattleites think Fremont is the center of the universe, but I think it is Ravenna.

I went to a 4th of July picnic last week at an old friend's home in my old neighborhood. I've known her since our daughters were in kindergarten together. Lots of other people were there who I knew back when I first moved to NE Seattle. I ran into friends who helped me cut my teeth in politics. It was great to re-connect with this crew. 

I remember I used to think NE Seattle was the center of the universe when I first moved there. The moms I met were both smart and kind. Like all of the moms were smart and kind--not just some of them. One mom, Jessica, was convinced she was stupid but she was fascinating and warm-hearted and welcoming. In her early twenties, she moved to Italy for a few years where she met her husband. I can't see how someone so adventurous and brave could consider themselves a dullard.

I miss NE Seattle. I miss having a yard and trees and neighbors my own age. I miss people in neighborhood who knew my kids growing up. I miss the park and the bike trails. I miss the house parties and the coffee shop around the corner where I knew everyone who worked there.

I am jealous that my kids still get to spend time in the old neighborhood when they come home. 

In reality, it takes me fifteen other twenty minutes to get to NE Seattle from downtown, so I should really visit more often than I do and make a better effort to stay in touch with my friends there.

Grounding, and Diffuse versus Focused Attention

(Warning: Here come the post-Improv festival spam posts. In my defense, it was a rich weekend. So much of what I learned applies to all of life, not just to stepping on the stage to "make shit up.")

I had a Stage Combat class this weekend with Jeff Alm this weekend. I can't believe I am typing this. I took at Stage Combat class this weekend. When I was in the class, I was thinking "This is so cool. I can't believe I am doing this." 

What is Stage Combat? It is staging violence on the stage in a safe way. It is most like partnered dance (think tango, salsa, or waltz) and choreography than fighting. We learned how to stage a punch and we practiced sword fighting.

Before we grabbed the epees, we had to do some mental prep work. We learned techniques for grounding ourselves and how to focus our attention. In a fight scene, we need to be both focused and grounded so no one gets hurt.

We did an experiment with grounding. We first focused our attention on the top of our head. Our combat partner gave us a gentle nudge on the shoulder. Most people swayed. We then focused on attention on our core. Again, out combat partner gave us a gentle nudge on the shoulder. Most people were solid and didn't sway. It was fascinating. I am going to have to use this at work before going into a stressful meeting.

The second thing we worked on was focused versus diffuse attention. I remember learning about focused and diffuse attention in a Feminine Archetypes class, where Diana the Hunter and virgin has focused attention. Demeter the mother had diffuse attention, perhaps scanning the metaphorical horizon to care for her daughter. 

We then did an exercise on attention. When we stared out across the room, we had diffuse attention. When our scene partner nudged us on the shoulder, we swayed. When we focused on a spot, we were solid. I think about my ballet classes as a kid. When we were doing a series of turns, we were told to pick a spot on the wall and focus so we wouldn't get dizzy or lose our balance. 

Sometimes in life when we are wrestling with a challenging problem or situation, we need to turn our focus off for a bit. I was talking to a friend about this last week. Sometimes we need to intentionally turn off our hamster wheel of a brain, and let our subconscious tackle a problem. This requires a tremendous amount of trust or faith. This is what it means to let something go. It doesn't mean we don't care--it means we need to loosen the death grip we have on a problem for a bit.

This week I took a few days off of work to go to the festival. Last night, I dreamt about a problem at work, and the solution floated to the surface. 

 By letting it go, I let it come to me.

The Power of Nope

(Warning: Here come the post-Improv festival spam posts. In my defense, it was a rich weekend. So much of what I learned applies to all of life, not just to stepping on the stage to "make shit up.")

Patti Stiles talked to us yesterday about the power of "Nope." She had the group do a scene with a partner and one partner would continually ask their partner "What's next?" If the one partner liked the offer, they would act out the scene. If they didn't like the offer, then they would say, "Nope" in a sweet little voice with the tilt of the head. 

The idea is that it is okay to say "no" to our scene partner. She made it cutesy to differentiate the different types of no's. "Nope" means I still want to play versus a no that suggests "get me out of here."

Think of it when a friend asks you out to dinner. You might say no, that night doesn't work for me. Or no, I'd rather eat in. It means I still want to see you, but Tuesday doesn't work for me. Or I want to see you, but let's do something else instead.

I remember a date I had as a college freshman. This guy I was crushing on asked me to pumpkin carving party for Halloween. When I got to the party, and there were ten women, and about five guys. I was not thrilled with this ratio. The guy I liked ex-girlfriend was there in the middle of the living room holding court. My crush was in the kitchen, lowkey ignoring me, lowkey peaking out to check me out. At the end of the party, he walked me home. When we got to my dorm, he invited me to another party that night. I said "no" when I really meant "nope." What I really wanted to do was go make out in the basement. I was too chicken to be that forward and ask directly for what I wanted, especially after I was not tended to during the first party. He heard "no" and ignored me for four months. I couldn't figure out what happened.

Patti isn't always a big fan of "yes and." She thinks the only absolute in improv to take care of our scene partner. She thinks an improviser can refuse an offer if it doesn't delight them. We have a responsibility to ourselves to follow our heart and find what delights us. We can't do that without a few "nopes." 

Isn't this true of life, too? What can we do to take care of each other? We have to hope that our partners feel the same way. We also have a responsibility to them to know what we want, to know what delights us. We can use our "nopes" for good, not evil.

Scary Places

This weekend was Unexpected Productions Festival. I spent twelve hours in intense classes with internationally known improvisation teachers. Patti Stiles is from the Loose Moose Theatre in Alberta, Calgary where she studies under Keith Johnstone, the man who turned improv into an art form. 

Patti made a comment this weekend:

The stage is a scary place.

You can either put on more armor

or

you can have less fear.

The thing I love about this statement is that is applies to everything.

The ________ is a scary place.

You can either put on more armor

or

you can have less fear.

Trying new things is a scary place.

College is a scary place.

A new job is a scary place.

Parenting is a scary place.

Opening your heart is a scary place.

Love is a scary place.

You can either put on more armor

or

you can have less fear.

Armor can protect us from getting hurt, but that same armor also protects us from having fun, knowing love, and connecting with others.

We often enter places where we are scared and don't know what is going on. So often, we think we are facing a dragon, when the world isn't as often as scary as we think it is. 

And if there are dragons, does our fear help us anyway? Fear blocks bravery and courage and love.

Hookers, Blow & the Prodigal Son

I just started watching The Righteous Gemstones streaming on Max, nee HBO, with Danny McBride. It's a story about a family of mega-church preachers. Right after the opening credits, the eldest son, played by McBride, is blackmailed with a video of him doing cocaine at a party with the company of prostitutes. The blackmailers want $1 million in cash to destroy the video. Jesse Gemstone's father controls the family funds, so Jesse is trapped. He and his family's reputation and business will be destroyed if the video gets out. His wife will at worst leave him and at best be pissed off at him for years.

I remember seeing such a wild and bold opening to a show. I don't know if I'll like where the whole thing lands, but damn is a great way to start. I imagine the family will find love, acceptance and redemption along the way, but I imagine it will be a bumpy road.

I can't wait. I hope the rest of the story does justice to the beginning.

Downtown and FIFA Club World Cup

I've been to two of the FIFA Club World Cup games in Seattle in the past week, and it has been so much fun living downtown while this all is happening. 

Living downtown near the Market means the world comes to me. This week, I've seen Brazilians, Argentinians, Parisians, Japanese people, people from Spain and Italians.

This morning I was walking my dog, and I think I saw guys from Paris Saint-Germain running in my neighborhood. They were wearing PSG logos on their clothes, and they had the floppy and flexible running gait that soccer players have, compared to marathons runners who look like they are not having fun.

Today while I was getting dinner, I am sure I saw some French or Italian women. When I see women so elegantly dressed, but casual at the same time, with perfect hair and sunglasses, I know they are from a major metropolitan area. These women were not about to get on a cruise to Alaska for a week.

It is fun to be at the heart of it all, and have the fun come to me.

Beauty

I was walking back to my condo after lunch and I saw a field protected by a chain link. I was surprised that I didn't see the beautiful wildflower flowers inside on the way there.

I needed to stop and look closer to see the beauty behind the fence. I was glad I did. It was the highlight of my day.

Bikini

I bought a 

bikini

so I could walk around 

my condo 

in my 

underwear,

but not really 

be in my underwear.

sorry

no 

pics

Brain Off, Hands On, or Puttering & Damn You, Wirecutter!

I love to putter and make nonsensical little things with my hands. After spending eight hours a day at a desk thinking and typing and talking, I like to play with my hands and build things, like Legos and embroidery and crossstitch kits. When I build little things, it is brain off, hands on. There is some thinking involved, but not the work at a desk and come up with a plan thinking. In these little kits, someone else has already done the thinking. All I have to do is assemble. My Pilates instructor has a client who is a CEO. 

"Why do you come to me for Pilates when you are smart enough to figure it out on your own," Tim asked his CEO client.

"Because I don't want to think. I am paying you to think for me," the CEO client replied. 

Likewise, me and the kits. I don't have to think of something to build. All I need is a few bucks and  a few hours, and voila, my creative itch is scratched.

I was fine with Legos, sewing kits, and whatnot, but then I was reading Wirecutter in the New York Times where they list things like "Best Crafts" and "Best Self Care." There, I found a little library house to build. When it is done. you can slide it in on a bookshelf in between the books. Damn you, Wirecutter! More things for me to build! As if I have empty space on my bookshelves, Wirecutter. You should know better.

While building these little things are fun, the problem is finding space for them when they are done. My dad had this problem. When my mom was alive and had Alzheimer's, he would buy craft kits to build. He had dozens. In his four bedroom house, one bedroom was dedicated to to crafts. If I had a four bedroom house, I'd probably do the same, honestly.

But I don't have a four-bedroom house. I have my cozy condo in the city. I am going to need to find a home for my hobbies.

 

Big Shoulders and Pope Bob

I am not gonna lie: I am tickled the new Pope is from my hometown. It is exceptionally cool that Pope Bob hails from the City of Big Shoulders, a term coined by Chicago poet Carl Sandburg.

Chicago has had its share of cool people who, even if not born there, lived there. Barack Obama, Michelle Obama, Oprah Winfrey, and Michael Jordan are the biggest names who have spent formative years of their career there. 

Now a Pope from Chicago? Not just an American, but a Chicagoan. This is unreal. Chicago went nuts when the Pope John Paul II visited in 1979. I didn't see him, but I remember the big deal of his visit. Now a homeboy? Forget about it.

The most amazing thing is Pope Bob sounds like me. Hearing a Pope speak in fluent English was one thing, but to pick up the baseline Chicago accent? That was special. Sure, he doesn't have the full Carmine from The Bear, but he doesn't sound like he is from New York or Boston or Texas. He sounds like a regular guy from Chicago. Pope Bob--what a name! Pronounced in Chicago to rhyme with Saab.

Chicago also has its share of decent, kind and hardworking people. The City of Big Shoulders, strong, hard working, resilient.

I am rooting for Pope Bob. I hope he does well and makes his city proud.

Chicago

BY CARL SANDBURG

Hog Butcher for the World,

   Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,

   Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;

   Stormy, husky, brawling,

   City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.

And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.

And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,

   Bareheaded,

   Shoveling,

   Wrecking,

   Planning,

   Building, breaking, rebuilding,

Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,

Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,

Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,

                   Laughing!

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

Easter & Death

Sunday was Easter, the day Jesus rose from the dead.

My question is: If Jesus came back to life after being crucified, when did he really die? Even though I was raised in a Christian tradition, this never occurred to me. Like, he's not walking around today, two thousand years old. If he really did die (and isn't walking around as a two thousand year old), come we don't honor that day? We celebrate his birth and his first death, why not his second death?

This was puzzling me, so I googled it. 

It turns out, he ascended into Heaven forty days after he was resurrected. 

I can't believe I didn't remember this part, but in fairness, it was never marked out as a holiday. It they talked about it at church, it must have been just a regular Sunday and I tuned out. It's not like people get together and celebrate the Ascension.

I don't really think that is fair that he was sent to heaven forty days after he died. I mean, if he bothered to be resurrected, you would think he would spend more time hanging out with the his friends and family instead of taking off so soon. 

Birthday Party Blues

The last time I had a birthday party, my life imploded a week later. Six years ago, I had a catered shindig at the condo with thirty friends. In the middle of the party, I stood on a chair and gave a speech, telling everyone there why I was grateful they were a part of my life. I was awash with warm feelings.

Within the week following the party, I sent in the paperwork to send my son off to treatment for anxiety and depression and my husband bullied me to move out of the house. 

"If you are going to leave when Pedro goes to treatment, leave now. Get out." 

And so I went.

So now I am planning another party for my birthday. I have knots in my stomach thinking back to the last one. Jack had volunteered to send out the invitations and plan it, but in the end he didn't. I called the caterers myself.

Here I am now, planning the party myself again, really not much different than before, except this time I know. Before, I thought I had a partner but he was just a ghost, there but not there.

So, should I still have a party? I've already invited people, so I guess it is on. 

Just because my life imploded the week after my last party doesn't mean it is going to implode again. If anything, that party was a boost, a lift, that helped me navigate the weeks that followed.

How hard might my life have been if I hadn't had the party? Would I have finished the paperwork to send my son to treatment, the paperwork my ex had said he would do but then didn't? Would I have had the strength to leave when he told me to get out?

The party wasn't the trigger for all of the chaos and uncertainty and sadness that followed. Instead, it may have been the balm I needed go get through a really, really hard time. I didn't know at the time what the next two years would bring, the hardest and must trying time of my life. Maybe those warm fuzzy feelings from that event helped carry me through.

Now I have new friends, new people in my life, most of whom I didn't know six years ago. What will happen in the next week, the next month, the next six years? I don't know, but again it is time to move forward, with whatever the future holds.

The Apprentice: Frank Capra or Double-Down

When I was in high school, my friend Heather and I watched Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life on VHS. I was (and am) a huge Jimmy Stewart fan. When I found the tape for $4.00 at Kmart, I bought it. It is a fairly long movie, and Heather and I gave up when George was staggering through the snow, lost and suicidal.

Not only does this movie suck, I thought, but the title is so, so wrong.

The next morning, my mom asked what I thought and I told her we didn't finish it because it was too depressing.

She was surprised. "You need to see the end," she said.

So I did and then I was like "Ohhh. Now I understand  the fuss."

The weekend, I watched The Apprentice, a bio-pic about the current president. I watched it in bits and pieces. For the first half, I really felt sorry for Donald growing up with demeaning father who constantly belittled his son. I felt bad for Donald as he was encased by Roy Cohn and his manipulative and cheating methods. 

When I was two-thirds through the movie, I was feeling hopeful, waiting for Frank Capra to take over. Maybe Donald would see the error of his ways, repent and reform. Maybe he would realize that he didn't need to be the king of the world, that he could just be a good husband and father and a successful businessman who cared about New York City. He wanted to take a shitty, run down hotel and make into something special. What is wrong with that? Nothing, really.

Instead of playing fair, he doubled-down on the anger and the diet pills and the manipulation and the lying and the cheating. The strangest and sadness part of the movie is when he turned on his friend, Roy Cohn, playing Roy at his own game. I was reminded of the movie War Games. The game they were playing is one that you really can't win in the long run, but yet he continues to double-down on the same strategy. So far, he's on top, having won consecutive coin tosses. How long can this luck last?

The laws of probability suggest that this can't last much longer, but thing with probability is that the improbable can happen. Is he "winning" this game because he is so bold and brazen that people are in shock, that they don't know how to deal with the devil? Imagine a flock of defenseless bunnies never having seen a real predator, and here comes the coyote, ready to dive in for a snack. As a group, bunnies are fast, but individually is it easy to pick them off one at a time until the group is depleted.

How would Frank Capra end this movie? What is the script? What is the path forward?

Damn you, Wirecutter!

damn you

Wirecutter

making me

buy shit

I

don't 

need.

you sneak

in my email

whispering

everyday

"this is the best"

of

whatever and whatnot

and I

believe you.

Do I need

12

light blue

water glasses?

I'll

find out

tomorrow.

Ode to the Missing Piece

Dear piece

I cannot find you.

Are you lost

in the carpet?

Under the couch?

Did the dog hide

you away?

Are you stuck

on a sweater

that went through the wash?

I am filled with 

sorrow and sadness.

Where are you?

You should have 

a number seven

on your face, 

but I can't find it.

My dad tells me

"The piece is there

but you are convinced 

it is gone

until the end."

I hope he is right.

I stress

and

I worry

of your whereabouts.

Dear piece

please

be found.

Suspended

I try to be a good citizen.

So imagine my dismay-nay, shock! when the Seattle Public Library (SPL) temporarily suspended my card.

A few weeks ago, my improv group was practicing at the Magnolia SPL branch, when I happened upon some "must reads" on the Peak Picks shelf. For those of you who don't know, Peak Picks is a stack of the most popular new releases that you can check out for two weeks with no wait, but you can't renew them. I picked up the latest Matt Haig book, The Life Impossible. I loved The Midnight Library, and was looking forward to this one. I didn't finish it in two weeks, so I kept it. I am trying not to buy (as many) books because I don't have room for many more. I prefer reading paper books over e-readers, unless it is a thriller or shlockly mystery.

When I didn't return the book, I figured I'd just pay the fines, no problem. This, of course, is not in the spirit of Peak Picks. I should have returned it.

Then the books were due, I'd get my daily email from SPL telling me I was a deadbeat. Fine. Let me finish the book. 

Then I thought about the Bureaucracy. Does the Bureaucracy care that I don't return the book on time? No. The nameless, faceless Bureaucracy doesn't care. I know people might be waiting, but I'm not going to keep it forever. 

Then the emails got grouchier! "Your account will be suspended," SPL told me last week.

Damn, SPL. I haven't had the books that long. 

Today, my account was suspended. I felt like such a jerk for not returning my books in a timely fashion. It is easier to avoid the shame of the anonymous SPL emails by buying books instead.

After work today, I went to the Central Library, tail between my legs, and returned my overdue books. I handed them directly to a librarian so my account could be restored. 

"Oh that happens to me all the time and I work here!" she said. Instead of shame, I was greeted like a sister. "Of course you should keep books past the due date! You are a reader, for god's sake!"

I told her I would settle my fines. I've paid so many library fines in my life that SPL should name a branch after me.

"We stopped fines five years ago," she said. "Now we just suspend people's accounts instead." I just figured my fines hadn't hit a max level where I needed to pay up.

So this is the new game. Instead of fines, I'll just get suspended. 

Sounds like a bargain.

Home on the Range and Knowledge Gap

When I was early in my “career” years ago, the partner I worked for at EY in the Human Resources Consulting group told me the secret to success.

“Specialize,” he said. “Become an expert in a field. You will always be in demand.”

I had just left a job in strategic marketing consulting—my first job out of college—and was now starting a new job as a compensation consultant. I smiled and thanked him for the advice, all the while thinking I’d die if I had to do the same thing over and over, forever and ever.

I lasted in that role for two years when I decided to go to graduate school in a field completely unrelated to what I studied in college and very different from my consulting job. A year later, I had a new job in organizational change management. Thank god I had something new to learn.

Years later, I read “Range” by David Epstein about how generalists survive in a specialized world. I saw myself in this book, and understood that I was “normal” to want to mix it up and try different things.

I think of this now as I am seven months into a new job as an application Product Owner. The job has been kicking my butt, but I am doing okay. Some people suffer from imposter syndrome when they are in a new role and feel over their heads. I don’t. I feel the struggle is the price of admission. There is a sweet spot between struggling and boredom, and I am trying to work my way to the middle.

Last week, I saw a TikTok from Standford on learning. The professor was addressing freshmen, showing the gap being unknowing and knowing, and how the path isn’t linear. In fact, it is a messy, scribbly line that loops all over the place. Tolerance for struggling is what helps us persevere to get from one point to another. 

As a free range generalist, I understand the concept but it doesn’t make it easier as I am adapting to a new role. I love that I am a ranger, someone who hasn’t been doing the same thing for decades.

I need to learn to love the rest of it, the hard parts that Epstein doesn’t discuss— the uncomfortable transitions between new roles, and what that looks like when we are waiting for the next idea or thing to arrive.