Category Archives: Personal Stories and Memories

Every Step of the Way

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“Mama, are you gonna be with me every step of the way?” Her faced warped in sorrow, and in her teary eyes I saw she needed an answer, needed to know she would not be alone. 

Three months earlier, our family made an excursion to the locally-owned pet shop across town, where a hay-like smell and the sound of chirping birds accompanied us to the corner of the store where for-sale rodents ran on exercise wheels and nosed around in paper bedding. Kyli, eleven years old, wanted a hamster. Soon one of the employees was carefully scooping through a small aquarium nearly full of paper bedding, searching for the elusive, white dwarf hamster Kyli had selected. Kyli’s aquarium, identically full of bedding, sat nearby on the floor, ready to receive her pet. It seemed a long time before the rodent handler came up with a wiggling clump of bedding and transferred it to its new glass home.

Lucy, as Kyli named her, liked life buried in bedding. But we’d close the bedroom door, shove a blanket in the gap between the door and the floor, and scoop Lucy out to run around in a supervised corner and hide under our crossed legs. Kyli had incredible patience and insisted on gaining Lucy’s trust slow and gentle. One evening Lucy got into Kyli’s closet, which at that time contained an amorphous heap of items on the floor. Determined not to hurt or scare Lucy, Kyli waited patiently outside the closet for her pet, and asked me to stay with her. Lucy scooted into the folds of a Home Depot tote bag, then back out to disappear behind a crumpled sheet. We listened as she poked plastic toys with her nose and scrambled into a cardboard box. I mentally tapped my toe, Let’s get this hamster put away so I can brush my teeth and get in bed with a book.

Then Lucy came, with the barely perceptible tap of tiny claws on the floor, out to the open area. I held my breath as Kyli slowly extended a hand toward her; Lucy scurried back into the tote bag. I suggested we carefully start pulling things out of the closet. Kyli said no, that would scare her and might hurt her. I suggested clamping something down over her fast when she came out. Kyli said no. Lucy scampered out of the closet and almost crawled under Kyli’s dresser. Kyli shooed her away from the under-dresser “cave,” and I jumped in to scoop her up . . . she shot back in the closet.

I suggested blocking some of the open areas into the closet, so when she came out we could quickly block the rest and prevent her from going back in. We tried this, but Lucy easily eluded us. She must have come out in the open area a dozen times, as I sat on a pillow on the bedroom floor, making pointed suggestions about how to speed things along. Kyli talked me through being patient. “Mama, I don’t want her to be scared. We have to wait until she comes out. You’re gonna be okay.” 

“We could be here all night,” I grumbled. But eventually we corralled her and successfully lifted her back into her cage. Nearly an hour had elapsed.

Since Lucy had a way of scuttling into hard-to-reach hiding places in the bedroom, we took to sitting with her in the bathroom. With a blanket tucked into the gap under the door, she could run around without disappearing. Although not excited about being held, she warmed up to it, and seemed to enjoy exploring our hands and laps. 

One day, as she explored on and under the blanket by the door, she squeezed into the hallway. Before we knew what was happening, one of the cats seized her and carried her under sister’s bed. Papa dove under, scraping his back on the bed frame, frantically reaching for the cat, who dropped Lucy. Kyli screamed in fear throughout the ordeal, and although Lucy looked fine, her mannerisms over the next couple of days shed some doubt on her wellbeing. We monitored her, unsure what she needed, but she ate and drank and had no visible wound, so we were hopeful she would be okay—until the morning we found her lifeless in the cage.

On Thanksgiving Day we dressed in black and Papa dug a hole beside the shrubs along the back fence. Kyli settled Lucy in a sturdy wooden casket about six inches long, made by her wood-shop teacher, and added dried flowers, the toilet-paper roll Lucy loved to run through, and a smaller box containing her tiny body. We shared memories of Lucy and buried her. 

Kyli felt all the things common to loss. Frustration with herself. Disappointment in how things turned out. Anger at the cat. She blamed herself for not being a good enough mama to Lucy. She often felt sad in the evenings, and with tears in her eyes would say, “I want her to know how much I loved her. I don’t know if she knew. What if she didn’t know?”

The grief softened over time, as grief often does. By January Kyli started talking about getting a new pet. In the meantime, her aquarium had served as home to a snake she and some classmates found in the schoolyard, and although they released it after a few weeks, it molted while in captivity, leaving Kyli a snakeskin souvenir. We washed and disinfected the aquarium. On the day of parent-teacher conferences, we once again traveled as a family to the pet store—only to find the cages in the rodent corner mostly empty. One contained an aging gerbil. Another, a white hamster that bit the pet-store lady assisting us, and drew blood. There were no dwarf hamsters, just Jumbo Biter. There was, however, one tan-and-white gerbil that seemed like an option. Kyli went into the back room with the pet-store lady to get a closer look, and before we knew it we were back on the highway home with Miss Gerbil in the aquarium. A bag of cat food balanced atop the cage to secure the screen lid.

Kyli named her new pet Tophee—Toph for short (like “trough” without the “r” sound)—and we stationed her in the dining room where we could see her often and get to know her. She was more active than Lucy had been, and more apt to scamper around on top of her bedding where we could see her. One day when Papa picked her up so Kyli could hold her, she shot off his hand to the floor, where she and we frantically scampered around until I grabbed her tight in my hand to lift her to safety. She did not appreciate this and bit me hard, leaving a bloody cut at the tip of my middle finger. Kyli again decided to take a gentle approach, reaching into her cage so Toph could get acquainted with her hand, talking softly to her and giving her treats, not taking her out of the cage to be held.

After a couple weeks, Kyli noticed Toph didn’t seem to want to open her eyes. Were they crusted shut? We couldn’t tell. Sometimes they were open, sometimes not. And she seemed to burrow less. We also questioned if she was drinking water. The hand-me-down water bottle she used sometimes required a bit of prodding to produce water. After some deliberation, and Kyli desperately wanting to take Toph to the vet, we took her to the pet store for an unofficial assessment. The pet-store lady who’d helped us purchase Toph, put on a long leather glove and reached in to hold and assess the little critter. She thought Toph might be dehydrated, asked about the warmth of our house, and suggested we try a new water bottle and watch to see if the eye situation worsened—if so, it could be a respiratory infection.

We moved Toph to a quiet corner of the living room, hoping she could rest more and get well. Over the next several days, she drank from her new water bottle, ate celery slices and Romaine lettuce, and seemed more active. Until she didn’t. Soon we realized we’d hardly seen her at all, as she seemed to be sleeping most of the time. We hauled a six-foot-long cardboard box from the basement to the dining room so we could hold and observe her outside of her cage. I scooped her up and placed her in the box. My heart sank as I watched her walk. She teetered to one side, getting in a few steady steps and then struggling again to maintain balance. Kyli watched tensely, and began to panic as I expressed my concern. We’d had rats who behaved that way, and they had to be put down for neurological problems.

I sat in the box with Toph; Kyli cried, “Why me? You had a hamster that lived for a long time, and you threw it against a wall! Why can’t I have a pet that doesn’t have all these problems?” I lifted Toph to my lap, sleeves pulled over my hands to protect against bites. She sat on my leg, barely moving, thin and lethargic. This was more than Kyli could bear and she paced around the living room crying, not wanting to look at Toph, feeling guilty for not being able to keep her healthy, desperate to do anything we could for her. As I sat in the box with Toph, Kyli approached me, tears on her cheeks, her face twisted in fear and sorrow. It was too much. Too much not-knowing. Too much angst at the thought of an innocent animal suffering. Too much powerlessness and insufficiency and fear. Kyli reached out her hand to me—“Mama, are you gonna be with me every step of the way?”

I, too, felt powerless, insufficient, and fearful. How could I be present to Kyli’s grief? How could I make a decision about taking a $30 rodent to a vet who would certainly charge more than $100? Kyli’s question handed me a lifeline. In asking me to be with her, she gave me something to hold onto. “Yes. Of course. I will.” I will be with you. I wouldn’t have it any other way. We will question together. We will cry together. We will make difficult choices together. You are not alone in your fear and grief. Together we will watch and worry and wait. Together we will make decisions. Together we will hold our insecurities and unanswerable questions. Together.

The next day I called the pet store for more advice. They wondered if Toph was warm enough, so we moved her in front of a heater vent, put a blanket over half her aquarium, and decided to offer her water on a spoon two or three times a day, buy new food, and give her some jarred baby food as well—pureed pumpkin. Toph again seemed to perk up, had an enormous appetite for sunflower seeds, and began rummaging around her cage more often.

But after a week, she returned to excessive sleeping and her sides still caved in a bit where she should be plump and round. We didn’t know what she needed. We consulted the internet, the pet store, and artificial intelligence. We didn’t know if she’d make it or not. I echoed Kyli’s sentiment—why can’t it just be simple? And I was grateful, knowing we would be together, every step of the way.

Beach morning

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Clouds spread high and even, exposed quilt-batting pinned above the landscape.

Great Blue Heron perches afront a high cliff, dark against tawny, bare earth.
Suddenly, silently, he extends broad wings. Legs momentarily dangle long before he points his toes straight behind and glides north along the shoreline.

Hummingbirds cavort, pausing occasionally in the bushes below our deck. One zooms into my personal space, then speeds away, so quick I register its presence only when it’s gone.

Two piles of sea lions lie strewn on behemoth, exposed rocks in the frothy tide far below, where yesterday we found wide swaths of sea anemones packed together like dinner rolls, and a Dungeness crab picking its way through submerged, holly-green sea plants.

The air is calm and balmy, the sound of waves steady.

Assorted seabirds pass overhead, wings beating duck-like.
An osprey circles once, twice, a third time. Its feet drop slightly as it releases a sizable white poo that disappears as soon as I spot it.

Blue clouds on the horizon hold my gaze—color of blue sky, but fluffy like whipped frosting. 

A caw-caw rides air from the beach to my ears. Sea lions are on the move.
They wiggle their way toward the surf, descending the sloping rock like otters with no legs, bodies gallumping in a wavelike motion, ungraceful.
A raggedy row of them moves like an uncomfortable caterpillar. A dozen submerge and swim away; the “caterpillar” comes to an awkward halt, twitching a few times at the tail end, then settling, as if an invisible being has hit snooze. Nine more minutes of sleep. 

A long, low island of rocks emerges, left of the tall sea-cliff island that is nearly always visible.
A wave crashes, snapping my attention back to shore and sleeping sea lions. One twitches its hind flipper like a cat’s tail.

A flash of blue catches my eye. Stellar Jay lands on the porch railing, hops down, picks up the beef jerky that fell yesterday when we fed seagulls. Effortlessly, she ascends again to the railing. She pins the jerky against it, reaching between her toes to rip pieces off, her scruffy morning hairdo dark against the sky. Before I have drunk my fill of her beauty, she hops away. Holding the last bite of jerky, she springs grasshopper-like in short bounds along the railing until she disappears beyond weathered shingles.

I think about binoculars, so I can see what kind of birds cluster on the rocks far from shore. But fog has moved in, curtain call on this beach morning.

I Can’t Get Drunk

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My friend E started drinking first, and together we made plans for my debut with alcohol. Piña coladas on my 40thbirthday. But then I decided to try a drink first with my husband—the primary witness to my life. The night was cold in every way. My turn to plan date night, and I reserved an “igloo” at Marcy’s downtown. These plastic domes appeared over several of their outdoor tables in late fall, purportedly to extend the viability of outdoor eating.

We drove to Marcy’s in silence, as we’d recently stopped speaking to each other unless absolutely necessary (a car ride did not qualify). It’s hard to say if silent date night indicated our stubbornness, a dark desire to marinate in our melancholy, or a hope that we might break things loose. If I’d had any ideas that alcohol might aid us, those hopes were soon dashed.

Our igloo struggled against the 30-degree weather, and I kept my coat on. A space heater ran full blast, and staff provided blankets. Too bad we didn’t feel like snuggling. Our waiter unzipped the igloo and stepped in, quickly zipped it behind him, and stood prepared to take our drink order. He provided a brief verbal tour of the alcoholic beverage options, none of which were warm. Unable to abide the thought of a cold drink, I asked if they had anything warm with alcohol. Yes, there were a few options. Having zero idea what most of the components were, I chose one that included coffee—something familiar. Michael ordered a cold mocktail.

As we waited for our drinks, I connected my phone to the provided bluetooth speaker and started our love-song playlist. The romantic songs did nothing to lift the chill, but they did slightly reduce the awkwardness of the silence between us. 

My drink came in a glass with a handle, piled high with whipped cream. First sip—tolerable. By the third sip I wished I’d ordered the same fruity mocktail as Michael. After that I kept trying tiny sips, but mostly ate the whipped cream off the top and felt bad for wasting money. Since I found nothing pleasurable in the flavor, I hoped to at least drink enough to feel something—a “buzz”?—or to get just a wee bit tipsy, or loose enough to throw myself at Michael when we got home and have makeup sex. But I couldn’t do it. The drink was just plain gross, and I didn’t care for the “warm” sensation as I swallowed. I tried to convince Michael he wanted to try it, but he most certainly did not.

Our pitiful meal came to end, we paid, unzipped our igloo, and returned home colder than we had arrived.

A month or two later, I sat on the couch at E’s house, working on a puzzle on her coffee table. Her husband offered me a glass of red wine as he poured some for each of them. “Don’t give her too much, she probably won’t drink it,” E said. It hit me just about the same as the drink at Marcy’s—gross with a side of unwanted “heat.” I would regale you with nuanced descriptions of flavor and texture, but my palate-related language is pedestrian at best.

In April I drove to Bellingham, Washington, for a soul-filling weekend with my OG ladies group. My friend Andi ordered me a shot of Baileys. “It’s really sweet. If you don’t like it you probably won’t like any alcohol.” It tasted like caramel mixed with isopropyl alcohol. She finished it for me.

Some weeks after my 40th birthday in May, and months after the frigid date at Marcy’s, E and I met downtown at a Mexican restaurant for piña coladas. Virgin piña coladas are one of my favorite drinks—in fact, we had them at our wedding reception. Not wanting to ruin the drink entirely, but still hoping for a new experience—relaxation, anger, stomach upset, anything really—I asked the waiter to cut the alcohol in half. E ordered chicken and scanned the restaurant for teetotalers who could jeopardize her career by reporting a drink to her religious employer.

Our piña coladas came. I took a small sip, then several long pulls at the straw, trying to determine how the flavor differed from a virgin drink. Not much. I drank the whole glass, but didn’t get any of those bodily changes I hoped for. Although it was my most successful drinking experiment yet in terms of volume, I decided I prefer virgin piña coladas.

Further attempts at drinking have failed to produce anything more exciting. My friend Gela and I had a lovely moms-afternoon-out at a cellar offering wine slushies—flavors in a row in large plastic tubs with turning paddles, just like gas station slushies. We sat on a fancy armless couch, and I drank my entire glass, but it wasn’t worth the $14. Until my drinking experiments, I’d had no idea alcohol sucked up even more money than designer coffee.

At the farmer’s market I tasted three (free!) wine samples, drinking barely enough for a semblance of politeness before I discreetly tossed most of the final serving away with the small plastic cup. 

Alcohol and I have not become friends. She is expensive and sharp. I remain curious, and may try a can of beer, hard cider at a local winery, or the mead my cousin makes, but I’ve given up on the possibility of actual enjoyment, and am unlikely to gag down enough of anything to get tipsy. For anyone who worried I’d become a raging alcoholic, I’m sorry to disappoint*. I’ve gained some fun experiences with friends, and lost the ability to say I’ve never had alcohol (well, other than in vanilla extract). I prefer a good mocktail to drinks with alcohol, but I like an Italian soda, blended mocha, or London fog even better. 

Honestly, I thought something about alcohol would appeal to me—after all, how can the masses be so enamored? So financially invested? I don’t understand drinking for pleasure, nor can I imagine swallowing enough to get drunk. I’ll drown my troubles with a good 12-hour night of sleep, followed by a morning nap, and an afternoon one too if it’s a sad Saturday, and leave the hop juice for someone else.

*This is not intended as a slight to my many friends and family who choose not to drink, nor do I intend to make light of the damage alcohol causes to individuals, families, and society. Rather, I am making fun of the over-moralized fear-based decision making that was for many years my reason for not drinking alcohol.

Ocean Infection

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Tiny puff of sea spray
Between surf and horizon
A huge mammal exhales
“There’s a whale!”

Kayt drops her book
Michael appears from the kitchen
Wide window in the dining nook, our portal

We point and words punctuate—
“Whale right!” “Tail! Tail over there!”

But Kyli sees whale-less waters
Her disappointment thick and raw, until
The silhouette of a tail
Appears clear—magic.

She nearly levitates
Shouting with joy
Infecting us all—
Her cousin jumps wildly with her
We clap our hands
Voices high-pitched with excitement
Wonder sparking between us
As our eyes return to the blue
Searching for another breath in the water.

Run-on Marriage

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Last week Michael and I celebrated 20 years of marriage. The run-on sentence below illustrates our run-on marriage. (And yes, we’re still crazy about each other, in addition to driving each other crazy.)

I cannot get in bed when the bedcovers are frumpy, drifting off the end of the bed, sideways, knowing that if I do lie down and tug on them I will get too much sheet, too little blanket, and the wrong corner of the comforter; but I do not make my bed in the morning—I make it right before I climb in bed at night, tugging with exaggerated exclamations as I dislodge cats, and my poor husband too, because there’s a tiny possibility that I idolize sleep and this bed is my altar and before I sacrifice my body the altar must be prepared as if for a temperamental god of linens, and I like to remind my husband that before I met him my sheets would stay tucked in and straight for months at a time, but since his feet hang over the end of the bed and he tosses and turns at night, I have to straighten the covers every single day, and I accomplish this with more violent energy and bitter comments than necessary, although one would think after 20 whole years I would have adjusted and calmed down about it—but he huffs and makes less-than-charitable remarks every time he drives, and he has been driving for twenty-five years, so I guess we are both going to have our snide remarks and adult tantrums and all shall be well. 

P.S. I usually use stock photos, but the photo for this post is of my husband and I earlier this month. I barely squeezed into my wedding dress, which I attempt every September as our anniversary rolls around.

Disrupt the System, Applaud Early

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Applause: public approval or praise expressed by clapping hands together.

Some fifteen years ago, I stood while applauding after a Distinguished Faculty Lecture at my alma mater. Is it a standing ovation if only one person stands? I stood, exuberant about the depth of understanding and connection I experienced during the lecture. But as my peripheral vision told me that no one else stood, self-consciousness bubbled up. Why am I the only one deeply affected? Does everyone else already have a depth of experience such that the lecture was run-of-the-mill for them? My pulse quickened and I lowered into my seat, certain everyone must be giving me the side-eye, judging my way of being in the world.

Looking back, I am proud of that moment. I know now that many of us who speak or write or reveal ourselves in some way, need only one person to stand. Only one person to send a note letting us know our words created connection.

Late last July, I attended “heART on display,” an event featuring artwork by incarcerated or formerly incarcerated individuals. Cedar Rain Spirits, a distillery and BBQ in downtown Walla Walla, hosted the event, curated by Devon Player, whom I met through the Walla Walla Community Change Team. Outside the narrow storefront, a sandwich board on the sidewalk announced the event. Inside, people mingled, music blared, and art lined much of the two long walls that extended to the back of the venue.

For the next hour, I perused art, snacked on free hors d’oeuvres, asked a few questions, and flattened myself into tables and walls to avoid bumping into fellow guests. As I chose art to purchase—proceeds to benefit Running Waters Equity Fund and the Black Prisoners Caucus—Devon took the mic and introduced a guest speaker, Anthony Covert. We all quieted where we sat or stood, and turned to listen.

Anthony was sentenced to 432 months (36 years) in prison at the age of 18. He served 16 of those, and walked free on June 10, 2024. As he talked about sitting in prison, alone with himself, I stumbled into sudden affinity with him. We “outside” (unincarcerated) folks have so much available to distract ourselves; it is a rare and excruciating experience to be alone with ourselves. “ But when you’re sitting in that prison cell and all you got is those four walls—sometimes with a celly, sometimes not—you have to sit with yourself.” And, he says, you have to ask yourself questions, about how you came to be in this place, and what your purpose is now that you’re here. 

My own season of being alone with myself and asking hard questions transpired during stay-at-home momming. I recognized that singular agony of sitting with oneself, and the subsequent decision to engage with tricky, heavy questions. As an incarcerated, black young man, Anthony felt it in the isolation of prison. As a middle class, white mother of an infant and toddler, I felt it in the isolation of motherhood. Although our experiences differed, Anthony’s words connected intimately with my inner world as a stay-at-home mom. Because he exposed his pain, I felt seen in mine. Our stories held hands for a just a moment. 

I wanted to applaud, but other listeners were intent, soaking up the story, not ready to respond. Anthony continued, and when he shared the completion of a college degree, while incarcerated, with a 3.98 GPA, everyone applauded, including me. Later, when he talked about his clemency hearing and the unanimous vote to grant him clemency, we applauded again. It was then that I noticed my moments of connection were not the same as the moments of applause. Before Anthony’s clemency hearing, when anxiety was high, Anthony’s friend Demar told him, “Go in there and show them who you are.” That moment connected. That moment I wanted to clap or sigh, or give the man a hug. Show them who you are.

Why the dissonance between my moments of kinship with the speaker, and our collective moments of applause? Could it be that as a society we are quick to applaud measurable achievement, but not moments of quiet strength? What about times of agonizing surrender—to our brokenness, and simultaneously to our wholeness? 

Anthony described us on the “outside” as an invisible army that stands with those on the “inside.” Because our worlds are disconnected, there is a wall isolating our compassion and assistance from the insiders’ knowledge, and/or response. Knowing this, may we be courageous to continue engaging—despite the lack of testimonials, catchy postcards, and fundraising galas that feed the selfish side of our generosity. 

“ There’s no fixing the system. It is what it is,” Anthony said. “But what you can do is disrupt it in certain areas, right? To give people opportunities to come home.”

What if applause—public approval or praise—happened earlier in the story, and it served to recognize nothing more than our humanity, the intrinsic dignity of our existence? What if clapping said, “you got this,” more than, “you did something big and measurable”? Better yet, what if approval and praise showed up in the process and in the conclusion? What if it gave people opportunities to come home—to themselves, to their families, to their communities? I need this. I suspect we all do.

I want to applaud early—for my children, my spouse, my friends, my community. A healer is “someone who can see the movement toward wholeness in you more clearly than you can at any given moment,” wrote Rachel Naomi Remen. Let’s open our eyes to see. Put your hands together for humanity. 

Let’s applaud smallness. Clap for the courage it takes to engage with our own selves and our messy stories. Cheer at the thin places in our stories, where pain and intention form a bond and point us in a new direction. Celebrate wholeness even as it lingers in the wings. Disrupt the narrative in ways that invite belonging. 

Walk Repenting

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“… the soft animal of my body …”

As I put the car in park, I leaned forward and squinted to read the blue letters on the bumper sticker of the car in front of me. “maybe the soft animal of my body wants to walk a thousand miles repenting”

I’d never heard a human body described as a soft animal before. Did I have a soft self, and did it want to repent?

It was Tuesday morning, Colville Street, a much needed coffee-and-writing date with myself. I turned off the engine, and hoping the woman in the red shirt exiting the store to my right was not the owner of the car, I snapped a photo of the bumper sticker. A silhouette of geese flying over cattails on the right side of the message added to the calm invitation I felt from those words. 

Not wanting to linger with my phone camera pointed at the back end of a stranger’s car, I made a quick detour into the building the red-shirted woman had just exited. Like a mini mall, a half dozen boutique clothing and food/wine shops occupied storefronts along a wide hallway. I noticed a sign for a soon-to-be bagel shop on the brown-paper-covered windows of a corner space. The slurpy sounds of a paint roller accompanied the smell of fresh paint.

The shop around the corner used to sell my favorite coffee smoothie—made with raw cashews, dates, and cocoa powder. They had closed some months ago, but I’d heard the new occupant of their space served the same smoothies. I walked in slowly and surveyed a freezer with everything from ice cream bars to frozen quarts of house-made soup. The deli fridge held a mouthwatering assortment of unique grab-and-go foods, such as spiced garbanzo beans. When I got to the cheeses, I noticed the front counter out of the corner of my eye, and above it the list of smoothies. No coffee smoothie. 

The bumper sticker I’d photographed still rolled around in my mind as I perused a couple shelves of dry goods, then stepped over to the counter. “Hi,” I spoke to the southern-California-pretty girl, feeling self-conscious in my workout clothes and messy half-ponytail. “This is my first time here since this store changed owners,” I offered awkwardly, “so I’m just checking it out.”

“Okay. Welcome.” She smiled.

“Do you have a coffee smoothie?”

“No. We’re working on it.” She gestured to a middle-aged woman with light brown hair, seated behind a laptop at the nearest round table. 

“I’m trying to get the consistency right,” the woman offered. I showed her the recipe I use at home for a coffee smoothie, and we chatted for a while. She told me about the plans she has with her business partner to open a sandwich shop in the small empty storefront next door. I wished her luck with the business ventures and returned the way I’d come, back to the sidewalk by my car. No police waited to take my phone away or arrest me for taking pictures of bumper stickers.

I grabbed my laptop, sweatshirt, journal and book from my car and headed toward my original destination for a weekday morning self-date—the coffee shop beside the mini-mall. 

I ordered a hot matcha latte, paid with a gift card, and chose a table in the corner. Then I settled in with my journal and returned to pondering the bumper sticker: maybe the soft animal of my body wants to walk a thousand miles repenting. Yes, my body seems to say, I want to do this. I ask my body, why?

Because pretense is not a way to spend a life.

Because I am sorry this world is not a comfortable place for a hundred families I know and billions I don’t know. 

I am sorry for the miscarriages and painful marriages, sorry for the systems that don’t see people, and the people who don’t see themselves, sorry I have loved control more than gentleness, sorry for the disease and dis-ease that never ask before they darken our doors.

I am sorry for the loss of hard-to-hear human stories to easy-to-apply inhumane labels, sorry that emotional and physical safety are a privilege and not a right, sorry for all the grief that is carried alone because we are scared to name our own grief and to witness the grief of others. 

I am sorry we look at teenagers and see youthful bodies and immature minds, but don’t see the loneliness or oppressive unanswered questions, sorry we look at children and see their food-smeared faces, hear their unfiltered words, but don’t see their whole souls—meant to awaken us to the wholeness that is their birthright and ours.

I am sorry there is no easy way out of addiction or a demeaning job or loneliness, sorry that pain is par for the course and I sometimes pretend it’s not, and sorry I forget that joy is also par for the course and I sometimes pretend otherwise.

I am sorry that plants are largely unheard and animals are prized or passed over, but rarely known, sorry I’m an unsafe stranger to some, and an unsafe friend to others, sorry for all the ways I have confirmed the loneliness in another person’s spirit.

I am sorry I swallow my food without giving thanks to the earth and the farmers and God.

So yeah, I could walk a thousand miles repenting, my soft body says. And I want to grasp other soft bodies and bring them with me, to walk together barefooted until our soft mass of bodies spreads repentance across every landscape, until we have repented our way home, which is not a place of individual belonging, but of collective belonging.

And then my body is done speaking. She relinquishes the pen back to my mind, and I see the paper I am writing on, the smooth blonde wood of the table underneath. I notice my cold ankles, the barista’s laughter, and a melancholy female voice singing through the shop speakers.

I notice the way my fingers wrinkle as I hold a blue pen with black ink, and see for the first time that the tiny screws on the metal logo attached to my purse are fake.

After a while, I notice that I am noticing, and I wonder—if fifteen minutes of quiet repentance awakens me this much, what might be born of a thousand miles?

Lunch time nears. I return to the shop with no coffee smoothie and purchase a cauliflower and garbanzo bean salad. While I eat, I think about repentance. Is repentance a list of sins and regrets before God? Is it turning a different direction, choosing a better way? Is it a walk, the bodily healing of circulation, the mental healing of gazing at the horizon, the spiritual healing of engaging with the landscape of humanity? My body says this might be the case. Perhaps it is all of these and more, an invitation to be awake, to be soft, to hold each other gently…for a thousand miles, if necessary.

The Red Circle

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A perfect dark-red, circular spot on the beige carpet. I reached down and touched it, first with a finger and then my thumb, pressing lightly. Sure enough, something wet and red thinly coated my fingers. It had to be blood. But where did it come from?

“There’s blood on the carpet,” I announced to my mother. We had just spent 40 minutes getting her from the dining table to the couch—a distance of about 12 feet. She was certain I couldn’t help her stand up, that my dad had to be there for her to move. My parents recently relocated, and dad was at the old house cleaning out the garage. They would sign closing documents that afternoon for the sale of the house. I came to be with my mother, whose mobility and cognitive ability had declined rapidly over the past few months.

Back at the dining table, I’d held out my arms to help her stand, but she made no attempt to respond. I moved the walker in front of her and held it steady so she could pull herself up, but still she didn’t move. Then she wanted to get down to the floor and crawl. She instructed me to bring some towels to soften the floor. I spread a thick blanket, doubled over, between her dining chair and the edge of the living room carpet. She leaned forward and tried to rest a hand on the floor, but lost her nerve. At her insistence, we called my dad. He said yes, I could move her. Again, I held out my arms—no response. I brought the walker over—she tried holding it in different ways but never got to the standing-up part. She tried again to get to the floor with similar results—her hesitant hand reached low.

I kept offering to help her stand, as that seemed to me the best option, but she said she didn’t want to hurt me. She is several inches taller than me, but only a few pounds heavier. I had helped her stand and walk many times before. Perhaps her reticence resulted from a recent fall, although I wasn’t there at the time of her fall. She asked who else could help her and named an acquaintance who had visited a couple days before. When she determined that I was, indeed, the only available person to move her, she asked for my dad again and cried. An hour earlier she had announced, “This afternoon I’m scheduled to have a nervous breakdown.” I was beginning to agree.

My mother insisted that she could not stand up with her feet on the smooth floor of the dining room, but only on the carpet. In response, I grabbed the front legs of the wooden chair she occupied and pulled it to the edge of the carpet. Now we had less than six feet to go. I held out my arms again, instructing her to hold onto my biceps as I held her elbows. I planted my knees against her right leg and pulled her up—sort of. She doesn’t straighten up all the way when she stands. I put my arm around her back to keep her from sinking back down, and pulled the walker in front of her.

A one-inch scooch, a six-inch step, a rapid little shuffle. She leaned forward on her toes, her center of gravity moving precariously in front of her as her heels came off the floor. I lifted her foot so she could move it forward. Then again the other foot. Then a step on her own. Then a one-inch scooch. Somehow she got her back turned to the couch and sank down onto the cushions. However, she wanted to lie, and would need to be closer to one end of the couch to make room for her legs to stretch out. Rather than attempt convincing her to stand again, I grabbed her blue jeans on each side of her hips and heaved her slowly across the couch. I lifted her feet onto the couch, then blue-jean-heaved her a little more until her hips rested perpendicular to the back of the couch. A large array of pillows served as a back rest. I spread a fluffy white blanket over her.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth in three days.” She seemed worried about looking well-kept for the house signing, although I had no idea how long it really had been since she last brushed. I poked around in the bathroom drawers and cupboards until I found floss, toothpaste, and toothbrush. She couldn’t floss. I tore off a piece of waxed floss, wound the ends around my fingers, and started with the teeth that were easiest to reach. After flossing most of her teeth, I handed her the toothbrush, which she had instructed me to wet, but not apply toothpaste. She proceeded with brushing on her own. When she finished, she asked me to take a picture of her shiny clean smile and text it to my dad.

It was at this point I noticed the red spot on the carpet. What could have produced a clean drop of blood? My mother suggested I check her knee, which I did—but given that she had jeans on, it couldn’t have dripped blood unless she had a gushing wound that soaked her pants in blood. We checked her elbows too—had she bumped into something and not realized it? No, no signs of blood on my mother. “I’m on my period,” I confessed, “but I don’t understand how I could have dripped blood on the floor like that.” As we discussed the possibilities, she concluded that my menstrual bleeding was the mostly likely culprit.

I wetted a paper towel in the kitchen and went to work on the red spot. Much to my relief, it came out of the carpet with minimal scrubbing. I had no interest in staining carpet at my parents’ house—the very same parents who kept cream-colored carpet in near-perfect condition for 20 years while farming and raising two kids. I knew better than to soil it.

As I turned, my mother noticed blood on my shorts. Another piece of the puzzle. I hastened to the restroom and found that indeed there was blood on my shorts. They were loose, pink-purple shorts made of sweat-pant material. As I cleaned them the best I could without actually taking them off and washing them, I realized what must have happened. When I sat on the edge of the couch to floss my mom’s teeth, I must have leaned into such a position that my underwear and pad weren’t fully in place. Hence, a few drops of blood had fallen onto my shorts, and from there one of them dripped to the carpet.

I have this idea that at 40 years of age, period “accidents” should be a thing of the past. It’s not like I’m new at this bleeding-out-of-my-vagina thing. But there I was, cleaning blood from various surfaces. My mother was unconcerned, a conversational ally as we pieced together what had happened. How strange that in the afternoon’s events, simply standing up would be infinitely more stressful than blood on the carpet.

Oddly, when it was all over, I primarily felt gratitude. It’s awkward to be a fully functional person around a not-fully-functional person. It feels weird that I can floss my teeth and walk where I want to, and my mother can’t. I’m never quite certain what to offer in terms of help, and since her mobility and cognitive ability are a little different each time I visit—sometimes more and sometimes less—it’s a moment-by-moment game. Not the kind of game I’m good at.

This blood on the floor was a gift. An opportunity for me to be vulnerable, to need help solving a problem, to have an awkward dysfunction of sorts. It allowed our roles to feel just a bit more “normal” for a few minutes—she the mother, I the child. I miss that.

Forty and (In)secure

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Twenty One Pilots’s song, “Stressed Out,” laments the insecurities of adulthood, noting that fear is still present, and we still care what people think. I turned 40 this month, and yes, I’m still insecure. It’s different than high school. And the same. I want you to like me. I want to be well-dressed and well-spoken, and most importantly, perceived well.

I’m a grown-up—have been for quite some time—and I can tell you what maturity doesn’t mean. Being grown up doesn’t involve control and confidence; it doesn’t mean growing out of awkward traits and social habits; it doesn’t include a clean house and well-kept yard, or a passel of perfect grown-up girlfriends.

I’m less sure what being a grownup does mean. But I’ve noticed I’m softer than I used to be—more flexible, a teensy bit less judgmental, and I know more about cooking and cleaning than I did 20 years ago.

I know less about God, love, and relationships. It’s been said that the more you know, the more you know you don’t know anything. I can confirm this.

There’s a real sense of loss, not landing in adulthood firmly in control and certainty, an expert in the kitchen, the workplace, the bedroom. I get tired of being wrong, confused, ineffective. If knowledge comes from experience, I am an expert in exhaustion, stress, and leaving my cell phone in obscure places.

I know I’m sounding a tad morose. But there is a happy ending. There’s something left after losing control, and the appearance of control, and pretending to have control. What’s left is eyes to see a different life entirely—a life of watching the cat lick his fur, thinking of my three favorite moments from the day just before I fall asleep, fighting less with my kids and husband, knowing there will not be a seismic event when my to-do list is left undone.

And I know myself better. I know I love writing and small groups. I know I like a clean house, but not enough to put in the work. I know I’m scared of the interminable wants and needs of my children. Being quiet and alone—especially in nature—returns me to myself. Banana splits and blended mochas almost always sound good. I try the hardest to be self-sufficient when I’m at my weakest. Animals make me happy. Getting called “a writer” makes me stand a little taller. Synchronicity feels like opening a birthday present.

My birthday, which this year fell on the first Sunday in May, played out like a dream Mother’s Day. My husband cleaned the kitchen, top to bottom. He and the kids cooked breakfast and dinner, and took me out for lunch. I sorted through a large tote, five bags, and an unconstrained pile of children’s clothing I hauled up from the basement, and found most of it could be passed on. I went to the park and watched goslings and ducklings, heard the smack-smack of their webbed feet in shallow water, and marveled at their fluffy bodies. I took a nap. With my parents and sister, I ate fresh-made blackberry pie with “40” cut into the top crust. Michael gave me a gift certificate to have the house professionally cleaned (when the dust settles from our six-month construction project). Like I said, a dream day.

It’s worth noting I couldn’t have planned such a day. All was gift—the generosity of my husband, my children, my sister. Many times I have planned a birthday party for myself, with friends and presents and homemade cake. But for forty, this un-forced birthday felt fitting. The people who love me gave what they wanted to give. And I received. I basked. I rested. And yes, I sorted children’s clothing—one of those things I never can find time to do.

Maybe I’m ready to accept this life I have. Whether I die tomorrow or in another 40 years, I will die complicated—a mix of peace and insecurity, frustration and gratitude, mundane and miraculous. And not at all grown up.

Substance Use or Pain?

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I know next to nothing about substance use. Other than tales of “the alcoholic” family members I never met, the “sinners” in the prodigal-returns books the church fed me, and the guy who beat the tar out of a piñata at his daughter’s birthday party, I live in a substance-use-free bubble. Although, I was offered a drink last week by two guys about my age who came upon me at a local park, where I had stationed myself to watch for beaver activity. I hoped to catch the crepuscular creatures near one end of their habitat, where they had recently felled a large tree.

It became apparent these two fellows had been drinking when they repeatedly complimented my purple outfit, introduced themselves, offered to move my chair for me, asked me to show them the beaver lodge, and kept up a constant stream of friendly banter. Sober people walk by silently and you’re lucky to get a nod.

“If you’re gonna take beer from a stranger, we’re the right people to take it from,” the talkative fellow offered. He went on to explain the virtues of the beer he had in the cooler bag over his shoulder, but it all went over my head. IPA and other alcohol-related terms are Greek to me.

As a child, I was taught to fear alcohol, with the admonition that because alcohol addiction runs in our family, I could become addicted with a single drink. Is there truth to that? I don’t know. Now that I’m an adult it seems beside the point.

Last November, I attended a community education event—“Hidden In Plain Sight,” or HIPS. This event multiplied my slight knowledge of substances by at least ten times. For example, I thought “doing pot” 40 years ago was essentially the same as “doing pot” today. I was wrong. But before I get to that … The whole experience hit me odd—attending a 1.5-hour community event in which I felt the main takeaway was “just say no” (although those words were not used). I thought people who didn’t rely on religious/moral reasons for abstinence just didn’t abstain. Or at the very least, didn’t tell others to abstain. But apparently, given data on brain development and facts about the effects of drugs and alcohol, a whole slough of people agree that—at least for kids and teens—“no” is the appropriate attitude toward substances. And this isn’t about illegal drugs; it’s about nicotine, marijuana, and alcohol.

When I talk to my kids about alcohol and drug use, I notice they are acutely—vehemently—aware that it is “bad”—so much so that it’s easy for them to assume a person who uses is not a “good” person. For that reason, my conversations with them, more often than not, focus on the aspect of numbing pain. I tell them people drink because it makes them feel better. It’s relief from anxiety, loneliness, trauma, and intense emotional pain. And isn’t every human being worthy of relief from pain?

I didn’t know what to expect going to the HIPS event—other than free pizza and a lesson on the paraphernalia of risky teen behavior. But when I left after the event I had a distinct feeling that something was missing—we didn’t talk about the pain these kids are trying to numb. Or the pain their parents are trying to numb. And parental influence means—like it or not—when we as parents use substances to numb our pain, it’s hard to tell our kids not to, and even harder for them to respect and respond to us.

In the state of Washington, where I live, it is legal for a parent to give alcohol to their child at any age, in their home1. And although it’s illegal to give tobacco or marijuana products to your own children, the data in our local community indicates that parents are supplying these items to their children in middle school and high school2—or at least turning a blind eye. Additionally, many websites that sell vapes and other nicotine products simply have a textbox to type in one’s age, making it easier to buy substances than it is to log into your bank account.

Products that were originally marketed as smoking cessation products, such as vapes,3 may deliver more nicotine to users than cigarettes, depending on the product and frequency of use. They’re also cheaper. A carton of cigarettes is $120, and the roughly-equivalent 7,000-puff rechargeable fume vape—which comes in more than a dozen flavors and fits easily in a closed hand—costs only $15. It also conveniently flies under the radar of the Clean Indoor Air Act, since the nicotine is delivered without a cloud of smoke. As you might imagine, these changes rewrite the landscape of nicotine use.

And alcohol is not exempt from the changing landscape. With a disposable water bottle, a wine cork, and a bike pump, a curious teen can vaporize alcohol, conveniently bypassing their digestive system and taking the full impact of a shot of hard liquor directly to their bloodstream.4

Now back to the changes around “doing pot”. Before the turn of the century, marijuana products delivered about 4% THC, or tetrahydrocannabinol, the psychoactive compound found in cannabis. In the 2010s, that number jumped to nearly 20% with the medicalization of marijuana. Today there are products containing up to 90% THC5. This ain’t your grandpa’s weed. Yet in Walla Walla County the Healthy Youth Survey in 2023 reported that 56% of 10th-grade respondents thought trying cannabis/marijuana held no risk or low risk, and 30% thought regular use had little or no risk.6 Are these students thinking of grandpa’s weed, or the expanding menu of available products? There’s rosin, crumble, distillate, bubble hash, dry sift, crystalline, and the list goes on.7

Youth who experiment with substance use are often unaware—now more than ever—of the actual amount of alcohol, nicotine, or THC they are taking in through various products or processes, resulting in an uptake of accidental overdoses.8 Parents seem to be checked out of their kids’ lives, and capitalism is taking advantage of the changing topography of products that deliver substances.

2023 Health Use Survey (askhys.net)
Walla Walla County data

20% of 10th graders reported using marijuana at least once in their life.

50.9% of 10th graders reported using alcohol at least once in their life.

16% of 8th graders had ridden, during the previous 30 days, in a vehicle driven by someone who had been drinking alcohol.

2.7% of 6th graders (my 12-year-old daughter’s grade) reported alcohol use in the past 30 days, as did 3.9% of 8th graders and 13.1% of 10th graders.

19.5% of 8th graders and 33.6% of 10th graders indicated it would be “sort of or very easy” to get marijuana.

In case you got lost in the grade numbers,
all of these statistics are for youth approximately 11-15 years of age.

Not long after attending the HIPS events, my husband Michael and I walked by a smoke shop as we were finishing a pizza-and-ice-cream date night. “Ooh,” I said spontaneously, “let’s go in!” Michael didn’t share my enthusiasm, but he followed me inside the shop. The young man behind the counter welcomed us in and asked if we were after anything particular. I volunteered that neither of us had ever had anything. “If there’s something you want to try, let me know,” he offered.

To the left, behind a long counter, packaged products lined the wall. To the right, blown-glass paraphernalia caught my eye. I didn’t know what any of it was called. “Pipe” and “bong” seemed like terms that probably applied to some of the stuff, but I wasn’t sure. It reminded me of visiting the glass-blowing shops in Oregon’s coastal towns. Rows of shelves showcased the beautiful colors and shapes, and at the back of the store two more large displays highlighted artful drug paraphernalia.

The shop also had knives, samurai swords, rings for body-piercings, incense, an impressive display of fancy cigars, sex paraphernalia, and—based on my newly-acquired knowledge—several items I assumed were for hiding drugs. Michael and I circled the store a few times, commenting quietly to each other. Wanting to be a good customer, I bought a small vaping device.

Just kidding. I bought a pair of cheap earrings.

“Drugs and alcohol” are not the static story I imagined. And my interpretations are one tiny perspective on an issue that is complex beyond any one person’s understanding. Advertising, social influences9, the complex science of the over-400 components of cannabis10, the biology of addiction, stigma, family structure, mental health, and countless other factors impact our youth and their decisions around substances.

Mental health professionals and others, including the renowned Brené Brown, say it isn’t possible to selectively numb emotion. If we numb pain, anxiety, and sadness, we also numb joy, contentment, and gratitude. How will a generation unable to feel things—let alone name those feelings—live whole lives, experience belonging, and effectively walk through the tragedy and triumph of life?

And how will they teach resilience to the next generation?

I am left with more questions than answers. Why did I know nothing of the breadth and depth of new and evolving products and packaging around substance use? Why did only about 20 people attend this HIPS event that was marketed across the Walla Walla Valley? Why does it seem like social workers and law enforcement are the only people looking at this data?

About 10% of 8th graders and 14% of 10th graders surveyed had considered suicide. Over a third indicated a struggle with depression.11 Why are our children in so much pain? And how are we offering relief?

Endnotes:
1 RCW 66.44.270, subsection (4), viewed here.
2 The Healthy Youth Survey fact sheet for Walla Walla County in 2023 reports that 29% of youth in 8th and 12th grades, and 27% of youth in 10th grade reported getting alcohol from home, with permission, in the past 30 days. Additionally, only 5% of youth drink alcohol if their parents think it’s wrong, while 28% drink if their parents don’t think it’s wrong. This data is from a fact sheet created here.
3 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10880776/
4 https://www.vumc.org/poison-control/toxicology-question-week/jan-29-2020-alcohol-vaping-friend-or-foe
3 https://medicine.yale.edu/news-article/not-your-grandmothers-marijuana-rising-thc-concentrations-in-cannabis-can-pose-devastating-health-risks/
6 This data is from a fact sheet created here.
7 https://vivosun.com/growing_guide/what-is-crumble-crystalline-sugar/
8 This was covered in the live presentation. I’m still looking for a data source to cite here.
9 https://www.cdc.gov/tobacco/e-cigarettes/why-youth-vape.html
10 https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4188645/
11 This data is from a fact sheet created here.