When Will It Ever End?

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How does one humble blog so damn long? Is it the endurance athlete in me? Or the fame or fortune? Something all together different?

Before I tell you, a peek behind the curtains. I get inquires from East Indians with fake American names all the time, promising blogging glory though improved SEO, search engine optimization. Persistent buggers. I always say “no thank you” since I have no interest in monetizing this collection of knuckleheaded ideas. I have made zero effort to improve the site with an eye towards a larger readership. Which prob explains why I only get 100-200 site visits a day, except for the day I posted a picture of a bikini clad woman snowboarding. That day, my running posse probably accounted for 100-200 themselves.

Still, as I have written in the past, one of the coolest things about my small readership is the surprisingly high number of international readers, usually about 25% of the total. Por exemplar, for reasons I cannot explain, I’ve been blowing up in Singapore lately. I see you Singapore! Thank you!

But the best explanation for my literary longevity is that inevitably, whenever my enthusiasm wanes, someone says to me that they’ve appreciated something I’ve written. Almost always, someone who I had no idea was a reader.

Yesterday afternoon, capitalizing on beautiful weather, I walked to a meeting with a Certified Financial Planner whose office is by the Farmer’s Market. And then, on the way back, near Bayview Thriftway, a kitted up Roger materialized at the end of a ride. Roger lives in West Olympia so he was headed up the bridges and right by the Crib.

When he saw me, he pulled over to the curb and took his ear buds out. After our heartfelt bro handshake, he apologized for not having reached out during Lynn’s illness or since her passing. I told him not to worry about it, that that was okay. Would not have expected him too. He didn’t know Lynn and we hadn’t ridden together for sometime.

But, he said, with genuine emotion rare for the male species, he’d been reading the blog, “Even though it was really hard to at times.” Then he expressed the same appreciation that so many have, for me sharing our experience caring for Lynn in her final years, months, and days, as openly and honestly as possible.

And here’s the thing. Just maybe, absent my responsibilities for Lynn, absent professional responsibilities, absent any reason not to prioritize friendships, I’m learning to be present. Because I didn’t want to be anywhere else doing anything else. Buddhist-like contentment. My only time-related thought was how long Roger wanted to sit leaning on the curb clipped into one pedal.

After Roger shared a little bit about his own recent health struggles and Capital Forest mountain bike riding, he headed up and to the west, looking like a young Alberto Contador.

And I thought maybe this matters. And just maybe, I’ll continue.

Postscript. Another thing I don’t think I’ve ever done in lo’ these many years is ask readers for anything. Since streaks are made to be broken, let’s break that streak here and now. Be a Roger. Occasionally at least, when you read someone who moves you, let them know. It doesn’t necessarily have to be IRL as the kids say. Almost every online pub provides ways to leave comments. Resolve to leave a comment on occasion. It’s not hard. Not just here, but anywhere writers are trying to foster community. You may think your words of affirmation don’t amount to much, but au contraire.

Postscript 2. A more specific ask. Lately, I’ve been contemplating the advantages/disadvantages of this format versus starting a Substack. If you have an informed opinion, I’d be interested in hearing it. Thanks.

Postscript 3. Sometimes I amaze myself. Like when I spell “au contraire” correctly the first time. :)

Postscript 4. Today, Hong Kong SAR China is in the lead. East Asia/South East Asia battle royale!

JJ For The Win

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JJ and I were having another meaningful convo in the kitchen recently, which has become Deep Convo Central since our lives have been turned upside down. We weren’t thinking the same about whatever it was we were batting back and forth. Finally, a little exasperated with your humble blogger, she said, “Dad, I can hold two opposing ideas in my head at the same time.” Touché.

That’s what my mind returned to when she texted me this picture yesterday. To explain more fully, a few days ago, I got her monthly newsletter which lately has been mostly, but not exclusively, a beautiful, heart-wrenching reflection on her grieving process.*

Dig this flavor flav:

“The last two years were marked by such a different version of the mom I had had for the first 28 years of my life. She was so sick, she was so burdened by her illness and her symptoms. That has been the version of her most readily accessible in my memory. That has been the version showing up in my dreams, night after night, adding salt to the wound. If I can only see her in my dreams, can’t they at least be happy? Can’t she be healthy? Can’t I have the mom from that green couch? I believe one day they will be happy. One day she will be healthy again and she will visit me at night and whisper in my ear that she loves me, whisper that she misses me, that she’s still with me, if in a different form than before.

I still don’t feel normal, I still feel all sorts of wrong, I don’t recognize many aspects of life right now, I have a limited capacity, I don’t ask as many questions, I don’t beep bop around town. So it goes I suppose. I have such a greater understanding for the people in my life who have lost a parent and the hard work they did and continue to do to survive it. This is truly such hard work. And also, when I look, I see a slowly but surely improving ability to do more things in the day, a desire to socialize a little bit more, and flickers of a self that I recognize. When I am in the space to see them, there are some beautiful corners of grief – richer friendships, increased empathy, and a deeper understanding of the things that are important to me.”

All sorts of wrong coupled with a warm smile. Two opposing feels. At the same time.

*I told her she should be writing books, not selling them.

Our Teetering Separation of Powers

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I am conflicted. Should I be thankful that two-thirds of SCOTUS remains committed to the separation of powers or dismayed that one-third does not?

Since POTUS is such a stable genius with the best reading comprehension skills of any President ever, except maybe Lincoln, we must conclude he was never introduced to the concept at the New York Military Academy or the University of Pennsylvania. Shame on those institutions for the oversight.

Arrows Here, There, and Everywhere

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I hit the road last week for the first time in 20 months. Drove a long, long ways. Overdosed on podcasts (Epstein Files, Artificial Intelligence, MF Doom–look him up). When the car came to a stop, I got on my bike and road it uphill in warm sunshine.

When my bike came to a stop, I titled a document, “What I’ve Lost”. It’s a shit inventory. If you’ve been reading me recently, you can correctly guess parts of my “What I’ve Lost” notes, but you would not guess this part, “Lost connection to PLU students—lost meaningful service, exercising unique skills, youthful exuberance.” I decided to stop teaching a year ago, but didn’t make it formal until a few months ago.

My timing on pulling the plug on work isn’t the best, but there would never be an easy time to let go of something that’s been so rewarding for so long. I hope the university will be okay.

Alison and Jeanette seem to be experiencing grief similarly to me. In waves. Or maybe, more accurately for me, waves of piercing arrows.

Something as simple as going out to dinner while on my inaugural road trip proved surprisingly fraught with unsuspecting arrows suddenly materializing out of thin air. Order a pizza. Then pass time in an eclectic shop next door. One that has very nice Valentine’s cards. Arrow One. Lynn called me the “Card King”. Like the flowers I’d get her, she always, always liked my cards. She kept most of them. “Now,” I think to myself as I start to get woozy from the loss of blood, “I’ll never get to buy her another.”

After pizza, gelato. I get a large cup with four different flavors. Arrow Two. “One more thing Lynn was right about,” I can’t help but think, “blackberry is the best”. I’ll never get to share a blackberry gelato with her again.

In the later parts of a recent bicycle ride, I got blindsided by Arrow Three. Never even saw the archer, but somehow stayed upright. Lynn and I had a silly ritual whenever I got home from a group ride. She’d excitedly ask, “Were you the Alpha Dog?” She’d be genuinely happy and proud whenever I said “yes” and incredulous when I’d say, “Some days you’re the hammer and some days you’re the nail.” Now, when I get home from a group ride, there’s no one to ask me how was the ride, who was there, what did you see? If no one asks about an activity, did it really happen?

Recently, Jeanette lamented, “I just don’t know where she is.” I offered that her mom was in our hearts, to the degree we emulate her. But, as these remarkably unremarkable stories illustrate, she’s almost always in my head too.

Sign-Holding As Therapy

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Everyone once in awhile, a reader enlightens me. This especially poignant example is from Richie, who I had the privilege of teaching and playing noon basketball with in Greensboro, NC back in the day. If Richie was just a little taller he would’ve been an NBA point guard instead of a distinguished social scientist/author.

“I have gone to the big protests (Hands Off, No Kings, with casts of thousands), and now for many months I have been spending Tuesdays, from 12-1, with a group of 20-30 protesters, at an intersection in Friendly Shopping Center, outside Senator Thom Tillis’ Greensboro office.  We all hold signs, some of which are easily read as people drive by, especially when they have to stop for the light, and some of which may not be so easy to read depending on how much text there is, and how fast the car or truck is going.    On a typical day,  many drivers honk their horns in support, many give thumbs up, and some roll down their windows and thank us for being there.  For every 20-25 such indications of support, there will be one person who gives us the finger, or thumbs  down, or yells at us to “get a life” (at which point I usually remark to whoever is standing near me that they used to yell ” get a haircut”j.

     Some of my fellow protesters — mostly but not all, older, mostly white — go to another protest on Thursdays, on Wendover, on a bridge over the road,  where it is probably harder to read the signs, and no one stops to converse.

     I doubt that the weekly protests, or even the big Hands Off or No Kings protests, change people’s minds.  Rather I think they remind people,  including politicians, that many Americans (and, today, people attending the Olympics)  are outraged by what is going on.  They remind people who do not like what is happening that they are not alone, even in the reddest of states.  For me personally, I rarely think I am changing anyone’s mind.  Mainly I consider it a form of therapy.  It.makes me feel better, that I am not just phoning our awful Senators and congresspeople (which I sometimes do), or giving money to causes that I support, but doing something that might in a small way contribute to the extensive evidence that people are horrified at who we have become.”

Maybe We’re All Sign-Holders

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What do you think when you pass under political, sign-holding people on freeway overpasses? Of either variety, bright red or dark blue?

My internal dialogue. “Apart from posting on Facebook, I don’t think anyone could choose a less effective form of political persuasion. Has anyone ever, in world history, said, ‘You know, I was driving south on the I-5 when I looked up and saw an outstretched sign that said ‘X’. Until that moment, I really believed ‘Y’. But now, I realize how misguided I have been and I’ve completely come around to ‘X’.”

At 65 mph, the outstretched sign advert might last 1-2 seconds. That’s not even subliminal.

The sign holders are careful to keep a safe distance from their opponents they’re hoping to somehow convert. Their method is a metaphor for our modern age. We’re all steadily improving at keeping a safe distance from one another. Getting better and better at reducing the inconvenience and unpredictability of direct, interpersonal contact.

Abrupt shift. You may be wondering how I’m doing. Lots of people appreciated the “rawness” with which I described Lynn’s final chapter. Now though, I feel like the humble blog is completely inadequate for telling my story. Of how I’m doing.

I suppose, like the sign holders, I’m afraid too. Afraid to “keep it real” in way too impersonal a format.

So what to do? I don’t know.