You Can’t Stop What You Can’t Imagine

I have not written or posted anything in over a year. Life got in the way. We sold one house, bought another half the size, and moved. One son graduated from college and moved out of the house. The other went to study abroad in Germany. We cared for and then lost a beloved parent. My husband accepted early retirement from his government job after 24 years, and we had to navigate that transition. All of this has been going on while we’ve monitored the news, observed immigration agents sending undocumented workers to detainment camps in the Everglades or deporting them to unspecified locations, watched our military troops unleash tear gas on our own citizens, and witnessed our government exploding ships in the Caribbean and posturing about seizing property and resources belonging to other nations. It’s been a lot, and I’ve felt overwhelmed and underprepared while trying to remain hopeful. I know I am not alone.

I won’t lie. We live in a bubble I cannot ignore. I have not experienced firsthand any anti-immigration activity in our city, although it has occurred. While others have had their families, communities, and lives upended, I have had the luxury of being able to continue on, suffering more from cognitive dissonance than from honest-to-god fear for my life or the lives of my family. I feel guilty about it, as I believe I should, because I recognize the privilege inherent in my freedom to dissociate right now. I know my birthright as a fourth generation, white person of Christian descent, augmented by our favorable financial situation, keeps me relatively safe, at least for the present moment. I’m also aware that if they come for others, I might be next.

I’m a liberal-arts educated woman with a healthy amount of empathy who follows the news, reported both within and outside our borders, so I haven’t escaped unscathed. Yesterday’s video of Renee Good being gunned down, presumably for not stopping her car when the masked agents shouted at her, yanked me from my place of security. I’ve known for months that eventually someone not a target of a specific immigration raid would lose their life either defending a neighbor or protesting because they felt they still had a protected first amendment right to do so, but knowing that didn’t make the murder easier to witness. I sat on the floor and wept hard enough that our dogs approached to comfort me. I’ve been paying attention. I’ve had my mental state chipped away at since the new administration took office last January. I’ve watched the videos of parents being ripped from their sobbing children. I’ve read about families who have had members disappear completely. I’m well aware federal agents have arrested and detained US citizens for days. Sometimes it takes everything I have to not stay in bed all day crying in futility. While some Canadians, Europeans, and Australians take to social media to berate those of us who understand what is going on and yet feel powerless to do anything about it (be it from fear, exhaustion, emotional overwhelm, finances, jobs, children, illness, caring for aging relatives, whatever), we’re all doing our best here trying to figure out what, if anything, we can do. You want us to march? We have, just to have videos we’ve taken of large protests scrubbed from social media and ignored by our now state-friendly press. You want us to show up and spur our elected officials to action? We’ve tried. They’re too afraid to show up to speak to us, much less to speak out against the current administration. We’re watching our country become 1930s Germany and we’re heartbroken and terrified. You may be too young to remember it, but I bet your grandparents or great grandparents felt paralyzed when Hitler showed up to abduct their neighbors and coworkers. I suspect you might not be here today if your ancestors had stood in the street and attempted to stop the S.S. from branding their neighbors like livestock and shoving them into railcars headed towards incinerators.

I don’t know why I am writing any of this. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to be harangued by those who think I need to be doing more when it’s a struggle merely to keep from becoming a functioning alcoholic in this reality. How do you watch a woman get murdered on her street in front of her spouse and then act like it’s any normal day and figure out what to fix for dinner? I have no idea how to navigate the situation we are in because I’ve never been in this situation before. We all like to think we would have stood up and fought for our marginalized neighbors in Europe in the 1930s and 1940s, but history demonstrates that self preservation usually wins out. We are wired to survive.

So, with the memory of little me standing in class reciting the words to the Pledge of Allegiance etched on my heart, I acknowledge I didn’t want to and couldn’t see our downfall coming. You can’t protect yourself from a thing you never imagined could happen. It’s a battle to feel free and brave here right now. I’m just one in 340 million, but I’m sorry I didn’t try harder and do better.

Posted on 09/01/2026 by Me 0

The Peace In Bartleby’s “I Would Prefer Not To”

“Blessed are the high in agency for they have done enough already.” ~taken from The Book of the Firstborn, probably

Three weeks ago, my sister sent me this video about finding the high agency people in your life. In the video, one gentleman asks another whom he would call for help if he were trapped in a South American jail and were to be transferred in 24 hours to an undisclosed location. He explained a high-agency person is someone who can think on their own, without instructions, and solve problems at a very high level under pressure very quickly. My sister added this comment to the video: “You are this person. You should know that most of your friends would feel the same way. This is a high compliment and you should feel really good about yourself.” I watched the video, read her comment, and realized it didn’t sit with me the way I knew she intended it to. I responded with a laugh and then said, “I think that most of the people who would be chosen for this job would be first-born daughters.” Perhaps taking my comment as self-effacing and dismissive of my skills, she replied the “only response necessary is yep. I’m awesome.” I decided to let it go at that.

The exchange has been lodged in my mind ever since, though, due to my visceral, real-time reaction to that video. It was an emphatic inner voice saying, “Yes. I could be that person but no thank you.” There was a time in my not-too-distant past when I might have received that video and corresponding accolades and felt quite honored to be someone else’s chosen savior in a tough situation. I don’t feel that way anymore, though. Thousands of hours of therapy have helped me understand I have some deep-seated issues around constantly being called on to be the adult in the room, to be the one who makes things run smoothly, the one who steps back from her own tasks to ensure everyone else is taken care of and not inconvenienced. This is not to imply that I have never been selfish because I certainly have. Who hasn’t? But my reaction was inner me finally standing up and saying, “I’m finished looking out for others at my own expense.” I would most certainly help my sister if she called me from a South American jail. I’m simply now, more than ever, finding myself capable of telling others to be accountable for their choices and figure out their own shit. It’s a small measure of heretofore unimaginable success for me.

Some people who are high agency might be so because they were required at a young age to be the adult they were not. Some people who are high agency might be so because they were taught they had no intrinsic value outside of service to others. Not everyone who is high agency loves being called on to help in every situation. Some of us are struggling trying to deal with our own crap but aren’t skilled at saying no just yet. We may not yet have learned to channel Melville’s Bartleby-the-Scrivener-level attitude of “I would prefer not to.” It’s admirable to be high agency, but being high agency for others without being high agency for yourself first will lead to burn out, regret, and bitterness. Every mother who has survived a holiday season knows this.

So this holiday season, if you have high agency people in your life upon whom you call regularly, maybe consider giving them a break and not contacting them for assistance. Yes. The holidays are stressful and you could probably use their help, but maybe give them the gift of unburdening instead. And, all you high agency people, you know who you are. Please also know it’s okay for you not to respond to someone else’s emergency, especially when you are overwhelmed yourself. It’s not only acceptable but advisable to tell the relative who is flying out to see you for the holidays and asking a gazillion unnecessary questions of you to check tsa.gov for airport security information and weather.com for updated forecasts. You don’t have to take it all on. And if someone calls you from a South American prison, maybe you choose to help them or maybe you tell them perhaps they shouldn’t have ended up in one in the first place and wish them the best.

Posted on 10/12/2024 by Me

We’re Not Going Back

“There is nothing which I dread so much as a division of the republic into two great parties, each arranged under its leader, and concerting measures in opposition to each other. This, in my humble apprehension, is to be dreaded as the greatest political evil under our Constitution.” ~ John Adams

Banana seat, baby! — Back in time to me riding my bright, banana seat bike in Buffalo

Well, it’s been a day. At 5 pm last night, I turned the tv on to watch election coverage. By 5:15 I was so anxious I consumed a gummy so I could calm down. Round about time the electoral map started loading up with red states, I took a second gummy, turned off the tv, and went to sleep. I woke up at 4:30 and checked the results. I’ve been awake ever since.

I spent most of the day in a fog. Just numb. I wandered around. My logical brain kicked in, and I began running through things I might want to do before Inauguration Day. Maybe check to make sure I’m up to date on all the vaccines I want to have on board before an anti-vaxxer takes over the Department of Health and Human Services. Delete some social media accounts. Make a plan for maintaining my mental and physical health over the next few years. Cut back on spending because things are going to get more expensive once the tariffs are put in place. You know, just a basic list to convince myself everything is going to be fine. It’s just a new business as usual.

Then I progressed to rationalization. Yes. There is plenty in Project 2025 about which I need to be aware, if not concerned. My husband is a government employee who could lose his job and his pension. I have pre-existing health conditions that might not be covered if we are forced to shop for new insurance and the Affordable Care Act has been tossed out. I take medications that may not be available in a Trump presidency. Other than few those things, though, I’m downright fortunate compared to many. We’re a white family with two sons who are finishing college. We’re financially secure. We have no family members who might be deported. We do have concerns for the gay and lesbian people in our lives, along with the trans humans we love, but we live in a solidly blue state with protections in place, at least until the federal government creates new laws superseding our oh-so-important “state’s rights.” Overall, we are in a safe-ish place with regard to the wishes of the incoming administration. We can use our privilege to fight for those who are less fortunate than us over the next four (forty?) years. It will be okay, right?

Then tonight grief smacked me in the face hard, and the tears came. As I sat on the floor and wept, my pups crawled into my lap, which just made me cry harder for the love. When the tears stopped, always questioning, I tried to pinpoint why I had finally broken down, and this is where I landed. I grew up believing in the promise of America, a patchwork quilt of unique souls who, when combined, made a stronger whole. I loved this vision for us. I knew we had problems. I was not blind to them. Rather, I chose to look away from them and instead naively believed we would overcome them someday. And I kept feeling maybe we were inching closer to that day. Lured by a glorious vision of a biracial woman in power, I kept imagining that promise of America was nearly in our grasp. It wasn’t. I had been captured in a blue bubble, unconvinced of how differently many others were viewing the same country I was living in. Many people here don’t want a woman in power, heaven forbid a brown one. Many people do not feel that is progress. Now I fear that our opportunity to ever reach that promise I was promised has slipped away. It was probably a mirage to begin with, some whitewashed idea of a shining city on a hill that we never really were and likely never could have become with our history anyway.

I’m still processing my grief while 51% of American voters celebrate their win and make self-righteous statements about putting politics aside and being friends now. I’m not there, folks. I’m just not. Half of you didn’t like what the other half of us were happy with for the past four years, and you made no attempt to hide it, whinging about all the “woke” policies. Now the tables are reversed, and we’re not all that excited about what you’ve got planned and I don’t think we’re going to change our minds about it either, just as you didn’t. The only hope for us is to meet in the middle somewhere, someday. Maybe in four years we will know where that middle is. Maybe the left will have become more humble through our losses and perhaps the right will have discovered some of the anti-woke policies you wanted weren’t as golden as you expected. Maybe then we will all be a little more centered and willing to compromise.

If in four years we find ourselves a bit dissatisfied with the future we’ve created and a bit anxious to make some changes, let’s hope we still have the opportunity to hold another free and fair election. I’d hate to think our rallying cry, “We’re not going back,” was actually a prophecy.

Posted on 06/11/2024 by Me

Will November Spawn A Monster?

It’s Election Week for potentially the most consequential presidential election in my lifetime thus far. Well, I could also make the case that the 2000 election with its Supreme-Court-adjudication ending was pretty damn consequential too but at least, then, while I wasn’t thrilled with the election outcome, George W. Bush wasn’t vowing to become a dictator on day one. So, there’s that. I know the American population is stressed out right now and for good reason. Half of us feel we need a W to return to being the great nation we believe we once were and the other half are fearful that if we don’t win there will be no democratic nation left, period. The news is all over the place. The polls have us biting our nails. I see countless posts on social media from residents of other nations begging us to make the right choice. It’s been a lot and, frankly, I am exhausted.

I feel I’ve done all I can do to contribute to the outcome I would like to see on Tuesday night, or whatever day the election is finally decided. I live in Colorado where registered voters receive our ballots via mail. Most people I know do not vote in person and haven’t since ballots began being mailed to us in 2013. As a full-on introvert, there was no way I would be doing any in-person canvassing, so I had to find other ways to engage in the election process. Last presidential election, I did hours of texting for my candidate, but it turns out there was a limit to how much abuse I could handle from strangers in Ohio, so I decided to forgo that option this time around. Instead, I donated way more money to both the presidential race and the down-ballot races than I had planned to. What can I say? I was getting so many texts and emails it became impossible to ignore them all. I mean, Mark freaking Hamill texted me personally, well sort of personally, and how do you say no to Luke Skywalker? Then, I also ordered 300 get-out-the-vote postcards and requisite stamps and sent those out to Ohio because that seemed less likely to damage my psyche. And after that I requested 200 more and dutifully filled those out with colorful Sharpie markers and sent those too. I made sure my Gen Z sons ordered and received their ballots while at college in Washington and walked them through the ballot process, discussing all the state and local amendments and propositions. I put a sign in our yard and in our window. And I submitted my ballot early, and it was counted on October 23rd. Since then, I’ve been holding my breath. I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge in case I get to celebrate this week, but I also have a bottle of vodka in the freezer in case things don’t work out the way I hope. The election now rests in the hands of my fellow citizens who have yet to make their voices heard. I hope they have done their part to contribute to the outcome they would like to see.

Today, being the 80’s alternative Gen Xer I am, I listened to the new album by The Cure on repeat and that’s when it hit me. The true Gen X way to celebrate or mourn anything (in the absence of an 80’s arcade, shopping mall, or folded note on college-ruled paper) has to be done via music. To that end, I’ve decided tonight I am going to make election playlists to accompany either my champagne celebration or my vodka bath on Tuesday evening. Back in the day, I would have pulled out the old double tape boombox and press play and record simultaneously to create a couple mix tapes. Now I will just drag songs into a playlist, which will be infinitely faster and may represent progress. Either way, I figure this activity will keep my mind occupied tonight, which means I then have only one more evening of anticipation to endure before I get to watch Steve Kornacki ratchet up my anxiety at the big board Tuesday night. No one knows where we’re headed. Based on current polling, this race is the closest in years and the stakes feel overwhelming. When the Electoral Map is decided, I just hope I don’t end up swigging from a chilled handle of vodka singing REM’s It’s The End Of The World As We Know It because I’m pretty sure I will not feel fine about it.

Posted on 03/11/2024 by Me 1

Eat The Rich

Yesterday morning, I happened upon a story about Mark Zuckerberg. I am not a fan of Zuckerberg on the best of days. I use Facebook only to share my Wordle score with a friend group and to relay my blog posts to my friends who use the site. I go back and forth on whether the platform has any redeeming value, most of the time erring on the side that says we’d probably be happier humans if it had never come into existence. At any rate, the story I saw reported that Mark Zuckerberg had a 7-foot-tall statue of his wife created. It linked to the Instagram post where Mark revealed his exorbitant gesture of love.

It’s difficult to encapsulate the ways this post bothered me, but I am going to try. First, there’s the casual fashion in which Zuckerberg attempts to make commissioning a statue of his wife into some relatable gesture by posting it to Instagram. Because, of course, the average Insta user is going to see the post and think, “Wow. What a thoughtful, loving husband.” (Insert vigorous eye roll here.) Second, Zuckerberg has zero concept that invoking a tradition associated with the elite Roman class might be ill advised at a time when many feel our own democracy is falling like Rome itself fell. And how tone deaf is it to brag cavalierly about a statue you’ve had created in honor of your wife at a time when people are struggling to afford gas, groceries, and housing? Not certain we needed the cogent reminder of wealth disparity in our country. I think the majority of us are well aware of it, thank you very much.

As an upper middle class, white woman in suburbia, I have my fair share of privilege. For our anniversary this year, my husband sent me a floral arrangement with 29 long-stemmed red roses, and I posted about it on Instagram because, while he regularly brings me flowers, he has rarely sent them to me. He did it this year only because we were apart on our anniversary for only the second time in nearly three decades. I do know the funds it took to purchase the roses could have provided a week’s worth of groceries to a small family. I get it. I’m no monument to justice, and I can understand how someone might feel the same way about those roses that I felt when I saw that statue. But if 29 long-stemmed roses could provide a week’s worth of groceries for a struggling family, how many families could the money used for that statue of Priscilla provide? Some will argue he earned his wealth and should be able to do with it as he sees fit. And, honestly, I don’t begrudge him the luxury of being able to fund such a grand gesture as much as I find it unhinged to assume posting about it on social media would make him look like a good guy. What could he have been thinking? With so many barely scraping by right now, it felt a little, well, “Let them eat cake”-ish.

Though the whole display left a sour taste in my mouth, I’m empathetic enough to understand Mark has perhaps lost some grasp on reality with the attainment of his prodigious wealth. There are roughly 800 billionaires in the United States, and approximately 85% of them are white men. Imagine the mental disconnect that must accompany being one of 800 people who collectively hold nearly 4% of US wealth while the bottom half of Americans, approximately 167 million, hold only 2.5% of the nation’s wealth. Possessing the financial resources to buy 1,400 acres of ancestral land on Kauai for the purpose of establishing a family compound complete multiple houses, treehouses, and a 5,000 square foot underground bunker might make one more than a bit removed from reality. This is the American dream, though, isn’t it? The notion that hard work can lead to a life of ease and luxury? This is precisely what capitalism promotes.

I have to wonder, though, at what point the other 332,999,200 of us will decide we’ve had enough of this shit. Are we even capable of becoming appalled rather than fascinated by this nation’s billionaires? Where do we draw the line with wealth and decide too few possess too much? Or is it simply part of the destiny of a free, capitalist society to escort us to where we are? Will the gross display of billionaire excess ever tip us towards a revolution away from capitalism? Will we prove the musings of Jean Jacques Rousseau correct, that “when the people run out of adequate sustenance, they will eat the rich”? If we do get to that point, I’m gonna guess the native Hawaiians might be the first to climb the six foot wall around Zuckerberg’s compound and approach him with a fork.

(Editor’s note: I am, in no way, promoting cannibalism. I just found Rousseau’s statement to be food for thought.)

Posted on 21/08/2024 by Me 1

Hiking In The Dolomites: Day 2

For our second day of hiking, our Backroads leaders had chosen the Sennes Loop, which would take us up 3000 feet in elevation. I had spied the road that would comprise the first part of our hike the night before, and I was already dreading the first part of the day. Still, I had breakfast to look forward to first, and breakfast on hiking days can be as indulgent as I want, right? Gotta have energy for the climb, I reasoned. So, after an Italian buffet breakfast of speck, cheese, fruit, and pastries accompanied by espresso, we were off. The road, which was unpaved and switchbacked its way up and over the valley, immediately became my Everest. It was steep. I am used to being the last one up a hill because I take medications that elevate my pulse rate, which means my heart often gets to racing more quickly in comparison with my fellow hikers. Steve was his usual gracious self, hanging with me each time I stopped and waited for my heart rate to drop again.

Although being the last person up used to make me feel bad about myself, I’ve learned to find the good in it. One of the best parts about being at the back of the pack on a trip like this one is you usually end up alone with a guide. Everywhere we travel, I find opportunities to have conversations, real, meaningful conversations, with people from the area we are visiting. The easiest way to do this is to take a tour and strike up conversations with the guide. On this day, we had Francesca and a naturalist named Lucia to walk with. Talking about southern Italian culture with Francesca, a native of Puglia, made my uphill battle less odious.

Once we got to the place where the road leveled off, we veered off onto a small path rather than continue along the road. We were taking the scenic route. It was cool and overcast, many of the peaks around us obscured by clouds. This pushed our focus to the green pastures and wildflowers. We walked along at a quicker pace now, trending upwards still and stopping to take photos as we went. We weren’t slowing anyone down, so why not enjoy? It wasn’t long before we heard bells ringing along the hillside. We were still below tree line, though, and I couldn’t see what was causing the racket. Then they appeared, a herd of goats with long, curved horns. They regarded us with some curiosity but no alarm, one following me up the path a bit before rejoining its amici on the grassy hill. I determined there is no hike more charming than one that includes animals wearing bells.

The path had become easier, and I was feeling confident about my chances of finishing this hike with zero problems. Then we came around a corner into a clearing and ahead of me I saw another damn hill. Yes. I knew I was in the Dolomites and there would inevitably be more hills. Francesca simply hadn’t warned me about this one which, in hindsight, was probably wiser. Ahead of us on the path, I could see some small dots, the rest of our group steadily making their way. This would be our last uphill I was told, and at the terminus of this section we would arrive at the Sennes hut where we would stop for lunch. I was all about lunch by this point, so I decided to attack that hill rather than saunter.

Near the top of the climb, Rifugio Munt de Sennes appeared around a corner. Hearty South Tyrolean fare loomed ahead, and I could not wait. Would it be another fabulous lunch feast with choices like beef goulash on polenta and fresh pasta with just-picked chanterelle mushrooms? Of course. We finished our meal with more strudel because vacation. I reflected for a moment about how hospitality is Italy’s gift to the world. I mean, here we were, hiking at 8000 feet, and continually happening upon establishments with comfortable rooms to rent, excellent dining options, and clean bathrooms with flushing toilets, in mountainous areas unreachable by car for part of the year due to snowpack. Damn, Italy. La bella vita, indeed.

We left the hut and crested the hill just beyond it and were treated to a panoramic mountain view before we hit the descent to our overnight lodging. Lucia was with us for the afternoon, and she informed us about the political climate in Italy under far-right Prime Minister Meloni. She talked about peaceful student protests that had turned violent earlier in the year due to brutal police crackdowns on demonstrations. Lucia remarked it seemed eerily familiar to what she had learned about life under Mussolini. We discussed our mutual concerns regarding the slow but steady erosions of personal freedoms in our countries and what could be done to stem the creep of authoritarianism. It was a deep conversation for a serene day in the Dolomites, but it made the last few miles as much about education and global understanding as about exercise and nature.

When we finally reached our lodge, Petra told us we should soak our feet in the icy stream that ran in front of the hut. She said it was “medicine,” which would help us recover more quickly for the next day. So we dropped our packs in our room, donned flip flops, and padded our way to the stream. Certain my feet would thank me later, I braved the frigid water. I’m no stranger to just how cold a mountain stream can be, yet I was still surprised at how quickly I had to pull my feet out of that water and onto the dry gravel to regain feeling in my toes. Steve and I spent about 5 minutes there, making bets about who could hold their feet in the water the longest. Steve won. Those five minutes turned out to be about as difficult as my climb had been that morning,. They were also just as beneficial. I felt refreshed.

With our hiking chores done for the day, we went up to shower. Wine o’clock was calling, and we didn’t want to be late. The rifugio offered house wine on tap that was a meager €2.5 per generous glass. It would be a crime not to support this local business family by having a glass or two of house merlot before dinner, and then maybe another glass or two with dinner. Steve and I strive to be goodwill ambassadors for the U.S. while we are abroad. It’s a responsibility we take quite seriously.

Posted on 10/08/2024 by Me

Hiking In The Dolomites: Day 1

“Only where you have walked on foot have you really been.” ~Reinhold Messner

We’ve known for years that we wanted to visit Italy’s Dolomites. We’ve also known for years that we wanted to take an active trip with Backroads. Backroads, founded in 1979 and based in California, will conduct over 4500 guided trips in 2024, allowing travelers to cycle, hike, and kayak their way through stunning locales worldwide. The trips are not inexpensive, so we’d been dreaming of this for about a decade. When we learned our sons planned to stay in their college town in Washington for the summer, we realized we could use our usual 4-person trip budget on just the two of us and decided to splurge and turn our dream into a reality. With the destination chosen (we can’t seem to get sick of Italy), the next decision was whether we wanted to cycle or hike our way through the Dolomites. We settled on hiking and chose to do a “hut-to-hut” trip where we would traverse from valley to valley, up over mountain passes, getting a close-up, personal experience of nature rather than a whiz-by-on-a-bike experience of it. We made the right choice.

On this first morning, we met in the lobby of our designated hotel in our departure city, Bolzano/Bolzen, in South Tyrol, Italy, to begin our exploration of the northwest area of the Dolomites. The Dolomites have contained a blend of Italian and German cultures since the end of WWI when the area once held by Austria-Hungary was ceded to Italy. In Bolzano, approximately half the population speaks German as their native tongue, while the other half speaks Italian. Truth is, though, most people in the area speak both. Here you will find schnitzel, dumplings, and strudel on the menu aside polenta, risotto, and tiramisu. Best of both worlds, really. Our guides, an Italian, Francesca, and a Slovenian, Petra, gathered up the 15 of us, gave us a brief description of the day, and loaded us onto a bus that would drop us at our hiking trail. As we headed north out of Bolzano into the foothills of the Dolomites, the landscape began to change dramatically. The canyon walls got closer, the vegetation became more lush, and we encountered some light rain. We were dropped at the entrance to Fannes-Braies-Sennes, the Dolomites’ gorgeous nature park, a UNESCO World Heritage area. Backroads schleps your bags between lodgings, so we donned our rain jackets and small daypacks and began our adventure. We would hike 7 miles to our lodging, stopping for lunch midway.

The rain fell lightly and we watched our footing, traversing cautiously over slippery tree roots and damp terrain. Wildflowers brightened the hike. We struck up easy conversations with our fellow travelers who hailed from across the U.S., from Washington to Vermont, Maine to Florida. We were hiking near a stream, under a canopy of tall pines, and the hike appeared to us like one we might do in our Colorado Rockies back home. The rain eased on and off repeatedly as we walked along. Soon we found ourselves at our lunch spot, set up outside a charming inn nestled in a cozy valley.

This was the first moment we experienced firsthand what Backroads does best. They spoil you. Waiting for us next to a small lake at the back of the inn was an elaborate picnic lunch set on two sheltered tables. The table was loaded with foods: sausage slices, cheese wedges, a variety of salads and breads, fresh fruit, and strudel. Petra told us it was our first strudel, not our last, and jokingly called our trip a strudel-to-strudel hike. Turns out she wasn’t kidding. So. Much. Strudel. While we ate, our guides shared with us a bit of information about the hearty Ladin people who live and work in the Dolomites and whose ancestors have resided there for thousands of years. Now a population of only about 30k, the Ladin people still employ their own, unique language and work to retain their cultural traditions and population by marrying within their community. These hardworking people maintain the land and the ski lifts and inns that dot the Dolomites. Their hospitality is gracious and efficient. Food is definitely their love language.

After we had polished off most of what had been presented, we picked up our hiking poles and set out again in the rain towards the Rifugio Pederü, our lodging for the next two nights. We were walking uphill, but it was a gradual climb and a perfect way to warm us up for the hiking that would follow the next two days. I was fully unprepared for the setting where we landed. The rifugio (Italian for “shelter”) was set at the back of a box canyon, which immediately made me a bit leery about how difficult our next hike might be. The only way out was up, way up. We settled into our room on the top floor (stairs are good practice for the climbing, right?) and opened the shutters to the most picturesque view from our balcony. We’d been told our lodging would become increasingly more impressive, but I was struggling to imagine how.

These “shelters” are rustic on the outside but well-equipped on the inside, so we helped ourselves to long, hot showers and headed down to dinner in the restaurant where we were treated to a welcome champagne cocktail and a menu as heavy as the one in a Cheesecake Factory. I’d recovered from my huge lunch on the hike and was so hungry by then I didn’t even bother to take a photo of my meal. Come to think of it, I didn’t return from our trip with many food photos at all. So at each meal I must have been too weak from hunger to lift my phone or too eager to wait. One thing about a Backroads adventure, there will be no lack of food or opportunity to earn it if that is your desire.

After dinner, we returned to our room and set out clothes for our early morning breakfast and departure. I’d spied our path out of the valley earlier in the evening and knew the next day was going to test me, so I checked off the accomplishment of Day One and mentally prepared myself for the challenge of the Day Two. So with the sun at last setting and the windows and drapes open, the fresh air of wild Italy filled our lungs and sent us off to sleep.

Posted on 02/08/202402/08/2024 by Me

May These Memories Break Our Fall

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, sometimes you gotta say ‘What the fuck,’ make your move.” ~Risky Business

On the 2nd of January, I said “What the fuck, make your move” and clicked Purchase on two resale seats for an Amsterdam date on Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. Buying resale concert tickets can be risky business, indeed, but missing this record-breaking concert event would be something I would regret, I told myself. I have grown to loathe feeling regret and avoid it when possible. So, I sold my soul to the demon I despise and paid StubHub a ludicrous sum, rationalizing I had no other choice. It was a personal imperative. For the past few years, Taylor Swift had been propping me up as I dealt with a lot of real life shit. The Tortured Poets Department became the final rung on my climb to catharsis. This concert was going to be a full-circle moment in part of my life’s journey, the launching pad for the next phase of my life.

In the months leading up to our tour date, we told our dirty little secret only to a select few because you never know if you’re actually getting inside a concert with a second-hand ticket. As I stood at our kitchen island making friendship bracelets and changing my mind umpteen times about which era I would choose for my concert attire, in the back of my mind the nagging thought we might not gain entrance at all swirled. I made my peace with the notion of listening to what we could hear from outside Johan Cruijff Arena and being grateful to be part of the tour in whatever small way we could, all while quietly reassuring myself seeing this concert live was a destiny that would be fulfilled.

At 5:30 pm on July 5th, wearing a black skirt, a “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me” sequined t-shirt, and rhinestone sneakers, I crossed my fingers, scanned my ticket, and pushed through the turnstiles of Ajax Arena. Steve and I seeped into a throng of Swifties inside. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked around. It was perhaps the most gentle and respectful crowd that arena has yet seen, fans politely inching past each other towards their designated spots. I’d chosen seats in the lower part of the upper deck close to the midpoint of Taylor’s massive stage. On one side of us were the New York City Gen Z’s from whom I’d bought our tickets and on the other side was a Belgian couple in their forties with their two teenage daughters. We exchanged some bracelets and easy conversation. Paramore, the opening act for the European leg of the tour, did their best to work the stage and warm us up for Taylor, but not a being in the place needed warming for Taylor. We were ready for it.

The clock appeared on the massive screen that ran the length of the stage. When it hit 13, the crowd began counting down aloud. I got goosebumps. The dancers appeared with their pastel parachutes undulating like flower petals in a breeze until they eventually settled into their spots, bent down, and allowed the fabric to carpet the floor. When the dancers stood again and revealed Taylor among them like Venus in the shell in Botticelli’s famous painting, the crowd roared. I teared up. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but I was really there. This was really happening. I took a minute to survey the arena. Fifty-five thousand Swifties in all their Eras glory, singing along to “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince.” I was enchanted. “Here we go,” I told myself as I settled in for the three-plus story hours of love, heartbreak, drama, revenge, and redemption. I reveled in every minute of the show, taking care to be present by limiting my desire to record the moments on my phone. When the crowd began jumping to “You Belong With Me,” you bet your ass I jumped too. Well rehearsed, I shouted along during the fan participation parts, yelling “one, two, three, let’s go, bitch” during a break in the intro to “Delicate” and inserting my triple claps in “Shake It Off.” When Taylor got to the acoustic set, I allowed myself a moment to record the crowd. I said, “Remember this moment” in the back of my mind. And when she’d reached her last song and the band played the first notes of “Karma,” I gave up and let the emotion roll over me. The night had been timeless, but it caught up and it was time to grab our souvenir merch and head to the exit. So I closed the chapter on this era and stepped outside and into my next era.

It’s been 27 days since our Amsterdam concert, and I’ve been struggling for all 27 of those days trying to decide what to write about it in this post. The Eras tour has a film. When it wraps, it will have been seen in person by a staggering 10 million people, give or take. It has been reviewed innumerable times and myriad ways by Swifties, celebrities, bloggers, and publications. YouTube has countless videos of the show. Taylor Swift made the cover of Time with her ragdoll cat, Benjamin Button because of this tour. There is little I can say about it to add to what already exists in the world. There is no way to encapsulate the experience of standing among tens of thousands of fellow fans, belting out every word to every song, and vibing with strangers you’ll never meet whom you know somehow understand a part of you even some of your closest friends don’t get. It was worth every penny we spent, and I’d spend them all again. Taylor’s Eras Tour story will end in Vancouver on December 8th, and I will forever be grateful that as a middle aged, relatively new Swiftie I decided to ignore the haters and give myself the opportunity to be part of it. Life’s short, people. So, as Taylor says, “Make the friendship bracelets. Take the moment and taste it. You’ve got no reason to be afraid.” After all, taking a risk is only risky business until it pays off.

“Hold on to spinning around, confetti falls to the ground, may these memories break our fall.” ~Taylor Swift

Posted on 01/08/2024 by Me

The Mother’s Day Mixed Handbag

Two days until Mother’s Day. The days leading up to the second Sunday in May have left with me with different feels over the years. As a child, for Mother’s Day we’d do a school art project to give to her and then participate in a family activity together after church, like a trip to a zoo. Once I was out of the house, Mother’s Day became a day I had to make sure not to forget. I’d buy a card and a small gift and make sure I was available for whatever my mother wanted to do that day. This was compulsory. When I had my own children, Mother’s Day became something different again. My husband would try to find some way for us to celebrate with our young sons as a family, but we were already previously committed to doing something with my mother too. As I was the only daughter with children, my sisters could always be free for my mom and I knew there would be consequences for me in my relationship with my mother if i couldn’t make myself available. I was low-key angry about Mother’s Day back then. I wondered when Mother’s Day would honestly get to be about me and my sons. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself and say, “It’s my turn to be feted.” So, I learned that the best way to get my day was to be out of town or otherwise engaged on Mother’s Day. I would escape. Then family drama changed things yet again, and I came to dread Mother’s Day. I mean, how do you celebrate the varied emotions that come with having children and being so grateful for the family you created and yet knowing that your relationship with your own mother is non-existent? Now my sons are in college and not around on Mother’s Day. I’m finding Mother’s Day feels different again. I guess Mother’s Day and I have never been in sync.

I will avoid social media this weekend. While I don’t begrudge anyone their happiness or their positive brunch experiences with their loving mother, I don’t really need to witness it as a reminder of a relationship I never honestly had. I also don’t need to be reminded that my sons can’t be here. I miss them every single day and I don’t need a Hallmark holiday to point out to me how much I love them or how their births changed me forever. I live that every single day.

I’m writing this not as some sad-sack whine fest, but as a note to all those who have healthy, loving, close relationships with their mothers. Mother’s Day is a mixed bag for many people. Some have lost their mother and will spend Sunday mourning her. Some women wanted to become mothers more than anything in the world but were unable. Some mothers are experiencing the day alone because their children have died. Some are mothers of children who live with adoptive families. Some have mothers who have forgotten them because of dementia. Some have mothers who are ill and will be spending their last Mother’s Day with their mom. Some have difficult relationships with their offspring and will spend the day living in that pain. Some women had abortions for heartbreaking reasons and will be reminded again what might have been. And some, like me, are sandwiched between two experiences and aren’t able to find mental peace on this holiday.

Mother’s Day is not all flowers, heartfelt cards, and Sunday brunches or family picnics. Mother’s Day is as complicated as motherhood. So while many are genuinely excited about this Sunday, others of us cannot wait for Monday.

Be gentle.

Posted on 10/05/2024 by Me 3

When A Door Closes

Our oldest was not the easiest of infants. He didn’t sleep well from day one. He was impossible to keep on a schedule. While he was the sweetest little boy 95 percent of the time, that other 5 percent of the time was rough. When experts discuss the “terribles twos,” there is an expectation that around 3 years of age those episodes should be waning. We were not having that experience with our oldest. At nearly 4, while the tantrums were not a daily occurrence, when he did launch into one there was nothing we could do but let him rage until he ran out of steam. My mother regularly chided me for being too lenient, and we would feel so helpless when these tantrums reared in public. One time my son was acting up in a restaurant and a friend I was dining with reminded me of the biblical notion of, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” While I had no plans of hitting my child, having been subject to multiple “spankings” with a belt, a wooden spoon, and a hairbrush myself, I knew physical punishment could work to quell outbursts. I began reading parenting books and attending seminars, convinced something I was doing wrong was allowing these tantrums to persist and worsen. A book called Parenting with Love and Logic was suggested. One fix I had heard was, when the child is having a tantrum, put them in their room, close them in there, and let them tantrum without you. If necessary to make this happen, you could install a lock on the outside of the door so the child could not escape during these time outs. This seemed rather extreme to me, but nothing else we had tried had worked. I was fresh out of ideas.

One afternoon, for a reason I cannot recall, Joe launched into one of his screaming fits. I picked up my flailing child, told him that he was going in time out until he could calm down, and deposited him on his bedroom floor. I shut the door swiftly and stood there holding the handle firmly as he struggled to open it. I knew there was nothing in his room that could hurt him, so I was determined to win this battle and show him his poor behavior would get no audience from me. As I held the door, resolute this was the right thing to do, my son’s cries escalated. He pounded and he kicked the door. He screamed, “Mommy” repeatedly as I stood outside holding the door knob. His cries grew ever more frantic. An epic battle began between my well-meaning head and my momma’s heart. My head kept repeating comments my mother and others had said to me about how I was too lax and gave in too easily, which was why my child was ill-behaved. I repeated to myself that letting children “cry it out” was a time-honored practice. Meanwhile, my heart was bursting at the sound of my precious Joe so clearly sad and scared alone in his room. He was still calling my name through broken sobs when I looked down and saw his little fingers reaching under the door. My heart shattered.

I’d like to say I opened the door, picked him up, hugged him, and told him I was sorry for being cruel. I’d like to say I cradled him until he was calm and gave him the security he needed to know he was heard and understood. I can’t, though. I held on to the knob, quietly crying on the other side of that shitty, hollow-core, builder’s grade door until he was silent. Only then did I let go of the handle and nudge the door open to find him asleep, with a tear-stained, flushed face, on the floor where I had left him. I closed the door, sat down in the hallway and sobbed, afraid I had broken my child. Whether this event would cease the tantrums, I was not sure. What I was sure of, though, was that my son might not ever feel I was safe place for his emotions again.

Not long after that miserable afternoon, someone suggested that perhaps Joe wasn’t an ill-behaved child but a highly sensitive one. His tantrums might be growing worse not because he was becoming more intractable but because he was becoming more fearful. Perhaps Joe needed to be held tightly, reassured he was being heard, and given an opportunity to calm down while feeling secure. Once we started helping him to better handle his wild emotions, the tantrums ceased. I became a different mother than the one I grew up with. I stopped yelling at my sons when they acted unfavorably and started talking to them about why their behavior was not the best. We regularly discussed how you can be a good person and have bad moments. My husband and I pointed out times when we had meant well but acted poorly, and we apologized for them because we wanted the boys to know all human beings struggle emotionally on occasion and make less than optimal choices. And while I’m sure I did a dozen other things horribly wrong as a parent, one thing I did right was making it a point to talk with our children, not at them. I’ve apologized to Joe about a dozen times for that sobering afternoon when my actions were more cruel than my heart. He tells me he doesn’t remember it and it’s okay. I’ve forgiven myself for doing what I thought at the time might be the right thing, but I still can’t speak (or write) about it without the tears flowing.

Yesterday, Joe Facetimed us out of the blue. He’s a college senior and had been invited to a school banquet where he unexpectedly received an award for excellence in student leadership. And you know what? As proud of him as I am for being a kind and open-hearted person who sets a good example, I’m more proud that he’s the kind of person whose first action after winning an award is reaching out to his parents so we can share it with him. I mean, how cool was that?

Maybe it’s time to let go of the memory of those fingers reaching out to me under the door because he knows that door has never been closed once since.

Posted on 07/05/2024 by Me 2

Live Now and Zen

Because even when it seems like a gag gift, the present is still a gift