What Dreams May Come

The dreams have been bizarre, and hyper-real, for months.

Almost always they're filled with people I don't know, in places I've never been.

Random sample:

I spent part of last night with Robin Williams. He was homeless and hungry, and I offered to buy him some food. We walked a crowded city street (I don't know what city or which street) until we found a block filled with restaurants.

People recognized him along the way, but kept their distance, maybe because he looked like a homeless person. Me, I just wanted to help him, and was glad to spend some time with him. In the way of dreams, it didn't seem odd that he was alive and walking with me, close enough to see the rough texture of his long canvas jacket. Oh, and the beard, which looked like the one he wore in "Good Will Hunting".

He wanted some Chinese food. We found a communal table, but not two seats together. I directed him to a chair opposite mine ("Why don't you sit there, Robbie," I said), and encouraged him to order whatever he wanted.

We sat and ate together for a while. Then, as dreams do, this one flowed on to something else I can't remember.

I had forgotten all about it until I stumbled across a tweet this morning:

"He offers me a faint smile. I am deeply grateful he is alive. It means a lot to me in this moment. Everything. As he walks away slowly I remember a year ago, when he came up and slapped me on the back gregariously, saying hello. "Survival doesn’t mean nothing died."

—Sayed Tabatabai, MD

***

Doctor Tabatabai's tweet was about COVID, and soul-deep fatigue, and moving forward by sheer momentum.

One minute I was marveling at his exquisitely skilled use of language, the next I was right back with Robin Williams. And I was grateful.

***

I don't know what any of this means, but I highly recommend the Twitter thread that brought it back to me.

Unconventional Outcomes

We need to stop thinking about the upcoming election in conventional terms.

We need to stop caring about how the debates will go, and what voters in swing states will do, and how awful Amy Barrett is.

Barrett's views are irrelevant. She's an illegitimate nominee participating in a corrupt process. The SCOTUS already has one illegitimate member in Neil Gorsuch; if this one is seated, the Supreme Court itself will be irreconcilably defiled and unworthy of regard.

And even *that* doesn't matter right now.

What does matter is what we'll do when there's no clear winner on Nov. 3, and Trump declares any result other than his victory to be invalid. When heavily armed militias take to the streets to support cops who will be suppressing mass protests. When the National Guard gets involved in major cities across the country and local governments break down.

If you think this scenario is implausible...well, I hope you're right.

In the meantime, we have a little more than a month to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

Rescue Dog Life

When I look into your eyes
It's like watching the night sky
Or a beautiful sunrise
There's so much they hold

And just like them old stars
I see that you've come so far
To be right where you are
How old is your soul?

Well, I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up

I Won't Give Up—Jason Mraz

***

Four a.m. is now canine o'clock at our house.

This wasn't always the case.

Before Lucca and Kate left us a few months ago, we all typically slept straight through 'til dawn (and as long as we could after that). But losing them taught us a few things:

1. We're not a one-dog family

2. There are a LOT of dogs out there who need a good home

3. Sleep is overrated

Sophie joined the family a couple weeks ago—because Melissa fell in love online with a big ol' nine-year old Great Pyrenees no one seemed to want. 

Sophie's file told us little, other than she'd been surrendered by two families, the last of which had her on anti-anxiety meds. Because she "wanted to go outside all the time, and would try to dig under the fence." If you can imagine such a thing.

Her last foster dad, bless him, knew Sophie was just doing what Great Pyrenees are supposed to do—patrol the perimeter and guard the flock. He immediately took her off the meds, and established a routine that allowed her to do her job and *be* a Great Pyrenees.

In short, we couldn't see any reason why this good girl was bounced around so much—and we promised her this would be the last time. She's home. 

***

In the handful of days she's been here Sophie has slowly, steadily allowed us to weave our lives together. By the day, and sometimes by the hour, she shows us a little more of who she is beneath all that fur. 

We expect this process to go on, uh, forever. She's a thinker, this one, and she has opinions about things. We'll be heading one direction on a walk, for example, and she'll spontaneously decide it's time to head somewhere else. If we insist our direction is better, she'll sit down like a mule. If we're adamant, she'll proceed to lie down. At that point, we talk it over for a while and most often agree she was right all along.

She teaches. We learn.

***

Kate and Lucca never wanted more than to spend time with all of us, together. Sophie, on the other hand, likes her personal space and her quiet time away from the everyday din.

Our girl doesn't have much use for clocks. Or long-established circadian rhythms. She doesn't differentiate between daylight and nightlight.

Four a.m., she has declared, is dawn-patrol time. So, out we go. 

It's not obvious to us yet, but we're sure one day she'll reveal the evolutionary benefit of this ancient ritual. In the meantime, though...

 

...we've adopted a 13-week old puppy.

Her name is Twyla.

She has opinions about things, too. Already.

***

And when you're needing your space
To do some navigating
I'll be here patiently waiting
To see what you find

'Cause even the stars, they burn
Some even fall to the earth
We've got a lot to learn
And God knows we're worth it

No, I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up

I Won't Give Up

Ice Boxing

"I've just picked up a fault in the AE-35 unit. It's going to go 100% failure within 72 hours." 

—HAL 9000

***

We're having problems with our refrigerator.

Disclaimer: it's a very expensive Liebherr appliance that we did not and would not ever buy, given we'd be just as happy (happier, maybe!) with a dumb ol' Kenmore. But here we are.

The Liebherr came with the house, and it looks cool (ha), so there was no point replacing it. Even now, as it's having a string of nervous breakdowns, all we want is to repair the thing ourselves so we can get back to stressing out about {gestures at EVERYTHING ELSE}.

Liebherr is a German company that manufactures high-end kitchen appliances (among many other, even more expensive items). So you might think they'd have a proportionate regard for customer service. 

And MAYBE they do in Ehingen, Germany, EU, but in Seattle, WA, USA, Liebherr parts and service is not a thing that exists in this messed-up timeline.

Sidebar: turns out if your Liebherr door gaskets are old and worn out, the rest of the fridge starts to behave like a kitchen version of the HAL-9000. 

Water, for example, condenses in the produce drawers—which is antithetical to their mission of keeping fruits and veggies fresh. 

Simultaneously, water collects *beneath* the drawers until critical mass is reached, at which time it flows downhill through invisible cracks and crevices to pool on our hardwood floors. Another thing water condensation does: IT FREEZES ON INTERNAL PANELS, DOING WEIRD THINGS TO FOOD WE DIDN'T WANT FROZEN.

Sorry for the yelling.

"Look Dave, I can see you're really upset about this. I honestly think you ought to sit down calmly, take a stress pill, and think things over." —Liebherr 9000

Administrative note: a long, ongoing google search for a SIMPLE ITEM has become increasingly frenetic. When it began, this exercise was merely frustrating—now, it's a quest. We will have new door gaskets. Oh my, yes. Yes, we will. No matter how many times Chrome must autofill the same list of search phrases, we WILL HAVE OUR GASKETS BECAUSE FUCK YOU 2020.

Again, apologies.

In the meantime, and rather embarrassingly, we're using *duct tape* to hold the current door seals together. We're doing so wild-eyed and cackling madly, to be sure...but we're doing it.

This journey of a thousand bandaids began with plain gray duct tape, because it complemented the color of the door gaskets. This solution would last from a week to a month depending on, IDK, the phases of the moon? After a few rounds of this, we've switched to Duck Brand decorative tape.*

That's right, we're accessorizing our fridge like it's a pair of black jeans—we can dress it up, we can dress it down. So far we've tried the fox & hedgehog pattern, the día de los muertos design, and the pride rainbow pattern. While we await the impressionist and cubist collection, we're considering the Van Gogh starry night option.

Is this problem, you may be thinking, really worth the time and the word count spent bemoaning it? It is not. Is it cheaper than the therapy I so clearly need? Yes, it certainly is.

Breaking update: Yesterday I received a voicemail from a refrigerator repair company in Portland, OR, USA sharing the secret number *they* call for Liebherr parts. It’s the first glimmer of hope in a virtual journey that has taken us from Seattle to Houston to Miami to New York City to my new good friend Kenneth Watt at UK Whitegoods in Kilmarnock, Scotland, UK.

UK Whitegoods, it should be noted, is "...probably the largest and best domestic appliance resource in the world." That's according to their web site, so it must be #factuallyaccurate.

It's also #factuallyaccurate that Kenneth Watt, while very responsive and cordial via email, was otherwise #nohelpwhatsoever.

But the phone number! From the guy in Portland! 

...is now in my possession. I haven't called it yet. One, I wanted to savor it for a bit. Two, I can't believe I have to call an actual phone number like I’m a Neanderthal or something. Three, I'm completely convinced it's another dead end, and I don't know how much more disappointment I can take.

Meanwhile, Liebherr 9000 seems to be aware of this latest development:

"I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you."

Oh, we're way past that, L-9K. Way past it.

{singing quietly} "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I'm half crazy, all for the love of you..."

#feelingmuchbetternow

***

(*Not an endorsement, more a cry for help)

Chick Life

We're building a new chicken coop.

(These are not words I ever imagined I'd type, but here we are.)

We already have two coops, one a fully built thing that we simply had delivered to our door one day, about a thousand years ago. The other, a prefab kit we assembled in an afternoon. Together, the accommodations were entirely adequate for our little flock, or so I thought.

Turns out, I was mistaken.

The new coop is neither kit nor kaboodle...it's an avian palace in progress.

I've lost count of the pressure-treated 4x4s we're using, not to mention the plywood and hardie board and cedar and deck screws. We've deployed a circular saw, a jig saw, a chop saw (borrowed), a power drill, and an electric screwdriver. For her five-year work anniversary gift, my wife selected a reciprocating saw that arrived a couple days ago. So far we haven't found a reason to bust that out, but its moment will come. 

The coop's main door and window are recovered materials from Ballard Reuse, a "salvaged building materials super store." Also to be installed is a new, solar-powered automatic door opener from a company in the UK. If this seems to you an extravagant geegaw that will never work in the real world, you are not alone. But I'm saying nothing over here, and I suggest you do the same.

The project is moving along, not at a glacial pace, but not quickly, either. I actually have some construction experience, from long-ago summers as an apprentice carpenter. I remember some of those trade-tricks, but have had to relearn many more.

My wife's architectural plan, while simple and ingenious, still leaves some things to the imagination. This leads to the occasional do-over and re-imagining. Don't get me wrong, her plan is not something I could've come up with, ever. I have nothing but admiration for its audacity and originality. Do I enjoy doing things over again? I do not. Could I have done better? Nope.

The fact is, we work well together. So far, we have been patient with the process and the progress. We celebrate our little successes, and don't dwell on the little failures. And, importantly, we haven't lopped off any fingers or toes. Yet.

It's good that we started this project in the summer, and important that we finish it before the rains come. I'm not confident our patience would survive first contact with cold, wet weekend work. 

Prediction: we'll finish before then.

In the meantime, the hens are enjoying our company in their realm out back. To their credit, they've never once complained or even hinted that their current accommodations are anything but delightful.

They may be the smart ones in our collective flock.

After The Before Times

Like most people, we had plans.

Prior to March, 2020, my wife and I schemed furiously and nefariously about moving to the Big Island and starting a farm.

Nothing too ambitious—five or ten acres planted with whatever we felt like growing in the island's near-perfect conditions. 

There would be a couple dozen chickens, surely, and some goats. A few bee hives, a handful of rescue dogs and barn cats and maybe a pig.

And the views. Always the views. Across the water to Maui, mauka to Mauna Kea. Sunsets that would make us stop whatever we were doing and just...watch. And listen. And maybe remember what it was like, a long time ago, when "getting out of our own heads" was a steady state rather than a wistful, fleeting goal.

As a side-hustle, I thought about starting up a little running company. Again, nothing too elaborate. Maybe three or four gatherings a year, in a place that quietly beckons you to come outside and be warm and move through tropical air at an enjoyable pace.

Mostly, though, our life would sway to the daily rhythm of the farm. Chatting with the chickens while collecting eggs. Harvesting fruit and veggies for the farmers market. Fretting over the health of the bees. Posting silly goat videos, running up and down hills with the dogs, marveling at what intelligent creatures pigs are.

In addition to the day's chores there would be projects. A greenhouse to set up, perhaps, or a new coop to build, or the scratchy clearing of non-native plants to make way for honeybee-friendly seedlings. There would be seasonal life to celebrate, inevitable deaths to mourn, followed by new creatures to welcome into our hearts. And so it would go.

Like most people, our plans went askew. March, 2020.

We didn't expect the journey from here to Hawi to be a straight line...we just didn't expect the line to be so volatile and aberrant and fraught. Like an injured bird willing itself up on one good wing, then hitting the ground in panicked confusion.

We still have plans, of course. They vary with the day, rising, falling, changing direction, pausing to get their bearings before trying again. 

As always, there's much to do in the here and now. Hens to cajole, bees to wrangle, cats and dogs to referee, and on and on.

We're grateful for what we have, and grieve for what's been lost. We're stolid about today, and anxious about tomorrow.

We wait for a reprieve from the insane, the impetuous, the inexplicable.

And in rare, quiet moments (quite often on a run), we stop what we're doing and think about the views.

Inputs and Outcomes

It’s hard to imagine a worse outcome for the Aurora (CO) Police Department than Saturday’s mauling of violin-playing protesters.

Short of killing a few of the audience, one supposes.

You’d think Aurora PD might’ve learned over the past few weeks that well-documented, unwarranted, overreactive police violence is ultimately self-defeating. It tends to mobilize larger and more frequent protests, increasing the likelihood of future violence.

You’d think that before they deployed in combat mode on Saturday that leadership might’ve reminded them, “These folks are protesting the death of a Black kid who played the violin for shelter cats. Don’t give anyone reason to believe we’re thugs looking for a fight. It’ll make us all look bad.”

Violinist Jeff Hughes
Photo by Kevin J. Beaty/Denverite

Apparently, no one said anything like that.

It’s almost as if the police are unaware their continued existence as a community resource is under scrutiny and in question. That reasonable people are increasingly uncomfortable paying for unaccountable law enforcement. That there’s serious talk about cutting funding and defining down the mission of police nationwide—especially in communities where “peace officer” is too often a contradiction.

What happened in Aurora rains dishonor on the mission of policing. It disdains, rather than serves, the community.

Surely, things could've ended differently. If police (not in riot gear) and local officials had chosen to peacefully interact with protesters, spoken in good faith with them, and listened compassionately to the responses, the day could have ended with hope.

Instead, Aurora PD proved the protesters' premise—that violent escalation (especially against BIPOC people) is routinely the first and favored option.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” ―Fred Rogers

Our children are watching. And they’re learning that those helpers are not the police.

#justiceforelijahmcclain

#blacklivesmatter

#defunddemilitarizedismantle

What Day Is It

At the office where the papers grow

She takes a break

Drinks another coffee

And she finds it hard to stay awake

It's just another day

It's just another day

It's just another day

~Paul McCartney

***

The thing I notice most is the quiet.

Each morning we wake up to the low calls of the hens below our window. We grouse a bit at the early hour, but then roll out to start the day. Because the creatures don't like to be kept waiting.

At the stairs, my wife heads down to take care of the girls, and I head up to take care of the dogs. They're always there waiting, looking down at me, our golden retriever Kate banging her tail against the wall. It's walk time.

Out we go, rain or shine, toward the bluff near our house. A few weeks ago the road was full of cars, most going too fast, heading off to wherever people went before the quiet fell.

Now? Barely any cars at all. The few that do pass go by much slower. It's one change that's been welcome.

These days, most mornings, the sidewalks and roads are taken over by the walkers and runners and cyclists. They go out of their way to keep their social distance, but universally they look up to share a nod or a smile or a quiet "good morning." That didn't used to be the case.

The dogs and I make our way past still-waking houses on one side, calm waters of the bay on the other. The ship traffic has dwindled to a fraction of what it was not long ago, so now we can hear the barking of the sea lions, the variety of the raven calls, even the wind whispering through the feathers of an eagle gliding low just past the edge of the drop off. This new urban audile is achingly close to rural, and I wish it could stay this way.

Occasionally a runner we know will stop a few feet away for a brief, wistful conversation. "Good morning."

"Good morning. So good to see you."

"Good to see you, too. It's been too long. How are you holding up?"

"We're doing fine. We'd be foolish to think otherwise. How about you?"

"The same. We found out yesterday that we'll be working from home through June, at least."

"Good for you. It's nice to have that option."

"It is. I'm so grateful."

"Good to see you getting your miles in."

"Yeah. Definitely looking forward to being able to run together one of these days."

"One of these days."

"All right, I'm gonna get going, here, before I get chilled."

"Yes, don't do that."

"Wish I could give you a hug."

"Me too. One of these days."

"One of these days."

We go our separate ways, and the dogs and I turn to head for home.

They dance, impatiently, as I fetch their breakfast. Once their bowls are down, I head to the hall closet, where we keep a big bag of peanuts. I look out the window by the front door and, as usual, three ravens are waiting. Today they're joined by two Steller's jays and a squirrel.

"Good morning, birds," I say as I walk to one particular spot on the driveway. The ravens caw and the jays whistle as I put down one handful of peanuts, then another. I turn to see them arrayed on the ground around me, almost close enough to touch, as impatient as the dogs.

"Bon appetite, friends. Bon appetite," I say over my shoulder as I go back the way I came. Kicking the pine needles off my shoes, I open the door, glancing up in time to see the ravens fly off with as many nuts in their beak as they can manage.

I close the door behind me.

Time to get the coffee going.

Something we have to do

I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
But it's all right, it's all right
For we've lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road 

We're traveling on
I wonder what's gone wrong
I can't help but wonder what's gone wrong

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly
And I dreamed I was flying
High up above my eyes could clearly see
The Statue of Liberty
Sailing away to sea

Paul Simon—American Tune
***
I remember walking into the office on Nov. 9, 2016. The first person I saw was barely holding it together in her cube, so I stopped to say something encouraging.

And...I couldn't think of a thing worth saying.

So we we just hugged, and she started sobbing. I felt like doing the same.

In those few seconds, I had a moment of lucidity. "The world is going to need a lot of brave people now. You can do that. We can do that."

After a while longer we both took a deep breath and went about our day.
***
Three and a half years later, there have been too many days like that. Too many instances of contempt and disbelief and disgust. And that was before the start of the pandemic now immolating most of the world.

Globally (but most egregiously in the US), the disease has been like a wildfire that's zero percent contained because the firefighters can't see the flames. Why "most egregiously"? Because the person who's nominally in charge of the US response spews gasoline everywhere, every day.

***

The sense of loss is pervasive. Some are small and inconsequential. Others are overwhelming and permanent. But they're all valid, and cumulative, and exhausting.

It's taken a toll on some of the strongest people I know. I hear from friends and acquaintances that it's now normal to sob and then laugh out loud in the space of a couple minutes. To shake from despair and then low-key rage.

Some people will be at their best during the next few weeks, as the crisis builds to a peak. Many will be at their worst. Every day will present new opportunities for us to decide which we'll be.

It's going to be intense and difficult. All of us will be stressed in ways we can't predict and would not have imagined. People we know will lose their livelihood. People we know (or know of) will lose their lives.

We owe it to them, and to each other, to do the best we can in the moment. To help when we're able, and to keep moving forward.

Take a deep breath, friend. This is just...something we have to do now.

COVID Operations

Heading home.

Classes at countless colleges and universities are now (and for the foreseeable future) online-only. Social distancing has become an existential posture that will endure for weeks, if not longer.

With that as our new reality, this weekend I flew from Seattle to San Diego to move our daughter back home.

There were lots of sick people at both airports, and on both flights. And while there were many people clearly keeping up with current events—and taking overt precautions—there were way too many others who either didn’t know how or didn’t care.

There were a lot of masks and gloves and hand-sanitizers and social-distancers. There was also a lot of wide-open coughing and sneezing in areas crowded with travelers. That part was exasperating and worrisome. It supported the predictions that this pandemic is going to get much worse before it gets better.

Our governor, mayor, and county government are escalating shutdowns of nonessential gatherings, making it easier for the uninformed and the indifferent to do the right thing. Even so, this isn’t going to blow over in a week or two.

Until it does, we’ll be over here hunkering down.

Lessons relearned

Had it gone according to plan, last weekend would've been pretty fun.

Unfortunately the plan went off the rails pretty early.

***

Backstory: Every January since 2014 we've headed to Orcas Island, WA, for the Orcas 25k.

We rent a house with friends, share some good food and wine Friday evening, race on Saturday, and return home Sunday.

And while the order of those events is always similar, it's the dissimilarities that make the weekend something to look forward to every year.

This year's Friday was unique in that it included a distraught voicemail from my dad, who said he'd gotten a phone call from our son. Son had called from a Seattle jail, said my dad, and needed $3,000 for bail. He recounted a lot more detail, but to sum up: the call was a scam. Our son was not in Seattle, nor in jail, nor in need of $3,000.

Nevertheless, my octogenarian dad was very upset, which in turn upset me.

Thankfully, the ferry ride from Anacortes to Orcas is reliably beautiful and calming and centering. By the time we reached Orcas, I felt back to equilibrium. That lasted about three hours, which is when the texts started coming in.

Long story short, the next-door neighbors' dog dug under the fence between our back yards and proceeded to slaughter three of our chickens.

The carnage was discovered by a friend (and her two children) who were looking after the flock for the weekend.

For what seemed like hours (it wasn't) we received status updates on which hens were gone, which were still alive, and steps being taken to secure them for the night.

At that point, if I'm honest, my impulse was to go home. It felt like we could've averted the situation had we been there (possibly) and that we should be there to prevent new bad things from happening (absurd).

We stayed. But I'd be lying if I said I felt good about it.

***

There was work to be done when we got home Sunday afternoon. There was a burial to attend to, fraught conversations to be had with our neighbors, and two stressed and wary hens to becalm. 

There was also the matter of reconciling our own emotions—work that still waits, dispassionately, in the background.

***

Chickens are social creatures, thriving as part of a complex group of three or more individuals. We're now down to two: Scarlett and Matilda.

To remedy this, my wife has already ordered 8 more (very young, very tiny) chicks to be delivered to our door late next week. It'll be many weeks more before they're ready to join the big girls. 

Ahead of their arrival, we spent hours out back digging a trench along the fence separating our yard from our neighbors'. We attached heavy wire mesh to the fence and buried the bottom a foot underground. It was hard work, but it should help deter future attacks.

***
We're not angry at our neighbors, or their dog (Presley). He's a rescue, and has been endlessly patient with our three dogs whenever we've met on walks.

What's strange is that Presley and the hens have been out back together—albeit on opposite sides of the fence—countless times over the past year and a half. He never showed a even hint of aggression toward them. 

Until he did.

Lessons (re)learned:

• Living creatures are unpredictable
• Never count on things going according to plan
• Work will be required

Cycle of Farm LIfe

I'm going to be a terrible farmer.

Agnes, Meryl, and Petunia,
in whatever order you like.

I mean, I'm prepared to get up early and feed the goats and clean the coops and harvest the honey and fix the fences and irrigate the plants and solve the problems and smile at the farmers markets and go to bed early and start over again the next day.

But I'm not prepared for our animals to die.

I know this because here on our little urban farm we've lost several chickens to various causes, and I've cried over each and every one of them. Because they had names and personalities and a place in our hearts and I'm powerless not to mourn when they go.
***
Backstory: my wife and I are planning a move to the Big Island. We're going to buy several acres and raise goats and honey bees and chickens and whatever else makes sense as we get a handle on the craziness.

We're planning to build a hale'a (barn) to host farm-to-table events, with views to the water and sunsets and the Maui coast. It's going to be idyllic and backbreaking and nonstop and it will undoubtedly make us wonder what the hell we were thinking and how we could be so stupid.

Which is all fine, because we're willing to learn the answers to those questions and others we aren't yet smart enough to formulate.

But standing here today I know without reservation we're not ready for the hard stuff.
***
We lost Agnes last night, to a virus known as Marek's disease. It's one of the most common diseases in small flocks, and there's no treatment for it once a bird is symptomatic.

Agnes was my favorite, and I told her so before she went. She was the smallest of our first three chicks, but she grew up to have the biggest personality. She would follow us around the yard, carrying on a happy conversation, scratching for bugs, investigating the daily nuances of her realm. 

She had a look in her eye, and her demeanor, that bespoke intelligence, and I fully expected to be discussing the issues of the day with her for a long time. 
***
It's possible that we'll gradually get used to losing animals, that we'll feel this pain less often, less deeply. That we'll develop, I don't know, a professional detachment that insulates us from the loss of these fragile lives we surround ourselves with.

I hope not.

Because while grief can be heavy and lingering, indifference would be far, far worse.
***
There's a mini-forest at the back of our lot, a glade of oak, maple, apple, holly, and evergreen trees. Today, after days of wind, rain, and snow, we got a break. Rays of actual sunshine filtered through the canopy, lighting up the spaces between branches and holly leaves and pine needles.

Agnes is there now, beneath one of the bright spots between two evergreens.

And yeah, I cried again.

I Have Additional Thoughts...

In the blink of an eye, the end of the year—and the end of the decade—is upon us.

These milestones quietly reverberate through our house; imperceptible, constant tectonics building toward events we can't predict. A cursory review of 2019 (instagram.com/mcm_pnw/) reminds us how jolting those changes can be.

We lost people this year. Scrolling through their photos proves there's no expiration date on hurt powerful enough to bring tears months later.

There were highs as well, most often defined by the life-affirming things we got out and got done. A 25k race in January, an insane seven-week training block in March and April leading to a 100k gut-punch in May.

After that, and by design, the outdoor activities became easier, more restorative. They coincided with children leaving home on journeys of their own, redefining our family in ways we may never fully find the edges of.

It's quieter now. There's more breathing room for music while I make dinner; for a few pages of a book in the evening; for writing instead of watching a screen.

There's no logic to wanting any year to end, any more than there is to believing the next one will be better. As always, time unspools and events transpire, unmoved by our need to put them in boxes.

The temptation of change

"There is no statute of limitations on starting over. Re-invent yourself every day. Be the girl who walks barefoot and listens to the blues. Tomorrow, wear a trench coat and speak fierce truths. Be a phoenix. Be ashes. Burn down. Resurrect. Let go of the idea that you must always be who you have always been."

~anon.

Can I keep up with this girl? Unlikely.
But I'm willing to try. 

***********
I was texting back and forth with our daughter recently, talking about her workouts as part of an elite college cheer squad.

On that day the team was doing trap bar deadlifts, she said, building legs and overall body strength. 

I said dad things, like "Mind your form" and "Don't get hurt." She said athlete-in-training things, like "I did 205 lb. today!" and "It's strong girl season."
***********
Seemingly non sequitur segue: today was Western States 100 lottery day, and I...

...didn't get in.

I wasn't reeeeallly expecting to (because math), but for the first time in my WS lottery journey, I'm actually disappointed.

What better way to channel that disappointment than to come up with ANOTHER PLAN??

After due consideration and diligence (all 20 minutes-worth) plan B is the Cascade Crest 100-miler, in August 2020. Caveat: this is a lottery event as well, so there may be a plan C in the not-too distant future. BUT FOR NOW...

...it's Cascade Crest or bust.

Liner notes: the start line for Cascade Crest is about an hour and a half from our house. It dishes up 23,000 feet of climbing and (getting way ahead of myself here) would be my qualifier for Western States 2021.

If I don't hit THAT lottery (totally possible), plan C would be Mountain Lakes 100 in September.

Fun note: Mountain Lakes IS ALSO A LOTTERY!

Will I be cranky if plans A through C fall apart? Yes, yes I will.

But if necessary, I WILL HAVE A PLAN D. At some point.
***********
Personal note: getting this fired up about doing something I've never done, something likely to crush me physically and emotionally for months afterward is, uh, not typical.

But, as noted previously, my window for this kind of adventure is not getting any wider. I'll be, like, a hundred years old in 2020. Research shows very few centenarians successfully take on a 100-mile race.

With that in mind—if not now, when?
***********
Pursuant to the elegant quote at the top and to tie this all together: we don't have to be the person we've always been. We can be resilient and reinvent ourselves and do trap bar deadlifts if we want to. If we're feeling especially obstinate, we can sign up for a hundred-miler.

I endorse all of this because, to quote a very smart young woman, it's strong girl season.

It's always strong girl season.
***********
"You never step in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and you're not the same person."
~Heraclitus (more or less)

Short Thoughts Too Long to Tweet

Writing-wise, my brain is so full, it's empty.

The past few weeks have been an unbroken stretch of anticipation, change, setbacks, and stress—all BEFORE the holidays even begin.

#InNoParticularOrder

So, my wife didn't get the West Coast-based gig she wanted (and deserves) with her current company. This is problematic on several fronts—not the least of which is the real prospect our ballyhoo'd move to the Big Island will be indefinitely delayed. #boohooballyhoo

It also means company-paid trips to San Diego (and side-visits with our college-attending daughter) won't happen. It further means the missus will likely have to continue business travel to the East Coast, DESPITE THE FACT THAT WE LIVE IN SEATTLE. #corporatelogic

Our son, meanwhile, has moved to Ellensburg, WA, to attend Central Washington University. This transition was not without its own stressors. The to-do list literally went on for days: find an apartment, secure renter's insurance, reserve a U-Haul, pick up U-Haul, load U-Haul with enough furniture to sustain a college student for at least a couple years, move said furniture (INCLUDING A WAY TOO-HEAVY LEATHER COUCH) up two flights of apartment stairs, drive U-Haul back to Seattle on I-90 in pouring rain and often heavy traffic.*

(*Ed. Note: U-Hauls are stress on wheels. The last time we rented one, I bumped it into the corner of a building, causing a $1,000 worth of damage to building and vehicle. I find this stressful, if you can imagine such a thing.) #bumpedabuilding

Our golden-years golden retriever, Kate, is unwell. Her ears are a swamp of infection, inflammation, and ulceration. In a concurrence of cross-contamination, one of her back paws has also become a hot mess. No matter how many meds we throw at these problems, they stubbornly refuse to improve. Kate is relentlessly stoic; we are incessantly worried. #backtothevet

Stress dreams are a regular thing now. Last night, for example, I dreamed I was being led to execution (though I was unaware of committing any capital crime). I tried to call my wife to let her know what was happening, but the phone in my hand was an old Windows-based device that I'd forgotten how to use. #generallyWTF

In an effort to balance the effects of these (and other) life events, I've altered/increased my exercise routine. After a 10-year hiatus, I've resumed strength training. I quit the weight room after surgeries on my ACL and my neck, and never felt the need to go back, because... #thread

The subsequent exercise obsession, running, has been so much better for my body and my little brain. The ultra running part, tho, is hard. If I want to keep that up (and I do), it's obvious that cross-training will be required... #ultrarunningishard #vertisreal

On the upside, there's been noticeable improvement on the climbs. On the downside, my body is tired and sore in ways it hasn't been in a long time. #weightliftingprobs

Today, tho, is good. Our daughter is home from school, and she just kicked my butt putting me through one of her weight room workouts. It included things I'm either not comfortable with (hi, weighted lunges!), rarely do (kettle bell and other plyometrics), or never do (core, core, and more core). #gonnafeelthatlater

Now she's making chocolate chip cookies, and my job is chief cookie dough taster. Turns out, I'm pretty good at it. #runningfuel #gottarun

A study in contrasts: Baker Lake 50k

"Ha ha, the joke's on you!"

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

~ Charles Dickens, clearly writing about ultra running

***********

Halfway through the race, the Baker Lake 50K was shaping up to be one of my best 50Ks ever. 

Until it wasn't.

***********

I'd heard mixed reviews about this event, ranging from faint praise to "Pacific Northwest classic!" [Spoiler alert: it is excellent.]

The trails around Baker Lake are a celebration of PNW terrain—rolling, runnable, occasionally technical, and ferally fun. The views are nonstop—mountain, river, lake, and fall colors laced with cobwebby clouds.

It was the perfect stage for a day of tomfoolery on the trails—running with a good friend, jabbering endlessly about life and work and politics and the future. The first 15+ miles flowed by like, "Hey, feel free to do this all day if you want."

Hahaha! Those miles lied. 

The NEXT 15+ miles quickly and unexpectedly turned petulant, like a two year old up way past his bedtime. My stomach, ingrate that it is, abruptly scorned my efforts to keep it happy. Even the ritual chewing of the S-Caps was met with disdain. This behavior continued through the rest of the race, just because. 

In the meantime, I rammed my knee into a fallen tree. This can happen during a trail run, and honestly I didn't mind picking the sharp little tree-shard out of my flesh. But the immediate swelling and stiffness? That was uncalled-for.

"Why do you run through
these woods? Nothing good
will come of it!"

I'd be fibbing if I said these little setbacks weren't beclouding my sunny demeanor. By mile 27 I was not having the best of times. On a day that was as near-perfect as October PNW running can be, this was a shame and a travesty. Inexcusable, really. And yet, there I was, shambling about like a bridge troll, just wanting to be done.

Tsk. Pitiful.

***********

Full disclosure: it wasn't all bad. I encouraged other runners who were having struggles of their own. I shared some naproxen with a woman whose hips were giving her fits. I stopped to take photos of some amazing scenery and picked up litter when I saw it. It helped.

The miles, still stubborn, eventually gave way, and soon I was crossing the Upper Baker Dam, less than a mile from the finish.

And while I had hoped to roll in under six hours, my finish, race-wise, wasn't as disappointing as I convinced myself it would be.

***********

"And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire."

~ Dickens, again on running, probably

***********

Baker Lake 50k

6:08:21

56/140 (overall)

4/16 (M 50-59)

Shoes:
Hoka Speedgoat 3

Song stuck in my head part of the time: 
"We got the beat" ~ The Go-Go's