One Less of Us

Although I was hoping for it to happen all week, it sort of happened organically.

“Ow!” I heard Evaline say through the wall, which made me stop typing.

She came into my office.

“I stepped on a tack. Do you still have that cup of thumbtacks?”

I pointed to my closet.

“I need scissors,” she said.

“Not the lefties,” I said. And that’s what prompted me to get up.

“Here,” I said.

“Which shoes do you think I should bring?” she asked.

And, since I don’t have her shoes memorized, that’s how it started. That’s what brought us into her room. Together.

There were piles of stuff on the floor and the bed, a chaotic organization; Post-it notes (yellow, pink, and blue ones) affixed to her belongings signifying some sort of hierarchy. The shoes were in neat little rows in front of her cosplay shelf.

“Man, you got some good shoes,” I said.

“I know, right?”

We managed to cut out some of the least-worn pairs, but that left quite a few in the “definitely taking” pile, including the C-3PO flats and the 8-inch platform boots she wore as Jack Skellington from Nightmare Before Christmas. All told, she had 6 pairs of shoes, not including her go-to Vans, Docs, and Berks downstairs.

“Do you see my problem?”

And then I did what parents do, what big people do for little people without even thinking about it, what comes naturally when you see a child in need: I problem-solved.

“We’ll get you a shoe rack, I said. “If you go vertically, your shoes won’t be all over the place. you’ll have more floor space, and your roommate won’t want to kill you. We can pick it up in we’ll get it New Haven, so you don’t have to pack it.”

(I’m almost certain my mom said this to me at one point in my life.)

“You don’t think it’s weird to bring so many shoes?”

“Some people have a lot of shoes.”

By this time, I was curled up on her bed, leaning on my elbow, taking in all the pictures, artwork, costumes, pieces of stagecraft, signed circus posters, medals, internship lanyards, and hand-scrawled signs that chronicled her years of life. Many of the artifacts were projects I had a hand in, but there were plenty of things she did all by herself. Anyone who ever touched this girl was in here.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, knowing it was a lame thing to say.

“Yeah.” And she paused a second to look around. “I took one of the hot glue guns.”

“Good,” I said. “You should.”

“Do we have masking tape?”

“In my tool bag. I’ll grab it for you.”

She already had 3 large IKEA bags piled high in the hall by the stairs, a box of postcards and drawings from friends, a hat box with 3 juggling hats, and a massive foam-core screen-printed poster that says “Stand Out,” which she planned to cut into quarters to fit it into one of those bags.

Moving Bags are sad, but it’d be worse if they weren’t there.

Kids are meant to outgrow their home, just like they outgrow their clothes.

And, though I have a tightness in my chest, which has been there for 2 weeks now, I love those bags and everything in them, and that row of ridiculous shoes, and that beautiful fucking sign which is going to be so hard to take on the plane.

And I love that girl. With my whole heart, not just a piece of it.

Which is why it hurts so much to let her go.

What We Seek

Don’t search division, hate, and conflict. We have enough of that.

Search joy. Search neighborliness. Search surprise. Search kindness. Search beauty in small things. Search healing. Search brighter days. Search love.

Because what we seek — that is to say, what we like, follow, and subscribe to — is being recorded and tallied.

Yes.

Our tiny, hidden actions while lying on the couch, sitting in the parking lot, or waiting for the pot to boil, they matter. When clumped together and translated into a broadcast, they matter. A million tiny whispers become a roar.

And it’s not just the algorithms keeping score.

Our hungry little brains take it all in, add it all up, and multiply.

It’s hard to believe the impact our thumbs are having.

On the world.

And us.

Let’s make sure we’re sending the right message.

Beautiful Science

Red blood cells

What if Love was actually Science…

…Our minds subconsciously and frenetically working to line up our own idiosyncracies and aspirations with those of another, resulting in an explosive neuro-chemical overload, caffeinated synapses, an emergency signal to the body to break the damn glass and act.

And so we swoon and glow and expand, our limbs grossly imprecise and impulsive, mortars going off, dust flying, blood vessels burning up like fuses, when in actuality it’s a tedious calculation that’s leading the way. We move, clunky like marionettes, at the mercy of these evolved equations we don’t understand and so, at times, fear.

So much dictated by these moments, dreams co-architected, futures decided — a million electrical pulses creating one overwhelming sensation that unfolds in an instant, carrying so much with it, like a hand-sewn picnic blanket full of dishes, clanking in a heap until it effortlessly lays just the right amount of place settings.

When Science wows us the most, it might as well be magic.

And when it reaches us at the same time, when it connects us in a way we can’t explain…

It has to be love.

Good Neighbors

I was just about to sit down and look up the latest political nightmare when I got the text I’d been waiting for.

“Okay. We’re back.”

I threw on my shoes and ran down my steps. As I hit the sidewalk and saw their dusty car sticking halfway out of the garage like some prehistoric creature, I put some urgency into my gait.

P was sitting sideways in the backseat in pajama bottoms, a cat shirt, and a cardigan. His adult daughter stood by the car with his cane. She’s the one who texted me.

“Okay. How can I help?”

We had 3 flights of stairs ahead and an inclined walkway between us and the kitchen, which already had a chair waiting inside the doorway. But first, we had to get him out of the car.

P just had heart surgery. He was a big guy.

If you’ve ever tried to get someone out of a backseat, you know that it’s not really possible without getting pretty up-close-and-personal. I’ve hugged P at parties but never wedged my hands deep into his armpits and put my neck over his shoulder. His armpits were warm and damp; his sweater scratchy on my chin.

We got him up and stood with him while he caught his breath, me with my hands still in the warmth of his armpits. My thoughts raced about what to do if his knees buckled, but anxiety subsided with the appearance of 4 neighbors walking toward us shoulder to shoulder.

“The calvary’s arrived!”

One was an MD, one was her wife, one had the most perfect patch of lawn on the block, and one was a hippie artist known for his adorable dog who he walked around the block seemingly 5 or 6 times a day.

B appeared with a folding chair, out came the walker, another cane. The 4 of us gathered around the big guy. We had backups upon backups, hands on shoulders, hands on hips, there were hands on my hands. We weren’t going to let him fall.

One step, several deep breaths, next step. More breaths. Folding chair at the landings. Questions about the hospital stay, someone pointing out the cat in the window, questions about my daughter, comments on the weather, someone put in an air conditioner. Wow, that’s crazy, we just use a fan. Us too. Have you guys tried that new Middle Eastern place?

Finally, that last step, then up the path. 3 more steps, into the kitchen.

Yes.

P sat in his chair — it was actually his chair, the one closest to the window, as noted by his daughter, noticeably relieved standing by the fridge watching her dad heave in and out.

“You made it,” said his wife, on crutches herself. “You’re home.”

He dropped his head ever so slightly and, as if cued by this motion, his wife looked up at us with the sincerest of looks, the kind of look that says I was just in a hospital for 2 weeks and I’ve been reminded about what’s really important. The kind of look that stops you, that holds you.

“We are so grateful for all of you.” She looked at each one of us, fanned out in the doorway, eyes to eyes, her gaze not at all rushed. “Thank you.”

And then I realized my hand was still on P’s shoulder as he sat there, the corners of his eyes were wet.

“Means the world,” he said without looking up, his voice shaking.

This family was royalty, the second oldest family on the block, 31 years in the neighborhood. That would make me about 19 years old and in college when they signed the lease and put up the slide in the backyard for their only daughter.

V told me how the reason she knew this was the right neighborhood was because of the cats. “The cats were so trusting,” she said. “I knew it was a kind neighborhood.”

And I thought about my neighbors, not just the ones around me but the ones I had wine with the night before and the other ones who asked me where I bought my pressure washer. They both have kids, all under 5, and it hit me that one of those kids would grow up and go to college and be tall and strong and maybe be invited over in the middle of the afternoon to shove their hands up into my armpits and hoist me out of my dusty old car. And that’s just the kind of thing that can make me cry these days. And honestly, I don’t know why, but it does. It hits me deep, and there’s nothing I can do.

I stood shoulder to shoulder with a calvary of caring neighbors, feeling so lucky but a little sad too, because this moment was already leaving us.

We all stood still. We all felt the same thing.

I noticed on my way out that the slide in the backyard was cracked, and the top had a doll up on it, sort of a scary doll that had been out in the rain for too many years. Just seeing that thing made me cry a bit, thinking about B as a little girl sliding down and yelling in glee at the spoils of her new backyard — mom look, a lemon tree! Kinda like my daughter did yesterday. Yeah, exactly like that.

In leaving, I realized those steps and that railing would never be the same to me and that my impromptu waves to neighbors while taking out the garbage will always last a little longer, at least for a few weeks, they will.

It felt good, like I’d grown, which is a strange thing for a grown-ass man to say, but that’s how I felt and that’s probably why I didn’t go immediately home, and instead walked across the street and knelt down next to the kitty cat lying there in the sun, all stretched out like the warm sidewalk was the only thing in the world to care about.

And I sat down there next to her and stroked her soft, grey fur, while something inside of me settled down.

Celebrating the Return

sunrise illustration

Everyone knows the saying “Don’t Know What you Got ‘Til It’s Gone.”

But here’s a new one, something that’s equally universal but with a positive spin.

Don’t Know What You Need ‘Til it’s Here.

Often times we go dark and get heavy without realizing it, as if when we sat down, someone or something put weights on our back and we didn’t realize it. So we go about our days as usual but walk a little slower, approach things with a little less motivation.

And, sadly, we usually blame ourselves for the slow-down, like something inside of us is broken.

But so many times, it’s not us. It’s something out there that disappeared silently so we didn’t have time to mourn it. Or maybe we watched the leaving but underestimated how much it would hurt.

And hurt comes through in lots of ways. It’s not always recognizable.

Tired angry lonely sad busy apathetic careless selfish selfless hopeless

So we clean our house and work our jobs and sleep in our beds and fail to realize that something is missing….

Until it shows up (again).

And all that weight is gone. We’re lighter. We have more energy. Our muscles work better. Our hearts beat more easily. We become more of who we’re meant to be, more of who we always were.

We’re taught so much that we can always manufacture light, even in the darkest hour. And we should try to make that happen. But sometimes the outside affects the inside and, try as we may, we can’t make the sun rise.

So go on. Go on if that’s all you can do. Try your best to lift the darkness, but if you can’t just hold onto the idea that something on the outside might be missing.

Because things can get better and the darkness can lift, even without your effort, just because the world spins.

And, by all means, no matter what your dance, make sure you celebrate when the light returns.

My Pamphlet

I made a pamphlet.

It’s a trifold brochure that sits on my monitor stand between the paintbrush my art teacher gave me and the ticket stub to a giant human maze me and my daughter conquered in Montana.

On the cover is a picture of Molly, carefree and on a boat.

Inside are lists of things I use to change my mood: everything from give Hazel a hug to call someone cool to shoot some hoops to take a walk with Ziggy to throw your shirt in the dryer for 5 minutes and put it back on to pick a lemon and have some tea.

All of this stuff is 100% within my capacity to do at all times and has been 100% proven to lift my mood.

So why not advertise it to myself so I don’t forget?

It’s basic.

But the most revelatory things often are.

It’s gotten to the point where just looking at the pamphlet is enough; I don’t even have to open it. It holds power, like the ticket stub and the paintbrush.

“I did that,” I think to myself. “That’s for me.”

And the change is already taking place.

Music Is Magic

Gold saxophone

Nothing can amplify or transform a mood like music.

John Coltrane can lull you into a trance. Taylor and Olivia can help you feel less alone. Nirvana and Alice in Chains can work you through a bout of angst you can’t shake. Michael Franti can turn a tired day in the hammock into a rejuvenating respite. Jay Z can make you want to write poetry. Bob Dylan can create a revolution. Even now.

Music pushes you deeper into the mood you’re already in.

But don’t forget you can also put something on that will change your mood completely, turn things around. This can be challenging because the mood you’re in may be blocking you from the productive thought of putting on music.

It’s spiritual; you have to have faith.

However you’re feeling, whatever the mood, play a song and I guarantee you won’t be the same by the end of it.

Musicians are mystics: shamans with instruments, able to transform us with the movement of their hands and the breath in their lungs.

They fill the air with fairy dust.

Cast spells to save us.

Time and time again.

If you’re really down in a hole, you could put on Alice In Chains to dive deeper into it, or you can put on John Coltrane to transcend it. Either way — charging through or rising above — you will begin healing, become more whole, and get closer to where you need to be.

And where we need you to be.

Counseling My Lyft Drivers

Trying to show off a new car for a couple of friends

It happens inadvertently, but it’s happened enough that I can call it a trend:

I career-counsel my Lyft drivers.

It seems like the common thread among Lyft drivers is being in the midst of seeking something else.

Most are entrepreneurs with big ideas, some have suspended careers because of personal issues, some are unwilling to ‘go captive’ and enter the corporate world, and some just can’t get a job in their line of work by the time the rent bill comes around.

I talked with one driver who lived part of the year in Southeast Asia just to cut down on expenses. (Seemed a drastic measure, but, having watched the cost of living triple in the last few years, it’s a notion I entertained for a milli-second.)

Usually, these folks don’t need career direction as much as a plan to reach their destination. In other words, they know where they want to be; they just can’t arrive. Or at least haven’t yet.

As a career counselor, Lyft, Uber, and DoorDash used to be ‘stop-gap’ jobs I’d recommend as a quick way to make money with low barrier to entry. You could make enough in a day or a couple of days to pay for groceries or the electric bill.

But these companies got greedy and once they cornered the market, the pay dropped significantly. Now we have people racing around the city 7 days a week, from fare to fare, trying to make a living. Some are indentured to the company who leased them their car.

What’s the end result?

Sadly, these drivers with good minds and big ideas can’t seem to slow the car down long enough to get off the race track and pursue their dreams.

This Catch-22 shows up for a lot of us. We seek full lives, and therefore earn our way into routines that leave very little wiggle room for change. When something breaks down, we’ve got limited time to fix the problem, let alone change our course completely.

And so we keep racing around the track, getting more of what we already have while our big ideas scream at us from the back seat.

After counseling 10 or so speeding entrepreneurs with day jobs, I’ve come to realize this:

The first step is almost always making time for the first step.

Otherwise, you get nowhere fast.

What’s It All About?

Person standing on a rock in the sea

It’s hard to live.

Our brains are well-developed. We’re a thinking species; not always a good thing. We’re a long way from being content just sitting on a mossy rock. After 5 minutes of one thing, we feel an urge to move on, to find a reason to make us grow. And that urge never seems to go away, like a hunger that always comes back after we eat.

We chase being full.

We invent pasts that didn’t happen, we dive into stories we can never prove, we create vacation spots for those we can no longer visit, we erase whole events and people. Some of us even erase entire sequences of thought, years of life, or we split in two to deal with the hardest of things.

We plunge into work.

We dedicate our lives to solving problems.

We burrow into books and teachings, willing to follow anyone arrogant and foolish enough to believe they have the answer.

It’s a painful notion to recognize that the accumulation of things, even of fantastic experiences, even of accolades from the world — shouts of approval; certainly bring growth, but never peace.

That the things we do, the badges we earn, don’t amount to anything, really; with time, much less time than planned, they become obsolete: rusting, bent metal in a pile.

We want everything to matter. We want to have the biggest collection, to live in the euphoria of newness without having to go through the ordeal of finding something new.

This happens to us again. And again.

We wish to be a voluptuous shape but, try as we may, imagine as we do, we’re just a line — a point really — a dot on a dot, regardless of the stories we believe to be true.

Our movements deceive us.

We can move our little dot in any direction at any given time, and, despite how good that sounds in a children’s book or a video game, it’s painful to deal with in real life.

As sure as the world spins, we continue to go up and down, but we wish for the up when we’re down and fear the down when we’re up, and therefore miss those minutes, or perhaps worse, make them painful.

How is it that we can do anything, go anywhere, be anything, and yet we find ourselves unable to leave the room? Or maybe we can leave the room, only to begin running so fast we make the world a blur.

It’s this thing, this running from stillness, this burrowing from light, that has become the human thing, that separates us from the rock and the moss.

There’s some comfort in knowing that we all have these experiences, that the hard heat of the sun and the isolating shade of the mountain, are all of ours.

Both can feel nice and both can feel terrible.

And it’s never enough to have one, nor both. It wouldn’t be enough to own the sun, to run so fast that we fly right into it.

Indeed, most of us have wished for exactly this: to make our feet leave the earth, to fly right into the sun.

For me, this helps. When things get hard, it helps to imagine leaving, walking into the incredible heat of the sun, melting down into nothingness. Actually going there, using this cursed brain to go there, to finally stop the running, to disappear.

It helps.

Because, when I emerge from nothing, everything else becomes a little more special.

And the earth, as if appreciative of my humble effort to disappear, seems to spin a little more slowly. The wind’s harsh gusts become a song.

And I notice as the tide shifts and the powerful waves recede, a mossy rock appears, and I know without having to think why I know, that the silence between the waves is my invitation to join what’s been there all along.

And I will sit and it will be lovely, and for a moment I will be wise and in that widsom I will have to remember that I will forget this loveliness and I will not be wise.

The waves will grow and crash. They will take my rock, and me.

And, though I may be full of doubt at first, I will emerge, wet and seemingly without wisdom, in search of a new moment.

In a world of make-believe stories and evasive destinations, of carefully laid plans and disruptive winds, of saltwater and sun, this is the closest I can get to uncovering the truth.

Reason to Interrupt

Thank you, NHS.

We were deep into it; I was talking with my hands, sitting there at our wobbly table on the sidewalk amongst the other wine drinkers at dusk.

Three young women, no more than 20, with hip, baggy clothing and patches of skin showing here and there, approached our table, one of them sheepishly in the lead, the others behind her, smiling.

“Excuse me,” she said, probably surprised by my delight at being interrupted.

What could this be about? What couldn’t wait?

I live for these off-script moments among strangers, a few unusual lines to remind us all that we’re very much alive. We can do anything. We are the architects, not the tenants.

I abruptly stopped. So did my drinking buddy. And we turned, our drinks fully cocked in mid-air, ready to save us from any awkwardness that may arise.

“I just wanted to say Happy Pride,” she said. And then more quietly: “I came out today.”

And, behind her, her friends started clapping.

So we started clapping.

“Awesome!!” I shouted, and my knee hit the table, jiggling our water glasses. “AWESOME!” I shouted louder. “Thank you for that! Thank you for telling me! Happy Pride!”

I clapped hard. I clapped above my head and woo-hooed as she turned to her friends, all of us witnesses to an actor’s first act.

The whole patio erupted in applause, a chorus of positive reinforcement cascading the sidewalk, a medley of wine glasses raised in the air, sparkling in the sun.

It’s like we were all hoping for this to happen, all tucked away in our dutiful roles as friends, fathers, and professionals, hidden out of habit, but secretly wishing for something to jar us loose.

That’s what she did: jar us loose.

And for this, we were grateful, Grateful and alive, closer to each other, seeing each other’s faces. Smiling at strangers, toasting with friends.

It felt so good.

To know that one more person was on their path, was — for the first time — able to hear the rhythm of their own pulse on a busy sidewalk in Oakland, California. Loved by friends, breathing fully.

Proud indeed.