The bachelor...again

Mary left for Florida this morning, taking her turn as her mother’s caregiver.

There was a time when extended families lived in the same city or even the same house. Elders took a hand in the raising of children and children in turn provided for the needs and security of their elderly parents. It was a good system for the most part, one that provided both succor and continuity.

It’s been a long time since families lived in the same row house or apartment building or tenement. It’s been awhile since most families even lived in the same city.  Mary’s is bi-coastal so it’s no small matter to arrange for visits, much less an ongoing caretaking arrangement.

They make it work.

Many the argument – er, discussion – has taken place among the sibs over the last few years as it became clear that their mother was going to have needs beyond what she could provide for herself. They haven’t always agreed except on one thing – their mother would never be left to fend for herself or forced to choose between dignity and survival.

So, once again I find myself largely alone for the next month. Mary will be with her mom. And since Daughter Two is in Chicago and Daughter One has, you know, her own life, I will be largely alone.

And it sucks.

And it’s okay.

Because this is what Mary needs to do. It’s what a family does.

Woman's work

Project: Protect the house from woodpeckers (a protected species hereabouts) trying to nest by making holes in the wood siding

Wife’s tasks:

Figure out what to use and how to use it (special netting)

Find hammer stapler and staples after husband gives up.

Climb ladder again and again

Install netting along roof line using, you know, tools

Secure bottom end of netting to siding using (as you might have guessed) tools

Husband’s tasks:

Haul ladders out of garage

Fail to find the hammer stapler and staples

Hold ladder for wife

I always make sure my spouse sticks to woman’s work. It’s her place.

It's not the vulgarity

Regarding a certain candidate currently running for public office, I’ve been quite bothered by the vulgarity and bigotry he’s been espousing. I remain bothered by this.

But there’s an aspect of this person’s bilious bloviating that bothers me even more than the hateful content. Here’s the thing:

Whether he’s making fun of persons living with disabilities, or bragging about his (undemonstrated) prowess in various areas, or simply lying, what he’s not doing is speaking to the actual, you know, issues.

He’ll make the country great again but can’t say how. He’ll make a neighboring country pay for a new Great Wall (another example of his hateful spew) but doesn’t say how. He’s going to fix health care but doesn’t say how. And of course he’s going to ‘fix’ the military. Again, no plan.

He decries H1B but of course, his own companies bring in workers using that rule. And then he has the gall to stand up on national television and say, “we shouldn’t have these loopholes but hey, it’s there and I’m a businessman so I use it,” as though that’s a legitimate defense.

He wants to bar refugees and other immigrants. Oh, wait, except for the young, statuesque ones he marries.

Asked to define his specific objection to Common Core, his answer was, “it’s education from Washington, D.C.” He clearly doesn’t know what Common Core is, since it’s actually driven on a state by state basis. And of course the press lets him get away with it.

He claims to be a great businessman but he’s a leader in business failures. It’s more accurate to say he’s good at starting and not so good at operating businesses. Shouldn’t that make us nervous about this guy as a potential chief executive?

And yet, he leads in the polls.

I don’t care so much about the vulgarity. I do care that we seem to have so many folks planning to vote to make it the lingua franca of the White House.

Amazing. And frightening.

Temptation

“Too soon,” they say. Daughters One and also Two and of course, SheWhoMustBeObeyed.

Too soon for our emotional states. Too soon for Zoey the Small and Annoying to make the adjustment. Too soon to choose wisely. Too soon for a new round of training and accommodation and assimilation.

It’s too soon because we have to process the loss of Odin the Large and Lazy. He is still a part of us, so wouldn’t a new dog feel like an interloper?

I suppose I have to agree it’s too soon.

Too soon after the death of a friend who was unconditionally loving through so many family and personal events.

So, someone please tell me, why do I feel this insane temptation to go to the pound, ‘just to look?’

For now

For now, you’re still my buddy.

I can hear you snoring behind me as I write this. I’m glad.

I’m glad because your gentle snoring means that you’re not in pain, not stuporously shaking your head trying to dislodge a tumor that you don’t understand is there.

I’m glad because it’s clear you feel safest when one of us is with you. A dog feeling safe with me is a high compliment.

You’ve sprung back before. They said weeks or months, certainly not a year and it’s been over a year. We’ve had a few low spots along the way. A time or two I wondered if it was time.

Perhaps we’ll get another reprieve but I doubt it. Too many symptoms, too little energy, just too…

It won’t be tonight, I don’t think. We hope you are still here when your girl gets home tomorrow night. But of course, it’s not about her or me. It’s about you and it’s my last duty to an old friend to know when it’s time.

Not yet, though.

For now, you’re still my buddy, snoring on the carpet behind me. And I'm glad.

Who said it wouldn't last?

Thirty years ago as I type this Mary and I met at my friends' (her brother's) wedding. Actually, at the reception since I missed the actual wedding. I spent the evening hoping no one would notice that the bottom twenty inches or so of my pants were soaked, as were my shoes and socks. But that's another whole story...

Anyway, I met her and displayed my sense of humor, in spite of which, she eventually agreed to a date. Silly girl!

So-o-o-o, happy thirtieth to Mark and Deb! And thank you for inviting me to your wedding. I think...

Should

               It can be entertaining and even occasionally instructive to observe the folks with whom I share bus rides morning and afternoon each work day. You really get the complete cross-section of society since bus riders are mostly self-selecting and they each use their own criteria for choosing transportation modes.

               Some folks don’t have company-provided parking near their places of employment. That’s me. Or they simply dislike driving in city / commuter traffic. Also me. Some can’t afford private transportation or can’t drive for a whole variety of reasons. And some simply prefer the bus.

               So, you get this whole panoply of personalities, economic strata, histories and futures. And as I said, it can be fun to watch.

               What’s even more amusing is watching the watchers. The way people react to the people around them is a sociology lesson in real time.

               There are the private ones who want only to be left alone to the book of the week and do everything they can to discourage human engagement. And on the other hand, there are the ones who can’t wait to strike up a conversation about just about anything.

               There’s the ‘crazy guy’ who always cuts the line but no one objects because it won’t stop him, the drivers don’t care and he goes off on anyone he sees as usurping his right to be first. We all just try not to be the one sitting next to him when he starts railing against the world. You can tell the bus-riding newbies because they appear so delighted at finding an open seat on a standing-room-only coach. Nobody makes that mistake twice. He watches for someone to run afoul of his world view and then launches an attack that is quite alarming until you’ve seen his schtick a few times and come to realize he is literally all bark.

               There are the guys who stare at girls and the girls who try not to be caught staring at guys. Leerers come in both genders, although the approach is different.

               Folks become ‘bus buddies’ over time, learning each other’s routes and enough about their jobs and families to provide a sort of community of the 554 / 8:10. I have bus buddies and we all watch each other for the opportunity to engage and then to disengage after a moment’s easy conversation (pulling out the book or unravelling the ear buds being the primary coded signals we use).

               Among the watchers the most interesting to me are the ones I like to think of as the Normative Police. These are the folks whose idea of how the world works and our places in it are so secure that they feel comfortable assuming the judicial role within the public transit microcosm.

               On the old 210, there was a woman among the regulars whose judgment regarding each person boarding ‘her’ bus was so clearly etched on her face that folks who didn’t measure up sometimes found it insulting. In the time it took for a rider to enter the bus, scan their pass and walk the few paces required to pass her inspection station, she could size up, adjudicate and consign to the nether regions anyone who failed to measure up to her standards. One of my bus buddies took to calling her Big Nurse behind her back. She caught Marsha once but only looked confused. I don’t think she’s read much Ken Kesey.

               On the 212, there is a guy who reminds me of the character Pigpen in the Charley Brown cartoons. Only instead of dust, this guy moves through the world in a cloud of ‘should.’ If bus riders actually had thought balloons over their heads, his would be infilled with a dark gray. Pretty much no one measures up, if his jutting lower lip and furrowed brow are any indication. I don’t believe in all the times I’ve shared a ride with him (three years on this route, times maybe twice each week – you do the math) I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him smile or heard him utter a pleasant greeting or comment. If not for the fact that he tends to make business calls loudly and at length, I might have assumed he was mute. But his facial expressions tell the tale.

               I love riding the bus for the community it provides. For a writer, it’s a motorized collection of writing prompts.

Looking to the future

A day will come when we don’t need to embrace people’s differences because we won’t consider them important. We will accommodate the needs of people who live with disabilities without resentment and when confronted with a heavy accent we will listen more closely without grimacing.

A day will come when women will be able to walk down the street without fearing the intent of every male they happen across or worse, who lies in wait. And men of good will won’t have to feel guilty by association.

A day will come when women and minorities in positions of leadership and authority will be unremarkable.

A day will come when we won’t take the time to worry about the gender or sexual orientation of loving couples because we will prefer to spend our time and attention making sure that the people in our own lives feel loved.

A day will come when censorship will be nonexistent because to try to censor will be universally viewed as distasteful but also because most writers and speakers and painters and, and, and… will be respectful so that censorship is unnecessary.

A day will come when bigotry in any form will be so universally censured that the bigots will recede into the dark places from whence they were excreted.

A day will come when diversity won’t have to be promoted because at long last we will realize that sameness promotes inbreeding which is both unhealthful and boring.

A day will come when every child will be able to rely upon every adult of good will for protection and succor and those who would hurt, or abuse, or neglect children will be seen and treated as the arch criminals they are. And people will always and in every case intervene. Which means…

A day will come when no one earns the hateful sobriquet ‘bystander.’

A day will come when I won’t have to write any of this in future tense.

That day is not yet come.

But it will. Not in my lifetime and not in yours.

But trust me, the day will come. And my job today is to live my life in such a way that I help us move toward that day rather than away from it. I haven’t always been good at this but I will continue to try harder.  Because if I do, if we all do, then for our grandchildren or theirs,

A day will come.

A young family

It was a chore day at Chez McD, so I found myself sweeping and dusting and vacuuming whilst Mary did the grocery shopping, etc. Working in the family and dining room, I found my gaze frequently drawn to the neighbors’ backyard. The whole family was out taking advantage of the first non-rain weekend day in some time.

The Dad raked leaves and cleaned up the detritus from a series of storms that have blown through of late. Meanwhile, the Mom played catch with the son and older daughter while the younger daughter alternated between running around aimlessly and scolding our dogs whose barking and tail wagging announced their eagerness to join in the play.

One of the things I really like about this family is that they act like a family. The kids are the focal point of their lives. There are things I don’t understand about them; for example, they are devout Mormons and we are not devout anything. So their whole view of life on earth might be quite different from ours.

That’s okay because we agree on the single basic premise of life in a family – that children should be made to feel they are the whole reason for their parent’s lives. The raising of children is a big deal, which is not to say everyone needs to have children. But if you choose to have children, you have to be all in.

These folks are. And it shows.

Their kids are polite and respectful to adults and each other. And trust me when I say they know how to have fun. They’ll be fine.

Just felt like sharing that.

Places to visit

I got to thinking about places I’d like to visit. Not so much bucket list destinations that I will find a way to get to come hell or high water, but places I would choose to visit, given the opportunity. So I clicked into the NY Times online to take a look at 52 Places to Go in 2015.

The shot of Milan was in front of a cathedral with perhaps a thousand tourists in the foreground. No, thanks, I love people watching but I’m not good with crowds.

Cuba might be cool, except ooh, hot. Nah.

Been to Philadelphia. It was okay – big city with some historical stuff. Loved the library. And the used book store associated with it.

Yellowstone I would go back to again and again. You should, too. Stay on the trails and away from the fauna. If you don’t believe me, read a book called Death in Yellowstone.

Been to Singapore and liked it but don‘t need to do it again. Had the best Chinese food ever there. Of course, I was there forty years ago so my knowledge of the place is likely a tad out of date.

The Faroes would be cool. Seriously, drop me off and pick me up in a month or two. The kind of place I’d go to write a book.

Zimbabwe would be high on my list. I’ve always been fascinated with the Great City.

No interest in French wine country, since I’ve zero interest in viticulture. Beautiful area, I’m sure but there are so many other places to see. Of course, I could drink coffee and read while Mary wine-tastes, I suppose.

New Orleans – been there several times, but only once by choice. ‘Nuff said.

I would LOVE to check out Greenland but it’s not the kind of place you Disney tour. For this one, you need to set aside time for sitting and staring, absorbing. I would love to do some imagining in the vicinity of Hvalsey Church. As with the Faroes, drop me off here for a stay.

I would also love to walk the trail of 88 temples in Shikoku, Japan.

San Antonio is a fave. The Riverwalk is a great evening experience but the really cool stuff can only be found if, say, your cousin is a local Catholic priest and a killer tour guide who knows all the back stories. Great food.

Roma. I know, clichéd but there is just so much to see there. Plus I’ve always loved the rhythm and timbre of Italians speaking Italian. And of course, there’s the food.

Taos. For both the land and the architecture. And as above, the food.

You might notice that the number of places I’d like to go far outstrips the number of places I am likely to go. And of course, there are lots of other places I haven’t listed here. That’s okay; your reach should always exceed your grasp. Especially if they have great food.

Da haps

Yes, I know it’s been a while. I confess to being remiss. No excuses.

(Bet you thought there’d be a great big ole ‘but’ hereabouts, huh?)

Mary arrived home night before last after too long an absence. It’s amazing how much more settled I feel when I’m not rattling around alone in the house. We both have colds but I have a Washington cold and she has a Florida cold  so we circle each other suspiciously, wondering whether the bugs will cross-breed to our detriment. It’s been a very hands off homecoming.

Tonight I get to read a play by a dear friend and I cheated a little while printing it, reading through page 7 and nearly blowing off my afternoon plans but then manning up in the discipline department, so here I am. Tonight will be blissful.

Another beloved friend had a difficult last few, cleaning out her former manse, selling off stuff, and dealing with a lot of emotional baggage. I hope she understands how many of us are totally in her corner. Even though I know from experience that some hurts are your own and the love of friends is important but can’t take the hurt away. Some burdens you just bear.

I got through my first round reader comments on da book. They were both hard to take and precious to receive. The writers among you will get that. So da book goes back to the shop for a full rewrite. And why not just set it aside and go to the next project, you ask?

Because.

The next project – the one with Cecily and the non-traditional family that I’m just dying to get to - will wait. The Patent Desk waited most of my adult life so it retains its first in line status.

I’m going to a flash fiction event this week. Looking forward to that. Will I share the output here? We’ll see.

Worried about and hopeful for daughters.

Working on health-related self-discipline.

Researching for a talk I have to give in May and wondering what on earth makes these people want to hear what I have to say. Which makes me frantic to find something useful to say. An evil cycle of determination woven together with self-doubt.

Da haps. Life.

Clear water

There is a small lake about an hour’s drive from here, just on the far side of Snoqualmie Pass. It’s one of my favorite places to paddle and I promise it would be yours, as well.

Lake Easton isn’t huge – you could paddle all the way around the shoreline in a couple of hours – and it’s not deep, averaging about 35 feet. On the Northwest end where I‘ve paddled much of it is less than ten feet deep. It’s fed and drained by the Yakima River and serves as part of the irrigation reservoir system for agricultural eastern Washington.

It’s not accessible to kayaks just now, what with being covered with a layer of ice and even toward the end of summer the water can be quite cold.  

I love Lake Easton because the water is perfectly clear. I haven’t found a place where you can’t see the stumps of the former forest - every detail as though you could reach down and touch them. And because it’s closed to power boating, it’s always a nice tranquil place to kayak. A really great place to think.

I’ll be back there this spring, if I can find a paddle buddy.

We all have favorite places and this is one of mine. Just thought I’d share that.

Bachelorhood

My wife comes home in less than a week and let me tell you, I couldn’t be more thrilled. I do not like living without her. I do not like it, Sam I Am.

You see, I am not good at some things.

Don’t get me wrong. I am good at some things. Petting dogs and writing (sometimes) and driving long distances without falling asleep and singing and teaching and curriculum development.

I’m a decent folk guitar player and really pretty good at building stuff for the house. I can dead lift my body weight which I will decline to quantify here but let me just say you should be impressed.

I can sing le Marseillaise in French and recite the Suscipiat in Latin and belt out Dein geburstag ist erschienen in German, much to the chagrin of Sherree who accompanied me on it in high school and would likely be overjoyed never to hear it again.

I can grill a steak to perfection which if we’re honest isn’t actually all that impressive since of course I like the way I grill them because I tend to grill them the way I like them.

I can accept criticism as long as it’s aimed at someone else and hot weather as long as it occurs somewhere I’m not. And broccoli when it’s being consumed on another continent.

What I do not do particularly well is spend more than about a week away from my wife.

Or deciding stuff. Mary usually does that.

She’s coming home next Thursday.

I am happy.

Your meetup

First, I won’t be there. I’d actually love to take part in a counter-demonstration but I won’t take the chance of inadvertently misidentifying myself to any observers as one of you. So I guess I’ll just say:

You are not kings. Don’t get me wrong - there have indeed been monarchs who were as misogynistic, as cruel and anti-social and downright spew-worthy as yourselves. But even in the company of Vlad and his ilk, you’re not even pretenders.

The thing you’re missing here is that you are not men. You may have penises and testicles but being a man takes more than an accident of cell division. And you just don’t make the grade.

We are indeed having some philosophical disconnects between men and women of goodwill just now. After centuries of subjugation, some women are swinging the pendulum past center. Guess that’s what happens when half the population has spent centuries silenced and forced to walk a step behind. Your childish vitriol isn’t a rebuttal to radical feminism, it validates it.

You seem to try awful hard to define yourselves as ‘real men.’ I can help:

Real men aren’t afraid of real women.

Real men don’t utter the word rape except with loathing.

Real men don’t need clubs and secret code words to validate themselves.

Real men don’t waste time or mental energy hating women. They’re too busy trying to be worthy of them.

You are not real men. You are in fact unmanly. Your adoption of the term ‘neomasculine’ is apt, by the way. The prefix ‘neo-‘ comes from the Greek meaning young. And if you are anything, you are immature. The trouble is that unformed minds in full grown bodies can be dangerous.

I gotta tell you, this is one of those times that sorely tests my dedication to principles of free speech.

I can’t help hoping lots of women show up to your little gatherings of masturbatory misfits. I hope they show up together, for mutual protection. And that they take lots and lots and lots of head shots.  Every woman needs to know your faces.

 

NOTE FROM A YOUNG WOMAN:

I'd like to encourage everyone to be extra safe this weekend as "International Meetup Day" takes place in many cities worldwide including Boston, Chicago, and Seattle. This is a meetup event for neomasculine followers of The Return of Kings. Many meetups will be led to bars.

Please watch your drinks, travel in groups, and be safe.

And so it begins

Iowa caucuses tomorrow and so begins the primary season.
Please, folks, choose candidates who are qualified and honest. PLEASE don't make me choose between Trump or Cruz and Clinton!
Please?

It's so hard

It is so, so hard not to respond to some of the utter hogwash making the rounds of social media these days.

For example, the guy who suggested that anyone who might vote for a certain candidate should move to Canada, instead of voting. And said leaving the country would contribute to maintaining democracy. So, let me get this straight – democracy is best served by the removal from the voting ranks of anyone who disagrees with you?

Pretty sure there’s a different word for that.

Once again yesterday someone posted the specious claim that anti-gun folks would change their tune when the bad guys break into their homes in the middle of the night. First mistake – I’m not anti-gun, a gun being an inanimate object. What I am ‘anti’ is idiots and criminals and – dare I say it – people who like guns entirely too much having guns. Especially guns that allow them to fire thirty rounds in thirteen seconds. And second, no… let it go, Michael. They’re not listening.

“My dog is smarter than your honor student!”  Need I say more? This person must have received some feedback, judging by how quickly she deleted the post.

I could go on, of course, but what would be the point?

I’d much rather focus my attention on the positive posts I see. Such as the one by Sindy about John Hall (high school teacher) contributing to her life. Or almost any of the cute / funny / heart wrenching dog videos people post. Or the post by one of Rachel’s friends, saying, “Life is not a spectator sport.”

Or the ones by my wife showing the reno job she and her brother are doing for their ailing mother. Or Sherree’s sharing a video of the guy getting a baby kangaroo to snuggle into his bag. Or, speaking of Sherrio, any pic with her bare feet in the foreground and the ocean in the background.

Angela’s reposts of her pics from college and Disney days. And her frequent sharing of fox videos (to be clear, the furry animal).

It’s all about what you choose to care about.

Karmic comeuppance

Every now and then life gives us little reminders of the need to be kind. I received such a reminder the other day.

Waiting in line for my morning bus, I was one of several people who bore witness to a little scene when another bus pulled up and a young homeless woman trying to board lost her jeans. I don’t mean they slipped a little. I mean Miss Commando mooned us for fair.

The view was so unexpected that not one of us moved as this person tried frantically to find her bus pass while balancing her worldly belongings and of course, trying to return her apparel to a more appropriate alignment. We just stood there, trying to look anywhere but. (Sorry, couldn’t help it.)

She struggled onto the coach, found a seat, glared at us as the bus pulled away and just then, the woman in line next to me, one of the regulars snorted and the whole line dissolved in guffaws.

We should have been more charitable. At least, not laughed. I felt bad for a moment and then forgot about it as I immersed myself in Paradise.

I had been at work about fifteen minutes and was eating my muffin when I realized something was amiss with mine own apparel. Some places should just not feel breezes. And as you’ve probably surmised, it turned out I had split my pants in a most impressive fashion. And I could not reconstruct when the malfunction had occurred.

I’d made promises I needed to keep, so there was nothing for it but to remain at my desk and get the work done and just hope I didn’t get called into a meeting (I wasn’t). Besides, this has happened to me before – the cost of stuffing my girth into the same three pairs of pants day after week.

When it was time to go home, I grabbed a bright red hoodie I happened to have at work and tied it around my waist, put on my coat and headed for the bus.

Payback stuck in the form of one of the regular street folk who laughed loudly, tapped me on the shoulder and proclaimed to the world, “Mister, you stylin’!” She was joined by maybe a half dozen others in celebrating my fashion sense with loud brays.

I looked straight ahead and kept walking.

And the score from Third and Pine: Karma – 1; My dignity – 0

Fear

I promised myself I would stay away from blogging, flash fiction meetings and letter writing until I had made a milestone in editing da book. Well, the milestone is now behind me, so here I be. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s good news.

I was watching a speech by Melinda Gates and was inspired to write down the following: “Let’s not be afraid to fail. In fact, let’s be afraid to not try.”

Cool quote. Not the first person to express that sentiment but she expressed it well. And it got me to thinking (smell of burning circuits).

I get differing reactions from people when they learn my hobby and passion is writing novels. Of course, many of my friends are writers of one stripe or another, so their reactions are not the same as what I get from people who consider the creation of a shopping list a literary chore.

I get that. I get that some people consider writing a necessary core activity to their lives. And that others consider it something to be avoided at all costs.

For me, writing is something without which I would… well, to be honest I don’t know the answer to ‘what, if not writing.’ I suppose I’d play my guitar more but that’s a pastime, not a passion. Writing fills me with self-worth. A pursuit that begins with whimsical supposition is for me the height of creativity in a soul that cries out to create.

Being a writer is fun and funny, fascinating and (for me) fantastical. But honesty requires that I extend the alliteration to include one more f-word.

No, not that one. The word is fearful.

The Patent Desk is out for first round reading by several people I trust both for their literary acumen and for their honesty. The point being that they will give me feedback as needed to make the book and my writing of it better.

The thing is, I’m scared Trumpless at the prospect of allowing people I like and respect to read my work. I’d sooner go to the top of the highest building in Seattle and lean over the edge. Eat mushrooms. Let a butterfly land on me. And those of you who are familiar with my odd collection of phobias will appreciate that I’m talking serious fear.

Truth be told, I have to force myself every time to post a blog entry. Scares the pants off me.

It’s a fear of disappointing, I suppose. Alright, I know it is.

It’s a fear I’ve had to confront. Because the job of a writer is to communicate. And that’s not something you can do without a reader. So I have to press on.

When it comes right down to brass tacks, at 62 and counting I’m orders of magnitude more afraid of not trying than of trying and failing. Only Buddha knows how much time I have on this earth and I’m not inclined to waste any of it. I’ll spend as much as possible of that time writing.

If only it didn’t mean actually letting folks read my work.  (Yeah, I’m a puzzle.)

You don't know...

…how much a person has become a part of your life until she goes to take care of her mother for a month and you’re missing her the first day.

…how lucky you are to live where you do until you’re riding home on the bus and look across the lake and the water is so flat and the hills so green and the Mountain is out.

…how incredible it is to have children until they both grow into these wonderful people who amaze you every time you’re around them.

…how scary it is to be a writer until you actually send out copies for comment – Oy!

…how cool your job is until you find yourself actually looking forward to flying on a Sunday.

…how beloved the dog is until you are able to watch him slow down.

…how twisted our brother is until it’s two weeks past Christmas and you still can’t figure out the point of the stocking stuffer he gave you.

 …how truly fortunate you are until you find yourself writing a list like this without having to, you know, think about it.

This morning...

…. as the bus crossed the floating bridge over Lake Washington, I was treated to one of the great sights of nature. The Mountain was out, silhouetted by a stunning array of high clouds lit from below by the red-amber prologue to sunrise. It seemed not merely to announce the day but rather to proclaim it.

I know this probably seems a tad hyperbolic but I promise you, it was a truly peak peek and turned my morning around. It made me think of beginnings rather than endings. And I needed that.

You see, from the time I woke up this morning, well before the alarm announced it was time, I have been worrying about today. More specifically, I worry about you and what you might do today.

We’ve never met. I don’t even know your name. My daughter is very private about some things and I have not been invited to explore too closely my curiosity about the meeting with you she has planned for today. I know only that you will meet with the objective of helping her to deal with the comet trail of emotions she’s been dealing with these past months.

And years, if we’re going to be honest.

I worry about you because I can’t know how good you are at what you do, how sensitively you will receive the information she will pour out for you, how welcome you will help her feel or how trustworthy you will prove to be.

She badly needs someone who is neither family nor friend, who has no history with her but who will seek to understand her story. She so profoundly needs a neutral corner from which to prepare for her next round of battle with demons she is only now beginning to understand.

Please don’t see her as broken. She has been beaten – both literally and figuratively – and bloodied, but don’t you dare see her as broken. The moment you see her as ‘lost’ you will disqualify yourself for the task.

She has been waylaid but never lost. Even from the bottom she was always looking up. She reached out for this help but she must not be smothered. She is a strong person, a good person, a superlatively intelligent person. You are there to help her find perspective, not to fashion her plan.

The utterly terrifying part of all of this is that of trust. She has to place trust in a stranger and as her father and friend, I have to place trust in both of you. I do trust my daughter because she has proven herself trustworthy at the most difficult of times.

You are the wild card, the uneasy unknown.

Please, if you do nothing else today, please, please just listen.

Let her tell you. Because somewhere beneath the hurt and beyond the doubt, she knows.