Three Days of Cake

The Missoula airport has served as backdrop for countless emotional family reunions and goodbyes since my parents moved to Polson in 2001. This past weekend proved no exception as my sister Karen and I converged at the terminal, ready to drive north for a visit with Mom to celebrate Karen's milestone birthday. We launched into conversation immediately after I snapped her picture with the lobby's resident moose, and the words tumbled forth uninterrupted for the entire seventy-five-minute drive. Karen had endured two connecting flights to reach Missoula, but she declared the journey worthwhile for that single conversation—the kind of deep, rambling talk that only sisters can share.

Our darling mother stationed herself in the driveway, keeping eagle-eyed vigil on the road and checking her watch obsessively. Thank goodness the warm autumn sun blessed her with its golden rays—though knowing Mom, she would have maintained her post even through a deluge. After a joyful collision of hugs and the awkward choreography of dragging luggage while attempting simultaneous embraces, we settled into easy chairs for tea and conversation, activities that would occupy the heart of our weekend.

What a profound blessing to share unguarded emotions, genuine concerns, and unvarnished joys with people who know you at your core—to confess foibles they've already catalogued with affection, to dissolve into laughter over inside jokes that have weathered decades of repetition. I gathered updates on my other siblings and their families, caught up on the new season of The Great British Baking Show, and settled in for a marathon of football games tracking our family's beloved teams: CU, Illinois, Ohio State, Oregon, Montana. The throwback Montana uniforms struck me as remarkably candy corn-like—all orange and yellow patterns that seemed perfectly calibrated for autumn.

During a solo afternoon walk, my eyes hungrily devoured Montana's fall splendors. Tundra swans drifted across the lake's mirror surface like white brushstrokes on blue canvas. Heavy purplish crab apples weighed down tree limbs until they bowed like supplicants. A fox capered across the golf course, its russet coat blazing against the manicured green. I found the familiar yellowing cottonwoods that populate Colorado's landscape, but Montana offered her own autumn poetry—flames of maple leaves scattered across lawns and caught in purple sage, white berries clustering on buck brush, deer materializing to drift soundlessly across the grass.

Being on the same wavelength, we indulged in Karen's chocolate birthday cake crowned with melting ice cream three evenings in a row—a delicious ritual. The final day brought a symphony of raindrops drumming against the skylights, the storm graciously offering the briefest window of opportunity to collect vibrant autumn leaves for Karen's fourth-grade class back in southern California. Between the carefully pressed leaves and new pj's from mom, my sister joked that her luggage wouldn't fit back on the plane.

What a blessing to carve out these stolen weekends from our overscheduled lives, to weave new memories with the people who knew us when we were young and still choose to love us now. The cake was delicious, but the real sweetness lay in being together—in that particular alchemy that happens when family gathers, when laughter flows as freely as conversation, when three days feel simultaneously endless and far too brief.

Barriers to Connection

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." - Rumi

We tumbled through a life-affirming weekend—Friday's dinner dissolving into games and music with friends, Saturday's wedding reception spilling margaritas and laughter, Sunday's fall hike threading us through aspens ablaze in October gold. My eyes felt gritty from sleep deprivation, yet my heart expanded Grinch-like, swelling several sizes as we moved from one gathering to the next.

A persistent inner whisper craves weekend nights at home, pajama-clad and nestled into the couch with a magazine, novel, or remote control in hand. This domestic longing intensifies when the alternative involves navigating conversations with unfamiliar faces. I once made small talk with relative ease, but somewhere across the past two decades—accelerated by a pandemic that hermit-crabbed us all into our shells—I misplaced that social fluency. Here lies one of my barriers to cultivating platonic love: transcending superficial exchanges and investing sufficient time to build genuine trust, rather than executing an Irish goodbye the moment anxiety stirs.

Rob navigates such social waters with remarkable dexterity. Saturday evening, he confidently steered me between different clusters of guests, undeterred even by the CU football game flickering on a nearby screen. If social anxiety plagues him, he conceals it masterfully, and I cling to his side like a burr in a packhorse's coat. He declared the evening successful, though I felt certain I'd babbled continuously like a brook swollen with spring melt runoff.

The following morning discovered us hiking by eight o'clock in Golden Gate Canyon State Park, having outpaced fellow leaf-peepers to claim a parking spot. Frost glazed the ground cover flanking the trail, rendering rose hips unexpectedly soft beneath our fingertips and demanding warm outer layers for the first time this fall. Sharp easterly rays from the morning sun sliced through the warm yellow aspen leaves, igniting the trees like beacons of joy against the shadowed evergreens. We traversed seven miles, absorbing panoramic views, and I drove away feeling replenished—my spirit restored by movement and natural beauty.

This past weekend, my barriers to discovering loving connection revealed themselves clearly: laziness, social anxiety, inertia, misplaced priorities. We toppled them one by one. I'm capturing this reflection now as a reminder to myself—to knock them down again next time, and the time after that, because the reward of genuine connection always outweighs the comfort of retreat.

The Web Makes the Weaver

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the shifting tapestry of autumn leaves as I walked with Hana, one of my hiking companions, our conversation meandering between book recommendations and uplifting discoveries on recent hikes. She mentioned reading something called The Web Makes the Weaver—or perhaps a similar title—exploring traditional Chinese medicine and acupuncture's ancient wisdom. Though I couldn't locate the exact book online later, the phrase has lingered in my thoughts for days.

The concept delights me precisely because it inverts our expectations. We naturally assume the weaver creates the web, yet here lies a profound truth wrapped in delightful surprise: the web shapes its maker just as surely as the weaver shapes their intricate product.

Different spiders craft entirely different webs depending on their needs and surroundings—a reminder that environment profoundly influences creation. The exquisite circular masterpieces I discovered glistening with morning dew in the mountains represent just one architectural approach. Orb weavers construct these geometric marvels that supposedly capture sound waves, allowing the spider to actually hear approaching prey. Others fashion what appear to be chaotic boxy traps or delicate cocoons nestled within late-summer bushes and ground cover—each design perfectly suited to its creator's survival needs.

We humans emerge as products of our own intricate webs: the communities that embrace or challenge us, the stories and headlines we allow to penetrate our consciousness, our seemingly coincidental daily encounters, our families, even our beloved pets (as my black cat demonstrates by stalking across my keyboard at this very moment!). Our deepest desires and sharpest conflicts intensify through everything we touch, simultaneously influencing what we ourselves release into the world—the words we speak or commit to paper, the digital contributions we generate, the tender or hurried touch we bestow upon our loved ones, the smiles or scowls we offer fellow drivers navigating traffic's daily chaos.

As a writer, coach, and family member, my web consists of words of affirmation, constructive guidance, gentle encouragement, and thoughtful questioning. Words carry tremendous power, yet in our current climate they're often hurled about carelessly, as if they possessed no capacity for destruction. Irish poet Pádraig Ó Tuama wisely observes that "the power of words to wound is also a measure of the power of words to heal"—a truth that challenges me to help us all spin our webs of words and touch toward healing our fractured communities, the very webs that shaped us.

I strive earnestly to honor this ideal, though I do stumble in the privacy of my own heart or within my living room's sanctuary. Yet I believe each of us wields profound influence over those within our orbit. We possess the capacity to spin words of love, welcome, and peace—should we choose to accept that responsibility. In these times when our collective web feels particularly fragile, perhaps we might remember that every thread we add either strengthens or weakens the whole, and that we are both the weavers and the woven.

The Unlikely and Unimaginable

In my last post, I shared Rebecca Solnit's uplifting words: "The grounds for hope are simply that we don't know what will happen next, and that the unlikely and the unimaginable transpire quite regularly." I turned to this wisdom repeatedly last week, clinging to it like a lifeline amidst the relentless churn of tragic headlines—more shooting deaths, violent rhetoric both spawning tragedies and erupting in their wake. How do we hold onto hope and light when companies profit from an "engage to enrage" model that fractures us as a people, turning neighbor against neighbor for the sake of clicks and quarterly earnings?

I found my answer in retreat. Shutting off news feeds and email notifications, I fled to the mountains with friends and family, seeking sanctuary on a clear mountain lake and nearby trails. We surrendered ourselves to the symphony of water threading alongside the path, our steady footsteps on damp, leaf-littered earth, and the kaleidoscope of early fall foliage—leaves glistening pale yellow, peachy orange, and bold crimson against large boulders.

Over two days, we hiked twenty-six miles and climbed over 3,500 feet, sometimes filling the trail with stories and laughter, other times letting the profound quiet wrap around us like a benediction. And there, in that sacred space between effort and grace, we discovered Solnit's "unlikely and unimaginable" manifesting with startling frequency.

A rare, heavy fog descended to the meadows, bifurcating the massive peaks so they appeared to float like ancient ships above a silver sea. Countless spiderwebs, heavy with morning dew, materialized against dead branches—intricate mandalas outlined in crystalline perfection. A pair of plump gray ptarmigan materialized on a rocky slope, camouflaged and confident, regarding us with steady gaze.

The season's first snowstorm blessed us with fat flakes that kissed our gloves and dusted the high country beyond Winter Park with delicate tracings of white. Aspen groves revealed their autumn metamorphosis in waves—first glowing buttery yellow, then deepening to pale orange, finally blazing crimson on various altitudes and rock faces, each grove responding to its unique microclimate with painterly precision. Rain drummed against the cabin roof as we gathered around a worn wooden table, savoring warm soup and losing ourselves in card games punctuated by laughter.

The catalog of small miracles grew with each passing hour, and I began wielding it as counterweight to the crushing headlines from the world below. Each dewdrop, each bird call, each moment of shared laughter became evidence of a different truth—that beauty persists, that wonder endures, that connection transcends the manufactured divisions designed to keep us scrolling and seething.

Now, settled back into my familiar desk chair with the glow of the computer screen replacing mountain vistas, I clutch these memories like smooth worry stones worn gentle by countless hands. The unlikely and unimaginable didn't abandon us when we descended from those heights—it simply awaits our attention, ready to unfold in ways we cannot predict or orchestrate. Hope isn't about knowing what comes next, but about remaining radically open to the glowing miracles that surround us, even in—especially in—our darkest hours.

Seeking Balance, Arms Outstretched

"I'm convinced that the best time is always now, and the best memory is always tomorrow." - Kilian Jornet

The transition back to structured days feels like learning to walk again after months of weightlessness. After the privilege of a long break from coaching—those glorious weeks of travel and adventure when time stretched elastic and unhurried—I've returned to the familiar rhythm of pool decks and whistle blasts, regular withdrawals of energy mapped against the clock's relentless march.

I love working with our swimmers and coaches, teaching young athletes how to refine technique with increasing grace and power. But my body rebels against the 8:45 p.m. finish, a time that would otherwise find me nestled in pajamas, book spine cracked open against the lamplight. Now the morning sleep stress compounds with each emergency headline that assaults my coffee ritual, their collective weight settling like sediment in my chest.

I miss the untethered days of digital silence—no email pinging its demands, no computer tethering me to distant catastrophes. Being gently unhooked from certain realities offered unexpected gifts of peace. Yet there's comfort in rediscovering my place within daily routines, in the purposeful act of working and giving back. Still, balancing my personal rhythms against the madness churning elsewhere often feels like attempting to surf again—arms outflung for stability, maintaining a precarious crooked stance on my board as the swells threaten to topple me.

The quote that begins this reflection initially lodged in my mind's faltering gears, mental machinery grinding against their simple wisdom. Jornet is a world class adventurer, hiking mountains beyond mountains - could I apply his truism within my daily pedestrian routines? Gradually the gears loosened, lubricating those rusty wheels toward something approaching optimism. I can still believe the best time is now and my best memory is tomorrow, even if I'm not on a plane - or a mountain.  As Rebecca Solnit reminds us: "The grounds for hope are simply that we don't know what will happen next, and that the unlikely and the unimaginable transpire quite regularly."

I offer these words here because they feel both down-to-earth and aspirational—twin qualities that might offer some peace of mind as we all navigate our own unsteady waters, arms outstretched, searching for balance.

Restraint Collapse

 A New YorkTimes headline caught my attention: "End of day meltdowns are not just for kids: but there are ways to avoid them." I clicked immediately, recognizing myself after barely making it to 6pm on Friday before snapping at the dinner table and retreating to a dark room to binge-watch "Scandal."

The article discusses "after-school restraint collapse"—something any parent will instantly recognize from those afternoons when children arrived home emotionally spent from behaving throughout their school day. I remember many days when my kids needed snacks and an hour of quiet time before they could start homework or tell me about their day. If I rushed that process, I paid for it with sharp words and pent up frustration.

During those years of raising young children, I often faced my own nightly meltdowns. But it's been a while since I've experienced restraint collapse this intensely. Last week marked my first seven-day stretch at home in months, packed with work training, cleaning up after William's move, and supporting all three kids through major life transitions. Add three early morning workouts and oppressive heat, and the breakdown was inevitable.

My outburst—something along the lines of "You never listen to me! I'm not even important to this family!"—felt justified in the moment. I blamed the heat, menopause, early mornings, everything except my failure to recognize the warning signs. I should have listened to my body's cues and set boundaries much earlier. A nap, some quiet time, or simply saying no to one activity could have prevented the explosion.

The timing of the dinner table was particularly painful. These rare evenings when Rob and I are both home feel precious, with both of us managing constant demands on our time and energy. I don't want to fill this time with my personal restraint collapse. Perhaps I'll have mastered this balance of self-care and parenting by the time we have grandchildren. I certainly hope so—I don't want the grandkids putting me in timeout.

After years of helping others manage their emotions, I'm still learning to tend to my own with the same care and attention.

Never Say Never: A Lesson in Staying Open

Colorado nurtures a passionate subculture of hikers who "bag 14-ers"—translated for the uninitiated, this means they've summited peaks above 14,000 feet. Our state boasts 58 such giants, and dedicated climbers spend years collecting that coveted number. Prior to summer's arrival, I had conquered 12 of these mountains, most alongside my family, and I'd convinced myself my mountaineering days were behind me. A sticky hip joint and months without practice seemed to seal that verdict—I counted myself retired from high-altitude adventures.

Aden changed my mind with her proposal that we tackle La Plata —"the silver" -- named for the mining territory around its base. She assured me it was relatively easy (the word "relatively" doing heavy lifting) and sweetened the deal by suggesting we stay in a local hotel rather than endure the brutal 2:30 a.m. alarm and pre-dawn drive from home. "Hotel" and "sleep"—those magic words—dissolved my resistance like sugar in warm coffee.

We stirred at 4 a.m., reached the trailhead by 5, and began our ascent in darkness at 5:15. A half-moon hung like a comma against the star-punctured sky, but the rocky trail remained obscured beneath dense tree cover, making our headlamps essential. We climbed for an hour before the lamps became unnecessary, rewarded as sunrise painted the nearest peaks in watercolor washes of rose and gold. Moving with patience, we mounted the rocky switchbacks above tree line sooner than anticipated.

We encountered a father and teenage daughter resting on a ridge, their labored breathing visible in small puffs. Their jeans and tennis shoes betrayed their inexperience before the father confirmed it: "It's my first." Aden offered water and electrolytes, which they declined, but then I spotted the gun holstered outside his jeans. I ushered us forward, puzzled by what threat he imagined. Few souls populated these heights, and our only wildlife encounters involved pikas and soaring birds. I was grateful for his daughter's presence—if he was a single man with a gun, my internal threat level would have escalated.

Our next encounter proved more inspiring: an extraordinary woman from Texas who appeared to be in her forties. She was pursuing a week-long mountain pilgrimage and had conquered two 14-ers by Wednesday—La Plata marked her third. She scrambled through the boulder field, losing the trail's thread, so she waved us ahead. With Aden navigating, we left the Texan behind and I marveled at her achievement—nine 14-ers accomplished during just two weeks of vacation. Since I require five full days to recover from a single climb, I felt humbled.

The boulder fields tested our patience and the scree slopes demanded careful attention, but we emerged onto a wind-less summit beneath skies touched only by the faintest smoky haze. Fellow conquerors—including a trio of young musicians visiting from the Aspen Music Festival—snapped our photos. Most of us settled onto the rocky summit to savor snacks while our eyes wandered across the magnificent panorama stretching in every direction.

Astonished to find myself once again perched atop a mountain, I offered gratitude to both my daughter (inspiration) and my physical therapist (functioning hip and knee) that carried me here. I'm learning to never say never, to keep my dance card open for adventures I might too hastily dismiss. Sometimes the most unexpected journeys begin with someone else's invitation and our willingness to say yes despite our perceived limitations.

Finally, An Empty Suitcase!

Last night I finally unpacked my weathered blue overhead bag and ancient flowered toiletry case—the first time they'd seen the inside of a closet since July 12. The worn zippers and faded fabric tell stories of a whirlwind month that began with Rob, Aden, William and me hiking from Maroon Bells to Crested Butte through the wildflowers. Since that golden weekend, I've ricocheted between British Columbia's family gatherings, California's blazing pool decks, New York's relentless sidewalks (helping William launch his adult life), and finally Colorado's towering peaks where Aden and I conquered another fourteener. I haven't moved through the world with such velocity since my consulting days—before marriage, long before children—and the freedom tastes intoxicating.

The six scorching days in Clovis, shuttling teenage swimmers between hotel, pool, and restaurant, exceeded every expectation. I videotaped races and award ceremonies, recorded splits, and cheered until my voice cracked. Working alongside athletes I barely knew before, I felt relationships kindling in the chlorinated air—trust building one encouraging word at a time. Leaving my family just one day after our Canadian return to coach other wonderful kids was wrenching, especially with William's departure looming. Yet I needed to nurture this coaching path, to cultivate something sustaining for the approaching empty nest years.

After a frantic few days moving William from Boulder, we boarded our direct flight to LaGuardia with three bulging suitcases. Clear skies welcomed us to Brooklyn, where his loft bedroom and experienced roommates offered William the perfect launching pad. We split our days between acquiring necessities at the delightfully named "Amazing Savings" and wandering Manhattan's transformed landscape. Thirty years has elapsed since my last visit, and the city stretched endlessly across my vision—a glittering testament to human ambition, architectural audacity and the emotional strength to rebuild after 9/11.

Saturday brought ten miles of walking through Central Park's verdant paths, past the financial district's gleaming towers, into Hudson Yards where William's office will soon relocate. The reclaimed Highline carried us above the streets while voices in Spanish, Italian, Polish, and Yiddish wove a linguistic tapestry around us—English surprisingly rare among the international throngs. Sunday delivered gluten-free crepes and coffee before we ventured via Metro to Wall Street's canyon of commerce, Battery Park's harbor views, the memorials at the North and South Towers, and finally the best everything bagel I've tasted in decades at Modern Bread and Bakery.

Saying goodbye to William after Sunday dinner proved predictably devastating—tears soaking my pillow as I mourned this latest milestone in our family's evolution. Yet beneath the heartache pulses profound gratitude for these accumulated adventures, for the energy and courage to seize each opportunity. I can still recall being paralyzed by autoimmune illness, too anxious to drive, too overwhelmed to navigate a simple grocery store. This current freedom to move through the world—to chase summer across states and seasons—feels like grace beyond my wildest imagination. As the children conquer new territories I will have even more good reasons to explore and be amazed.

Full Circle Return to British Columbia

Today I settled into my familiar morning ritual—breakfast, coffee, and the "click" of online newspapers—for the first time in two and a half weeks. We spent a family week exploring Vancouver and Tofino, followed by a single day of domestic restoration (laundry, pool laps, gathering coaching gear) before I departed solo for a five-day swim meet in Clovis, California. During those weeks away, I consciously severed my news umbilical cord, scanning headlines on my phone without clicking a single story, focusing instead on the immediate texture of each day. My resting heart rate rewarded this digital detox, and my pre-sleep monkey mind finally quieted.

Our British Columbia adventure loosely followed our honeymoon playbook from twenty-six years ago. When Rob and I first visited Vancouver after our June wedding, gray skies shrouded the city and concealed the mountains rising dramatically across the water. This time, brilliant sunshine blessed every urban day, and we seized each golden opportunity.

From pedaling hotel bikes through the city and around Stanley Park's seawall to playing eighteen holes of pitch-and-putt golf, from lounging in sun-dappled parks to chalking pool cues in a Yaletown bar, our family of five savored every shared moment. On day three, we commandeered a rental car and drove aboard the ferry, playing cards shuffling rhythmically as we voyaged toward Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. The ferry delighted our children—their inaugural car ferry experience—while calm seas sparkled beneath our churn.

From Nanaimo, we wound toward Tofino on Vancouver Island's rainforested western edge. We lost our faithful sun shortly after a pit stop where the three of us braved a river swim outside Port Alberni. The turquoise water revealed every stone on the bottom as Aden, William, and I gasped through the shocking cold, stroking out to the deeper pool before retreating to shore. We changed at the rest stop with chattering teeth and ravenous appetites, perfectly primed for Tofino's promised burger dinner.

Partly clear afternoons blessed our next two days as we hiked Ucluelet's Lighthouse loop, kayaked from Tofino to Meares Island, and wandered the town hunting souvenirs and ice cream. The kayak expedition unveiled wildlife delights: a curious harbor seal surfacing near William's bow close enough for us to hear his breathing's gentle "chuff," two sea otters floating belly-up with paws skyward, four majestic bald eagles, countless orange starfish glowing beneath the surface, and ancient cedar giants that have witnessed a thousand years of coastal storms. The trip brought back vivid reminders of our honeymoon kayak through hundreds of purple starfish and clear jellyfish without a guide and against the tide - an apt metaphor for the journey since.

Rob's birthday graced our final Tofino day, celebrated with post-ride coffee after twenty-five miles cycling to the Rainforest loop and back. Aden crafted a chocolate cake in our "Eagle's Nest" rental kitchen while Rob and Daniel claimed an afternoon beer. Meanwhile, William, Aden, and I took a surf lessons at Cox Beach. The Pacific bit at fifty frigid degrees, but thick wetsuits cocooned our bodies—only my feet succumbed to the chill, undermining my wobbly attempts at balance.

William emerged as our crew's natural, earning delighted whoops from our young British instructor (he did practice earlier this summer in Bali!), while Aden and I managed several triumphant rides from both the whitewater and beyond the break. The sun made a brief, glorious appearance during our session, illuminating the wide beach and gentle swells that provided the perfect backdrop for our final waking hours together.

I'm contemplating my third tattoo after immersing myself in so much First Nations sea creature art—my first was a dolphin adapted from a Haida design discovered during our honeymoon. It would complete a beautiful circle, helping me remember the gifts accumulated across twenty-six years together and the remarkable family we've created.

Among the Wildflowers

"You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
Sail away, kill off the hours
You belong somewhere you feel free."

-Tom Petty, Wildflowers, 1994

I paused for the small group threading down through exuberant wildflower clusters, my size 11 hiking boots balanced on the edge of the rusty red path. A young man in a baseball cap unexpectedly lifted his gaze when I offered my morning greeting, looking directly into my eyes with the kind of openness that feels rare these days. "Aren't the flowers amazing?" he asked, gesturing toward the explosion of color surrounding us.

Oh yes, I replied, the flowers are absolutely amazing. Wildflowers at peak season lined both sides of the trail from Maroon Bells to Crested Butte like nature's own processional carpet. Yellow daisies and gold sunflowers turned their faces toward the morning sun while vibrant purple-blue lupine swayed alongside orange and pink Indian paintbrush. Stalks of Queen Anne's lace punctuated the symphony of color, all dancing together in the early mountain breeze as we ascended the Maroon Bells approach.

We forded small creeks and two wider waterways, balancing on moss-slicked rocks or weathered deadwood with our hiking poles extended like tightrope walkers. After navigating each crossing, I turned and carefully tossed one pole at a time back to William and Aden, sighing with relief when either made the catch. The air felt surprisingly warm for these elevations, lingering in the 50s and 60s even near the pass's summit. We shuffled carefully up the rusty red dirt and mineral-stained rocks, pausing to catch our breath as other groups—who'd started their journey from Crested Butte—descended past us with tired but inevitably smiling faces.

The pass summit offered glorious panoramic views of the Rockies stretching toward every horizon, but its narrow, crowded perches buffeted by relentless wind sent us dropping quickly toward the downhill path and our destination. This side of the trail revealed even more spectacular beauty than we'd encountered before—delicate lilies and virtual bushes of columbines now joined the wildflower chorus. Blush pink and butter yellow columbines alternated with near-white versions, then gradually gave way to the more familiar purple-blue columbines as we descended into the valley.

We stopped to exclaim and capture photographs every five minutes, struggling to absorb the beauty that enveloped us so completely. Wildflower meadows climbed the mountainsides to our right and cascaded into the narrow river valley on our left, their collective perfume rising from the sun-warmed path until all our senses swelled like sponges. Gratitude swelled in my chest until tears came unbidden, accompanied by the happy percussion of birdsong from hidden bushes and butterflies dotting the clusters of blooms like living confetti.

The struggles of our fractured world fell away for six precious hours among friends and the generous beauty of the earth. Our conversations flowed as easily as the mountain streams we'd crossed, voices weaving together as we placed one foot in front of the other, trying not to stumble over rocks while our eyes wandered through the epic display of mountain flowers in their peak glory. We felt so fortunate to witness this spectacle, so acutely aware of our luck, that even after eleven miles of hiking, it hurt a bit to see the trail end.

Sometimes the most profound moments arrive without fanfare—just a shared recognition of beauty with a stranger, the rhythm of footsteps on ancient paths, and the reminder that wonder still exists in abundance for those willing to seek it.

Consider Your Safety Net

The influencer's glossy feed captured my attention —perfectly arranged coffee cups beside leather-bound journals, golden hour lighting streaming across handwritten notes about "traditional femininity" and the supposed tyranny of career ambitions. She said "women have been bullied by the Left into thinking we need both careers and families" and I kept scrolling as my algorithm selected posts that suggested college might be unnecessary, or beneficial solely for the "mrs" degree. According to this particular voice in the growing chorus, women would find more fulfillment, less pressure, if we simply "settled down" and embraced motherhood as our primary calling.

I stirred my own imperfectly made morning coffee, weighing my thoughts. The allure of simplicity pulses through these messages like a siren song—who among us hasn't fantasized about stepping off the relentless treadmill of modern expectations? Yet something about the conversation felt incomplete, like a melody missing its crucial bass notes.

Any human being deserves the fundamental right to chart their own course, and I harbor zero judgment toward the paths others choose. But as I've watched these "traditional femininity" influencers gain momentum, I find myself pondering the stories they don't tell, the questions they don't raise.

I had the opportunity to stay home with my children during their early years, and the experience proved both rewarding and utterly demanding—a far cry from the leisurely existence some voices suggest. Those days stretched long and shapeless, punctuated by tantrums and triumphs, endless laundry cycles and fleeting moments of transcendent connection. Paradoxically, returning to work often felt easier than navigating the emotional intensity and physical exhaustion of full-time motherhood. Without advantageous childcare options, I crafted a hybrid existence—volunteering at school, working part-time in roles that allowed me to be present when children needed me, carefully maintaining the threads of my professional identity even as they stretched thin.

When my youngest reached high school, I returned to full-time work, grateful I'd preserved those slender connections to my career. Yet I recognize the privilege woven throughout this narrative—a partner whose income supported our family, the luxury of choice itself.

Which brings me to the elephant lounging in the corner of every "traditional femininity" discussion: economic vulnerability. When we strip away the Instagram-worthy aesthetics and examine the practical implications, what happens to women who forgo education and career development? They become entirely dependent on their partners for financial survival—no Social Security contributions in their own names, no retirement savings, no credit history, no assets bearing their signatures.

Consider the statistics lurking beneath the surface of these glossy lifestyle choices. What becomes of the woman without education or career training when her partner dies unexpectedly, leaving behind inadequate life insurance? When divorce papers arrive, or when he simply vanishes one Tuesday morning? The answer whispers through the gloss of pretty promises: financial security.

My father's practical wisdom echoes through decades: "The best life insurance for our family is a well-educated, intelligent wife." My mother embodied this principle—college-educated, professionally trained as a teacher, intellectually curious and financially literate. She raised five children while maintaining her capability to support us if circumstances demanded. Our family enjoyed triple protection: Dad's steady income, his life insurance policy, and Mom's ability to step into the economic breach if disaster struck.

But many families lack such advantages. These days, hard work doesn't always translate to adequate savings or insurance policies. For woman raising children under economic duress, education and career skills don't represent feminist ideology or societal pressure—they offer survival.

I watch my daughter navigate these competing messages, weighing voices that promise simpler lives against the complex realities I've witnessed. The young mother whose husband died unexpectedly, struggling to raise three children on minimum wage. The wife discovering that her husband's gambling debts exceeded their assets, facing foreclosure with zero savings. The divorced woman in her fifties, competing against twenty-somethings for entry-level positions because she hasn't worked in decades.

Perhaps the most honest approach acknowledges both truths simultaneously. Yes, modern life places enormous pressure on women to excel in multiple arenas—the exhaustion is real, the juggling act genuinely difficult. And yes, some find deep satisfaction in dedicating themselves primarily to family life. But let's also recognize that education and career development offer something beyond cultural conformity or feminist dogma: they provide agency, options, and the economic foundation that makes other choices possible.

The Instagram influencer's aesthetic appeals to something genuine in our collective longing for simplicity, for clear roles and defined expectations. Yet I can't help wondering: what happens when the golden hour lighting fades, when the carefully curated life encounters the messy realities that visit us all? I would tell my daughter to make whatever decision calls to her heart, but to weave her safety net carefully. The future we can't yet see may depend on the choices we make today.

The Discipline of Daisies

"Justice requires us to remember: when any citizen denies his fellow, saying: 'His color is not mine or his beliefs are strange and different,' in that moment he betrays America." —Lyndon B. Johnson, 36th President of the United States

The meadowlarks called across Cherry Creek Reservoir as Aden and I pedaled through the morning quiet, our bike tires humming against asphalt still cool from the night. Golden sunflowers stood sentinel along the path, their bright heads tracking eastward like compass needles seeking magnetic north, and children laughed as they skipped in and out of the swim beach's gentle ripples. For the hundredth time, I found myself mesmerized by phototropism—that miraculous directional growth of plants toward light—a ritual that never fails to restore something essential in me.

Each spring, I fill the concrete planters on our breezeway with bright annuals, then spend the following months watching them dance in slow-motion as they orient to the changing sunlight. This year, orange daisies have become my teachers: the front pot's blooms crane straight leftward to capture dawn's first rays, while those tucked behind the house have stretched out and away on impossibly long stems, their faces twisted toward evening's last gleaming. Every time I pass their vibrant orange faces, they whisper the same urgent reminder: turn toward the light, speak only words that motivate and uplift.

Yet national events of recent weeks have rendered such acts of positivity nearly impossible. The weight of what we've witnessed—the betrayal of foundational principles, the casual cruelty masquerading as policy—sits heavy in my chest like stones I cannot dislodge. I don't feel much like celebrating this Fourth of July, though my love for this country burns as fiercely as summer sunlight.

On this Fourth we'll escape to the mountains, seeking solace in the quiet chill of alpine morning where robins wake the world with liquid songs and wildflowers unfurl their petals in defiant beauty. Perhaps we need to pretend, just for a day, that redemption remains as simple as turning toward the light and helping our neighbors do the same. Perhaps that pretending isn't naive optimism but essential practice—the daily discipline of choosing hope when despair feels more honest, of nurturing the small flames that might, collectively, illuminate our way forward.

The sunflowers don't debate their purpose or question whether their faithful tracking matters. They simply turn, again and again, toward whatever light they can find. On this Independence Day, maybe that's enough—to be like them, bending toward whatever brightness remains, trusting that our collective reaching might yet pull us from this long shadow toward something worthy of celebration.

Golden Hours and Goodbye Hugs

Roasting marshmallows over flickering campfire flames, the satisfying thud of corn hole bags finding their mark by headlight beams, dancing barefoot by the pool as sunset melted into dusk... we've savored countless twilight hours with our neighborhood families over the years. Monday evening, we seized another such golden moment from our relentless schedules to celebrate five college graduates—boys who marked their COVID-disrupted high school graduation together just four short yet transformative years ago. Now they stood before us as polished young men, diplomas in hand, headed for careers in far-flung cities stretching from coast to coast and beyond.

The logistics defied reason: two had flown in the previous night on late flights and multiple graduates would catch early morning departures the next day. Yet for three precious hours, we had them all gathered together under our familiar shade tarps. The rhythmic thump of corn hole punctuated bursts of laughter and soft melodies drifting from the bluetooth speaker. We blessed our fortune when cool breezes arrived to chase away the week's oppressive heat wave, bringing partly cloudy skies in place of the threatened thunderstorms. Hanging porch lights twinkled as summer flowers glowed in vibrant clusters of pink, yellow, and orange.

After demolishing Chipotle bowls and sweet watermelon slices, we pulled the boys from their competitive corn hole tournament. My friend Heidi had orchestrated the evening's surprise: photo books chronicling twenty years of shared memories. Basketball tournaments and baseball diamonds, water polo matches and swim team victories arranged alongside countless afternoons at Caterpillar Park's weathered benches and camping adventures on mountain peaks and beside rushing streams. The books concluded with recent graduation photos and family portraits contributed by every household.

We hadn't choreographed the presentation or prepared speeches—simply placed the five books around our wrought-iron porch table while Heidi gestured to them, saying "Now you can take your friends with you wherever you go." As each young man settled into his chair and opened their copy they began turning pages in unconscious unison, voices rising in delighted recognition over forgotten memories and cameo appearances by old friends. Parents and siblings instinctively gathered around the table, leaning over shoulders to join the chorus of "remember whens" and good-natured groans over questionable haircuts and experimental bleach jobs. The motion sensor light flooded our circle in bright illumination each time someone shifted, creating a spotlight for this impromptu ceremony as they patiently waited for everyone to finish examining each page before advancing together.

My heart swelled until it physically ached, overwhelmed by the generosity of friends, the serendipity that had woven our lives together, and the approaching pain of separation. We mothers shared a quiet moment on the porch steps, pledging to support each other as we navigate this next phase of life. These young people—our sons and their siblings—who now prepare to leave us and sculpt their independent adult lives, shine more precious than gold. Their boundless potential, infectious optimism, open-hearted generosity, relentless drive, soaring ambition, and earnest yearning to craft meaningful lives—we will feel their absence while knowing they need fresh horizons, and our fractured country desperately needs their visionary energy.

As political leaders across the globe contemplate warfare as acceptable means to dubious ends, I find it impossible to fathom the tragedy of sacrificing young people like ours (like any!) to hollow displays of force. We owe them the painstaking work required to nurture peace, to cultivate thriving communities rich with opportunities for genuine connection. This extended family that helped raise our children and document their journey shouldn't be such a rarity. We all crave these moments of authentic togetherness to flourish and thrive, and I hope that our graduates will seek to create their own chosen families as they spread their wings and soar into whatever future awaits.

A Magis Moment

"Those of us who shout the loudest about Americanism in making character assassinations are all too frequently those who, by our own words and acts, ignore some of the basic principles of Americanism-

The right to criticize;
The right to hold unpopular beliefs;
The right to protest;
The right of independent thought.

The exercise of these rights should not cost one single American citizen his reputation or his right to a livelihood  .... Freedom of speech is not what it used to be in America. It has been so abused by some that it is not exercised by others."

- Excerpt from the Declaration of Conscience, June 1, 1950, a speech by Republican Freshman Senator Margaret Chase Smith (Maine) against McCarthyism

Last night, tangled in sheets and chasing sleep, I found myself frantically bookmarking a page where Senator Margaret Chase Smith's four pillars of Americanism emerged from the novel I couldn't put down. Her courage arrests me—a freshman senator confronting the era's most formidable bully, a colleague from her own party she had once considered a friend. Senator Smith's voice cut through the Red Scare's paranoid fog, calling out the profoundly anti-American nature of McCarthy's "spy on your neighbor" tactics. Though McCarthy dismissed her and the six Republican colleagues who joined her statement as "Snow White and the Six Dwarfs," he was the one who ultimately crumbled, his witch hunt finally ending—but only after inflicting immeasurable harm on countless Americans.

The entire speech pulses with eloquence and startling relevance. Reading it sparked something I've been nurturing: hope that we, too, might rise to meet our moment's challenges. One line from Senator Smith's address rings with particular clarity across the decades: "As an American, I am shocked at the way Republicans and Democrats alike are playing directly into the Communist design of 'confuse, divide and conquer.'" The Communist design may not orchestrate our current chaos (though Russia certainly meddles), but the strategy of division remains devastating and effective.

As I delved deeper into Senator Smith's legacy, an email arrived from Regis University here in Denver. Nearly a decade has passed since I earned my Masters in Creative Writing there, yet President Salvador Aceves's message felt like a call across time—a plea to resist the proposed budget bill (HR 1) that would slash aid to first-generation college students and those most desperate for educational opportunity.

President Aceves invoked the word magis to rally his readers—a Latin term meaning "more," "deeper," "for the common good." The Jesuit concept draws me closer to my Jesuit-educated father's memory, this word that lifts us from our scattered busy-ness and demands we go deeper, standing in solidarity with those who need our strength. "This is our magis moment," President Aceves wrote.

A magis moment - the phrase tickles my mind into thinking "magic." A summons to higher values and shared purpose. How do we magically stand with our neighbors against the forces that would fracture us? Spectatorship feels like complicity now; we must become patriots in the truest sense. The more voices that rise, the more hands that act, the safer and stronger we become - the more magic we make. We have luminous examples to follow—and generations depending on our courage.

What We Share in the Sunlight

"We will block your actions with one hand, and we will have the audacity to extend the other hand so that you might take it, or your children one day might take it. Because the brief high that comes from domination is nothing compared to the infinite love and joy of true community." —Valarie Kaur, Los Angeles, June 11, 2025

"How do we make peace with our bodies? There are two different ways to look at that question: one is how do I make peace with this body? But the more important question right now in this country is how do we all go out in the world and make peace with our bodies? Because nobody's gonna care what we silently believed in our houses. They're gonna ask us—in this moment—whether we were the people who went out into the world and put our bodies and our voices on the line to protect each other." —Glennon Doyle on Jimmy Kimmel, 13 June 2025

A cluster of us settled onto the cool, shaded grass within sight of the capitol dome, our voices interrupted by a toddler's squeals as he patted a friendly dog.  We carpooled up to the No Kings rally from the suburbs south of Denver - a network of women and men who have attended protests, speeches, and marches over the years. As a group, we are willing to place our bodies momentarily in public spaces alongside millions whose bodies remain perpetually vulnerable.

I wish the viewers of Fox News could have joined us yesterday to witness children chasing iridescent bubbles, to step aside for the 98-year-old navigating her wheelchair through the throngs, to hear the drummer's rhythmic plea for peace echoing off the concrete. Two radiant young women distributed golden roses throughout the crowd, and I carried one home where it now glows from my vase of blush peonies—a defiant splash of sunshine.

Young children hoisted handmade signs or rode securely in backpacks shouldered by determined parents as we moved through a forest of cardboard signs and upside-down flags (a universal symbol of SOS - my country is in trouble). The prevailing theme balanced heartbreak with humor, embracing that familiar truth: sometimes you must laugh, or risk drowning in tears.

Contrary to the narrative peddled by right-wing media, zero danger materialized. When someone revved an engine along the parade route, my shoulders tensed reflexively. I instinctively moved closer to Aden—both of us wearing faded Harvard athletic shirts in an oddly defiant gesture—scanning for any rogue vehicle threading through our peaceful procession. The surreal irony wasn't lost on me: in today's climate, being a Harvard alumna somehow feels radical. A Presbyterian minister in his own weathered shirt even approached to ask, with genuine concern, if I worried about having "a target on my back." But there was no target, and the revving engine was merely Captain America astride his motorcycle, riding brief stretches before crowds engulfed him in celebration. His shield proclaimed "No Kings in America," and our collective cheers rippled through the summer air.

One particularly honest sign declared: "we want our dysfunctional democracy back." Democracy—government by the people, for the people—will inevitably prove messy because we humans are irrevocably flawed. Yet the democratic process remains historically more effective than strongman-style autocracy. Autocrats squander precious time and resources reinforcing their tenuous power, nurturing paranoia about potential threats, and funneling wealth toward themselves and their cronies. We witnessed this yesterday in a military parade that drained taxpayers of $25-42 million—resources that could have fed America's homeless veterans and families. Meanwhile, protesters walk for free.

Don't fear those of us who want to reclaim our country. We dream of a nation where citizens with brown or black skin navigate their days without fearing they'll be profiled and disappeared by masked figures in military fatigues. A country where healthcare benefits aren't sacrificed so the wealthiest one percent can secure another tax break. A nation where scientific research and innovation flourish rather than wither, where ignorance doesn't masquerade as policy.

We pursue this vision peacefully, with our bodies and voices raised not in isolation within our houses—agonizing privately over mounting fears—but openly, in community. We march toward that shimmering dream of justice and liberty for all, extending one hand in resistance while keeping the other perpetually open, ready to welcome anyone brave enough to take it.

We're All in This Together

The sticker selection in our mountain wine shop sprawled like a colorful map of alpine life. Snow cats and multicolored peaks competed for attention with cheerful "I'd rather be skiing" slogans rendered in bright bubble letters as we waited to purchase our vinho verde. Then one circular message with relatively modest red lettering emerged from a sky blue background, cutting through the visual noise: "We're all in this together." I didn't buy the sticker, but every time I've closed my eyes over the past three days, I can see it emblazoned against my eyelids like an afterimage burned by sudden sunlight.

My mountain weekend with old friends was orchestrated by the husband of the birthday girl we'd gathered to celebrate—a perfect gift both for her and for us. The weather blessed us with evening chill and Saturday sunshine, the previous week's rain clearing in wisps of cloud so we could savor the sun filtering through pale green aspen leaves and summer wildflowers on our meandering walk to town. Our conversation flowed like the creek beside the path: children, marriages, careers, current events, music, literature, card games. We never surrender to television during girls' weekends—our voices provide all the entertainment we need.

After twenty years of friendship, few secrets remain and honesty flows as freely as wine from our glasses. We revisited the exhausting terrain of raising young children from our current vantage point of launching adults into the world—some even walking down aisles. None of us claim family roots in Colorado, so we became each other's chosen family, weaving ourselves into an unbreakable support network. When illness knocked me sideways, one friend navigated middle school orientation for my daughter, another orchestrated the meal train, a third accompanied me to doctor appointments. We rotate through these acts of grace as life delivers its inevitable and seemingly insurmountable challenges.

Now our conversations sparkle with the kind of openness that paves the way for riotous laughter: we compared notes on wonky hips and physical therapy exercises, sheepishly apologized for digestive episodes triggered by the previous night's lentil soup, and exchanged observations about how we and our husbands navigate this strange new chapter without children underfoot year-round. A few weeks ago, I'd reflected on how difficult genuine connection has become in our screen-dominated world, and this weekend in the mountains went far toward mending those gaps in shared experience. It felt like a friendship vow renewal, and I'm profoundly grateful.

We kept our phones largely silent and our screens dark, so Sunday afternoon's news struck like cold water, shocking some of the weekend's delight right out of me. Reading about troops and guardsmen, peaceful protests and dangerous skirmishes, all I could think was that sky-blue sticker's simple proclamation: "We're all in this together." Everyone—regardless of gender, age, political affiliation, or socioeconomic background—everyone who recognizes something has gone terribly wrong, we share this moment of reckoning. I don't know what else to believe, or how else to help, except to remind us all of our chosen families, our intentional communities, and the universal longing we harbor to feel safe and secure in the world we're creating together.

Perhaps that's why the sticker continues to float behind my closed eyes—not as naive optimism, but as essential truth. In our fractured moment, we need each other more than ever.

The Two-Track Life

A dear friend once observed that life perpetually runs on two tracks—a profound truth that has echoed through my thoughts for years. At any given moment, existence barrels along the high track, gathering momentum through adventures, meaningful connections, invigorating workouts, and robust health. Yet simultaneously it careens down the lower track, accumulating moments of loss, waves of overwhelm, and the inevitable physical challenges that accompany the mortal journey. This duality proves both exhausting and impossible to ignore.

Ezra Klein recently explored this very concept in a podcast interview with writer Kathryn Schulz, discussing her compelling memoir Lost and Found—a title that conjures childhood memories of classroom tables laden with forgotten mittens and lunch boxes while simultaneously offering a deeper metaphor for fate's capricious nature. Schulz articulates what many of us struggle to express, captured in a passage that resonates with particular clarity in these turbulent times:

"But even in the most peaceable of times, the extent to which we are confronting the world beyond our own immediate reality is a choice. There's always boundless suffering. There's always boundless beauty. It really is a matter of: Where do we look? And it's tough. You both have to do both at once—and can't do both at once. The question of what kind of balance you strike is infinitely interesting to me." 

Last night, I slipped away from book club early, seeking rest before 6am swim practice. Yet peace proved elusive as my mind churned with the political realities we'd dissected—shared frustrations, simmering anger, tentative hopes for moving forward. I attempted my familiar countdown from 100, desperate to abandon the evening's conversation and its underlying anxieties. Somewhere beyond 800, a restless sleep finally claimed me.

After this morning's workout and my requisite second cup of coffee, William called from Chiang Mai, his voice thick with culture shock. Fresh from a week in Japan's ordered precision, he now found himself navigating Thailand's vibrant chaos—an extreme example of balancing adventure's endless "ands" with finite reserves of energy. He and his travel companions wrestle with sleep deprivation, constant newness, foreign languages, and demanding physical activity. While their experience represents an amplified version, we all perform similar juggling acts within today's relentless pace.

Where do we look? The question haunts me as I consider Schulz's words. How do we honor suffering—both our own and others'—while simultaneously embracing joy in our fleeting existence? That narrow four-inch balance beam where Olympic gymnasts tumble offers another apt metaphor for this perpetual challenge. Yet in this moment, given our country's precarious state, that slender wooden beam seems more forgiving than the demands of our daily realities.

Perhaps the answer lies not in achieving perfect balance, but in accepting the wobble—recognizing that we cannot simultaneously hold all of life's contradictions without occasionally stumbling. The grace exists not in the steadiness, but in the getting back up, in choosing where to direct our gaze despite the dizzying motion of those dual tracks beneath our feet.

What We Share in the Dark

Our youngest son compelled us to attend the IMAX screening of Mission Impossible: Final Reckoning over the rainy Memorial Day weekend. Rob and I rarely venture to theaters, preferring our couch and easy chair with a handy remote for strategic snack breaks. But we've caught a few MI films theatrically, and the franchise's dramatic action and special effects justify the outing.

Final Reckoning could have benefited from a more ruthless editor, but delivered the promised high-stakes action. In one unbearably tense sequence, Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) tumbles around an unstable submarine 500 feet beneath the surface. I had to avert my eyes to keep my heart rate within reasonable bounds, and scanning our fellow theatergoers, I found every gaze locked on the screen—hands covering mouths, chewing suspended, bodies leaning forward as the music swelled.

The shared reactions reassured me because I often wonder if I'm alone in my responses. This collective experience somehow amplified my emotion, making it harder to dismiss the action as "just a movie." I looked around again near the film's end when Ving Rhames' character, Luther Stickell, speaks through a recording. His words prove inspiring and uplifting, and this time I watched hands rise to wipe away tears, heads nodding as the message echoed through the theater:

"Any hope for a better future comes from willing that future into being, a future reflecting the measure of good within ourselves. And all that is good inside us is measured by the good we do for others. We all share the same fate—the same future, the sum of our infinite choices. One such future is built on kindness, trust and mutual understanding, should we choose to accept it, driving without question towards a light we cannot see—not just for those we hold close but for those we'll never meet." —MI: Final Reckoning

More inspiring than most graduation addresses or recent political rhetoric, these words resonated beyond the theater's sound system. The writers seemed to speak directly to millions of moviegoers, asking us to consider what future we create daily, what world we want to inhabit. Observing the theater, many appeared equally moved, amplifying the effect. When the credits rolled, we applauded—something movie audiences once did routinely. My son stared wide-eyed, having never witnessed this ritual. Perhaps we needed that applause because we all crave shared experiences and inspiration.

The irony isn't lost on me that I found this connection in a darkened theater, surrounded by strangers, while working to maintain deeper friendships in my actual life. But sometimes the most unexpected moments remind us what we're missing—and what remains possible when we're willing to be moved together.

Connecting IRL

Men "wake up at 30 or 40 and say, 'I have no friends,'" notes Sam Graham-Felsen in his New York Times  piece of May 25. "They actually have a lifetime of friendships. But really, the issue is that they haven't put in the effort they've needed to. Guys forget that friendship is a relationship—it requires watering." Among suggested watering techniques: "TCS," which stands for text weekly, call monthly, see quarterly.

The sentiment echoes through Alison Espach's novel The Wedding People, (Henry Holt and Co. 2025) where characters lament their shrinking social circles: "I know. I pretty much don't know anyone anymore," one says. "Right? The only person I know now is basically my mom."

Every day, my inbox fills with LinkedIn and Facebook connection requests from virtual strangers—people I've never met or barely remember. I delete them reflexively, though the irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, shutting down digital overtures while craving real connection, someone to share the weight of menopause, children launching into adulthood, aging parents, and the relentless churn of alarming headlines.

My neighborhood friendships remain solid bedrock—women who walk and hike together, exchange hopeful texts, gather for book clubs and occasional weekend getaways, host potlucks where spouses mingle over wine and conversation. But busy-ness threatens to erode even these connections. We're pulled in every direction by emotional family demands, challening careers, and marriages that need tending.

When our kids were small, we gathered daily at the playground after pickup, dissecting the minutiae of our lives while children climbed and swung. Now we're lucky to manage quarterly gatherings where so much ground needs covering that evenings blur past in breathless summaries—trips, visits, life events floating through the air like paper airplanes, dipping and dodging before disappearing.

The pandemic certainly fractured something fundamental about friendship, drawing us inward like turtles into our shells, boxing us into separate houses where relationships flickered to life only through screens. I've never fully recovered my instinct to reach out first, perhaps too comfortable in the safety of husband, children, and work colleagues. But pangs of loss strike when I realize months have passed without seeing a dear friend—no shared celebration of our sons' college graduations, no updates on her ambitious landscaping project.

Making new, deeper connections feels like swimming upstream. At Masters swimming, friendly hellos and how-are-yous punctuate my arrival, but there's little opportunity for real conversation when your head spends most of its time underwater. My texts suggesting coffee dates disappear into digital silence, leaving relationships as shallow as the children's wading pool.

Graham-Felsen captures this modern friendship drought perfectly, even including comedian John Mulaney's sharp observation from Saturday Night Live: "If you think your dad has friends, you're wrong. Your mom has friends, and they have husbands. Those are not your dad's friends." While my husband actually maintains his friendships better than most, work and family obligations still vacuum up most of his available hours.

Graham-Felsen's insights apply far beyond men—to anyone navigating our modern world where social media, emails, and texts create the mirage of connection without delivering genuine intimacy. Perhaps it's time to do better, to become the friend I'd want to have. After all, these connections to friends and family represent our only true wealth.

Hope Blooming from the Mountains to the Prairies

I've just emerged from a whirlwind of college graduations—exhausted yet filled with hope that this fresh wave of educated, passionate young minds will help resurrect a forward-thinking, common-good mindset in our society. From the cavernous Events Center at CU Boulder to the elegant theater at University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana, the commencement messages echoed with purpose: forge new paths, create meaningful change, develop ethical code, craft empathetic art. The unmistakable pride radiating from families, the unbridled joy of graduates, and yes, the stirring notes of Pomp and Circumstance all fueled our graduation weekends with a special energy.

Aden and I accompanied Nana to Chicago to see my niece (and goddaughter) Julia receive her degree from U of Illinois. We savored family celebrations at the rustic Firehouse of Chicago and at Biaggi's in Champaign (or perhaps it was Urbana—the twin cities blur together). Later, we gathered around worn wooden tables at Murphy's Pub, diving into drinking games where Nana, nursing her water with surprising competitive spirit, invented most of the rules to "Toast to the Governor." In a moment of unexpected sweetness, a young stranger passed Nana a vibrant bouquet of daisies through an open window—she attempted to gift them to Julia, but when my goddaughter graciously declined, Nana held court from her corner seat, flowers proudly displayed as we cycled through rounds of Irish poker and countless introductions to Julia's friends and their beaming families.

Brilliant sunshine blessed both graduation weekends, casting a golden glow on radiant faces and illuminating the contrasting landscapes—majestic mountains framing Boulder and gentle, tree-dotted plains stretching across Illinois. The ceremonial robes bestowed a democratic dignity on all graduates: deep navy blue with vibrant orange sashes at Illinois, while CU's black robes were adorned with distinguishing gold, purple, orange, and green sashes marking different fields of study. Across both campuses, impromptu celebrations with lemonade, water, and donuts materialized for parents and professors while recent graduates, still slightly bleary-eyed from previous celebrations, eagerly plotted their evening revelries.

Commencement speakers delicately balanced celebrating achievement with preparing these young adults for the complex, ever-shifting world awaiting them. It's no small feat to honor their accomplishments while simultaneously steeling them for inevitable setbacks and inspiring them to become architects of much-needed change. I find myself profoundly hoping these bright souls maintain their courage and determination—finding secure footholds within our society's somewhat fragile framework and propelling themselves forward and upward at every opportunity. 

A Symphony of Goodbyes at Graduation

The bagpipes announcing the University of Colorado's commencement ceremony echo through my living room as I grapple with William's final days of college. I'm transported back to those same haunting notes of "Amazing Grace" drifting across Harvard's Quincy House courtyard three decades ago, when I faced adulthood with a hangover, misty eyes, and boundless uncertainty.

William—true to collegiate tradition—warned us he'd be "under the weather" from celebratory revelry. We'll skip the stadium ceremony for the more intimate computer science department festivities, where his name will trigger joyful cheers from his siblings as he crosses that symbolic stage. The grandparents will join us, creating a beautiful tapestry of generational support.

The nearly 22 years since William's birth feel impossible—those early days that crawled by, the whirlwind of youth sports and elementary school, then the increasingly swift current of high school and college. Now William joins his sibling Aden in adulthood, preparing to launch his professional life in New York this August.

My neighborhood text threads buzz with fellow parents of graduating seniors. We confess our contradictory emotions: fierce pride alongside disbelief, profound joy tangled with quiet heartache as we close the final chapter of our children's dependent years.

The world awaiting them seems harsher than the one we entered at their age—though perhaps that's merely the anxious lens of parenthood. These graduates, marching across my screen with sunglasses glinting, embrace the morning light with an infectious optimism that beautifully counters the ceremonial music guaranteed to moisten any parent's eyes.

The Power of a Mini-Adventure

 "Things look so bad everywhere / In this whole world, what is fair?

We walk blind and we try to see / Falling behind in what could be.

Bring me a higher love / Bring me a higher love, oh - oh..."

- Lyrics from "Higher Love" by Steve Winwood

"Man, what a hell of a year it's been / Keep on bluffin' but I just can't win

Drowned my sorrows, but they learned to swim / Man, what a hell of a year it's been."

- "Lyrics from "Good News" by Shaboozey

I embarked on a mini-adventure yesterday. Defying the persistent hip and lower back discomfort that seems unavoidable in post-menopause, I ventured to Denver's upscale Cherry Creek district for a third ear piercing in each lobe. My two existing piercings were done ages ago (clumsily, by a teenager with a nail gun), while Rowan, a Cherry Creek boutique, employs nurses who pierce with needles using hypoallergenic titanium posts. Quite the upgrade from the Torrance mall!

Aden accompanied me to Rowan and offered encouragement throughout the procedure as nurse Lauren precisely positioned the third sparkling post. Once the sting subsided, we strolled the streets sipping iced lavender almond milk lattes, admiring the vibrant red and yellow tulips and flowering trees that heralded spring. At Whole Foods, we purchased gluten-free cinnamon rolls and savored them on a shaded bench while tree blossoms drifted onto our plates. The thoroughfares remained relatively quiet early Sunday morning, populated mainly by pedestrians and post-yoga diners filling outdoor seating on this balmy day.

Following our impromptu breakfast, I took the scenic route to a competition where several of my swimmers awaited coaching. I hadn't traveled those roads in over a decade; my last journey along that path involved taking the children berry-picking at a Brighton farm. My playlist delivered one perfect track after another, and I relished this departure from routine even as my thoughts drifted toward circumstances I'd been attempting to avoid. Confronting life lately has proven challenging, and the lyrics seemed to acknowledge that struggle while simultaneously offering glimmers of optimism.

Speaking of optimism, Rob and I indulged in another mini-excursion last week; we both ducked out of work early Wednesday and headed to Boulder where William's startup (Measures AI) had reached the finals of Boulder's New Venture Challenge. Their founder delivered an exceptional pitch with impressive slides. We delighted in hearing all six presentations (three per category) though naturally favored Measures, which secured runner-up status by a narrow margin and received a $10,000 award. Not shabby compensation for an undergraduate senior project launched just last summer.

Afterward, we treated William to drinks at a nearby rooftop lounge, settled by the fire with a view of the 16th Street Mall showcasing its own beds of purple and pink tulips. Capturing moments of joy with our children and each other has made 2025 tolerable thus far. Breaking routine, viewing familiar landscapes from fresh perspectives, and embracing spontaneity reminds me that I can't always predict what awaits. For the price of fuel, a few hours, and some coffee, unexpected delights and welcome news might be just around the corner.

Instructions for Living

 "Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it."

-Mary Oliver, "Instructions for Living a Life"

"Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up. And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang."

- Mary Oliver, "I Worried"

Our three adult children joined us yesterday for church on the couch, Easter edition. While the cats meandered about in quest of warm laps, we immersed ourselves in the sermon, which incorporated Mary Oliver's three-fold instructions for living fully. Rev Mark highlighted how eleven disciples couldn't fathom the resurrection, their anxiety and trepidation compelling them to sequester themselves behind locked doors, while Peter alone embraced the women's extraordinary news. In that era, women were deemed unreliable witnesses, yet our children were visibly stunned that the proclamation "Jesus lives" stirred amazement only in Peter, who hastened to investigate firsthand.

Our 21-year-old, particularly incredulous, expressed disbelief at this revelation. "How did I not know this?" he questioned, leaning forward intently. "When did they finally celebrate?" I explained the gradual nature of acceptance, noting that Thomas required tangible evidence before acknowledging the resurrection's reality. 

Throughout the day, I turned William's surprise over repeatedly in my thoughts, like one would handle a smooth worry stone nestled in a pocket. Initially, amusement washed over me—how aging often unveils less palatable truths about the mystical narratives of childhood. Then, recollecting my own recent awakening to the numerous factions actively dismantling democracy from within, my age-derived smugness evaporated instantaneously. 

Returning to the Easter message, our pastor chose not to dwell on the disciples' skepticism or the physical confirmation later offered through Christ's presence. Instead, he illuminated Peter's profound astonishment. Fascinatingly, the Greek term describing Peter's emotional state appears just once throughout scripture—here, on this transformative third day.

After brunch Aden and William accompanied me for an early afternoon stroll. Lacking proper walking footwear, we wandered unhurriedly, absorbing the breeze and warm sunshine as they caressed the flourishing trees and emerging perennials. We paused deliberately—inhaling the lilacs' fragrance, admiring the delicate carpet of fallen petals beneath our feet, peering over the creek's edge in search of ducks. Together, we surrendered to wonder.

The day's splendor and precious family moments replenished my spirit, temporarily alleviating my persistent concerns about our nation's trajectory. Yet deep disappointment surfaced in the morning when the communal prayers in the service encompassed ourselves, our community, and our world—but conspicuously omitted our country. Even our devotions, I suspect, have become potentially divisive terrain. My family swiftly hushed my observation, protective of their Easter contemplation and I stayed quiet, vowing to preserve their amazement.

 This morning, we collectively grieve Pope Francis's passing—the departure of a virtuous man who strived to embody and transmit Christ's authentic teachings throughout our troubled world. Despite his (undoubtedly stressful) obligation to meet with American officials during his final days, I hope his Easter departure brought serenity. His absence - the absence of a life well-lived - will create a profound void as he seemed to truly understand God's instructions for living.

Pushing Back on Evil

"Evil turned out not to be a grand thing. Not sneering emperors with world-conquering designs. Not cackling demons plotting in the darkness beyond the world. It was small men with their small acts and their small reasons. It was selfishness and carelessness and waste. It was bad luck, incompetence, and stupidity. It was violence divorced from conscience or consequence. It was high ideals, even, and low methods." - Joe Abercrombie, Red Country, as quoted in "Sunbeams" in The Sun Magazine April 2025

Growing up, my father often pondered the question of evil. "How can so much evil exist in a world created by a benevolent Creator God?" he would ask. We explored this whenever his philosophical side emerged, revealing the lasting impact of his Georgetown Jesuit education after years of working life.

My parents raised us Catholic and represented the best of that tradition—socially liberal, curious, and questioning. (Mom would still attend church if her small parish had a more open-minded priest, which sadly isn't the case.) Despite all our discussions, the question of evil - of course - remains unanswered.

The latest issue (592) of The Sun Magazine tackles this difficult subject. In an interview, writer and editor Randall Sullivan suggests that God permits evil because we have free will. To eliminate evil completely would mean creating copies of God rather than independent, free-thinking people. Sullivan also believes that "people are more good than bad," a view I want to share, though current events make this hard to believe.

The reality is that evil and harmful people do exist. Our freedom lies in how we respond to evil—whether small and petty or grand and destructive. I find strength in the words of author Ursula K. Le Guin, also featured in this month's "Sunbeams" section: "It is very hard for evil to take hold of the unconsenting soul." (A Wizard of Earthsea)

Last week, about 5 million people worldwide showed their refusal to accept the wrongs happening in our country. May we continue to resist, stand firm, and recognize our duty to oppose "selfishness and carelessness and waste," to not consent.

Where the Waters Meet

There's nothing like being buffeted by relentless winds, pummeled by swells, and dragged by invisible currents to momentarily liberate you from an existential crisis. As I cleaved through the briny water last Saturday, towing my fluorescent orange safety buoy behind me and praying that my trajectory led toward the finish line rather than the vast Atlantic, my mind detached from all political anxieties and emotional burdens. While not precisely tranquil, the exhilaration and physical ordeal honed my focus to a razor's edge, cultivating profound gratitude for life, vitality, and the privilege of sharing extraordinary experiences with kindred spirits.

Rob and I embarked for St. Kitts last Wednesday, with an interim stop in Miami. I was astonished to discover the island lay a further three hours' flight from Florida—I did not conduct thorough research after finalizing arrangements with SwimTrek to attempt the Nevis to St. Kitts ocean crossing and race. We descended onto the West Indies on an aircraft brimming with aspiring swimmers, mingling and conversing as we located the shuttle destined for our respective hotels. The atmosphere enveloped us in warmth, with tropical clouds suspended like cotton sculptures against bright blue skies, and palm fronds rustling rhythmically in the breeze (which would soon emerge as our formidable adversary).

That evening, we crossed the street to meet up with Colorado friends at the Marriott, where I unexpectedly collided with my closest friend from youth swimming (with two teammates we held the 200-yard free relay record for 13-14 year-olds in New England for nearly two decades). Shocked greetings, warm hugs and hurried introductions ensued—we hadn't encountered one another in over four years and had never been introduced to each other's husbands. What an amazing coincidence—gratitude to the universe!—she wasn't even aware of the swimming event but merely vacationing.

Our practice session the subsequent day proved illuminating, as SwimTrek guided us into the ocean where the Atlantic converges with the Caribbean Sea, acquainting us with the tumultuous waves and treacherous currents awaiting us during the 2.65-mile competition. The practice only offered 1.5 kilometers, yet as we navigated back into the placid waters of the bay, several participants decided to opt out of the next day's race. Apprehension intensified when event coordinators announced escalating winds forecast for race day and a potential alteration of the course toward a safer, coastline trajectory.

I silently prayed that we could complete the crossing—it was on my bucket list for nearly a decade to accomplish a channel crossing. The English Channel waters are too frigid, the Maui Roughwater swim appeared too remote and unforgivingly turbulent, so I settled on this challenge. Ha! The fates cackled in response.

The water radiated warmth and the sky was unblemished on race day. We rose at 5 a.m. to board transportation to the shoreline at St. Kitts, then ferry across to Nevis, the race's origin point. The bumpiness of our ferry ride amplified swimmer concerns about the swells, and our briefing regarding wind and current diverted my attention from seeking sea turtles to contemplating survival. I started the race alongside friends from Colorado but promptly lost visual contact as my safety buoy entangled in a rope in the bay, requiring de-tangling before I could proceed.

The water's salinity was so sharp I had to block the rear of my throat with my tongue to prevent inadvertent swallowing. As we emerged into the unprotected ocean, waves of two to three feet rocked us laterally, compelling me to breathe predominantly to my left to avoid waves in my face. Throughout the journey, I periodically switched to breaststroke to locate the prominent hill serving as my visual reference. I inadvertently collided with several clusters of swimmers, including one containing my friend Sue, but inevitably drifted away from them. The waves impeded our visibility of one another and obscured the finish line. A short rain storm pelted us with cool freshwater, but blew over in a hurry.

Four hundred and eighty-nine individuals registered, yet only 379 completed the course. Many withdrew prior to the start, given the intimidating conditions, and approximately 50 participants were extracted by support personnel, either at the swimmer's request or because they had swum so off-course that completion within the three-hour maximum became impossible.

Sue and I finished virtually simultaneously—she maintained a slight lead and paused for me, extending her hand to assist me as I staggered onto the beach so we could cross the finish line together. Unaccustomed to competitors waiting for me, I was overwhelmed with emotion (and exhaustion). We had both navigated remarkably efficient routes, covering 4.19 kilometers versus the absolute distance of 4.1 kilometers, which conserved our energy and minimized our distress. Some swimmers were displaced by the current and endured an additional kilometer or two (rendering their subsequent struggle against the current to finish truly heroic).

Rob supplied us with endless water as we rested, attempting to regain our mental faculties and hydration. Two of my companions placed in their age category (first and second in the 60-69 classification), an impressive achievement, while I secured fifth position in mine (50-59). This exceeded my expectations; I had intended to proceed at a more leisurely pace and appreciate the surroundings, but conditions rendered pausing impossible!

In summation—nothing quite compares to an adventure punctuated by acute moments of perceived mortality to reinvigorate one's zest for existence and temporarily banish life's mundane concerns.

AOC and Bernie Sanders: Stand Up for Democracy

 In part to battle the existential angst I've wrestled with since November and in part to feel solidarity with like-minded citizens, I went down to Civic Center Park in Denver yesterday to rally for Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio- Cortez. We found comfort in upwards of 30,000 new friends and my daughter, Aden, who miraculously found us in the crowd. The message: Trump and his oligarch bros are stealing from us and from our country and they are ripping up the constitution to replace democracy with mob-style rule.

This message crosses all party lines and they (we) hope it appeals to anyone with common sense, who cares what happens to their neighbors. Neither party in our beleaguered two-party system is doing a good job of standing up for our rights and our inheritance as citizens - the Social Security, Medicaid and Medicare that we have paid into for all of our lives.

Consider that First Amendment rights are under attack on multiple fronts: activists who are legally in the United States have been arrested for saying things that Trump does not like. In Denver, immigrant and labor activist (and immigrant) Jeanette Vizguerra was arrested at her job in Target without a valid order of deportation. Jeanette was bound in chains and hauled off to the GEO - operated detention center in Aurora, her arrest occurring in front of her daughter who reported the agents said "we finally got you!'

Trump has sued CBS and ABC because he does not like the facts that they report. His new compadre Jeff Bezos announced that the editorial pages of the Washington Post could only cover certain topics, and his opinion section editor resigned in protest. We cannot assume that the attacks on free speech will stop there.

Our Fourth Amendment rights are also under attack. Trump wants his ICE agents to be able to enter homes without a warrant. Such an action has been (since the Constitution was amended with the Bill of Rights) illegal and would infringe on basic civil liberties. We need to wake up, talk to our neighbors and organize, and we need to do it now - or these changes will roll over all of us like a tidal wave and soon our peaceful and legal marches, rallies and protests will be under attack from this administration.

Our veterans, amazing men and women who put their lives on the line for this country in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan, are having their services frayed by cuts made to the Veterans Administration. When Sanders pointed out the bravery that our troops showed in fighting to preserve our democracy, and the shocking way they (and our democracy) are being treated now, my stomach turned over. My father was in Vietnam with the Army and his exposure to Agent Orange most likely caused his terminal illness - I can't believe the cretins currently running our government think they can remove support for people like my dad.

One more thought to leave you with: last Saturday (March 15, 2025), Trump's administration defied a court order that says he could not deport Venezuelan immigrants to El Salvador. Despite a back-and-forth between the judge and the administration over when, exactly, the planes took off it has been noted that the second plane took off after the order came down. Consider then what power the courts actually have if the executive branch ignores them? Our system of checks and balances is coming down around us - Trump is immune and his pardon power and shamelessness mean that his cronies are nearly so.

This news hurricane leaves us all depressed and dispirited, but now is the time to fight back. However you choose to participate, it's time to organize, or we will lose the form of government that has brought relative peace, prosperity and influence to our country for almost 250 years. Our government needs to change - we can all agree on that - but considered, thoughtful change, not a process that strips our government and sells it for parts.

Girls in Sports

 "Previous studies have found that 70% of children quit sports by age 13, and by age 14 girls quit at twice the rate of boys."

"Reasons participants gave for abandoning sports were coaching issues, poor body image comparison from social media and the competitive pressure of the sport."

Nemours Childrens Health

I started coaching for a USA Swimming affiliated year-round club team in September. I stepped back for two and a half months during girls' high school season, so I have really only coached club for three to four months. I enjoy the kids immensely, and I am so happy that some of my high school swimmers joined me with the club team to keep training through spring, summer and fall.

One big concern I have with youth sports is the number of young teens who quit sports by age 14 - particularly the girls. Participating in sports gave me confidence, a lifetime addiction to working out, a healthy overall lifestyle, and physical strength. Swimming did the same thing for my older son and daughter. My daughter and I still lift weights together (she lifts more!) and I love to see the number of women who are comfortable in the weight room. One young woman recently came up to Aden after bench press and whispered "you have great arms." Fabulous!

But why do so many girls leave? I have much more research to do, but the Nemours summary rings true. Common sense indicates that coaching has something to do with it, along with body image issues, development in puberty making girls uncomfortable in a changing body, and competitive pressure. As a coach, I try to ratchet down that pressure, focusing on technique, process, and each swimmer bettering themselves. A major emphasis for our group is having fun, trying to get to know each other (despite having heads underwater most of the time), and learning technique.

Striving for excellence as an individual can be separate from a focus on goal times and how well you do compared to others. Striving for excellence as a team can mean building community, teaching young people how to work through adversity and overcome obstacles, as well as swimming fast. In this crazy world, sports can prepare young people for the challenges of adulthood and provide them with a safe place to come when their school or social networks provoke angst.

I'm in the learning stages of supporting youth, especially young women, in staying with sport, and I can't wait to learn more and do it better.

AI and the Creative Process: Finding Balance

After the girls' high school swim season ended, I discovered I had amassed over 300 pages of swim workouts scattered across my computer. On a whim, I uploaded them all to Claude, the AI assistant my husband regularly uses. Now, when I need to create new swimming sets, Claude helps me design them using both my historical workout data and the specific focus I want for that day. It's remarkably effective—and yes, a tiny bit unsettling. But I still maintain control over the final product, exercising my judgment on any output, which helps me feel like I'm still "driving the bus."

Rob helped me set up my project with Claude and urged me to test out different scenarios. According to Amazon Web Services, as much as 57% of all online content is generated by AI. As consumers of information,  it's important to recognize this fact and to be aware of how the technology works. 

My mother is visiting from Montana, and we've just revived a children's book project we started during the pandemic. I have three rough drafts and valuable feedback from a brilliant member of my writing club. Yesterday, we took our first chapter to Claude with specific requests: put the action first, trim the exposition, and refine the dialogue to authentically reflect both the character's age and the late 1940s setting.

The experience is fascinating. After each reading, we tell Claude what needs adjustment and watch as edits appear in real-time. We read, suggest changes, and iterate again. As someone with an English degree and a Master's in Creative Writing, I should be horrified by these efficiencies and mourn the diminishing need for writing expertise. Instead, I find myself more excited than upset. After all, the words originated with me, and the editorial direction remains mine. Claude never tires and never takes my changes personally. I keep reassuring myself that the quality of the final product depends on the quality of my input—at least for now.

My husband reminds me that AI is growing more sophisticated and capable of learning every day. AI already shapes many aspects of our daily lives, from how we shop online to how we connect with news, friends, and products through apps. I acknowledge the potential dangers when AI is used unethically, and I remain wary of the AI industry's growing influence in Washington.

But right now, I'm simply enjoying the experience of collaboratively rewriting a book with my mother—and Claude—hopefully transforming it into something truly engaging for readers.

PS - This blog post was also edited by Claude. ;-)