Collective Effervescence

Rex claimed my desk chair as soon as I finished my emails this morning, stretching across the black cushion and immediately decorating it with blond cat hairs. I took his occupation as valid reason for procrastination—an excuse to do chores and to read my book, while my thoughts churned over this blog entry.

An Instagram reel lodged in my head this morning: "Don't let your own imperfections keep you from doing something that gives you joy." Since college, when my professors and fellow students demonstrated greater mastery of writing, I've let my flaws drag on my desire to write, creating excuse after excuse. This morning it was the cat. Other days, it's a persuasive editorial in the NY Times that instills a nagging sense that I have nothing meaningful to contribute. The imposter syndrome wins, and the writing doesn't happen.

But Rachel Feintzig's excellent column in yesterday's Times offered positive motivation to write. Her op ed: "Spend All Your Disposable Income on Events That Make You Feel Alive" described attending a Noah Kahan concert with her family and discovered something called "collective effervescence"—a term explained in the piece as: "when you're surrounded by people experiencing the exact same emotion as you, the feeling multiplies, refracts, comes back to you heightened."

I experienced this at a Noah Kahan concert in Denver with my daughter—40,000 voices singing beloved lyrics, the roar pushing back like a physical force. My voice disappeared into the collective sound and came back transformed. The expense was not insignificant but the collective joy magnified and heightened the experience to the level of emotional catharsis.

I'd add hiking Colorado's mountains to the list of events that make you feel alive. Though most hikes don't require excess spending, we splurge on a hotel room the night before any major climb of a 14,000 foot peak. We arrive at the trailhead in pure darkness and hike for two hours without a clear view of where we are going. The mountain makes you earn the sunrise and the view—through sweat, burning thighs, lungs gasping for oxygen at altitude. An Instagram meme I saw this morning captured it: "The beach lets you escape reality while the mountain makes you earn it."

Sunday at Mt. Harvard, wedged between two boulders with my back plastered to cold rock, I could see layers upon layers of Rocky Mountain ranges. The view was worth every step. But the final boulder required gripping a narrow ledge with fingertips - no ropes and no firm ground to land on, not for 1,000 feet. My fear of heights installed me in a crevice while Aden's courage pushed her up and over. I smiled to hear her taking photos with the few fellow climbers hardy enough to reach the small summit. We shared our own collective effervescence (through the boulder) in the relief and joy of reaching the top.  And on the descent, my knees, hips, and feet all joined in their own collective chorus of complaint and doubt that it's a good idea to keep trekking so far.

Yet I'll do it again. Just as I'll sing badly at the next concert. Just as I'll keep writing despite the voice that says I'm not good enough. Because here's what these three pursuits share: they're worth doing even when you're not perfect. Even when they hurt. Even when you feel like you don't belong. The collective effervescence—whether it's 40,000 voices at a concert, strangers at a mountain summit swapping stories, or the simple act of putting words on a page for others to read—that's what makes me feel alive. The collective effervescence accepts our human frailties and drowns them out for brief moments, magnifying shared joys, passions and triumphs over imperfections.

So I'm moving the cat off my chair. I'm writing this. And I'm keeping my eye out for the next concert, the next mountain, the next opportunity to participate in something larger than my own doubt.

Growing Pains

We have a brand new water polo club at the high school where I coach swimming, and the twenty-six-person team includes three players with experience. The other twenty-three are strong swimmers and solid athletes willing to learn an entirely new game in seven weeks. Watching their leg drills and head-up sprints resurrects memories of my own water polo days—treading water with full gallon jugs overhead, crossing the Blodgett pool dive well corner to corner, chlorine burning my nose as exertion burned my arms and legs.

Yesterday brought the team's first scrimmage against last year's state championship team. Four quarters of play provided eye-opening drives, defensive schemes, shot opportunities, passing sequences—for ninety percent of our athletes, every moment was new territory. On the bench as an assistant coach, I fielded rapid-fire questions: How much contact is legal? What does the ref signal mean when the whistle blows? How do you read the entire pool instead of watching one narrow slice?

Our kids' curiosity thrilled both coaches. They shouted encouragement to teammates in the water, debated offensive tactics they'd use when they got their turn, improved visibly quarter by quarter. The phrase "growth mindset" fits—though it's become a buzzword, it applies perfectly to strong athletes willing to take up a brand new sport and climb from beginner to proficient in seven weeks. We believe they'll make it.

Their willingness to look new, or raw, while learning inspires me—because I'm wrestling with my own new sport, golf, which remains a mystery every time I step onto the course. During practice, I drive and putt with acceptable mediocrity. On the course, my brain short-circuits. The ball lands in trees, creeks, sand traps, or occasionally—miraculously—on the green. My main sports—swimming, hiking, biking, weightlifting—don't require the fine hand-eye coordination that connects a club's small surface with a tiny dimpled ball. Every solid contact instead of whiff or duff feels like victory.

Playing with witnesses destroys what little confidence I have. Last Sunday I connected my 3-wood off the tee (hallelujah!) and nearly reached the green from the men's markers. The rush lasted exactly one hole. On the next tee, that same 3-wood whiffed three times, then dribbled five feet forward into the downslope toward the creek. Storm clouds rolled in and I prayed for the weather to end our round. The humiliation burned hotter than the Colorado sun and isn't so quickly erased.

Yet I keep showing up and swinging at that tiny ball. I keep accepting that some days I'll look ridiculous in front of three strangers. Being a beginner at my age may be harder than it was as a teenager—we live in a culture that celebrates proficiency, not raw newness. I feel the gap between my mind's image and my body's execution. I wince at bad swings. But there's something valuable in that willingness to be incompetent in public, to keep learning alongside much younger athletes who are doing exactly the same thing in water polo. As one of my playing partners said last Sunday: "If you're not growing, you're standing still."

The water polo team plays four games this Saturday. I can't wait to watch them. With each shift in the water, they improve—hesitation replaced by hunger, initial fear giving way to competitive instinct. They're learning what I'm learning on the golf course: that growth requires looking amateurish first. That trying matters more than succeeding. That the willingness to be a beginner, at any age, is its own kind of strength. I have a front-row seat to that courage. That's everything.

The Cat Talks Back

The cat talks to me more now that all the children have flown the coop. Rex sits at the top of the tree, turns his back when I ask too many questions, then "errs" at alarming volume each time a commercial blares on TV. He's apparently picked up the conversational burden since the kids left. I don't mind the increased cat commentary, though I could do without him walking across the keyboard in protest—which he's doing right now. (The black cat watches from a distance, observing our new dynamic, unsure of his role in this two-person household.)

When Rob and I said goodbye to Daniel last Friday, none of us cried. At twenty, our youngest felt ready to move into his own place and conduct his activities—study and otherwise—away from our prying eyes and endless questions. His roommate seemed solid, the bedroom spacious with an en suite bathroom (a luxury that never existed in my college days).

Here's the thing: Rob and I have been training for this for seven years, ever since we first dropped Aden off at Sewall Hall on the CU campus. Since that first painful move out, there have been many transitions—apartments, moves back home, moves to Brooklyn, launches into new lives. The long runway gave me time to rebuild my coaching career, deepen my friendships, and figure out who I am when the house isn't full of chaos. I needed those years to prepare, honestly. Empty nesting didn't blindside us because we've been walking toward it step by step.

The real surprise of empty nesting? When I go to bed with a clean house, I wake to the same clean house. No fast food wrappers breeding in the kitchen. No shoes colonizing the hallway. No mysterious dishes migrating to the bedroom. Just Rex's toys scattered like landmines across the floor. It's akin to a miracle.

I told a friend the other day how I used to follow the kids around when they were toddlers—systematically emptying baskets of toys, then methodically re-stuffing them, then moving to the next disaster zone. A robotic loop. What a waste of time. Twenty-plus years later, we've come full circle, and now I find myself counting down to holidays when the shoes, glasses, and dishes will multiply and roost in every wrong corner of the house. When the mess returns and means they're home.

For now, Rob and I savor the quiet rooms, pristine counters, and unchanging fridge contents, with only two cats to keep us in line. But I'm already looking forward to the glorious chaos of their return.

The Pain Cave

Last Wednesday night I lay in a hotel bed next to Rob, trying to fall asleep at 8 p.m. with a cough drop clenched between my teeth, blackout curtains drawn tight, the AC whirring. My mind kept turning over the hike ahead. For the second year running, Aden and I had planned a trip to Buena Vista to tackle a 14er—last year La Plata, this year Mt. Belford and Mt. Oxford. Rob came along despite the summer cold already threatening to jump from him to me.

The alarm went off at 3:15 a.m. We grabbed our snacks and iced coffees and departed for the trailhead. Headlamps on, we started hiking at 4:20 a.m. under stars and occasional meteors—the Perseid shower was that night. The trail pitched upward immediately. Though we couldn't see the rise, our spiking heart rates gave us the measure of the incline. Focusing on one foot in front of the other, our lights catching the dew on shrubs and baby firs, we climbed for two hours through hushed pre-dawn quiet.

Moving through a forest in darkness felt like a gift—the difficulty dissolved when we couldn't see where we trod, as though effort without sight didn't count. We ditched the headlamps and pushed through a brief rain storm (mercifully without thunder or lightning), then encountered a dispersed cluster of white mountain goats. Pikas shrilled warnings in our direction as we started the switchbacks above tree line. We rested every other switchback, managing our pace, breathing hard.

We summited Mt. Belford by 7:45 a.m., then split—Rob took the trail down while Aden and I branched left to climb another mile to Mt. Oxford's summit. Now we entered what climbers call the "pain cave," where every breath and every footstep hurt and escape was impossible. A swift trail runner passed us on the saddle, his steady pace and cheery wave a silent push to keep moving.

From the summit, the world expanded in all directions—slopes plummeting to rock-strewn waterways below, avalanche chutes carved into the mountainside, wisps of cloud drifting past our faces, mountain peaks layered against the horizon. We summitted Oxford and began the long slog back through the saddle and up the jagged ridge toward Belford. The pain cave deepened with each step. When the only way out is through, you move. You pause and then move again.

Six thousand four hundred feet of vertical gain. Over twelve miles. Nine hours including rest stops. Our knees protested, my hands ached from gripping the poles, our stomachs rumbled with confusion. But we descended with something precious—the particular satisfaction of bodies pushed to their limits and held firm. The specific joy of standing on top of the world with your daughter (and husband!), exhausted and triumphant, and knowing you had the strength to climb, to reach the mountaintop on your own two feet.

The Reasons We All Come Back

After a chaotic end to July and August, I've spent most of the last three weeks away from my desk. First to my brother's lake house in southern Michigan for Mom's 80th birthday with the entire family, then to a swim meet in Clovis, California with 31 young swimmers, then a brief escape to the Broadmoor with Rob, then Aden's quarter-century celebration with a Noah Kahan concert and birthday dinner. Tomorrow we head out to climb 14ers in central Colorado (weather and legs willing), with hot springs to follow.

But let me focus on Paw Paw Lake, where the family hilarity began before we even arrived. On the drive from Midway, Rob scorned a Justin Timberlake song on our family playlist. William, with perfect subtle vengeance, restarted the song every time a track finished. By the eighth time, our giggles had turned to hysterics while Rob maintained a long-suffering grip on the steering wheel.

We arrived to find all eleven nieces and nephews, my three brothers and their wives gathered by the lake—playing cornhole, fishing, sprawled in the docked pontoon boat, tearing around on jet skis. Our kids grabbed a frisbee and immersed themselves in the chaos while I began my three-day effort to catch up on the busy lives of my siblings.

Mom and Karen arrived that evening to a roaring welcome. Stories flew across the porch like seagulls evading capture. Family songs erupted and the little ones looked bemused as adults devolved into "remember whens." Remember when Dad fell backward in his chair at Christian's wedding? Remember when you had a cheeseburger in your pocket for six months? Remember when Nana and Papa sang "Islands in the Stream" in drag for their 45th anniversary?

That last question sent us inside to Karen's YouTube channel—family videos from past reunions. I lost composure immediately, laugh-crying through every frame. My young nieces and nephews delighted in spotting themselves as round-cheeked babies, held by various adults, participating as best they could.

The next day brought more activity. I rode a jet ski behind William, clinging to his life vest as we tore across the lake at 60 mph. My grin became so fixed my teeth dried out. Aden and I paddleboarded. Carol and I walked a beautiful trail. Mom unveiled gifts for everyone—bookmarks and cards—and we circled around reading our special quotes aloud, voices catching with tears.

On our final evening, we celebrated Rob's birthday at a local winery where a band played. We danced, retreated to shade, snacked, danced again. One brother tipped the band to play "Happy Birthday" with a raucous second verse that had Michael slapping the table and Rob threatening to abandon the dance floor. We gathered for our ritual family photo outside near the vines—all twenty-four of us beaming in bright sunlight, the youngest attempting escape as is tradition for family photos.

This is what we come back for - to remember who we are together. To hear the same stories told the same way and have them land differently each time because we're all a year older, a year changed. To dance to a song we don't know with people we've known our entire lives. John and Carol created the space for it. The rest of us showed up and filled it with laughter, tears, jet skis, and "remember whens." That's everything.