Feeling Ducky

It had been four years since we went last. We didn't go in 2019, but then COVID-19 hit and there hadn't been another in-person event until now. 

Our oldest Beatrice really wanted to go again. To play the games and race the ducks. Our youngest Bryce wasn't as enthusiastic, but was willing to go. My wife Amy and I were in either way; it was always a fun community event, especially for kids.

Bea was 9 and Bryce 7 the last we went to the Duck Derby, a community event put on by a service organization called Omega Nu. They raise money for the local community in various scholarships and educational materials for teachers, and community programs and charities. 

But for the kids, it was all about racing rubber ducks for prizes, playing fun carnival-like games to win tickets to exchange for prizes, eating hamburgers and hot dogs and lots of treats. Music played, bouncy houses bounced with little kids, and fun in the spring sun lit up everywhere we looked when we arrived.

Bea didn't look happy. "These are really games for little kids," she said.

"Yes, but you still wanted to come," Bryce reminded her. 

"Yes, they are," I said. "Let's check it out and see what's up."

Bea nodded. We bought the girls their racing ducks, their take home ducks, their game tickets, and I got a hot dog. We watched one of the duck races, and then the girls played the kiddie games and won more tickets for prizes.

There's a big difference between being 9 and 7, and being 13 and 11, but the girls still held onto their childhood memories of this event as they played the kiddie games. After about an hour they were done and cashed in their tickets for prizes and treats. All around us the pent up demand for families to be outside together at events like this was palatable. There were smiles everywhere. Joy was bountiful.

Watching all the ducks rush by us in the blue tarp-lined racing river reminded me of how fleeting childhood can be. Our girls watched them fly by with a bittersweet smile, as did we. As we left, our joy washed away the bittersweet, leaving us feeling ducky in its wake. 

"I want to volunteer next year," Bea said as we got in the car. "Seems like there's a lot of older kids helping out."

My smile stretched beyond my ears. 

The Beginning of the Rest of My Life

We've gazed into the open sea tank dozens of times over the years. Watching all the tuna, sardines, sharks, stingrays, and sea turtles swim back and forth and up and down has always been relaxing. Our family stands there in awe every time we visit the Monterey Bay Aquarium. 

But this time was different for me. Profoundly different. While all the fish, stingrays, and sharks swirled and swam at differing speeds and directions, it was one of the two female green sea turtles that stood out. I stood mesmerized watching her glide effortlessly through the water in the front of the tank, slowly but deliberately, as if she knew exactly where she was in the universe in each and every second, free from the chaos around her. As an animal, she still has to survive the chaos and the predators eyeing her or her eggs as their next meal, especially in the wild.

If she survives, she'll live as long as most humans do. Her seemingly confident and methodical movement soothed me. So many things have been breaking for me recently, feeling out of synch, hitting walls, things going wrong, being full of judgement, worried about my health, worried about others' health, worried about my work, taking care of my family, the state of the world, as if I'm in this mercury in retrograde free fall. 

The sea turtle's mindful freedom calmed me. I couldn't stop staring at her. My wife Amy has that mindful freedom, something she's been working on for years. I have as well but I'm still behind, although our daily meditation has helped. And our children, they continue to have their own mindful freedom, at least until the weight of the adult world starts dragging them into the deep.

The sea turtle brought it all into focus for me. While all the people swirled and swam at differing speeds and directions around me at the aquarium, I glided effortlessly in place, slowly but deliberately, as if I knew exactly where I was in the universe right that very second, then the next, then the next, free from the chaos around me. I felt like everything just wasn't going to be alright, that is was already alright. That it was always alright. That it just was, and my response to it was the true measure of spiritual enlightenment.

With my wife and two daughters near me, I felt the profound loving warmth I always feel with them, but it expanded beyond them to all the others around me. It didn't matter that I didn't know any of them. My own newfound mindful freedom expelled all my worries and all my judgement; I watched them sink to the sea floor and melt away like snow on a spring day. 

I looked up and there she was, the sea turtle swimming peacefully above me. Maybe she was God, maybe she was me, but she's why this holy weekend became the beginning of the rest of my life. 

Stuck in the Middle with Me

"Clowns to the left of me!
Jokers to the right!
Here I am stuck in the middle with you..."

—Stealers Wheel, Stuck in the Middle with You

My mind is mired in work. I'm stuck in a problem; I'm stuck at a light. We are stuck at a light. I'm driving my family somewhere. To where again? I'm not sure. I don't remember. The light's still red. 

How do we solve for our growth problem at work? The market's never been more in our favor, but hitting a wall trying to figure it out. We've created the right services, but what else was our consultative approach missing? 

Frustrating. Where are we driving to again? Down to the water? Our dog Jenny's in the car, so we must be going somewhere to walk her. To the dog beach maybe? Where everyone takes their dogs? It's not that far away; it's time to take a work break anyway. The light's still red.

It's hot. We're having a warm spell in spring. The drought is still with us and isn't going anywhere. We're using too much water at home. Have to curb what we're using each day. 

Red light. Inflation. Recession fears. War in Ukraine. Work stress. Drought. Family stress. Tweens and teens growing up—

The light's now green. There are many cars behind me and some in front of me. We're supposed to cross the road, right? Turn left? I'm not sure and I don't commit either way. My family is talking to each other; I don't know what they're saying. 

My wife asks me if I'm going straight. That's when this younger guy in a solar company work car (I can see the word "solar" clearly but that's all) goes around me on the right to cross the highway and I hear:

"Why don't you turn on your fucking signal!"

It feels like slow motion, but now I feel anger quickly. I raise my right hand and flip him off and mouth the words "fuck you." I don't say them out loud, but our kids in the back seat see what I do, feel my anger and frustration. I want to punch him in the face. My wife Amy feels my anger and frustration. It's not a great moment for me. 

"Are you going to go?" Amy asks me.

I cross the highway and the young guy in the solar car is right in front of me. He turns left and we turn right. 

As I refocus on the moment and driving my family safely in the car, I say, "I'm so sorry family. That was not how you're supposed to respond to people like that."

"It's okay, Dad. He was being mean to you," our oldest Beatrice says. 

"Yeah, how rude," our youngest Bryce says.

But I could feel Amy's eyes on me. We work so hard to manage our emotions and respond positively to even the most negative of situations, especially in front of the girls. We talk about it every week at our family meetings. Ugh, but I blew it by flipping the guy off. 

"Again, I'm sorry," I say.

"It's okay. It happens," she says. "But we should call that guys company and report him. He represents his company driving that car and cursing at us like that is subpar."

"Agreed," I say. 

Our girls concurred, "That's right!"

I smile. We've got each other's backs. As adults, we're always stuck at red lights mired in adult problems, and if we can take a break, we should take one. We can't control how others respond to us, but we are responsible of how we react and interact, no matter how we feel. Always stuck in the middle with me, that is. 

Mercy me, that beach break was nice. 

Those That Just Might Reconnect

I had no idea how to reconnect the speakers or the mic. I stood there in the sun wiping my sweaty brow even though it wasn't very warm outside. They were the same two speakers from two and a half years ago, the ones that a past parent had loaned to the school for our elementary school back-to-school barbecue fundraiser. I picked up one cable, stared blankly at it, set it down, and then picked up another. I remember the last time I had connected them, it was a struggle, but I did it. This time, I completely blanked, and I was near panic-attack overwhelmed. 

Our daughters have gone to this elementary school since preschool. For the past 10 years, my wife Amy and I have dropped off and picked up Beatrice and Bryce to and from school countless times. We've done classroom volunteering, dance assemblies, band, back-to-school barbecues, school auctions, science fairs, an overnight trip, a teacher parade when the pandemic screwed the world up, distance learning, and so much more in between. Amy was also the PTA president at our school for two years, vice-president for two years. Since then, Beatrice has moved onto middle school, and Bryce is now finishing her 5th grade year and will join her sister this fall. 

The last time I emceed the back-to-school barbecue was September of 2019. This time, over two years of pandemic later, I helped coordinate the barbecue with many other great volunteers and emceed again. And this time, unlike last time, I had no idea how to reconnect the speakers or the mic.

We were less than one hour from the long awaited PTA fundraiser barbecue to start. I kept frantically handling the cables hoping they'd magically reconnect for me. Of course, they did not. Finally, the school principal came over and helped me reconnect the speakers. I joked that it was way above my pay grade, and he joked that I was only a supervisor anyway. We tested the mic and iPhone connections and presto! Everything worked! Just in time for me to welcome everyone. 

Our school community has always been very supportive. From the teachers, to the principal, to the staff, to the parents -- we've had some generous friendships over the years, and still have them. But the pandemic was challenging on so many levels, destructive to relationships because we had to stay isolated from each other for so long, and our children suffered academically and socially (except maybe not as much for those who had friend pods like us that we still keep going today). Plus, we can't forget the heartache for those who were seriously ill and died from coronavirus, and still are. 

And it wasn't only challenging to our school community relationships either -- many of our extended friend and family relationships were strained to breaking points, to being broken. The isolation and existential crises we all went through exacerbated our social differences, ideologies, inequities, and irreparable incidents from a pre-covid past. 

We're still in the pandemic's shadow, and now a there's a war halfway around the world, but back to some normalcy we go. There we were, hundreds of kids and parents having fun at a school barbecue fundraiser that hadn't happened for two and a half years. I emceed and played DJ and everyone laughed and played and reconnected with each other while eating yummy hamburgers and hot dogs. 

Afterward, as I unplugged the mic and speakers to pack them away, I thought about how at first I couldn't figure it all out, how overwhelming it all was. Disconnections aren't always fixable, but with a little help, there are those that just might reconnect.