Clap Along

"It might seem crazy what I am 'bout to say

Sunshine, she's here, you can take a break

I'm a hot air balloon that could go to space

With the air, like I don't care, baby by the way..."

—Pharrell Williams, Happy

We need more gentle, loving, and empathic souls in this world. If the past few years have shown us anything, it was how easy it's become to call each names, to demean and ridicule one another because of differences, beliefs, and perspectives. It's become cool to be toxic and tough again, for men and women alike. 

I've been guilty of that myself, which is why it became so important to meet people where they are without judgement. My wife Amy and I have really been working on that one, and our daughters help to keep us honest as well. They're old enough now to understand what we say and why we say it and have no problem calling us judgers. They may not always get the context of our intention right, but we've taught them well to be more empathic and inclusive, without ever compromising their health and safety. 

Yes, we need more gentle, empathic souls today. Sadly, we lost one recently to cancer -- our dear Aunt Julie. Married to Amy's Uncle Brian, she's was such a sweet presence in our lives for nearly 20 years. Brian and Julie had met around the time when Amy and I were married, although she didn't come to our wedding with him. We also didn't live near one another, but we've had many opportunities to be together starting with their wedding back in 2006. In 2007 we traveled to Boston together with them and had a wonderful time, which was when we decided to have a family (Beatrice arrived in 2008). 

Over the years they would visit us in California, or we'd visit them, whether in Illinois where they were from along with many of Amy's family, or in Oregon where they eventually settled. They were hopeful romantics like we are and had many adventures together, just like we've had. In fact, we just celebrated our anniversary and theirs was coming up. She was also a wonderful artist who inspired our girls and their artistic abilities. In recent years, Brian and Julie were on the similar spiritual path as us to become better loving and nurturing souls. But her illness overcame her and she recently left this world, finally free of her cancer and her pain. 

Sadly there's one less gentle and loving person in the world. One special memory we have of Julie was a visit from her and Brian and other family members years ago when our girls were only three and five years old. We had a dance party in the living room with the lights out and our disco ball swirling that filled the darkness with happy, vibrants colors. One of the songs we played was "Happy" by Pharrell Williams, which was new at the time, and quite appropriate for that visit. Julie loved it, having not heard it before then, and we all danced away to the "happy" song.

One of the song's lines is, "Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth," and we all definitely clapped along. Julie will be missed and our hearts go out to Brian. The only solace from the grief and pain of losing someone we love is that their happy and joyful soul remains in our hearts forever. With God's grace we can continue to clap along to this truth. 

About All The Things

"The worst loss is always your loss. Only you know your loss and the meaning. Meaning takes time." 

-David Kessler, author, public speaker, and death and grieving expert

I knew it was coming. I told my wife only two weeks that it was coming. First, they blocked off the parking lots along the ocean and all the city and state park parking lots. Then came the county-wide order to shut down all the parks, the beaches, the ocean beyond the beaches that meant no surfing as well, and the walk path along West Cliff Drive that goes from Natural Bridges State Park to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.

The order is only in place through the Easter holiday, for about one week, but that could change (and there are rumors that it might be extended). If you violate these orders, including loitering in groups in any public areas, you'll be fined $1,000. Seven people visiting Santa Cruz from another Bay Area city were loitering in a 7-11 parking lot and got just that: seven $1,000 dollar tickets.

All in the wake of preventing the further spread of coronavirus (COVID-19). Limiting where we can go locally over a holiday weekend sucks, so we had to get creative. And bold. And break the rules. Maybe. During the weeks of shelter-in-place orders, we've been going outside daily as a family to get exercise and air and take our dog Jenny for a walk and a run. That's included going to a park or a beach or down the street to play tennis, ensuring our social distancing no matter where we go.

And now it's all locked down. However, no one said we couldn't go play on the playground at our girls' school. Sure, we're taking a chance, but there have only been a rare person or two cruising through. Each time we've gone I sign the Judas Priest song Breaking the Law in my head and out loud. My wife laughed but the girls don't recognize Dad's old school rock. When we go we play games like 2-touch, 4 square, shoot baskets and play the game HORSE. All while letting Jenny run around the open field.

The other day I fixed my gaze upon the playground structures beyond the black top -- the monkey bars, the zip line, the balance beams, the slides and a myriad of other high-energy activity contraptions set safely on a bed of bark. There was no one else around.

Out of all the things we've lost to date -- over 113,000 lives globally and counting and all those lives affected by the lives lost -- and all the personal freedoms, millions of jobs, and the millions of little things we did collectively every day around the world, I continued to stare at the playground and thought, This is the most loss our children have every experienced. Many of the things precious to them are gone. Some for now. Some for good. 

They've never experienced anything like this to date. There won't be any more recesses for the rest of the year, no more kids running and jumping and yelling and laughing. No more band for Bea. No more science camp that she'll never experience now as a 5th grader. No more after school kids in nature program for Bryce. No more sports or run for fun, a weekly running club they were both in. No more after school musical theater that they've both loved so much. No more playdates with friends, except virtually.

There's so much loss everywhere. So many divides have widened. Prior to this, everyone's lost something in their lives, and now it's compounded exponentially by this health care crisis. My wife and I have been listening to Brené Brown's latest podcast called Unlocking Us. We listened to the episode with David Kessler, a death and grieving expert, someone who's lost a child, which I cannot imagine. What struck me during the podcast was when David talked about why we shouldn't be comparing loss because, "The worst loss is always your loss." And that we need to grieve and have our grief acknowledged. Not for problems to be solved or silver linings to be pointed out, just listened to and acknowledged.

I just kept rolling that one around in my head and heart over the past few days, the worst loss is always your loss. And then when we went to play at the girls' school, we just ran around, and played, and laughed, and we were all okay, for those moments. Yes, our kids are grieving the loss of daily friend contact, the loss of school, the loss of nostalgic normal that already feels like decades ago. But we're also grateful that our kids are resilient, and the ultimate meaning of all this may never be needed. God knows us adults may struggle with the meaning of all this for decades to come.

We're all grieving now. We're grieving of a world lost. We're grieving about all the things. It's okay to grieve. Bless you and yours this holiday weekend and beyond.

The Lightness of Us All

"Memory strumming at the heart of a moving picture..."

-Rush, Workin' Them Angels

The very weight of her unsettled me. She was small and light in life, with creamy brown fur and a streak of white between her eyes and down her nose.

But death brings on a heavier mass. Once the final breath and heartbeat flees the body, what's left increases in gravity dramatically, affecting everyone around it. I tried to wrap her in a cloth towel, and although I thought I could do it quickly, I struggled with it for over five minutes.

"I need help," I told the Mama, what I affectionately call my wife.

"What can I do?" she asked.

"I got her," I said, finally wrapping up one of our two pet guinea pigs that had died earlier that morning.

The guinea pig that died was three years old and it had been her birthday. She didn't know that, but our girls did. Our youngest Bryce cried and our oldest Beatrice kept it together, telling her sister it would be okay. We knew that Dandelion Clover, the full name of the guinea pig that died, was very sick and it escalated quickly over a period of 24 hours. On average guinea pigs have a lifespan of four to eight years, but poor little Dande as we called her wouldn't make it that far.

Earlier that morning we sat with Bea and Bryce and explained to them that Dande was very ill and would probably not make it through the day. Bryce cried and Bea eyes and mouth twitched a little. We continued that we could either bury Dande in the backyard, or that I would take her away to be "taken care of."

"I don't want to bury her," Bryce said in between tears.

"Do you want Daddy to take care of her then when it happens?" the Mama asked.

The girls both nodded. Bryce kept crying. Bryce and I are the criers of the family, that' for sure. I didn't cry then, but got choked up watching her.

The Mama ran some errands and I worked on my laptop while the girls played. What I didn't know was that sometime during the next hour, Dande had taken her last steps in the cage, fallen over and died. What I also didn't know was that Beatrice saw it happen, but didn't say a word to me or her sister, not until the Mama got back home and we announced that it happened.

I put Dandelion's wrapped, lifeless little body into a ziplock and carried her out into the garage. Her weight seemed to increase with every step I took. "Taken care of" can mean many things to many people, and for us it literally meant disposing of the dead pet without burying her in the backyard, and without sharing the details with your kids. They thought I would take Dande to the vet to be taken care of, and that's one of those parental lies we were fine to live with.

The girls loved the guinea pigs (and still love the other one we have that is still alive and squeaking). They don't fetch things, or chase balls of string, or laser pen lights for that matter (and trust me, our girls have tried), but they are cuddly, squeaky eating machines. And they're fun to dress up, especially when the girls dressed them up as Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader right before Christmas.

Prior to the getting the guinea pigs last March, we had had two pet fish in two years. The first real pet the girls ever had, named Jumpy Tree Summer, was a handsome Betta that lived for over a year and half before he passed. We'd been at my sisters for Thanksgiving, and prior to leaving Jumpy hadn't been looking so good. Lethargic and listing, all his usual deep burgundy flowing fins were fraying and he looked more and more sickly. Then he'd stopped eating. We were only going to be gone for a few days, but just weren't sure he'd make it.

Which he didn't. The Mama saw him floating as soon checked out the tank, and while I continued to unload the car from our trip and the girls were playing in the living room, she took care of him.

And before we had Beatrice and Bryce, we had three pets between the Mama and me -- I had an adopted black and white Shih Tzu named Joshua, and the Mama had two cats from the same litter, a black and white boy named Charlie and a Calico girl named Chelsea. All three lived pretty long lives, with Chelsea living to be 22 years old. She was still living after Bryce was born and Beatrice was constantly pulling Chelsea's tail, something no cat ever likes. But in the end we had to put all three to sleep, an emotionally draining experience for anyone who's ever had to say goodbye to a beloved pet. Each time it was me taking them to the vet's office, holding them in the cold, white vet examining room, holding them in their final moments, balling my eyes out.

The gravity of it all crushes me every single time. Because they are like family, and no one likes to lose a member of the family. Our other guinea pig, Sweetheart Watermelon, the mother of Dande, is much bigger and so far seems to be healthier than her daughter was. The girls held her fast in their laps after I took Dande away.

In the garage the weight of Dande increased exponentially. I remembered when I had to carry my father to the bathroom the week before he died, his frail body still buoyed by a little lightness he had left. I remembered the weight of my mother's arm as I held it the moment the machines keeping her alive were turned off. And then I remembered another heaviness, that of holding my own children the night I had to go to the hospital, not sure what would happen next.

But I didn't cry then. No, I didn't cry until my next weekly beach workout at Natural Bridges State Beach. As soon as I saw one of the last of the natural bridges, formed millions of years ago, the local iconic image I get to see each and every week; my spiritual anchor and gateway to God; that's when I cried. I was full of intention and gratitude, thankful to be alive, thankful to make a difference, thankful for my family, and even thankful for a fat squeaky guinea pig called Sweetheart Watermelon, one that may get another new friend at some point.

God bless the lightness of us all.

The Vapor Trails

The first time they were all gone. The second time only she was gone. And then there are all the times when I'm gone.

The first time when they were all gone it only took to day two to feel so completely alone. Alone in a house that our children grew up in. Where we persevered through boom and bust. Where we sometimes felt angry at each other but always fell in love over and over again. Where we planned to solve the worlds ills and make a difference.

The silence deafened quickly and blotted out any attempt to fill it with transitory white noise. Comforts were few, sedation only slowed the sadness and so instead I kept myself as busy as possible, sticking to routine and getting stuff done. Stuff that in aggregate maybe made a difference, or not a hill of beans.

Anything I did, I saw, I heard, I smelled, I tasted and touched reminded me of them. Anything I felt; I became like an emotive magic 8-ball, displaying the gamut from "outlook good" to "ask again later" to "very doubtful" -- happy, sad, angry, indifferent, rinse and repeat. And yet, I lived on in the light of their legacy. I lived on with their memories. I lived on with both a clear conscience and with some regretful action and inaction, which is always the contradictory vastness of in between for many of us. At some point their vapor trail faded away, but their transcendent DNA is forever present.

There I go again, bleeding out drama like I do, because they did come back and were only gone for a few days to help out a family member after some serious surgery. They being the Mama (what I lovingly call my wife) and our two girls.

Good God, just a few days and all that spilled out from the poetter within.

It was the same thing when the Mama left again to continue the family help and the girls stayed with me. This time it was the missing of the Mama by all three of us.

And then there are times when I've had to leave and the Mama and girls miss me; it was the same thing when I left to continue with family help when my sister was gravely ill.

And again when my parents were so ill at the end of their lives.

And then there all the times I travel for work. When I'm gone for a few days at a time, sometimes a week at a time. The missing is reciprocal and palatable when we're talking on FaceTime from afar.

These are the vapor trails of loss, each one a painful signature that fades away into blue sky seemingly out of reach, only to shine forever from the darkness beyond. Whether they're gone for good or gone for a time doesn’t matter. The divine constellations of loved ones can eventually guide us to the happy each time, and until the end of our time. Because their time is all time. I miss you, Mom and Dad.

God bless those who have lost loved ones. May blue sky bathe you in their happy and that you outlive the vastness in between.

A Friend's While As Well

It was just another beach run workout at Natural Bridges State Beach. One that I've documented on my fun "This week on..." Instagram feed for the past two years. Usually when I go there are only sea birds present, maybe the occasional human being or two, or small groups of people, families and friends visiting the beach depending on the time of year.

And then one morning almost a year and a half ago, a seal lion pup lay on the beach and barked as I passed it. But something seemed wrong with it. It acted weak, its bark muted, its head lolled slowly back and forth. It looked like it tried to waddle it's way back to the sea, but it wasn't really moving. I passed it by twice before I decided that I couldn't just keep going and do nothing, so I stopped and went up to the visitor center to tell one of the Natural Bridges staff members about the possibly sick pup.

I also sent texted my friend Doug Ross (who I interviewed last year on one of my Reach West Radio podcasts). Doug volunteered for the Marine Mammal Center, a nonprofit that rescues and rehabilitates marine mammals along the Californian and Hawaiian coasts, so I knew he'd want me to let him know. When he didn't respond to the text, I called him. He was already on the way to Natural Bridges to help rescue the pup.

"Why don't you stay and help me?" he asked.

"Ugh. I would, but I've got back-to-back conference calls I've got to get back to," I answered, after an awkward pause.

"Sure you do," he chided me.

"Ugh. Damn you. I do, though," I said.

"Don't worry about," he said. "I'm just giving you a bad time. I'm almost there and I already called the center. Go do your calls."

And so was our unlikely friendship. I had met him only a few years earlier at a co-working space we belonged to at the time. He was a introvert commercial artist who created amazing illustrations for HR technology articles (among many other industries and genres), and I was an extrovert marketing professional who worked in HR technology. We sat only one cubicle apart.

The joke at the time with those who worked near us was that you never knew Doug was there unless you saw his tall, quiet frame leaning over his keyboard, fixated on his computer screen with some new project. Yet you always knew I was there because of the noise complaints. I was on the phone constantly and my booming voice reverberated throughout the open office. It got so bad that the co-working facility actually installed sound boards inside my cubicle to absorb my loud cadence. It didn't work.

Once I left the co-working space, Doug and I didn't see each other all that regularly, but when we did,  usually for lunch, it was like we'd been friends for decades, always giving each other a hard time as well as talking seriously about our lives, our ups and downs and all arounds. We collaborated on a career management book I wrote and his amazing illustrations graced the pages throughout. He also went with me to SXSW a few years back, where I promoted my book and he promoted his artwork.

I also commissioned him to immortalize that one day at the beach where I met my lovely wife all those years ago, and now it hangs proudly in our living room.

Life got complicated with kids and work and we saw less of each other, but always making time for lunch now and again. His wife Ginger has horses, and so for a few years now we've taken our girls out to ride. But then the horse they always rode named Lulu passed away, and it had been a while since we'd seen both Doug and Ginger.

Which was why it was such a shock when she called us just weeks before the holidays to tell us that Doug had died unexpectedly. He'd been working hard late at night in his art studio, and then the next morning she found him dead. In the blink of an eye. I cannot imagine. I do not want to imagine.

Selfishly, the first thing I thought about was that I had planned on calling him to schedule a lunch to catchup. It had been since late summer when we got together last. However, the planning and doing are worlds apart. Always are. And the fact is I never did it.

The second thing I thought about was my own mortality. Doug was only a few years older then me, and seemingly in good overall health, as am I. Again, cannot imagine. Do not want to.

The third thing I thought about was the mindful presence I try to live in every day:

The time is always now again -- the now of every beat and breath and being completely well in. It ain't easy, but it's certainly worth my family's while.

And a friend's while as well. Make the time now again. God bless Doug, his wife and his family.

Our Unfathomable Love Abounds

A dear old friend just lost his son, a young man at the beginning of his adult life.

We say we can't imagine, but deep down we can and do. When you have children, you want to believe that they'll live a long life, and of course outlive you, their parents. But we worry every day on some level that something tragic might happen to them. Not consciously most of the time, although sometimes our fears break the surface tension like horrid mythical creatures that consume our very souls and obliterate the universe.

We say we can't imagine, but for those who have grappled with loss, we cry out from its belly, the darkness a black hole where no lights escapes. We cry out and ask why; maybe we blame ourselves, or we blame others, or we blame God, or we blame the abysmal soul-eating creature. Or we blame all of the above in vicious cycles that eventually unravel into some semblance of acceptance, a modicum of peace.

We say we can't imagine, but what else should we say? That we can and do imagine and this tragedy has reminded us it can happen to any of us, and that's why we're so sorry for their loss? Each death has its own context, but the resulting loss is the constant. It never varies other than the degree of painful remembrance and sorrow, but healing reconciliation is always in the long-tail of beloved memory. 

That's why it's the very collective outcry of sympathy, empathy, and the outreach of those family and friends within reach that can and does help ease the pain, whether the loss be a child, a parent, a spouse or a friend.

I say can't imagine, but I can, and I embrace the scripture my friend shared with us online:

"Out of the depths I cry to You Lord; Lord hear my voice. Let Your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy. I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in His word I put my hope. Put your hope in the Lord, for with the Lord is unfailing love and with Him is full redemption." --Psalm 130

God bless you and your family, my friend. Our hearts ache and our unfathomable love abounds.

Now and forever

We told Bea about heaven. In the simplest of definitions, with loving language and expository words used sparingly if at all.

The Mama had finally made it home from Oregon, but I was still here with my sister taking care of what had to be cared for. There I was, watching my family on FaceTime in front of our fireplace adorned with stockings and lit Christmas moon lights.

"What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down..."

Bryce babbled and ran back and forth across the camera's field of vision, calling for Nonna, and Nonna answered back softly. Beatrice stood in front of the couch while the Mama kneeled next to her. Bea held the little figurine of two mice that she fell in love with when we were up visiting my parents in June, Nana and Papa as all the grandkids knew them.

"Beatrice," the Mama said, "we want to tell you that Nana isn't sick anymore, that she's with Papa in a better place."

"Yes," I said.

The Mama continued. "Nana and Papa are now together in heaven where they will be forever."

"Nana and Papa are together," Bea echoed. "In heaven."

"Yes, sweetie. They love you very much and will always be with you."

As I said those words, I ached to believe them, as if my very presence in that moment depended on everything I learned as a child in the Nazarene Church -- the many pictures of smiling Christs, arms always draped lovingly around children of all colors and nations, set in a meadows on warm spring days.

"They will always be with you, Bea."

I watched as Bea's mind swirled and ticked, trying to understand what it all meant. She held the mouse figurine tightly and smiled. I took that as my answer.

For two people who've always questioned the edicts and redeeming value of conservative Christianity, the Mama and me were quite comfortable telling Bea about the coloring book version of heaven.

Because we believe we'll be together someday in a better place. Because we already are -- the Mama, me, the B-hive and our family and friends.

Heaven is being with those you love. To hell with everything else. Heaven is now; heaven is forever.

We love you, Mom and Dad. Now and forever. Merry Christmas.

Of giving and loss

It's enlightening when you're three-year-old is such a sweet giver. Sure, she melts downs when she can't watch Wonder Pets, The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore or the Yo Gabba Gabba Christmas special -- two weeks after Christmas (please, I can't watch it anymore, help me, it's already January 8).

But from Christmas Day with Nonna to the week after when my unwell folks (Nana and Papa) actually made it here for a few days, Bea reveled in us opening our gifts, some of which she picked out herself, like my Santa Raider ornament and Bryce's toy cars, and like the earrings I had specially made for Mama titled "working them angels" after Mama and the B-hive via the artisan Katy Bransfield at Between Sun & Moon.

And just this last week when Bryce was having a nuclear meltdown during dinner, with both me and the Mama throwing our arms up in surrender, Bea did her best to make her little sister smile and laugh. It didn't quite work, but she tried, the misdirection helped, and we thanked her for that.

Bea's still got some work to do in other areas, but mercy she's fast becoming a smart little girl (again, only three, right?). In fact, nothing tops defining the ultimate toddler giver as what happened one night during the holidays. We had put Beatrice to bed (Bryce was already asleep), and about 10 minutes after that Bea called for Daddy.

I went up and said, "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Take this," she said, reaching out her hand.

"Take what?"

"Take this."

She pushed her hand into mine.

"Is that a booger, Bea?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She smiled then laughed.

"Thank you, sweetie." Thank you. Really.

From sweet giver to learner of loss -- that's been a fascinating window on what it means to have to say goodbye to those we love. For Beatrice, that means our nanny/babysitter Elyse after two and half years and Nana and Papa after a few days of visiting over the holidays.

Elyse leaving was the biggest blow, but the one-two punch of her moving away and then my parents being in and out really took it's toll on Bea. Watching raw grief spill from a toddler who doesn't fully understand what she's feeling, but understands she doesn't want to say goodbye, cry-howling and red-faced, it's bittersweet for adults who have been there more than once, who've experienced it on more levels than wished to remember. We told her she'll see them all again, but it's no consolation in the moment of grief.

After surviving not quite a Christmas miracle, the lessons of giving and loss have been invaluable, even for an old Daddy who's been there, done that (and will again and again and again).

Happy New Year!