The Full Oliver Friendships

"Bryce, you didn't ask me if get to see all my boyfriends this week," I said with a smirk. 

Our youngest child, Bryce, processed that statement and then smiled. 

"Dad, do you get to see all your boyfriends this week?"

"Yes, Bryce. Yes I do."

That's become a running joke with our family, especially with our kids, Beatrice and Bryce. The fact that I've had close male friends for 40+ years. Three from junior high to high school, one from post high school, and one from college. Sadly, my best friend from junior high passed away in 2025. 

I consider it a term of endearment because I've always loved these men. They've been the dearest of friends even though we only see each other a few times a year. We've traversed the chasm of decades together, through darkness and light, continuously building bridges of friendship, love, and empathy, and a whole lotta laughter along the way. 

There's a current societal narrative that says men are lonelier than ever. That they feel left out of bridge-building when compared to women. The percentage of men with six or more close friends dropped from 55% in 1990 to just 27% in 2021. Men account for nearly 80% of all suicide deaths and are over three times more likely to die by suicide than women.

The resurgence of toxic masculinity is an unfortunate direct response to feeling left out of the life equation. For the first time, there are more women employed than men, and there's a misinformed visceral backlash to this, movements like #MeToo, and more.

I'm grateful that there's hope in male friendships like ours. Men can have strong, positive connections and loving male friendships. Friendships that mentor and support each other. Those friendships reciprocally can and do make other relationships stronger, like those with our significant others and our children and grandchildren. 

So, Bryce and Beatrice, this was a good week with my boyfriends. First, my best friend from college, Troy, traveled with his oldest son and me to Los Angeles to see our favorite band Rush on their new aptly titled "50 Something Tour". A band we've seen many times together over the years, and one we never thought we'd see play live again after the beloved drummer, Neil Peart, passed away in January of 2020. (And speaking of friendships, the members of Rush were also friends for decades, and the two remaining members, Alex Lifeson and Geddy Lee, have been best friends since junior high. We can gratefully relate.) 

Second, my dear friend from high school, Greg, invited us to his and his wife's 60th birthday party. My other two mutual friends, Rob and Craig (and Craig's wife), attended as well. We always know how to "bust each other's chops", laugh until we cry, and unabashedly hug each other tight.

After we returned home from Rush, my friend Troy texted me: The whole trip was a full Oliver. That's our new Rush "inside baseball" term for "it was everything". The same was true for Greg's birthday party and everything we've done together for decades. Our friendships are the "Full Oliver", forever building transcendent bridges.

More Full Oliver:

All the Friendship in Between, with Love

A Spirit Breaking Free

Because There's Always A Promise

A Longing for Loving Connection

What Happens Next

Superman's Love Letter

Men of An Influencer Age

Making a Dent

A Long-Term Well-Being Win

Men of a Stand-up Age

Men of a Vulnerable Age

Able-Bodied Grateful

Men of Our Present Age

The #MeToo Guys

Men of a Women's Age

Men of a Consequential Age

Like Men Knowingly Bound to Their Future

Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work

Big Heart Love to My Class of 1984

Men of An Unremarkable Age

Being What Happens Next

Retro K: A treasure trove of golden memories friendship has forged

Driving Straight

In the next year, our oldest child might be getting her driver's license. Mercy me. I have to believe every parent is excited about this prospect because the days and nights of being the family Uber driver will become fewer and farther in between. Every parent is also full of trepidation about their children driving around with all the craziness on the roads, higher insurance rates, and the fear of accidents and injuries. And God forbid they ever drive under the influence of anything and risk everything. 

Driving aside, which will definitely be the subject future articles once Beatrice does start driving, this is also about her getting an official California ID. Both our daughters already have passports, which we got for family travel, but soon she'll have driver's license, and at some point, Bryce will as well. And even if they don't drive, they'll have a California issued ID. 

Legitimate IDs are important for sure, and when we're adults we'll need them for getting jobs, to applying for loans, to voting, to buying alcohol and other legal drugs, to nearly everything. For buying alcohol and other legal drugs, you have to be of the legal age to do so. Unless you have a fake ID.

Back in my day, and my wife's day, fake IDs weren't easy to come by and weren't very good either, like all the cheesy 1980's teen movies we loved back then. I had friends in college who had fake IDs, but never in high school (that I was aware of). My dad could've spoken to this much better than I being a forgery and fraud detective in the 1980's. 

But today it's supposedly very easy to get a fake ID online. For $50-$150 you can get two to three fake IDs on sites such as this one. I don't really want to advertise these sites, but it's real and teens have access to them. 

In California, you still have to be 21 years old to purchase alcohol and marijuana products, but if fake IDs are that good, then it doesn't matter how young you look using one. For those who are 18-20 years old, marijuana is still illegal in California unless you have a current qualifying physician’s recommendation or a valid county-issued medical marijuana identification card. I've also read those are easier to get than you think. 

So, combine that with fake IDs and cannabis dispensary access within walking distance from high schools, and that's a potentially major health risk for our kids. The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) has shared evidence of the mental health impacts of marijuana usage among teens that include harmful impacts on brain and cognitive development, addiction, higher risk for marijuana-induced psychosis, and suicidal ideation. Not to mention the detrimental effects of alcohol on teen brains. Plus, we need store owners and employees that are vigilant to identifying and reporting flake IDs.

As adults, our grown children may choose to drink alcohol and/or use marijuana, and that's fine, as long as it's legal and they do it safely and not drive under the influence. Or, they'll choose not to, which is probably even better. And yes, there are parents of teens who do consume both as adults, but hopefully aren't making it okay for their kids. 

Teen consumption is more complex and dangerous than ever, and as parents, we need to be aware of how easy it is to get fake IDs and what they can do with them. Access shouldn't as easy as walking to the corner store or dispensary with a fake ID. The legal ramifications and the physical and mental health damage for teens that occur when using and abusing alcohol and cannabis should inspire us to be better parents and talk to our kids about all of this. 

We want our children to drive someday. Of course, we do. With legal IDs. That will be super helpful to us, especially when they're driving straight, and not under the influence (of peer pressure, alcohol, marijuana, the list goes on and on). 

For Us And For Them

It was the pickaxe over his shoulder that bothered me. He stood shirtless in faded jeans near the railroad tracks with his back to my wife Amy and I as we walked our dog Jenny on the other side of the tracks. There were mirrored tattoos below each shoulder blade that looked like wings, but I wasn't sure because my eyes kept going back to the pickaxe.

We were on one of our usual walks where we take Jenny not too far from where we live. Jenny was oblivious to the man standing there, and if Amy noticed him, she didn't say anything at first. He faced a vacant lot where there was a makeshift wooden shelter semi-covered with palm fronds, which I assumed was his. The camp had been there for a few months already. Nearby are various businesses and a combined middle and high school (not where our kids go). 

The shirtless man with the pickaxe moved and headed toward his encampment. As he moved, I heard him say:

"These children with wicked tongues..."

And then it trailed off. I heard him say the first part again and then we were moving away from him as we walked our dog.

I asked Amy if she heard what he said and she did. There were teens everywhere being picked up along the street in front of the vacant lot, and it made us both very uncomfortable. I told her I should call the police department. Not 911, because there was no emergency; he didn't threaten anyone as he walked back to his camp. I called the non-emergency line to ask for a mental health check. They said they'd send an officer to check it out and would call me back.

According to the 2022 Homeless Point-in-Time (PIT) Count in Santa Cruz, there was a 6% increase in the number of people living unhoused in Santa Cruz County since 2019. The survey data indicated dramatic changes in health outcomes compared to those reported in 2019. For example, numbers of people self-reporting alcohol and drug use increased from 30% to 67%; reports of physical disability increased from 26% to 57%; and reports of chronic health conditions increased from 21% to 49%. These are quite dramatic increases since before the pandemic. 

Plus, nearly 40% of people experiencing homelessness self-reported psychiatric or emotional problems. The key here being self-reported (imagine how many of us in homes suffer from increasing psychiatric or emotional problems who aren't self-reporting). And maybe the shirtless man with the pickaxe wasn't really a safety problem for us and the teens getting out of school that day. The fact is we didn't know. 

When the officer called me back later that day, he asked me again to share with him what happened. Then he told me he'd check it out (although I thought he would've already done that), but there wasn't much he could do since it was private property, unless the man exhibited being a threat to himself and/or others, which he didn't when we saw him. I thanked the officer and still worried about what if -- the homeless camp is still there housing the man with the pickaxe who said out loud "these children with wicked tongues" while dozens of teens were getting picked up from school.

We've always supported allocating more resources to house and heal those who need help. We're also seeing more people breaking down everywhere resulting in senseless violence. We certainly don't want to live in fear, which is why being safe is so important to our family, and why I called for a mental health check on the homeless man. Too many times people won't call because it's inconvenient and they feel like there's always somebody else around who will (i.e., the bystander effect). 

We just can't do that. Amy and I are all about Kidpower's founding principle: Our safety and well-being of ourselves and those in our care are more important than anyone's embarrassment, inconvenience, or offense. That includes our own. This is something we live by every day, because our ultimate safety is for us and for them.

Listen and Love First

In a sea of thousands, I felt seen. Again. I listened to his story, and although I knew it was nothing like mine, in a way, it actually was. The moment he finally felt seen and heard was pivotal for him, and it reminded me of mine.

Here I was at my first school board conference with nearly 5,000 school board members from across the state preparing to be a new board member next year, something I never thought I'd be. The first keynote speaker was Brandon P. Fleming, author of MISEDUCATED: A Memoir, an at-risk youth and college dropout turned award-winning educator. 

I felt that feeling of being seen and heard again because of a very specific part of his story. He was a failing black college student whose only role models were drug dealers and athletes. An English professor took the time "see" him, to meet him where he was in his life, to lead with love and help him turn his learning and his life around. She introduced him to black writers that he never knew existed and it changed his life forever. 

Brandon went on to finish college and launch a debate residency program that recruits under-served youth with no prior debate experience who he trains to compete against hundreds of elite debaters from over 25 different countries around the world. For five consecutive years, since the program’s inception in 2017, every cohort trained by Fleming has won the international competition.

My story was nothing like his. I was a privileged white high school student who got straight A's, took all the college-level AP classes, sang in choir, played football, and participated in student government. However, the pressure to constantly excel and the ghosts of my childhood growing up in domestic violence and sexual abuse became too much for me and I began to have severe anxiety and panic attacks. 

However, I didn't know what they were at the time. I began skipping classes, my grades suffered, and no one, not even my closest friends and immediate family, understood what was happening to me. It wasn't that they didn't love or care about me, but because I couldn't express what was happening to me, most took an arms-length approach with me. Everyone felt bad for me that I was breaking down, but no one could reach me. 

It wasn't until another high school counselor reached out to me when my perspective changed. Mr. Ash wasn't my primary academic counselor, but he connected with me in a way that others didn't. I told him as best I could what I was feeling and why, and he could relate; he had experienced that kind of stress when he was my age as well. He listened to my story without judgment, and shared his own story, and recommended that I take the time to heal and figure things out, that I should check out the field of psychology (which I ended up majoring in) but that I didn't necessarily need to go to college right away, if I needed more time. He took the time to "see" me, to meet me where I was in my life, to lead with love and help me turn my learning and my life around. 

Fully turning things around after high school would still take over a decade, but I got there. As a new school board member, I listened to Brandon P. Fleming speak and tears welled in my eyes. He said "stories are the gateway to empathy" and that as school administrators, educators, support staff, board members, and parents, we should "listen and love first, and then teach and lead second." Today, too many young people need mental health services, including elementary school kids, and we can do better to ensure they are emotionally, socially, and physically safe. We should meet each child where they're at, listen and love without judgement, and strive to provide the resources and support they need to thrive. 

Being More Emo

"Oh I get so emotional baby
Every time I think of you
I get so emotional baby
Ain't it shocking what love can do..."

–Whitney Houston, So Emotional

"You know, Bryce, he's so emo," Beatrice said to her sister.

"I know, so emo," Bryce echoed. 

"Who are you talking about and what does that mean?" I asked. "What's the context? Does it mean that the person is too emotional?"

"I don't know," Bryce said. Beatrice didn't answer.

"What do you mean you don't know? You say it all the time."

"Not all the time," Bea said.

Well, maybe not all the time, I thought. But many times a week I hear our girls, now 12 and 14, use that expression.

Most of the time they're using it in a light, self-deprecating way. At least, that's what Bryce ended up telling me. When I told my wife Amy, her Kidpower training popped open and she said we need to talk with them about minimizing other people's emotions using that term. Then she laughed at herself, although still serious.

The term emo literally means "a person who is overly sensitive or emotional." And the term is used to make fun of people who do show their emotions more than others. It can also mean someone who is shy, brooding, and dark and who listens to Emo music, which is a rock music genre, post-hardcore and hardcore punk, characterized by emotional, often confessional lyrics. Not quite Whitney Houston, that's for sure. God, I'm getting old. I had no idea what all this meant when I started looking for answers online. 

Based on what I learned, I've always been emo. Never the toughest guy in the toolshed, I was always sensitive and emotional, although I struggled early on with managing my feelings, expressing myself, asking for help when I needed it. I learned over time that it's empowering being vulnerable, to be able to express my feelings and relate to other's feelings.

When I think about the broader implications of living in a society that does not embrace sharing one's feelings, especially for boys and men, I agree with my wife. We shouldn't minimize other's emotions when they're vulnerable enough to share them, because they most likely need support; we have to meet people where they are. It's much healthier to express how we feel and to be given empathic understanding in kind. Unfortunately, misogynistic societies have always denigrated others for being emotional and caring and why women are the weaker gender and are less than effective leaders than men. 

Of course, that's not true. I've got a household of effective female leaders and am proud that we talk about how we feel, how we manage our emotions, and how we provide love and support to one another and to others. So proud of our BhivePower! Our teen girls know that being more emo is the way to go and to not minimize others who are, or who aren't. 

Be Here Now

As we walked to our local farmers’ market, I told my father-in-law about how I think I hurt my right leg recently. “Well, as the expression goes,” I said, “I’m no spring chicken anymore.”

“No, we’re not,” he said.

“It’s the same when Amy pulled her hamstring,” I said. “We just can’t do the same things we used to do. Moving furniture, running, the list goes on.”

He nodded and added, “But I still want to do the things I can do and be here now.”

“Amen,” I said.

Be here now. That rang the old gong in my aged head for the rest of the day. He’s had his own health issues including partial knee replacements. But I still want to do the things I can, he had said. That also rang the gong for some time afterward.

I definitely still want to do the things that I can, but he reality of age and body parts deteriorating is here. Has already been here for years. In August 2014, I had knee surgery due to a torn meniscus and disintegrated cartilage in my right knee. Ugh. This after actually hitting a personal best of a 8.5-minute mile at age 48. Not bad for a big old ex-smoker with two young children. 

Ah, yes. Two young children. The two children we didn't want to have until we did that we're so grateful for. I was 42 when we had our oldest Beatrice. 44 when we had Bryce. My wife Amy is six years younger than me, so she was still in her 30's when she had our daughters. I read that the average age of first-time mothers in America today is now up from 21 to 26, while for fathers, it's increased from 27 to 31, so we both skewed that average. But there are a growing number of people waiting longer to have kids for whatever reason (finances, jobs, changing minds like us, etc.). 

Knowing that I'd be a much older father of two children didn't really bother me until now. Only because of what I outlined above -- my body can't do what it used to do. Even after coaching both girls in soccer for six years that included me running around with the the teams, changing directions quickly, and kicking the soccer balls back and forth. I felt good. I could do it then. Not so much now. 

We have family and friends dealing with debilitating illnesses, paralysis, and more, and so Amy and I are very grateful that we're relatively healthy and are able to keep ourselves in good shape with regular exercise. However, we are more easily injured these days and it takes a lot longer to recuperate. It doesn't change the fact that we live our lives fully, but it does mean we have to be more realistic with what we choose to do and how we do it. 

Which is why we want to remain relatively healthy (as much as we can control) and keep ourselves in good shape for us and our children, now 12 and almost 14 years old. Not just physically healthy, but also mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Those latter two things can break as well and I'll be way north of 60 when they're in their 20's. Which is why we exercise them all regularly. Why we're always pushing ourselves to learn and grow. Why I started drumming at age 56. Why Amy is an avid puzzle person. Why we meditate every day. 

I heard a great quote from Florida Scott-Maxwell, a playwright, author, and psychologist who said:

"You need only claim the events of your life to make yourself yours. When you truly possess all you have been and done, which may take some time, you are fierce with reality."

It took some time for me, but that's how Amy and I live our lives; we embrace all the things that we've been and done; all the ups and downs and aches and strains and pleasures and pains; we are fierce with reality. Our daughters have benefited from that, will benefit from that, and we hope will live their lives that way in their 20's and beyond, especially after we're both long gone. 

Again, my father-in-law's words keep banging the gong in my head: I still want to do the things I can do and be here now.

Be here now, fierce with reality. Always. 

The Ultimate Quits

"Nothing is perfekt

Certainly not me

Success to failure

Is just a matter of degrees..."

—Geddy Lee, Working at Perfekt

Two weeks in, I was miserable. Actually, misery had already been trailing me like a nasty funk, but it was the physics did me in. Literally the physics class. I had started community college with a scholarship, down a path to engineering, something I thought I wanted, but really didn't. In fact, I didn't know what I wanted at all way back then after high school. The end of high school for me was marked with horrible anxiety that stemmed from childhood trauma and the pressure to succeed from others, and from myself. 

Bottom line — I was a mess. So, two weeks after community college started, I quit. For a week after that, I pretended to go to classes, too afraid to tell my parents. They figured it out, were disappointed, but listened to me struggle to tell them why. A year later I'd start college at San Jose State University, where I eventually and proudly finished, but even that was a rocky road at first.

People quit things for many reasons. They quit school they never wanted, bad habits, unhealthy relationships, and thankless jobs. In fact, during the past year, millions of people have quit their jobs in search of something more for themselves, for their families, or both. If anything, the COVID-19 pandemic became a super-accelerator of change for many. Not just about jobs, but relationships and many other life choices. There's been so much loss as well of all the things we used to take for granted. We can't forget that we're nearing 1 million deaths related to COVID-19. 

Our children have also experienced traumatic changes during the past two years — losing loved ones of course, but also how they learn, where they learn, where they can go, who they can be with and see, what extracurricular activities they can or can't participate in. It''s no surprise that mental health challenges have increased dramatically with children and teens today. 

Pandemic aside, I was raised that when you start something, you finish it, no matter how unhappy you are or you become. It's worse when you're forced to do something you don't want to do because the adults in charge want you to do it. That it's the unhappiness of the challenge that builds character, resilience, and grit.

I used to believe that, but I don't today, although I've struggled with it to this day. There is context for for everything, and while persevering and working through challenging situations can help us become more resilient, we still have and should have the capacity to choose. To change our minds. To quit if necessary, especially when it's no longer fun and fulfilling. 

My wife Amy and I have always wanted our children to try new things, to want to learn new things. Beyond core curriculum in school, we're talking about sports, music, art, and other related activities. Years ago I wanted our daughters to sign up for the Jedi training at Disneyland, being the big Star Wars fan I am. There were nervous and stressed about trying it, almost backed out, but did it and loved it. 

Maybe they didn't want to disappoint me, but they did it. And true, that was me living my life through them, an adulting habit that can be hard to break. However, when they do discover activities they find fulfilling and fun, then we encourage them to pursue them further (even if we encouraged it in the first place). Fun and fulfilling is foundational for positive growth, grit, confidence, and overcoming fear. If they aren't feeling it, and misery follows and they want to quit, then they should, even if they're good at it. Soccer they both felt and still feel. Playing in the school band, not so much. They still tried, though. 

However, that's the hard part for me, fighting my "when you start something, you finish it" upbringing, no matter how miserable you are. That you can only be proud when you stick it out, because quitters are losers. But that's such crap. The latest meditation that Amy and I have been practicing is all about letting go. Letting go of things that are no longer fulfilling or fun, nurturing or loving, that are destructive emotionally and physically, and the list goes on. 

So, when we went to Ms. Tina's celebration of life, one of the beloved teachers from our girls' grade school who passed away suddenly last December, I looked out over the sea where the setting sun was headed as it let go of yet another day of possibilities. And it hit me — life is here, and then it's gone. Letting go of the not fun or fulfilling is healthy, the ultimate quits, ones we should be proud of for ourselves and our children. 

One Mindful Beat at a Time

The second time I tried, I fixed it. I didn't think I'd even try again after the first time; I didn't think I'd even try the first time. Fixing things beyond my working knowledge isn't something I usually spend any time on. While my wife Amy is someone who will hop on the world wide interwebs and find how-to YouTube videos, I ask, "Who can fix it for me? Where do I get a new one?"

That has changed some for me in the past year since we've had a trailer camper, although a lot of the learning curve is still above my pay grade. And to be fair, there have been many home projects over the years where Amy and I do it ourselves, with a lot of blood, sweat, tears and cursing along the way. Mostly for me, not from her. Plus, any time there are computer, Wi-Fi or printer issues, I'm the fixer, no matter how much I grumble about it. And I grumble about it a lot.

So, when my six-month-old electronic drum set hit a snag with the snare, I was bummed. The snare sound no longer triggered each time I hit the drum head. It was under warranty still, so I contacted the manufacturer and waited. And waited. 

And while I waited, I continued to work on me. Learning, stretching, growing and improving are big parts of our family culture, and we encourage each other and our daughters to try new things, to try things we've always wanted to learn. We also encourage each other to work through our feelings about the world around us and others, all starting with how we feel about ourselves first. We check in with each other daily and during our weekly family meetings, to ensure emotional and physical safety, empathy, belonging and love. 

The pandemic continues to stress us all out unfortunately. I've been super sensitive to overreactions and divisive anger all around us, limiting my time on social media and reading the news. So much has happened over the past year and a half. So much loss. So many broken. So much helplessness of not knowing how to help. Sure, we can donate, volunteer, get activated and participate in making a difference, which we do, but it can all still lead to mental health strain and sedating. Recently after reenergizing my heart, I focused more on Amy and our daughters. And me. 

After fits and starts for decades of always wanting to play the drums, I'm actually playing the drums. Really playing them. Not in a band or anything like that. Just practicing and playing nearly every single day. Which is why when my snare broke, it bummed me out. I could still play most of my lessons, but the drum sounds were off and I felt off balance, out of synch. 

I went online and searched for "how to fix your electronic drum head." I found a few videos and settled on one that guided me on what to look for. In most of today's electric drum heads there are two sensors that pick up the vibration from hitting the drum and then those vibrations zoom along cables to the drum computer that then translates into a specific drum sound -- snare, tom, cymbal, etc. -- that emanates from my drum speakers. The sensor at the bottom of the snare picks up the rim hits, and the padded sensor at the top picks up the main drum head hits. What I found was the wire to the top sensor was severed somehow. How it happened, I had no idea, but the cut was very close to the sensor itself under a glued foam pad, so I didn't think I could fix it. 

A week later I finally heard from the manufacturer and the new snare was on back order and they'd send me an alternative drum. I said to myself, Great, but in the meantime I'm going back in. I took the snare apart again and went to work. This time I figured out I could lift the glued pad enough to reconnect the severed wire without damaging the sensor. After putting it all back together again, it worked. Right on. 

But unlike my snare, I can't fix others when they're broken. I can encourage introspection and healing, but I can't fix them. While pandemic anxiety continues to punch down on many of us, the place to start is here (I'm pointing at my own heart). I can open up my own heart and tinker with what's inside. Maybe even fix it. 

One of the latest meditations Amy I listened to states, "My relationships begin within, through love and caring for myself." Amen to that. Whether you meditate or pray, exercise or vacay, or engage in other kinds of mental health help, fix your heart first, one mindful beat at a time.

Reenergizing Our Hearts

"A tired mind become a shape-shifter
Everybody need a mood lifter
Everybody need reverse polarity..."

–Rush, Vital Signs

I thought I was going to die. After the first lap, my asthma kicked in and I struggled to breathe. After the third lap, my lungs felt like they were filled with hot mud; I had to fight for every single raspy gasp of air. After the fourth lap, my skinny body was drenched in sweat and my face a pasty white. 

But I did it. Every year when I had to run the mile to pass physical education in grade school, I did it. Even with the asthma attacks I used to get. 

Fast forward to today – Beatrice has to run a mile every week in middle school PE, and she decided she wanted to work on improving her time. She asked her mom (Amy) to go with her, to run to the ocean about a mile from where we live. I told her I wanted to go, too. Her sister, Bryce, said no way. 

So, the three of us left the house and began to run. Immediately Beatrice sprinted ahead and Amy kept pace. I was left in the dust. I don't really run anymore since I had knee surgery, but I do run on the beach once a week at Natural Bridges State Park. As I ran the best pace I could, I felt every ounce of my body weight and I kept thinking about our recent decision to cut back on caloric consumption (food and drink).

Amy and I are in pretty good health, but as the pandemic wore on this past year, we both put on what has been jokingly called the "COVID-19". Thankfully it wasn't literally 19 pounds, but it was enough for each of us. We exercise nearly every day, and yet, our metabolisms are slower than ever.

Beatrice and Amy were over 50 yards ahead of me when we hit the half-mile mark. I thought I was going to die. No adult asthma this time (although it has come back over the past 15 years during fall and spring), but I was still sucking air. The weekly beach runs were not my conditioned friends at this point. I kept going though. Amy and Bea doubled back to be with me, but then Bea zoomed ahead again with Amy right there with her.

It wasn't just the weight that was the issue. Like so many working parents with kids distance learning (not this year so far thankfully), sheltering in place, wearing masks everywhere else, waiting for the vaccines (which we got once available), and the contrary extremes around us going completely bananas on nearly every aspect of life, we compartmentalized the daily grind and didn't really care for our mental health. 

We thought we did with our morning meditations and positive communication practice. And while it may have been a temporary mood-lifter, sedating with food and drink every night isn't really good self-care. It's just turning "off" until the next day starts everything all over again and the compartmentalizing continues. Even so, we remained grateful throughout for our circumstances and took care of our children and their emotional needs, just not our own as much as we should have.

After Beatrice, Amy and I finished running the mile together, and after I caught up to Amy and Beatrice who kept their 50-yard lead most of the way, I looked out over the ocean and to the Natural Bridge below where I'd finish my workout. My chest heaved, my big body was drenched in sweat, and my face was a pasty white. The air tasted so very sweet though, and was filled with a clarity and grace, without judgement, for ourselves and for others who have struggled with pandemic life, even when we think we didn't. We're finally reversing the polarity of our fatigued spirits and reenergizing our hearts. Blessings to you all. 

All Kinds of Creative Solace

Beatrice entered her school's talent show to share her artwork. It's wasn't a judged talent show, and yet that doesn't matter. Out of the few hundred kids in her middle school, less than a dozen individuals (plus their school choir) participated in the virtual talent show. Bea submitted a short video with her showing some of her favorite art pieces from the past year. There were also other singers and musicians and voice actors and artists and film editors and more who entered. Bryce entered her school's talent show and shared her artwork as well. 

When I was 12 and my sister 10, we helped our mom break into the house of our first step-father, who was mentally ill and abusive, while he was at work. We had already gotten out of the house, but there were still too many personal things we didn't want to leave behind. In less than a day, he had changed the locks on the house, so the only way we could get in was to break in. We broke the bathroom window on the side of the house and then laid a towel over the bottom edge of the windowsill. The only person who could fit through the window was my sister. We were all scared out of our minds, with visions of him waiting quietly inside with a gun. The same gun he pointed at my mom multiple times. We got our things and got out, with no sign of him anywhere. 

Quite a juxtaposition from then to now. We're grateful that we've been safe and well and have been able to provide a stable and loving family environment for our girls. And while I did grow up in a less than stable environment, I wasn't without my creative side that my mom encouraged. I was always an avid reader (so was Amy growing up -- and we still are). We've instilled these positive habits in the girls as well; Bryce is more the avid reader overall and Bea loves her graphic novels. I also drew a lot when I was the girls' age, and was writing short stories then, too. Bea is also interested in writing her own stories in the form of graphic novels. Both girls are drawing and painting and experimenting will all kinds of art, and we continue to support them both. 

Even though the girls are back to in-person school again (5 days a week for Bryce and 2 days a week for Beatrice), we've all been fortunate to continue to be active and to nurture our creative sides over the past year of pandemic. We also know that there has been an exponential increase in stress, fatigue and depression throughout the pandemic, with many families socially isolated from family and friends. There have been too many people out of work, struggling financially to keep their families sheltered and food on the table. Domestic violence has been on the rise globally during the past year. There are families who have struggled with illness and mental health problems. And there are those who have split up for many of the reasons above.

Even when we're beyond this pandemic, the psychological and emotional impacts will be felt for years to come. Creating safe and healthy environments for our children is certainly the best intention for most parents, even when there are factors beyond our control. Leaning in on faith, on counseling, on mental health services, on the support of other family and friends are critical. Getting out of dangerous situations when there is no other alternative for safety is also critical. Through it all, encouraging our children to have a growth mindset, even in the face of extreme circumstances, can lead to all kinds of creative solace. 

Help Kids Stay Emotionally Safe -- Donate By December 31

Every week during our family meetings – after we share compliments, appreciation, things we notice about each other, and what we're grateful for – we always check in with our two pre-teen daughters about general overall safety, emotional safety and positive communication. 

It's not just about us being parents who want to ensure the overall safety of our family. We also want our daughters to be comfortable talking about their own emotional safety and positive communication. To be empowered by that ability. To never be afraid of them. And to know that their safety and well-being are more important than anyone's embarrassment, inconvenience or offense. That last one is especially important for them as they enter teenage-land and young adulthood. 

These are part of the many tenets of the nonprofit organization Kidpower. My wife works for Kidpower and I've volunteered for Kidpower in the past, wearing a padded suit for self-defense lessons. Kidpower continues to teach our family and people of all ages and abilities to use their power to stay safe, act wisely, and believe in themselves.

This has been especially difficult to do for many families with children and teenagers this year due to COVID-19. According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC):

Adolescents aged 12–17 years accounted for the highest proportion of mental health–related ED visits in both 2019 and 2020, followed by children aged 5–11 years. Many mental disorders commence in childhood, and mental health concerns in these age groups might be exacerbated by stress related to the pandemic and abrupt disruptions to daily life associated with mitigation efforts, including anxiety about illness, social isolation, and interrupted connectedness to school. 

Kidpower programs can help kids and teens alike to stay emotionally safe in times like these. And like many organizations this year, Kidpower pivoted from mostly in-person safety services to delivering everything online through trainings and workshops, for even the most susceptible and at-risk populations. Being a nonprofit, everything they do is funded by generous grants and donations. 

A long-time friend of Kidpower has given them a challenge grant for up to $100,000 for all new gifts to Kidpower International between Dec 22-31! These funds will support their new PowerUP! Initiative through transformational projects that will vastly increase the safety and confidence of millions of people of all ages and abilities worldwide. 

Please join me in supporting this great cause! They are nearly halfway to hitting their challenge grant and I'm raising $1,000 to help them hit their goal of $100,000. Your contributions will make an impact, whether you donate $5 or $500. Every little bit helps. Thank you for your support. 

Go to Kidpower today and donate what you can before December 31. 

A little protection goes a long way! Thank you!

Mapping the Way

"Five bucks each? C'mon," my wife Amy said.

"That's why I said to bring the cash," I said. 

"But five bucks each? We'd better take our time in there and enjoy it."

"Yep. Let's go."

Our daughters took the lead into the corn maze. They were both more excited about picking out pumpkins to take home than doing the maze, but plowed into it nonetheless. It felt good to do something somewhat normal around a holiday. Even masked up and keeping our distance from the other families that were visiting the pumpkin patch the week before Halloween.

I don't remember ever traversing a corn maze before. I loved mazes as a kid, though, buying maze books and completing each and every one. I even drew many of my own mazes for others to try their luck. But because this maze was made of drying corn stalks, my mind went to Stephen King's 1977 short story Children of the Corn (which was made into a cheesy movie in 1984) about a couple who end up in an abandoned Nebraska town inhabited by a cult of murderous children who worship a demon that lives in the local cornfields.

You know, just your basic King horror story. Oh, and like the snowed in hedge maze in the movie version of The Shining. 

Anyway, there weren't any cults of murderous children, or a crazy man with an axe, just excited children working their way through the maze with their families like we were.

"Let's go this way!" Bryce called to us. "This way to the exit!"

"No, let's go this way," Amy said.

"No Mom! This way!" Beatrice cried out.

"We're going to take our time and get our money's worth," Amy said.

"So, just stay lost in the maze you mean," I said.

"Yes."

But our girls weren't having any of that. Both Bryce and Beatrice picked one path after another, backtracking and trying new ones after we hit dead ends. It was a beautiful fall day, mild, blue sky and sun, the ocean in view beyond the corn field. We wound through the maze and then -- presto -- Bea and Bryce shimmied through a break in the corn to the exit. 

"I don't think that was actually the way," I said. It had only been about 10 minutes total time in the maze. 

"Yes, it's the way out," Bryce said, running with her sister toward the pumpkin patch.

"I think we were supposed to go back around that way to get to the exit," I said, pointing behind me.

But the girls were gone. Amy and I followed them into the pumpkins beyond. They searched and searched until they found the ones we wanted, ignoring most of our recommendations. After we paid for the pumpkins and carted them back to our car, I glanced over at the corn maze. 

This upside down crazy covid world has been one big frickin' corn maze from hell, I thought. One that we keep winding back and forth in, hitting dead end after dead end, with no exit in sight. Doing the same things every day to keep ourselves safe and well, limiting where we go and who we're around, but never really feeling like we're going anywhere, making any progress, getting beyond the repetitive doldrums while the world inverts dreams and reality like the Christopher Nolan move Inception. Our very souls chafe from this painful repetition, and all the hope and love in the world sometimes doesn't feel like enough for us all to see daylight. 

Don't get me wrong -- we're grateful to be safe and well and know there's an exit eventually from this crazy maze. Until then we'll take the lead from our kids, their simple resilience mapping the way. 

Other "Days of Coronavirus" posts:

Mask Up First For Your Families

All Because of One Day on the Beach

Awash in Love and Hope

The Building Blocks of Healthy Lives

The Part Where All Lives Matter

The Clarity Bridge for Homelessness

Stars to Shine

Loving Community Wide Shots Abound

A Foundation Worth Saving

This Hit-And-Run Thunderstorm

Help Prevent the Back-to-School Bullying

Memories Now and to Come

Especially Our Kids

This Old "No" Guy Jedi

Choose Eyes of Love

The Morning Work

We Shared Blue Genes

Agree to Disintegration

The Teacher Parade

All These Things Can Lead To Grace

Our Freedom Is Always Welcome

A Well of Strength

This Bad History

No Shirts, No Shoes, No Problem

The Iceberg Underneath

The Healing Hope We Can Give

Donate Your Date Nights and Help Feed Families

About All The Things

Dad, Our Family's Computer Guy

The Newest Normal

Where Our Troubles Are All The Same

This Is The Life

When There's Nowhere to Go

Jenny, Jenny, Who Can I Turn To

This Hit-And-Run Thunderstorm

"Accidents will happen

They only hit and run

You used to be a victim now you're not the only one

Accidents will happen

They only hit and run

I don't want to hear it cause I know what I've done..."

 

–Elvis Costello and the Attractions, Accidents Will Happen

As we straddled part of the two-lane highway with our trailer in tow, all I could see in that moment was the car that rammed into the back end of my Fiat X-19 at 65 miles per hour. 

That was nearly three decades ago. My ex-wife had been in that little car, her seatbelt on, and I was standing behind it trying to flag down traffic to help. We had broken down, had no power, the wheels had locked up and there was a light rain falling at dusk. We had broken down in the lane next to the fast lane on a multi-lane highway. Some cars had started to slow and pull over, and a trucker lit a flare, but it was too late. One car barreled down on us. I jumped clear. It struck the back of the Fiat and drove it over 100 yards down the highway. Amazingly my ex ended up with only minor injuries. One of the passengers in the other car had serious injuries. 

That's what I kept seeing as we tried to turn around on the two-lane highway with our new camper rig. I knew in the moment my reaction was as irrational as reliving the memory from the past, but it was too late. 

"What are you doing?" I yelled. "You cannot turn around here!"

"Yes, I can. There's plenty of room," my wife Amy said. I could tell she wasn't happy with my tone.

We had recently purchased our new trailer camper and this was only our second trip. Amy drove this leg of the trip and our two daughters were playing on their devices in the back seat. We had missed the turnoff to the campground and were now in a precarious place to try and turn around. Without the camper it would've been a quick flip around to head back the other way. 

I kept seeing another vehicle hitting us, over and over again. I pounded violently on on the plastic molding between the front window and my passenger door. 

"Stop now! We cannot turn around here! This is is a safety problem and we will get hit!"

I could feel Amy and the girls flinch at my actions and words. Again, I knew as it happened that I was overreacting. Sure, it was definitely a safety problem and we didn't have much room and there was a blind curve behind us. We ended up driving a little further to find a safer turn-around space, and shortly after that we were at the campground. We would've figured it out and we did. 

I apologized to my family and we talked through it. Amy understand why I felt how I felt, just not my aggressive response, a recurring response for me at times (the blue genes strike back). We've been spending so much quality time together as a family during this pandemic, choosing eyes of love (most of the time) in the face of any adversity. We have so much to be grateful for -- a loving family, employment, being safe and healthy. 

Accidents will happen, though. We both have gotten frustrated with our kids and snapped at them. We've gotten frustrated with each other and snapped back. The girls even asked if everything was okay between us when this happens, not understanding the difference between simple disagreements and the need for deeper dialogue. And now I realize that after these past six months of COVID-19, the deaths, the lockdowns, the economic devastation, the racial injustice, the protests, the cultural divide, the leadership failures and so much more around us that feels like it's all going to hell, that the road-straddle response referenced above was the beginning of my hitting a wall.

Again, I'm super grateful for everything in my life. But with us all home together all the time through work and play, the girls starting school from home again and us being bummed out for them, and then feeling like I don't have enough quality time with my wife even though we're together all the time, I hit a wall hard. Depressed. Lethargic. Hopeless, which is unusual for me of late. Everything feeling and looking like complete shit. The world going to hell in a big community handbasket. 

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) latest Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report (MMWR), 40 percent of adults said they struggled with mental health challenges and substance abuse. Ugh. I haven't hit a wall like this in a long time, and thankfully Amy and I always talk through it all, walk through it all, love through it all. It's so important during weight of today that keeps bearing down on so many of us, too many of others disproportionately actually, that we talk about how we feel. Get help about why we feel this way. Don't be afraid to ask for help about when we feel this way. 

We had severe thunderstorms last night that we usually don't get in Santa Cruz. Amy and the girls slept through most of it, although the thunder kept waking me and the lightning kept flashing and waking me (and Jenny our dog who barked at it a few times during the night). The past six months have felt like this hit-and-run thunderstorm that never seems to pass, leaving me exhausted for tomorrow. 

So, I think I'll just be thankful for today instead by talking, walking and loving through it all.

Other "Days of Coronavirus" posts:

Help Prevent the Back-to-School Bullying

Memories Now and to Come

Especially Our Kids

This Old "No" Guy Jedi

Choose Eyes of Love

The Morning Work

We Shared Blue Genes

Agree to Disintegration

The Teacher Parade

All These Things Can Lead To Grace

Our Freedom Is Always Welcome

A Well of Strength

This Bad History

No Shirts, No Shoes, No Problem

The Iceberg Underneath

The Healing Hope We Can Give

Donate Your Date Nights and Help Feed Families

About All The Things

Dad, Our Family's Computer Guy

The Newest Normal

Where Our Troubles Are All The Same

This Is The Life

When There's Nowhere to Go

Jenny, Jenny, Who Can I Turn To

To Keep Our Souls Above Water

The weight was unbearable. And the gravity of every step we took increased exponentially. Once we exited the church into the sunlight, I choked in ragged crying jags that shredded my heart like broken glass, my face sweaty and flush. I felt defeated, flattened, unmoored from the little stability I had finally gained at that point in my life.

Less than two weeks earlier, I was sleeping in my dorm room when I got the call from a mutual friend.

"Kevin, Brian killed himself."

I remember half-hearing the news, still not quite awake, and I asked my friend what had happened.

"We don't know exactly, only that he shot himself."

That whole summer prior to me going away to college, our friend Brian had been getting more and more belligerent when he drank. And more and more depressed, something he hid from most of us except for his closest friend from our group and his girlfriend. There were rumors of money he owed and other kinds of substance abuse, but the reality was we really didn't know what was going on. He kept himself pretty well insulated from our questions and instead made sarcastic jokes about everything. He was charming and funny, and so we all assumed he was just going through a bad patch, but that he'd be okay.

I remember it was hard to be around him at the end of the that summer. Many times when we'd be drinking together, he'd get so out of the control that he started breaking stuff. One time he broke a window where we were having a party, cutting himself badly and not really comprehending how wasted he was.

And not caring either.

Which should've been a bigger clue for us -- but for me, I had my own set of anxieties and panic attacks and bouts of depression. Going away to college was a big step forward for me and I really wanted to get my proverbial shit back together again. I had already taken a year off after high school, struggling to keep my soul above water in the dark well of my heart.

My friend's funeral was the first one I had ever gone to, and being a pallbearer completely crushed me. All I could think about was me and my emotional mess and the moments I considered taking my own life. My dad was a cop, so there were plenty of guns in the house.

But I didn't, and over 30 years later I haven't forgotten the darkness. Instead, I now prefer the lightness of life, finding purpose and meaning in life. I'm thankful because I also have a loving wife and children, and supportive friends and family.

With the recent celebrity suicides of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade, the subject of suicide is back in the spotlight. Based on a recent article I read referencing the CDC's Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, "Suicide rates have increased in nearly every state over the past two decades, and half of the states have seen suicide rates go up more than 30 percent." And today, too many American men are dying lonely and alone, without close friends, and the suicide rate is again climbing for men over 50 years old.

It's complex and getting worse and America "currently has no federally funded suicide prevention program for adults."

My friend Brian didn't shoot himself in the head, he shot himself in the heart. Gun to the chest and pulled the trigger. His message in his suicide note and the way he did it made clear he felt like life had broken his heart, that he had broken his heart, his emotional well a poisoned viscous darkness. He was sorry for those he hurt, but obviously was too hurt himself to go on.

Whether you or someone you know has had longtime mental health issues, or if you've been subjected to domestic violence or sexual assault and are struggling with the aftermath, or if other sudden traumatic changes in your lives has unmoored you from stability, suicide prevention is a conversation we should all be a part of. We need to do away the stigma associated with emotional and mental struggles, and embrace the fallibility of being human, and the fact we can and do heal. Too many of us have lost ourselves in our own dark viscous wells, and with a little help from each other, from our communities and funded prevention services, and even from God, we might be able to keep our souls above water.