45

 11/4.     45. 

These are numbers with some hard and real meaning this year. Tomorrow, I'll celebrate my own Covid-time birthday and my forty-fifth trip around the sun. It's also not lost on me that this day comes at an important time for our country (and also the number 45), and perhaps marks the way forward (or perhaps back). I keep thinking about how I'll feel tomorrow, but I keep coming back to a shrug of the shoulders and a big fat question mark. 

I'm hoping that I wake up, happy to have the day off from work, and with bright shiny eyes for what lies ahead in the coming year. I think the reality is that I'll open my eyes, wondering what part was a dream and what part still exists. I'm probably also only partially successful resisting the temptation to open Twitter before I've even thrown back the covers. I remember waking up that morning in 2016, in disbelief and confused about what it all meant, and wondering what was in store over the next four years of my middle-aged life. I am certain I wouldn't have imagined a close proximity of the chaotic journey we have endured since. In fact, I still wake up some mornings startled by the fact that we're living through a pandemic (which some don't acknowledge as our hard reality) and led by a President who openly questions science, the existence of racism (both in general, and his own), with a history of open misogyny, failed business dealings, taking advantage of the poor and disabled, heartless and vapid global and economic and environmental policies, and... and... and.

And yet, here we are. That week, I was 41. This week, I'm 45.

But the passage of time, and the celebrations of birthdays should be about our own growth and development, looking at how far we've come with our eyes set on what's next. Instead of leaning on time as something we've wasted, maybe I need to think about what progress has emerged in my own life.

That week, at 41, I was weeks fresh from loss of my mother and navigating the worst of grief. This week, at 45, I smile at her picture, at her voice inside my head, and remember - most of the time without wiping away tears - so many good, fun days. How lucky we were, and how fortunate I am.

That week, I was a newly minted doctoral graduate, a bit unsure of why I had spent so many days and nights writing and reading and presenting. I hated answering the question from faculty and others about my long-term career goals, or what I wanted after I was finished. And while I don't think I know exactly what the future holds for me professionally, this week I have a clearer view of what lies ahead - despite change and so many questions. Perhaps, at 45, there is the start of a new chapter for my career, as bittersweet change comes with energy and renewed excitement.

That week, I filled my calendar with plans and events, theater, restaurants, friends, and beginning the season of tradition and family celebrations (our families celebrate an inordinate amount of birthdays between November and February, in addition to the holidays). This week, I plan for Friday and Sunday FaceTimes, we meal-prep for home-cooked meals, eat in our car's tailgate when the weather is good, and avoid going to the store (or anywhere, for that matter) more than we should. We watch church and concerts on Facebook and YouTube, along with old television shows we missed 10 years ago. We forego nights out, and have swapped them for days where we walk in the woods with the birds and the deer. We miss our family and our friends, do all we can to protect ourselves and them, and - like everyone reading this - are upon that difficult moment of navigating how to celebrate a season of thanks and wonder - perhaps at a quiet table in a lonely home.

At the start of 41, I couldn't have imagined these things possible, or the ways in which I might be forever changed. I couldn't imagine a picture of my mom without a crippling ache of sadness. I couldn't imagine my work being any different from the last two decades. I certainly couldn't imagine spending so many quiet days in a daily existence that is often hard to recognize, marked with the wonder of when it'll ever end. 

And yet, this week, here I am. I have grown and adapted and have learned new things, even when I didn't want to and even when I wasn't ready. I am ready for that next season of growth, having pruned back before. Here I am, prepared to open my eyes to 45, fully committed to that which is good and that which continues to teach me important lessons.

45 can help us learn and grow. 
45 can remind us how to be a better citizen in our community.
45 can open our hearts to our own failings, our own gaps, and our own privilege.
45 can challenge us to pursue our dreams.
45 can show us the beauty, fragility, and preciousness of nature.
45 can remind us of the power in our voices and the bravery and confidence to use them.
45 can learn to make biscuits from scratch.
45 can learn to be still, and quiet, and focus on the breath.
45 can end a chapter and start a new book.
45 can learn how to work from home.
45 can know, and give, and practice love. Even at a distance.

When I blow out the candles this year, I have but one wish. Here's hoping wishes come true.

This One Time, At Band Camp...

Last weekend I received an email from UNC's Director of Bands, Jeff Fuchs, with the sad news that Carolina's band camp was going to run a bit differently this year. No instruments would be played on the field (other than percussion), and they were working hard to make this annual tradition (a) happen anyway and (b) do what they could to do it safely and (c) have some fun. There were subsequently a list of students and email addresses that we Marching Tar Heel Alumni could contact for a quick note of encouragement, as you can imagine, students were disappointed.

As most of you know, I'm an educator by trade, and as you may also know, we educators are up to our eyeballs in a myriad of preparations - especially when the semester begins early. So, my delay in attending to that email meant that I missed my chance to offer a personal note to students. Thankfully, I have this as an alternative forum and have decided to offer this open letter to this generation of Marching Tar Heels - the Pride of the ACC.

This one time, over two decades ago, at band camp, I found my people. 

I went to high school in a small town (one of about 100 graduates), and I entered Carolina's sprawling campus overwhelmed and intimidated by the intellect, history, challenge, and big-ness that surrounded every part of me. I lived at the top of a 10-story residence hall, filled with hundreds and hundreds of new students, from places near and far, who were also the smartest kids in their schools, and who probably knew much more about the world than I did. I knew about 3 people really well, and could recognize faces of about 10 others. But really, despite the comfort of my dorm room, those first days at Carolina proved to be kind of lonely. And then I went to band camp.

I had always found community in music, and that was certainly the case for me in high school. Some of my best memories come from hot or cold Friday and Saturday nights on hard aluminum bleachers, huddled with your friends, and waiting until your time to take the field. We were a small group of dedicated nerds, but we had fun and were (I would like to think) an important part of that small town's larger community.

When I got to college, one of the 3 people I knew well was in the Marching Tar Heels, so I mustered up the confidence to audition, and took my post among the clarinets somewhere in the back corner of the field (that's where we always ended up!). What I didn't know at the time, when I was consumed about memorizing Hark the Sound, or knowing all the proper call signs for what to play next, or trying to remember where my next step should be, or how to fit in practice 3 times a week, plus game days... What I didn't know then was what was to come.

I didn't know that 25+ years later...

• I'd still palpably remember the chills that I got right before we ran onto the field for that first football game and the ROAR of the crowd.
• I'd still count people on that field as the best of friends, and that the people with me contained an endless number of stories... some with pulsating laughter, and some that bring me to tears, even now. 
• That the first thing I think about when I hear Jungle Love or 25 Or 6 To 4 or West Side Story or Gimme Some Lovin' are my best memories with the band.
• I've never been wetter in my life than in that one game against Florida State in 1994.
• That Throw Down in front of Wilson Library is, hands down, the best way to ever start a Saturday Game Day.
• I'd be married to a trumpet player who was standing across the field, with a name I couldn't pronounce, from a state I'd never been to.

All these years later, with two more degrees, and 20 years as a higher education professional, a lot of what I know about what makes students successful comes from my membership in this illustrious group. 

College students need to be busy. As members of the MTH, expect to be busy. Assume that it's good for you, even when you're tired and overwhelmed and have to stay up way too late to finish that paper.

College students need to do things besides go to class. All students need distraction from their learning, and they need to be part of the community. I got both from the band, and it gave me opportunities to see beyond the door of 1019 Hinton James.

College students need good leadership. Jeff Fuchs came to Carolina when I was a student there. His good leadership and commitment to students remain. A true educator. But students had so many opportunities to lead. I thought they were so smart, and so comfortable - all that made me have confidence in myself.

College students need opportunities to work together. There's nothing quite as fulfilling as playing 1 small role in a group of 300, working together to create something beautiful. All reading from the same page and heading in the same direction. There are innumerable life lessons here.

College students need friends. Some of the best people I know started their course at Carolina on the field. Either with me, before me, or just after. We find ourselves in an array of different places in the world, in a variety of circumstances, and with growing families and futures. But, it kind of all feels like it started on that same hot day in August. On a field full of mosquitoes. As we all took that left-foot heel-toe step, one yard closer to what we would become.

For all you who start this year a bit disappointed because it doesn't look like you might want it to, I'll just ask that you not forget the opportunity to look to your left and right. Look a few rows to the front or back. Listen to the ringing leftover sound of that final, quiet chord. Music and beauty and community - these are the priceless gems, and they still ring clear and true.

Go Heels.

The Will to Act

I have gone back and forth over the last 10 days about writing right now. I have had fits and starts over just beginning to even think about what to say. After all, my thoughts aren't the ones we need to read. Nor should we mistake in any way my words or reflections for self-promotion or self-importance. White people have been promoted and important for far too long.

But, for the last several weeks, I have used the act of writing as a process to think and reflect. Maybe even make a decision or two. So if you have come to read or reflect with me, understand that this post (while public) is simply a holding place where I leave some record of the complexity in life right now. I hope that this act of putting my fingers to the keyboard can help provide my own meditation for learning, growing, sharing, and taking action. Maybe I don't get it exactly right, and I'm sure other revelations will emerge, but this is a start.

Since March I have been tied to the headlines. I have worried about people dying in my own community and around the world as a result of the global pandemic. I have worried about the health and safety of my loved ones. I have worried about my own health and safety. And for that, I have chosen to approach this time conservatively, staying at home. Wearing my mask whenever possible. Washing my hands 100 times a day for 20 seconds. You get the drill.

And in the weeks since the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd, I have become tied to another tier of headlines. Worried about people dying in my own community and around the world. Worrying about the health and safety of those I love. But in those worries are caveats, because I don't need an app that notifies me if my husband gets stopped by the police. I never had the talk with my parents about what I'm wearing when I go shopping. Aside from being a woman, I mostly live with the luxury of not worrying about my own health or safety by merely existing in this world. It is clear that there is no amount of hand-washing to prevent the disease that has ailed our nation for 400 years.

And, as someone who is exhausted of watching our country and the larger world fail its people again and again, I have grown impatient with my own inaction around this pandemic of racism.

So, here I sit. Safely distant from others because I believe in being an active participant to "protect" my community and those I love. But as we have all been given a bit of extra time in this stay-at-home season, here is how I'm deciding to take action. Again, this is not about self-aggrandizement, nor is it a ploy to seek affirmation or "attagirls." I'm simply writing to myself, as a solemn promise with the will to act.

I will listen. This involves sitting in both the uncomfortable quiet and audible harsh realities that I cannot know or assume to know. I will ask questions, make an effort to not center myself in these conversations, and take care seeking understanding.

I will speak. Knowing that listening is primarily important, I know that speaking is not far behind. Words are important, and our ability to communicate with care is an important example of how we can play an active role in this movement. I will speak with both my vote and with my wallet. I will use my voice in my job, in my family, with my friends, and in my shouted prayers to the heavens.

I will read. I readily accept the fact that people around me poke fun at my desire to learn and know through reading (mostly because of the stack of books strewn through our home that haven't yet been opened). But reading stories from people of color, learning histories I was not taught, and delving into subjects unfamiliar to me can challenge my viewpoint and extend my own curiosities about our very complicated world and my commitment to anti-racism. Knowing is so important.

I will watch. I will watch media produced by people of color, documentaries that tell stories I should hear and see, and most importantly, I will look for evidence of racism in the world around me and play my part to shine a light on what goes unseen. We can't uncover the thing we aren't looking for.

I will feel. I know that my feelings aren't and should never be at the center of this movement for justice and equality, but that shouldn't discount the importance of what this moment makes each one of us feel. Is it confusing? Hurtful? Do you feel shame? Embarrassment? Anger? Sadness? Our attention to our hearts and guts are good barometers for our own being, and we should all be taking a bit of time to reflect on our own emotions. Naming them can be an insightful practice. Empathy can be a heavy weight to carry, but can also help uncover what really matters.

I will hope. Perhaps of all of these contractual agreements, this one is the hardest. I have often described myself as an eternal optimist, as far too often I  find the silver linings in difficult moments - even if it's a stretch. But this seems really hard right now. I worry for those protesting in the streets each day and night, many of them putting their health on the line as they fight for what's important. There are tangled systems standing in the way of progress toward equality. And sadly, there are powerful people and structures working against any progress in fear for what may come crumbling down. I often tell my students that when life gets really big, make your first step small. Start with yourself. Start with the circles around you. Start in your community, church, organization, city. Those small impacts create momentum, and the ripple effect of positive energy, of learning, and most importantly of love, has to mean something. It also has to produce something real and true. For that, I will have hope.

So as I've reached the end of this written agreement today, I challenge you to think through the key promises you're making at this time. Goals don't have to be enormous to be important. But a completed goal demonstrates an ability to grow and learn.

During the last several weeks, I've been using Headspace, a popular meditation app. It's helped me quiet my mind and find some healthy ways to cope in this very loud world. The guide often prompts before beginning sessions saying, "Take some time to think about who in your life can benefit from your meditation." While curious at first (wasn't I just doing this for me?), it's been an important reminder of the need to remove my ego from the moment, and focus instead on the benefit that my own work can bring to others.

So take these promises as my new meditation, and the goals I intend to keep. And while I own the promises I keep, I employ them for the benefit of the world around me, believing in that hard-to-find hope: that we will wash our hands of this disease, and one day very soon, hold one another close.

Lordy, Lordy, how can he be 40??!!

Excuse me for the second post in a row about the birth of someone I love. Just go with me, here, friends, and blame the busy month of May. I'll refer you to my previous post about how and why birthdays are ever more important during these Covid days.

Now that we have that settled...today, my baby brother turns 40.

FORTY. I know. How is this possible?

I am the oldest child, and probably if you ask the people who know me best, I'm a textbook first-born. I follow the rules. I am, and have always been, independent.  I was responsible well before I probably should have been. I'm goal-oriented, organized, and I always proceed with caution (to a fault). I drive a reliable car, and I certainly color within the lines.

Being his big sister has been one of the most important roles of my life. Not because of all the good guidance and rule-following wisdom I shared with him, but in all the ways I have observed his courage and fearlessness. It's in his ability to do things I could never imagine or dream remotely possible. It's in his mixing hues to paint with colors I didn't know existed. My pragmatic viewpoint has watched him bravely conquer new places and spaces, stretch some limits, meet all kinds of interesting people, create beauty from the plain and ordinary, feed others with bold and unfamiliar flavors, laugh at absurdities, and love with all his might - even when it leaves behind some painful scars. No one has taught me more about the growth that comes from cutting away.

And look, I get that all of this birth-order stuff is probably just conjecture, but there's probably something worth paying attention to. Perhaps our Creator composes our families with care and intention, bringing to our homes and our lives the people and identities that we need to learn from. Perhaps God knows that we need both structure and play. We need both the safety of a good book and the adventure of the middle of the woods. We need a detailed itinerary and a surprise stop at the antique store. Indeed, we need both a tuxedo and tattoos.

Like many siblings with about half a decade in between them, the growing up years were probably full of unimportant aggravations and calls to Mom and Dad to settle a dispute. And while I'm a little disappointed that neither of us recognized the gifts of our imperfections during that time, I'm so grateful that these hardened adult years have produced a special richness that brings instant connection, meaningful conversation, and a thousand shared memories. No one else knows that smell of a home on a Georgia dirt road, or has the same pair of skinny, freckled ankles. No one else remembers that Mom was making brownies when he busted his eye on the fireplace, or that his noisy Knight Rider car spoiled Santa for me. Only we share this kind of special brother and sister bond.

So while we find that our place in birth-order and in life are in different time zones (both literally and figuratively), the things that we share and the lessons we've learned from one another bring us solidly together.

Jer, I am so glad to be your sister. I am so proud of your wonder and bravery, and the journey you have taken. I'm sure I can't imagine what you'll create next, but I'm certain it will make us think, it will taste delicious, fill our hearts with love, and make us all smile for what's to come. Happy birthday little brother!

Birthday Tribute to My Best Gal

What can you say about a friend? The word 'friend' doesn't seem full enough in six letters to hold the amount of love or time or guacamole you've shared over a lifetime. And so for today, when maybe you can't quite fit all the words on an endless scrolling screen, you just say happy birthday.

I have been using my writing time and this format to offer me an outlet during this weird, confusing and stressful life we're living together. It helps. I've heard some writers (like, "official" writers) say that they're not quite sure what they mean until they write it down. Many of my entries during this quarantine have been helpful in that way, but this post is just pure on thanksgiving and celebration. In this case, I know exactly what I mean to say.

Here's to the friend who makes you laugh.

Who texts when they're just around the corner.

Who shares an infinite list of "remember whens."

Who loves you at your best and probably more so at your worst.

Who can sit comfortably in silence with you or talk for hours (as long as it's before her bedtime).

Who always makes the perfect playlist.

Who is a sucker for a no-bake chocolate cookie.

Who will always, ALWAYS, sing you a song.

Who runs to your rescue at life's most challenging moments.

Who sends you healing pictures of puppies.

Who loves your people as their own.

Who is family.

Birthdays are special. Maybe in this time they're even more cherished. I have seen so many birthday caravans and surprises. Virtual celebrations, full of unexpected deliveries and life-sized cards that proclaim our joy for that person we celebrate.

So, let this be my best virtual celebration of love for a friend. An offering of thanks. An exclamation of joy for her and for all who benefit from her kindness and generosity. May the year ahead bring her joy and happiness, mixed with Bloody Mary's, chips and salsa, some travel (maybe?!), and a whole lotta dog kisses!

And if you would like to join this virtual celebration, the birthday girl would be so pleased with a donation to her favorite charity, QC Family Tree, a local non-profit doing a ton of good in our community.

My Graduation Embrace

I have been a proud community college professional for 20 years now, and like many of my colleagues, among the top 3 days of the entire year is graduation day. I will always love the first day of school (side note: I have ALWAYS loved the first day of school since I was a kid. Consider this a preview for an upcoming post about how much I love the smell of a crisp clean notebook and sharp pencils. Another day...). And I will always love the mid-year and mid-term breaks, as they often come at just the right time to manage sanity. But the magic and wonder of graduation day is an unmatched holiday for those of us who work in education. It is a landmark day.

I have always loved ceremony and ritual. Both ceremony and ritual are important to me in my faith experience, and there is no better faith experience than working in public education, so it seems fitting that ceremony and ritual be an important part in a proper graduation. We dress in robes and tasseled hats. We process in, in orderly lines and to the perfect recipe of sound as "Pomp and Circumstance" mixes with the cheers of a very proud crowd. At Central Piedmont, we have always taken time to honor both personal experience and academic achievement, letting our students be recognized by raising their hands... whether they served in the military, volunteered in our community, raised children, worked multiple jobs, made the President's list, or are graduating with a perfect 4.0 GPA. All those achievements are important markers of success and should be formally recognized.

Like many colleges and universities, we were scheduled to hold graduation this week. Today, in fact. Typically, I'm spending this week with colleagues, preparing and practicing and planning. We mark off miles of taped lines on floors and pocket handfuls of bobby pins and safety pins to make sure we're prepared to help our graduates look picture perfect. We wrangle hundreds of excited graduates in small spaces, managing their anxiety, tired feet, and desire to just get on with what we know will be a long-ish ceremony of 900 names read and 900 walks across a stage. It's equal parts exhausting and exhilarating. But this week, I'm spending way more time sitting than standing, my bloodshot eyes focused on a screen rather than a face.

This week our college shared a lovely video, compiling pictures and videos from our faculty and staff congratulating our graduates. And, my staff created a heartfelt year in review, a showcase of memories set to music, of the good work my team did with our students. Both are full of people and places that I just love and admire, but they are clearly different in one major way. One showcases life before Coronavirus, and the other after it.

As I watched our year in review, I couldn't help but notice our close proximity. Our sharing meals together. Our hugs and high fives. Our trips. Our longing to be huddled together, because that's what friends do and that's how you know who's on your team. All these things were so important to us, once upon a time, in this life I sort of remember. I'd be lying if I told you I made it through the video without tears.

What I think hurts the hardest about missing graduation isn't the ritual and ceremony of this special occasion. It's not the robes and the tassels and the handshakes or the official declaration or the lovely benediction. It's the all important huddled hug. It's the moment when you look out over a sea of black gowns and silver and gold tassels, and you can feel the rippling pride that extends beyond that ocean of graduates. That ripple extends beyond those receiving their diplomas to their proud families and friends, their teachers, their advisors, their children, and their community. It's the recognition of each graduate's unique story, and their unique obstacles and journeys that got them this far. It's the knowing that this crowd of newly credentialed individuals will go to work in our communities (many of them on the front lines of this virus). It's knowing that many of them will now transfer to new institutions as they continue what they started with us. It's knowing with some degree of certainty that they will take all the goodness we offered them and share it with others. I see it every year, again and again. You can't help but to want open your arms and welcome someone to their bright new future with a close, tight embrace.

So while that tight embrace is currently a memory, here's a simple hug in words for all the graduates reading this, wherever you are. Know that we are proud of you. Your future is bright, and you are capable of way more than you think. Know that others are watching you and dreaming that one day they might be like you. Know that there is much more to learn and do. Know that your family, and friends, and community all need you. Know that you are valued. And know that we are fortunate to have had one small segment of our journey together.

And, the next time you see us, we'll be waiting with our arms wide open.

Nineteen Years

April 21, 2001.

It was a day kind of like today. April in North Carolina wins all the awards, outside the occasional terrible spring storm. April days are the critical selling point of living here. The humidity hasn't hit hard yet. It's warm enough, but not too warm. There's always a breeze and the sky is the prettiest Carolina blue this time of year. Like this day, the trees were full of green leaves that day, and April showers had brought plenty of garden flowers. Birds chirped. It was idyllic. And on this day, I was going to marry.

And while I remember what that day felt like in the spirit of the day, I'll be honest to say that I don't remember a ton else. I remember aching over a cake, and what was going to go on the tables, and who was going to take our pictures, and how many people we could have present, and what were the flowers going to look like, and would my very southern Georgia family mix well with the very New York Italians there. In the end, that was never an issue and we learned that really, everyone found joy in good food, good drink, good music & a good time.  But I have to say, if I were on some game show where I would have to recount details of that day in order to win $1,000,000 - my friends, I would surely be sent home with some terrible consolation prize.

When you're getting married, the things that consume you in planning often don't make it past year one.  Maybe they end up as a small detail in a photo album or stuck in the memories of someone else, but they certainly don't make or break the day as you expect them to when you're in the middle of it all. And so, in honor of our 19th anniversary today, I thought I'd take time out during my pandemic writing to document what I remember from that very special day:

• There's a funny story that my family likes to tell about the ceremony. Our wedding was in the Catholic church, and many of my family had never likely been to a Catholic Mass, and our priest was aware of this, so he did a decent job of talking about the service. When it was time for Communion, he announced that the gifts (of wine and bread) would be brought to the altar, and one of my Georgia relatives whispered that he had left his gifts in the car and did he need to go get them?
• Our videographer showed up to the hotel reception wearing some terrible jorts and I made it quite clear to him that he needed to change clothes quickly. Don't come to my wedding in jorts.
• I loved my dress. I also got very hot in my dress and had not planned ahead to figure out how I might remove the veil sewn to my headband to make it easier to enjoy the post-wedding partying. Thank goodness for friends with pocket knives who could cut that sucker loose and let my neck breathe.
• We danced and danced and danced and danced. In the presence of both my grandmothers, we played the best of the 90s dance music and had ourselves a par-tay. Look up every dance hit from that era and we played it. Rumpshaker and all.
• When the night was done, I wanted nothing more than to take off my sweaty, heavy dress and uncomfortable shoes, and upon arrival to our room, was met with "artwork" all over the room. Friends can also be vandals. Thanks Bob. ;)

That's about it. My dad has always said that it was the most fun he's ever had. And while I don't remember all the bits and pieces, I remember what was most important. All of the people we loved were there, together, in the same room at the same moment. While oddly strange, it was something I've rarely encountered because sadly, the only other time that experience happens is at funerals. There were people present that day who we will never see again. Whether by death or by circumstance, that day was a fleeting moment in time. Perhaps we took a moment like that for granted while it was all happening, but as I look back, all that remains is love. I think love can be enough to remember.

Love for the unplanned-for chaos of the moment.
Love for the beautiful day we had.
Love for the people there by our sides.
Love for the celebration.
Love for my spouse and our partnership.
Love for our promise to one another.
Love for that one moment in time.

And after 19 years, here's what I know.

You cannot know the challenge of marriage until you're sitting with it's darkest moments. You cannot know the value of two ears for listening and one mouth for speaking until you have said too much. And, you cannot know true partnership until the day arrives when you see that your happiness is not bound in what you might want, but more often in what brings your partner joy or delight. Some might call that sacrifice. I just know it as love.

In this time we're living, nothing is certain. I know all too well our fortunes after 19 years - even despite darkness and pain and trouble and frustration. All the pains of life have taken hold in all of the 6,935 days we have been married. But here we are. Still taking walks with one another. Still holding hands. Still laughing and dancing to the best of the 90s. Still able to say it was the most fun. Still able to say that we remember the most important parts of the day. And oddly enough, still celebrating in this weird eternity of 2020, delighting in the fact that we are lucky enough to be quarantined together. Happy Anniversary to us.

We're All Just Real People

Like many of you, I have spent the better part of the last three weeks working from home. While not super ideal in my line of work, I have made do, setting up a make-shift office space in what is usually our formal dining room (who uses theirs anyway), and on occasion I move my home office to the patio outside (my preferred quarantine workspace despite the pollen). The WFH lifestyle isn't my first choice, but it has to do for now. Instead, I have settled for really short commute and a workspace where all the coffee and snacks are free. Kind of.

But I miss people.  I miss my morning coffee roundup with the office suite gals and the pass-through drop-by's with colleagues. I miss seeing students, hugging those in need of a little extra care, and high-fiving those getting much anticipated transfer acceptance letters.  I miss walking around our campus - at a time of year when its springtime beauty steps proudly forward - seeing people not normally on my routine path, like long lost friends at a high school reunion. See, it's the people that make up a college.

Instead, I'm here. At my dining room table alone. The grandfather clock incessantly ticking, echoing through an empty house. 

Luckily, we have ways. The wonder of technology still allows me to connect and see and hear the people I miss, and sometimes I can even imagine this day without the virus. I have FaceTimed more in the last three weeks that I have collectively FaceTimed ever. I have WebEx Meetinged and WebEx Teamed and Facebook Lived and Zoomed. Here's what I'm learning: these people who I miss so dearly are all real, human people, and I'm learning to love them even more at a distance. I thought I knew them, but I think I really know them now.

Executives are mothers in charge of 3 year-olds with toys and imaginations, and they point out when no one answers questions in meetings. 

Intelligent faculty known for impressive, high expectations are also overrun with emotion and compassion for their students.

Staff who are used to interruptions from students use that same longing glance at their pets, who walk over keyboards and feign for a little attention. 

My put together, dressed to the nines, friends love a comfy t-shirt and yoga pants just like God intended.

And others are, like me, sitting alone in their unused dining rooms, lost in the moment and looking for another person to arrive.

There's just something about seeing someone in their natural habitat. Their home. The place where they lay their head every night. Where they come home to people and animals they love. Where they eat their favorite food and listen to their favorite song. These spaces we've been confined to are the places that hold all the things that make us who we are. We aren't just the title on our business card. Rather, we are a whole, complete person serving a mighty important role as we build an online college in a week, but who also wipe tears from crying children, mow the growing grass, wash dinner's dirty dishes, and who now, don their mask and gloves to buy groceries. Perhaps the expanding virus might also be growing our heightened sense of humanity for one another. 

They say when one sense weakens, others strengthen, and I think my people senses are heightened in this age of solitude and quarantine. I'm noticing people and their humanity probably more than ever. Perhaps I'm paying too much attention who might be approaching my six-foot area, but it seems that we're looking each other in the eye a bit more. We don't miss asking someone how they are, and we seem to really want to know the answer. We take precautions when we're out, not just to protect ourselves, but to protect those around us. We take a little extra time and care to say, "Stay well." In fact, we really mean it.

I think about all the things that will be different when I'm able to return to my office with a skyline view, regaining my morning coffee chat, student high-fives, and the whole bit. I won't miss the ticking clock or the empty room, but I sure hope we get to keep some of what we've learned about one another. I hope to remember to ask about the dog or the cat and the bouncing kid who passes by our meetings. I hope we all retain a bit more of our attention to one another and look each other in the eyes as we walk our path forward. Most of all, I hope we retain our sense of humanity, remembering that we patiently suffered this current moment together...apart. And I hope we continue offering that solid look upon each other's faces, generously offering our meaningful wishes to stay well in the days ahead.

The Path We're On

This weekend, as we've done for the past two weekends, our only respite out of the house was found at our nearby greenway, just a few blocks downhill from our driveway. I've seen reports of crowded parks and other outdoor spots over the weekend, and while there were lots of people making the same choice we did, it wasn't too hard to find yourself alone, under the cover of budding trees, nestled among the birds and bugs that know nothing of social distancing or Covid-19. The picture here is from the path we were on.

It got me thinking about the path each of us are following right now. Somehow, the normal route we take is closed, and we've all been ushered down this other path - one we've never explored, and one that wasn't in our plans when we left our driveway. We're unsure about where it's taking us, what we might lose along the way, what unexpected obstacle we might find in our path, and ultimately where the trail will leave us at the end of this long, hard, difficult, muddy, uphill-both-ways kind of hike. And then I remember that cliched quip... that it's not about the destination, it's about the journey. Let us sit with that for a bit.

It was on this shady path that I thought that we can either muscle through these winding ways in despair, or we can try with all of our might to find the flowers buried in the poison oak that has settled in the ground. Those flowers are nature's illustrated beauty and worth our notice. Can we close our eyes for just a moment, lay down our toils and troubles, and stand silently among the blowing wind, the singing birds, the buzzing bees, and the sounds of our beating hearts and breathing lungs? In many ways it feels like the world we once knew is just a memory, but in this moment, standing with eyes closed, goodness and mercy remain. For the beauty of the earth. For the splendor of the skies.

Let us sit with a healthy precaution for the ills of this world right now. Let us wash our hands, wipe our surfaces, keep our distance, and stay in place. Let us also mourn this crisis with all those who are suffering through its tolls. But let us also give equal measure to the goodness surrounding us when we close our eyes and make note of the beauty which remains. I have seen countless stories of people using their skills and talents to care for others - to protect our healthcare workers, to shop for neighbors, and to comfort people with music and art and prayer. I remain excited and hopeful for our futures with news in recent days of births, pregnancies, and remissions of illness. These are, like this pandemic, also present in this world, and require as much of our care and attention (and emotion!) as our need to social distance. We should feel these happy wonders with all of our senses, just as we do the fear that so often overcomes us all. This is the path we are on - we must note in equal measure the rugged holes and the deer in the distance.

No one knows how all of this will end. But I look forward to emerging from this unknown trail, and a safe arrival home. Let us take a seat together with those we love. May we taste cool waters, wipe our sweaty brows, take off our shoes, and spread our toes in the cool springtime grass. May we let the warm breeze blow above our heads and make music with the blowing wind chimes on the porch. May we take note of the path we were on, how we got there, and how we wandered out. And may we remember, in the deep memory of our senses, all that surrounded us on the uphill climb home.

Finding Comfort

It's been about two years since I last found myself here, but at the suggestion of some wonderful people in my life, I've decided to dust off the old Blogger, and make a bit of a return. Perhaps it's temporary, perhaps I'll be returning for the long haul. But right now, I'm trying to sit close to things that bring me small bits of comfort. I'm here to see if a return to writing can serve that purpose.

It seems that the world is on fire and all we have at our disposal is one small bucket. Our collective response is to focus on who started the fire. To see how many buckets we can collect. To find out where the water is. To spray down our own homes as we protect ourselves. And while these are good uses of our time, nothing seems to bring me comfort, because I can still sense that no matter our late arrival to the fire, fire is fire. It burns, hot and orange. You can smell the smoke when it's nearby. You can hear the sirens as they pass nearby. And it burns until all that's left are smoldering ashes of loss when its fuel has exhausted. And yet here we are, one bucket in each hand. All of us standing at a safe distance.

And like fire, this virus (from all accounts I find) is temporary (ah, comfort!). But what burns in the path is scary and uncertain. What this fiery virus leaves in its aftermath cannot be predicted, but there are a few things that are certain.  Those who didn't have much to begin with will end up with even less. People will still reject scientific modeling and data despite what is sure to be proven over the next several weeks, even in this country. And yes, we will lose people we love to the ashes of this disease. 

Waiting for these certainties brings back familiar feelings and emotions. For me, I'm experiencing much of the same physical and emotional responses I had when my mom was sick and spending her last days with us. It was a daily roller coaster of emotions as the news changes every hour, a tightness in the chest, a nervous stomach, a heavy heart. Sometimes tears. Grateful for small moments of laughter. Wishing time would pass quickly, but despite all efforts, seconds tick slower and slower.

My goal in writing this is to force myself to identify something that still brings me comfort or a fleeting moment of peace. They're hard to find, but in this forced look around me, there are brief moments we must all savor. Mine include a soft pair of socks, a hot cup of coffee, a long hug from my person. Pictures of animals. Something good to eat. A loved one's virtual face. Meditation. Music. Sunshine. 

Yes, there are small bits of comfort that remain, while the fire burns hotter and hotter outside. The key, though, is to look through the flames, in the space between the embers, through the smoke of the burning ashes. Love remains. Beauty remains. Kindness endures. Friendship is evergreen. May we all pay attention to those moments of comfort, because they are just as real as the fire. Perhaps more potent - hopefully more contagious - and we need them to infect our lives in real time.