The Walking Man

Posting this story for a couple of friends. No real residual grief going on. I don't even have a garage anymore. 

***

This pair of shoes has a story. The Walking Man wore these shoes for several years, when he first started walking, before he became known as The Walking Man. I guess, if you want to get technical, the story of the shoes started in a doctor’s office.

“You have metabolic syndrome,” the slim doctor told the middle-aged man.

The man looked hard at his round belly.

“That,” the doc pointed, “is the problem.”

The man loved to eat. Going out to lunch was a must during his work day. At home, he loved cooking and entertaining everyone. And that’s how the roundness made a home on his belly. Invariably, he would get tired after dinner and nap to feel better.

“You’re tired,” said the doctor, “because your metabolism is low.”

The man, not yet 50, didn’t want to take blood pressure medication for the frequent headaches that had taken him to the doctor. He wanted to show the doctor that he could do something besides be like all the others who just resigned themselves to illness. So, he began to walk.

From then on, he walked every day to work. It was 45 minutes there, 45 minutes back. He walked to the grocery. He walked to the video store. He walked to restaurants. Within two weeks, he’d lost 8 pounds.

“You’re like the poster child for high blood pressure,” his doctor actually said. So the man kept walking. That’s when he bought the shoes.

Soon, his friends started recognizing him on the street as they passed him in their cars, and he became known as The Walking Man. Acquaintances would stop and ask if he needed a ride. He almost always refused because walking was the point. Time seemed to be on his side. Walking bought him more time.

He took his shoes to a new city and a new job. His whole family went. But he didn’t stop walking. In fact, he sold their second car. He walked everywhere. To the grocery. To the video store. To the sushi bar. To the donut shop, because he still loved to eat. In his new place, no one even questioned his walking. He walked so much that his shoes started to wear out. So, he bought a second pair, not quite as comfortable as the first. 

One day, he went to the gym, and he ran out of breath after walking on the treadmill and lifting weights. It scared him. He couldn’t catch his wind. His wife came to pick him up, and he told her things weren’t right. On the nervous ride home, she called the ambulance. Sirens blew in their neighborhood, and he sat in the car waiting, feeling small and tenuous. “I’m scared,” he told her, his eyes told her. But the paramedics couldn’t find anything wrong, but they took him to the hospital for more tests.

There, they told him his heart had a small heart attack. It was so small, it hadn’t done any damage. What news! His good shape had helped him survive a close call. Everyone felt cautiously optimistic that The Walking Man had kept himself alive by walking. 

He went home but not without a bunch of drugs. This made him sad, but he kept walking. For more than a year, he walked after the heart attack. He occasionally wore his first pair of shoes because they just felt good, even though they were in sorry sorry shape. They gave him comfort.

He wasn’t wearing them the next time his heart acted up. He may have had on his hiking shoes, that, plus a pair of biking shorts, an old t-shirt. He’d gone on a mountain bike ride. A friend took him on a hilly trail. The friend didn’t know about the doctors, or the walking, or the little bottle of nitroglycerin pills he kept on him at all times. 

Near the top of the trail, The Walking Man stopped his friend.

“Can we slow down?” he asked the friend. 

He couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted to turn around and start back. The downhill would do him good. But it didn’t. He needed air in his lungs, and it wasn’t coming. 

“Can we stop?” was his next question. So, a mile or so away from the trailhead, they got off their bikes.

They both sat on the side of the trail. It was a nice spot, wooded, quiet, with a strong tree to shade them. There, he told the friend about his heart. He took a few nitro pills. He handed his phone to the friend after dialing his wife. Then he fell over.

A few months later, the walking shoes went into a bag. The bag went on a moving truck. The truck went back to where The Walking Man had started walking. His family doesn’t know what happened to the hiking shoes or clothes he wore on his last day in the woods; they didn’t want to ask the officials or go see The Walking Man after he’d stopped breathing. They may have been burned with his body. Or they might have been given to a second-hand store. Or they could have been put in a dumpster. They thought maybe those details didn’t matter so much because the man was gone.

The shoes he liked the most, this pair, haven’t walked again. His wife put them in a bag and hung them in the garage, with a few of his old tools, and camping equipment, and a few unopened boxes of his kitchen utensils. She occasionally looks in the bag to remember the walking. To the grocery, to the movie store, to the restaurants. The shoes show her time.

I Am Not a Scientist

I’m not a scientist. But I work among them. I see my job as interpreting. My words give a voice to the science that could be affecting you right now. And, it is. The world is changing, and I don’t mean politically. It’s about our atmosphere and the ocean and the carbon we’re putting and have put into both. This isn’t my attempt at a lecture. This is an essay about what I see in my everyday work.

I initially laughed a few years ago when a colleague of mine asked: “What’s a different way of saying ‘It’s the hottest ______________ (yr, month, quarter, day) ever?’” That description has been needed so much of late, it has become a cliché. You may have noticed it, too, where you live. Maybe not more heat. Maybe something is different than what it used to be: it’s drier, wetter, colder. Yes, colder. If snows are happening where they didn’t used to, it counts as odd to those who live there. The changes may simply dawn on you one day: This weather isn’t normal; it’s not what I remember.

Many of the people I work with study these changes. They monitor temperature and precipitation trends, soil moisture, or jet streams. They tally extreme weather events. Some focus on very specific questions and fields of study. They use language and calculations that ordinary people, me included, don’t really have a working knowledge of. What I do comprehend is that we’re in uncharted territory. In a nutshell, the planet is warming. We know because observations of the world have been recorded since before your grandparents were born, even before there was an America (https://bit.ly/3b7Z5ro). This information has been handed down and then documented, on paper documents and in computers. Now, we can look at the records and determine where we stand. Where we stand today is a hotter place—global temperatures in some locations are consistently above normal. Carbon levels are higher than they have ever been on record. Independent large scientific organizations across the world agree with these assessment. We are still learning what this means in the long run, for our future in a different climate.

But, what is normal? Well, think of normal as a span of certainty, when conditions fell within a range and didn’t veer too far off center. Except now we’re veering off center, and in same cases dramatically. One place in particular, Alaska, which I think of as the canary in the coal mine, is significantly hotter. It just recorded its hottest year in 95 years, the length of the state’s official records. Alaska’s statewide average temperature last year was 6°F above average; Anchorage recorded its first 90°F day in 2019. Think of this in terms of your own temperature. On average, the average human temperature hovers around 98.6°F (though science says this is also changing). If you were to add a degree, over a short period of time, you’d feel it. Your systems wouldn’t work like they should.

Another cold place that’s bearing the brunt: the Arctic. A scientist I know told a national news reporter this summer he/she wanted to get to the Arctic as soon as the pandemic ended but before the ice melted. He/she had just published a paper that indicates the Arctic could be mostly ice-free in the summer within 15 years.

People in my professional life aren’t full of doom and gloom; they are heads-down engaged in the serious study of changes going on across the globe and in our backyards. In many cases, it is their life’s work. They have been working in their specialties since the beginning of their careers and will keep on, mostly out of the limelight, until they retire. Some of the scientists study things you and I will never actually see: carbon levels in the ocean, drought in South America; or incidence we don’t want to see: unprecedented flooding along our coasts, coral bleaching. They would probably never write an essay like this, not because they couldn’t, but because they are concerned with the science and the exactness of it. My take on things would not be scientific enough. No one from my work endorsed this post; nor did anyone review it. I have to state that because of the nature of my job.

What they aren’t doing is debating among themselves about whether any of these major changes are actually taking place. I could send you to reports that have been a year or more in the making, or monthly charts, or data tables of temperatures and precipitation and ocean conditions, but would those numbers and figures and science-making make a difference to your understanding? I’m not sure they would. That’s why I wrote this essay. To tell you, unequivocally, change is happening. How good are you with change?

Hello, Dishes

Thank god I waited until this morning to start a new post. Writing after drinking wine on a weekend night when the most exciting thing on the agenda is emptying the dishwasher probably isn't a good idea. Those are the times the f-bombs lob liberally from the ol' noggin. My goal here isn't to f-bomb you. We have enough violence in the world without me adding to it.

Ironically, I'm reading "The Book of Joy," a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu. The book is based on a week-long conversation between the two friends facilitated by a writer, who wrote a book about their discussion. A friend suggested it to me. Though it may sound ludicrous, these guys would make a good morning show. The Lama/Tutu Coffee Hour. Reset your life with advice from the enlightened.

Far from it, I can't claim to be enlightened yet. And, generally speaking, my thoughts assume bad patterns. Negative outcomes. Dwellings on the past. Doggy downers. Basically, a rewinding shitshow (sorry about the vulgarity, couldn't get through this post without one). The Lama/Tutu duo advise that in order to overcome the negativity: think more of others than yourself. And meditate (if you're a lama/Buddhist) or pray (if you're an archibishop/Christian). One main focus should be on compassion. And, in a chemical combo of these two -- caring and compassion -- you'll be a better, happier person.

I'll buy that. Let me take an ohm break. Ah, there, now on with the post.

Do you have enough?

Back to the mundane dishes. To reframe, the Lama/Tutu way would reconsider the dishes as a representation of abundance. I may have a pile of dirties, but in reality, the dishes show that I've been able to feed myself, my kids, the occasional doe-eyed pet. The dishes also show that there's an element of leisure regarding when I actually need to clean them, because I have a machine that can do the hard work in less than an hour. I don't have to spend a soggy session soaping, rinsing, and drying those dishes, because the dishwasher does most of the work. What a miracle. Most of the world doesn't have this luxury. So, in many ways, the dishes, piled high, crusty and gross, aren't deleterious at all. They are symbolic of privilege and the vast resources available to me.

That certainly puts a different light on those dishes. Does it put a different light on my life?

Yes ... and no. Living in a modern culture, all the trappings of cultural expectations (usually, consumer items) make feeling contented an impossible ideal. How can I feel contented when I don't have X, X, or X, like my neighbor, or co-worker, or that beautiful model in the ad? Admittedly, I consume far less of the "false feed of need" by not watching commercial television or clicking on every idiotic Facebook ad, but it's there, nonetheless. The message is loud and clear: You won't be happy until you do/have/become THIS (insert car, vacation, relationship, book, method, status symbol, coffee grinder, retro LP collection, etc.). Ack. How will we ever overcome the bombardment?

Well, I start with the obvious, which is recognizing the messages never end and are constantly incoming. And, they sometimes are quite sneaky, i.e., "Why, of course, I want to be healthier by doing that new supplement regime touted by Oprah!" (Remember acai?)  

And, I'll read the book. And, I'll reread the book. Maybe, I'll even start to meditate. Would that be reaching for X, too? Depends, I suppose, on what I meditate on. Perhaps, just on my abundant dishes.

And for 2016, A Micro-Press

Last year, I had a dream. Not a night-time, fuzzy version populated by strange characters from my past slinking in and out of the scenery. I had a dream to start a tiny publishing house. House. What a big word for such a small venture. Mine is more like two playing cards (Jokers) leaned up against each other.

Everything in my logical mind (and here is where I spend far too much time, hence many of my dreams are never pursued because practicalities outweigh possibilities) said GET REAL. Who are you to publish other people's work? A literary genius? An editor with aplomb? A deep-pocketed heiress? No, I am none of those. And I started a press anyway.

Enter the world, Black Bomb Books.

The name suggests my thought process. I wanted to blow up my own conventional ideas about what I was supposed to do. Smithereens, we're talking. Who has a corner on the publishing world? I'm here to tell you, no one does any more. The landscape is a shambles, and so why not agitate the chaos and send another voice into the smoke heaps. The old ways of publishing are burning down. Black Bomb is another detonation. More like a firecracker.

Thing is, I knew plenty of good, dedicated writers who couldn't find the right place to publish their work. It often takes years of trying. Years of writing something new. Writing something commercial, something marketable, before an agent or a publisher takes interest. This causes good writers to give up. Should they? I think there is room in the world (the galaxy) for many, many stories. If one writer's story or poem fails to attract the interest of the NY brain trust, should the writer up and quit? What a tragedy. And this happens far more than is researchable. Drawers and drawers full of dusty manuscripts.

I'm not the answer to rejection; I just didn't want to contribute to it when I had the skills to give a few good pieces of work a little push out into the world. That's how I envision it, as a way to put a shoulder into a writer's efforts, give the artist some encouragement, tell her the work is fine work, should be birthed, and wouldn't it be grand if he could hold it in his hands, for kicks, for others to read, for mom-n-dad, for people to see the connections.

Writing is truly about connecting with humanity. A writer's ideas are letters of hope (even the zombie books and the erotica). We fling our stories out into the universe and say to the swirling stardust: You might be bigger, but take a look at this. I hope my little press launches a few good ideas and the writers who wrote them. Potentially lighting a few more fuses.

The Valley of Write

Whenever you are sad, write.

Whenever you are lonely, write.

Whenever time cracks open, write.

Whenever you need strength, write.

Whenever the voices take over, write.

Whenever the stars need praise, write.

Whenever you are whole or part, write.

Whenever your cup runneth over, write.

Whenever you need to remember, write.

Whenever you need to access peace, write.

Whenever all places are a foreign place, write.

Whenever the rain drowns your parade, write.

Whenever the troubles of others flood in, write.

Whenever black and white don't contrast, write.

Whenever the headache is really heartache, write.

Whenever you can't tell the difference inside, write.

Whenever the nerve of every nerve is frayed, write.

Whenever someone hurts you and you hurt them, write.

Whenever you cannot walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, write.

Write, for yourself and the wonder.

Write, for all will be well.

Write, for purity.

Write, for grace.

Write, to know.

Write, because.

Write and feel.

Write.

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A collection of poetry from my years living in Portland, Ore., is available in paperback this month. This poem isn't in it. Many in the collection are light-hearted. Hope you find the book amusing and inspiring.

The Ordinary, Interspersed with Brilliance and Pain

Years are slow when measured in hours. I wish I could always see the long view of the passage of time. I measure suffering in hours. How many hours? But the hours pass and a day is over and then it is another day and time goes on and does not hold onto pain. Time does not hold onto pain.

This should be repeated:
Time does not hold onto pain.
Time does not hold onto pain.
Time does not hold onto pain.
Time does not hold onto pain.
Time does not hold onto pain.
Time does not hold onto pain.
Time does not hold onto pain.
Time does not hold onto pain.

Soon, time will have moved through me and taken with it the hurt. It will water down my insides with mundane, brilliant things.

Like laundry. (water)
And dishes. (water)
Short trips to the beach. (water)
Routine walks around the creek in the park. (water)

So many steps yet to take for water to move in and separate the molecules tightly packed now.

.

I often think my writing is too flowery. My dog has a penchant for running off these days. I envy her.

Grief is a Moment

Writing morning pages is supposed to help me lead a healthy creative life, according to Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way. Grief has affected my creativity. I'm more reluctant to write on personal projects that don't necessarily have an immediate pay-off versus projects that have a client attached to them. More money would be nice and give me a buffer I don't currently have.

But this allusion of security is a false prospect. If I have all that I need in the moment – my wits, my health, a warm place to call home, food to eat – then everything else should be superfluous. Everything else, including my pets, furniture, fancy clothes, a closet full of shoes, jewelry, my car, books, smart phone, all just extras. Props for the real living. If I'm not happy in the moment, then all of those things, even if they are the finest items of their kind in the world, will not make me happier.

Thoreau spent two years, two months, and two days in the woods and figured that out for us.

On the evil-twin flipside, studies show that people who live without financial strain are generally happier. This makes some sense if money is a constant worry, but I don't necessarily have severe financial strain. If I reallocate resources – toss out my phone or downsize my vehicle – that would improve my ability to travel more or have an emergency fund (other than my credit card).

But this idea of being 100 percent secure is a falsehood. Death teaches me this. Death comes whether you have your car paid off or a life insurance policy in place. Death comes whether you've finished writing your will or your novel, or have sent your kids out into the world. Because death is definitive, it makes forming future plans feel foolish. It's not like I'm throwing up my hands entirely and indulging chocolate cake everyday (though I have announced to my daughters that I will do so upon turning 75), but the finality and inevitability of this breathing existence puts everything else under a different lightbulb.

Should the small stuff be elevated to the level of “precious”? Breath consciously, for it could be my last? That sounds ridiculous, but the idea behind it -- being conscious of the stuff we take for granted -- does not.

My youngest daughter wanted to go on a walk in the freezing snow one night this week. I didn't immediately say yes. Quite the opposite, my motherly knee-jerk thoughts were: Absolutely not! There's no way that's going to happen! But then I thought, really what's the harm? It's just cold. No one was out on our street. She rarely expresses a desire to take a walk, and it's a plea-fest to get her to take the dog. So, I told her to bundle up, scarf, mittens, hat, heaviest coat.

She was gone for a long while. I worried. Then I saw her. Standing motionless on the sidewalk, looking at the snowy street. She was in the moment.

She Grows

One helluva masterpiece.

The ruler used to be my measurement. A door jamb and a ruler.

Her eyes, encircled in dark mascara and eyeliner, sparkle at me. It finally comes to pass. Three states, six schools, and countless boxes of macaroni and cheese later, her skirts are shorter, her tights are tighter, her ambitions, grander.

The day she came home, long ago, my head ripened with thoughts of firsts. First night of unbroken sleep (please soon), first bite of real food (mush), first word (no). The days widened and narrowed. She walked and talked. I followed and worried. I watched my independence give way to parental obligation. I left a job; she threw a ball; I took less and less notice of the news and more and more notice of her schooling. She grew and my world shrunk.

You throw yourself into something or it’s not worth doing. I would teach her: Quitting left everyone unhappy.

“Take that soccer ball and KICK it!”

“Read or there’s no TV tonight!”

“Play with your sister or else!”

“And, for God’s sake, share!”

There’s taking in the act of giving. If there’s no receiver, giving doesn’t work. Her young hands and open mind took from me. The good parts mostly. But, also the guilt. Have I done enough? And, the resentment. You take too much.

Her nose touches mine without her standing on tiptoes. I pretend to shrink and use a cane today, in my best granny voice, joking, “Don’t worry about me, my pretty. Just hand me my shawl.”

She looks away now more than looks up. She’s taller by an inch and a half. It’s a mountain to me, a skyscraper of “I hope...” and “I dream...” She uses her assertive sense of self as a metaphysical yardstick. Her eyes reflect words she doesn’t speak: “I’m done taking from you.” But, me, knowing, can see the marks I’ve already made.

Every birthday of mine growing up, my dad used a ruler to measure me against the door jamb in the kitchen. Pencil in hand, he’d stand up my brother and me and lay the ruler flat on our heads to the back of the wood. There, he’d mark the spot and write our age, making a scritch-scratch of lead on the wood.

I look him in the eye today.

Six-Word Memoir

"The book was better, they said."

God is in The Writing

End of last post: If I believed in God.

Rephrase: Where is God?

Mary Oliver, poet, wrote: "Tell me, what will you do with your wide and precious life?"

Is there God? More specifically, where do you find God, or its lowercase version? In this, the writing, there is some God-bound reality. Do I believe in God? Not in a physical diety, soluble or insoluble being. So where is it/he/she/them? In the writing?

It is the search. The conscious wandering. I write to know. Write to understand. To dream, to please. And to connect with something other than myself.

Guilt Me Not

Guilt has been my companion lately. Having been a "serious" journalist at one point in my life, crafting a romance novel seems a low-road preoccupation. What difference does my writing make when people are fighting for democracy in Egypt or suffering from bizarre weather events due to climate change? Pushes the periscope down a few clicks.

And it's not as if I'm devoid of social consciousness. Prior to and including yesterday, I'd say I've overcompensated for the questionable merit (my spin) of writing romance. I give to charity, parent full-throttle, teach ethically and believe in the worth and dignity of all people, especially on a small planet. So, I need to get over it.

A supportive writer told me, "God loves stories, tell them." If I believed in God.