One Voice Lost, Another Thinking About Calling It Quits, And A Third Crying Out In The Wilderness (In Memory of Noelle Marie Olson December 2, 1994 – March 6, 2024)

On Wednesday, March 6, 2024, a young woman died in a small town in Minnesota. Chances are you didn’t know her. I didn’t either. Her name was Dr. Noelle Marie Olson. She was just 29 years old. Noelle spent more than half her life courageously battling the eating disorder that ultimately claimed it – hers and, if the statistics are accurate, another every 52 minutes. Noelle leaves behind her mom and dad, a brother and sister, many aunts, uncles, and cousins, and, I’m quite certain, an equal number of friends and colleagues – all of whom are left with lots of unanswered and unanswerable questions – the “why’s,” the “what could’ve and should’ve been’s” – and gaping holes in hearts that will never be filled. Noelle was driven and strove for excellence in everything she did. She was an All-American athlete and a brilliant scientist. But what truly distinguished Noelle was her sweet, kind, loving, and other-centered heart. She had an old-fashioned love for family, their quality time together, and family traditions like annual visits to the State Fair. Noelle especially relished opportunities to escape from Minnesotan winters to Florida beaches – and she loved to read, puzzle, and bake. I know all of this only because Noelle’s dad is an integral part of the Office Services team in our Minneapolis office. Otherwise, Noelle’s life and death would have escaped me completely – and that’s a problem. In fact, I now realize it’s THE PROBLEM.  

You and I stumble across stories of the “Noelle’s” of the world on late night scrolls through our social media feeds virtually every day. And maybe, when we do, we pause to think about the sadness and heartbreak that those who knew and loved them must be experiencing in the aftermath of their death, especially when, like Noelle, the death involves someone so young, so full of life, so gifted – with so much promise. Maybe, if the story is especially touching, we take a moment to comment, shed a tear (or two) or, if we’re a person of faith, whisper a prayer for the one who’s lost and their family. Maybe we don’t. But, inevitably, what all of us do when we see or hear about deaths involving those we perceive to be complete strangers is move on – on to whatever’s next, to whoever’s trending, to the “hot topic” of the day or, more accurately, the minute, to posts and Tik Tok videos of friends, family, and so-called influencers, to a live stream on any one of the zillion platforms that populate our electronic devices of choice, or to a favorite podcast. And, I get it, because I’ve done it and, I’m embarrassed to say, on occasion, I still do. I’ve been part of the “what-do-you-expect-me-to-do-with-news-of-a-stranger’s-death-in-a-small-town-in-Minnesota” crowd. The ever-expanding group that learns of news like this, concludes it really doesn’t affect them or someone they love, and essentially, though never audibly, says, “So what?” But, I just can’t do that anymore.

Because the truth is: Noelle was not a stranger. She was you and me and, given how indiscriminate eating disorders are, she just as easily could have been my or your daughter, sibling, closest friend, colleague, partner, niece, cousin, or even our mom. In fact, likely the only reason Noelle wasn’t your and my best friend was that the three of us never met. We simply didn’t grow up in the same neighborhood, go to the same schools, compete on the same playing fields, or attend the same church or summer camps. We never toiled together over those puzzles she was so obsessed with in search of a critical piece, spent an afternoon frolicking in the sun together on one of those Florida beaches she cherished, were on the receiving end of a basket of her highly-coveted baked goods, or sat down together at a local coffee shop and talked about a favorite book, our fears, our dreams – the desires of our hearts – over our blend of choice. We did, however, share a heart and, though we seem to have lost sight of it, we are (or in Noelle’s case were) all members of the Choir of Life. And, because we are, Noelle’s death does matter. It has to matter. Because if it only matters when it’s someone we know and love, we will continue to lose more “Noelle’s” – at an incomprehensibly alarming rate – to a deadly disease that has long deserved, but never received, our collective full attention.

What does “mattering” look like? For me, it looks like choosing to respond to an email from another of our “choirmates” that arrived just two days after I received word of Noelle’s death, a much older woman, who has been burdened with this disease her entire adult life. She was writing to say that she’s “thinking of giving up the fight,” of quitting the Choir, and asked “what I thought about physician assisted suicide.” Three days earlier, I likely would’ve found a way to sidestep the question, but Noelle would have none of it. “Dear Friend,” I began. “It’s impossible for those of us who’ve never experienced the unrelenting suffering you’ve endured to understand how you must feel, let alone comment on how you should respond to it. That said, I believe where there’s life, there’s hope. My faith teaches that. But, I’ve also witnessed too many lives redeemed from the brink of giving up to believe otherwise. I know, in this moment, you don’t see hope and that saying you’re ’tired’ of the fight is a considerable understatement, after all you’ve been through and all the work you’ve put in. But, I do. I see you showing up for yourself. I see you making the best of each new day. And, in every note you send, I see words of light. To me, all of those things are enough to be curious about what tomorrow holds. I only hope they are for you as well. Hugs Across the Miles, Don”

And so, hope it is – from the wilderness.

https://tinyurl.com/y2er4t7w

“Here He Comes!!!”

Those of us who love to walk, especially those who walk long distances, are a fairly predictable bunch. The time of day – and days – we walk are predictable. The routes we take are predictable. And, once we hit our stride, even our pace is predictable. We’re people who love structure. We also tend to be fairly introverted and introspective. We enjoy the peace and quiet that walks afford and seek out paths and surroundings that help guarantee we will experience both. We are comfortable in our own skin and with our own thoughts and, consequently, have no qualms about being in our own company for hours at a time. Some of us use the time to write, others to unwind, and still others to listen to a favorite play list or podcast. Some simply breathe in the sights, sounds, and rhythms of nature. I suppose many would find the predictability of it all unappealing, if not downright unbearable, but not us. We find it intoxicating.

That said, walking is not purely a solitary pursuit. There’s a sense of community that develops over time among those who share our predictable paths. It’s a comradery borne, I suspect, of an intuitive understanding of all we have in common. There’s also a looking forward, at least for me – to seeing the same familiar faces, exchanging an early morning or evening pleasantry, and sharing a smile or word of encouragement. If you’re fortunate to walk where I do, from time to time, you also get to see plenty of 4-legged friends – some of whom already know you and some who don’t – yet. I always make it a point to share my very cheerful “good morning’s” with them as well. And, if their owner will allow it, I stop and offer an outstretched hand and a few minutes of attention. I want them to know that they, like their leash-holder, are seen and that I’m a friend. Most are understandably reticent at first, but, in time, they usually come around.

And, so it was a few weeks back, as I rounded a corner on a beautiful Saturday morning, and saw an elderly gentleman, who I’d never seen before, and two young puppies coming down the path – all noticeably indifferent to the stranger headed in their direction. As is my custom, I paused to say “hello” and slowly bent down to introduce myself to what I hoped would eventually be 2 new, furrily-adorable friends. After a few gentle pats on the head, I was on my way. I couldn’t help but wonder if their owner was as predictable as the rest of us and, if so, whether the 4 of us would meet again. Turns out, he is and we did – at least twice in the week that followed and a few more in the week after that. Each time, I stopped, stooped, stayed a little longer, and smiled a little more broadly. Their owner didn’t seem to mind, nor, I gathered from their fervently-wagging tails, did they. We were becoming friends.

I had to travel for business the following week. But, last Saturday I was at it again, as predictable as the sunrise – same time, same path, same pace, same familiar corner. That’s when I saw them, my new “friends” … still maybe 150 yards away … and they saw me! I wish I could find words to adequately describe their reaction – their playful, exuberant, “let-me-off-this-leash-immediately” circle jumps, their joyful squeals, their wagging-a-mile-a-minute tails – or the breadth and depth of the smile that exploded across my work-weary face and heart because of it. “How is this possible?” I thought to myself, as I picked up my pace and hurried to greet them. I’d only been gone a few days and they’d only known me a few weeks and yet, to “hear them” tell it, it was as if two lifelong friends were seeing each other again for the first time in decades. That’s how much they’d already come to value just 5 minutes of time with me.

In retrospect, I probably lingered a little longer than I should’ve, basking in the tongue baths I was being treated to. I’m pretty sure their owner hadn’t planned on our reunion being the event it turned out to be. Then again, neither did I. I also hadn’t planned on the mist that filled my eyes as I stood and walked away, overwhelmed, I later decided, by the realization of what a profound difference being missed, greeted, and desired like THAT can make and how starkly the gift I’d just been given contrasts with the too-frequently indifferent way we “humans” greet and treat each other – even those we profess to care for and value most – every day. I’m not at all sure why it took 6 decades and 2 adorable puppies for me to experience what a real “I-can’t-believe-you’re-in-my-life” greeting looks and feels like for the first time, but I’m sure glad I finally did. I just hope it’s not the last!

https://tinyurl.com/6wd88sf8

We Missed The Memo

If you’ve been on the planet for any length of time, chances are, at some point, you “missed the memo.” Maybe it was the one that told you the venue or start time for a business or social event had changed, that classes, a doctor’s appointment, a sporting event, or a concert had been cancelled due to inclement weather, that a road needed to get from Point A to Point B was closed or impassable, or that the dress code for a party had been “downgraded” from formal to business casual or less. Fortunately, most of the time, “the memo” isn’t that important in the grand scheme of things and, consequently, neither is the missing of it. In fact, more often than not, once the embarrassment wears off, things like showing up in formal wear to what event organizers decided to turn into a pool party can provide great fodder for story-telling at family gatherings and social functions for years to come.

But, it occurred to me yesterday, during a chat with nearly 100 extraordinary hearts battling with or in recovery from all forms of eating disorders, trauma, addiction, anxiety, depression, etc. that there’s one memo all of us may have missed that is critically important to our ability to live authentically, to love and be loved whole-heartedly, to be at peace with ourselves and others, and to enjoy the fullness of life to which we are called. Truth is: I’m not sure it was ever written, let alone sent – at least I never received it, nor did any of the folks I was talking to yesterday. All of us agreed we wish that it had been and that we’d gotten it a long time ago. So, I decided to take a cut at it:

MEMORANDUM

To: All Adults
From: Your Inner Children
Date: October 21, 2023
Subject: “We’re Still Here, Right Where You Left Us”

Maybe you don’t remember what you were like – how you lived and loved – when you came into the world, but we do.

Everything was new. You had an unbridled curiosity and an insatiable sense of adventure. You saw the beautiful and stared at it in awe and wonder. You were honest, transparent, and authentic. You felt it all and expressed those feelings without fear of judgment or rejection. You overlooked others flaws and missteps – and your own – without a second thought. You were indifferent to how you and others looked and you were inclusive. You refused to carry around the baggage of past insults or hurts for more than 5 minutes, forgave reflexively, and eagerly doled out genuine hugs like they were Halloween candy. You were spontaneous and playful, never questioned whether you were enough of anything, and refused to define yourself by comparison to others. You always gave people a second chance, were as quick with “I’m sorry’s” as you were with invitations to “come out and play,” and, when you fell down, you (understandably) cried for a minute (or 2), but always got back up, and rejoined the game. You never looked back.

We probably should have warned you that, as you moved into adulthood, the world would intervene and cause you to question whether the unblemished, acoustic version of “us” that came into this world was strong enough, valuable enough, aesthetically pleasing enough, tough enough, capable enough, courageous enough, or well-rounded enough to get the job you wanted, find the partner you wanted, have the lifestyle you wanted, earn the degree you wanted, and have the friends you wanted. We probably should have told you that the world would do its level best to make you believe that there wasn’t a place for your quirkiness, your sensitivity, your vulnerability, or your desire to move more slowly, that there are missing or misfitting “pieces” of you, that you need a little more of this or a little less of that to be enough, to fit in – and that, if you weren’t careful, you would fall prey to those messages and box us up like an unfinished gourmet meal, stick us in the deep freeze, and, eventually, forget we’re even there.

As you’ve likely discovered by now, however, the world was wrong. You don’t have to distance yourself from the pre-worldly-adorned, uniquely beautiful person you were when you came into the world—the person you were always meant to be—let alone continue to keep “us” under lock and key, in order to live and love as an adult. You can be an adult and still be authentic. You also don’t need to trade the joy “we” experienced when you were unapologetically, albeit innocently, living in your truth for the feelings of discouragement, disappointment, sadness, loneliness, and frustration that inevitably accompany living outside of it. You don’t need to live small, find a way to take up less space, or hide in the shadows. In fact, in case you haven’t noticed, the same world that was so intent on stifling, if not destroying the traits that defined you as a child (kind, empathetic, observant, compassionate, curious, fearless, forgiving, accepting, inclusive, playful, etc.) is, paradoxically, in desperate need of them today.  

Here’s the good news: We haven’t gone anywhere. We’re right where you left us – maybe suffering from a little freezer burn, but eager to welcome you home, and pick up where we left off!

An Emissary Of Love

“It’s hard to explain how a few precious things, seem to follow throughout all our live …” Return to Pooh Corner

It’s impossible to capture in words the hole that competing with a bottle of Scotch for your mother’s attention and affection leaves in the soul of a little boy, especially a hyper-sensitive one who came into the world hungry for both, but pre-wired to believe he wasn’t worthy of either. There’s also no way that “little boy” could’ve known that, as he was struggling to navigate the alcohol-fueled fog that hung over his childhood like a marine layer on the Southern California coastline – in the depths of what, at times, were impenetrably dark and lonely nights accompanied only by the dulcet tones of basketball, baseball, and football play-by-play announcers on a bedside transistor radio – seeds were being planted in his heart that one day would take root, fight their way through the thick layers of scar tissue, and blossom into gifts that not only would define, but equip him with the insight and wisdom needed to fulfill his life’s purpose. But, they were and they did. Thankfully, one of those “gifts” was a deep connection with and a resulting respect for the subtle, but no less destructive power of loneliness and an insatiable desire to respond with whack-a-mole intensity and swiftness whenever and wherever it first rears its ugly head, lest its roots take hold and begin slowly suffocating its host.   

For years, I scoured the landscape of adulting in search of new, creative, and societally appropriate ways to combat this lifelong foe in my life and, as importantly, in the lives of those whose hearts I felt strangely responsible for safeguarding – and I found and used many. I wrote (and still write) letters, cards, emails, Post-It notes, paper plate notes, and text messages with simple and not so simple “reminders” that my world, others’ worlds, and the world at large were (and are) better, softer, kinder, more beautiful, and more authentic places because the recipient was (and is) in them. That all of us want and need them to stay in those worlds – and that we need more, not less of them. I made (and make) calls and offer “open invitations” to be called at any hour of the day or night just to listen, to be present. Once, I even went as far as to embark on an unforgettable, seven cities in seven days “Social Media Road Trip” so that I could meet and spend some real life face time with more than twenty friends across the country who, in the midst of some very dark times in their lives had found their way to my virtual doorstep and with whom I’d corresponded for months – in some cases years – but never met.

Don’t get me wrong. Those word weapons have proven to be powerful tools in the battle to stave off this clever and often stealthy enemy – and I still use them with regularity. But, a few years back, while locked in another tug-of-war with loneliness in my own life and in the life of someone I hold dear who happened to be thousands of miles away, I realized that, because they are constructed with words, those weapons, like the voices in the radio that soothed me to sleep a lifetime ago, have a significant limitation: They can’t be held. I needed to find something that could, something tangible – a surrogate of sorts – something that, when the words dissipated into the air or faded from the page, could serve as a reminder of their sender – a life-like, low maintenance companion that, if called upon, could catch a tear (or two) or generate a smile. “I need a teddy bear,” I thought. “But, it can’t be just any bear. It needs to be a bear that’s especially soft and ‘cuddleable’. It needs to be a bear with a warm and inviting face – and eyes that smile and convey love. It needs to be a friend that just happens to have stuffing. I searched for months. And then I found him! His given name is Philbin.

I immediately sent for him and shipped him – express mail – to that special someone half a world away with this note: “Hi! My name is Philbin, but you can call me whatever you’d like. I’ve been sent by someone who thinks the world of you. I’m soft and I love to be cuddled. I can also be squeezed tight, when tight is what’s needed. Most of all, I’m here to remind you that you’re not alone. You’re never alone.” He’s never left her side. Months later, I introduced “Toby” to our grandson, Jake on Facetime and for weeks thereafter, he insisted that Toby be on every call. He even asked that we bring him on our Thanksgiving visit and, a few weeks later, I sent Philbin II to Jake. The video of their “reuniting” says it all:

That was the moment I knew Philbin was much more than a teddy bear. He was born to be an Emissary of Love. He’s since become my frontline of offense and defense in the battle against loneliness, hurt, and hopelessness – and he’s never let me down. Through the years, a special chosen few have received “visits” from Philbin that I hope will last a lifetime – cherished friends who, due to circumstances well beyond their control, have faced or are facing significant adversity and darkness and, as a result, feel or have felt very much alone, abandoned, shattered, or abused.

A few days ago, I asked a few of those friends if they’d share their experiences with Philbin. I was deeply touched by their responses. One, in particular, reached the heart of that “little boy” in a profound way: “Philbin showed up on my doorstep at just the right moment on just the right day. I lifted him from his delivery box and he instantly put a smile on my worn and hardened face. It was a time I not only felt particularly alone, but quite literally was alone. Though it might seem like a simple gesture, the thought that someone ‘out there’ cared enough to send such a special friend warmed my soul. I slept soundly that night in a way I hadn’t in a very long time. Every day I made my bed and every night I went to sleep, Philbin would be right there waiting to greet me, to remind me I wasn’t alone, wasn’t unloveable, wasn’t unworthy – and that my ugly wasn’t going to scare him away. He is a sign to me that I’m loved. I suppose that’s the most important gift Philbin has given me. P.S. Because of my new puppy, I’ve had to keep Philbin safe on my closet shelf, but he’s becoming better trained each day and Philbin will be back out soon. I miss holding him through the night. Thanks again!”

Thank you, Philbin – for stepping into the void and loving hard when Life is hard.

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Today, I Was Invisible

Today, I was invisible, but it wasn’t for want of effort.

I greeted everyone I passed on my early morning walk with a smile and a cheerful “Good Morning!” and not a single one acknowledged me – not with a good morning of their own, not with a nod of their head, a tip of their cap, a hand gesture, a smile, a snicker, a grunt, a scowl – nothing. “It happens,” I thought. “They’re in their own heads, lost in their podcast or play list, worried about the day ahead or the one behind, coming off another restless or no night’s sleep. You’ve been there. Just move on.” And, I did. Then it happened again – at work. I sat at my desk for nine hours, doing a million different things on a dozen different cases for a half dozen different colleagues, but none came by to visit, asked how I was doing, offered a word of encouragement, or affirmation – not a single one. “They’re on treadmills of their own,” I offered on their behalf. “Busy with work stuff, life stuff, stressing, feeling overwhelmed, wondering how they’ll get it all done. It’s not you, not intentional – not even conscious. Don’t give it a second thought.” And, I didn’t, nor did I give one to the fact that my phone never rang, that my texts letting others know I was thinking of them were met with silence, or that my emails with words that mattered – or at least were intended to matter – went unanswered. I just waited it all out, packed it all up at the end of the day, and went home to an empty living room.

Don’t get me wrong. There are lots of days I wish I was invisible. Days when the worker bee in me is being pulled in a hundred different directions, by a hundred different people – most of whom know little about the pieces of me that matter and, aside from my ability to produce, really don’t care to. Days when I can’t bear the thought of doing one more thing for one more person or, worse yet, the thought of disappointing them by not doing it. Days when I can barely muster the energy and emotional capital to get out of my own bed, let alone find the reserves required to motivate others to fight their way out of theirs. Days when I know there will be more hurt than my already supersaturated heart can bear and I have no place to put it. Days when I just want to hit the pause button, give myself a little space to breathe. Days when I want to isolate, when I long for nothing but silence, when the introvert in me would prefer to have no human contact at all. Days when I want to leave The Cape hanging in the closet and just be Clark Kent. Days when I need to take a break from adulting and spend a little time being a child. Days when I just want to lace up a pair of tennis shoes and head out on a walk in nature or grab a towel and be soothed by the sounds of the beach. Days, if I’m to be honest, when I want to run away from all of it.  

But, today was not one of those days. Today, I wanted to be seen. Today, I wanted to be wanted. Today, I wanted to be needed, to be desired not for what I can do, but for who I am – all of who I am, just as I am: scarred, bruised, broken, and imperfect. Today, I wanted every part of me – my heart, the too-often-unseen, never-quite-measuring-up, ever-eager-to-prove-his-worthiness little boy inside me, my mind, my body, and my soul – to be noticed, spontaneously, passionately, empathetically, without my having to take the initiative, without having to set myself on fire. Today, I wanted to be a taker, rather than a giver – to be selfish, rather than selfless. Today, I wanted to be affirmed, to be reminded that I matter, that I’m cherished, that someone else’s life would be a little less complete, a little less bright, a little less joyful without me in the world. Today, I wanted companionship and human connection. It just never came – not on my walk, not at work, not in my living room, and not at a favorite local haunt that I visit almost every Friday night, our neighborhood’s version of Cheers – a place where everyone knows my name – a place I visited in today’s waning hours in a last ditch attempt to find it or some piece of it. But, I didn’t. Everywhere I turned, it was as if I wasn’t there, wasn’t here, lacked significance, like I was invisible – and I was tired of offering myself excuses.   

Today, I got a taste of invisibility and it’s hard to swallow. I can’t imagine having it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day as I fear too many do. “Tomorrow will be different,” I tell myself as I close my eyes. And, then I recommit to making sure it’s different for one of the “many” too, because something tells me: It’s a fine line between feeling you’re invisible and believing it.

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“Dear Macie …”

Most would consider it a waste of time to write a letter, let alone a note like this, to someone who’s not yet able to read, write, or even speak, someone who, just yesterday, celebrated the 4 month anniversary of their arrival on the planet. And, a few hours ago, I probably would’ve agreed with them. But, somewhere between miles 2 and 3 of my early morning walk, I was reminded that the folly actually rests in believing there will always be another time, a “better” time, a “right” time to say what’s on our hearts to those who matter most. It’s a fantasy, Macie, one that, if I’m to be honest, I indulged for far too long: the belief that there will always be tomorrow, heck that there will be another two seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, or years to say the things that matter – that the expression of meaningful thoughts, feelings, and words can wait. But, they can’t and they shouldn’t. Your mom taught me that – and so much more – by “swallowing” enough of all three for 3 lifetimes as, regrettably, have I – and so many others. Fortunately, she and I now know better. And, they say, “when you know better, you should do better.” So, here I am eager to ensure that, where you and I are concerned, a few “things” – important things – aren’t left unsaid.

First things first: Without addition or subtraction, you are beautiful beyond description. Everyone – family, friends, complete strangers at neighborhood mailboxes, servers at restaurants, cashiers at the local grocery store – comments on that, on your strikingly beautiful appearance: your eyes and eyelashes, your smile, the tone and texture of your skin, even the curiously adorable wisp of hair on the top of your ear, which I view as an affectionate homage to one of your four-legged “sister’s” most endearing traits. And, all of that is true. You are beautiful to look at, Macie. But, your real beauty resides in parts of you that no mirror will ever capture. I hope one day you see those unique pieces of you as clearly as I already do and that you’ll surround yourself will other “Noticers” who will not only see, but celebrate, nourish, and replenish them the way I long to: the well spring of joy in your heart, your tender, but feisty spirit, your quiet, but determined disposition, the many faces and phases of your already quirky and engaging personality, and your boundless curiosity. You have a warmth and calmness about you, Macie that are soul-soothing, a magnetic and infectious playfulness, a seemingly insatiable desire to share closeness, and a snugglability factor that is off the charts. The world will do its level best to convince you otherwise, to make you believe that there are missing or misfitting “pieces” of you, that you need a little more of this or a little less of that to be enough, to fit in. Don’t be misled. Wrap yourself instead in this word hug and cling to the truth about you.

Here’s the second thing: You are cherished beyond measure and you have been since efore you were born. I hope you already know and feel that. But, if you’re anything like your mom and me, which I suspect you are, there likely will come a time (or two – thousand) when, for one reason or another, you will question, lose sight of, and maybe even refuse to believe it, which is why I want to give you a few word pictures of what YOU being cherished actually “looks” like, so that you can pull them out as a rainy day reminder. It looks like your mom fighting through hours-a-day nausea for months and your dad’s unwaveringly support of her and you every step of the way. It looks like enduring 36 hours of sometimes excruciating pain to bring an “I’m-actually-pretty-comfortable-right-where-I-am” you into the world. It looks like a desperate, around the clock team effort to get you to eat, when all your exhausted self wanted to do was sleep during your first 48 hours. It looks like tag team feedings in the midst of unpredictable work schedules. It looks like play time, tummy time, feeding time, bottle cleaning time, laundry time, consoling and comforting time, diaper changing time, being-thrown-up-on (all the) time – all in the same day – and getting up to do it all again the next. It looks like Nana commuting (daily) to ensure your every need is met and your heart is secure while mom and dad are at work – and Syeira asleep – with one eye open – outside your nursery room door at night. It looks like all that – and so much more.      

Which brings me to the final “thing” (at least for now). You are a gift– to your mom and dad, to me, to Nana, and to a World in desperate need of all that you are: a living, breathing testament to answered prayer, to the sustaining, transforming, healing and redemptive power of sacrificial love, to innocence and authenticity, to the sanctity and preciousness of life itself, to the fruits of immeasurable courage, to the resiliency of the human body, spirit, to the spoils of never giving up – and others never giving up on you – even/especially in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, to where and who we all once were and need to find our way back to, and to hope for a brighter, gentler, softer, more compassionate tomorrow. There is so much already imbedded in your story, Macie – a story that is your parents’ to tell – and I hope one day they will. But, there is at least one piece of it that’s mine – and Nana’s – to tell and now is as good a time as any. Your mom has been through a lot in her life and Nana and I have too. Many times along the way – when things were very dark and appeared hopeless – she asked us how we could and why we would continue to love and stand by her, hold, comfort, and encourage her, keep offering our open arms to provide a moment’s respite in the midst of the storms swirling around her. I’m sure there was even a time or two where she gave us “permission” – maybe even insisted – that we walk away. Each time, my – and Nana’s – answer was the same: “Someday you will understand.”

The thing is: I wasn’t sure she ever would, but thanks to the gift of you, I think she finally does …

With All My Love, Papa Don

But, Today I Did …

It’s been a minute since I set out on a 5 mile walk at 4:45 in the morning. But, today I did and I’m glad, because – at every turn – I was captivated by the sights and sounds that reside in the space between the darkness and the dawn – and by just how beautiful all of it is when seen and experienced through the lens of silence that only a still-sleeping-world can provide: the rustling of leaves in the soft Spring breeze – nature’s wind chime; the scratching of a possum’s claws on the asphalt as he scampered (safely) across the street likely aware that the darkness he covets would soon be giving way to the light; the babble of a nearby stream as it happily chased its tail across ever-smoothing stones; the faint rumble of distant thunder; the piercing eyes of a mother racoon reflecting back the light of my disturbingly too bright headlamp; a low-hanging nest full of newborn baby birds already clamoring for their first meal of the day; a commune of sand cranes lined up along the edge of a moon-lit lake shaking the sleep from their eyes and bantering with each other no doubt about the day ahead – to mention just a few.    

I have a vague recollection of doing it decades ago, when sleep was more elusive and less important (or so I had convinced myself) than it seems to be these days. What I can’t recall, however, is ever being able to quiet the cacophony of voices in my busy brain – coaxing, taunting me to “do more,” “do better,” “do faster” – long enough to allow me the space and tranquility I needed to see and feel the subtleties of it all. But, today I did and I’m grateful, because – in the pause – I was able to stop (repeatedly) and breathe in the palpable sense of anticipation, eagerness, bordering on urgency, curiosity, and expectation oozing from all the living things around me as they stood poised to greet a new day: the almost-budding flowers that line the sidewalks; the jonesing-for-their-morning-stretch-in-the-sun roots, limbs, and leaves of 100 year old oaks and pines; the piston-legged hawk perched anxiously on a nearby streetlamp, perhaps hoping its light will provide a head start on his search for breakfast; the lake life – all of it – the quacking and croaking, swimming and soaking, bathing and feeding; and the wildlife too numerous to mention here all seemed, rather impatiently, to want a piece of whatever the new day had to offer – and soon they would have it.

“You seldom allow yourself the grace to experience moments like this anymore,” I thought to myself as I continued on. But, today I did and I’m glad, because with it came a soul-shifting realization: Ever since I was a child, I’ve equated darkness – real and metaphorical – with emptiness, aloneness, the absence of light and life, a place that is cold and unwelcoming, as something to be feared, approached with trepidation, or avoided https://tinyurl.com/2rumj35j – a space where danger lurks. This morning offered a very different, far more life-affirming perspective: As deep and impenetrable as the darkness was at times, there was no mistaking the fact that it was teeming with life, with energy, with anticipation, with a sense of breaking through, with hopefulness. Under the moon’s soft and reassuring glow, far from the harshness of the mid-day sun and the deafening noise of the world awake, darkness was serving a purpose: It was providing cover – and a moment’s peace – for all of creation to catch its breath, to replenish, regroup, restore, and renourish, a staging area for the next installment in “A New Day” – a wildly unpredictable, always engaging docudrama that, in a matter of minutes, would be opening in theaters everywhere – and it was indescribably beautiful.

As I turned the corner and started home, I passed what appeared to be a couple of friends lost in mindless conversation about yesterday’s news and, moments later, a well-suited young man in a luxury sedan speeding anxiously to work to no doubt try and tackle today’s. I wanted to freeze time, to scream, “STOP! You need to see this! You’re missing it – the moment, the magic!” And, then I thought about all the days I’d missed it too – walked, ran, or driven right by it without giving it a second thought, let alone the awe it deserves –  23,624 to be exact. But, today I didn’t. Today, I stopped and, because I did, I will never look at darkness – in any of its forms – the same again.

https://tinyurl.com/2p93w4w8

“That Won’t Be Necessary …”

When I was 9 years old, I broke both the bones in my right wrist playing in a pick-up game of tackle football with my neighborhood friends on a rock hard sandlot just across the cul-de-sac from where I lived. It’s one of those memories that’s as fresh today as it was the day it happened.  I was streaking down the middle of the field en route to what seemed like an easy touchdown when I was struck in the back by the human equivalent of a semi-tractor trailer.  His name was Ken McCray.  Ken, who was, by a considerable measure, the biggest kid in the neighborhood, clumsily launched himself onto my back WWF-style and drove me and my right wrist into the ground.  The pain that ensued was excruciating.  I remember getting up without a word, walking across the street into my living room with tears pouring down my face and having the following predictable exchange with my mostly intolerant dad:  Me (looking down at a hand that now hung limp at a 90° angle to my right arm): “Dad, I think I broke my wrist?” “What do you mean you ‘think you broke your wrist’?” he replied.  “It’s not broken – just move it.”  Me (about to pass out): “My brain is telling it to move, Dad, it just doesn’t seem to be listening!”  And with that, we were off to Baptist Hospital, where my arm was casted just above the elbow and put in a sling, where it would remain for the next 6 weeks.

Most would have used the occasion to at least miss a day of school. It was after all only the third grade. But missing school was not really something that ever crossed my mind – not that it would’ve been a viable option even if I had suggested it – and so the next day, after only momentarily basking in the attention that casts, black eyes, etc. invariably garner, I settled into my front row seat in Ms. Chena’s class at Howard Drive Elementary as if nothing had happened. It was business as usual. Before the class was over, Ms. Chena came to me and explained that she had taught students with broken right arms before and would gladly make arrangements for me to complete assignments that didn’t require writing. “That won’t be necessary,” I told her – not entirely sure where those words had come from – “I plan to learn to write left-handed!” I don’t know which one of us was more perplexed by that statement.  I’d never really done anything left-handed in my life, save for swinging a baseball bat – poorly. But, having made the commitment and setting the goal, I wasn’t about to back out or back down from the challenge. It’s who I was – even at 9 years old.  In the days and weeks that followed, I actually did teach myself to write left-handed, much to my and Ms. Chena’s amazement.  She was effusive in her praise – to me and to my parents. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, until I got to be 50 years old and started to think about it – “it” and what “it” symbolized.

I suspect (at least I hope!) there’s not another 9 year-old on the planet who would’ve done what I did – not a single one!  So why did I do it?  What exactly was I trying to prove by learning to write left-handed, who I was trying to prove it to, and, most importantly, why did I feel the need to prove whatever “it” was at all?  Why couldn’t I be satisfied being just like every other right-handed 9 year-old with a broken right wrist – taken a day (or two!) off of school, milked the broken arm for all the attention and special privileges I could, and enjoyed a few weeks respite from written homework and classroom assignments?  Why did I feel compelled to try so hard? Why did I feel the need to go the extra mile – and then some – even to the extent of volunteering to change something about myself as fundamental as the hand I wrote with?!?  Why was I so quick to insist on proving myself adequate, capable, up for the challenge? Unfortunately, it would be decades before I stopped long enough to ask, let alone try to seek answers to any of those questions. And believe me, it was unfortunate, because, over time, the roots of that vine, borne of a seedling planted in my family of    origin, would run deep and its “never enough” sprawling limbs would find their way into every crack and crevice of my life – my schooling, my sports, my relationships, my parenting, and, most noticeably, my work.

I was reminded of that “little boy” again this weekend, when I stumbled across a piece that Teresa Scanlan, Miss America 2011 wrote in the aftermath of the tragic death of her fellow Miss America winner, Cheslie Kryst. In it, Ms. Scanlan poignantly and powerfully describes the “struggle for rest and peace” that seems to elude those who are hard-wired to please, to do, to achieve, to avoid disappointing – to feel that there is always more of themselves they could/should be giving in furtherance of their gifts and in the service of others:

“You work so hard your entire life, striving to always be the best, always making the most out of what you’ve been given, never wanting to squander a single moment. You enjoy it at first, but the pressure creeps up on you before you even know it.

Suddenly, the pressure bubble is crushing, suffocating, squeezing the breath out of your lungs … you’re racing on a treadmill, trying to keep up. Don’t slip. Don’t fall. Don’t make a single wrong move. You’ll disappoint them all. Keep the smile on your face.

You focus on grinding, on your goals, on your next move. You’ll show them. …but wait, do you even want to? No time to think about that now! On to the next [challenge, to overcoming the next obstacle, to more, bigger achievements] . Move, move, move.

You’re scaling a ladder, limbs quivering as you frantically reach for the next rung. The moment you pull yourself up on the rung, gasping for air, the only thing you can do is reach for the next, and the next… and the next.

‘I have to find another thing to accomplish,’ you say to yourself. Something, anything. And, it has to be bigger, better, faster than the last.

What am I doing? Why am I doing these things? No, no time to think, just go – just do.”

Mrs. Chena did her level best to teach me an important life lesson that day. In an hour of need, when I quite literally was “broken” and vulnerable, she offered compassion, understanding, empathy and support.  She wanted me to know that, in my brokenness, I was still enough, that I already had more than demonstrated that I was an exceptional student and that it was “okay” for me to take my foot off the accelerator for a moment – without fear that it would somehow alter what she thought of me. Looking back, I’d like to think that if Ken McCray had broken both my wrists that day, I would’ve gotten that message and that maybe, just maybe it would have changed the trajectory of my life – of my heart. But, chances are, knowing that 9 year-old boy the way I do today, I’d now be one of the few able-bodied people on Earth capable of writing with his mouth instead!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKkIt5uphdA

A Few Thoughts About Oxygen and Other Heart Essentials

If you’d told me when I started my blog nearly a decade ago that, in the waning hours of the summer of 2022, I’d be penning a post accompanied by a photograph of a ResMed 11 CPAP machine and an AirFit F20 full face mask on my nightstand, I almost certainly would’ve thought you were crazy. And yet, here I am and there it is. But actually, that’s not the crazy part. What’s crazy – in the most literal sense of the word – is that it took me as long as it did to get here and, in retrospect, that I got here at all. You see, the truth is: I was first alerted to the possibility that there was a problem more than 5 years ago, when my wife mentioned that my breathing seemed to stop with some regularity while I was sleeping. I, of course, immediately dismissed the concern – a uniquely male trait – as impossible, given the arduous work schedule I was keeping, the amount of physical activity I was routinely engaging in, the mental acuity I was enjoying, and the fact that I seemed to have more than enough energy to spare at the end of the day – all of which were “contraindicative” of a person suffering from what otherwise sounded a lot like sleep apnea, at least based on the 20 minutes of research I’d allowed myself on the Mayo Clinic website! And so, rather than ask someone who actually knew what they were talking about whether there was an issue and, if so, what I could do to correct it, I decided I knew best and, in this instance, my idea of “best” was to ignore and power on.

And, power on I did. In the intervening 5 years, I would bill about 10,000 hours, walk about 3,000 miles, endure a marital separation, pack up and move to five different homes in two different states, change work locations 3 times, organize and host a weekend Summit that brought together a number of the country’s leading eating disorder experts, spearhead a year-long effort to draft and publish a first-of-its-kind, consensus-based report and recommendation inspired by that gathering, experience a 2-year global pandemic, present (albeit virtually) at an international eating disorder conference and two legal conferences, write several feature articles in various legal publications and several dozen blog posts, co-present on a number of webinars, attend my daughter’s wedding – and, perhaps not surprisingly, spend a helluva lot of time in therapy along the way! But, here’s the kicker: I finally broke down and decided to undergo a sleep test – mostly to prove I’d been right all along and, in the process, silence those who claimed to know better once and for all. The thing is: I hadn’t been right. In fact, the two day test revealed that I’d been very “wrong” (which, in this case, meant I’d stopped breathing) an average of 57 times an hour! That means that, assuming I slept an average of 8 hours a night during that same 5 year period, I had stopped breathing a mind-numbing 166,440 times! Thanks to modern technology, it’s now under control. But, even today, as I type that number, I shudder to think what could’ve happened – and likely did happen – as a result of my insistence on doing things “my way” and, in the process, deprive my heart the full complement of the oxygen it needed to not only survive, but thrive.

My recklessness made me pause and wonder what other essential nutrients I may unwittingly have been depriving my heart of all these years. Months later, I got the answer in the most unlikely of ways, when, quite unexpectedly, a remarkable young woman, in a very dark season of her life, found her way to my doorstep. To the outside world – both personal and professional – my friend is a poster child for the Seemingly-Has-It-All-Together brand – a brand with which I am intimately familiar. She is hard-working, diligent, thorough, punctual, unflappable, even-tempered, eager to please, and would never compromise work responsibilities for personal needs – to name just a few of her many admirable-in-the-eyes-of-the-world attributes. But, the tears that suddenly – and, at least from her perspective, embarrassingly – flowed freely as we started to talk told a very different story. “I’m sorry,” she said, apparently sensing a need to apologize for feeling. “I’ve always managed to power through times like these by doing, by distracting, by compartmentalizing, and, when all else fails, by numbing. But, this time, it’s just not working and I’m afraid.” We sat for a few minutes in silence, now both in tears, each reflecting on their place of origin, and then, as if speaking into a mirror, I offered this, borne, in part, of my recent bout with heart deprivation and the better part of a lifetime spent living in her skin: “It – the denial, the stuffing down, the diverting our eyes, etc. – works until it doesn’t,” I began. “And the little girl inside you, the one trying to bear the weight of a lifetime of hurt, the one gasping for air in the mountain of stuffing, is telling you, ‘it’s not gonna work anymore,’ that her heart – your heart – needs healing, that she (and it) need the freedom to feel.”  

About an hour, half a box of tissues, and enough knowing smiles to convince both of us a seedling of hope had been planted later, my friend got up to leave. As she did, I had the “craziest” thought: “If I managed to deny my heart the oxygen it needed to breathe at least 166,440 times in just 5 years, how many more times had I, like my friend, just as recklessly denied it the freedom it needed, longed for, and deserved to experience and express its feelings – all of them – in the course a lifetime?” More than enough I decided.

https://tinyurl.com/2ej2z45d

A Tale Of Three Cookies

It’s not every day that a little boy living in a small town in Kansas gets a chance to visit “The Most Magical Place On Earth”. In fact, I suspect most never do. And that likely would’ve been the case with our 6 year-old grandson, Jake, as well had Papa Don (that would be me!) not received an invitation from the FDLA to talk to a room full of lawyers about the burgeoning mental health crisis confronting our profession at its 25th Annual Florida Liability Claims Conference. But, I did – and with it came word that the host hotel, Disney’s Boardwalk Resort, was graciously offering conference attendees (and their guests) discounted rates on a block of rooms that they were free to enjoy through the weekend that followed. Realizing the hotel was only a stone’s throw from Epcot and a short scenic walk to Hollywood Studios, I immediately hatched a plan to turn the event into a “once in a lifetime” family vacation that, when all was said and done, would include our daughter and her husband, our son and daughter-in-law, and, of course, Jake. Less than an hour and few phone calls and keystrokes later the tentative plans were in place for what I hoped would be a trip none of us would ever forget.

In retrospect, I probably should’ve paused to consider at least some of the practical ramifications of that admittedly impulsive decision before I made it: the likelihood, for example, that, in mid-June, the heat index in Central Florida would be hovering in the triple digits; the inevitability that mid-afternoon summer thunderstorms would wash out one or more of the days; my ever-increasing aversion to large crowds and long lines; the Ph.D. in Computer Science I don’t have that apparently now is required to not only plan a trip to Disney, but successfully navigate the parks’ rides, shows, and restaurants once you actually get there; the need to reserve places to eat months, rather than weeks in advance and the virtual impossibility of doing it for groups of seven; the eleventh hour realization that piling all of us into one, let alone two hotel rooms for 4 days would not be anyone’s idea of vacation; and the gag-reflux-inducing price tag attached to it all. But, that’s just not who I am. I’m a big picture guy. I see the dream first and worry about the logistics later. And I’m glad I am, because, in this case, thanks to the hard work of many, the dream I envisioned came as close to coming true as any with so many moving pieces ever could.

I’m sure if you polled the group on their “most memorable moment” each of us would give a different response. Some would say it was just the chance to get away from adulting for a few days, spend some quality time with family, and remember what it was like to be a child. For others, it was the reuniting – after a long absence – the shared laughter, the spontaneous hugs, and the healing they engender. Still others (you know who you are Emma!) will remember the food and, likely more than one, the simplicity of quiet time spent soaking tired feet in the pool at the end of a long day. For Jake, it was visiting China and Japan at EPCOT and whatever ride he just got off (Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Star Tours, Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, Guardians of the Galaxy, etc.). I loved it all. But, the moment that touched me most profoundly came, as mine often do, in the most unlikely of places, at the most unexpected of times, and in the most ordinary of packages: Three of the biggest, most beautiful chocolate chip cookies you have ever seen delivered to Jake at the end of an otherwise wholly unremarkable first night dinner at the House of Blues in Disney Springs.

I don’t often use the word “beautiful” to describe cookies (okay, I may have once or twice!?!), but Jake does and, in his Life Dictionary, these would be the picture you would find next to that word. They also happen to be his favorite, which is why what happened next caught my heart’s full attention. Without hesitation or saying a word, he handed Nana and Papa Don two of the three cookies! At the park the following day, I pulled Jake aside and told him I had a secret to tell him. “It’s not every day that a 6 year-old gives away 2 of their 3 chocolate chip cookies,” I began – a smile breaking across my face. “I want you to know that I noticed your kindness and that I was very touched by it.” “But, I’m also a little curious as to why you would do that,” I continued. “Because,” he matter-of-factly replied, as if stating the obvious, “it’s not every day I get invited to go to Disneyworld and I wanted to thank you and Nana by giving you something that was special to me in return.” And, with that, he and his Giver’s Heart were off, hurrying to catch up with mom and dad en route to the next adventure, to make the next indelible memory.

As he disappeared into the crowd, I couldn’t help but wonder how much more “magical” this place we call Earth would be if we could all be a little more like Jake – if, in gratitude for all we’ve been given and without needing to be prompted, we more freely, liberally, and joyfully gave each other the adult-equivalent of our own “chocolate chip cookies” (our time, our touch, our treasure, our compassion, our patience, our presence, our empathy, our understanding, etc.) and, now and again, threw in a tall cold glass of milk (a hug) for good measure! Thank you, Jake, for being my North Star.

https://tinyurl.com/2yjmf9k5