It’s taken me twelve years in Seattle to swim in an indoor pool. Or, more accurately, it has taken me thirty-five years to return to one.

In Arizona, where I grew up, no one had indoor pools. In the desert, the primary point of water is cooling more so than sport or recreation, though they follow closely behind. The only rightful place for pools in Phoenix is outdoors. The 300-plus days of sunshine and fair weather ensure they will be used virtually year-round whereas in Seattle, ninety days of traditionally defined summer is a tenuous proposition hardly worth the expense.

While I shuddered to imagine daring an outdoor swim here on a frigid, rainy December night, I also balked at the idea of swimming indoors. It was simply unnatural. Each time I longed for the water, I conjured the acidic stink of chlorine held captive by a cavernous brick building rather than set free into the sunny blue sky. No thank you.

My first indoor pool experience happened in Michigan where my mother took me for swimming lessons as a toddler, determined that I would learn things she never did. While I didn’t mind being in the water, I refused to put my cherubic face under. For weeks, my mother and swim teacher cajoled and begged with no success. I would wade and dog paddle, but not submerge. I was plenty nice about it, no fussing or crying, but there was no way I was going under. Then someone brilliantly suggested bribery. One flip of a shiny quarter into the water, followed by a guttural glug! as it submerged, and down I went.

In my defense, twenty-five cents was a worth a lot more back then.

After we moved to Arizona, I was thankful that mom sprang for those lessons, since most of my friends had pools. I went to so many birthday pool parties growing up that my fingers are still pruny. Those of us who didn’t have our own pools gathered frequently at neighborhood pools in our master planned community. They weren’t quite public pools –they were only for residents and guests, and were well maintained– but they weren’t luxurious, either. The metal gates and restroom cabanas had been painted beige far too many times, and the palm trees that provided scant shade had seen enough seasons as to be gangly. There were always too many kids splashing around to do anything useful, like swimming laps; mostly, we went to get tan or flirt with boys, or practice underwater tricks like handstands.

The gentle baking sensation of the sun drying beaded water from my skin goes hand-in-hand with swimming, even today; without the sun to warm me, it seems daft to swim inside. It’s a lunacy akin to driving to the gym in order to walk on a treadmill. Each morning, I think, Really? but it’s 5:30 am and dark and rainy and cold, so I do it, just like I drive myself to the community pool at night, bundled up in fleece. As soon as I arrive, I head for the dry sauna rather than shiver on the sidelines as they pull the lane markers across the water.

Not only has my swim venue shifted in adulthood; so have the outfit and accessories. In Arizona, I wore an off-the-shelf suit where today most one-pieces are designed to be alluring rather than functional. Nothing like noticing parts of oneself floating by to send a girl to the Speedo department pronto. Back then, no one bothered with shoes, which were usually left outside someone’s back door. Our hair flowed free, growing more brittle and light each summer as our eyes reddened from whatever hazardous chemical cocktail they shocked pools with.

Today, I wear a swim cap, which is essentially required in a public pool. What a hilarious dance it is to get my shoulder-length mane inside the tight black cap, something I attempted for the first time ever in December. After minutes of desperate tucking, I looked like Michelle Pfeiffer’s Catwoman at the end of Batman Returns, frizzy strands poking out every which way from shreds of black rubber hugging my face. Somehow, she managed to appear crazy-sexy while I looked deranged and old, the cap pushing down my forehead into a stack of Shar Pei wrinkles above my eyes. I snapped a selfie only to realize later that I looked like aged elephant seal. (To be fair, Michelle had lipstick and eyeliner working for her in the movie.)

Then, there are the goggles. No one wore them when I was a kid, except for Olympic athletes on TV. We wore cheap, leaky plastic masks for a few seconds in order to explore the bottom of the pool, then quickly ditched them to play Marco Polo. Wearing contact lenses as an adult, there is no way to swim without goggles. At least I don’t stand out, since everyone wears them in Seattle, even kids. We look like a hive of near-sighted soggy bees buzzing back and forth to the hive.

To top this off, I can’t forget the hot pink Croc flip-flops with massaging soles. While I cringe at wearing anything by Croc, I really cringe at contracting ringworm and foot fungus. I stand on top of my Crocs even while changing, fearing diseases that friends have caught in gym locker rooms from going without footwear. In Arizona, we ran barefoot across the Kooldeck with abandon, but here, I won’t step on the concrete floor until the last minute when I am forced to leave my shoes next to my towel before dashing into the water. Admittedly, I live by a bizarre and wholly unscientific five-second rule by which I am safe if I madly tiptoe-dance across the surface because surely ringworm takes at least ten seconds of full-foot contact to set in.

This is a lot of effort for the actual amount of swimming I do, which is about forty minutes. Of course, when I say forty minutes, it’s closer to twenty-five, given all the panting and pausing between laps. In the last few months, my friend Amie and I have given a new definition to the SLOW lane, urging the septuagenarian who had clearly claimed it for his own to join the MEDIUM lane next door. On our first night, grandpa lapped us several times over; on our second, he tried to pass me on the inside, only to face a near head-on collision with the portly side-stroke floater going the opposite direction. Frustrated, he splashed under the lane marker to the MEDIUM lane, which is where he now remains, shaking his head when he looks over at us.

Our strokes are another matter entirely. The teenage staff guffaw as we slap our hands into the water like geese downed by jet engines. On our first swim night, the sixteen-year-old lifeguard suggested that I not lift my head out of the water so much during my crawl stroke; I nodded and thanked her, thinking, When was I doing the crawl? Had I inadvertently mastered a new stroke? At home, Google told me that the crawl and freestyle, which is what I thought I was doing, are the same. I studied the diagrams, not sure that I had been doing anything that resembled any of the images.

The next time I swam I wanted to explain to her, Just so you know, I keep my head up too long because I am close to dying each time I gasp for breath between strokes. It turns out that swimming is much more of a workout than I imagined. As a kid, I remembered being pleasantly tired coming out of the pool before gorging on hot dogs, hamburgers, chips and soda served by someone’s mom after hours of play. Swimming laps back and forth as an adult is altogether exhausting, and quickly so. I can barely catch my breath at the deep end before turning around. With each lap, and I use that term loosely, I alternate strokes –breast stroke or freestyle, er, crawl– so that I can make it back to rest on the shallow end. Sometimes, I use a kick board for alternating laps, my tired thighs becoming slabs of veal, smooth and creamy, without an ounce of short-twitch muscle in them.

Anyone who shares our lane is thoroughly confused, wondering why Amie and I spend so much time huddled up against the wall at the shallow end, panting. We seem awfully polite, smiling and nodding, Oh no, you go ahead, as the other swimmers splash forward with their fluid strokes and fancy kick turns, going back and forth across the water like skates. Last week, the eight-year-old Chinese girl who swims under her parents’ watchful eyes paused and tilted her head at us, close to asking why we never take our turns as often as we could. I wanted to say, Hey kid, it’s not that we’re all that nice, we’re just old and tired, but I think that my outfit gives that away already. At least Amie has a pink cap so she looks like a cute water ballerina next to my tar baby seal head.

When you start out swimming, your body is inefficient. Without synchronous mastery of the strokes, you’re working harder than you need to, working against yourself to go the same distance that an efficient swimmer like my auntie can cover in shorter time with less effort. Watching the Seattle Pacific University men’s swim team in the FAST lanes reminds me of this, their lean Michael Phelps frames gliding gracefully back and forth across the water like mer-men — zip, zoom, paddle, kick-turn, zip, zoom, paddle, kick-turn, zip, zoom, paddle, and so on, like it was nothing. Conversely, my moves consist of push-off, ka-blam, ka-blam, gasp, pause, ka-blam, ka-blam, spit, gasp, pause, ka-blam, ka-blam, sputter-spit, gasp, ka-blam, ka-blam, oh-thank-god-I-made-it-to-the-deep-end. Occasionally, Amie and I look over at the boys in their Speedo briefs, not an extra ounce of flesh on them, and feel like Mrs. Robinson.

There is no sweeter moment than when we call time, high-fiving each other for showing up, tossing our kick boards onto the pile before huddling into the hot box to warm up, our reward before we hit the showers. After listening to us discuss our struggling performance, one denizen suggested that we practice our kick turns, insisting that they would be game-changers. After he left, we laughed, agreeing that we first needed to be able to swim back-to-back laps before kick turns would be of any use. I pictured us executing perfect kick-turns before sinking to the bottom, out of breath. On the plus side, maybe the SPU students would give us mouth-to-mouth.

It’s a nice idea, though, that some day this might be easier. Some day, Amie and I will be the old ladies making a big splash, ducking under the floating markers to the MEDIUM lane. I bet you’ll marvel at our kick turns.

Little Things

Never write to settle scores.

This, of course, is a great temptation for writers abused in some way. Rather than fisticuffs or face-to-face confrontation, we seek our pound of flesh through the weapons we know how to wield best: words.

This week, my own poison pen was dripping with the ink of outrage stemming from a sexually explicit and altogether inappropriate joke told at a business meeting. The experience brought to mind the dark side of the construction industry where I once worked. When someone made a racy joke, you had to laugh or be seen as uptight, uncool or –heaven forbid– a Nazi feminist lesbian, as one former coworker suggested. (I am still unclear how lesbian feminists and Nazis go together, but he seemed sure of the assertion.)

If you didn’t go along with these jokes, you weren’t a team player. To succeed, you had to be one of the guys, spunky and energetic, but also ready to fall in line. Ingrained in the culture, off-color remarks were uttered so casually that calling attention to them felt more hostile than the jokes themselves. It was all in good fun, right? Why single someone out, especially if he has more seniority? Talk with HR and you’re labeled a hyper-sensitive traitor. Shortly before I left my job, I reported physical sexual harassment to my boss who smiled, shrugged and said, “I guess you know now to stay away from Jerry.” Institutional harassment and sexism perpetuate in this quiet, fetid dark; the older generation teaches the younger how to behave, both men and women. Rarely does someone speak up to stop or question it. Some of us just leave.

So, there we were, this professional acquaintance and I, discussing new project leads. Suddenly, he felt compelled to tell a joke about a rival college, warning me that it was really bad; he accepted my go-ahead nod as absolution for its content. The joke ended up being less about a particular college and more about a shaming sexual slur aimed at a co-ed. If he had changed the butt of the joke from a female to a black or a gay student, the NAACP and Human Rights Campaign would have been on him in two seconds. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have brought it up outside his circle of white, straight male friends, knowing on some level that it was wrong, at least in the sense of not wanting to get caught saying it. Thus, I sat in dazed wonderment: why would he think that I would find a joke about a wanton, dim-witted girl having sex with her father funny?

I masked my shock with a polite moving on of the conversation, but as I considered it later, I became irritated, both at him and myself. What right did he have to tell that joke and why didn’t I say something? He mentioned it was an old one, meaning that he had been telling it for years — meaning that no one else had called him on it before. Though he sensed he was toeing a line, he was betting I wouldn’t, either.

This week’s blog post was going to be a well-argued evisceration of our exchange, detailing the hours I spent composing a response to him, balanced with evidence of institutional sexist hierarchy reinforced in the workplace today. Despite feeling self-righteous, I chose my words with painstaking care; I didn’t want to come off as militant or angry, which made me angrier. Why did it feel like I was doing something wrong by addressing his inappropriate joke? Why did I feel the need to minimize what was clearly a continuation of an old-boys’ industry that objectified and disempowered women? I felt a need to point out that small things like this mattered.

I came home Friday night with links to a host of articles that would substantiate my position. Then, on Saturday morning, my yoga teacher cried as she opened class. She didn’t mention the landslide in Oso by name, but as soon as her voice cracked when she talked about loss, we knew exactly what she was referring to. It’s been impossible to escape the coverage on television, social media and radio, but for the strong news presence, I realized I hadn’t taken a moment to acknowledge the loss experienced by the Oso’s families. I was too busy feeling outraged.

“Even as a teacher, I don’t know how to talk about this,” Beth said in between sobs that she tried to calm. She suggested that we dedicate our practice to those who had lost loved ones. “Use this opportunity to send something good out into the world.” After a few hitching sentences of guidance, she admitted, “This hasn’t happened all week, but I feel a bond with this class; I need you all right now.”

As soon as she revealed her vulnerability, tears appeared in my eyes, too. All week, I listened to journalistic reports, feeling a sense of concern, but not empathy; I read articles to stay informed but I didn’t exhibit deep caring. The gift of Beth’s emotions filling the room pulled us from our apathetic stupor; if everyone else was like me, their thoughts had been on trivial matters, like the day’s errands or the blog posts they were going to write. She wiped her cheeks and concluded, “Picture that there is no tomorrow. This is the last practice you will ever experience. Bring whatever you have to that. Practice like it’s the last time you will ever be in your body.”

Her request took me back to 9/11. I had just started art school and was taking an introductory course at The Art Institute of Seattle. Our assignment was to apply a certain style of painting to an original work; I chose cubism to depict a frozen-in-time moment of the twin towers mid-implosion. I transformed the plumes of smoke and licking flames into black and red shards, the buildings into pointed green-gray stalagmites. The painting’s elements were sharp and angular, the warped windows of the buildings becoming daggers.

When critiquing the work, my teacher was puzzled. “I hear you talking with such passion and emotion,” Tony observed to the class, referring to my tears at describing the scene I portrayed with acrylics, “but I don’t see it. I see something restrained, stilted. It’s like you can’t reach the place you’re trying to go. Maybe it’s not the right vehicle for what you’re trying to express.” At the time, I accepted his analysis; Tony, after all, was a professional artist and generally wise in his counsel. I shrugged, disappointed in my lack of ability, and threw away the painting after class.

Looking back, I understand why I chose those flat, crystalline forms to convey my heartbreak. It was too big to feel all at once, this empathy for strangers who jumped out of broken high-rise windows to their deaths, gave their lives to subdue terrorists armed with box cutters or shepherded people down smoky staircases of the World Trade Center without concern for their own safety. I absorbed their suffering deeply, feeling proud of their bravery and devastated for the children who clung to voicemail messages from parents they would never see again. I didn’t know what to do with all of that; I had to freeze frame. Turns out, my painting was not about what happened on the ground but the shock I was feeling inside. Though I didn’t know any 9/11 victims personally, I continued to cry months later when I thought of them.

On any given day, world tragedy –terrorist bombings, military coups, natural disasters– happens so far away that the stories read like fiction if we don’t stop to consider them. I realized in Beth’s class that, even in the case of the Oso landslide, which happened far closer to my home, I had accepted the news reports like plot lines about characters I would never meet who experienced trauma that I would [hopefully] never understand. It wasn’t until she cried that I was reminded of the power of human empathy; that being alive is indeed a precious and precarious state, the loss of which is worth tears. She reminded me that Oso is a tragedy, not just another tragedy — that each of us can be snuffed out so quickly that we wouldn’t have time to remove our hands from the steering wheel before the mudslide hit. Events like this are worth mourning, worth sitting with even for a short time, rather than skipping over altogether.

Whether constructive or petty, the small things that we do matter — the pay-it-forward coffees as much as snarky gossip, the sexist jokes or helping neighbors recover photo albums after a disaster. Small good things, like the willingness to be vulnerable in public or to speak up for what you believe is right regardless of personal cost — these acts are worth doing, no matter how busy we think we are. This is the legacy we should be sharing from one generation to another.

Last night, I spent the evening with Tammie and her family, an ongoing ritual that involves her kids helping to prepare dinner (better sous chefs you have never seen) and playing board games. They have an original game of Life, perennially a favorite, although last night they taught me how to play the Settlers of Catan. On another night, I might have complained about the inappropriate joke to Tammie while chopping vegetables, darkening my colleague’s villainous portrait. Instead, we talked with the kids about school dances, sports and life. Suddenly, the small things seemed more important than confirming again with another audience that I was right.

The tumult was over anyway. On Friday, I suggested to my colleague that he consider how the joke reflected on his personal brand and that of his employer. He agreed quickly, if with lukewarm atonement (I had been warned it was a crass joke, he reminded me) that it might be time to retire it. In the end, saying something was the victory, an act I haven’t braved when faced with similar situations in the past. It wasn’t about settling a score, but about the possibility of change based on a single, small act.

Last night when I looked across the table at Tammie’s children –funny and talented and creative– I realized what substantial little things our game nights are in comparison. Chocolate-smeared and messy, these precious moments are what makes life worth living and tragedy so tragic when they are lost. They are venues for the kind of learning that blossoms, bit by bit, over a person’s lifetime. They are the reason that we wade through this destroyed, muddy world, hope beating in our hearts, even when people insist that it’s pointless to search on.

Here in the little moments, we teach each other empathy, integrity and selflessness — strengths we’ll draw upon when big moments come. They are what guide us to look out for others, to do what is right. There is nothing small about that.

Rendering by Lissa

Rendering by Lissa

P.S. While I don’t endorse any particular organization, I encourage you to donate to the relief effort for the town of Oso, Washington. The American Red Cross is one of many organizations accepting aid for the families affected by this disaster.

Embodiment: You Are Here

You know those large, illuminated maps in shopping malls, the ones bearing a big red dot with the words, YOU ARE HERE? As she does each week, Beth opened our Saturday yoga class with a parable that prefaced the morning’s lesson, employing one of those signs as a metaphor.

Typically, the theme of class ranges from softening judgement on our limitations, like how flexible we’re not, to investigating the need for sensation beyond what’s necessary, known as cranking the dial to eleven. Most often, it relates to being mentally present in our physical bodies, an uphill battle if you consider how early we’re conditioned to drift. As youngsters in school and church, we spend the majority of our childhoods distracted, gazing out windows, picturing ourselves somewhere else. As adults, we zone out in meetings as co-workers drone on about mission statements and the quarterly budget.

From television and digital devices to old-fashioned daydreaming, we live our lives in a constant undercurrent of escape — that is, until we show up for yoga class where we are reminded to be present. We pay spry bodhisattvas to center us in the same world that we seek to avoid the other twenty-three hours of the day. Decidedly undisciplined, we insist that it’s too hard, that we caaaaan’t meditate, can’t focus. Yet we keep showing up, keep paying people to remind us to be present.

YOU ARE HERE, Beth said firmly as we shifted from one asana to the next. Reach up to the ceiling with both hands and lengthen into a gentle backbend. You are embodied. What does that feel like? Bring your hands together over your heart and close your eyes. Fold forward, uttanasana, standing forward bend. Can you fan your feet to feel the edges of each toe on the mat, the outside of your heels in contact with the earth? Step or spring your feet back, adho mukha svanasana, downward-facing dog. Can you feel the places that are tender where you might need to back off? Is it possible to accept those sensations as a moment in time? This is what it’s like to be here now, alive in your body. Do you have to fight it? Judge it? Come forward into plank pose and hover for just a minute.

Plank is a love-hate pose, especially for those with shoulder problems, because it calls for upper body strength. You’re hovering above the ground, realizing just how strong Jean-Claude Van Damme actually must have been to pull off those movie stunts. All the while, you’re negotiating how much longer you can hold the pose (Ten seconds? Five seconds?) Your mind springs into action, the pose becoming a contest to outlast your neighbor instead of an effort to inhabit the form with your body in all of its vulnerabilities.

Is the twanginess in your shoulders more about weakness from disuse, which can improve, or is it the calcified remains of injury? You plunge into the past, replaying circumstances of the hurt, the months of therapy, remembering how easy this pose used to be, how potent you felt. When will –or will it– heal? Maybe you’ve been babying it when the shoulder actually needs to be strengthened. You consider changing your weightlifting routine and off you go: disengaged, disembodied, a rat’s nest of thoughts instead of an integrated, present human being in plank pose.

Beth reminds us, “YOU ARE HERE.”

It’s unusual to turn forty and not have to contend with several minor injuries. You trade these grumbles like baseball cards with middle-aged friends: I’ll swap your corns and bone spurs for shoulder impingement, a torn ACL and a detached retina. Some of you no longer ski or snowboard; others have stopped running. You’re not even old yet and you’re shuffling around like there’s a disabled parking spot out there with your name on it. When a whipper-snapper complains about being almost thirty…in two years…you wish you had a cane to club him with.

It’s hard not to compare and contrast the state of your embodiment today with what it once was; the vigor of your twenties and thirties happened only moments ago. Still, you can no longer press 200 pounds with your legs, at least not without creaky knees or tendons. The college students sharing your lane at the community pool lap you with whip-sharp kick turns like it’s nothing. You mistakenly assume that the high level of function you knew is normal, meaning a baseline for the present and the future, rather than a short-lived pinnacle that comes early in life. You begin to reason that, if you take care of yourself and you’re lucky, the downward slide will be gradual, but underneath you suspect that you don’t get a say.

The fragile decline of embodiment can seem depressing when laid out like this, but it’s funny, too. I tittered as I took hold of the pink box of Phillips pro-biotic pills emblazoned with PROMOTES COLON FUNCTION on the front. It screamed YOU ARE HERE… IN LINE AT BARTELL DRUGS WITH SOMETHING THAT SAYS COLON ON IT FOR EVERYONE TO SEE.

My doctor had sent me in search of meds after the second severe flare-up of fever and abdominal pain, concerned that I might have picked up a parasite or bacteria in Colombia, or that the effects of January’s food poisoning were lingering. While we waited for answers, I had to allay this severe intestinal distress. Grimacing, I waited in line until it was my turn, keeping the box tucked in my hand. “Hello, ma’am, how are you?” the check-out girl asked cheerfully as I placed it on the counter.

I narrowed my eyes and nearly demanded, “Do you see what I’m buying here?!” but instead opted to stew about her calling me ma’am. Doesn’t matter what you purchase –cough drops, lice combs, yeast infection meds– they ask you the same question in that same chipper voice. No wonder why old people are grouchy. We drag ourselves to the store to buy expensive crap to keep our faltering human bodies going, and they’re asking us how our day is, like they don’t see the ailments that we’re plunking down in pharmaceutical form before them. No one buying an enema kit is having an especially good day, even if the kit is for someone else –the implied assistance is worse than the procedure itself, gauging from the couple next to me in line– and by the way, calling us ma’am adds insult to injury.

Then, it sinks in: I’m the same age that my mother was when I thought she was too old to relate to. She was a ma’am, an adult. She had a mom car and a mom purse. She no longer wore cute shoes with heels over an inch high. As I paid for my colon pills in my flat Timberland boots (“Would you like a bag for that, ma’am?”) I realized two things: one, I had forgotten to buy denture cleaner for my night guard, and two, I owned a mom car (still under 40,000 miles after nine years) and a mom purse (damn you, Garnet Hill.) Worth noting that, while I may have backslid into wearing leggings, there is not a power in the universe that can force me to don mom jeans.

So, which was worse, the fact that denture cleaner AND colon medication made it on my shopping list, or that I had forgotten the denture stuff, which might indicate an early onset of senility? Was it the fact that I was buying this stuff at all? And when had I become ma’am to everyone? This week alone, three people asked for my career advice which, I realized, is only something people do when you’re old enough to actually have advice to give. One of them was half my age, which sets me squarely in ma’am territory.

This wouldn’t be the only time that I would leave a place chuckling absently, shaking my head. My symptoms demanded that I produce an –ahem– sample to determine the nature of their origin. I emailed my physician about the dilemma of retrieval. “Dear Dr. X, As a command performance at the lab is unlikely, are you thinking that I should collect the sample at home? Should I use a plastic bag? (Sorry, this is so gross.) Any suggestions you can share are welcome.” As I hit send, I laughed nervously, feeling embarrassed yet entertained by the ridiculousness of my questions as much as the predicament itself.

The elderly deal with these effects of embodiment all the time, which is why health as a discussion topic trumps weather any day. I made this comment to everyone who asked how I was doing. Let me tell you about my digestive tract and how I came down with fever, not just once but twice. I think it’s from the food poisoning, but I might have a little intestinal hitchhiker. I can’t tell if I’m hungry or if it’s just stomach cramps, but I’ve got to eat something, you know? The pro-biotic drinks I usually take aren’t as good as these colon pills (I highly recommend the Phillips brand.)

The joke continues to be on me, of course, wondering when my insides are going to feel “normal” again. I read that, sometimes after a severe event, people develop lactose intolerance or IBS. Someone likened it to upsetting all of the furniture in your apartment – you need to give the good bugs time to settle back in, find their right place between the sofa and the coffee table. While they do, this unsettled sensation is the new normal. YOU ARE HERE, I thought, so get used to it. Despite my attempts to focus, I soon became lost in thought, devising how to collect, package and transport my sample, concerned that I might have to take it with me on the bus.

In all my worry over logistics, I psyched myself out for a few days. There was nary a specimen to be had. On the plus side, it gave me time to get comfortable with my plan as it developed. If things started moving on Friday, was there enough time to stop at the lab before work? I imagined being discovered on the aptly-named Route #2, as several riders had dogs who find me out immediately. Instead of the bus, I could take Car2Go during the week. Maybe I should aim for an evening drop-off when my schedule is more relaxed and I could drive over? The weekend would be best –I could get street parking if I went early– but was the lab open on Saturdays?

In plank pose, hover your knees just about the floor and take three breaths. Now gently bring your knees to the floor and lower yourself without letting your belly touch first. Bring yourself down in an integrated manner; go slowly and don’t allow your core to shut off. YOU ARE HERE. Lengthen your legs, bring your arms to your sides and lift up, arms and legs, into shalabhasana, locust pose. Breathe.

Watching my mother develop a terminal illness when I was a child is one cause for my underlying angst at growing older. It isn’t so much about vanity, although don’t get me started about wrinkles and creases. It’s more about scary math, like how many years are left before I’m the same age that she was at her diagnosis, or how many years until I’m the same age she was when she died. Today, those gaps are narrower than ever. It makes me hope with the kind of fleeting hope that you hope you never actually have to hope with that I will escape her future, the seemingly small complaints that metastasize into a massive and uncontrollable ailment.

Instead, I whip out funny stories and let the gross-out factor guide me. Better to employ humorous revulsion for the task at hand as a means of garnering advice and attention at a time when I don’t want to think about that possible future. This is avoidance, I remind myself. I listen for Beth’s voice: YOU ARE HERE.

So began my Saturday. The scientist in me felt confident with my established protocol: turn off the water to the toilet and flush the toilet until the tank and bowl are empty, yielding an unimpeded surface for sample collection. Have a disposable transfer device at the ready, as well as a makeshift containment system. While untested, I believed that my three-part system would hold — it had to, since I didn’t have the opportunity to pick up a sterile kit from the lab ahead of time. These items were laid out at the ready like surgeon’s tools.

A phone call revealed that the lab opened at 8 am, giving me plenty of time to drive to yoga after dropping off the sample. As I handed it to the young woman in the white smock, she looked puzzled and tried not to laugh. “I’m not sure this is going to work…” From a brown paper sac, she removed the labeled Ziploc bag with the disposable Tupperware container inside. “What time did you collect this?”

“Six-thirty this morning.”

She furrowed her brow, but it was apparently an acceptable time frame, so she left to ask the technician if they could use it. I waited in the stiff phlebotomy chair where they’ve drawn my blood before. For once, I wasn’t nervous to sit there.

It was kind of funny, after all, how much I had dreaded navigating this sequence of events, completing this extra chore whose doing I resisted more than the actual knowledge of what might be wrong with me. Like in yoga, the mind flees to fields of distraction rather than remaining present with sensation and discomfort. I had fretted for days, which made it all the more anti-climactic when the woman returned to say that it was going to work out fine. “Good thinking to use a clear container!” she praised.

From downward-facing dog, raise your right leg behind you and bring it forward between your planted hands. Bring your back heel down and raise your arms into warrior two. Feel into the edges of your feet and your back heel. Square your right knee above your toes and roll your right buttock underneath you. Enliven your left leg — don’t let it become an inert kick stand. YOU ARE HERE. Soften your gaze and feel your strength streaming out through your arms. Lean back and open your chest to the sky, as if the person behind you is providing support. Give thanks that you are healthy enough to practice today.

As I walked out of the lab, the young woman called after me, “Have a nice weekend, ma’am.” I turned to thank her, ready to begin my day but not ready for the title that everyone agreed to confer upon me –ma’am– or the lot of humanity embodied within it. A developing self-image takes time to actualize, if not practice.


Those who didn’t venture near the Washington State Convention Center in the last four days are likely unaware that over 10,000 writers converged in Seattle for the 2014 AWP national conference. (Although, if you found it impossible to enter your favorite bar —or it was out of booze— you may have had a hint.)

Walking over to pick up my badge, I couldn’t believe it: never before had I heard people on the corner of 6th & Pike talking genre, developmental editing and small presses—and I don’t mean for coffee. Someone had opened a Pandora’s Box of nerdy writer speak, topics I don’t usually discuss outside of Hugo House (because… um, why?), which drifted between countless strangers wearing lime green lanyards and canvas tote bags. Some were Writers and others were writers, the strangers noted, but what struck me was that they came in all shapes, colors and sizes, most of them from outside Seattle. Maybe it was my head cold, but I smiled at the dizzying diversity and sameness among them, thinking, These are my people.

My fellow scriveners may not have felt equally enthusiastic about me, as I likely infected everyone I sat next to with my cold. (I keep waiting for Dustin Hoffman and Morgan Freeman to come looking for me dressed in fatigues and masks.) Still, I had purchased a one-day pass and there was no way I wasn’t going to use it.

In the end, the virus saved me from another epidemic, one of blistering hangovers, though I didn’t feel much better on Saturday morning than if I had downed two bottles of wine and stayed up late talking about plotting the realist novel or women’s travel writing. Still, tweets like Tired is the new drunk, Ready for my power nap – this spot of carpet looks ideal and Saturday at AWP: where ‘hungover’ is a perfectly acceptable answer to ‘How are you?’ made me feel like I both missed something and did not.

One of few to emerge seemingly unscathed was Roxane Gay, who tweeted: There is vomit on the sidewalk outside of the Sheraton. Be careful out there. (Not mine. I am grown.) only to find a note and a ‘complimentary amenity’ from the hotel as thanks for the warning. If we are to believe countless blogs, tweets and articles about AWP, including Peter Mountford’s chuckle-worthy round-up for The Stranger, it seems that what makes a writer is not only the ability to write well, but the capacity to struggle, sulk, pine, drink copious amounts of alcohol, attend readings, wax narcissistic about one’s writing career—and repeat. (And, for poets, to be crazy-awesome at sex. Peter, do tell.)

It’s hard to argue with this comical yet sloppy caricature of writers because, from a certain standpoint, it’s true. Many writers I know can out-drink the construction workers I know. And they do suffer and pine (the writers, not the construction workers, whose physical labor boosts their endorphins and helps sweat out the booze.) In the past five years, I’ve come to know more writers than I’ve ever known and I’ve been surprised at how little common ground we sometimes share, perhaps because I, too, am a sufferer and a piner and a loner, and often feel misunderstood (okay, a lot) and, let’s face it, writers are kind of weird, me included. When we’re wrapped up in our own stories, it’s hard to bridge the gap more than superficially.

Yet, the weird-loner-boozy-writer myth is only as powerful as we make it. We embrace that illusion because it loosely fits and it seems cool and because we, frankly, are not. Our fears, not only of failure but, more pointedly, of mediocrity and anonymity, drive us to conjure the spirits of Hemingway and Stein, Plath and Proulx, imagining ourselves living hard-scrabble lives on remote ranches (Ooh – a perfect writer’s retreat! How do I apply?) or yearning to down a fifth of whiskey, believing that it will help us conjure works that are brilliant and life-changing (Breadloaf Scotland, anyone?)

We like the idea that there is a reward (publishing, fame) for our suffering, because what human who lives doesn’t suffer? As writers, we are tempted to let our insight into that universal suffering overtake us, and in doing so, we scout with wicked, solipsistic anticipation for ways to jab our own heads into hot ovens. Anything for a juicy life experience -er- story that will sell millions of copies of our navel-gazing survival journey through it. That’s print and digital, by the way. And film rights. Finally, all of those people who didn’t believe in us will be sorry, sorry, sorry. And jealous. And then we’ll win the Pulitzer Prize for Literature. Posthumously, but still.

That word, solipsistic, was spoken at nearly every session I attended. Like fashion, language is cyclical, so it doesn’t surprise me to hear this word-cum-meme bandied about at a writer’s conference — a place where we, as artists, assert that we represent the common person when we really represent ourselves in the guise of the common person. Whether fiction, non-fiction or poetry, writers translate the world through sullied lenses, even as we try to distance ourselves from the voice of our narrators or the slant of our story angles. As authors, we are urged to separate from our works, especially in memoir, where we must rise above our own suffering, humble ourselves fast and brutally, and search for something higher and richer while still keeping it entertaining. The few arts that aim to do this –to definitively separate maker from medium, rather than leverage the artist’s identity and art as one– are based on the written word. No wonder why writers drink — and attend conferences in the hopes of finding fellowship with writer-friends who drink.

Each night, I watched them come together at AWP events happening throughout town via social media from my tissue-littered couch. There were too many to attend even if I was well, from a pajama party with Chuck Palahniuk at Elliott Bay Books to readings by my favorite writers at every bar on Capitol Hill. Two more days of panels would have been fun, but these gatherings are what I’m truly sad to have missed. (Is it too early to sign up for AWP15 in Minneapolis? Maybe I can nab an Amtrak writer residency on the trip there…)

Though I didn’t see vomit-strewn sidewalks or writers napping on patches of carpet, I still feel like I had a good taste of AWP. Typically, half the reason for attending a conference is to explore a new city; in this case, AWP helped me see my home town from a different perspective. For one, I was able to witness our brand outside the Pacific Northwest debated constantly: I can’t believe how many Starbucks there are in Seattle – the hype is real! and The sun has been out for two days straight. We’ve been lied to. When someone on a panel euphemistically referred to his employer as “a very large technology corporation,” I whispered “Microsoft” to the confused Kentuckian next to me. In a day filled with insider lingo, at least I knew the local dialect.

That was my biggest takeaway from AWP: as a writer, I am a part of a larger community — not just Hugo House, but bigger. I’m still learning, but I speak the language. The challenges of its people are also mine. We share a common code. The self-perpetuated loner-writer mantra makes us forget that and, other than providing much-needed quiet necessary for writing, only does us a disservice. Being alone (as in lonely) is not cool, and neither is drinking alone, even less so when done in the presence of drugs or shotguns. Or ovens. If we, as writers, are made to open windows into the facets of humanity through the power of story, then we must embrace our nature as a social species: we can’t just write about people connecting, we must make a point to connect. This means pulling a comb through our hair and leaving the house occasionally. It means talking to the person next to us on the bus or at the coffee shop… or the conference. If we’re to write about people with any accuracy, we need to risk relating with them, including other writers.

Every session I attended —from panels on genre to memoir (my favorite: How to Spill Your Guts Without Making a Mess)— underscored the importance of human connection as equal to or greater than craft. While the titles of each varied, the message was the same: Rise above thy [solipsistic] nature and connect. Search for the universal truth, not singular suffering. Keep it simple, keep it real. Be patient. Resist the temptation to submit on the first draft. Other pearls included:

Who is the right person to tell the story—the person at the center, or the edges?

Don’t get caught up in writer’s problems (form, ego) over the driving question, the point of the struggle/story itself.

Memoir is not autobiography: it’s not full disclosure and it’s not about spilling guts. That’s a journal.

Writing that is worthwhile has consequences.

Four rules: Treat people with dignity. Be harder on yourself than anyone else. Never write to settle scores. Write beautifully – it invites its own forgiveness.

Data is not information is not knowledge is not understanding is not wisdom.

Think of plot not in terms of events but cause and effect. What will your characters do to complicate their lives? Plot is a connective tissue rather than a series of milestones; it’s the long answer to a short question that we all wonder about.

Beware making writing too beautiful too early; certain passages will become unmalleable and lend themselves to breaking entirely before the work is done.

Memoir is a response to the silences we encounter: the family memoirs of the 1970s are a response to the “perfect” families of the 1950s like the motherhood memoirs of today are a response to the have-it-all 80s.

Only the shallow know themselves. (Oscar Wilde)

You’re writing to bridge, not to highlight yourself. Allow some room on the page for everyone who isn’t you. Keep your own suffering in perspective.

In the eight years that I’ve worked with architects, I’ve heard many people sigh, I’ve always wanted to be an architect. I’ve heard an equal amount wish to be writers, including a few architects. My answer to both: No, you don’t. If the lawyers who wanted to be architects knew how many late nights they’d work drawing window details for low pay, their notions of cape-flinging bow-tied fame would disappear with a puff of e-cigarette smoke. Likewise, if those who dreamed of being writers knew how many hours it took to write a blog post or a shitty first draft of a short story –or the ten, twenty, fifty drafts between that and the finished piece– likely for no pay even if it was accepted by one of the forty publications they submitted it to, they would reconsider their wistful plea.

The difference between the wishers and the doers is exactly that. Some of us are up past midnight sketching or marking up that fiftieth draft because we can’t not do it. That’s what the solipsistic part of me insists, the part that feels only her own struggles, the side that wants people to know just how hard she works — the small, mean person who wants to flick those who take her life’s endeavor lightly through their boastful wishing: I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I should write a book.

It’s because of those innocent fantasies and greedy myths —the bohemian author tripping the life fantastic awash with big ideas and interesting friends slurping booze in a Paris salon— that even writers have trouble seeing what it really takes to be a working literary artist. Rather than a life of leisurely boozing and dining, it means a separate career during the day, whether you are Charles Dickens, Charles Lamb, Richard Hugo or contemporary authors like Peter Mountford or Frances McCue. Each time any of us wishes aloud to be Hemingway or Stein, Plath or Proulx, we’re selling ourselves on a fiction, hastily convincing ourselves that writing comes easy for those meant to write, and that, as writers, we are owed a moody fantasy life that simply doesn’t exist.

Being a writer isn’t about notebooks or laptops or coffee shops or master’s degrees or agents or even best-sellers, but a relentless drive to create, no matter the cost or how long it takes. It’s about rejection, which means that you’ve attempted something. It’s about accepting risk. It’s about failing. More importantly, it’s about the desire to connect, if only we can get out of our own near-sighted way.

That’s why it takes a few turns at AWP, and a few decades of getting our hands dirty actually writing, to really get it. Some people’s careers take off early in life, and they are the exception. We need to hear that loud and often: writing takes work, it takes giving and receiving support from other writers, and it is mostly unglamorous. However, if it’s what you love, then writing is its own reward; it will, in its own right, eventually give rise to the universal truths that we all seek. If you really are a writer, not just a wisher, then by definition you cannot stop writing, and thus, you will not be able to avoid happening upon them.

One panelist quoted advice by Annie Dillard that stuck with me: Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case.

In other words, let’s get it right, let’s tell it true. Get to it –how can we not?– but don’t rush.


Picture this: TSA agents staring slack-jawed at monitors, screening for dangerous weapons like guns and suntan lotion in bottles larger than 3 oz. A factory worker pulling a defective toy from an assembly line so that a child doesn’t choke on the loose piece. A business manager reading a request for proposal, evaluating the cost of pursuing the project versus the fee it pays. We live in a world where every employee is hired to mitigate risk, from the guy who places the wet floor sign over a spill to the asset manager who oversees our retirement funds.

As animals, we are bred to avoid physical danger long enough to propagate. As sentient beings, we create families who will care for us emotionally and physically in our dotage. We buy houses or businesses and insure them against the cost of their replacement in case they are destroyed. Day to day, we are encouraged to avoid risk, whether by choosing to use a crosswalk, marrying a spouse with a high-paying job or having an annual physical exam. These tactics are effective for staying alive, but not necessarily for living.

Travel is one way to break free of this paradigm, if only for a few moments. As adventures are wont to do, foreign circumstances help us grow, at least until we learn to overcome and eventually predict inherent traps like lost reservations or pick-pockets. If humans are good at nothing else, it’s adapting to our surroundings, even if those surroundings are constantly changing. This means that we are always upping the ante, knowing that risk is only a teacher until we conquer it.

Trouble arises when life becomes about moving chess pieces (this job or that one? this house or that one?) rather than testing mental boundaries or exploring psychological terrain. For artists, this mindset heralds creative decline. Built to filter options, if we can only imagine solutions rather than quandaries —if we cannot allow ourselves the space for legitimate threat or the real possibility of failure— how can we create compelling art? Who wants to write, let alone read, about characters who don’t take chances, whose decks are stacked, who must merely follow the smell of cheese to find the end of the maze?

Yesterday, I met with Peter Mountford, the writer in residence at Hugo House, for commentary on the first draft of a short story. From the start, he counseled me to incorporate more risk in my work. He suggested that I allow my main character to be weaker, more diminished at the start to afford her the ability to transform rather than handing her a defensible position. While my main character is not me, I do identify with her; ultimately, the way she faces her predicament is more reflective of my own mindset about risk than hers.

What is risk, then, but an exposure to chance, to loss, to injury — a manmade concept based on attachment to physical conditions that are truly beyond our capacity to govern in the first place? Though the impact of loss is a mental construct, it’s none the less powerful enough to affect our behavior and our unconscious thought as well as our creative expression. Win or lose, the way we process risk affects the underlying nature of our existence in all its forms.

It’s not just choices like running a red light or traveling to developing nations; we believe that we can run statistics on everything. This is why the realities of middle age hit us hard. Life is a game of odds, and that is where our streak begins to fail. We think that we are in control of our bodies, for instance, until we face disease or injury in our 40s and 50s. The reality is, no matter how we maintain our physical form —with alcohol, fried food and cigarettes, or through regular exercise, an organic diet and drinking eight glasses of water each day— each of us will die. Despite efforts to avoid it, all of the yoga in the world can’t thwart this fate, although they could probably bend you into a smaller coffin.

Thus, we grow to believe that we control our careers and finances with smart, considered choices (until the economy tanks and we are laid off), or our marriages and relationships (until we divorce or move away from our friends) and the very course of our lives (until that thing that we couldn’t see coming suddenly happens.) We define risk by the fear that life will elude our projected notion of control, that we will “lose everything” if we open our bodies and chattel to chance. Is this true? Or is it more true that risk is all around us, inside and outside ourselves and our homes, if we would only acknowledge it?

For those living in Syria or Afghanistan, leaving the house is risky; do they stay inside for the rest of their lives? In China or North Korea, speaking one’s mind is risky; should entire countries remain silent? In places of civil or military strife where tensions are heightened and visible —where daily loss of limb, liberty or life is sure— risk is an easier choice in that it is unavoidable. By facing it, these people inspire the rest of us; the Dalai Lamas and Nelson Mandelas of the world are the ones we write stories about. Everyday life, in all of its chance, becomes an opportunity to do what the rest of us might only do once or twice in a lifetime: find and profess what we believe is worth risk. Usually, it’s not a suburban tract house or a Toyota.

I admit that I am thankful, as only a pampered Westerner can be, for the brand of risk we have in the United States, the luxury to be sated and unsatisfied at once. Still, there is a spectrum of threat here. You don’t see me quitting my job in Seattle to start a business in Detroit or New York City even though the scrappiness of the idea appeals to me. You don’t see me walking alone though the Central District at 2 am even though I’m curious what happens there at night. You don’t see me spending my retirement to travel the world, even though that’s exactly what I’d do if I money wasn’t an object. Am I a coward? A hypocrite? Wasting my life?

How many would say the same: that if money (read: the illusion of security) was no object —if there was no perceived risk to their standard of life or wellbeing— they would not live as they do today? Does this mean that we should quit our jobs and become explorers or vagabonds — and that anything less is settling? Should we give away our possessions or renounce the institution of marriage? Would we feel any more fulfilled in these scenarios than the ones in which we currently live?

In the end there are fine lines between commitment, attachment and value. I think it’s possible to honor society’s norms —jobs, marriage, family, commerce— without becoming slaves to them. One can enjoy the fruits of labor without being so inured to physical possessions that their absence makes life unlivable. As adaptive creatures, I also believe it’s possible to survive without needing as much in spite of the fact that our species falls prey to pleasure and a widely held belief that possessions are the source of it. Assigning value to such things is unwisely risky if you ask me (and there I go, evaluating): a house or a car do not signify worthiness, and their absence doesn’t confer failure. Yet when we lose things, we bring ourselves low.

Family and relationships are similarly burdened with expectation for producing contentment. As I watch my friends propagate, buying first and second homes for their expanding broods, I naturally question my own choices. Settling down and raising a family seems wisely selfish from a certain perspective, not the least love. Sometimes, I envy what they have, or at least, I can feel the value of their choices. Should I make a point of starting a family so that I don’t miss out on motherhood? Will I be sorry that I didn’t do what most everyone else is doing? Will I be more alone at the end of my life if I don’t have children? In those moments, I pause to confirm my own priorities. In the happy times, their lives look attractive, but in practice, I don’t want it enough. Maybe that’s being wisely selfish, too.

In reality, either path involves risk. There is no eluding it when people or possessions are involved, and I certainly have both. Call it a soul or an essence, the spirit inside is the only thing that cannot be lost or destroyed and is, if anything can be, the only thing we have dominion over. This is the gold.

For me, risk resides in this third place, the domain between experiencing, loving and losing — the space where resilience lives. A chasm surrounds it, breeding greed and desire in its depths, the illusion that it’s possible to govern our physical world, or that doing so will lead to fulfillment. This is where mindless habits arise, where ego and expectation thrive. Distracted by bus schedules, grocery shopping and perfunctory affection, we lose our way to the core of ourselves, and with that, a genuine connection with others. How many times do we say, “I love you,” as automatically as we say hello? The charm and benefit of risk is lost when we resign ourselves to everyday distraction.

Risk is about being awake, of not accepting things as they seem, of finding passages that deserve our energy and effort to navigate. We are not the authors of our lives but the narrators. Our power resides in revealing character, in shifting the point of view and in translating dialogue and action. We cannot be so attached to the story —especially not the story we tell about ourselves— that we cannot adapt when the plot shifts, when our characters become lost, when calamity levels everything in its path. As narrators, we cannot hold tight to a single perspective. We must learn to inhabit multiple viewpoints, or wind up trapped and oblivious to the rest of the cast and the story.

More so than gambling or eating day-old sushi, riding this wave is what’s risky, if you ask me. We may find that we don’t know ourselves, that we have a thin support system; we may discover that we have a lot of work to do if we truly want to change. While risk is different for each of us, it’s hard not to cling to what we own and know, no matter how positive or dire our circumstances are. Life without chains is unthinkable, it seems. Even as we seek liberation –by this, I mean freedom from fear– we have come to rely on it; even when we’re successful, we find it difficult to release burdens that we call ours.

Maybe what’s risky, then, is to search in the first place — to try and fail again and again to find what is true for ourselves rather than accepting what is true for others — to attempt to rise above both peace and war, to search for the unfamiliar, whatever and wherever that is, every day of our lives. As narrators, we should seek characters capable of shedding preconceived notions in all the forms they take. There is not a single right answer as we are taught to believe; we can learn from them all.

In training ourselves to question rather than accept, to meet rather than defray risk each day, to embrace its shiny Janus head for the good of ourselves and others, perhaps risk will come to hold a different meaning, and with it, so might our experience of the world.


Biosolids on the conveyor at Brightwater

Biosolids on the conveyor at Brightwater

When was the last time you flushed a toilet and wondered where the contents went? We don’t give much thought to the massive network of pipes beneath our cities unless something goes wrong: a sink gets clogged, water seeps from a crack in the asphalt or a fire hydrant sprays out of control to the delight of children in the summer.

For that matter, when was the last time you considered your human plumbing? How many times have you played Russian roulette with wine or spicy food at dinner wondering if it would come bubbling up around midnight? How often do you eat or drink without pausing to respect the complex digestion process happening inside? Even when expelling waste –the one time that we’re faced with irrefutable evidence of this process– we distract ourselves with newspapers and magazines, or more frequently these days, a cell phone. (Ew.)

Even more difficult to fund than mass transit, it’s hard to prioritize infrastructure like sewer systems or wastewater treatment plants (or our digestive tracts) until they send us to a professional for help. Unless there’s a problem, the corroded pipes look like the brand new ones from the street level: invisible. Who wants to spend money on things we can’t see? Mayors cross their fingers that city infrastructure will hold until they’re out of office. All it takes is delayed repair or untimely disfunction –we don’t have clean tap water to drink or shower with, or to flush a toilet– for these systems to become extremely important and obvious. Like the time I ate bad salmon crudo in Venice, it isn’t until disaster strikes that we appreciate everything that our plumbing does for us when it’s working right.

After spending our Leadership Tomorrow Environment Challenge Day at Brightwater Wastewater Treatment Plant, where we were reminded many times of how massive our hidden infrastructure is, I stepped back to consider things from a systems perspective. We talk a lot in LT about bridging silos and boundaries in order to understand the challenges that our region faces, but ultimately it comes back to understanding infrastructure of all kinds — what frameworks exist, how parts are connected, how each of us contributes to the overall system and how we as a community are responsible for maintaining, upgrading and replacing our networks over time.

As my recent posts suggest, I’ve also been thinking about infrastructure in the sense of friendships and what it takes to support one’s network so that it can be relied upon for support when needed. It so happens that my friend, Sean, had a big hand in bringing Brightwater to life, truly a major effort of his architectural career. Throughout the campus, I felt a sense of pride in his work and, if it’s possible, a fuzzy, warm feeling about the place, which I marketed for years while Sean and I were co-workers. While the function and the mission of Brightwater came about in no small part from King County’s vision and key staff like project manager Michael Popiwny, it also exemplifies principles that Sean models in his own life: sustainable leadership, resource conservation and an appreciation for beauty, art and science.

With that last note on science and technology, it is impossible to ignore the purpose of Brightwater. No pulling out a newspaper or a magazine to distract ourselves here, folks — this is a place to filter, process, package and release SHIT as well as treated water. It doesn’t get more elemental than this. Naturally, the most popular sight (and smell) on the tour was the biosolids room. Inside, machines add a thickener to the reclaimed poop as it scoots down the belt in an oversized version of Lucille Ball’s candy conveyor, which made all of us think twice about how those solids got there in the first place. We tittered like school children when our guide said that they actually were hoping for more volume, encouraging us to do our part.

After the solids are thickened, they undergo a process that ultimately yields a dried fertilizer called Loop that is sold to farmers to enrich the fields of Eastern Washington. We learned that most treatment plants actually pay to bury their waste in landfills rather than reusing what is a nourishing medium for agriculture; Brightwater is one of few plants nationwide that puts its end products to use. Similarly, the treated water, which passes through a micro membrane filtration system at the final state of treatment, comes out colorless and clean, ready for use. Brightwater is hoping to secure a contract with Willows Run Golf Course to use the treated water, which will lessen the golf course’s demand on a nearby watershed, thus increasing the health of salmon and related habitat. Still, more can be done with the treated water they produce, as proven by the thriving demonstration garden powered by nutrient-enriched liquor. All they need is more subscribers.

When someone asked if I showered immediately upon arriving home, having stood in a room filled with other people’s waste, my first thought was (ironically), Aw, crap… Still, it wasn’t the first time I’ve been surrounded in that manner. After all, what about the ever-present emotional shit that we wade through, if in less obvious ways — feelings that emanate from ourselves and others, which we can’t see but know run deep — the by-products of daily life? These, too, can be transformed into a fertile growing medium for new thoughts and actions, if we choose to process rather than bury them. Like Loop, this takes investment and work.

Emotional shit and real shit, these are difficult things to daylight. As animals, we keep our constitutional activities and our deep emotions private, particularly when things aren’t going well. How many times are you asked the same empty question in a day (“How are you?”) that you respond to in an equally empty way (“Fine, and you?”) This is why friendships are so important, perhaps even more important than familial relationships in some ways. For most of us, there is a very short list of people with whom we disclose our emotional shit, and they don’t necessary share a gene pool with us. That said, if our personal infrastructure isn’t ready to handle the load, the processing of emotional by-products can bring these delicate systems down.

A few months ago, not aware that I was testing the limits of a new friendship, I let fly some unfiltered angst at dinner one evening that overloaded the capacity. (Red wine makes us all emotionally slutty, doesn’t it?) At that point, I was knee-deep, having spent most of the fall sifting through the solids of mid-life transition, much to the patience of those closest to me. Still, it was only upon bidding farewell to Kim and Angela that I realized how much processing my close friends and I have done over the last decade. That’s the benefit of maintaining systems once they’re established: the lines of deep friendships bring a grander capacity than most.

In my enthusiasm for new people, I forget that not all friendships are built this way, nor do they mature at the pace they did when we were young. Balancing pragmatism and caution, it feels like we’re dating when we make new adult friendships; we try not to scare off the other party, restraining the flow of personal information or emotion at first, lest we infringe upon others with our vulnerability or desire for commitment. No one likes a deluge at the start of a journey.

This is my way of thanking those who have become part of my infrastructure, and allowed me to become part of theirs. Though the stream lessens at times, it’s not like the shit we go through as humans will ever stop completely. That said, I’m glad that it has a place to go, that we can mine the interesting parts together and transform them into something useful. Neatly repackaged, these end-products infuse life with richness that it didn’t possess before. Sometimes, the shit actually ends up making life worth living, especially when it brings us closer together.

In life, the results of all this processing are resilience, wisdom and fodder for inside jokes. At Brightwater, they are nitrogen and phosphorus-rich water and soil amendments. As they leave the site, the ventilated air, filtered water and fresh fertilizer are blessed by a series of artworks. As the water leaves the site, it passes over a set of steps that read, No beginning, no end, circle the earth, blessed water, blood of life.


Water is blessed before it leaves the site

Water is blessed before it leaves the site

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PS If you haven’t been to Brightwater, please make a point of going. Not only should you as a contributor and consumer know what happens to your own waste, it’s downright fascinating. If you feel the need to explain your visit in non-excremental terms, you can say that you’re interested in the public art located throughout campus, however, I promise that you will come for the poop and stay for the poop.


Today, my friend Kim leaves Seattle to return home to Ohio. It felt important to talk on the phone one last time on West Coast time before she headed back. When I asked about the final packing and cleaning, she noted that her daughter didn’t care for the echo in the empty rooms, a sound that I agreed is eerie, whether one is coming or going. I think it’s the ambiguity — the hollow tones of an unfurnished space denote change, and with all change comes uncertainty.

Afterwards, I thought of the places I’ve lived and the transitions that came with moving, including the space I reside in now, a lovely 1930s building with built-in shelves, cabinets of dark wood and grand closets with heavy doors. It’s the most favorite space that I’ve laid claim to, perhaps because it’s also been the most mine. It’s warm and cozy (how I love boiler heat on 19 degree days) and surrounded by greenery. From my living room, I can see the Space Needle, which now sports a headdress of lights in the shape of a Christmas tree at night.

With well-stocked bookshelves and mango wood side tables, the microsuede green couch and the cocoa brown wood dining set, my apartment feels substantially settled. Like all new homes, it didn’t feel this way when I moved in four years ago, greeted by tenuous echoes in every room. Would I be happy or lonely here? It was hard to say. I was so hell-bent on extinguishing those vaulted tones that I stayed up until midnight each night for a week until everything was in place, right down to the last wooden spoon and pair of scissors.

Much has happened since –jobs, travel, friends, writing, love, loss– that I might have lived here a decade. Today, things continue to change so dramatically and quickly that I feel surrounded by transiting footfalls even though I haven’t moved. Rites of passage are everywhere: friends getting married and having babies, moving across the country and to foreign countries, coming and going at work. Sometimes, I consider the greatest gift to be the few hours I have alone in my apartment to pause and consider all of this rapid change because it would be easy to be too busy to notice.

But how often do we ever know what’s going on inside someone else? How often can we see a person and still not know what rounds out the rest of her life, let alone her mind? This year I’ve become friendly with a kindergarten teacher who works out at my gym. We talk each morning about weekend plans or what’s happening at her school; it’s not a close friendship but a regular exchange. Over the summer I ran into her at a catered dinner, only she wasn’t attending, but serving the food. When our eyes met across the room, she smiled and walked over. “Hi, it’s S– from the gym.”

“Hello! Yes, I recognize you, but…”

“Oh, I cater during the summers. Actually, I work another job part-time, too.” I thought back to what she had said about teachers’ salaries, feeling tongue-tied as she went about organizing the silverware. It was like seeing one of my own teachers bagging groceries. Three jobs?

As she laid out wine glasses on the white linen, I felt like I should offer to assist. If we were anywhere else, I would be helping her, not expecting her to serve me like a princess. I felt guilty about my misplaced embarrassment –after all, there’s nothing shameful about working a catered event– yet I couldn’t help but think about the economic divide that had her working at the same dinner where I was an invited guest.

She and her co-worker stood at the back of the room, attentive yet clearly bored, as the evening dragged on. There too much wine to fuel our bourgeois conversation about writing, the art world and the new director’s condo. We waved at each other when I left, but haven’t spoken of that evening since. I was going home to my apartment to relax for the weekend; she stayed late to clean up after us (me), then worked the next day at a retail job. This was how she spent her summer vacation.

That night, my heart sank at seeing how poorly we compensate our teachers. I also realized that I didn’t know her very well at all. That disappointed vacancy, I realize, is similar to an apartment or a relationship in transition. The bittersweet inevitability of letting go, of acknowledging how things are, catches one’s breath. One might have feigned happiness or adapted to certain constraints for years, a tacit contract with an equally yoked partner, but when the arrangement no longer works, the physical proof is undeniable.

It was that way when I separated from my husband years ago. Our last day in that ill-fated house, which needed far more work and money than we could provide, we felt like we had failed. It wasn’t something said aloud, but a shared chorus of a dusty A-minor chords lingering inside. After a decade, we had given up and let each other down. The house had represented what was happening inside all along, though we didn’t want to let that truth be realized; it took several years to arrive.

Friendships, on the other hand, don’t always have a shared space to use as a mirror. Instead, there’s a vague feeling of displacement when one person pulls away without indicating her intentions. Suddenly, it’s too quiet. She’s packed up and moved her boxes without notice. One day, her friend comes home to find nothing but a bare lightbulb suspended from the ceiling and no forwarding address. Sometimes, we’re changing so fast that we don’t even realize it ourselves, each of us moving on, slowly drifting away until the emotional distance is too far to bridge, even if the person lives a few blocks away.

As I prepare to say farewell to Angela, who is moving to Melbourne, Australia at the end of the month, I realize that I need to be more mindful of what’s happening in all of my friends’ lives. Maybe it’s the product of living in a busier, more distracted society, but it feels like we are charging forward, me included, without sharing more than a Facebook status or update over text. We may learn details via technology, but no longer feel the impact of our friends’ growth and development in visceral ways.

The other day, my bus was technology-shamed by a Brit who crisply asked her four-year-old daughter, “Look around right now; can you tell me what everyone on this bus has in common?”

The curly-haired girl took a minute to peer down each side of the articulated bus, then said, “Mm-hmm.”

“That’s why we have rules about computers and phones at home. Let’s have a conversation instead of staring at tiny glowing boxes, shall we?”

Fine, I thought as I checked work email, give me my &*%$ scarlet apple to pin on my jacket. Though I wanted to stick my tongue out at her, she had a point. Friendships, as much as general consciousness, are hard enough to maintain alongside careers, family and one’s personal routine; add email, social media and Scrabble, and the quality of our interactions –the human quality– shrivels into a thin veneer before we know it.

As the New Year approaches, I’m thinking about what I hope to experience and try in 2014, not just on my own but with my friends. Like a new apartment, the bright side of change is a clean slate, the possibility of moving our familiar qualities into new configurations that weren’t possible before. With different and changing conditions, we can add elements that we couldn’t previously accommodate and discard elements that no longer suit us.

Perhaps instead of echoes, the sound of vacancy is more about openness and expansion, like a pealing bell whose rich reverberation reaches farther than the original notes could have on their own.


For only children, friends are everything. When I was young, I wasn’t able to articulate this –I didn’t necessarily call my besties by the name of sister– but that’s what they were. Since we didn’t share a common blood line or a bathroom, these relationships took on a cordial quality that doesn’t exist between real sisters at that age. We didn’t fight over clothes or privileges but instead spent our hours collaboratively at play, which translates in the present day to meeting for cocktails or getting our nails done.

Our play dates were all shades of pleasant, long enough for satisfying exchanges without getting on each other’s nerves. Sleepovers, which involved bending the rules for pillow forts and living room camp-outs, were special enough to merit our best behavior to ensure they happened again. Even today when my girlfriends stay over, the occurrence is so few and far between that we create only the best of times, seeding our relationship with candy-colored memories. Rarely do we feud, and so, my closest friendships have a certain sweet politeness that isn’t necessarily present in my romances or professional relationships.

In primary school, my BFF was Jennifer. Our friendship sparked in an era when the most popular girls shared her name, but she was different from the others in our class. One year, there were four in room of thirty, but my Jennifer had a certain je ne sais quois. Like me, she loved mysteries and science rather than dolls like most other girls. (A candidate for social services, my orphaned Barbie was poorly clothed and lived a neglected life in a dark, tattered box.)

During our six years together, Jennifer and I invented board games that involved derring-do and unfortunate endings for our hapless cast of players who often fell into spiked pits or had their heads removed by guillotines. We snuck around on elbows and bellies during reconnaissance missions, attempting to spy on our parents and report back the secrets we learned. We created greeting cards for sale under the imprint The Cuckoo Company, peddling our wares door-to-door to neighbors. We both played the flute and were in the SAGE program for accelerated studies, which meant that we researched subjects like marine biology or paleontology rather than taking regular lessons a few times a week. My parents dubbed us The Bobbsey Twins because we spent so much time together; the irony is that we couldn’t have looked more different, as Jennifer was Chinese.

To me, such things mattered little. Like accepting any customs from another family, the traditions of her house were equally foreign, except for one: we both had grumpy fathers. Neither Mr. Lin nor my father liked noise, so we spent much of our time attempting to restrain our spirited play, finding ourselves constantly shushed no matter whose house we were in. Mr. Lin smoked Winstons whereas my dad smoked Camels, however Jennifer didn’t develop the same asthma I did.

When Mr. Lin was out of town on business, Jennifer’s mother, Grace, whose Chinese name was Minghao, would call my mother for American recipes. If I came over during these times, I’d find my mother’s pasta sauce or Steak Diane on their plastic orange plates instead of stir fry. Mr. Lin forbade Grace from cooking anything other than traditional Chinese fare when he was home. I always wondered if he could detect the underlying aroma of beef stroganoff when he returned, or if the spicy smell of Mrs. Lin’s kitchen covered over any trace of my mom’s buttery influence.

Jennifer had an older brother, but for as much as he ignored her, she might have been an only child like me. We were thick as thieves until junior high; even at that age, the irony wasn’t lost on me that she ended up becoming best friends with another girl named Jennifer. Both of their parents had more money than mine –Mr. Lin worked for IBM– so it made sense that their friendship should blossom at a time when it was important for girls to have things like Guess jeans, gymnastic lessons and family vacations, all of which my parents could only spottily provide.

At the time, I felt betrayed, watching us grow apart bit by bit as the Jennifers went to concerts or the mall. If Jennifer were my real sister, I probably would have yelled at her, but without siblings to practice on, I didn’t know how to do such a thing. I soon made new friends, many of whom lasted through high school and a few into college, two in particular, who helped me get into more trouble than I could have found alone. These relationships were more mercurial and eventually fizzled in adulthood.

There is a season for everything, especially love and friendship. Our relationships begin from shared experiences –we are attracted to people who are like us in some aspect– but as I grow older I am beginning to understand the ebb and flow inherently within. We are growing and changing all the time at different speeds, which affects how compatible those shared experiences remain to be. Add the dynamics of marriage, children, jobs and relocation, and the possibility of sustaining these friendships remains much more precarious without intentional work.

This past week, two of my besties announced they are leaving Seattle in December. These exits seem to happen in clusters, as it was the fall of 2010 when both Brad and Laura departed, one for Bogotá and the other for Buffalo; two years later, it was Jessica and Aaron. I saw Kim yesterday for the last time before she leaves for her family home in Ohio. For years, our bonding ritual has involved pedicures at Frenchy’s Day Spa, which I have done alone on occasion. It’s never as fun as when we’re together.

Kim was a candidate for friendship from the start. We’re both from the Midwest and we’re survivors of employment at Skyway Luggage (and survivors in general.) Not since Jennifer have I had such giggle-fests, the kind that cause the well-coiffed ladies in Frenchy’s to give us piercing looks over their bifocals. In addition to a tiara collection and a powerhouse craft practice, Kim also has a big heart. I have friends who give me tough love, which I appreciate from time to time, but when I need someone to share my internal messiness with, someone who doesn’t carry the threat of an existential kick to the side of the head, she is always there. More often than not, she has been there herself.

In spite of its inherent challenges, I believe that our friendship will survive the coming distance, like my ties to Jess and Aaron, Laura and Brad. We don’t talk every day, in fact, months pass without a real conversation, but when we do talk, my faith is renewed. We are still growing and changing, becoming more interesting as we push ourselves into new territory. It’s like reuniting with a college sweetheart after years apart only to find that their experiences have leveraged the things that you loved about them into something even better. Their achievements make you proud and make you consider the state of your own life; their courage helps you become more courageous yourself.

This isn’t always so, of course. Sometimes, there’s just evolution and the weaker offshoots die. People move, or just move on. They grow apart and that’s that. Jennifer and Jennifer didn’t last long; I don’t know who she ended up becoming besties with in high school. We were so socially distant by then that she didn’t even come to my mother’s funeral junior year.

Expectations change, too. If I get a text or Facebook tag from my far-flung friends, it’s as welcome as a phone call or letter. We’re thinking about each other, and it’s enough. Little nudges can actually have a great impact on friendships that span thousands of miles. In the advent of mobile communication, the interwebs are actually promoting connectivity just as their proponents promised long ago during the days when email was considered a cop-out.

At some point, even in the best relationships, we stop becoming obvious to each other with distance. Once removed, our friends pass out of daily thought and routine; new people fill their places, but it can take a long time. It’s harder to find and maintain true friendships in mid-life, so we do it cautiously. I find this especially true for those of us who don’t speak the lingua franca of offspring, making our truly deep friendships that much more important and rare.

The desire for connection is something we downplay at a time when most forty-something professionals walk around with No Vacancy signs around their necks. Spouses, children and couples dinners fill our dance cards, driving those with openings for new relationships to better themselves through group activities like pottery workshops and exercise classes. Yet, if well tended, these branching off points make new opportunities for growth in our personal networks, including travel adventures that might not otherwise have happened. (Bogotá, here I come!)

In eighth grade, my new best friend, Christal, moved back to Georgia. We cried when she left, wrote frequent letters, talked for hundreds of hours on the phone, then lost touch after a year. Deep down, I knew that her leaving meant that we wouldn’t see each other again. Yesterday, as Kim and I hugged goodbye in the parking lot, I was sad but not afraid, feeling hopefulness for her future and resolve for ours. Certain relationships are stronger, the connection deeper than most; given changing conditions, they may wane in intensity but not break.

I was surprised, pleasantly so, when Kim took my hand as we sat in the big puffy leather chairs having our feet massaged. It’s rare to have a grown-up friend who wants to hold your hand in public. We sat there squeezing palms for several minutes, sharing a silent prayer that she can weather all the changes of the coming weeks and months and a promise to stay connected despite the miles.

On my way home, I felt bad for not crying when we parted, but I realized that I don’t consider Kim’s move as the end of our friendship, like I did with Christal or Jennifer. It’s the next chapter, yes, but not the conclusion. We’ll stay in touch through technology and sometime in future, we’ll see each other again. When we do, we’ll feel proud of what the other has accomplished during our time apart.

That’s the thing about having sisters, I’ve discovered; you don’t have to say something to be understood.

Clocks Fall Back

Hazel arrived just before shift change, wind-blown and disheveled. She tossed her broom into the corner, startling Nicodemus, who meowed as she entered the powder room. “I really hate my hair,” she sighed to Esmeralda as she plucked leaves and crispy bug carcasses from her black tresses.

“Tell me about it, girl,” Esmeralda shrugged, darkening in a mole. “My cream rinse is doing nothing. They say that it’s the altitude we’re flying at these days -the air is very dry up there, you know- but if you ask me, it’s pollution. Last week I saw Mortimer jetting around on his XB5000, sputtering fumes behind him for a mile, and don’t think that it was all to scare the villagers. He hasn’t taken that thing to emissions in years.”

“Warlocks,” Hazel spat. “What is it with those guys? Look at me and my bitchin’ hot rod.” She leaned forward in the mirror to inspect a new wart the slightest shade of yellow-green, but even that didn’t give her pleasure.

“You know what they say. The bigger the broomstick…” Esmeralda cackled, but Hazel only grinned weakly and sighed, slumping against the counter. Esmeralda reached into the kinky mass of Hazel’s coiffure and plucked out a red lollipop, still sticky and warm. “Say, are you okay, pumpkin?”

Hazel trembled, looking up at Esmeralda with wet eyes. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing with my life! Each day, the same thing: lurk around school, lure kids with this damned candy,” she cursed, tossing a handful of Dum Dums across the counter, “and make mincemeat pies all afternoon… But where am I going? There has to be more out there!”

“Well, everyone loves mincemeat pie… You know what they say, the way to a warlock’s heart is—”

“Lorenzo and I broke up.” Hazel’s lip quivered as she said this, picturing the silky red underside of his cape billowing as he flew away for the last time. Though it was meant for a vampire, but she couldn’t resist buying it for him on their vacation to Transylvania. It went perfectly with his eyes, perpetually bloodshot with worry.

“Ah,” Esmeralda nodded gravely. “I’m sorry honey.”

“And look at this!” Hazel lifted the layers of her dusty robes to reveal a muffin top folding over the edges of her black spiderweb leggings. She wrapped her fingers around the fleshy edges of her sallow middle. Gathered in a lumpy mass, her belly resembled the drooping buttery crusts of the pies they stuffed with school children each afternoon. “Who’s going to want me now?”

“Well, sweetie, you did just turn forty… Believe me, there’s worse to come. Just when you think you can grow thick chin hairs or brittle fingernails, it all starts to fade!” Hazel wilted under the truth, so Esmeralda changed tack. “The best thing you can do is move on! Forget Lorenzo. You’re smart, funny and downright frightening when you want to be – there’s better out there for you. You deserve someone strong enough to scare the daylights out of you every day.”

Hazel sniffed, rubbing her mascara until the clumps smeared into proper dark circles beneath her eyes. “I suppose you’re right. I never told you, but he was on the run from his coven in Philadelphia. They found out that Lorenzo had reversed a curse for a peasant woman and gave food scraps to the orphans in his dungeon. They said he lost his edge.”

“Piffle! You’re better off without him,” Esmeralda scoffed. She drew her arm around Hazel as they went to clock in, stirring the yowling wrath of Nicodemus, who bloodied her ankle then darted after a mouse.

“How about we go out after work? We’ll have a bottle of newt brew and fried spider legs at the shanty around the corner and brainstorm your new career. What about broom enforcement? You’d be helping your local covens, and maybe you could pull over your husband-to-be on his flashy new ride! Plus, their crimson caftans are to die for – very flattering in the mid-section.”

“You’re the best friend a witch could have,” Hazel gushed, hugging her as Zelda and Brownie came in with a wriggling toddler caught between them.

“Come on, girls, this one’s fresh off the playground!” Zelda called as they disapparated to the kitchen in a puff of smoke.

The steam whistle cried, indicating the start of the work day, but Hazel hung on to Esmeralda for another minute, warming every cockle of her carbuncled heart.

On any normal day, any gloomy afternoon like this one, Bryn might not have minded the humid weight of his hand on her shoulder. It fell there like the fog, heavy and alive. She stared out at the children chasing each other in the park, hopping on broomsticks as if they could fly, pretending that the mist made the world magical. She wished she saw it that way, too.

He didn’t notice her hesitation, not yet, or he might have peeled his palm away. Instead, it lay on her like the rest of him, a shadow overlooking everything: the view from her creaky old house, the couch she bought from an estate sale, and her, especially her. Their inescapable life was all around—the breakfast dishes still scaly with egg in the sink, cupboards full of water-spotted glasses and his hand on her shoulder, directing her to stay with him, at home, alone, just as he pleased.

Once a lighthouse amidst the clouds in her mind, the insistent patience of his hand lent a weight of loving suffocation. Her heart couldn’t expand to breathe. He was no more real than any of the men who had come before him, yet the heft of his eclipsing form darkened her doorways and the corners of her memory like the moon atop the sun at mid-day.

Awake or asleep, there was no escaping the reach of his shade.

From summer clouds burst scarecrows and bowlfuls of knobby squash. It’s that season, boys and girls, when one hour becomes two, when we bend time to our will, not to undo actions of the past but to shape the uncertain future. We fall back into a cushion of sixty minutes like a pile of leaves, sure that they’ll support us.

It is the time of tricks and treats, of goblins and ghouls and the dark that falls before we’re ready, transforming ferries into leviathans, city buses into grinding mammoths, and shimmering snail trails into proof of pixie magic. A walk through the park triggers the cascade of a thousand falling stars, a pagan wedding shower of brittle reds and golds, marking the beginning of the ending of the year.

We cannot trust our eyes, not in the shadows nor the twilight that dims each afternoon. Autumn clouds our perception with pumpkin spice and everything nice, the cream-clotted aroma of cloves and eggnog that causes our left ventricles to slam closed for the season… though not before we taste the gravy, laced with tryptophan.

Fueled by windstorms and damp, the impish abandon of fall draws gloves on our chilled fingertips and humid haloes from our lips. Down comforters emerge from closets like drowsy bears. Roasted things festoon our tables, clothed in fine linen and served on good china. Our evenings are filled with candlelight and crackling fires, our days with tart cider and crinkled bags of warm chestnuts.

When but now, on the edge of winter, can we relish the way that a creaking floorboard goads each hair to stand on end? The tickling lights of will-o’-the-wisp jangle our sixth senses until the most banal daddy longlegs grows into a bloodthirsty, plotting beast. The shadows come alive with our worst nightmares, ghastly creatures hungry for our tender human flesh.

What could be more delicious than to tuck ourselves into bed for a grisly yarn, one told in hushed tones by someone’s head floating above a flashlight — a tale about twelve-year-old Natalie, a headstrong girl who snuck out to meet friends in a graveyard for a seance on All Souls Eve.

Flushed with the illicit success of escape, we can picture her walking up the leaf-scattered path in the moonlight, her red coat hanging defiantly open. Natalie is surprised to find a darkened house when she returns, as the lamplights burned only an hour before. She pauses beneath the whistling pines, straining to discern sounds from inside.

Are mummy and daddy asleep? Have they discovered her treachery, a bed stuffed with pillows rather than her sleeping body? She edges closer, step by sneakered step, careful not to disturb the gravel lest she give herself away. Something moves just outside her field of vision, but when she whips around, there’s nothing there. It’s only the wind, Natalie assures herself, it’s only the wind, but her instinct whispers that she is no safer inside than out.

Her icy fingers fumble for the key, warmed from her body heat. She creeps closer to discover that the door isn’t locked, the way she left it — or had she? Maybe she had left it unsecured in the haste of her exit. Perhaps her parents had discovered her misstep when they checked the locks before bed. She imagined them crouched near the door in the dark, waiting for her to tip-toe inside only to scare the living daylights out of her in the hopes that she would never sneak out again. The rear door was her only salvation.

And so, our heroine slinks to the back yard, the brush of sappy limbs scraping her tender cheeks as she creeps through the hole in the old wooden fence. She pauses at the edge of the trees, trembling and damp, waiting to see the shadowy figures of her parents moving across the dark kitchen window. Her cheek is bleeding, but she is determined to wait them out. Five minutes becomes ten. The house is still.

She is cold and disconsolate, her limbs achy but alert, ready to make a break for it. Just as she edges forward, a howling comes from behind — could it be timber wolves? Natalie looks this way and that, trembling at their straining cries that echo through the forest. Heart racing, she scampers to the back door only to find that it is unlocked, too. Something rustles through the trees –They’re coming! she thinks– and dashes inside.

Deep in the belly of the woods, a bloodcurdling scream rises from Natalie’s house: the sound of a terrified girl taken down by something hairy and hungry and patient. And then, silence.


At the end of my junior year at university, I acknowledged two facts whose existence I had struggled to shrug off since childhood: first, while I loved science, I didn’t love it enough to become a doctor; second, that writing was an integral part of who I was and who I wanted to be. My parents’ insistence that writers couldn’t earn a decent living, but that scientists and physicians did, shaped the subjects I studied, how I valued my interests and what I thought I might achieve in life, even to this day.

Still, after three years of hard sciences and 8 am classes in calculus –that’s five days a week, kids– I switched my major from molecular and cellular biology to English literature. (Twenty years later, I could kick myself for not choosing creative writing, but it sounded too Saturday-Craft-Fair at the time.) My mom had died in my teens and my dad was not a part of my life, so there was no one to tell me that I couldn’t. Besides, I was paying for it.

All English lit majors at The University of Arizona were required to take one course in American lit to balance our perspective. For me, American writing felt too spare when compared with the vivid works of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Milton. There was Steinbeck, though. When I eventually read him, his rich characterizations struck a deep chord.

I wasn’t ready for him in college though, which is why I’m glad that I read the Cliff’s Notes version of The Grapes of Wrath to pass my exam, which I did with flying colors, not remembering a damned thing. Years later when I read Cannery Row, and eventually, the full text of Grapes and Of Mice and Men, they became models for the kind of storytelling that I aspired to. My own work began to make sense.

After absorbing his books in my twenties and thirties, Steinbeck and I found a comfortable routine of pickling sea urchins by day and launching ourselves after renegade frogs in muddy marshes with Mack and the boys by night. As I grew older, his realist prose became more fulfilling than the English lit that had enthralled me in school. Grounded in history and inspired by life, Steinbeck’s works were more accessible than those of lusty prioresses, brave knights or mad Danish princes.

On the other hand, there was Hemingway. I hated Hemingway. What a jerk, right? His characters spent their waking hours “getting tight,” trying to get laid, failing, becoming bitter, drinking more, getting more bitter, fishing with buddies and searching for manhood in a morass of shotguns, stampeding bulls and war. Blah, blah, blah — macho man stuff that I couldn’t relate to.

The first American lit writer that we read in class, I despised the halting scenes that Hemingway dropped in my lap. I wasn’t prepared for his stark diction or his scarred, war-torn cast. I hated his five-word sentences, too. My teachers referred to his style as mot juste, “the right word,” meaning that five well-chosen words –or even three– can wield more power than twenty flabby ones. Regardless, I considered Hemingway a brute.

Years after I graduated, his economy eventually made sense in the same way that Steinbeck’s did. I can’t say why I let go of the flowery, romantic prose of the British writers whom I loved, and will always love, other than that I craved reality when I grew up. In the passing of a single novel, The Sun Also Rises, I came to hate and love the economy of Hemingway, that complex simpleton, and vexingly so.

As for judiciousness, he and Steinbeck knew it better than most, except for William Strunk, Jr and E.B. White, who gave us Elements of Style, the ultimate how-to guide of mot juste (“Omit needless words!”) I thought of them all during last week’s Challenge Day for Leadership Tomorrow, during which we contemplated our regional and national economies within the context of the flow of limited goods and services. Rather than consumer trade, I realized how much I employ the term “economy” when I talk about writing.

We began with a group exercise, raising colored cards in favor of issues that we would support with our dollars. Sounds easy, but without the ability to explain our selections –just vote– we found ourselves on opposite sides of issues that could be justified either way: does one choose to fund mass transit or improve roads and highway safety? Fund environmental education or offer tax breaks to Boeing whose departure would devastate the region? Using ballot initiatives from recent elections, our facilitator helped us identify specific elements of complexity within our local economy and question how we might make decisions in the future.

After a rousing speech from Microsoft’s Brad Smith, who spoke about the gap in local tech talent and its relationship to our region’s tax base and leadership in innovation, our conversations throughout the day danced between the haves and have-nots. A tour of Clarisonic, whose manufacturing floor felt like a maquiladora to one person, sparked discussion about the disparities between white-collar, white-skinned front office workers and “poor, uneducated” [read: non-white] factory workers. Can we simply call them disenfranchised, or is there more happening here?

My group’s tour of Philips Healthcare in Bothell had a more egalitarian flavor, though the orderly, flow chart-driven processing floor reminded me of my uncle’s job on the assembly line for Chrysler back in 1970s Detroit. Did it signify that we are still in the dark ages of manual assembly, or is it a positive thing that our processes still require human hands and problem-solving? Those manufacturing jobs bring wages to local families and tax revenue to our economy, but they weren’t jobs that any of us on the tour wanted to do. I suspect that this is why some felt conflicted as to how to label them, “good” versus “bad.”

That afternoon, my 72-person cohort and I were referred to as worker bees by venture capitalist Nick Hanauer, whose recently released book, The Gardens of Democracy, co-authored with Eric Liu, equates economies with living ecosystems that must be tended. In it, he argues that a driving middle class is essential to a thriving capitalist economy — not the trickle-down effect from the wealthy, like him. “The old model asserts that the poor deserve to be poor and the rich deserve to be rich. Yet, time has shown that the most prosperous economies are those that tax and spend the most, while those that tax and spend the least are failures. Austerity cannot revive a weak private economy.”

He was right in his labeling: even within our group, which arguably consists of upwardly-mobile people with enough means to afford LT tuition as well as post-graduate degrees, we were still just worker bees. He was the billionaire and we were drones who needed to be told to rise up against the political and fiscal oppression waged by his conservative peers — the same people who forestalled his TED talk.

That afternoon while we were journaling, I thought back to my own emergence into the working world. After graduating college, I wasn’t sure how to make a living, and there was no one to advise me. Most of my friends went on to medical school or science jobs, but I had left that world behind. My English lit degree and stint as a weekly columnist for my university newspaper did little to pave a vibrant economic path. Worst of all, my parents seemed to have been right: my English lit degree wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.

I took a low-paying administrative job, the only thing I appeared qualified for, flirting with anemia because I couldn’t afford to buy red meat and pay for rent and student loans in the same week. Transit service was unreliable and almost non-existent in Tucson, so I needed a car and the expensive insurance that went with it. Without dental coverage, I went years between cleaning appointments simply because I couldn’t afford them. I bought a cheap wardrobe of office attire because I couldn’t wear my college clothes to work. I hated the way I looked. A few years later, I went back to school to earn a degree in graphic design so that I could work on publications, eventually maxing out my student loans, which I am paying on until 2020.

After two degrees, tens of thousands of dollars in loans and thirty years of living, I still hadn’t become a writer. I felt like a failure.

Today, my life in Seattle is different — in some ways. Within reason, I can afford to buy clothes, drive and insure a nice car, fund a monthly transit pass, travel, attend plays, belong to museums, donate to charity and pay rent on an apartment that I like. (I can’t afford permanent housing in the center city, but I’m not interested in owning a house again.) I am also a middle-class worker bee who writes essays, literary fiction and this blog in my spare time, but I do not work as a writer. Why? Because deep down, I fear there will be an economic price for embracing a trade that is, in general, not highly monetized. After all, I like red meat.

The likelihood of becoming the next Stephen King or J.K. Rowling is slim. There are extremely talented writers out there, including many in our city like Brian McGuigan, Peter Mountford and Nicole Hardy, who might be published and increasingly notable, but who do not live the lifestyles like Nick Hanauer or Brad Smith (or Stephen King, for that matter.) Given that artists of all kinds, including writers, often work several jobs simultaneously, they aren’t even living the economic life that I’m living as a business development manager.

So what kind of economy are we really talking about? What is being traded and what is it worth? One might assess my lifestyle and assert, She’s trading economic stability for happiness, where someone else could argue that having a job with benefits that pays a living wage allows me the freedom to pursue a hobby that I love while living in comfort and fiscal security. Aren’t they both true? Does economic prosperity necessarily connote success? If so, how much is enough?

This weekend, I attended the first installment of this year’s Hugo House Literary Series, which included a reading by Roxane Gay, an immensely talented writer whose work can be seen on Salon.com and [PANK]. She has two books coming out next year and writes for several online and print publications. She also teaches at Eastern Illinois University and lives in what she calls the middle of nowhere. Like me and my LT cohort, she is also a worker bee.

However modest, my economic prosperity not only allowed me to buy a ticket for the lit series, but Roxane’s Saturday workshop. For this, I am thankful. As a member of Richard Hugo House, I am committed to supporting a critical community resource that requires donors and members to thrive; still, most of us members are worker bees, not wealthy endowers. We don’t show up in tailored finery like Cate Blanchett’s character in Blue Jasmine, though I’ve noticed that Hugo House students are likely to wear slightly more tailored clothing than our instructors because –surprise, surprise– as teachers and writers, they generally don’t earn high salaries.

That said, it’s not clothing or middle-class prosperity that matters when we gather at Hugo House but diction, style and economy of another kind.

In person, Roxane Gay is as gracious, tack-sharp and funny as she is on the page. Her class, The Brutal Languages of Love,” introduced us to beautifully wrought works by American writers Nick Antosca (The Girlfriend Game) and James Salter. Then it was our turn. Roxane asked us to depict an intimate moment without referencing body parts or explicit action, showing desire rather than sex in our writing. While each writer’s work was unique, they all held an economy of language in common. No dead wood here, Hemingway.

For that afternoon, we put aside our families, the looming bills we were struggling to pay because of the government shutdown, the new health care packages that many artist friends had been clamoring for, and the duties of our non-writing jobs that paid for class with Roxane. The gift of three hours together, or perhaps the power of it, came instead from the free trade of language, ideas and stories about love. Afterwards, the bus ride home gave me time to listen to a Spanish learning series in preparation for my trip to Colombia in January. It will be my first foray into a developing nation whose language I am struggling to learn, a situation that will turn the tables on my middle-class American experience.

As we were reminded at the beginning of LT, challenge days are less about arriving at solutions and more about raising questions and inspiring cross-sector dialogue, collaboration, leadership and action. As these worlds come together for me –writing and LT– I can see where my own advocacy will bear fruit, namely within the realm of art and culture which I believe is every bit as vital to a thriving community as jobs, transit, education and innovation.

Like all protagonists, I will face challenges in the months ahead, but I’m eager to meet them. Navigating these topics –economy, basic needs, health and wellness, education, environment, the arts, race and racism– will evoke a richness in my own character that I didn’t possess at the start. I’ll also bear in mind Roxane’s encouragement to avoid the simple trade of wish fulfillment, which is as important in living as it is in writing, I think. “Place transgressive elements of desire within the center of your stories,” she suggested. “Give us great characters who aren’t so flawed that they can’t be redeemed. We need to see them struggle to believe in their transformation.”

It’s a beautifully economic phrase, the transgressive elements of desire. To me, it translates as the ongoing exchange of limited goods –need and fulfillment– that underlie our flawed human economy. We are never all-black or all-white, but infinite shades of gray that call for exploring which, it turns out, is what makes any character or story, and life itself, worth experiencing.