I just don’t have any words today other than this:

Yesterday was one of those days. I won’t bore you with the details – suffice it to say it really sucked. At least for the first half of the day. I did what I could to turn things around. I spent the afternoon singing. I indulged in some Ben & Jerry’s after dinner. I watched the Netflix show “The OA” which was interesting. I let myself sleep in this morning and then I went for a hike, hoping for some inspiration for a poem. No words came, but I was struck by the abundance of wildflowers, thanks to the recent rains we’ve had here. The desert is bursting with beauty as a result. Maybe this year could be another “superbloom” year, or close to it? So I’m offering you these photos I took, despite the fact I am only a so/so photographer. This is more of a visual poem I guess… I see it as a reminder that sometimes a little bad weather isn’t all bad. We’ve got to keep on the lookout for beauty. It’s everywhere.

It’s Friday the 13th today!! 🫣 Gah!!

But I refuse to freak out and allow fear of bad luck to ruin my day. I am reposting this essay from this past December with a spirit of positivity so you can do the same. Maybe share it with other people in your life who need a little boost. Be well. Stay safe out there. ❤️

Like Life (originally posted 12/5/25)

My heart pounds against my chest as the early morning sun slants from the east directly into my eyes. This is the Sonoran desert and it’s an early December morning. There’s a chill in the air and a strong wind whips my face. I’ve only just begun my hike, but it’s straight uphill from the beginning and stays that way for the first couple of miles.

My thighs burn and it feels like I’m pulling a 100-pound anchor. I know from experience that this feeling will pass as my muscles warm up, so I ignore the whiny voice inside my head asking why I’m torturing myself. Instead, I turn up the volume on a wiser inner voice that congratulates me for being here early, before it gets too dusty or warm to be enjoyable. Soon I’ll have completed this intense four-mile loop and be home sitting in my favorite chair sipping my coffee. Enjoy your time here, I tell myself. Soak in the pleasure of the challenge; the promise of accomplishment is coming soon.

To avoid the glare, I look down at my feet and focus on each step. The sandy, rocky terrain, peppered here and there by chaparral and brittlebush, is steep and uneven. There are sharp drop offs as the trail switchbacks its way to the top. I need to be careful so I don’t twist an ankle or fall off the edge. Two ravens dip and swerve together above and below me as I ascend. They seem to be playing more than hunting. Somewhere unseen, bighorn sheep in small bands make their way across even higher ground. Below me, the Coachella Valley spreads out in a sea of palm trees and manicured golf courses. My mother’s ashes are also part of this mountain now. It pleases me to be here with all of this around me and I think Mom would like being here too.

As I hike, I listen to music, setting my pace to the rhythm of each song. This puts me into a semi-meditative state. Thoughts flow through my mind, sometimes ideas or lines for a poem come to me. I recall memories. I set goals. Sometimes I cry as I walk. Mostly though, I’m happy. Hiking feels like a release, self therapy, and also a kind of prayer. I am thankful for the burn and the breathlessness; this is my body working for me, catching me when I stumble and reminding me, I can do this. My body has enabled me to be here today to see the sunrise. I am so fortunate.

I learned at a very young age that something as simple as being able to walk and talk and care for oneself can go away in an instant. When I was ten, my best friend suffered a traumatic brain injury and was in a coma for months. They said she’d never walk or talk again. Despite many physical challenges, some permanent, she ended up doing both, albeit not the same as before, and she does need assistance. But she lives a full life in her own way and even found true love with a man who suffered a similar injury. Her journey has been the steepest kind of climb, but has also demonstrated to me the importance of fortitude, adaptability, grace, and gratitude.

As I’ve gone through my life I’ve experienced physical set backs much less extreme than hers, but that still made me deeply appreciate my health and well being: extreme morning sickness with both pregnancies; a bad back that left me bedridden or hobbling in my thirties; something called “Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome” (CVS) that is essentially a migraine of the stomach that plagued me in the final years of my first marriage; a bout of vertigo so bad I couldn’t walk in my forties. Those experiences taught me to never take my health for granted and to listen to my body’s wisdom.

Our bodies tell us a lot about how we are feeling emotionally as well as physically. Every morning when I wake up and am able get around on my own without pain or illness, I am grateful. When my body screams at me, or nudges me even slightly, I pay attention. I slow down. I journal. I make changes that need to be made. And if I struggle with any of that, I am gentle with myself and try again. I try not to judge how I am feeling and simply rejoice that I can feel anything in the first place.

When the blues take over and that awful inner voice won’t give up the microphone (or bullhorn), I try to turn my attention to other things going on around me that are positive, beautiful, and joyful, however small. Lovely things noticed and appreciated can replenish the deficit left by pain, sorrow, and regret – if we let them.

For a long time now I’ve made regular exercise a norm in my life. As I age I am coming to accept the parts of my body I used to hate so much and simply focus on taking care of them so they keep working! A few years ago I was told I have osteopenia, a precursor of osteoporosis, so this too has reinforced my dedication to doing whatever I can to build my muscles and strengthen my bones to allow me to continue to do the things I love to do.

When I worked at Nike and had access to a state of the art gym, I forced myself to do sessions on the Stair Master and sign up for Aerobics and Step classes (it was the 90’s) every day during my lunch hour. But honestly, I was bored out of my mind and hated every minute of it. Then there were a few years where I didn’t exercise much at all, other than walking the dog. Life was busy and full. And though I had much joy in those days, I also felt exhausted much of the time raising three sons and navigating a difficult marriage. This also happened to be the time when I had all those health issues. I wonder if I’d been exercising regularly if some of the physical unwellness I experienced might have been avoided? Regardless, walking my dog during those years was a restorative ritual that I both dreaded (in bad weather) and relished (immediately when I got out there and did it, no matter what the weather was). It was some of my only alone, non-busy time in those harried, stressed out days.

Then fifteen years ago, when my 66-year-old mother was dying too young at the same time as I chose to get divorced, something shifted. I had an instinctual urge to move my body and get sweaty and sore every day. I needed to do that as much as I needed to eat food and drink water.

I began running and attending regular Barre classes. These activities turned off my thinking mind and I was able to simply tune into my breathe and focus on my muscles and body alignment and form. I always stretched when I was done. I treated stretching as a well-earned dessert and felt sorry for people who had to dash out early. They were missing the best part!

Exercise and stretching became a daily ritual that provided some of the only solid footing I had amidst the total chaos and angst of that time. It was one of the absolute worst times of my life and I think exercise probably saved my life. It certainly improved it!

These days I can no longer run like I used to, or do Barre, due to a foot issue. As I age I am realizing that the cliché “change is inevitable” is absolutely true. Just when we think we’ve unlocked the perfect formula for life, something changes. (Damn foot pain! Take care of your feet!) Now I lift weights and golf and hike (with custom shoe inserts). My schedule is less rigid and frantic because my schedule is more free now that my nest is empty. I still work, but as a freelance writer, I sleep, work, eat and exercise when it makes sense. Every day, or at least every week, is different. I hike when the air is clear and if my morning is free.

And this is one of those mornings. It strikes me that hiking feels like a metaphor for life. Perhaps that’s cheesy and cliché too. Whatever. Taking things one step at a time, focusing on micro-moments, taking care with my steps, the climb becomes less daunting. Noticing the view, the two birds surfing the wind currents together, plants growing straight out of a rock, and tiny flowers that bloom yellow, white and purple after the rare desert rain, I am astounded by everything in what at first glance seems to be a desert wasteland.

There is so much life here, and determined life at that. And suddenly I’ve reached the top, and the hardest part is behind me. I now ease into the second half of this journey. What will be around the next turn? Good or bad, breezy or tough, I find solace in knowing change is a sure thing. I want to feel all the feels for as long as I possibly can. Hopefully more good than bad. Tomorrow I’ll play some golf… another physical activity ripe with life metaphors. 😜 I’ll save that for another essay some other day.

I hope you’re able to get out and move this weekend. But if you cannot, then listen to music, chair dance, tap your fingers. And if even that isn’t working or possible, close your eyes and envision yourself dancing, running, hiking, gardening, swimming, floating, riding a horse, water skiing, skiing, snowshoeing… or whatever physical thing you love most to do, or used to love doing.

The mind is an incredible thing and mental imagery has actually been proven to have positive emotional benefits. Even though you may not be physically moving, your limbic system can achieve the same emotional states as if you were. You can move from a state of emotional disregulation (aka turmoil) to emotional regulation (aka feeling safe, happy, at peace). This is not woo-woo bull crap. It’s real, proven brain science. But it’s also a little bit like magic.

I hope you have a wonderful, restorative weekend in mind, body, and/or spirit.

❤️

My heart pounds against my chest as the early morning sun slants from the east directly into my eyes. This is the Sonoran desert and it’s an early December morning. There’s a chill in the air and a strong wind whips my face. I’ve only just begun my hike, but it’s straight uphill from the beginning and stays that way for the first couple of miles.

My thighs burn and it feels like I’m pulling a 100-pound anchor. I know from experience that this feeling will pass as my muscles warm up, so I ignore the whiny voice inside my head asking why I’m torturing myself. Instead, I turn up the volume on a wiser inner voice that congratulates me for being here early, before it gets too dusty or warm to be enjoyable. Soon I’ll have completed this intense four-mile loop and be home sitting in my favorite chair sipping my coffee. Enjoy your time here, I tell myself. Soak in the pleasure of the challenge; the promise of accomplishment is coming soon.

To avoid the glare, I look down at my feet and focus on each step. The sandy, rocky terrain, peppered here and there by chaparral and brittlebush, is steep and uneven. There are sharp drop offs as the trail switchbacks its way to the top. I need to be careful so I don’t twist an ankle or fall off the edge. Two ravens dip and swerve together above and below me as I ascend. They seem to be playing more than hunting. Somewhere unseen, bighorn sheep in small bands make their way across even higher ground. Below me, the Coachella Valley spreads out in a sea of palm trees and manicured golf courses. My mother’s ashes are also part of this mountain now. It pleases me to be here with all of this around me and I think Mom would like being here too.

As I hike, I listen to music, setting my pace to the rhythm of each song. This puts me into a semi-meditative state. Thoughts flow through my mind, sometimes ideas or lines for a poem come to me. I recall memories. I set goals. Sometimes I cry as I walk. Mostly though, I’m happy. Hiking feels like a release, self therapy, and also a kind of prayer. I am thankful for the burn and the breathlessness; this is my body working for me, catching me when I stumble and reminding me, I can do this. My body has enabled me to able to be here today to see the sunrise. I am so fortunate.

I learned at a very young age that something as simple as being able to walk and talk and care for oneself can go away in an instant. When I was ten, my best friend suffered a traumatic brain injury and was in a coma for months. They said she’d never walk or talk again. Despite many physical challenges, some permanent, she ended up doing both, albeit not the same as before, and she does need assistance. But she lives a full life in her own way and even found true love with a man who suffered a similar injury. Her journey has been the steepest kind of climb, but has also demonstrated to me the importance of fortitude, adaptability, grace, and gratitude.

As I’ve gone through my life I’ve experienced physical set backs much less extreme than hers, but that still made me deeply appreciate my health and well being: extreme morning sickness with both pregnancies; a bad back that left me bedridden or hobbling in my thirties; something called “Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome” (CVS) that is essentially a migraine of the stomach that plagued me in the final years of my first marriage; a bout of vertigo so bad I couldn’t walk in my forties. Those experiences taught me to never take my health for granted and to listen to my body’s wisdom.

Our bodies tell us a lot about how we are feeling emotionally as well as physically. Every morning when I wake up and am able get around on my own without pain or illness, I am grateful. When my body screams at me, or nudges me even slightly, I pay attention. I slow down. I journal. I make changes that need to be made. And if I struggle with any of that, I am gentle with myself and try again. I try not to judge how I am feeling and simply rejoice that I can feel anything in the first place.

When the blues take over and that awful inner voice won’t give up the microphone (or bullhorn), I try to turn my attention to other things going on around me that are positive, beautiful, and joyful, however small. Lovely things noticed and appreciated can replenish the deficit left by pain, sorrow, and regret – if we let them.

For a long time now I’ve made regular exercise a norm in my life. As I age I am coming to accept the parts of my body I used to hate so much and simply focus on taking care of them so they keep working! A few years ago I was told I have osteopenia, a precursor of osteoporosis, so this too has reinforced my dedication to doing whatever I can to build my muscles and strengthen my bones to allow me to continue to do the things I love to do.

When I worked at Nike and had access to a state of the art gym, I forced myself to do sessions on the Stair Master and sign up for Aerobics and Step classes (it was the 90’s) every day during my lunch hour. But honestly, I was bored out of my mind and hated every minute of it. Then there were a few years where I didn’t exercise much at all, other than walking the dog. Life was busy and full. And though I had much joy in those days, I also felt exhausted much of the time raising three sons and navigating a difficult marriage. This also happened to be the time when I had all those health issues. I wonder if I’d been exercising regularly if some of the physical unwellness I experienced might have been avoided? Regardless, walking my dog during those years was a restorative ritual that I both dreaded (in bad weather) and relished (immediately when I got out there and did it, no matter what the weather was). It was some of my only alone, non-busy time in those harried, stressed out days.

Then fifteen years ago, when my 66-year-old mother was dying too young at the same time as I chose to get divorced, something shifted. I had an instinctual urge to move my body and get sweaty and sore every day. I needed to do that as much as I needed to eat food and drink water.

I began running and attending regular Barre classes. These activities turned off my thinking mind and I was able to simply tune into my breathe and focus on my muscles and body alignment and form. I always stretched when I was done. I treated stretching as a well-earned dessert and felt sorry for people who had to dash out early. They were missing the best part!

Exercise and stretching became a daily ritual that provided some of the only solid footing I had amidst the total chaos and angst of that time. It was one of the absolute worst times of my life and I think exercise probably saved my life. It certainly improved it!

These days I can no longer run like I used to, or do Barre, due to a foot issue. As I age I am realizing that the cliché “change is inevitable” is absolutely true. Just when we think we’ve unlocked the perfect formula for life, something changes. (Damn foot pain! Take care of your feet!) Now I lift weights and golf and hike (with custom shoe inserts). My schedule is less rigid and frantic because my schedule is more free now that my nest is empty. I still work, but as a freelance writer, I sleep, work, eat and exercise when it makes sense. Every day, or at least every week, is different. I hike when the air is clear and if my morning is free.

And this is one of those mornings. It strikes me that hiking feels like a metaphor for life. Perhaps that’s cheesy and cliché too. Whatever. Taking things one step at a time, focusing on micro-moments, taking care with my steps, the climb becomes less daunting. Noticing the view, the two birds surfing the wind currents together, plants growing straight out of a rock, and tiny flowers that bloom yellow, white and purple after the rare desert rain, I am astounded by everything in what at first glance seems to be a desert wasteland.

There is so much life here, and determined life at that. And suddenly I’ve reached the top, and the hardest part is behind me. I now ease into the second half of this journey. What will be around the next turn? Good or bad, breezy or tough, I find solace in knowing change is a sure thing. I want to feel all the feels for as long as I possibly can. Hopefully more good than bad. Tomorrow I’ll play some golf… another physical activity ripe with life metaphors. 😜 I’ll save that for another essay some other day.

I hope you’re able to get out and move this weekend. But if you cannot, then listen to music, chair dance, tap your fingers. And if even that isn’t working or possible, close your eyes and envision yourself dancing, running, hiking, gardening, swimming, floating, riding a horse, water skiing, skiing, snowshoeing… or whatever physical thing you love most to do, or used to love doing.

The mind is an incredible thing and mental imagery has actually been proven to have positive emotional benefits. Even though you may not be physically moving, your limbic system can achieve the same emotional states as if you were. You can move from a state of emotional disregulation (aka turmoil) to emotional regulation (aka feeling safe, happy, at peace). This is not woo-woo bullcrap. It’s real, proven brain science. But it’s also a little bit like magic.

I hope you have a wonderful, restorative weekend in mind, body, and/or spirit.

❤️

In 2010 a few big changes in my life hit all at once: my mother died, I got divorced, struggled to reboot a dormant career, and lost friends due to a very unfriendly rumor mill. And there was more I don’t have time to go into here. There had been red flags along the way leading up to much of all that. Looking back I’m shocked by how shocked I was. The red flags were there all along.

One of the things that brought joy into my life during those dark days was joining a band as their lead singer and co-writer, just for the fun of it. Collaborating with musicians, performing on stage, and sitting on the grass in the park with my notebook writing songs for entire afternoons was medicine for my soul and an infusion of joy that helped me cope with all the loss and sorrow.

I made an album with the band, and then I left the band and made an EP on my own. The EP included a song called “Red Flags” that on the surface is about an ill-fated relationship, but it’s also about just a general feeling of being bamboozled by someone you thought you could trust.

Here’s that song:

The thing is, often hindsight is 20/20. It can be hard to see “all the red flags flying” in the present moment when you trust someone/something and want to believe them/it to be true. But the old adage is usually true: “if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck.”

It’s especially hard when you see the red flags, but don’t want to believe what they’re signaling to you. Maybe it’s too upsetting/scary, or it has the potential to turn your world upside down. Maybe your default setting is co-dependency and people pleasing and you are preset to fixing everyone but yourself. Maybe you are second guessing your sense of reality because someone is gaslighting you. I get it. I’ve been there. It sucks.

“This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

– William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene 3

Red flags show up in relationships, the workplace, and politics, on social media, in the news, with family and friends and even at times, within oneself. It is hard to see warning signs clearly. Then we beat ourselves up for not seeing them. The trick is to try to not make the same mistake twice. Learn from your mistakes. And have the wisdom to accept what you can and can’t control.

In his book Long Walk to Freedom Nelson Mandela reflects, “I realized that they could take everything from me except my mind and heart… And I decided not to give them away.” And Shakespeare wrote, “This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” I wrote my college admission essay about that latter quote a million years ago, and it has always stuck with me. Know in your heart and mind what you believe and stand for, and no matter what anyone else says or does, they can’t change that.

“I realized that they could take everything from me except my mind and heart… And I decided not to give them away.”

– Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom

If any of this resonates with you, I wish you clarity and courage. Stay attuned to the messages the universe sends you and trust your gut instinct. Nobody can control what you know to be true and value in life. There are ways to set and hold boundaries in some way in most circumstances. And remember that even in the dark times, light can be found. Listen to or make some music/art/poetry. Dance. Bake. Take a walk. Feel the breeze in your hair and the sun on your back. Give someone a present. Volunteer somewhere. Snuggle with a pet. Write a letter to an old friend. Let this post be a reminder – a white flag of friendly peace – that it’s okay to be happy once in awhile, even when life gets really sad.

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Lyrics for Red Flags:

Funny how you weave some truth
into a story made of lies
and I drank that drink you poured
made of liquid alibis
my tears were not for sale
my fears were really real

AND there were...
all the red flags flying
all the red flags flying
there were...
all the red flags flying
all the red flags flying

Funny how the blind can see
reminds me of you and me
we felt our way inside the dark
trying to light a spark
your arm around my waist
the way your kisses taste

BUT there were...
(chorus)

How do I get past
the way you smiled 
last night

And there were all the red flags flying
all the red flags flying...

Funny how we started out
the beginning was the start of the end
I didn’t hear the words you said
You do not so easily bend
what was false or true?
how do I let go...

Of all the red flags flying... (chorus)

Funny how you weave some truth
into a story made of lies

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Awhile ago I began posting Mondays Moments, intended to be even briefer than my Friday newsletters/posts, as an experiment. As I learn more about how Substack works, I’ve realized that posting more on their Notes feature, which can only be seen via the app, is probably a better format for me.

So, this is my last Monday Moment. 💐

But never fear…. the Friday poems/stories will continue to roll! 🤗

If you want to see my Notes and how that evolves, get the app (it’s free)! You’ll still get my newsletters in your inbox, but you’ll also be able to access them on the app plus have access to the archives, Notes and other features/writers/artists.

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Hope you have a great week ahead. Don’t be afraid to try new things; keep what’s working and stop what’s not. It’s all a process and a journey…

Enjoy this short video and photos of this beautiful and peaceful place on earth. May it help your week get off to a beautiful start, even amidst any chaos, pain, fear, uncertainty, rage, or worry you may be experiencing. Knowing that this exists too in the world give me some peace/hope.

I came to this place to hike around a cove I once knew as a child and had only experienced from the salt water of the Salish Sea. I had no idea that from the land side, this was here.

Wislawa Szymborska, the Nobel Prize winning poet, wrote a poem called “Reality Demands” and my favorite line in it is this:

There is so much Everything / that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.

I love this line that captures our ability/need/desire as humans to process whatever life/death throws at us and just keep moving forward. But her poem (shared below) also gives us permission to always remember. To never forget. To be happy. I’d like to also think, “and try to do better.”

When I saw this place, it also struck me like I was seeing Monet’s Water Lilies for the first time. I think had he ever come here, he would have certainly brought his paints and easel.

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Reality Demands

Reality demands
that we also mention this:
Life goes on.
It continues at Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.

There's a gas station
on a little square in Jericho,
and wet paint
on park benches in Bila Hora.
Letters fly back and forth
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a moving van passes
beneath the eye of the lion at Chaeronea,
and the blooming orchards near Verdun
cannot escape
the approaching atmospheric front.

There is so much Everything
that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.
Music pours
from the yachts moored at Actium
and couples dance on the sunlit decks.

So much is always going on,
that it must be going on all over.
Where not a stone still stands,
you see the Ice Cream Man
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been
Hiroshima is again,
producing many products
for everyday use.
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,
of the mornings
that make waking up worthwhile.

The grass is green
on Maciejowice's fields,
and it is studded with dew,
as is normal grass.

Perhaps all fields are battlefields,
those we remember
and those that are forgotten:
the birch forests and the cedar forests,
the snow and the sand, the iridescent swamps
and the canyons of black defeat,
where now, when the need strikes, you don't cower
under a bush but squat behind it.

What moral flows from this? Probably none.
Only that blood flows, drying quickly,
and, as always, a few rivers, a few clouds.

On tragic mountain passes
the wind rips hats from unwitting heads
and we can't help
laughing at that.

by Wislawa Szymborska
Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

Ashes will be spread here someday.
Someone will come in a seaplane
and dangle a porcelain blue vase
from a shaking window.
The dust will fall and float quietly
down into the deep green tea cup
memory of my childhood.

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This is a poem I wrote when I was in college as part of my senior thesis in Creative Writing, which was a collection of poetry. It’s about a magical (but real) place called Princess Louisa Inlet, PLI for short, and it’s a place of deep meaning and memory in my life.

My family went there most summers when I was a kid. It was a place where we experienced time-spent-out-of-time, where the worries of day-to-day life were left behind. Some of the best memories of my childhood with my parents (and some lucky friends and family) occurred here. Swimming, water skiing, hiking to waterfalls, singing with my sister as our dad played guitar. Lying awake at night beneath the glory of the Milky Way listening to the water lapping the granite cliff shores, watching for shooting stars, feeling the midnight chill on my face, the rest of my body snuggled into a sleeping bag. Seeing bioluminescence for the first time (like zillions of stars dancing in the water). It’s a place I remember feeling fully happy and loved and very fortunate.

I already mentioned that I wrote this poem my senior year in college. It was also the year after Dad left Mom for another woman. He didn’t end up going through with it, but it was a devastating event regardless, and it made me realize my parents were human and flawed just like everyone else. That awareness was the end of my childhood innocence. I would only visit PLI one more time with my family after all that, and as we left, I figured it was probably the last time we’d/I’d ever be there.

All this to say, my focus on the end of life in this poem is quite layered.

All this to say, my focus on the end of life in this poem is quite layered. My parents were only in their late 40’s at the time I wrote this, so I’m not sure if I was imagining their future deaths, or mine, or just a vague sense of something important dying. This “deep green tea cup of my childhood” holds a lot for me. And as it turns out, my mother died very young from cancer when she was only 66 in 2010, and my father brought his portion of her ashes here a few years ago. I’ve thought about this magical place so many times since those long ago days. I will always cherish what we shared there– the love, the beauty, and the innocence.

But enough sad stuff!!! This is meant to be a happy post!!!

This summer, just the other day in fact, I had the incredible opportunity to finally go back to PLI. In fact, I was there two days ago! 🤯🤩 Here’s how it happened…

My husband and I spend the summer months road-tripping with our Airstream, “Joy,” and this year our route includes Canada’s beautiful British Columbia. I am actually writing this from Powell River, which is on the northern end of the Sunshine Coast, a place I never realized had roads, because I’d only ever experienced this part of the world from the water. It turns out one can take a ferry and there are roads and towns! In fact this is where Highway 101 begins before it travels south through ten countries to the tip of South America. Who knew the 101 included ferry routes!? It’s been a beautiful and eye-opening experience to return here.

However, the area where the towns and roads are is still far south (34 nautical miles) of PLI, where there is really nothing for miles and miles and miles, other than a Young Life camp called Malibu at the mouth of the inlet. But my lovely husband, knowing how much this part of the world meant (and means) to me, did some research and discovered not only that we could come to the B.C. area and camp with Joy, but we could also take a day-trip tour boat to PLI up and back! It took us ~2 hours each way in a boat traveling about 17 knots to get to PLI from Egmont (located in the middle of the map above). The only way it could have been better is if Joy could float and take us to PLI herself. But she brought us this far and for that I’m so grateful. (This video taken from the little 12-person tour vessel is only 7 seconds, but I caught a fish jumping on camera!)

Until next time. Someday perhaps I’ll bring my sons here. 🤞🏻 You never know. I’m learning to never say never! If you want to see more about our travels in Joy, follow us at @OurAirstreamJoy on Instagram.

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Here we are in ~1979… my sister as Betsy Ross (I think?) and me as Lady Liberty on our grandfather’s pontoon boat on a tiny lake in northern Wisconsin with our parents, grandparents, cousins (like Superman here) and aunts and uncles. You can get a lot of people onto a pontoon boat!

Every 4th of July, the people with cottages on this tiny little lake decorated their boats and paraded around the lake tooting horns and blowing whistles at their friends and family onshore. (Maybe they still do… 🥰) Then everyone went home to enjoy a 4th of July meal of cheeseburgers, deviled eggs, baked beans, fruit salads, and perhaps strawberry shortcake for dessert, or cupcakes decorated in red, white and blue frosting. I don’t remember any fireworks, but I do remember sparklers and explosive bursts of laughter echoing across the water. I also remember being very proud of my country.

While there are certainly many people today who believe all is well and these are idyllic, “great” times, many others, like me, feel disillusioned and disoriented by what is happening in our country these days. I’m constantly on guard, bracing for more bad news… as I read my emails and feeds, engage in conversations, and observe people around me, I find myself wondering and worrying about what may happen next. How bad is it going to get? How bad does it need to get? Is it too late to turn things around?

I look at this picture of myself posing as the Statue of Liberty and I feel sad because I believe our government is taking a giant 💩 on liberty and justice. Take the immigration issue– just one of many upsetting things going on.

We no longer welcome “the tired, poor, huddled masses” anymore and instead label them all as “criminals,” despite the fact that there is no solid data that shows this to be true. There is, however, research that shows immigrants commit crimes at lower rates than native-born Americans. A Cato Institute report found that both legal and undocumented immigrants have lower incarceration rates than U.S.-born citizens. There has always been a stereotype about immigrants (e.g. from Ireland, Italy, Eastern Europe, Japan, Latin America, etc.) that they were/are “criminals” or “undesirables.” But this was/is mostly prejudice, not fact. Yet given recent developments in US immigration policy and ICE activity, it feels hypocritical to have Lady Liberty representing us when our government (and so/too many Americans) are metaphorically spitting on her.

I get it that people disagree. It’s okay to argue about how to solve problems. But while we definitely need to improve our immigration processes, there are better ways to go about it than treating people as animals, separating families, and traumatizing children. I’m upset about how polarized we are as a nation about something so central to who we are, or used to be. How will we bridge this divide? What does liberty mean to you? Do you believe we are truly being “invaded” by murderous villains from other countries? Can you show me the data on that? Frankly, I’m more concerned about certain people in political offices making egregious decisions that affect not only Americans, but also the entire world.

As I write this I’m on a road trip in our Airstream with my husband. We’re driving north to escape the summer heat of the desert where we live. Each year we go somewhere new, and the physical beauty of so much of America is beyond words. This year we’re visiting places like Yosemite, Glacier National Park, the Olympic Peninsula, the Colombia Gorge, Bend, and Napa. In previous years we’ve been to the Midwest, the Badlands, and the Rockies. We’ve driven along the same route as the Pony Express and eaten in the Denny’s voted “Best Denny’s” five years in a row (in Salina, Utah). We’ve seen Sedona, the Great Lakes, and tiny little towns tucked into back hills you’d never even know were there. We are so lucky to live in this country and to be able to travel all over it as we do, and have these incredible places that were preserved by smart people in the past.

We drove out of Yosemite the other day via the Tioga pass. It’s one of if not the most beautiful preserved areas in the country. I said, “I hope land like this can always stay this way. Natural. Not mined or sold to developers or some other travesty in the name of making money.” But these days who knows? Things that used to be off limits are no longer off limits.

So while the beauty of this incredible and diverse country never ceases to amaze me, the ugliness of current events jars me and brings me to tears. I’m experiencing a sort of cognitive dissonance in general, but especially when it comes to how I feel this 4th of July celebrating our so-called United States. How united are we? And around what higher purpose? Will this continue to be a country where I can write an essay like this without fear of retribution, as has happened already to various writers? Are we in for another version of McCarthyism? Or worse?

I’m curious– what does your personal version of liberty mean today? How are you feeling this 4th of July? I’d love to hear your thoughts about that in the comments. In the meantime, please be safe out there. If you disagree with me, I want to hear from you too, but I ask everyone to be respectful. Vitriol is unwelcome. God Bless America the Beautiful.

I’ll leave you with the famous sonnet by Emma Lazaras (1849 – 1887) that is inscribed on a plaque on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty monument. If you don’t know what the “old Colossus” was, you can learn about that here.

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

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This Monday I lost my voice. Literally. I could semi-whisper, but Dr. Google told me not to do that because it stresses the vocal cords even more than regular speaking. As an extroverted person who tends to talk a lot (too much), this sucks (might be good for me). Dr. Google also told me this could last up to two or even three weeks, so this also makes me feel a bit panicky. How will I survive not talking?

But then I remembered a week-long retreat I did a few years ago where everyone had to be silent for the first two or three days. It was surprisingly pleasant. We all just existed together as we ate, meditated, and moved around through the days. It felt purifying and my mind quieted. I decided losing my voice could be an opportunity to revisit how I felt at that retreat. I reminded myself to be grateful that this is temporary, which may not be the case for some. At the very least it’s a chance to (finally) listen more than talk. I thought, “This will be good for me!”

But then reality set in. It’s one thing to be part of a group where no one is talking, versus being the only person who can’t talk while everyone else is talking. I spent Tuesday with a large group of women. They were all talking and it was fun, and instead of staying silent, I ended up whispering. Of course my voice disappeared even more, like Dr. Google said it would, and a migraine that felt like a 100-pound weight descended upon my forehead later that day. A COVID test came up negative, and my human doctor told me it was most likely laryngitis and a viral sinus infection and to gargle with salt water and drink mint tea with Manuka honey (which has helped).

But it’s been hard to shake the sense that the universe seems to be telling me to shut up and settle down. I was already worrying about the future of democracy and free speech; losing my voice feels like a bad omen about things much bigger than just me.

“Vox clamantis in deserto” is the motto of my undergraduate college, Dartmouth. This Latin phrase directly translates to “voices crying out in the wilderness.” It’s a biblical quote the college borrowed due to its origins in training missionaries in the wilderness of New Hampshire. Merriam-Webster and Google’s AI offer these modern translations:

• a wise person whose counsel or warnings are ignored

• Preaching to the choir: When people hear but don't truly listen

• The Other: The lonely voice of the non-choir

• Self-perception: Saying what you have to say, but not knowing if anyone is listening

“Vox clamantis in deserto” feels lonely but is also tinged with empowerment and doing the right thing. Yet it’s easy to fall into despair if we feel unheard, ignored, or silenced. To wander alone in the wilderness feels chaotic and dangerous. I know many people who feel this way these days.

Three things buoyed my mood despite being (and feeling) muted. These things may be relatively minor in the big scheme of world events happening right now… but I’m clinging to any good news that happens to come along these days like a life raft in a stormy sea.

The first thing: I found a free app that translates text to speech. It’s called “Text to Speech” (refreshingly to the point) and it’s brilliant. Now I don’t feel quite so helpless. I can ask directions if I get lost. I can ask the doctor a question. I can thank the FedEx guy. I can tell my husband what to get at the store and where to find it. Yes, her voice is a bit “Bot-y” but I’ll take it, and I was able to choose a lovely Aussie female accent. To avoid awkward and annoying conversational pauses, I have to be judicious and efficient with what I say (type). This app experience feels ripe with life lessons. Then again it may just be best for running errands and asking directions.

The second thing: One of my poems was accepted to a literary journal! This is a first for me and I am so excited! I can’t share it on Briefly until they publish it in the 3Elements winter issue, February 1, 2025. Stay tuned. Each quarter they give a prompt of three words that must be used in poetry, fiction, non-fiction, art, or photography. Teaser: the words for the winter issue are: “linoleum, butcher, and nest.” It was really fun to write a poem using these words, and it feels really good to have something I wrote be chosen. It may be a small thing, and I may just have a small voice, but hey, I put it out there and someone said “yes.” Woohoo!

The third wonderful thing: It also happened to be my birthday this week. Yes, it stinks to be sick on one’s birthday. But I feel fortunate to have the life that I have and despite this voice and sinus situation, I am healthy (knock wood). Also, my three sons sent me beautiful flowers that made my day. I also received some other gifts from family and a flurry of texts and cards from others wishing me another great year ahead. I feel loved. That is the best gift of all.

Also I learned something. The woman who dropped the flowers off explained to me that when cut hydrangeas begin to droop they’re not dying. They just need water. And they absorb water through the bloom (the flower head) not the stem. Maybe you all knew this, but I never knew this having lived half my life in Portland, Oregon where the air is moist and my hydrangeas never drooped. Now I live in the desert where the air is very dry and I’ve struggled with hydrangeas drooping. All one needs to do is dunk the blooms in a bowl of fresh water then put them back in the vase. Voilà! Sometimes solutions to problems are easier than we think.

I used to lament that I hadn’t ever published the things I write. For years my writing has been trapped in various folders and files, both physical and digital. I started Briefly because it’s a place to share my voice through poems, essays, and short stories. I began in July with about 40 readers - all friends and family. Today it’s up to about 65 and includes people I don’t know personally, due to referrals and people finding me here organically. That’s a lot of “yeses.” I am very grateful to you all. I hope that you enjoy what I send you and that it adds value to your days. If you don’t have time to read the emails I send, know that you can visit Briefly online or via the Substack app anytime. Thank you for spending your time not only with Briefly, but also with any vox clamantis in deserto that you come across with open hearts and brave souls.

Remember, all voices matter, and there’s more than one way to express yourself. Let’s all try to be kind, listen well, be mindful of what we say and how we say it, be curious, and stay hydrated!

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It’s been a strange summer of mixed emotions.

We live in the Sonoran desert where the temperatures range between 110-120 degrees Fahrenheit June through September, so my husband and I become digital nomads and escape the heat in our Airstream “Joy.” We chose the name because joy can be like a North Star to navigate life’s ups and downs. But that’s sometimes easier said than done. While we’ve been tootling around the western half of the United States in Joy, some of my loved ones have been having a very different sort of summer, full of tough decisions, heartache, and soul searching.

“We chose the name because joy can be like a North Star to navigate life’s ups and downs. But that’s sometimes easier said than done.”

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It’s been an epic trip from the desert over to the Pacific coast to Lake Tahoe, across the Rocky Mountains, over to Door County, WI, and back west through the Black Hills and Jackson Hole, down to Arches and Bryce Canyon. Yet for much of it I’ve just wanted to be somewhere else making soup, running errands, and giving hugs.

The truth is that I haven’t been a very good traveling companion because for me, joy has been elusive. I’ve spent hours on the phone, and hours more thinking about it all. My husband’s been a good sport and patiently supported me, understanding each time I had to step away from what we were doing to take a call or respond to a text. Still, I feel awful. I feel torn.

I’ve felt guilty for having fun, and guilty for not having fun. I’ve felt hopeful and hopeless. Intellectually I understand how fortunate we are to be in all these incredible places, but emotionally I haven’t been as present as I’d liked to have been with any of it. And even as I write this I feel stupid and selfish. Oh poor me, right? I’m not the one going through the hard times, they are!

The reality is there isn’t much I could/can really do. These are their mountains to climb, not mine. Despite that fact, I’ve been trying to hold joy, hope, gratitude, and love in my heart alongside pain, fear, worry, and sorrow, and not always done a very good job of it. But sometimes the only way through it, is through it.

Then I heard the song “Hide and Seek” by Imogen Heap as we drove through the Teton National Forest on our way into Jackson Hole. Her poetic lyrics are dark and heavy, yet the style she uses - a cappella with only a synthesizer - is achingly beautiful and feels almost spiritual to me. Get comfortable, turn up the volume, close your eyes and listen.

The song’s dichotomous elements capture the emotional cocktail of how I’ve felt this summer and how I’ve felt at other times in my life when I was the one climbing the mountain. It feels somehow redemptive, despite the sad lyrics, because haven’t we all felt like this at some point in our life? Isn’t is part of our shared human experience? And isn’t it somehow helpful to consider that none of us is alone? We can support each other because we’ve been there.

As the song played, I noticed that the fall color has begun to show, and I got goosebumps at the sight of horses galloping in a pasture and a giant moose by the side of the road. I caught the sent of smoke from controlled burns wafting through the cool mountain air and it smelled like new beginnings. Sometimes things have to end, burn, and change in order to grow, shift, and thrive. Meanwhile, life goes on.

“Sometimes things have to end, burn, and change in order to grow, shift, and thrive. Meanwhile, life goes on.”

Things seem to be getting better now for these dear ones I hold so close to my heart, thank goodness. But there’s still a winding road ahead. It’s occurred to me that simply the ability to feel emotions, good or bad, can remind us we are alive. And to be alive is a gift. If joy is a North Star, perhaps gratitude and love are the life rafts that carry us forward on our journeys.

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Many years ago, I asked my husband to get a vasectomy. The second pregnancy had been twins, so with three boys under three years of age, we were overwhelmed. Both pregnancies had involved severe “morning” sickness (lasting most of the day the second time), sending me to the ER multiple times to be treated for dehydration. I couldn’t imagine going through that again. And my doctor had just told me I shouldn’t take birth control pills anymore because I was at risk of having blood clots and a seizure. I loved our boys with all my heart, but three was my limit.

Unfortunately, my husband refused to even discuss it, let alone consider it as an option.

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He was raised Catholic, and although he hadn’t attended mass in years, he still had a residue of guilt clinging to him like dog hair on wool. I’m not Catholic and didn’t grow up going to church on a regular basis. My husband explained that stopping the sperm on its “sacred and intended” journey is sinful. I am not sure what the Pope’s official stance on birth control is these days, but my husband’s interpretation of things back then was that my use of birth control would put my soul in jeopardy, but not his. And he could live with that. Deliberately doing something like that to his body and risking his soul’s eternal damnation was out of the question.

I can’t put all the blame on religion though. I also blame The Learning Channel. Before having children, we spent our Sundays doing things like leisurely reading the NY Times, taking hikes, house hunting, and watching TV. It was during this last activity that one day we tuned into a TLC medical show showing an actual reverse-vasectomy surgery. And we happened to tune in at the exact point when (ok, this is where any male readers might just prefer to skip to the next paragraph) the doctor smoothly split open the guy’s testicle with a scalpel and then proceeded to tug and cut and stitch the innards of the testicle. I was fascinated. I always wondered if I should have been a surgeon. But my husband couldn’t speak for the rest of the day and called in sick on Monday.

That happened before we had kids. After having kids, when it became clear we were at our limit and I brought up the subject of him getting a vasectomy, I suspected it was seeing that surgery that was the real reason behind my husband’s refusal— not his Catholicism. The religion card just came in handy.

We polarized on the subject. I didn’t want to have my tubes tied. I felt that after two pregnancies, extreme nausea, three babies, bad sciatica, nursing difficulties, and hemorrhoids, not to mention that birth control had already been my responsibility for ten years, it was his turn now. Needless to say, we didn’t have sex for a very long time while we both dug our heels in.

The catalyst that changed his mind came one morning at 3am, as we were both deliriously feeding two babies at the same time for the third time in one night, and he snapped.

He was trying unsuccessfully to burp one of the twins. The baby was crying that newborn cry that sounds like a very loud, bleating goat. “Meh meh meeh meh, meeh.” He said something like, “Why did God make babies’ crying sound so irritating… it makes the parent want to run away.” And then he said, “Well if this is what having a penis and balls results in, would somebody please just cut mine off!!”

Yes. He really said that. As tired as I was, I did a mini “yahoo!” inside my mind. A vasectomy was back on the table for discussion!

As he opened up about why he was so afraid of getting snipped, it struck me that he was fairly oblivious about how his male plumbing actually worked and what a vasectomy actually entailed. He tried searching the Internet for information about vasectomies. But in the late 90’s, the Internet was not what it is now. The subject of vasectomies appeared to be a vast, unknown enigma. Even the library was bereft of books on the subject. Besides the trauma of what he had seen on The Learning Channel, he had five main reasons he struggled with the idea of doing it:

Reason #1: It would “permanently alter his body”.

Hello? He clearly had not looked very closely at my post-childbirth body. Things were not what they once had been. Nor did he fully appreciated what carrying and pushing out three watermelons (cliché but true) had done down there. My body was, and is, “permanently altered,” thank you very much. He retorted that that was what my body was designed to do. I said, “Nice try. It’s your turn now.”

Reason #2: Fear of the unknown.

He believed getting a vasectomy was basically akin to castration. It’s not. But when he tried to talk to his male friends, none of them had done it and they were either clueless or shared stories they’d heard about men who’d had vasectomies and felt pain “down there” for the rest of their lives, or at least felt pain during sex. They wondered if after a vasectomy they’d ever be able to have an erection again.

Reason #3: Where does it all go?

He learned that after a vasectomy, the body is still producing sperm, they’re just stopped en route. Metaphorically speaking, it’s like they’re little airline passengers who get to the gate, only to find the door firmly shut and the airplane gone. Where did the sperm go? He wanted to know. The urologist explained, “It gets reabsorbed.” “Reabsorbed where?” my husband implored. The doctor replied, “We don’t really know.” My husband had always been suspicious of so-called “experts,” and that answer confirmed his suspicions. He imagined one day popping a giant zit only to have gallons of unused sperm pour out.

Reason #3: Fear of going to hell. 

See above.

Reason #5: Crazy stories that freaked him out.

After talking to more friends, we heard a story about one urologist who tried to perform a vasectomy on himself so his wife wouldn’t know about it. He had to call his nurse in to help him halfway through. (A friend of that guy’s nurse told this story to us. I kid you not.) We heard another story – firsthand - about another urologist (known for wearing cowboy boots during surgery) who fell asleep standing up midway through the operation. Our friend was the patient and had to wake him up. Another friend from Texas told us the best urologist in Austin was named Dr. Richard (aka Dick) Chopp. I’m not making this stuff up, I swear. (For the record, Dr. Chopp is NOT the doctor who fell asleep standing up, nor is he the guy we heard about who tried to snip himself.) But it was all bizarre enough that my husband was understandably totally freaked out. I admit, at this point I was a little freaked out too.

Regardless, the thought of having more children freaked both of us out even more, so he eventually went through with it. It was no big deal; no lasting pain or problems whatsoever. After all that, you were probably expecting some big dramatic ending. But it was easy peasy. Literally. He sat on frozen peas, as men do who’ve just had their balls operated on, and he was just fine.

When the subject came up a few years later with our friends “Laurel” and “Todd,” who had just had their second baby, it was a similar situation. Laurel was complaining about how Todd had conveniently missed another doctor consult to schedule his vasectomy, and I was empathizing. Surprisingly, my husband encouraged Todd to go for it. They promised to keep us up to date on their deliberations.

We saw them a couple months later, just one week after Todd’s procedure, and he seemed great. I’d bought steaks and made a salad. Laurel brought a blueberry pie she’d made. We shared stories of summer and we were having a great time. Then it got around to Todd sharing his personal vasectomy story over dessert.  It went like this…

Laurel dropped him off outside the doctor’s office, and planned to return when he was done. (Which she whispered to me on the side was conveniently exactly the amount of time she needed for her weekly shopping trip to Trader Jo’s!)  As Todd was filling out the various medical forms, the registration nurse double-checked to make sure he hadn’t taken any aspirin or ibuprofen for the week leading up to that morning. He broke into a cold sweat. No one had told him he couldn’t have those medications! He’d taken Advil the day before! It was too late to escape, because Laurel had already left. “Oh well”, the nurse sighed, “You’ll probably be fine.”

And sure enough, he was fine. He got to spend a couple days on the couch watching football all day sitting on bags of frozen…no, not peas. Blueberries.

I was putting the last bite of blueberry pie in my mouth as he delivered this tidbit of information. We were eating pie filled with the very berries that had soothed our friend’s nether-regions. A veritable blue ball pie. Todd seemed to get a real kick out of this. Laurel turned bright red. My husband snorted pie out of his nose. I paused…spoon half in, half out of my mouth. I shrugged and finished my pie. It was all good.

In 1999, my twins had just turned one year old, and my oldest was three. That was the summer we met The Manager. He doesn’t really exist. But conveniently, he is there if you need him. Let me explain.

We were vacationing with my husband’s family in a rental house perched on stilts above a beach on Lake Michigan. The deck offered great views, but the railing wasn’t safe for toddlers. However down a treacherous, splintery staircase, there was a nice sand and pebble beach. As a young mother, not yet comfortable with where to let go and when to relax, I was pretty much freaked out the entire time. I’m a professional catastrophizer; taught by the best - my mother. It’s hard to enjoy a beach when you have one child who can’t swim but wants to, and two other children who seem to think sand and pebbles are finger foods.

We had family there with us, but either they weren’t offering to watch, or I was too high strung to leave our brood in the hands of anyone else. It was a conundrum -- I needed desperately to escape, yet I scared and guilted myself into trying to do everything myself. On this vacation I was coming to the conclusion that a vacation with three young children is not really a vacation. It’s just a change of scenery and not necessarily relaxing. My main goal shifted from hoping to relax in general to just escaping for one hour to take a walk down the beach with my husband.

One day we were all out to lunch. There were 12 of us. (Also not relaxing.) Our young immediate family made up five, then there was my father-in-law, three sisters, a brother-in-law, and two cousins, also toddlers. I should mention that back then there was a chemical reaction when our three-year-old and his four-year-old cousin ever got together which caused them to abandon their normally lovely individual demeanors and morph into the spawn of hell. They’d been yelling and kicking and devilishly laughing at any adult attempts of control and were beginning to launch spoons spear-like at each other’s water glasses, when a big burly waiter approached our table. He had a beard and wore work boots, jeans, and a plaid shirt. He looked a lot like the giant lumberjack folk hero, Paul Bunyan.

In a stern, booming, yet kind voice he said, “Boys, you need to settle down over here.”

He emitted total power and strength. The little boys’ eyes widened to the size of their plates and their mouths dropped open in awe.

My father-in-law echoed, “Okay boys, we don’t want to have to ask the manager here to take you back to wash dishes now do we?”

The little boys put down their cutlery and just sat there silently as they ate their grilled cheese sandwiches. It was almost spooky. But then we had a nice lunch. I would have chalked it up to just that - a nice lunch - and moved on. But later that day the real magic happened.

When we got home, the twins went down peacefully for their afternoon nap. Then I tried desperately to get our three-year-old to sleep too because I really wanted that walk on the beach! After about 20 minutes of him fidgeting and giggling, I could see the window of opportunity beginning to close. I finally sat up exasperated and said, “Honey, you HAVE GOT TO TAKE A NAP!”

What happened next was nothing short of a miracle. My sweet little boy stopped fidgeting and looked up at me with big eyes and said, “Mommy, if I don’t take a nap will The Manager come?” He looked worried as he waited for my reply.

It was as if the clouds parted and angels sang. I decided to lie to him. My rationale was that if other parenting lies such as Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were acceptable because kids get something out of it, then this lie was acceptable too, because parental peace of mind and relaxation is indirectly good for kids.  

I held his hand and said with a concerned, loving look, “Yes, sweetie. If you don’t take a nap I may have to call The Manager. Now just lay down and snuggle up and you can get up in an hour.”

And just like that, he took a nap. We got our walk in, and the sand between my toes was like heaven. I finally got to relax.

For years, The Manager helped me reign in any difficult behavior with our sons. I have friends who have tried less malleable versions of the same idea, such as “the pilot”, “the policeman,” and “the teacher.” But The Manager is better. He is a vaguer, and more all-encompassing authority figure I could summon in any place, at any time.

If my children refused to leave the park, I’d simply grab my cell phone, pretend to start dialing, and say, “Okay, Im calling The Manager to see what he says.” And then, Boom! Like ducklings they’d fall in line. On a plane, in the car, in the grocery store, at the park, even in bed at night...I’d just pick up the phone, raise an eyebrow, and start dialing. “Nooooooo!” they scream in unison, “we’ll be good, we promise!” It was often short lived, but gave me enough to get home, do the shopping, get through a social situation, buy the stamps, whatever.

The only down side is that I sometimes wonder if we instilled a future issue with authority figures. The boys are in their twenties now. One is a graphic designer, one is in a band, and the other works in a nightclub as a manager.