And yet, she persisted

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE MAY 22, 2019 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

The nest is gone. It never was, really a nest. The nook or cranny, if you will, that mama robin chose was less than ideal. The slant of the roof was just a little too steep, the porch door just a little too close for both mama robin’s liking and ours.

But that little bird persisted. Day after day new pieces of plastic and landscaping material congregated on the little eave. Daily she made great progress, and daily her day’s work was tossed down onto our deck by the wind, occasionally by hand, mostly by gravity. Bits of paper and grass and other natural and unnatural bits floated into the deck corners, very accessible for the next day’s redo. But mama robin always brought new material, similar to be sure, but not yesterday’s discard. 

My husband and I were impressed by this persistence and work ethic and mistakenly attributed it to a male bird. I had no idea that female robins build their own nests. I assumed the male robin was either on assignment from his impregnated partner, or he was trying to attract a partner to impregnate. The more this bird “persisted,” the more foolish it became to us. We started talking to him, calling him bro. Bro, you gotta move on, man. Bro, you are trying to defy physics with your location choice. Turns out he wasn’t a bro at all. 

The female robin chooses the nest site. She also builds the nest from the inside out, pressing dead grass and twigs into a cup shape using the wrist of one wing. Other materials include paper, feathers, rootlets, or moss in addition to grass and twigs. Once the cup is formed, she reinforces the nest using soft mud gathered from worm castings to make a heavy, sturdy nest. She then lines the nest with fine dry grass. The finished nest is 6-8 inches across and 3-6 inches high.

This nest never got that far, at least not where it was originally intended anyway. 

This was the first time I’d seen a nest attempt in that spot in the 2 years I’ve lived here. I wondered why this spot now; it must be a new robin moving into the neighborhood. But I found out, it could be a veteran just looking for a new spot. Robins go through the nest-building process each time they produce a new brood, so about two or three times a season. While robins might repair or build on top of a previous nest, most of them build a new nest for each “family” they raise. This is best for many reasons. A used nest is a mess, stretched out, and often home to mites, lice, flies and possibly poop.

Each brood may consist of three to five eggs, sky-blue or green blue in color and unmarked—distinct enough that most children of young ages can distinguish a robin’s egg from any other. The eggs are incubated for 12-14 days and fledglings are born helpless and naked (as we all are at birth) with just a spare whitish down. 

I’m a little sad I didn’t get the front row view to this rite of spring. But I expect there may be another attempt some day. After all, this is only the first brood this season. 

When the chicks hatch, both the parents get busy feeding them. When the chicks fledge (leave the nest), both parents continue to follow them and feed them for a few days. But then the female gets busy building a new nest and laying new eggs. While she incubates the new brood, the male continues taking care of the older babies. He leads them to a stand of trees in the evening where they will roost with other robins. By the time the new eggs hatch, the older babies are ready to be on their own, and the male is able to help feed the new babies. Bro, you’re totally doing it right.

I still hear the male robins singing early in the dawn hours. I like to think it’s the robin couple nearby safely waiting for their brood to hatch in a very stable nest. 

To love is love and to hate is hate

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE JANUARY 16, 2019 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

Every light casts a shadow. In the shade of celebration and praise for the homecoming of Jayme Closs lies comments filled with vitriol and damnation for the man who abducted her and cold-bloodedly killed her parents. 

Social media posts like, “Hope he gets shanked so my tax money doesn’t have to support him.” “Wisconsin NEEDS the death penalty.” As with most sinister criminals, Jake Patterson will be hanged by the community long before his true sentence is delivered and carried out. His one life isn’t close to enough for the two he took. The public wants vengeance and to inflict all the pent up pain and grief onto the person who caused it all. To many, that’s justice.  

And as smug and unremorseful as Patterson eerily seemed on that screen during his initial appearance, there is another image I can’t get out of my mind. A video of Patterson’s brother and father leaving the courthouse. Described as “inconsolable” at one point during the proceedings, Patrick Patterson and Erik Patterson had their heads bowed low and shoulders hunched to avoid the cameras. More than that, they looked like they were carrying the remorse, pain and regret that didn’t show up anywhere on Jake’s face. When asked if he knew, Jake’s father just slowly shook his head from side to side and simply said “no.”

We say that we’re to love everyone, show grace to the most insufferable of us all. How many of us sit in church and reiterate those lessons every weekend? Yet, we are tested more today in those lessons than maybe ever before. If you subscribe to it, we are supposed to love Jake Patterson. Not what he did, not the evil that lives and breathes through him, but him—the floppy mopped 14-year-old pictured in a freshman photo. The quiet kid who had a difficult time relating to others. Somewhere, as a unit, we failed to love another among us. And he failed to receive it. 

Please don’t get me wrong. Jake Patterson is absolutely responsible for his actions of the night of Oct. 15 and in the 88 days since. I am confident that our justice system will see to it that justice is served. 

What we are responsible for is each other, each and every person we touch in this lifetime. Each and every word we post and say. If you knew healthy love growing up, maybe becoming a mentor and spending time with kids who live in the margins now could save two lives a decade from now—possibly save a 13-year-old girl from horrific trauma and forced orphanhood. I don’t know. 

I just know that the silos we construct to house the people who deserve love and prayer and the ones that house the wrongdoers, the evil and unjust, will continue to churn out more of the same if we don’t start delivering goodness to everyone. 

Do you think anyone is bringing a casserole to the Pattersons during this time? Offering them gas cards to visit their loved one in jail? I’m guessing not. They are guilty by blood. 

The anger is so great, we want to exact pain onto anyone whom we think is deserving of it. I feel angry and sad too. This story has imbedded itself in my heart as a journalist, a member of this community and especially as a mom. We all want to know WHY?

That anger becomes fiery hate if not dealt with. It’s apparent in the cycles of abuse and addiction that plague this county. It’s the same hate that drives violent murder and kidnapping. But what if, instead of adding to the hateful, angry mob, we churned out creative solutions with the anger that fuels us? What if we helped create more miracles?

While that very strong 13-year-old girl has a long road of recovery and reentry ahead, let’s remember another family involved in this. I think the Pattersons could use a massive amount of prayer transferred their way now. Pain is pain. We shouldn’t judge if they deserve it or not. 

And if there’s one thing this community does extremely well, it’s pray and hope for a better tomorrow for everyone.

Being a light is one answer we do have

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE OCTOBER 24, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

As I triple-checked the locks on our home’s front and back doors the other night, I was thinking about another door, another home not too far from any of us, where safety and peace was violently disrupted last week Monday. I thought of a 13-year-old girl missing, and prayed for the thousandth time that she would be found, safe and alive, knowing that even so, she would be traumatically altered.

I ascended the stairs, looked in again on my own sleeping 11- and 9-year-olds, safe and snug, and thanked God for their health and safety, imploring Him to keep them that way always.

That afternoon, in the car on the way home, my kids and I had talked a little about Jayme Closs, the missing girl. My daughters’ social network involves children of those county employees and law enforcement who are pouring in overtime hours to help find answers. One child told a friend of my girls, “I haven’t seen my dad much this week.”

The horror of this most recent tragedy is processed differently for kids at every age. But across the board, how adults express their emotions will influence the reactions of children and youth. That’s according to National Association of School Psychologists informational pamphlets which were handed out at a vigil for Jayme Closs on Monday. The information included tips for talking to children about violence, tips for caregivers to make sure they are caring for themselves during crisis and tips for managing strong emotional reactions to traumatic events.

If you’ve been on social media at all in the last week, you can see several examples of people who may benefit from the latter of that information. Posts and responses dripping with anger over the lack of information or speculations in the Closs case have erupted everywhere. There are many unanswered questions. Everyone is feeling some pretty intense emotions, including grief—grief for the Closs family, but also our own losses of a sense of peace and safety in our community, loss of privacy with the onslaught of national news media descending on Barron County, and just an overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

Anger is a natural extension of other emotions like fear and grief because it is a defense mechanism that makes us feel more in control. This is what the shadow side of a trauma such as this looks like.

On the other side, however, there is the light of this community—thousands of people taking their vacation time from work to help the search for answers, people spending their time and money to make sure up to 200 law enforcement individuals are fed and watered every day for as long at it takes, caretakers putting in extra time to watch kiddos, neighbors checking on neighbors to make sure they’re okay. This community rises up each and every time tragedy strikes, without complaint or hesitation and I’m knocked speechless by the generosity every time.

I should be used to it; from plane crashes, tornadoes and murder-suicides, our little pocket here in Northwestern Wisconsin is no stranger to tragedy lately. But Barron has been launched into the international spotlight twice in the last 2 weeks—in elation for hometown singing star Chris Kroeze and now missing Jayme Closs. The sun rises and sets on all of us.  It’s the stories of what human beings can do for each other in good that will always transcend the tragedies that set them in motion.

Let’s choose to recognize our grief and anger and channel it to doing better for each other every day. We’re full of hope and help. Our job is to make this journey a little easier for each other, not just in tragic times, but all of the time.

For more information on coping with trauma, visit www.nasponline.org. For up-to-date information on ways to help the search for Jayme Closs, follow the Barron County Sheriff’s department on Facebook.

To thee I wed, wiser and whole

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE SEPTEMBER 19, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

In 16 days I’m going to do it again. What’s that, you ask? I’m going to run another marathon? Nope, not this time, maybe next year.  Am I going back to school? Nope. Am I aiming to climb a mountain, jump off a cliff in Mexico? Nope and nope, though I am taking a plunge, and not just any plunge, THE plunge—very willfully. I am once again getting married. And this time around is very different from 12 years ago.

It is different mostly in that I have a much clearer perspective going in, armed not just with eager anticipation for the years to come, but a healed heart and much stronger soul, full of integrity for myself that will not be compromised again. Also, I’m not pregnant this time around. I believe that if you’re not a wiser, truer version of yourself entering into your second marriage, then you divorced wrong.

But if I could go back, I would tell that 24-year-old girl that kindness is the sexiest thing on the planet. That talking about ideas is far richer and empowering than talking about other people. Saying how you feel and having it be acknowledged is healthy. That being the punch line of a joke is equal to receiving a punch in the face. That things and toys are so very temporary with no long-term value. That what other people think of you is their problem. What you think of you, however, is your problem. That choosing to care for yourself first is the only way to be a healthy mom, wife, volunteer, coach and employee. That respect is the baseline of a healthy marriage, and it is never too late to ask for or give it, no matter what has occurred.

Those are just a few to scratch the surface. But I don’t wish away that girl or the years between. I wouldn’t be who I am now without her and every success and epic failure along the way.  Due to the way I chose to exit my first marriage, I’ve harbored the weight of shame for the last 4 1/2 years, though it has significantly dissipated over that time. Now, shame no longer defines me or my choices. I’ve worked harder at finding my truth in the last few years than any other pursuit I’ve endeavored. And I’m well aware that the journey does not cease, ever. I’m just glad to have a kind and beautiful soul to hold my hand along the way, while we each continue to grow individually and together.

One of the best things is that no matter how busy our schedule is, we  recognize the value of checking in with each other. How are WE doing? What do we need from the other person, emotionally? We talk a lot about feelings and not just the sweet and flowery ones, though there are a lot of those. We talk about fear and shame and pain. We cry together when we should. Our bodies were made to express emotion that way. We laugh. Because our screw- ups have been both gigantic and very small. Acknowledging truth can be the funniest time or most heart-wrenching moment, often both.

So the vows will be a little different this time around. I will promise to be honest and kind always, to myself and to him. I promise to be a parent to my girls who doesn’t depend on their love for me; who is warm and firm and encourages their autonomy and growth within the rules and structure of our family.

When my girls met me outside after receiving my college diploma, their eyes said, Mom, you are smart. When I looked into my dying father’s beautiful blue eyes, they said, “I am so proud of you.” When I see my reflection in white (yes, white), this time I will say, “you are strong.” And after a short walk down a grassy aisle on Oct. 6, when I look into another set of blue eyes (it’s a thing, I guess.), I know they will say, “You are loved.” I understand the truth of that deeper than yesterday. I’ll recognize it because I saw the same message in the mirror a few minutes before—you are loved, and I believe her.

Plot twist: climate change is real

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE AUGUST 8, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

Looking at pictures from the largest California wildfire in its history this week feels like looking into another world. As cataclysmic disaster after another destroys thousands of acres in California, I can’t help but think that these disasters feel more and more pronounced and significant.

I’ve recently gotten into a new genre of fiction called climate fiction or cli-fi for short. It’s a term being used to describe books in which an altered climate is part of the plot—a significant part of the plot. Some say though that the primary theme of books that are being recognized under the rubric of “climate fiction” are essentially dystopian visions of a world decimated by climate change.

Dystopian fiction is nothing new. It is essentially a work describing an imaginary place where life is extremely bad because of deprivation or oppression or terror. In climate fiction, climate change complete with cataclysmic natural disasters is that horror.

The science fiction novelist Kim Stanley Robinson focused on the climate change theme in his “Science in the Capital” trilogy, which is set in the near future and includes “Forty Signs of Rain” (2004), “Fifty Degrees Below” (2005), and “Sixty Days and Counting” (2007). Robert K. J. Killheffer in his review for Fantasy & Science Fiction said “‘Forty Signs of Rain’ is a fascinating depiction of the workings of science and politics, and an urgent call for us to pull our heads from the sand and confront the threat of climate change.”

The novels “Not A Drop To Drink” (2013) and its sequel, “In A Handful Of Dust” (2014), by Mindy McGinnis feature a small group of survivors living in the aftermath of an extreme shortage of fresh water following a severe, prolonged drought on a national scale.

Ian McEwan’s “Solar” (2010) follows the story of a physicist who discovers a way to fight climate change after managing to derive power from artificial photosynthesis.

Barbara Kingsolver’s novel, “Flight Behavior” (2012), employs environmental themes and highlights the potential effects of global warming on the monarch butterfly.

“Devolution of a Species” by M.E. Ellington focuses on the Gaia hypothesis, and describes the Earth as a single living organism fighting back against humankind.

Natural disasters feel like that sometimes, like the Earth is fighting back, proving its age and strength and longevity, despite human occupation.

In January 2017, several scientific agencies around the world, including NASA and the NOAA in the United States and the Met Office in the United Kingdom, named 2016 the warmest year recorded. This marked the third consecutive year reaching a new record temperature, the first time since the current warming trend began in the 1970s that 3 years in a row were record highs. When 2017 was declared the third hottest year on record, that meant that 17 of the last 18 warmest years have occurred since 2000.

Climate fiction is intriguing and particularly terrible because now, when I emerge from a fictional world full of climate disasters, I am living in a world where these disasters are a reality. What’s important to pay attention to in these fictional plots, is how the remainder of society gathers and reorganizes to sustain humanity amid the destruction.

Unfortunately, I don’t see climate fiction or even the increase in devastating natural disasters as game changers in the climate change debate. It’d be great if we as a collective could band together to create a more sustainable world for future generations. Fearmongering just isn’t going to be the catalyst to do it. It’s when someone we know and love has lost access to water or their home or life to fire and flood, that the reality will cease being fictional.

May the sun shine upon you safely

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE JUNE 27, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

As of last Thursday, the days are officially getting shorter. I know, let’s not dwell on that too long. There’s plenty of summer left to live—water fights, grill outs, twilight evenings when the air is so soft it feels magical and time stands still. Also sunshine—loads and loads of UVA and UVB rays drenching our skin for hours on end, while we play, work and leisure.

As we celebrate summer and because too much sunshine in our lives is actually bad for us, I bring a cautionary tale, one with pain and fear, but a very happy sunshiney continuation.

Eighteen years ago in June I turned 18 years old in a hospital bed in Santa Monica, California. I was there alone except for the nursing staff and doctors on their daily rounds at John Wayne Cancer Center.

Just finishing the third day of my third round of intense biochemotherapy, I felt miserable. My hair was gone, the right side of my face slowly regaining feeling, control, not a picture of health. Health had evaded me for the previous 4 months. Surgery had invaded my face and neck.

But they brought me a birthday cake anyway, and sang a surprisingly in-key rendition of the birthday song. I felt loved, and thought, what if this is the last birthday song I receive?

The question was a valid one. As a recent high school graduate, I was battling Stage III melanoma, skin cancer, not the friendly one. I had had many numbers thrown my way since the diagnosis in February, but the one that stuck out the most was my odds for living. 50/50. A coin flip. So at 17 years old, I was contemplating the meaning(s) of life in a whole different way from my peers. I grew up suddenly in a few short months.

When I mention this part of my life, I often get asked if I sought the sun through tanning oils, tanning beds, a pool side chaise lounge. The answer isn’t definitively no. I wore sunscreen and I loved the sun. It was abundant in our Southern California backyard and beach trips.

I recall a particularly bad sunburn when I was about 9 years old. My brother and I had been Boogie boarding all day long, our newfound summer obsession. Later that evening, our skin came awake as the skin cells started dying. Second degree sunburn was, as I would come to find, almost as miserable as chemotherapy, almost.

Sunburns as children are a significant contribution to the likelihood that grown children will have melanoma later in life. After that day at the beach, our mandated swimming uniform consisted of a T-shirt over our swimsuit, no matter what. Mom and Dad’s  No. 1 rule.

Still cancer found me. Thankfully it hasn’t found my brother. I know my own strength better than I know his.

The difference I believe falls in the nuances of our lives. Sunscreened, we both played soccer year-round under the Southern Californian ozone hole. We eventually found that yes, melanoma does run in our family when dad found one on his forearm (the driver’s side) 15 years after my diagnosis.

But I had 16 years worth of exposed skin during those California years. It didn’t know winter. My skin, full of displastic nevi (new moles pop up everyday), was always more susceptible. So much so, that once, at 14, I had 40 moles removed off my back in one sitting as a precaution. Still cancer found me. It may again.

My last treatment occurred in July 2000. I wear sunscreen pretty religiously and have moles annually removed at almost every dermatology visit. I still love the sun. I also respect it.

So as days get shorter, let us remember that our days are short. Take care of your skin (and your kid’s) and your body, soak up the memories of this summer, and live. That’s my plan.

Movie magic on Mother’s Day

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE MAY 16, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

From a young age my family has fostered in me a love for the movies. I was lucky enough to attend many blockbusters with my family in the theater and learned to love and appreciate the art of the cinema almost as much as books. Almost.

Dad got into the LaserDisc era in the 1990s and he and my mom hosted a movie night once a month for their fellow film buffs. They would play the director’s cut of classics like “Gone With the Wind,”  “High Noon,” “Cinema Paradiso” and “Schindler’s List.” We kids weren’t allowed downstairs on those nights, but we’d sit in the stairwell and listen. It was usually beyond boring, some guy’s voice dubbed over the movie itself, explaining why certain cinematic decisions were made, etc. Yawn. There was usually wine involved for the adults.

Living and socializing in the height of the old Hollywood era, my grandpa rubbed elbows with a few stars and loves to tell and retell those stories. To this day, I love watching the Oscars ceremony and vet many movie picks from that standard. I now appreciate the subtleties those director cuts were trying to illustrate in good movies.

The cinema love has not waned over time, but it has been honed. Dropping $40 at the theater for a family of four means the movie better be worth its salted popcorn. And nowadays it is few and far between that a movie earns that. But it is still an experience I cherish, especially with my kids.

On Mother’s Day, a perfectly beautiful day in northwest Wisconsin, the girls announced that there was a new movie they wanted to see. I was conflicted. After 7 months of winter, one of the first really idyllic days this spring was ours for the taking—outside. And my kids wanted to sit indoors and watch a flick? After hearing the description of the movie, the sucker in me for inspirational sports stories won out.

To be fair, we spent the first part of the day playing outside and, heeding my own mother’s warning in my head, spent the hottest part of the day away from dangerous UVA rays. So we went and we three sat all alone in the theater. It felt special, but also like I missed a memo from Mother Nature herself, one that would come back to haunt me come October, but oh well. The buttered popcorn soothed my ruffled conscious.

A star athlete’s untimely death, community unites, comeback season, perfect soundtrack—the movie had all the ingredients for a good flick. Based on a true story, it delivered inspiration and I cried—through the entire thing. It’s a risk you take watching movies with me, hell, watching commercials with me.

Puffy eyed, I emerged from the theater a little better person than I was going in. That’s the making of a good movie for me. If watching it makes me change, forces me to look at things just a little differently, I’ll give it a thumbs up.

For this film, I mentally took notes on the coach’s character, comparing it to my own now in the midst of the spring soccer season. Do I inspire like she did? Can I, if it comes down to a return trip to state like the team in the film? I don’t know the answers to that yet. One day, one game at a time for now.

The movie was worth it. The girls were singing their praises for the sport of volleyball and dreaming about playing in high school. It was a grown-up version of the many times we have emerged from the theater singing the newest Disney theme song and reliving our favorite parts during the ride home—talking over each other in our excitement or asking for clarification for a part we missed after finishing the giant cola too early after showtime. We’d declare our favorite characters and change our minds at least twice on the way home, not wanting to lose the magic too quickly.

Like when I was kid, the movie brought me a little bit closer to those with me and with a story—the three of us alone in the theater on Mother’s Day.

Without understanding, all is lost

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE April 4, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

Imagine a wall of flame, sure death to pass through it. It stands between you and everything this life has to offer—joy, relationship, knowledge of oneself, spiritual awakening, your children’s laughter, your spouse’s touch.

You scan the room and all you see are flames. Heat and pressure build around you, forcing you to take action because the pain is just too real, too excruciating. The only way out is through, sudden death, but also sweet relief—relief from a body that feels so much, too much.

The thought settles in that your loved ones, who can see you through the flames, are also suffering. They can’t bear to see you burn to death slowly, dying while you are living. And you don’t know how to help them except to disappear into the flames.

You see, depression is despairingly lonely. People suffering from depression long for understanding, love and being in space with anyone else, but themselves.  You are emotionally absent, you do not feel selfish or selfless or yourself at all. It is a complete absence of feeling all together, dangerous apathy.

And feeling that way is exceptionally shameful. We, as a society perpetuate that shame. It’s a beautiful day, why can’t you see this? You have a beautiful life, why are you sad? Smile, it’s not so bad. The depressed person is a walking contradiction, and they know it.

I tried to kill myself 14 years ago as a 22-year-old woman. I have been told that I’m crazy, insane. I’ve been told in a moment of blazing anger that “You should’ve finished the job,” and “You were only seeking attention because you are a narcissist.” It has been exponentially exploited, by myself and others into other personality disorders, because full-blown crazy is easier to dismiss.

If I’m crazy, then in a heated custody battle, losing time with my children is warranted. If I’m crazy, I’m not a good mother or wife. These are the lies our culture has perpetuated, and have been the direct arsenal in my own life. And the punishment continues for many more like me, because the majority of society is too ignorant and scared to dive in and learn—to stand up for better understanding and resources, to be there for each other.

In a culture that’s looking for quick fixes, the narrow pharmaceutical-only address to depression and suicide has become dangerous. We are told to medicate and hide our sorrow from the rest of the sunny world—an exhausting, self-annihilating and dangerous practice. We hear that a part of who we are, depression, is unwanted, and we don’t know how to separate ourselves from it or talk about it. Medication is the medical communities’ answer equivalent to “well here, just pull yourself up by the bootstraps,” when it’s only a piece of the solution.

With help, medicinally and professionally and surrounding myself with loving, gentle people, I have learned to see depression for its positive potential, but I had to have some distance from that very dark place 14 years ago. It has become familiar, a part of my being created in God’s own image—not an abomination, but an asset. It anchors me to a place that allows me to see and love myself wholly, in spite of my flaws. Darkness is my friend.

The shame that I let attach to that part of me no longer exists, but it does for so many. Human beings are designed for relationship, a shared journey through life. Logic does not penetrate depression, understanding does, touch does. Don’t leave depressed people alone. Don’t try to talk them out of it, just sit silently in a room or on the phone and say I am here, and then be there. Touch is powerful. Hold a hand in silence. Place an arm around a shoulder. Know that the person you love is not trying to hurt you. They want to connect, but a disease is inhibiting them from doing it. Deep understanding illuminates the emergency exit in that flaming room. If you have someone meet you behind the wall, you can then take their hand and let them lead you to safety and love, one gentle step at a time.

The cost of going for gold

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE February 21, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

Olympic gold medal winner Chloe Kim’s father quit his job to help his daughter pursue a passion for snowboarding, and it paid off. After moving to Switzerland for 2 years to train in the Alps, the 17-year-old Californian and her parents will seemingly be set for life between endorsements and the serendipitous promotion that preceded and will no doubt follow the Korean-American from her Olympic debut in PyeongChang. And during an interview afterward, she above all thanked her dad.

As a mom and coach to young athletes and a former student-athlete myself, I understand the deep dedication that takes hold in a coach and parent when your child or player presents an athletic aptitude.

Recently, my 8-year-old medaled in all of her events in a conference swim meet, achieving a goal she set at the end of last season. After a 4-day overnight swim camp last summer, she came back invigorated, and not surprisingly she wants to attend it again.

This commitment comes on the heels of a vigorous swim season with meets almost every weekend (many more than 2 hours away) coupled with her sister’s dual participation in traveler’s and middle school basketball programs with their own tournaments all over Wisconsin and Minnesota.

It’s a story so many parents tell. It’s just part of the life. My parents did it also, running me almost 2 hours in one direction twice a week in California traffic to practice club soccer, not even a game. And I thank the sport and my parents everyday for who I am.

And yet through it all, I wonder if that depth of dedication was necessary. I received a partial scholarship to play soccer at Viterbo University, at the time a Midwest Classic Conference school, not even a blip on the map as far as collegiate athletics programs go.

And of the nearly 8 million students currently participating in high school athletics in the United States, only 480,000 of them will go on to compete at NCAA schools. And of that group, only a very small fraction will realize their goal of becoming a professional or Olympic athlete.

Seems bleak for parents to possibly get their financial investment back out of their child-athlete, but that’s not really why we do it, is it?

We understand that being part of something larger than yourself and working toward a common goal is always good, always. Teams succeed and fail together and the value of group effort is reinforced every day, translating to the workplace, families and communities at large. But at what cost?

After the most recent school shooting last week that took 17 lives and rightfully reignited fury and outrage, there were many comments and articles I read that said we as a society are too busy. Our good intentions of “supporting” our youth with intense schedules might actually be etching away at the family structure and making kids feel insecure in relationships, and not necessarily secure in the success of excelling in sports or music or even school. And for those kids who don’t have that support either in family or sports, the void becomes even more pronounced.

There’s a balance to everything, and sometimes a conflict arises that makes us stop and think about the cost of carving out athletes. One of my high school soccer player’s parents was very concerned about her daughter’s chances of making the soccer team due to a family vacation that interferes with two practices and a game early in the season. She was so worried that she postponed purchasing plane tickets until she talked to the entire coaching staff.

That swim camp I mentioned earlier, directly conflicted with family vacation time this year. So where does pursuit of greatness cease and time with family become precedent again?

Someone I admire and who I have the honor of leading student-athletes with put it perfectly. The order of priorities he subscribes to is this: faith, family, school, soccer—in that order.

So when I look at the smiling picture of my third-grader draped in medals that seem too big to be around her small neck, I’m not projecting an Olympic podium in her future (and not discounting it either). I’m hoping someday for a well-balanced intrinsically motivated adult, who understands how to have fun, work hard and stand up for others amidst chasing success. And most importantly, knows how to have full, loving relationships in the process.

We meet again, Reunion Jack

THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE January, 10, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.

Life is cyclical in some odd ways sometimes. In the summer of 2016, I was living in a two-bedroom apartment, no pets allowed.

One extremely hot summer day, I was with both my young daughters at the car wash on Hwy. 48. We were just pulling away when this woman in a car stopped us and asked us to keep an eye on this beautiful black poodle that was roaming the lot. The concerned woman said she was disabled (which I knew to be true from previous interactions with her in the community), so she couldn’t get out of her car very easily to gather him up.

She said a car just took off and left this dog. My girls being dog lovers and especially fond of hypoallergenic poodles, we rounded up Jack, with his well-groomed black/grey coat, long legs, beautiful brown eyes and gentle, smart demeanor and called the number on his tag. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message. We stuck around the parking lot for a bit then decided that we would put Jack in our car and run to (Rainbow was still open at the time) find a leash and get him some water.

Hydrated and cooler, we returned to the parking lot to wait it out just a little longer. The girls and I had gone round and round about keeping Jack. The apartment wouldn’t allow it and despite the claim that Jack was abandoned, he clearly was well cared for, loved and disciplined with tags claiming he belonged somewhere. Someone had invested great time and care to this creature. We reluctantly decided we had to turn him over to the police.

Just as we were pulling out of the lot, a car pulled in and an older man jumped out of the driver’s side. Frantically scanning the parking lot, he began calling out “Jack! Jack!”

I excitedly told the girls that I think this was Jack’s owner. The then 9- and 7-year-old looked at me like, duh, mom.

I stopped the car, got Jack out of the backseat and brought him over to the man. The man started crying, saying thank you thank you over and over again. He then told me that he’d been in a car accident a few months before and was having trouble with his short-term memory. He’d let Jack out of the car as he was hand washing it and drove off when he was done, forgetting his dog. He lived alone in Birchwood. His wife had passed away 3 years prior from cancer and Jack was his best friend and only companion.

He tried to give us finder’s money, which I adamantly declined. The girls and I said goodbye to Jack and we both got in our cars and drove in opposite directions.

I distinctly remember thinking at the time that I hope this man has someone to keep an eye on him and Jack.

Fast forward 1-1/2 years, I received an email regarding a story about a man who served as military watch over the digging of JFK’s grave. (See C1 in this issue). The email came from the man’s neighbor who thought it might make a good story. In his email he said this man, Denis lives alone and checks up on all the neighbors, going door-to-door in the winter time to make sure everyone is okay, and is just an all-around great guy with an interesting story.

I made contact and set up the interview. On the phone, Denis warned me about his black furred live-in, a poodle. Super cheesily I declared, “Oh! I love poodles!” and hung up the phone.

I arrived for our meeting on one of the coldest days ever in the history of ever. A somewhat familiar looking Denis graciously let me in and took my coat. He then turned to a docile black poodle on the couch and said this is Jack. Come say hello.

And a beautiful brown-eyed, long-legged gentle black poodle came over to greet me once again.