News Trend Mackinac Bridge|Actual

"Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." -E.L.Doctorow

Growing up a Michigander, my heart has always burst with pride for my home state.

I mean, come on.

A state shaped like an actual mitten.

Surrounded by not one, not two, but three Great Lakes.

With a vast, wild, and completely separate upper peninsula. Called the UP.

An engineering marvel of a bridge that connects the two bits of land across a stormy confluence.

And the bridge as well as the wild waters below are called Mackinac.*

What a land! What a legacy! What luck fell to me to be born in such a place.

Ironically, I saw little of my home state when I actually lived there. Don't even think I made it halfway up the Lower Peninsula.  But since moving to Seattle and settling down to a long tradition of road trips back and forth between my two homes, the direct route flows through from west to east across the UP, over the Mighty Mac, and down the middle of the Mitten.

And now I've passed through the length and breadth of my home state many times over.

I love every inch of the journey but my favorite five miles is hands-down the bridge.

Massive towers and burly cables overhead.

Wildly swirling waters below.

Views of both pine-studded peninsulas, and turtle-backed Mackinac Island in the distance.

Boats boldly sailing on stiff currents.

And winds sweeping across the waves.

On the day we planned to cross the Mackinac Bridge, our morning's drive from Escanaba was shrouded in fog. Oh, the road was clear enough, but every little peekaboo view to Lake Michigan along the route lay hidden in the white mists.

"It'll burn off by St. Ignace," my husband foretold. He's usually right about these things, so I patiently rode on.

Around noon, we arrived at the north end of the bridge and swung round for a prime view of the bridge.

And this is what we found.

The fog most definitely did not clear.

Even as we drove across her, I saw

No towers or cables

No water below

No land whatsoever

No boats

Not even a hint of wind.

For all I got out of my trip across the Mackinac Bridge, I might as well have been standing in a silent snow field with a pillowcase over my head.

But you know what?

I still love my mitten-shaped state,

her gorgeous Great Lakes,

the magical UP,

and our beautiful, brawny bridge.

I'm always proud to be a Michigander.

Even when the bridge is fogged in.

* * * * *

* It's pronounced MAK-in-aw. Not MAK-in-ack. And it means, roughly, big turtle.

* * * * *

Road Trip 2019: read all about it.

Leaving

Resting

Glacier National Park

Dakota Sunshine

Mackinac Bridge

My Newfound Brother

Fox Trilogy

Cleveland Rocks

Vermilion Legacy

At The Conservatory

Riding To Rifle

Arches National Park: Balanced Rock

Arches National Park: Double Arch

Arches National Park: Devil's Garden Trail

Arches National Park: Park Avenue

Dead Horse Point

Waiting For Breakfast

Canyonlands National Park

Cheeseburgers

Car Keys

News Trend Two Coats Of Paint|Actual

Take your mind off the problems for a moment, and consider all the positive possibilities.

Consider how very much you are able to do. -Ralph Marston

Twenty-four hours ago, these chairs were bright orange.

And I decided that I no longer wanted bright orange lawn chairs.

So I painted them grey.

I know. They aren't grey now, are they.

That's because twelve hours ago, I decided the grey was not happening for me.

So I chose a different color and painted them again. And now I'm happy.

My point is this. When it comes to changing up the color of lawn furniture, the sky's the limit.

All it takes is a few cans of spray paint and a drop cloth in the back yard.

And if the first color doesn't quite suit my fancy, then by all means I can just head back to Home Depot and pick out a new one.

This is life.

Full of choices.

All within my reach.

If  I'm willing to dream and put in a little bit of work.

Granted. I can't change everything in this world. But with imagination and determination, there is almost always something I can do to make life just a little bit better.

Even if it does take two coats of paint.

News Trend Whimsical|Actual

Life really is a most whimsical thing.

While we consistently try and chart its route, it goes ahead and takes its own turn.

Just follow the paths it lays out before you.

And you may find, at some sudden turn, a miracle waiting just for you. - Jyoti Arora

"Go look at the tree on the patio and tell me what you think."

As each of my daughters came home yesterday afternoon, I sent them to the backyard to check out my day's project.

Grapevine spheres sprayed with a touch of copper and suspended with wire from the branches of a tree.

"Mmm. So typically you." That's what my second-born said.

"What do you mean," I prodded. "How are they me?"

"They're just....Whimsical," she said with the certainty of someone who has finally landed on just the right word.

Whimsical.

Playful.

Mischievous.

Curious.

Quaint.

But whimsical also means changeable, erratic, unpredictable, capricious.

Though I think she used the word to describe my kooky Dr Seussian landscape - which is fine by me - I also realized that my daughter's word perfectly captures my attitude toward life.

At this point in my life, I've lived beyond all my childhood dreams, bucket lists and wishful thoughts. Honestly, everything I ever dared to want has pretty much come true.

And for the past few years, I've realized that the life unfolding before me is way bigger than anything I could have made up.

I mean, come on:

Malaysians.

Math students.

A trip to Cuba.

A daughter in Asia.

Making peace with my mother.

Letting go of the past.

My journey - as well as my tree full of spheres - has become whimsical in the truest sense of the word.

And I am most definitely enjoying the ride.

News Trend My Newfound Brother|Actual

"The man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not half as wise as

the man with no secrets to keep." -E.W.Howe

During the past two and a half years, I've imagined many times the moment when I would first meet my newfound brother face to face. Never once did I dream that we'd be standing in the parking lot of his local urgent care offices, with me nursing a battered shoulder and sporting one of my husband's plaid flannel shirts.

But that is exactly the way it happened. Go figure.

Halfway through my meal, I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath, and looked round me.

It was a busy night in the Michigan pizza shop, lots of large groups gathered around cobbled combinations of shoved-together tables, laughing and talking and eating in happy community.

Our group was no exception. The nine of us circled round together, inhaling pizza, chattering in animated, overlapping conversations, as comfortable people often do. We spanned quite a few decades in age but that didn't seem to matter, grins flashed across the table in all directions as the banter rolled on. Then my attention turned to the person seated at my right.

My brother, Jeff, whom I was meeting for the very first time.

To be fair, we've been talking by phone for several years now. When my father died in late 2016, I learned for the first time of this brother from another mother, a secret my father had successfully carried to his grave. But Jeff had tracked down our shared father several years earlier, and therefore knew of me. Sworn to secrecy, he'd waited patiently until the day just after Christmas in 2016. When he answered his phone to hear me say, "Hi, well, I guess I'm your sister."

We've been talking ever since.

It's an awkward thing, one might think, to discover an unknown sibling.

To face the undeniable reality of your' father's infidelity, lies, and secret-keeping.

To work through the deep emotions that stir up when our identity is rearranged.

To lay all the distance aside and begin a relationship that has gone missing for years.

But the truth it that it wasn't awkward at all.

I've found nothing but joy in my new brother. He's a funny, interesting, thoughtful person. Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with. We seem to intuitively understand what makes each other tick. And whatever darkness led to my father's irresponsible behavior all those many years ago, well, that has nothing to do with Jeff and me. We are simply happy to have found one another.

So it was with great celebration that my family stopped in to spend an afternoon with Jeff's family, and we became one big family together.

As I listened to the straws slurp against the bottom of empty cups, and watched his kids and mine buzz back and forth to the ice cream counter to order their desserts. Jeff and I looked at each other and smiled.

And I knew this was the just the first of many happy times I would spend with my newfound brother.

In all the lovely chaos of our visit, we totally neglected to take photos together. But here's a glimpse of my brother, Jeff, and his lovely wife, Dacia.

Courtesy of Dacia on Facebook

* * * * *

Here's the story I wrote when I first learned of Jeff's existence:

Fresh Air

* * * * *

And here, for what it's worth, is a reflection on what my dad taught me:

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

* * * * *

Road Trip 2019: read all about it.

Leaving

Resting

Glacier National Park

Dakota Sunshine

Mackinac Bridge

My Newfound Brother

Fox Trilogy

Cleveland Rocks

Vermilion Legacy

At The Conservatory

Riding To Rifle

Arches National Park: Balanced Rock

Arches National Park: Double Arch

Arches National Park: Devil's Garden Trail

Arches National Park: Park Avenue

Dead Horse Point

Waiting For Breakfast

Canyonlands National Park

Cheeseburgers

Car Keys

News Trend Dear Mrs. Ivanov|Actual

Thirty-eight Douglas fir trees line the edge of my neighborhood as it borders Chennault Beach Road. Anonymously, collaboratively, mysteriously, gifts have appeared on those sturdy trunks to gaji Anna, Jake and Jordan. I may or may not have contributed the hydrangeas.

In the past month, ever since three college students were killed at a house party down the street, I've heard it said over and again: Getting the news that your child has been shot dead is every parent's worst nightmare.

But I respectfully disagree

Infinitely deeper must be the horror of learning that your child pulled the trigger.

Purple has been chosen as the color to honor the fallen victims, so my big red balls have been temporarily painted over. I find peace in lighting three candles every evening.

Please hear me say that I have great compassion for the victims, Anna, Jake, and Jordan, and their families. Their loss is devastating, senseless, tragic.

But every one of the past thirty-one mornings, when I wake up, the first person I think about is Allen Ivanov.

The shooter.

I pray for him. Deeply. Painfully. Wordlessly.

And then my heart turns to his mother.

I try to imagine what she is going through. I can't possibly know. But then again, I do.

My mother's heart understands.

I pray that she manages to get herself up out of bed to face another day of this nightmare.

I pray that she finds a way to focus her attention on whatever tasks she must be accomplish today.

I pray that she can lay down the heavy weights of grief and hopelessness, even if just for a few minutes at a time.

And I pray that the letter I wrote to her, along with the many other cards and letters that have been sent to Allen's family, bring her some small measure of comfort and remind her that she is not alone.

This is the letter that I wrote to Mrs. Ivanov.

I share it with you and ask that you consider praying with me, in the hopes of healing this mother's broken heart.

* * * * *

Dear Mrs. Ivanov,

You don't know me. Your son has never met me either. But Allen used to work for my daughter and she's told me about him.

This is quite unusual because my daughter rarely shares stories about her staff. But Allen was different. Right from the start, my daughter noticed and was remarkably impressed with his thoughtfulness, intelligence, and conscientious work ethic. Last November on Black Friday, of all the dozens of associates who worked that day, she chose Allen to be her right-hand man. Your son?S special assignment was to stay at my daughter's side and help her respond to the steady stream of emergencies and demands she faced as store manager on that insanely busy shopping day. She told me he did a fantastic job.

But more than that, my daughter enjoyed Allen?S personality. She found him to be sweetly sensitive, shy at first but eventually open and warm and funny. My daughter gives nicknames to most of her associates and because he was so gentle and kind, she decided to call him Baby. She told me that he politely protested the name, but always smiled when she used it.

Through these stories, I came to be quite fond of Allen too. I want you to know that, in spite of what has happened, my daughter's opinion of your son has not changed. My opinion of your son has not changed. We both believe the best of Allen, and while we must accept the truth of his actions, we will continue to care very much about him.

I pray deeply for Allen, for you, for all of your family.

I pray for your strength, your courage, your tenacity to weather this terrible storm.

I pray for Allen's attorneys, that they may be able to provide a context for Allen's behavior that will show the full picture of his strong character and good heart.

I pray that whatever challenges he will face in his life, Allen will meet them with the same thoughtfulness and intelligence that he has shown in the past.

I pray that Allen will be forgiven by the people he's hurt.

I pray that he will forgive himself.

I pray that always, Allen and your family will feel supported and surrounded by forgiveness and compassion, healing and love.

And I pray most of all that every day for the rest of his life, Allen will find wonderful ways to bring forgiveness and compassion, healing and love to our broken and hurting world.

* * * * *

To read more about this tragedy and the healing in its aftermath, try:

Silver Threads

Flowers, Candles, Ribbon

News Trend Reading Books That Are Blue|Actual

On Democracy by E.B.White

Apparently, crafting prize-winning and universally beloved children's literature was merely a side hustle for E.B. White. His day job saw him whipping up nuanced, passionate, and delightfully urbane political essays for The New Yorker, and boy, could White pack a punch. Written over the fifty-year span of his career from the 1920s to the 70s, our weekend farmer from Maine had plenty to say about the state of our world, the state of our minds, and whether we might figure out a way to survive ourselves. Topics range from the serious to the silly, but all explore our nation's fantastically fragile system of democracy and the glories of individual freedom.

The Art of Noticing by Rob Walker

I wish I had written this book. Simple, satisfying, and always spot on, the author stresses the importance of opening our eyes as we walk about our lives, and yes, quite simply noticing what is happening right in front of our noses. I long to read all the supporting literature he quotes, written by all the other clever people who have found a way to make a living telling other people to set down their bloody phones and simply look about. I regret that I didn't write down my own little exercises of noticing this or that as I go about my dailies, because this slender volume is full of similar suggestions and activities. But I've happily decided to lay all conflicting thoughts aside and simply enjoy this lovely little book.

I make no apology for my wildly eclectic taste in reading. These two books, for example, which I've been reading intermittently and interchangeably over the past few weeks, could not be more different from one another. The first warns that our democracy is in serious peril, and then encourages us to keep on and trust that it will all sort itself out. The second coaches us to look for security cameras and the color yellow as we go about our daily routines, and promises that such observations will affect the way we think. .

Perhaps there is a profound connection between these two ideas; a synchronicity that eludes me. I like to think that maybe there is, and someday soon my brain will light up as it finally comes clear. But for now, all I can see that connects them is that they are both small books, endearing to me as they sit quite comfortably in my hands.

And, interestingly, they are both blue.

* * * * *

Read more about what I've been reading:

Reading Afternoons

Reading Mornings

Reading Children's Books

Reading Memories

Reading Recommendations

Reading Inspiration

Reading Insights

Reading At The Pool

Reading About The Desert

Reading On Repeat

Reading Natalie Babbit

Reading The Truth

Reading Books That Are Blue

Reading Mysteries

Reading About Walking

News Trend Proud Procrastinator|Actual

"Procrastination is your body telling you you need to back off a bit

and think more about what you are doing." -James Attucher

For the past three years, a stack of stone pavers has been blocking traffic and hogging space in my skinny side yard.

Left over from a front yard patio that we ripped up and replaced in 2013, I've been meaning to get rid of these babies ever since.

Oh, I had plenty of good intentions.

List them on Craigslist.

Sell them at a garage sale.

Set them out by the side of the street on a Saturday morning and watch them fly away.

But somehow, I just never got around to it.

The timing on that task never felt quite right.

You might even say I procrastinated.

Other issues occupied my mind, such as the pesky problem of getting muddy feet each time I run out to that same side yard to hang laundry, fire up the grill, or fetch something from my potting bench. For whatever reasons, even though that stack of pavers annoyed me endlessly, something told me to wait on getting rid of them.

Last weekend, my brain suddenly grasped the obvious.

Lay the leftover pavers right there in the side yard and voila! No more muddy feet.

I mean, come on. That one was so obvious it was painful.

But thank goodness that during the three years my brain needed to work out that solution, my instincts were clever enough to keep me from acting on those bricks.

Creative solutions come in their own sweet time.

My instincts are smarter than me.

When I listen and wait, good things eventually happen.

And that is why I am proud to be a procrastinator.

^ Ranger came out to inspect my work, gave me his tail-wagging approval, and even found himself inspired to hop up into the garden and sniff around in the sunshine. From what I can tell, he rarely procrastinates.