To Share or Not to Share ...

There are moments in any self-employed person's life when it's tempting to share lessons being learned, and at the same time, there aren't enough verbal twists and turns in the universe to avoid implicating the lesson sources.

I'm at the point of collision of multiple different endeavors (related both to work and personal pursuits), all of which are teaching me much while simultaneously raising my stress level to DEFCON Kilauea. Remember, kids: Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy time and shore up security.

Suffice it to say that a 24-hour clock is insufficient to support everything I'm trying to do ... and likely will remain insufficient for the next seven to 10 years, because most of what I'm trying to do is of the marathon variety.

In any case, some lessons are self-inflicted and some come courtesy of the outside world. Here are a few I'm facing at this halfway mark this year:

  • When you live and work in the same physical space, do not think that a couple of small air conditioners can replace central air. They cannot. You may become angry on principle.
  • "Words" and "publication-quality writing" are not the same thing, but many people will never understand the implications of that difference, no matter how many times you explain.
  • You will never relax unless you are with other people, because your brain will not shut off without an external distraction. Schedule external distractions. Extra credit if they don't focus on food (or for those who drink, on drinks).
  • It is impossible to drive a project successfully from the back seat. You will frequently find yourself in the back seat.
  • There is a good chance that you will always want to be doing something, professionally, other than what you are doing, professionally. For me, "something" includes search and rescue, paramedic/EMT, archaeologist, park ranger, immigrant assistant, puppy minder, and part-time cowgirl, part-time dolphin trainer. I should have started earlier for most of those. 
  • Urgency is relative. It is often inversely proportional to the objective importance of the task at hand and your ability to make an impact.
  • As an M&Ms ad once said (and I paraphrase), if the recipe says to bake the cookies for 20 minutes at 250 degrees, don't try 10 minutes at 500 degrees ... and definitely don't try 5 minutes at 1,000 degrees. The same applies to time and energy spent on anything worth doing.

And on that note ... it's time to pull on my big-girl boots and cowgirl up.

What Do You Say on a Holy Day?

I get this question a lot. Because the Baha'i calendar and events are unfamiliar to many of my friends and colleagues, it's not always as easy as saying, "Happy Something!"

That's because, as in any religion, some holy days (holidays) are celebrations and some are commemorations.

About six of the holy days recognize the renewal of religion, which means that they are important dates related to the declarations of the missions of Baha'u'llah and His forerunner, who used the title The Bab, which means The Gate. Another two are birth dates. All of those can get "happy" greetings.

The remaining three are death dates. Not so much with the "happy."

Tomorrow is one of the death dates. It commemorates the 1850 execution of The Bab in Tabriz, Iran. The story is really quite fascinating. Imagine 750 soldiers firing three volleys at a stationary target, tied to a stone post ... and he disappears ... only to be found back in his cell, finishing the dictation he'd told you must be completed before he could be executed. 

This holy day is also one on which Baha'is suspend work. That's why this post is going up before sunset tonight. That's not to say we do nothing at all on a holy day! In fact, I'm planning to help friends clear out their family home.

And at noon, the very hour when those shots rang out so long ago, we will likely stop and say a prayer. And remember. 

Bulls and the Blood

This weekend, as I was hiding from the sticky heat that's overtaken the Northeast, I stumbled across Fearless. And so the Brazilian contingent of PBR competitors kept me company while I reorganized a closet and sorted some pictures and contemplated this week.

For my friends who don't track with such things: PBR is professional bull riding, not Pabst Blue Ribbon. Just to be sure we're all on the same page. 

My thoughts turned to my options for Independence Day. For many years, I spent the holiday like most people do, with family, friends, fireworks, and strawberry shortcake from whichever local group was serving up bowls at the fireworks. ("Oooo! Aaaaah! Looky here!")

For even more years, the holiday was a blur of two or three parades in a day and racing from one to the next on the backroads in cars full of bandmates in sweaty wool. July 4 is right up there with St. Patrick's Day and Memorial Day for bagpipe bands.

Then I stumbled into an insane agency schedule that stressed me out by making me skip parade commitments to stay on top of work commitments. And unfortunately, since going out on my own, that pattern has continued. Without the natural holiday structures offered by local family or a tight-knit social group, this has become one of several holidays that I always intend to take off, but that, in reality, become just one more workday (albeit one without emails and phone calls).

That is the case this year. I'll be working on a project tomorrow and then, whenever I'm done, tackling some neglected chores around the house. There is something of a trade-off. I will absolutely not be working on the Baha'i holiday next Tuesday. And I fully intend to run away early next Friday to spend the weekend celebrating my dad's birthday. 

Still, none of that really makes up for the fun that comes from being free when large numbers of other people are free. Which is why, as I watched world class bull riders dance until the buzzer set them free, my music-associating brain first took me to Garth Brooks: "... it's the bulls and the blood, the dust and the mud, it's the roar of a Sunday crowd ..."

Which made me think how very much I would really like to be spending my Independence Day in jeans, tank top, and cowboy hat or ballcap, with a boot up on the rails and screaming myself hoarse. Calf roping. Barrel racing. Steer wrestling. Saddle broncs. Bareback. Team roping. Bull riding. Chris LeDoux blaring out the speakers. The smell of warm livestock and dry grain. I'm all about it.

Independence Day, to me, is best when spent as far as possible from a computer screen. Covered in dust. Sunburned right through my sunscreen. Happy as a clam.

Pa and Ma and Me

I probably shouldn't start this with, "What is revisionist history?" or, "Whose 'truth' is more true?" or, "Does deleting all mention of something mean it didn't happen?"

These are just some of the questions that have been passing through my mind over the past 48 hours or so, since I learned that the Association of Library Service to Children (ALSC), a division of the American Library Association, has renamed the 64-year-old Wilder Medal. It shall henceforth be called the Children's Literature Legacy Award. 

Now, let me be clear about something. Until Monday, I couldn't have told you there was a Wilder Medal. I don't have kids, nor siblings, nor nieces or nephews. I do come from a family full of readers and I have an aunt who somewhat recently retired from a career as a librarian. Needless to say, my own childhood bookshelves were filled with loads of European and American classics. And I still have some of them.

Among those are most of the tomes from the series of Laura Ingalls Wilder's "Little House" books. Every Christmas season, I revisit the arrival of Pa and Mr. Edwards with the sticks of candy and small sugar cakes and the shiny tin cups and the pennies and the tale spun about meeting Santa Claus. Cap Garland is still, in my mind's eye, the handsomest town rescuer there ever was. Handsomer, even, than Almanzo Wilder. 

I vaguely remember that there was some interaction with the original residents of the Plains, but I couldn't have told you off the top of my head what the author's lexicon was in those scenes. I could tell you that my recollection was that the appearance of the locals made the Ingalls characters feel either curious or scared, and ultimately turned out to be fairly benign. I pictured it as somewhat akin to my feeling that there might be folks around the corners during my family's long-ago visits to gold-rush and silver-rush ghost towns.

My parents (christened "Pa" and "Ma" around the same time we read the Little House series) and I spent lots of times at historic sites and in the woods and at museums learning "stuff" when I was a kid. I wasn't reading the books in a vacuum that assumed they were my only exposure to "frontier" history or to history in general. Which, I think, is likely why the specific terminology Wilder used only added to my picture of a complex interaction among people. Over time, I would learn about the nuances of those interactions and the actual historical context for Wilder's mostly autobiographical work of fiction.

It also helped that I was raised as a Baha'i, so Ma and Pa worked hard to be sure that I understood that all people are one. That viewpoint is central, but not unique, to Baha'is and it certainly colored how I absorbed information about different cultural groups, including stories, from a very young age. 

All of that being said, when I initially saw the Wilder Award name change announcement, I was annoyed. That is, in part, because the ALSC also awards the Carnegie Medal. Wilder's name was removed from her medal because the language she used in a work about her family's experiences is no longer considered acceptable in literature. Shouldn't Carnegie's name be removed from his medal because his company manufactured something like 90 percent of the steel rails that facilitated the rapid and total disenfranchisement of the very people Wilder described?

But that won't happen. Because Carnegie was male. And rich. And because when he'd used every possible robber-baron trick in the book to gain more money than he could spend in a lifetime, he endowed libraries. So that people could read about the people who no longer lived where his rails ran, I imagine.

In other words, seek a reason why someone's work is inadequate and ye shall find.

After I calmed down, I remembered a conversation I had last summer with the education director of one of the pre-eminent native culture museums in the country. He was hard at work with a team of brilliant specialists developing a completely revamped way of incorporating a balanced history of the continent's indigenous population and European interactions into school curriculum. The concern he raised about the status quo is that American Indian children, both on reservations and integrated into the general population, learn from the same curriculum, use the same library books, and observe the same stereotypes as every other American kid. 

What does that mean? Well, for one, it means that the narrative typically relates how hostile indigenous groups for no reason at all attacked nice white folks who were just minding their own business and building this fort, or house, or what-have-you on this prime stretch of river. Flip the script and you have this nice group of indigenous residents who went out to the grocery store, came back to find an armed gang piling up a bunch of logs in their living room, and took steps to remove the gang forthwith. Both behaved in ways that made sense from their own perspective. But the group with the written language got to perpetuate their side of the story.

Can you imagine? Generations of kids being told in classrooms that Columbus discovered America ...

"But we were already here."

"No, you weren't. I mean, you were. But you didn't matter."


Or, you know, what do you do when the cowboys always win in the movies and the Indians have to be stoic? Yes, I am citing Smoke Signals

So, doing my best to look at the situation from that perspective, I considered how Wilder's words might strike the impressionable mind of a young Osage kid. If Laura and her family were on the prairie, then I imagine the Osage on whose land they were illegally living probably had a family, too. (Now that would be a fascinating book.) Despite the nuances that I may find in Wilder's depictions, because of my own background and exposure to critical sources, I get the problem. 

Then I read up on the longstanding concerns about this literary classic (yes) also being considered a historically accurate record (no). 

Still, though, something about changing the award name irritated me. So I went to see what the ALSC had to say. I found the wording of the newly renamed award's criteria suspect. It sounded a bit too au courant to have been in place when the award was first presented to Wilder (and named after her) in 1954. So I read into the organization's task force recommendation regarding the name change.

And I was right. The criteria statement was amended when the name was changed, to reflect the organization's values in 2018, as opposed to its values in 1954 when it created the original award. What I find interesting about this is that the ALSC, by changing the name, condemns the author for deviating from the ALSC's current norms ... but by changing the criteria, avoids drawing attention to itself for having held those norms. In other words, if Wilder's work contains "racist" and "derogatory" language (which, it does, by today's standards of speech) and the ALSC awarded it the medal in 1954, then the ALSC by its own definition was racist in 1954.

Needless to say, I have a problem with the picking and choosing and revising of the past. Apparently, the ALSC had to decide between renaming the Wilder Medal or ending it and introducing a new award in its place. In my opinion, they made the wrong choice because, by renaming it and changing the criteria, the organization makes it appear that Wilder never deserved the award for her work. By ending the award and creating a new one, the organization could have taken responsibility for its own role in mid-century America's racial and ethnic struggles, while recognizing its evolving knowledge.


His name was Lupe. One day during second grade, I think perhaps in the fall, an administrator walked him into our classroom and, in a low voice, introduced him to our teacher. 

He stood in silence and looked at the floor, while we looked at him. Nikes or some similar 1980s tennis shoes. Dark jeans a little baggy on his slender frame. Leather belt. Tucked in neatly, a long-sleeved, western-cut cotton plaid shirt, pearl snaps fastened at the wrists and all the way to the neck. Black hair neatly cut and combed into place. 

In our classroom in the Nevada desert, the deep tan of his skin wasn't what set him apart. After all, generations of Mexican immigrants and Basque shepherds populated the valley and several of our classmates were members of the local Paiute tribe. 

Instead, what was different was his language. Lupe spoke no English. Only Spanish. The job our teacher gave us that day was to help him learn our language. She would help him with his schoolwork. We would be his friends. And that was that.

Everyone wanted to help Lupe learn his first English words. And we all wanted him to know that we were his friends. That we wanted to help. That we wanted to play. That we wanted to learn about him, whenever he could tell us something. 

It was no secret that Lupe was the son of migrant workers. After all, who else picked the alfalfa and onions and garlic that blanketed the fields around town? The grown-ups might have known whether his family had the right paperwork. To us kids, though, that didn't matter. He was our gift, and until he disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived, we had a job to do.

I believe in obeying the laws of the land. And I believe in the need for borders, as well as protection at those borders. I also believe that we have an awful lot in our country. More than we need. More than enough to share. More than enough to offer asylum to refugees fleeing persecution and violence in their home countries.

So, when I look at the faces of the kids in detention centers, whether with their parents or not, I can't help but think that they are our gift. 

And we have a job to do.

Outward Focus

I don't drink black coffee. I don't drink coffee as a rule, unless it involves espresso, steamed milk, and a large quantity of chocolate. Whipped cream is always a good addition.

I am also not the poster child for full plates of breakfast at the designated breakfast hour. In my childhood, breakfast might have been a freezer burrito, or Campbell's Bean with Bacon Soup, or whatever else my mother figured I would eat. As an adult, I may eat breakfast if it's a muffin or something that requires a similar lack of thought and planning. Or I may just give up the struggle and wait 'til lunch.

Yet, for a new friend, I slid my way out of a cozy bed last Sunday at an hour that's really only appropriate for fishermen, donned acceptable attire, and rolled down the road to a breakfast venue that served eggs of nearly any description. In my case, that translated to a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on a croissant and some excellent hash browns. And coffee, because I wasn't the one pouring and awake seemed like an excellent plan.

The conversation was interesting. My friend is an artist and, due to the nature of the global markets for traditional handicrafts, it's beneficial for him to be in the Southwest. From a personal perspective, though, that means spending most of his time away from his wife and sons, who remain in their South American homeland. It's clear that he misses his family, especially when he talks about his boys' interests in robots and how the younger can't quite assemble the complicated pieces the way his older brother can.

What struck me most, though, is something I've heard so many times from my other friends who've grown up outside the U.S. While every place and every culture has its own issues, my home country presents notoriously difficult situations for children and teens, as compared to more traditional societies and locations. My friend and his wife made the decision for their kids to grown up in a place that provides the values and structure that they want to pass on to the next generation. 

Over the course of my lifetime, that concept is one that has largely slipped out of our national discourse here in the U.S. No wonder we have a shortage of skilled laborers and a dearth of tradesmen. No wonder no one wants the bedrock jobs that lend stability to society. And no wonder our current national vision is generally fractured and perhaps universally stuck someplace between navel-gazing and underwater basket-weaving.

Here's the thing. The U.S. is only the center of the world on our own maps and our own TV screens. We, as individuals, are only the stars in the stories we tell ourselves. As a result, those stories are as good or as bad as we make them.

So, what happens if I stop focusing on how things affect me and start focusing on how they affect you? Or how they affect my friend? Or his family, far away and across borders?

How might my perspective change about:

  • Nuclear brinksmanship and grandstanding?
  • The rights of women to escape and seek security from systemic domestic violence?
  • The intentions of indigenous people to worship in the places they consider sacred? 
  • Respect and healing between members of the human race who wear different skin tones?
  • The relationship between consumerism, greed, poverty, and the dignity of humankind?

How anyone thinks politics and protests are the answer to any of these questions is beyond me. Addressing issues like these starts way down at the ground level, deliberately changing the people with whom we spend time, the way we form friendships, the way we listen without preconceived ideas about whether someone is "right" or "wrong," and the way we stand firm in respecting one another's realities, especially if they're not our own.

Do children in America still learn the quote attributed to Voltaire, Patrick Henry, and a variety of other names: "I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it"?

Do we still picture the steadfastness of Cheyenne Dog Soldiers standing their selected patch of ground in the heat of battle?

Do we still learn the poem, The New Colossus? Do we know what it means? 

What do we, as a people, stand for? Not you. Not me. We. 

Perhaps it's time we stop seeking truth and love in the dust. Perhaps it's time to look outward and see what we find.


The temperature outside right now is about 90 degrees, headed for 97. As it has been for nearly all of the last two weeks, the sun is shining brightly with only a whisp of a cloud in the wide, blue sky. The exception to that streak was Sunday, when the high was about 80 and the afternoon saw a couple of downpours and an hour or so of big, fat, scattered rain drops. The puddles evaporated by the time my friends and I finished dinner.

This morning, I tidied up my Airbnb and dropped my trusty Dodge Dart at the rental car lot at the airport. Here at the airport, I chowed down on half an Albuquerque Turkey sandwich (read: avocado, sprouts, tomato, green chile ... and some turkey), and will soon board the first of two planes that will wing me back to the Northeast. Six hours after that flight leaves, I'll land nearly at bedtime in the Eastern time zone, with a solid 40-degree temperature drop.

I have mixed feelings about all of this. In part, that's because I'm fairly exhausted. While I love being in New Mexico, I have crammed six-and-a-half very full days of work, two hurry-up-and-wait days of travel, and six-and-a-half days of visits, meetings, introductions, and adventures into a two-week period. I missed meeting some folks I very much wanted to see. And I trod through places and talked with people I didn't know existed. Despite having the most welcoming and homey Airbnb I could imagine, I was still conscious of being in borrowed space. At ease, but not relaxed.

While I'm eager to get back to my "stuff," my friends-for-a-while-now, my summer plans, and my slightly convoluted schedule of work in progress, I also want to gorge myself on the new experiences, camaraderie, culture, and lessons to be gathered here. And, I now have a whole new set of dominoes to line up, besides the ones that are already in place. 

I've been saying for years now that my life is desperately in need of a change, since it didn't follow the love, marriage, kids, family path that I had always envisioned. Setting out into self-employment was part of that. So was taking my MFA and starting the long and winding road toward authorship. So was the surgery that confirmed I am 99.99% unlikely to have children of my own, even if I eventually find "the guy," as painful as that is to admit. So was last year's round-the-country road trip to sate both research needs and wanderlust. So was this year's rededication to improving and expanding my professional range.

Perhaps the next change is this one. Blending my western roots and my eastern existence in a whole new place where I never thought to be, let alone to feel at home. Here where everyone from acquaintance-friends to an aboriginal maker of storytellers have offered a heartfelt, "I hope you move here!" in parting. Here where park rangers and visitors alike have hollered out dinner suggestions and favorite places. Here where one friend's promised to treat me to breakfast next time, two more are already keeping their eyes out for suitable housing, and another's cooking up plans for movie nights and music.

And where do I stand on this subject?

Inshallah, as my Persian friends might say.

Or, in the vernacular, the good Lord willing and the creek don't rise.

Having a Shy Day

There is a difference between being an introvert and being shy. I have the great joy of being both, although I fake both extroversion and a lack of shyness on a regular basis.

For the last week, in fact, I've been "on" more than off. At 5 a.m. last Tuesday, I was thanking the TSA agent who waved me through the body scanner and earning a smile by wishing him a good day. By 8 a.m., I was nearly halfway to Chicago and gaining a laugh from the flight attendant when I complimented the elaborate twists worked into her long, black hair and wrapped into a coronet around her head. Within hours, it was the cabbie at the airport and the thoughtful car rental agent in the middle of Albuquerque. 

I've had the great joy this last week of two delicious dinners with friends whom I can't help but adore, simply because they are unabashedly themselves. Forthright, opinionated, generous, welcoming, and ever so fun. I've spent a day at the zoo with another friend, her wonderfully strong granddaughter, and her smart, kind, super-fun great-grandson. I've visited with a third friend whose resilience is inspiring. And I've started getting to know an acquaintance who has met my California cousins. 

I spent a couple of days and a few extra hours working. I chatted with expert artisans and watched skilled dancers. Yesterday, I thought perhaps I'd take myself to one of the pueblos for an arts and crafts show, because, why not check out something new?

But I didn't. Instead, I found myself on the couch with a slice of cold pizza yesterday morning, staring at the map and contemplating the prospect of wandering up the road on my own. I already have two potentially "on my own" days planned this week. The notion of one more seemed suddenly and completely overwhelming. My faux extroversion plummeted. At the same time, the notion of meeting an acquaintance for a snack and bevvie yesterday evening sent my shyness spiraling upward.

Thanks goodness for good naps, good work, and good movies, which recharged my extroversion battery. Thank goodness also for good conversation with a new friend, which brought my shyness back down to a manageable level.

There is, I think, something to be said for having a shy day now and again. It's a reminder of what can trap a person in the most familiar mindset, or place, or perception. It's also a reminder of why it's so important to challenge all of those things. Even if you might not know exactly where to start. Even if you have to take baby steps to break the mood ... like today, when I'm taking the scenic route to Santa Fe. I'm giving myself permission to skip shops and just hit museums, if I want to do that. Or to decide when I hit the bottom of the mountain whether I want to chance the vertigo and panic attack that a solo drive drive 5,000 feet up to the summit may trigger. I only have to do what I want to do. And that's okay.

Consider This the Soft Launch

As promised, the new website is now live! It's not yet perfect, but it's live! Sort of like Dr. Frankenstein's gruesome buddy.

Things to note:

  • I'm still proofreading (cross-eyed, at this point) and tweaking the language here and there to better describe what I do, how I do it, and why it's valuable to the people who hire me.
  • I'm adding testimonials as I go, but decided to launch with the basics and insert the quotes from happy people over the next few weeks, after I've dug through my emails to find them!
  • The navigation is super different. Please explore! You'll see that the blog is no longer right up top. Instead, it lives within the section that has to do with my own writing projects. That's because I rarely write about communications and marketing. Instead, this is for the people who want to see me as a writer/thinker/author person.

Feel free to let me know what you think. Or not. New websites are nifty, but this was a utilitarian upgrade, so perhaps not as fascinating as a really substantive change! 

Mind the Mess

Thanks for your patience, friends! It's been a few weeks since my last post and it will be another week or two before I post anything of particular interest.

When I launched this website and blog nearly three years ago, I had just gone out on my own and I was at the beginning of my graduate work. My goal was to create a workable presence for the short term that would serve both my book-writing audience and my communications audience equally. And that's exactly what I did. 

Now, a year after my graduation and three full years into self-employment, it's time to kick things up a notch. That's why I'm reworking, rewriting, and relaunching my website. There will be more space devoted to the services I offer clients, with a special section just for the writing I'm doing on my own, including this blog and updates about Mr. Khanjani's Roses.  

Until I get it all finished and switched on, you may notice some weirdness. Just pretend there's a skink crawling around in the background, messing up the code. Once I find him and get him out of the works, everything will be all pretty and good to go. (There will be another slight update later this summer to reflect some new branding, but that will just be about appearances.)

Stay tuned for a fresh look soon!

Looking Back at Love Languages

A battered index card slipped out of the blue plastic folder I'd dropped on my desk a few days ago. Just one more piece in my ongoing tossing of things I've picked up along my way. 

As I glanced at the names and descriptions on it, I instantly found myself back in a friend's cozy, bright living room more than a decade ago. Nineteen friends and family gathered every week for nearly all of 2006, some driving from an hour away after work each Wednesday, to study together amidst uproarious laughter, rapid shifts in conversation, and whatever snacks the lady of the house had picked up on her way home.

One particular night, the group's facilitator (and purveyor of snacks) mentioned that she'd been reading The 5 Love Languages, which had made her curious about the way our group members might align with the different "languages" described in the book. We tended to go off track at the slightest opportunity, so we all set aside our materials for the evening and agreed to identify our preferences and discuss them. It seemed, after all, like a fun way to learn new things about old friends. 

The goal was to identify the way we each preferred to receive love, which may or may not have echoed the way we demonstrated love for others. It was no surprise that the group's best distributor of hugs preferred to receive physical contact. Nor that another, always willing to pitch in and help, liked to receive acts of service. Four more valued receiving quality time, marked by undivided attention and the sharing of thoughts uninterrupted. The largest number, seven, preferred to receive words of affirmation, whether compliments, encouragement, gratitude, or acknowledgement.

Then there were the four of us who most preferred to receive tangible gifts ... or treasures, or any expressions that someone was or had been present. We took a fair amount of razzing, especially since none of us were the type to ask for gifts nor the type to expect them. It also sparked quite a lot of discussion about exactly what gifts are. 

One friend of mine was surprised that I, the person who deals with words, didn't gravitate toward words of affirmation. I remember explaining that working with words was the very reason why I didn't care for them. That I understood how words could be used as a commodity to make people do or think what the speaker wants them to do or think. In the context of receiving love, I didn't trust pretty words tossed out into the air. 

When someone takes the time to handwrite a card or even type an email, though, words might count as a gift, at least in my opinion. So could the fortune from a fortune cookie, a flower picked from the yard, a pebble lifted from a path, a tiny bundle of leaves, or the pocket-sized Dala horse that accompanied me on last summer's travels. Gifts, after all, have everything to do with thoughtfulness and care ... and nothing to do with the hard dollar value of a particular thing.

Already far off track that evening long ago, we carried on exploring how we each preferred to receive an apology. A few wanted to receive sincere words of regret. A couple preferred to receive a genuine promise to change. None, interesting to note, wanted to receive someone's acceptance of responsibility or for someone to admit wrongdoing. The conversation there had to do with the lack of a change in behavior.

The remaining nine of us preferred to receive an apology in which someone demonstrated action and made restitution in some way. Of course, we all noted, we didn't want to have to explain that to whomever had wronged us. We wanted them to be of such character that they would, of their own volition, right the wrongdoings. 

As I flipped the card over in my hands the other day, that was the idea that stuck with me. Ultimately, whatever way we prefer to have others interact with us, doesn't it all come down to character?

If ... Then ...

On this grey northeastern day, complete with actual slush (slush!) falling from the sky, I once again reminded myself of the adventure I've been on these last five years. And the adventures yet to come. 

Everything ties together in unexpected ways, like a giant, never-ending logic problem. It's only with the benefit of hindsight ... and four to six months of winter ... that the patterns become clear.

If I had been content with my semi-predictable office job, then I never would have jumped into a less-predictable office job.

If I had found that less-predictable office job totally fulfilling, then I never would have gone in search of a master's degree.

If I'd been denied access to the MFA program at King's, then I never would have had the courage to go into solo work, nor would I have given myself the time to start working on the book that continues to take shape.

If I hadn't been working on the book, then I would have missed the opportunity to learn so many details about stories I'd known in general for a lifetime, or to make so many friends and writing allies, or to fall in love with a beautiful Canadian city on the edge of an island on the edge of North America.

If I hadn't gone into solo work, then I wouldn't have been free to take on a harebrained research idea at the conclusion of my studies.

If I hadn't pursued that harebrained idea, then I wouldn't have realized how much stuff I'd collected through the years, or how much I needed a fresh start, or how cathartic three months and a car full of necessities could be.

If I hadn't spent three months driving around the country, then I wouldn't have realized that North Dakota is stunning, or that eastern Montana looks like Nevada, or that Idaho tries to kill Eastern drivers, or that I have bridge and cliff issues, or that SFU has an on-campus hotel, or that Seattle is super-hilly, or that the Oregon coast is the most relaxing place in the world, or that California's not the same without Grandpa Mel, or that beat-up pickup trucks and cowboy hats can be accompanied by country or Tejano and they're still just right.

If I hadn't had to balance work and research and driving and planning, then I wouldn't have had to find a way to avoid southern California at the same time I avoided a diagonal swath of overpriced eclipse lodgings.

If I hadn't decided on Tehachapi and Laughlin and Flagstaff, then I never would have found my way to the one place in the country that I had no particular desire to go.

If I hadn't spent a week in the oldest new place I'd ever been, then I never would have realized that Albuquerque feels like a place I've always known.

If I hadn't been enchanted by Albuquerque, then I wouldn't have had such a great visit with an old new friend, or met a new new friend with whom I share old new friends, or spent all one day baking in the blazing sunshine amid flora and fauna and a fantastic zoo train.

If one of my old new friends hadn't been taken down by the heat, then I wouldn't have been wandering around plazas and patios by myself late on a Sunday afternoon, which made all the difference. 

If I hadn't left Albuquerque, then I wouldn't have cruised across the open grassland of Texas and Oklahoma, or stumbled across the Ozarks where I did not expect to find them, or arrived outside Chicago wishing to be literally anywhere else.

If my contact for the Chicago conference hadn't been translating for displaced neighbors in the middle of a hurricane in Houston, then I never would have realized how out of place I truly was.

If I hadn't felt so out of place, then I never would have shared a table with a lovely family at IKEA, who restored my faith in basic courtesy with smiles and quick translations.

If I hadn't wanted to avoid the awkwardness of conference programs, then I wouldn't have been able to experience a late summer sunset at the Mother Temple of the West.

If I hadn't needed to kill time before my next scheduled interviews, then I wouldn't have spent a week in Nashville.

If I hadn't been in Nashville, then I couldn't have caught up with one of my favorite childhood pals, nor stumbled into two of the most delightful and useful research interviews of the whole trip.

If I hadn't completed those interviews, then I couldn't have taken the backroads through the grassland and mountains of Tennessee and Kentucky and Virginia.

If I hadn't stopped for three days in a mountain hotel in Virginia, then I wouldn't have met my deadlines and I wouldn't have gotten sick.

If I hadn't gotten sick, then I would have been much more fun wandering the battlefields in the Virginia Piedmont and visiting friends in DC and I wouldn't have been so afraid that I might have infected my interview subjects in DC and Philadelphia (as well as my wonderfully welcoming hostess).

If I hadn't spent the next six weeks in familiar territory, then I couldn't have realized that I needed to get my ducks in a row before changing everything altogether.

If I hadn't found a place to sit still and get things done this winter, then I couldn't be planning for my next small adventure right now, reading calendars of events forwarded by a new new friend, comparing travel plans with an old new friend, crossing important tasks off my lists, thinking about coffee options, and counting down days. 

And if I wasn't doing all of that, then I couldn't be clicking through Trulia and planning my next big adventure ... in a place that sees far fewer grey days and nearly never experiences slush falling from the sky.

The Human IKEA?

For the last several days, my living room has smelled of birch veneer and plywood. That's because I was in Boston for the weekend, which provided the opportunity to veer sideways and take my list of IKEA needs to what I fondly think of as Little Sweden.

I've been considering for some time how to make sure I can actually get to my office supplies and files and writing books. And printer, for that matter. In day-to-day life, I just carry around my laptop and a Staples ARC planner. But sometimes, I do need to use a Post-It or my stapler. Stowing them in plastic tubs stacked to chest height behind other things was not proving an appropriate storage plan. 

Enter the Kallax system of versatile cube shelving, with drawer inserts and seagrass boxes to reduce my exposure to the dust that rivals only cats, according to my allergist.

Do I live at least three hours from the nearest IKEA store? You betcha. Could I have had some pieces of this system shipped to me? Sure. All pieces? Of course not! Besides, a $5.99 plate of chicken meatballs, gravy, lingonberries, mashed potatoes, and veggies doesn't arrive with every shipment. But it does accompany every visit to Little Sweden. 

In this case, Sunday at IKEA Stoughton was less packed than it could have been. Fresh off 45 hours at the Boston University/Boston Globe Power of Narrative conference, I needed the chance to process the reflections offered by exceptional writers. Strolling through the ruthlessly organized showroom and marketplace offered that opportunity.

The weekend didn't provide "lessons" so much as "refreshers," which was encouraging. It's been 20+ years since I took a basic journalism class, after all, and more than a year since I completed my master's in creative nonfiction. I'd spent much of the conference mumbling vague answers to versions of, "What do you do?" But more on that in a minute.

I realized as I looked back at my notes that I'd jotted down amusing turns of phrase more than useful information. That might have been because much of the content seemed to target the students in the room more than it did the folks who'd been working through the practicalities of the field for years. I spent a chunk of my time comparing notes in my head between the stringent requirements of reporting hard news and the freedom that a book's artistic structure offers to a writer.

Case in point? Sacha Pfeiffer (Boston Globe Spotlight team) and Emily Steele (The New York Times), who are both brilliant investigative journalists. discussed the need to get their sources on record describing in clear and clinical terms how they'd been touched by priests and celebrities. The point was to fully convey to their readers exactly what the level of abuse was within the power dynamics they described. Meanwhile, I was thinking about my specific decision not to press my sources about the details of their torture sessions, but instead to take my readers right up to the line where a source's eyes plead not to go further ... and then to use exposition gathered from in-depth, verified testimony to describe the nature and pattern of torture techniques in the same prison in a similar timeframe. It's a technique that works to preserve dignity and reveal truth in a book, but not in an investigative news article or series.

So what were some of those turns of phrase I mentioned?

  • "We come to these things to rub shoulders with people and maybe pick up a couple of things." - Barry Newman (Wall Street Journal), describing the purpose of professional conferences
  • "I say what I want to say, even though you know these wingnuts are gonna call your job." - Best-selling author Roxane Gay, explaining her perspective on whether she considers her audience's potential reaction when writing her essays
  • "I hate that word, peg. 'What are you going to peg it to?' I'm gonna peg it to fuck all, that's what." - Roxane Gay, getting into the relationship between her personal essays and news and current events
  • "Narrative can be the enemy of truth." - HuffPost Editor-in-Chief Lydia Polgreen, on the need for straight reporting as well as narrative technique
  • "News is what happened yesterday. It's always past tense. If you hear somebody talking in the future tense, turn that shit off. It's opinion." - Senior News Researcher Caryn Baird (Tampa Bay Times and Politifact), describing the importance of vetting facts before reporting anything (and facts are things that have happened, not things that might happen)
  • "You're the intelligent agent. The computer is stupid." - Caryn Baird, on the need to search alternate spellings, time ranges, locations, and more that a computer can't currently suss out
  • "I use the 'if you give a mouse a cookie' approach to sources who distrust the media or you." - Claire Galofaro (Associated Press), explaining how she introduces herself and starts a conversation, then asks if she can take notes, then asks if she can record
  • "My opinion doesn't matter. I'm just one person." - Ellen Gabler (The New York Times), on separating personal feelings from her role in reporting a hard news story
  • "I don't think we're advocates as journalists. I think we're truth-tellers and we need to remember that." - Claire Galofaro, describing how she approached writing about life in Appalachia amid the current political environment (and drew heat from both ends of the political spectrum, which told her she'd achieved her goal of balanced reporting)

Over my plate of Swedish delights, I considered the range of fascinating details I'd picked up throughout the weekend. Something that stood out was the way in which some of the women attendees asked their questions of the speakers. 

One mentioned the challenges of "asserting while female," while others seemed to be looking for permission from an authority (whatever that means) to do ... something. I don't even know what. I just know that I've never been aware that I was supposed to wait for permission from anyone, for anything. So I haven't. Perhaps that's among the reasons why I infuriate everyone I know at one time or another. 

So why had I been dodging questions about what I write all weekend? I told you I'd get back to this. Well. Because when I did my undergraduate work and even for several years after that, I wore my white hat. The journalist hat. The truth-teller hat. The principled realist hat. And then, 15 years ago or so, I stumbled over into custom publishing, sponsored content, and content marketing. While it was a necessary financial decision, it also felt like a sell-out. To someone trained as a journalist, marketers wear black hats. They spin the truth. They set out to alter opinions. They obfuscate. And nothing will make a trained-journalist-turned-marketer feel the weight of the black hat more than returning to the land of the white hats. 

That is, after all, a good part of why I went back and got my MFA ... so that I could begin to bridge my way back to a white hat. It's also why I am much more comfortable working under my own name ... so that I have some control over the companies with whom I collaborate as a marketer and can don a semi-altruistic grey hat.

And with all of those thoughts swirling in my head, I prepared to set off into the depths of Swedish Furniture Disneyland in search of my multipurpose shelving system. It could be a bookcase. With the right pieces, it could be a hutch. Or a sideboard. Or a room divider. Possibly a Murphy bed. It could, in fact, be hacked into all sorts of furniture and decorating solutions.

Professionally, I think, that's me. I span the gamut. Bridge the gaps. Combine skills and experiences, theory and knowledge. And offer something not just general, but in fact, able to be reconfigured and redeployed in all sorts of situations and circumstances. I am, perhaps, a human IKEA, in the sense of writing and content. I just smell less like plywood and particle board.

Welcoming a New Day

The young woman waiting on our private party knelt down next to my chair, her brown hair and eyes catching the flickering light of the candles on the table. "What are you all celebrating?"

I could only imagine what she'd been watching all evening. A table of close to 20 friends with accents and skin tones across the spectrum, in a range of ages spanning more than 40 years. Heads thrown back. Eyes sparkling. Voices chattering away, first one way and then the other. 

We'd wrapped her up in the good cheer and good manners. She'd heard a part of our prayer. And between the vases of roses on the table and the decorated cakes waiting in the kitchen, she knew she was part of something special.

"We're members of the Baha'i Faith." I though best to start at the beginning.

"It's a religion like Christianity or Judaism or Islam. You can check it out online if you want, just go to We believe that religions are like chapters in a book, and that this is the newest one, with teachings that are especially intended for the world right now." She leaned closer, intent on learning something new.

"Our new year begins on the first day of spring. We call it Naw-Ruz, which is a Persian ... Iranian ... word for new day. So, the first new day of the year, on the first new day of spring. For the 19 days leading up to this, the last month of the Baha'i year, we fast from sunrise to sunset, so when we break the fast at Naw-Ruz, we often get together to share a meal. And that's what we're doing today, since the fast ended last night."

She smiled, testing the new words. "Baha'i ... Naw-Ruz ... new day. That's so beautiful!"

A few minutes later, as our hostess for the evening was trying to figure out how to get everyone in frame so she could snap a photo with her tablet, the waitress walked over to her. "You should be in the picture! I can take this!"

And, when we'd all shuffled into place, from behind the silver block she held up to face us and, as if she'd been saying the words all her life, she called out, "Happy Naw-Ruz!!" 

Her words and the surprised grins they sparked put the icing on the cake made up of these last few days.

After all, Mr. Khanjani and his colleague, Mr. Tizfahm, were released from prison over the weekend. That dear man whom I've come to know vicariously has (I understand) finally been able to offer prayers at the grave of his extraordinary wife, some eight years after her funeral, which he was not allowed to attend.

As for me, I am determined this year, as I said a year or so ago, that I will honor the holy days on which Baha'is are supposed to suspend work, because it is the smallest bit of solidarity I can show with my coreligionists who are punished for stopping work on these days. And of course, because I am sticking to this, this week has turned out to be exceptionally busy.

My best solution was to put my computer on my desk, my phone in my pocket, and my email on stun. Just before sunset last night, I took myself to the nearest Moe's and ordered a Homewrecker, chips, and queso, which I took home to enjoy along with the 2009 version of Emma on Amazon Prime. Upon checking my email one last time, I discovered a message that made my night. And when I woke this morning, I dawdled over a book before joining a rarely visited friend for a mid-day snack and an afternoon-long, wide-ranging conversation, before heading off to dinner.

On both the major and minor fronts, it does seem to be a bright new day. 

Where to Go From Here?

Yep, this week I've been asking the big questions. That's what happens when my to-do list is so long and varied that it seems impossible, winter just keeps going, and I'm nearly sitting on my hands to keep from spending money on anything not directly related to upcoming travels, necessary office organization, or the acquisition of a kitchen table ... in that order. 

Paralysis has essentially set in at the worst possible time. Exactly when I need to be launching forward on multiple fronts, I'm standing in one place and spinning in circles, it seems. My brain won't settle down, my body is too settled down, and my heart (as always) remains an unreliable contributor to the conversation. A bad combo if ever there was one.

I've decided the best approach is to continue to pare down things I don't need in the five categories of "stuff":

  • Physical stuff, which I've been jettisoning with a fairly high degree of comfort because I'm not using it, I have no one to pass it down to, and someone else might love it dearly and let it serve a purpose that I no longer do.
  • Digital stuff, which is threatening to drown me, since it's so easy to bookmark or capture things "for later." I have files that I still need or want to keep, just in case. I also have far too many photos that have never been culled, lots of bits of info that I used and forgot to delete, and work files that I will never have cause to consult again, ever.
  • Mental stuff, which I stockpile without effort or consideration and which then turns me into a human encyclopedia open to everyone I know. And I'm not just talking about work details that I need to retain for my clients' sake. Oh, no. Details of medical procedures. Lists of things I want to do or try. Dates and names and places and interesting bits of trivia and song lyrics and family lore and accents and ... it's rather exhausting to be on constant recall, honestly.
  • Emotional stuff, which I've done a decent job of trimming, pruning, and tossing over the fence in recent years in the name of bygones and openness. I just haven't replanted anything in those spaces. Which has both allowed an encroachment by the physical, digital, and mental ... and also left me interacting mostly on the surface. It's not my natural depth and it's deeply unfulfilling.
  • Spiritual stuff, which might seem strange coming from someone who doesn't shy away from talking about the interconnectedness of spiritual, physical, emotional, and mental realities. But I still need to gather up all my own garbage and periodically find a convenient spiritual dumpster into which I can offload it. Of course, this gets tied up with the emotional stuff too ... it's why I value close and meaningful friendships or relationships and shy away quickly from insincerity.

With luck, just picking away at those five fields will uncover some gems of opportunity and energy, some new ideas to pursue, and a few nuggets of shimmering gold inspiration. 

And if that doesn't work, then when I have a few days off while I'm in New Mexico this spring, I'll find a bench in the sun in a plaza somewhere with Andean music or Tejano or a brass band or strings and I'll park myself there for an afternoon to think and plan and watch the world go by ... and remind myself what it feels like to be going somewhere.

A Little ... and Slowly

Yo entiendo más que yo hablo. After an eight-day streak of racing through the beginner and intermediate sections on Duolingo, the app tells me that I am 50 percent fluent in Spanish. I'm guessing that's the half made up entirely of reading and listening comprehension. I understand more than I speak.

"You read in Spanish today. Is that because you love it or because you're trying to preserve a family connection?" The friend who asked the question slips seamlessly between unaccented lower-48 American English and the bright, fast roll of an adopted West Indian home, so it's a fair question.

Being a child of Northern California and the western Nevada desert, I spent my earliest days surrounded by the reassuring sound of Mexican Spanish. At the gas station, in the grocery store, on the street ... over the burritos on the coffee shop's weekly buffet. Some of my classmates were first- or second-generation American. Others were the children of the migrant workers who tended and harvested the broad fields of green alfalfa and pungent onions on the outskirts of town.

A continent away, when it was time to choose a language to study in school, I had only two choices: French or Spanish. Many of my classmates chose French, thinking they'd never use either, but at least we were closer (by far) to Canada than Mexico. I, of course, chose Spanish. Not only because I preferred it, but because I was certain that it would be useful. French is common among diplomats. Spanish is common among humans.

Thus began six years of study in junior high and high school, followed by four years of study in college, leading to a minor in the subject, despite never using it outside a classroom in the northeastern United States. In all that time, I had one or maybe two instructors who were native speakers, and one or both of them spoke the fast Spanish of the islands. All of my other instructors spoke Spanish as a second language, picked up in an organized fashion in Puerto Rico, or the Dominican Republic, or Thpain. They didn't speak the language I heard in my head. Yet still, when I was in high school and stood to read a prayer at a Baha'i event, a Colombian friend of my family looked up to see who the Mexican girl was. 

Is there a family connection to the language? Only tangentially. People are frequently disappointed when they see my last name and anticipate meeting someone Hispanic, only to find my pale Irish, Swedish, English, western European face in the room. For that, I give credit to my great-great-great grandfather Magnus. A mercenary with the Swedish army during the Napoleonic wars, the unfortunate man bore a too-common last name. [NOTE: A cousin has informed me that Magnus was too young for the Napoleonic wars, and was a hussar, or mounted soldier in the light cavalry.] And so, being assigned to a garrison where, we presume, he was one of several with the same name, he was given what's called a "garrison name." In short, in the days before service numbers, the Swedish army would simply and legally change soldiers' last names to make them distinct from one another. 

Magnus was given the last name Gomez. Unlike most soldiers who legally switched their garrison names back to their original last names when they left the service, Magnus decided to keep his. However, when he went to register it at the local parish, the Right Reverend Whomever pointed out that no Swede would be able to pronounce it, because that lingual construction doesn't exist in the Swedish language. Thus, we acquired a "T" and became Gometz.

My entire family is a little contrary about quite a few things. I come from a long line of people who simply don't follow the rules. Or, more correctly, they don't see the rules as they're blasting right past them. So I have no doubt that Magnus kept the name because it would annoy someone or otherwise set him apart from the crowd.

Perhaps the Swedes could have used a rudimentary Duolingo so that they would know how to talk about ducks and bears (not a frequent topic that arises in my life) and wine and beer (neither of which I drink, so, again, not exactly useful). I'm finding that the app is helpful at jogging my memory and recovering skills that are about a half-step above "Where's the bathroom?" 

What it's not doing, though, is improving my ability to pull words and sentences out of thin air when I might speak to someone who thinks in Spanish, even if they speak English as well or better than I do. Perhaps that's part of what appeals to me so much about the move I'm considering. It offers a little bit of a fresh start and a re-do at the same time, putting me someplace where more than one set of my skills might be brushed up and put to work for the benefit of myself and others. 

For now, though, my answer to all questions about moving plans and "Do you speak Spanish?" remains, "Un poco, y lentamente." A little ... and slowly. With luck, I'll have better answers, faster, after I visit my potential new home this spring.

Remembering an Old Friend

I strolled back to the couch after dinner tonight, intent on my scoopful of racial justice ice cream. If Ben & Jerry's thinks that One Sweet World, a caramel-coffee base with ribbons of salted caramel and marshmallow, and a hefty mix of chocolate chunks, somehow improves race relations, I will happily do my part for the cause. (Yes, that's said very spoon-in-cheek. While I celebrate the effort at raising awareness, race unity requires more friendships and, possibly, fewer slogans.)

As I was saying ... I'd just gotten dessert and was making my way back to the living room. I had in mind the idea of downloading Duolingo so that I can, in my spare time, try to reclaim at least part of the vocabulary I gained from studying Spanish for eight or 10 years straight. Now, some 20 years or so after I last sat in a classroom, I've realized that I can only speak in the present and, when the grammar gods are friendly, past tenses. This is a problem when I'm rather focused on the future. It seems that a refresher is in order. Claro que sí. 

In any case, that's what I thought I would be doing. Instead, the last segment of the evening news caught my ear. There was Dolly Parton, at the Library of Congress, reading her Coat of Many Colors, book number 100 million contributed to that institution. And singing her song that preceded the book by many, many years.

Which, of course, immediately had tears welling up in my eyes, as it always does. Because, you see, the year my parents and I ate squirrel, and quail, and venison, and blackberries picked alongside the road, and the basics that food stamps provided ... that year, my mom made my doll clothes and some of my clothes, too.

The best thing she made that year, though, was my very first backpack, for my very first day of kindergarten. And I think of it every time I hear this song. It has an artful seam down the middle of it. Exactly the same seam that ran down the outside of my Grandpa Mel's olive green polyester/denim work pants. And on the flap, with its super-strong snap that is still hard for me to close, my initials are spelled out in scraps of fabric, decoratively whip-stitched around the edges in bright thread. 

On my first day of school, and for a couple of years after that, my backpack was the prettiest one in the room. No matter what anyone else was carrying.

I knew we didn't have money at the time. But I never thought we were poor. And for that, I thank my parents ... and my pants-leg backpack that served me so well. 

"...  one is only poor,
Only if they choose to be.
Now I know we had no money,
But I was rich as I could be
In my coat of many colors
My momma made for me ..."

Find Your Family

The sonar ping from my phone snapped my head away from my computer screen one evening last week. I glanced at the text alert and grinned.

The string of emojis translated to: "Phone handset. Phone handset. Transistor radio. Analog TV. Typewriter. Film projector. VHS tape. 35mm camera. Floppy disk. Clamp. Apple watch. Computer monitor. iPhone. iPhone. iPhone. iPhone."

Without hesitation, I texted back: "Rose. Dragon. Gorilla."

The response came a few days later: "Analog TV. Apple watch. and Pink bow. Bed. Dancing twins. Cool sunglasses smiley. Nerd glasses smiley?"

I waited 48 hours and replied: "Mermaid. Heart with a bow. Snowman. Donut. Waving hand. Cool sunglasses smiley."

This might all make more sense when you know that my correspondent was a 12-year-old girl whom I have know since she was born. I've known her dad since we were both about 13, and her mom since we were in our mid-20s. My young emoji pal was the first child born into our gang of friends and, until her brother came along a couple of years later, we joked that all of her friends were over five feet tall. 

Last summer, I had the opportunity to spend a few days with my mini-pal and her family at their home in Seattle. It was the first time I'd had a long visit with them since our crew of pals began popping off in different directions four or five years ago. In addition to their cross-country move, two other families headed out to Portland. One of the men moved to Africa, where he married and welcomed a son. Another family moved closer to home, but far enough away that visits require a plan. One of the women just married recently and moved into the deep woods of New England with her husband. The few who stayed local have kids, and homes, and priorities that are (as they should be) vastly different from what they were back when my emoji-happy buddy was a baby. 

Still, from minute one, when I stepped out of the car in a hilltop neighborhood in the Emerald City, I was back with my people. The kids were excited to show off new skills and new favorite places. And new texting capabilities. Their dad was thrilled to show off his office building. And their mom and I ran away for a day to wander the markets and sample the local delicacies and catch up on the kinds of conversations that deeply trusted old friends have when they reconnect, no matter how long it's been.

Since then, now and again, a string of emojis periodically appears on my phone. Just one of my kid-friends, saying hi. And I'm more than happy to send a hi right back. 

I was reminded of that this weekend, when another of those grand friends was in town briefly with her husband and girls. Over diner breakfasts, we skipped all of the small talk and got straight to the things that mattered. The color of skis. The state of their front-yard luge run. Help needed. Happy developments. Plans and planes and news of mutual friends.

Still another friend from farther back, just weeks ago, called on all of us from elementary and high school (now twenty- to thirty-mumble years back) in the final hours of her mom's life. Despite being on opposite sides of a continent, communicating by group messages, the waves of love and support that flowed that night were palpable. If we'd been in the same place, there's no doubt we would all have dropped everything to make food, sit in waiting rooms, or fiercely defend the family's space and time to gather themselves.

I have a few local friends who are my go-tos, and who will remain pals even if I take off for parts unknown. And no matter where I go, my gang of friends goes with me in heart and spirit, even if it takes years to see one another in person.

So, as I look ahead this year, it's the people who fit like that who are the ones I want to find. Wherever I go, I'll be looking out for the people who feel like family from the start. They're the ones who make a place worth being while you're there. And they're the ones who have your back, no questions asked, no matter where you go, down the road.

Some Words on Love

We've hit the point in the winter when my full attention is split between the seemingly endless list of big things I need to accomplish on every front, immediately if not sooner, and the awareness that the current layer of ice is likely to hang around until April. We've also hit Valentine's Day, a holiday with which I have a highly adversarial relationship. 

So, in light of that, my Valentine's Day gift to you comes in the form of just a few great words on love ... from people other than me.

“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.”
― Jalaluddin Mevlana Rumi

“When we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too.” ― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

"I met in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat was threadbare—there were holes at his elbows; the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul." — Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

"If I love you, I need not continually speak of my love—you will know without any words. On the other hand if I love you not, that also will you know—and you would not believe me, were I to tell you in a thousand words, that I loved you." ― Abdu'l-Bahá

“If nature has made you for a giver, your hands are born open, and so is your heart; and though there may be times when your hands are empty, your heart is always full, and you can give things out of that—warm things, kind things, sweet things—help and comfort and laughter ...” ― Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess

“As you wish ...” ― William Goldman, The Princess Bride

A Word About 'Mentoring'

About 10 years ago, give or take a few, I got an email from the head honcho in my office, which was one of three across the country that made up an ambitious, culture-driven marketing company. Two of my colleagues received the same message.

We were all women. We were all managers of teams and or task sets. We were all invested in what we did. And we were all acknowledged as valuable contributors in one way or another. 

We all, also, had no idea why we were being summoned to the principal's ... erm, chief strategy officer's ... office. We were pretty sure that none of us had done anything to jeopardize the health and well-being of the business. And none of us could recall having irked the same person or group of people in recent days. (We all routinely irked someone, just not the same someone at the same time.)

Together, our crew of 30-something females jogged up the steps to the glass-walled office above the bullpen in our retrofitted factory office building. One slim, high-strung, tall and blond, in conservative, very fashionable business wear. One strong, dark-haired, in a trendy casual outfit that belied her art career. And me, calmer, shorter, wider, and (never the clothes horse) likely in jeans and a sweater, because that's what I almost always wore.

Our CSO met us at the door. Then in his early or mid-50s, he bore a striking resemblance to an outdoor catalog model. Whip-smart, generous, ethically tough (and ruggedly masculine, athletic, and well-dressed), he no longer inspired awe among the three of us. We'd all been there for close to or just more than five years. And while we didn't always agree with his decisions, we certainly respected them and granted him a degree of trust that he'd earned by sharing the reasons for those decisions ... even the ones with which we disagreed.

With varying levels of grace, we dropped into the armchairs and sofas in his office. I teased the boss about knowing how meetings with no topic on 15 minutes notice were rarely good. He grinned and got right to the point.

The leadership team guarded the company culture with a remarkable level of zeal. Once a year, the entire staff, in all three offices across the country, took an exhaustive survey that gauged satisfaction and areas for improvement. The whole staff saw the results and the comments, every time. Staff volunteers joined managers and executives on task forces mandated to improve troubling situations or to investigate options and ideas. 

In the most recent survey, there had been a couple of comments about the lack of female leadership or mentorship. When the executive team got together to discuss the results, they looked around the table and noted that there was only one woman among the four or five faces. (The chief financial officer, widely respected as a brilliant financial mind, compassionate and dedicated team leader, talented triathlete, and all-around good egg.)

We nodded. In a growing company spread across two nonconsecutive time zones, the executive team was admirably small, with widening, cross-office circles of senior vice presidents, vice presidents, directors/managers, and specialists ranging from senior levels of experience to fresh-from-college assistants. 

Our fearless leader dove into the issue at hand. "Well, the executive team was discussing ideas about how to improve that situation. The idea of creating women's groups in each office came up. There was some thought that it might give women the opportunity to get to know one another better, to talk through challenges, mentor one another, build a network ..."

We three women assiduously avoided one another's eyes as we listened to the idea and the rationale for it. The one man in the room began to develop a mirthful twinkle.

"I said I wanted to talk to you three before something like that rolled out. There are a few others being consulted in the other offices, too. So, what do you think?"

"Fuck that!" 

"Yep. What she said."

"No fucking way." 

We all remained totally relaxed in our seats, a leg tucked up in the chair here, arms folded there.

"And that's why I asked the three of you!"

All four of us roared with laughter, exchanging understanding glances around the room. 

After the first reactions burst forth, our conversation turned respectful while remaining candid. All three of us thanked the CSO for asking our opinions and explained that we didn't just answer for ourselves, but for the women reporting to us. We expressed our gratitude that the C-suite had taken seriously the concerns in the survey and recognized the need for some level of attention that they, nearly all men, might be ill-equipped to provide.

Then, we pointed down to the open office space below. Of the 35 to 40 people at our site, only somewhere between four and seven were men, including the one speaking to us, and that stasis had existed for years, even with staff turnover. Every senior-level manager and all but one manager at our level, in our office, was female. One of the other offices skewed more male across all levels; the other was more evenly weighted. But in our office, the last thing we needed were more women exerting their personal opinions about professional growth.

All three of us explained that we wanted to learn from the people who did what they were doing best, whether they were women, men, or salamanders.

What we didn't want to do was to make institutional the unique challenges that often arose in a female-dominated workplace: cattiness, insecurity, a double standard for mothers and childless women, and the sense that senior women or entrenched peers sometimes felt threatened by forthright and rising talent. In short, we wanted those senior to us to advocate for and encourage us the same way we all tried to advocate for and encourage the women and men reporting to us. If anything, we explained, we actually found the executive team, men though they were, more invested in the unique talents and success of people at our level.

We also discussed the fact that we rarely noticed whether we had men or women on our teams, unless we were dealing with a client who disregarded the female team leads. We kidded our CSO about sitting at the table when we needed his backup. That's because, when we asked him to attend meetings with clients who responded better to men, he arrived smiling and suave. Then, he introduced us like rockstars and deflected every question posed to him to the team member best suited to answer it. It just so happened that every one of those team members were female.  

I don't agree with everything the man did. Nor everything the rest of that C-suite did. It would be nearly impossible for that to be the case! 

For me, personally, though, our CSO was quite possibly the first person in a leadership position who verbalized a challenge that I have always faced. In reviews from my peers, I sometimes ran across the word "condescending." I don't doubt for a minute that I may have, at times, sounded condescending (or even been condescending). More often than not, though, I was actively trying to avoid triggering that perception. 

That particular leader finally put together that his wife, an accomplished and respected university professor, also often faced the impression that she was "condescending." Having heard her speak, he'd realized that what he considered sounding "knowledgeable" and "authoritative" was what her reviewers (and mine) deemed "condescending." Therefore, while it was something to be aware of, there was only so much that I could or should change.  

By taking the opportunity to help me polish my rough edges and excel in the areas where I was naturally inclined, he helped me build a great deal of confidence and experience. His interest, guidance, and compassion have stuck with me.

I dislike the word "mentor," as a general rule, because it still implies an ongoing hierarchical relationship. I prefer "friend" or "colleague" or "compatriot." But whatever the name, the task is still the same. It's not just upon the student to learn, but upon the more advanced student to teach, and to open doors, and to support development.

I've tried to do that for the women and men who reported to me or with whom I interacted. Sometimes, I think I succeeded. A few years ago, a bright and very capable college intern was taking notes for me during a series of interviews with world-renowned scientists at a global corporation. I told her before we walked into the room that I wasn't introducing her as an intern, and that if she heard something that she thought needed more detail, she should ask a follow-up question. Months later, long after I'd forgotten the event, she gave me a note thanking me for making her feel like she was a real member of the team and belonged at her place at that table. 

With all of that history behind me, it's no wonder that a Facebook post this morning caught my attention. It announced a new initiative from Lean In called #MentorHer. It's a movement encouraging men to mentor and advocate for women in the same way they may mentor and advocate for other men.

It appears that an unanticipated, but predictable, ramification of the #MeToo efforts is that men in the workplace are avoiding one-on-one interaction with female colleagues and subordinates, out of fear that the situation will somehow be misconstrued. This does a great disservice to businesses as a whole and to women who may (as I did) rely upon their male colleagues to help them blaze their own trail.

Clearly, the answer isn't to shut women out of what's considered "normal" interaction. Instead, it's to become even more invested in the success of capable women in all fields. And, it's to change the idea of what "normal" is, so that it's no longer defined by gender, but by capacity, capability, and character.