An improvised life

I lived in a co-op for my last two years of college. I left the dorm and my sweet roommates for various reasons including a generalized anti-establishment streak, but it was mostly about food. I couldn't deal with the mass-market feel of the dining hall, I wanted to make toast in the middle of the night, and I needed to bake cookies for therapy.   The co-op was a glutton's paradise. We snacked on chocolate chips from a 25-pound box. Eight loaves of fresh bread came out of the oven every night. I developed an addiction to hot chili sesame oil, which we ordered by the case, and which I smothered on rice and ramen. When I graduated and moved out, I forgot my laundry in the dryer and literally lost all of my favorite clothes, but I remembered to grab a bottle of hot chili sesame oil.  I was leaving Boston and heading to Alaska for a summer job studying the temperate rainforest. There would be bears and big trees and whales and glaciers. There would not, I feared, be a ready supply

Today I participated in a forum called Faith and Blue, an event spearheaded by the Juneau Police Department in association with a national weekend of activities organized by law enforcement and religious communities. The flyer notes, "National Faith & Blue weekend is a collaborative effort to build bridges and break biases." Since we don't have a resident rabbi, I got to play one on TV. The program will be edited and posted to Facebook. I'll share a link when it's available.  I was struck by the genuine caring and concern of everyone who participated, how much our cultural, religious, and racial identities shape our experience of the world, and the difference between those whose views centered in belief in Jesus Christ as savior/answer and those with more secular or humanist orientations. I have always felt that being Jewish was inextricably linked to my views of justice, and this project deepened my understanding of that connection.  At Alder's Bar Mitzva

Among the things I found after John died were 24 cans of Rainier beer in an outside pocket of his hockey bag. Yes, it was a massive bag – a goalie bag, though John didn’t play goal.  I got rid of most of his stuff pretty efficiently when he died, some of it with unabashed glee. The boxes of old magazines he carted through each move, fraying 1986 copies of Mother Jones and Utne Reader he was always going to get to. I brought 17 boxes to paper recycling. I doled skis and jackets to friends and family. I gave away his skates. But something stopped me from giving away the hockey bag, and I’m pretty sure it was the beer.  It’s a bit ironic given that I don’t even drink beer. I think I realized that case of beer stuffed in his hockey bag and smuggled into the rink was quintessential John. He was never one to travel light, a habit that continually irked me. But who was the hero at Happy Camp, three days into a Chilkoot Trail backpack trip, when he pulled out a complete copy of the Sunday New

Last night I talked to a friend who lamented the unsolicited advice others feel entitled to offer. Her family is going through hard times, and there are difficult decisions to be made. But she did not ask for advice.    I told her I’ve learned there’s one consequence of trauma people don’t warn you about: trauma serves as an invitation to others to peer into your life and advise. Most of it is well-meaning. But it quietly robs you of self-efficacy. It can trigger a spiral of dependence and self-doubt.    Over the last decade, my husband died, my best friend died, and I went from a paragon of health to a double-cancer survivor. The hardest part has been an erosion of my sense of self.    In addition to the Big Things – the death and disease – there were more insidious ways I felt my agency ebb. Complicated relationships. Giving up my work and professional identity to prioritize my children and my health. Moving seven times, not always by choice. Losing confidence that with enough grit,

Last year my Alaska driver’s license expired while I was living in Boston. After a week living on the edge, knowing I would rue this day but seeing little lawful alternative, I trudged into the Registry of Motor Vehicles, where an hour’s wait, a quick eye test and $30 bought me a Massachusetts license. Fast forward a year and I’m back in Alaska, buying a Subaru from Bellingham to replace the rusted-out one I sold on the way out. I need my Alaska driver’s license to avoid Washington sales tax, and to regain my bonafides. I google: I need a passport, social security number, proof of residence, knowledge test, and eye test. I make an appointment, which is mercifully simpler than in covid-times-Massachusetts where Rosie and I crawled over hot coals and transited the seventh circle of hell this summer to get her permit and license.    We won’t talk about what happened at my first appointment. (Why does a person need to know what coverage minimums you need when your insurance company takes c

I solved a Rubik’s cube last night. I started learning on the flight from Boston to Seattle as we were moving back to Juneau after three years. I like how planes limit my options and force me to slow down and focus. Without the Alaska Airlines crossword or meals (covid danger), we were even bored-er than usual, so I finally assented to Alder’s offer to teach me to cube.    I remember when the Rubik’s cube was all the rage in middle school. I made a few half-hearted attempts and never solved a single face. The Rubik’s cube always carried with it a vague whiff of failure. Then in December, for his Project-Based Learning class Alder was to choose something he didn’t know how to do and learn it.    “I think I want to learn to do a backflip,” he said.    My mind leapt to C-4 spinal cord injury, paralysis, and wheelchairs. “Mmmm,” I said, feigning neutrality.    “Or how to solve a Rubik’s cube.”   I shrugged. “Maybe that would be a little more practical.”    I got him a set of Speed Cubes fo