Intellectually Generous

Last week I went to my stepfather Al’s memorial. Al was a lifelong academic and my mother planned a funeral with speakers who could talk about that realm of his life.

All three speakers shared how intellectually generous Al had been. A former Ph.D. student talked about how Al never put his name on abstracts that she submitted even though he was supervising her experiments. “I didn’t do much work on these,” he’d say, “you did.” Another colleague recalled how much integrity Al had in his work. He didn’t chase multiple grants if he just needed one. 

A few days after I got home we had a staff meeting welcoming a new staff member. I planned an exercise, “flash bonding” that my friend Kate invented. I cut up little slips of paper with questions about our life history and put them into bowls. Then, in pairs, we answered different questions about our lives for three minutes then switched to another person. 

One of my partner's questions to me was, “what do you want to be remembered for?” I shared about my recent time at Al’s memorial and how struck I was by the memories of his generosity. “I don’t know if I am generous,” I said, “but I want to be. I want to be remembered that way.”

The next day, I attended the second part of a two-day training called Leadership for Leads. All of us are in leadership roles and the two-day workshop was meant to help us find our grounding in our positions. When asked about our definitions of leadership one participant said, “being a good leader is helping others rise through the ranks, even if they rise above you.” The facilitator invited us all to think about that idea. Would I be that generous? I had to think about it; it was hard to imagine what that would look like in my current role.

Yesterday afternoon I introduced our new staff person to their role as lead of an intergenerational writing program I started. I hired them to take my place so that I had time to support the other programs I manage. This new hire, literally half my age, was amazing. They were natural, capable, likable, and creative. I thought I would have to handhold them for a few months, but after seeing them in action I think I can set them free to lead on their own in a few weeks.

It was a great feeling to go to sleep last night and know that this program I love will be in good hands. I could step away now and support this young person to learn and grow and develop both the program and their skills. This morning I wrote an email to them sharing how well I thought they’d done and scheduled a meeting for debriefing and planning the next steps. 

I have a feeling they are going to grow this program, take it places I might not have thought to take it and I look forward to watching this process unfold. I’m 53 years old. I’ve had a long, full, professional life. The person taking on the program is 24, at the very beginning of their career. It feels right to sit on the sidelines and cheer them on. I wonder if that’s what Al’s student was feeling when she described him as “intellectually generous.” I really hope so. 

Mother's Day: This Year it Kind of Feels like Bullshit

 

Last week in a class I teach, the subject of mother’s day came up. The teenage assistant who helps me said, “I think on Mother’s Day my mother should celebrate me because when I was born she became a mother.” An elder in the class, a mother, replied, “Then you should celebrate her on your birthday. Do you really want to trade your birthday for Mother’s Day?”

I understand my assistant’s perspective. Being a mother is one of my greatest joys. It’s where I learn the most about myself and humanity. It’s where I am most humbled and most proud. I laugh my greatest laughs and shed my biggest tears in the role of being a mother. I do celebrate my daughter on this day because, without her, I wouldn’t be a mother. 

BUT, that perspective is troubling as well. In the grand scheme, without mothers, the planet would cease to exist. We would have no reproductive capacity. The world would die. So, on this day, on every day is real important to celebrate the mothers. 

Fall down on your knees people and thank the women who brought life to this earth. One day. It’s not much, not enough. 

Yesterday my friend Kate sent me an article, Of Course the Constitution Has Nothing to Say About Abortion in the New Yorker about this current debacle with Roe v. Wade. Here’s a quote:

Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito is surprised that there is so little written about abortion in a four-thousand-word document crafted by fifty-five men in 1787. As it happens, there is also nothing at all in that document, which sets out fundamental law, about pregnancy, uteruses, vaginas, fetuses, placentas, menstrual blood, breasts, or breast milk. There is nothing in that document about women at all.

Take that in. There is no mention of women in the constitution of the United States, but without women, without women who choose to go through pregnancy, give birth, and spend a hearty dose of their life’s energy raising the next generation, this country would not exist.

How incredibly galling this whole debate about reproductive freedom is. And, to reflect on it on Mother’s Day, a day when we celebrate this role — this significant, important, critical, life-giving role — women looking at a dystopic future that looks a lot like the Handmaid’s Tale. 

Being a mother is a joy but it’s also a sacrifice. As a mother, you are always thinking about someone else before you are thinking about yourself. There’s no choice. It’s biological. Even when I don’t want to be thinking about my daughter’s health and safety, even when I want a break, I can’t take it. I’m a mother. I chose that role. It’s in the fibers of my being. Yes, it’s a joy. And it’s fucking hard work.

What about the millions of women who don’t choose this role, who don’t want to be part of this Mother’s Day? Because they forgot to mention us in the drafting of the constitution, these women may be forced to take on a role that is a sacrifice, a role that forever changes their place in the world, their destiny.

Women all over the United States are getting cards and flowers and chocolates, little trinkets to say how important they are on Mother’s Day. But that’s all just junk. What about giving women something that really shows gratitude, something that truly honors this life-giving role? What about choice? That would be a real mother's Day gift.

An Ode to the Mail Lady

I’ve been cleaning out boxes and going through old letters. In the process, I uncovered a stack of letters from my late father. Dad died more than twenty-five years ago and most of the letters were written when I was in college. My father was very funny. In my freshman year, he wrote me a poem about homesickness entitled, “An Ode to a Girl Named Laura.”

I often write silly poems to my daughter, partner, and friends for birthdays and holidays. It’s when I feel most connected to my father. My daughter now writes me a silly poem every year on my birthday and mother’s day. She has the same quirkiness that my dad had, that I have and it delights me every time I get one of her poems. 

There’s a smiley mail carrier in my neighborhood. She doesn’t deliver my mail, but she serves the blocks around me and I often see her when I’m walking my dog Freckles. Freckles is a chubby little Shih Tzu and he attacks our poor mailman Troy. But whenever he sees the smiley female mail carrier he waddles up to her and sniffs her ankles. She always stops to say hi and laughs at how ridiculously slowly Freckles walks. She hoists her mailbag behind her so he can bend down to hold out her hand for him to sniff. 

This mail carrier seems young. But she’s been delivering mail around here for at least fifteen years so she can’t be that young. She wears a baseball hat with her ponytail sticking out of the back opening. Though she has a mask, she wears it down on her chin so I can see her wide smile when we pass each other. 

Even the mail carrier’s walk is happy. She always has a pep in her step; she reminds me of Huck Finn walking towards the pond to go fishing while his friends whitewash his aunt’s fence. Even though she’s delivering mail, it’s like she’s on a happy adventure.

I always appreciate seeing this mail carrier. Today when I passed her we had our usual smiley exchange. It was raining and she and Freckles and I were all wet. But she smiled and laughed and bent down to let Freckles smell her hand like she always does.

As she walk-skipped towards her mail van the beginning of a poem a la my father started forming in my head.

Here’s an ode to the happy mail lady.

Wears her hat to stay in the shady.

Smiles all over the neighborhood streets.

Petting every fat dog she meets.

She doesn’t know the impact she makes.

Just being herself is all that it takes

To brighten the days of neighbors she sees

As she cheerily walks beneath the big trees.

I’m thankful for the many hours she walks

to deliver each letter.

Just seeing her face always makes me feel better. 

I’m too shy to actually tell the mail lady how she makes me feel, but I hope my smile gives her some idea.

Let's Make a Forest

 

Lately, different friends have been talking about “getting the hell out of dodge.” People my age — late forties to early fifties — talk about moving out of Seattle. “It’s too dirty,” they say, “it’s gotten too big; it’s like San Francisco now.”

I take it hard when someone I know and love, someone who has become part of my community, wants to move away. “What about me?” I think to myself. “What about us? What we’ve created, built, sustained for all these years?”

I love my friends. I love my neighborhood and my neighbors. Last night my across-the-street neighbor called to ask me to keep an eye on her house because her husband’s wallet had been stolen. Someone had made a bunch of charges on his credit card. Her husband was going out of town and she was worried about being alone and a stranger having her address. “I know it’s ridiculous,” she said, “but I just want you to know.” I looked across the street before I went to bed and this morning I texted her to make sure all was well.

I love to share a cup of flour or borrow an egg from my neighbors. I love to walk down the street and clip parsley from my friend’s garden when I run out. I love watching the seasonal birds that rest on the wires outside my kitchen window. I love to watch my lilac bloom every year and see the new trees and plants neighbors plant every spring; I look forward to watching them grow year after year.

And the kids! I love to watch them grow up— seeing new parents emerge with their newborns in Baby Bjorns, then strollers, then walking them to preschool. Before I know it I’m watching the kids catch the bus on their own, eventually driving their parents’ cars to soccer practice and parties.

It’s true. Seattle has changed a lot. Housing rates are unfathomable for most home buyers. I was so relieved when a close friend of mine miraculously found a house she could afford within the city limits last week. The other option would have been for her to move to a county a car ride and ferry crossing away. And then she’d be gone, one of the lost ones.

My therapist says I am deeply loyal. That’s true. I hate to lose a friend. I hold on and fight till the bitter end. Whether a physical move out of town or an emotional break-up, I don’t accept it easily when a friend wants to move on. It feels like a waste, money down the drain. Why work hard to create something and then just walk away? 

Every week I bring my elderly neighbors a meal. There are three of them — one couple and one single man. I check in and see how they are faring. And every week I am amazed by these older neighbors — pillars of endurance and strength. All three of them are in their nineties. “I want to be like them,” I think to myself when I see them. I want to be an elder in my neighborhood, holding the history that lives here. They have been here almost as long as some of the trees that tower over the houses on our block.

I understand that there are many reasons to leave one’s home. Financial is only one reason. Another is that people change and grow; their needs and desires change. Some people have been biding their time in the city until they can retire and move to the country. I understand. I get it. But it still hurts my heart. I don’t want anyone to leave ever. “Stay close,” I want to say, “let’s not change anything. Let’s grow old together. Let’s feed our deep roots with the images of the life growing all around us.”

Last week while walking my dog I came upon three elderly women from the block up the hill from me. They were standing on a corner in front of one of their homes chatting. They waved me over so they could say hello to my dog. We introduced ourselves and the women shared with me that all three have lived in this neighborhood for over fifty years. They knew each other so well; they were old, familiar friends. They stood in the sun chatting casually but they inhabited the space powerfully, like old-growth Fir trees deep in the forest.

That’s what I want. I want to grow into an old tree with my friends and my community around me. I want to be as comfortable and familiar as the three elderly women up the street, so known to each other that they communicate like the mycelial network in the old-growth forests.

I know I am a dreamer. People will move on. I may move on one day too. Maybe when my daughter grows up and moves to another city far away I will feel called to her. If she has a family maybe my roots will not be strong enough to hold me here and I will want to create new ones closer to the ones she is laying down. 

But for now, I am committed to being here. I feel at home in this place— calm, grounded, and at peace. I want to keep growing my roots here. And I want all the other trees to stay close too. Together we make a beautiful forest.