Life As a Pearl

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A Rush of Gratitude

I know this will be an unpopular opinion among my peoples, but upon his death I am forced to reflect on a certain degree of gratitude I feel for Rush Limbaugh. I grew up listening to him from the back seat of the car. My dad would tune in to his AM station all the way across Kansas, often turning it up loud to make out his words through the static. From a very young age, Rush's program taught me to question the adults—the "experts"—around me. I would hear his words and think to myself: That can't be right. Those words sound like hate, not love. My childhood was confusing. Whose wasn't? I spent a lot of time trying to parse all the mixed messages in a brain that really wasn't sophisticated enough to do that kind of work. As a result, I often felt confused. Out of place. A disappointment to the people I was supposed to be pleasing. But all that melted away whenever I heard Rush speak. Even through the static I could hear a message loud and clear: "Resist

It's Not the Same

Y'all. I'm in a mood. I am in a mood. And while it's not generally my style to blog condemnations, you've gone and caught me in a mood and I'm gonna say something. I opened my inbox today to an email about the domestic terrorist acts of 6 January 2021 that contained a statement that I want to share with you. I really do. But because I'm not sure what the rules are around directly quoting an email, I think the safest thing to do would be to paraphrase. This person said that what happened yesterday (which he referred to simply as violence) "punctuated" the feelings we've all been having about the "rioting, burning, looting, and violence" of the past year. He went on to talk in more detail about the Black Lives Matter protests of the past year using words like destruction, serious injury, and deaths. All of this about the BLM protests, and one tiny line about what happened yesterday: that it "punctuated" the feelings that have been

In the End, We All Become Stories

So. 2020 has been quite a thing, hasn't it? If I'm being real, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about the deaths. The racial reckonings. The soon-to-be-former president. What could I say that Trevor Noah hasn't said better? There's no material for me in a year like this. But as it comes to a close, I think I've found my niche—the one topic I feel like I can talk about with some authority: endings. Moving on The first definitive ending I remember was the summer between sixth and seventh grade. It was the year we came home from camp to see a moving truck in the driveway. Was that the real timing of it? Perhaps not. But it's the way I experience it in my memory. I went to camp with my friends and came home to an empty house and an open road. Saying goodbye The next ending saw me in a soccer field in the middle of the jungle, waving at a climbing plane and knowing that even though it was my parents who were flying away, it was their child

In the Background

Judging by my Instagram feed, K-12 kids are starting back to school in CO. After approximately 18 years at home in 2020, some are headed back into the germy trenches and others are unsuccessfully logging into 26 different apps and carefully choosing which Zoom background will go with their new sweatpants. And the question for parents across the nation is: How are you feeling? That's a lob, right? Pretty damn terrible ought to cover it. No choice was a good choice and many (most?) didn't get to choose anyway. OK, sure. There's maybe two people reading this who think COVID is a hoax. Hey, guys. I see you. I'm glad you keep reading my blog even though we're really different people. I'm also glad you'll be able to enjoy your kid-free time for the first time in 6 months. Truly. Mazel tov. For the rest of us, it's a fraught day. And when I try to think of how to answer that question— How are you feeling?— all I can think is that this feels just like getting s

What They Don't Tell You

Here's what the do tell you: every story they can remember about it going wrong. Anyone who's ever adopted a child will tell you it's like everyone has an inner Miss Rachel Lynde who just can't wait to say: "Adopting a girl ? Well I know someone who did that and it was just a disaster. She'll burn you to a crisp in your bed. That's what!" I'm sure it's the same if you have the audacity to birth twins or if, god forbid, you consider having more than the requisite 2.5 children. People have thoughts. And people love to think out loud. The truth is, you learn how to respond to what they tell you pretty quick. Or, I did. Every now and again someone will throw me a curveball; but there's not much a You must be so embarrassed to have said that won't cover. Transparent idiocy—what they do tell you—is easy to address. But in this time when people are learning to be more open about their privilege, their inadequacies, I'll just

These Streets Below the Moon

Although she's mentioned so rarely and in such passing that I either never knew or cannot remember her name, there are stories of a seer in my lineage. The stories dissipate before I can grasp them, like an asp of smoke from a heretical cone of incense—more insinuations of a gift than evidentiary tales. So it's no wonder I don't think of her often. No wonder I don't imagine at the possibilities of my own intuitions, this heritage as remote to me as the origins of my abnormally short pinkies or my unruly hair. But I thought of her today. * I tend to fancy myself an intentional person—a person who does things with purpose. But don't we always flatter ourselves with thoughts of who we wish we were? Maybe that's not your problem. But it's certainly mine because the truth is I'm a leaper, not a looker. Being intentional is exhausting and I'm always already tired. So I make most decisions, even big ones, on a whim. And I do it with alarmi