Peonies: the only flower featured in my homemade wedding bouquet.
I experienced my first Midwest spring at the age of sixteen when I, a native Californian, attended boarding school in Missouri. The experience of that season was memorable and lingers even today.
Awed by scarlet redbud trees, bursting pink peonies, and carpets of purple violets, I remember feeling an odd restlessness, an overwhelmingly expectant sense that I now recognize as spring fever.
Redbuds are often the first blooms to arrive.
We teenagers sat in overheated classrooms that spring, shedding unnecessary clothing layers, and gazed longingly out the window at landscapes painted with more colors of green than I knew possible. Everything felt laden with yearning and newness.
White dogwood blossoms make their forest entrance.
It’s not that spring in Northern California was unwelcome or lacking color, it’s that the overall effect wasn’t quite the same, nor was the sweet season as hard-won. A few months of winter rain and chill simply can’t compete with the impact of snowfall, sleet, hail, and thunderstorms.
In California, while certain plants bloom in spring and the hillsides often reach Irish heights of green, the resident birds, for the most part, remain in the same territory (and sing) all year long, and much of the foliage stays the same.
In the Midwest you know Spring is close when the birds begin singing you awake. Each stage of Midwest spring holds beauty—beginning with bursts of welcome color against stark grey tree trunks, continuing with the elegant white and pink dogwoods that recall Japanese woodcuts, and for the finale…the trees and bushes are adorned with the kind of green that vibrates in the sun and calms the soul.
A favorite maple puts on her greenery.
Back in high school I never imagined I would one day have my own Midwest landscape to tend but now I do–and here is where the two geographies connect: long ago my mother dug up some Bearded iris bulbs out of her California garden and gifted them to her dear friend Nancy who planted them in her own California garden where they bloom and thrive, even to this day.
Nancy has a gift for arranging the irises artistically in tall handmade pottery vases around her house and seeing those displays always gave me the sense that my mother was close, even though she is no longer here physically with us.
After living in California for a decade in my thirties I transplanted yet again to the Midwest and Nancy surprised me by digging up and sending me tulip bulbs from the same plants my mother had given to her all those years ago.
Bearded iris blooms.
Now, springtime not only returns the green, but it also returns the gift of my mother’s presence and touch, in full bloom yet again no matter the locale.
Last weekend, as I relished a day-long mother/daughter retreat at a camp in the woods with my nine-year-old daughter I kept thinking back to one spring day, right about this time, ten years ago.
My husband and I are in a cramped, chilly exam room in a sprawling Indianapolis children’s hospital, the doctor having just applied cold gel to the lower right side of my protruding belly. The physician is a young (thirty-something) dark-haired woman, and she speaks to us as she deftly moves the ultrasound wand, pointing out hands, head shape, and a tiny foot on the screen.
“I could tell you the gender if you’d like” she says, almost nonchalantly.
My husband and I glance at each other. Is it time? We could keep this a mystery until I’m further along. With a history of loss like ours we don’t assume anything, and sometimes the fewer details the better, as it helps us move forward with one singular focus: bringing home a live baby to join our six-month-old son. Whether we will achieve a family of four remains a terrifying unknown.
Springtime expectations.
Oh, why not find out, I think to myself, at least I know there’s a baby in there. I’ve felt the flutters inside and I can see the form on the screen, bobbing and moving…gender feels almost beside the point. Maybe it’ll be nice to know, so I can send more focused positive energy their way. Keep breathing, I remind myself.
“Okay” I say to the doctor. “You can tell us.”
“It’s a girl!” she says, quickly.
My reaction is immediate, unexpected, and strong. Tears spring to my eyes and scenes from the future begin to spin like slides dropping into the tray of an old-school slide projector, each separate and distinct: a baby girl eating peas from a tray, her rounded fingers feeling for the next tiny green orb, a thirteen-year-old faceless teen with long hair walking down a sidewalk, a female infant wiggling in her father’s arms.
All my life, I’ve desired to have children but somehow, I had only imagined mothering sons. And now, after giving birth to two boys at two different times, with only one still living, the introduction of a daughter feels incongruous, shocking, and entirely unexpected.
Thankfully, the six or so ensuing months before her birth offer me an opportunity to become accustomed to the idea of a girl joining our family. By the time our daughter arrives, vibrantly healthy and radiating joy, we are fully ready to embrace and accept our gift.
In some ways, it wasn’t until the doctor’s exam-room proclamation that I fully grasped the impact of my own gender: to have a daughter means to know what she will contend with, and to sometimes struggle under that weighty knowledge. Mothering a daughter also means being granted another chance, an opportunity to hold the hand of someone different and wiser than yourself while she travels familiar terrain, both treacherous and beautiful. There is great healing and hope in that act.
Doing brave things at mother/daughter camp.
Since that day in the exam room, something else has grown–my personal understanding of gender. It has evolved and expanded as I watch from afar while more than one friend navigates the landscape of their children’s gender transitions. I am in awe of these parents and kiddos as they face such private complexities in an unasked-for public way with little societal support or understanding.
My daughter has evolved into a capable, kind, talented, and funny person. It feels as if she has always been part of our family and by extension, part of me.
Hand-in-hand we walk.
I believe this would be the case no matter her gender, but I take not a single moment for granted. It is my deep joy to journey down the mother/daughter path we are currently walking, together.
It makes me uncomfortable to say (and write) it but here goes: I value my father’s writing more now that he is gone.
I must have read my dad’s walnut essay (as I call it) when it was first published in 1984, but when I unearthed it two years ago it felt like I was reading it for the first time.
In my opinion, the essay perfectly captures his talent for noticing that which often goes unnoticed, and then translating the hidden meaning into inspiration for the rest of us.
A reader who read my dad’s original walnut essay in The Christian Science Monitor recognized his wisdom as well. She ran a small print shop in Iowa and asked permission to turn the essay into book form. The printed images included are from the small book(s) she created.
Still … however … maybe …
By David Holmstrom
I mark it down as one of those inexplicable, delicious, and thoroughly pleasing little events of nature that clearly indicate the presence of celestial humor. That may be a bit strong. Try organic humor. No, make it just pure fun.
It was a brittle, still day. (Stillness is very important here, almost an aspect of readiness). No wind stirred and there was an absence of rural sounds such as cars and trucks humming along a distant highway or the collective sounds of resourceful birds. Overhead, the sun was sweetly warm and lent a lazy wryness to the conspiracy about to happen.
I was standing in the kitchen buttering bread for a maverick sandwich when the chain of events began. The walnut fell, directly above me from a branch hanging over the roof over the kitchen. The hard little ball crashed like an abrupt announcement on the roof, a quick, dull splunk followed by a soft rolling sound as it tumbled down the sloping angle of the gravel and tar roof. I looked up, butter knife poised.
Northern California walnut grove in springtime.
The walnut then entered the uncovered hole of the drainpipe (attached to the outside of the kitchen wall) and plunged about eight feet down, ricocheting and rattling in the dark chamber for perhaps a second or more. Then it bashed against the curve of the drainpipe spout and shot out in a westerly fashion like a tiny bowling ball across a Lilliputian alley.
I looked out the window above the kitchen sink just in time to see the walnut skidding across the brick patio. For reasons that only a good time-and-motion man could probably explain, the walnut rolled quickly for four feet, glanced off the edge of a slightly raised brick, and pirouetted wildly on end like a top. When it finished it stopped, slumped on its side, and was motionless. Had it not been for me it would have slipped into walnut obscurity.
I felt delight. Was this not a funny little marvel? I felt serendipity. I also felt a somewhat low-key but irritating struggle within me to be a mature adult and not wax childish over the walnut’s curious journey. A falling walnut did not amount to a hill of beans, did it? It fell on the roof, went down a drainpipe, shot out the spout, and pirouetted crazily. So what? Still … however … maybe …
I laid down my butter knife and went out to the patio and picked up this … this, this acrobatic walnut.
To cast a spell, I should entertain fantasy here by conjuring up a walnut genie or fashion some kind of walnut clue to solving an international mystery. But the walnut in my hand – alas, poor walnut – was without guile or any need of the complexity of fiction. Break it open and find what? A guidance system? A tiny engine? A worm on a fun ride? Or a simple walnut. Still … however … maybe …
I will not lie. I actually went up on the roof the following day under the pretext of removing leaves from the roof. With a dozen walnuts I tried to duplicate the flight of the previous day’s walnut. I could not do it. The first walnut I rolled missed the hole. The second, too. The third rolled over the hole and over the edge of the roof. The fourth, fifth, and sixth would not roll near the hole. The ninth went down the hole into the drainpipe but never came out the spout. The rest were completely erratic.
What I have done is to put the previous day’s walnut in a special place on the clutter of my desk. Twice, out of nothing more than impulse, I brought the walnut to my ear in the way we’ve all done a hundred times with a big seashell to hear the hum of the sea. No sound comes from a walnut. But because of what it has done shouldn’t I somehow honor the little nut?
Or is there something more here, something as mysterious in purpose as the walnut is complex in texture? No. It is a walnut.
Multiple articles ran in local Florida newspapers about my uncle and dad’s film.
While I’ve always been aware that my parents gifted me with a taste for creative adventure, I’ve never really considered our movie-making sojourn in Florida from my mom’s perspective.
Did my father sit her down one winter morning in 1974 at their rental house in Marin County, California, and say “Patty, we’re going to live in Florida for six months so my brother and I can make a movie”?
Knowing my parents’ relationship, I imagine that it was more of a conversation and less of a declaration since theirs was an uncommonly equitable partnership. Because I was only four at the time I didn’t have much of a say.
All I knew was that my dad flew ahead to Florida with my uncle John to “scout locations.” A few weeks later my mom packed up our red VW Beetle and settled me into the backseat (single seat belt buckled across my lap–maybe) with a stack of books and my portable cassette player. And we were off…driving across the U.S. headed to Cocoa Beach, Florida where we would live for the next six months.
My mom does on-set wardrobe duty while my uncle films, my dad drives, and I observe.
In early 1975 my uncle John Holmstrom was coming off a successful career as a globetrotting Producer/Director for Ford Motor Company in Dearborn, MI. After landing back in his native Hollywood John got to work generating new projects. One of the first to come his way was the chance to film a PBS documentary about the rapid development in Florida’s Brevard County during the “space boom.”
“In the Shadow of the Moon” was funded by an educational grant from the State of Florida (I could say something snarky here about the good old days when Florida willingly invested in education) and WMFE-TV in Orlando and John was the Producer/Director. The plan was to tell the story of how the Space Coast came to be. The area had hurtled through historic growth beginning in the 1950s and at that point (1975) was dealing with the fallout in terms of unchecked urban development, mental health issues for space workers, and (interestingly), divorce rates among the highest in the U.S. at that time.
On location in Brevard County. Apparently one of the canoes capsized that day.
John had hired Dave (my dad) onto the project as Associate Producer/Writer. Close in age, interests, and creative temperament, the two brothers worked together on smaller creative projects in Los Angeles, but this was their first real shared professional gig.
Our time in Florida was the stuff of childhood dreams. My mom and I arrived just in time to move into our rented apartment in a high-rise positioned directly on the warm sands of Cocoa Beach. The waves crashed, the sun rose over the water and the pelicans soared. I celebrated my fourth birthday poolside, saw orcas at Seaworld, and my mama and I spent our days playing in the Atlantic Ocean with new friends. Meanwhile, my dad and John lived and breathed film shoots, interviews, script writing, and editing.
Frolicking with my dad in the Florida surf. You don’t get to drive alligators every day.
As often happens in documentary filmmaking, there were hiccups and setbacks. The budget (100K) was stretched, massaged, and ultimately, met. While I remember a few intense discussions around the dinner table on our oceanfront patio, and phone calls ending in frustrated tones, John and David were completely in their element, tracking down sources, connecting mysterious civil service dots, and wading through reams of research. They were never happier than when they were creating, together.
A TV executive interviewed about the brothers’ filmmaking prowess said “John and Dave are unbelievable. I’ve never worked with movie people like them, who neither smoked, drank, cursed or womanized. And it’s the first film like that that’s totally objective, done by someone with no axe to grind.”
What John and Dave didn’t know at the time was that this “little” Florida film would eventually lead them to the successful co-development of a feature-length film, STOCKCAR!, which in 1978 would go on to be the first documentary released nationally into U.S. theatres. I’ll share the story of STOCKCAR! soon, and hopefully some footage as well.
Six months after our VW Beetle chugged across ten states John and Dave wrapped their film and our Florida adventure came to a close. The documentary ran widely on PBS later that year and even won awards.
Only in retrospect has it become clear that my family’s cultivation and prioritization of creative expression was a rare and valuable gift, one that will inspire and remain with me forever.
What I know is that all along I’ve observed the world through a writer’s eyes. First possessing a sensitivity to what is going on above and beneath the surface of life, then self-sequestering to sort and process, followed by an always-simmering desire to capture, record, and sometimes (but not always) share with the world my conclusions through the medium of the written word.
All this has held true for as far back as I can remember. However, for most of my life, significant roadblocks have stood in my way–namely severe self-doubt and an oppressive case of writer’s block. Also, I thought that if I wasn’t sitting down and immediately crafting a masterpiece then I’d better not sit down in the first place.
Instead of writing I circled and stalked words and writers like a hawk circles its prey. First as a voracious reader, then as an English major, followed first by a career in public relations (where I wrote about and promoted everything from real estate deals to cutting-edge technology) and then years spent in publishing where I marketed, publicized, and wrote about high-quality books and their authors. My collection of signed copies of books by family, friends, and acquaintances fills at least three bookshelves.
Yes, some writing happened, but my own ideas were rarely in the driver’s seat and I prioritized everyone else’s writing above my own.
All this was topped off by the fact that I was raised by a gifted, prolific (yet generous) writer whose dedication and passion for the craft were legendary. Being a published writer was my father’s realm, not mine.
My father at his writing desk–he lived and breathed words and never questioned his gift. .
“Do you write yourself?” people would ask. “A little, mostly in my journal,” was usually my weak (but accurate) answer.
And then the day came when I became so tired of my excuses and decades of self-muting that I simply took a U-turn and stopped listening to the fear in myself. I asked myself the question: If I don’t tell my story, who will? Of course, the answer was NO ONE. Either I wilted on the vine of my dreams or I got to work. So, I started writing. Practically overnight the decades of doubt and hesitation burned off like fog in the San Francisco sunshine and I’ve hardly stopped putting pen to paper since.
Now, nothing stops me. I write through doubt, through blocks, through tiredness, while my to-do list sits next to my laptop mocking me. I get up at 3 AM to record the words and ideas floating in my mind, I pull over and write in the Notes section of my phone. I’ve even written at trampoline parks while hundreds of jumping, screaming kids surround me.
It’s true what they say, writing is a muscle. The more you write the more adept you get at saying what you really want to say, at expressing your version of the truth as clearly and beautifully as you can at that moment. And if it isn’t as clear and as beautiful as you want your writing to be, no problem. You come back to it the next day and begin again. Editing and revising become a joy because they are tools that chip away at the plaque and get you closer to the clean enamel of your truth.
Perhaps you understand my history. Maybe you have spent years watching others, people you admire (and some you don’t) express themselves to the world, create art, start businesses, make films, write poems/articles/books, do podcasts, and tell stories.
I’ve got ideas too, you’ve said to yourself, but I’m too busy/afraid/shy/tired/overwhelmed/untalented to get down to work. And as long as you believe it, it’s true. You are too busy, too tired, too shy, too overwhelmed. But all of these things are within your control. Only you determine how busy you are, how tired you are, how overwhelmed you feel, and only you can prioritize expressing yourself to the world.
You are not untalented, I promise. We all have talents. Prioritize yours.
The odds of it happening aren’t good. If I told you the story you might not believe me, because it sounds like the basis of a movie script.
Two girls, both only children and the best of friends, grew up together in a small Northern California town called Kenwood. Leslie and Dilly met on the first day of first grade when Dilly took Leslie’s hand in hers to give her a tour of their elementary school. The brown-haired, brown-eyed girls shared a rare closeness, forged by their common gentle natures and sibling-free status. Whether exploring the beautiful creeks and lush valleys of their hometown or enjoying frequent sleepovers on thick foam mats in front of Dilly’s parents’ crackling fireplace Leslie and Dilly discussed their unknowable futures. What careers would they choose? Would they have children? Where would they travel? Who will they love? The girls went to school together, took dance classes, played soccer, and read voraciously.
In fourth grade, they won the roles of the Peach Tree (Dilly) and the Pine Tree (Leslie) in the holiday play. The girl’s four parents– all uniquely talented and creative—assisted in the building of the tree costumes/props; Dilly’s stately peach tree featured round and luscious-looking paper fruit while Leslie’s dark-green pine with dangling ornamental cones towered over her onstage.
Eventually, the teen years settled on the girls’ tender shoulders and the two began to drift in separate directions. They fell in with different crowds, Leslie’s more social and mainstream, Dilly’s cerebral and alternative. While remaining friendly, they spread their wings separately, each young woman setting off down her own complex and glorious life path.
When she turned fifteen Leslie’s family moved to the East Coast. For a long time after the move, there was a Dilly-sized hole in Leslie’s heart. Before, she never missed having a sibling because she had Dilly, but now Dilly was gone and Leslie couldn’t imagine anyone taking her place. Leslie realized that it was likely no friend would ever know her as well, or accept her as lovingly as Dilly had, and she mourned the friendship as she might a death.
Decades passed and after traveling the world and going to school on the East Coast, Leslie landed in San Francisco. Dilly goes to college, moves to Chicago, attends graduate school in Texas, and eventually settles in Los Angeles. Occasionally the two exchange brief, somewhat formal greeting cards.
One day, when Leslie and Dilly are in their early thirties, their mothers take a hike together. The mothers are friends and have remained in touch despite living on opposite coasts. The conversation turns to their daughters and Leslie’s mother mentions that Leslie is dating a young man from Bloomington, Indiana.
Dilly’s mother is incredulous. “Dilly is dating a guy from Bloomington, Indiana too!”
For a moment, the two mothers wonder if their daughters could be dating the same guy but soon learn that the men have different names. Crisis averted.
A few days later Leslie’s mother shares this oddity with Leslie’s boyfriend Malcolm and mentions Dilly’s boyfriend’s name. Malcolm is incredulous. “Daniel!? We grew up together, our parents were good friends and taught at the University together. We played all the time when we were kids. I think I called my grandmother Grammy because Daniel called his grandmother that.”
Everyone involved is amazed. A meet-up is arranged in Los Angeles and the two young couples, made up of four old friends, get along famously. New, grown-up friendships are forged. A few years later, when Leslie and Malcolm attend Dilly and Daniel’s elegant wedding in Dilly’s parents’ Kenwood backyard Malcolm knows many of the Midwest guests and Leslie the California contingent.
But there’s more. Leslie and Malcolm leave California and settle in Malcolm’s Indiana hometown. They grow a family and create a Midwest-based life together. Daniel’s mother has remained in Bloomington and Dilly and Daniel often visit from their home in Los Angeles, where they now own a successful business and raise their son.
Dilly takes to the trail.
This means that Leslie and Dilly get to spend time together and re-stitch the fabric of their sisterhood. In fact, just the other day they took a five-mile hike through the Indiana woods. As their footsteps echoed through the springtime forest the two reviewed their rich lives—their chosen careers (writer and artist among other trades), their loves and losses, the three children shared between them and their world travels.
When Dilly reached for Leslie’s hand back on the first day of first grade she could never have imagined that forty-six years later she would be crunching down a leaf-covered trail in Indiana with that same Leslie.
While the future forever remains unknowable, the past is complete, and the present is really all we have. Now is the time to love each other, to cherish friendship. The unlikely yet sublime story these two friends share suggests that sometimes, despite ourselves, there are greater forces at work over a lifetime than we can fully comprehend.
Enjoying a birthday ice cream cone in Florida, 1975
March 24, 1997
It’s my B-day. As I lay in bed this morning in the Bungalows “Maria Cristina” on Pie de la Cuesta Beach, MX I thought about how I’m four years away from being thirty. Then I thought about the negative ideas that statement implies…is thirty old? I am happier and more experienced and somehow less confused after each phase of my life. And what a beautiful life I lead-despite my small problems which of course aren’t so small to me but life-affirming in their own way. On my past birthdays I have been in California, Florida, Missouri, Arizona, Massachusetts, Bequia Island in the West Indies, a monastery in Nepal, and now I’m on a beach in Mexico. Important to realize my gratitude and happiness in my life at this moment. Lilac told me that a man from Kenya in her class doesn’t know his birthday or how old he is, and I wonder why we Americans emphasize age as a number so very much when it’s really all about experience, or lack of it, and learning. Watching these stooped-over older men selling baskets on the beach and the kind-eyed ladies who cook in the restaurant downstairs makes me think of my own dad and mom. I can’t help comparing these individual lives to my own family. I stand in awe of the opportunity and privilege I have. My parents are rare jewels. Downstairs at the open-air restaurant last night (during the full eclipse of the moon) a family of four people–mom and dad, late teens daughter and son, all drinking lots. First the daughter broke down crying to the father, then the son began sobbing into his arms on the table. The parents virtually turned away from the kids, obviously not addressing their needs. Why am I the one sitting at the next table, able to write about their sorrows in my journal? Did the eclipse draw it out of them? Where will that daughter and son be a year from now when I write my next birthday letter? Where will I be, who will I be?
Sit right down and contemplate.
Above is an excerpt from the first birthday letter I remember writing to myself, while swinging in a hammock on a sizzling Mexican beach. I don’t think I’ve missed out on this annual practice since, although a few letters have been lost to the sands of time and broken laptops.
When I wrote this letter I didn’t foresee that over the next few years my life would change drastically. I would move across the country and begin anew in a new city, start a fresh career, meet my future partner, lose my mother.
The practice of writing oneself a letter is a fascinating exercise, but it isn’t until years later that the effort pays off—the words become a gift to your future self and an opportunity to understand how, and how far, you have traveled.
Mexican bird considers her life, and her breakfast.
I’ve been thinking about our conversation and decided to write you a letter to share ideas about how I successfully stopped drinking and why I’ve stayed sober for four years.
I imagine you find it hard to believe that on the other side of hangovers, bitterness, and self-loathing you can be free as a bird at sunset, soaring over the shimmering ocean that is your beautiful life.
Not everybody who drinks alcohol has a problem but in my opinion if you think you have a problem with alcohol, you do. I sense that you sincerely want to be free of the depressing cycle and there is no doubt in my mind that focusing with honestyon your deep desire to be sober is the best place to begin.
Cultivate the strength of a tree..upright, whole and free despite influence, annoyances and harsh weather.
I’m thinking back to my days of early sobriety four years ago when I quit cold turkey after one particularly bad night. I started drinking in the afternoon and then later that evening, after leaving a neighborhood party, I walked home in frigid temps, tripped, and fell down an embankment, badly hurting my shoulder.
When I woke up that next morning, unsure about what happened the previous evening, deeply embarrassed, injured, hungover, and sour in body and spirit, I thought “I am treating myself terribly, I am abusing myself. What would I say to someone who was being treated this way by another? I think I would tell them to leave.”
So, consider this letter an encouragement to follow a new path and allow to yourself leave an abusive relationship.
The soft sandy sober path leads to freedom and blue skies.
That cringe-inducing night turned out to be one of the most important in my life so far. My drinking career had started at age 13 and there I was at age 48, with the intervening 35 muddy middle years of (mostly, minus pregnancies and the occasional dry stretches) imbibing whenever and wherever I wished to. Even though I grasped long ago that there was a problem I continued to drink, often daily. I failed at modifying my intake, I failed at drinking only one type of alcohol, I failed at anything that had to do with ending my tendency to use something that was poisoning me from within and without.
I also did the dishes, parented, wifed, worked, and lived a life that may have appeared to many as a full, happy, connected one. But I was an expert at living a compartmentalized life, a less than truthful one–this was uncomfortably familiar ground.
I needed that final low, that rusty nail in the coffin of my lengthy drinking career, to look my glaring imperfections in the eye and to see my actions for what they were, self-defeating, injurious, and below me.
The light shines on those who lean toward it.
Here is the part I wish I’d figured out years earlier: In my fresh sobriety I could treat myself as I would a cherished friend. Setting relentless judgment and failures aside, I clutched onto the glimmers of my goodness. At first, those glimmers seemed minor…I considered the way I am (generally) loving to others, the way I take care of animals, the way I make tea for myself in the morning, and the way I feel when I am hiking in the woods. I brush my teeth twice a day! I wear a bike helmet! I thought about how there were people in my life that seemed to like me…if they saw good in me there must be something loveable there.
I created a loop of these fresh and positive ideas in my thought process, I wrote good things about myself in my journal instead of paragraphs of self-doubt. For a brain accustomed to a whole lot of self-criticism and judgment, this was an unfamiliar approach but the more I flexed it the easier (and stronger) the “treat yourself as a cherished friend” muscle became.
Try creating an arsenal of good thoughts for yourself. Ask people close to you what they love about you and put their comments together in a place you can access when you need a lift. The Notes section of your phone or a piece of paper taped to the fridge or the bathroom mirror or used as a bookmark. Try a meditation where you view yourself through the eyes of someone who deeply loves you. What do you imagine they love about you? Consider those qualities in your meditation. There is never going to be another you. What will you do with the gift of you? Strengthen the muscle of your loving self-acceptance.
Take the path to self-acceptance. Your imperfections can be your superpowers.
Stay tuned, part two of my letter covers strengthening the will to be sober, ideas for what to do with all the money you’ll save not buying alcohol, asking and answering the hard questions for yourself, savoring present moments, thriving instead of wilting through stressful situations, and evolving/improving/letting go of relationships through sobriety.
Understand that there is a massive industry built on the back of your addiction. Don’t allow your well-deserved peace and happiness to be stolen by a poisonous substance used to power jets.
Cherish yourself and be your own champion–no one else can do it for you. I urge you to take this path because on the other side of sobriety you will find self-acceptance, joy, and clarity, the beauty of which you can only imagine.
A few years ago I read that one of the healthiest things we can do for ourselves is to take a walk with a friend. Good for the soul, good for the body, good for the earth, and a little free therapy for everyone involved.
Each week I try to fit a walk or hike into my schedule. There are trails close to my house that have stolen my heart, and others further afield. One local favorite winds through a small island of fiercely protected land nestled so close to the local shopping mall that in the winter you can see the side entrance to Target from the creek. Park next to the dumpster, veer around the side of an apartment building and enter a hushed forest where old-growth trees tower quietly above.
This magical trail sits just a few hundred yards from a busy mall.
A few years ago, to mark a notable birthday I thought about what it was that I really wanted (besides complete peace on earth and a woman’s right to make all decisions for herself). What I yearned for was time in nature, with people I love… so I rented a cabin in some nearby woods. The first night my family joined me and the second two girlfriends extracted themselves from their busy lives so that we could laugh and stroll and soak in the hot tub. It was one of the best gifts I’ve ever given myself.
Cake and flowers enjoyed at the cabin.
This year, with another birthday looming I decided to head to one of our glorious Indiana state parks and invited some friends to join me. Saturday dawned sunny and crisp, with just enough coolness in the air that clothing layers could be added and subtracted as needed.
Frequent stairways save hillsides from erosion and add strength (and soreness) to calves.
The arrival of my four friends ended up being staggered throughout the day so we took a series of hikes. Walking together along paths lined with bare trees, we noted clusters of white sycamore trunks flashing against the dark hillsides, wildflowers peeking through layers of leaf rot, and waterfalls swollen with spring rain.
Spring rains tumble over beds of limestone. Walk too quickly and you’ll miss the flowers. Mini waterfalls along McCormick’s Creek. Trees and moss, the ideal companions.
Later we gathered fireside at the inn (seven Indiana State Parks feature rustically designed inns, each with a common room where people gather around a glowing hearth, play games and spend time connecting). We laughed, discussed our lives, and savored the delicious mocktails with grapefruit syrup and Humboldt Fog cheese gifted to me by my friends. Sighing with contentment in my rocking chair, I reminded myself that quality friendship and time outside are the most valuable of gifts.
I will admit that a family trip to Disney was not at the top of my bucket list. I imagined taking the (by no means insignificant) amount of money spent on a Disney vacation and putting that toward airplane tickets. How about a European destination, or somewhere in Central America where we could experience a different culture and show our young kids unique parts of the world?
I was outvoted.
Gazing at the (artificial, yet impressive) Tree of Life in Disney’s Animal Kingdom park.
This is how, last spring I found myself trudging around Florida’s Magic Kingdom, zipping from park to park on the Skyliner, waiting in the longest lines I’ve experienced since traveling in India, and having a surprising amount of fun.
And as my family focused on reservations for rides, Star Wars and Buzz Lightyear, sweet snacks, and roller coaster speed estimations I hunted for…trees. Other flora and fauna caught my eye, as did some artificial trees. It’s Disney, after all.
I’m fascinated by how certain trees (and wildlife) survive in the middle of human traffic and chaos, and there are few places with as much human traffic and chaos as Disney.
The Liberty Tree Elm in The Magic Kingdom. The original Elm growing in this spot played a real part in history, shading pre-Revolutionary activities under its branches. The Swiss Family Treehouse “ride” was built in 1971 and still entertains today, concrete trunk and all. Late afternoon view of Tomorrowland, as seen through plastic foliage. Keeping watch over the croquet lawn near Disney’s Boardwalk area. Viewing the trees and wildlife at Disney’s Animal Kingdom Lodge. Tree installations at Sanaa restaurant in the Animal Kingdom Lodge. A fake Baobab tree is better than no Baobab tree. Is a fake redwood better than a real one? Not so much. Can you spot the wildlife in “Cars” village? The “It’s A Small World (After All)” ride even offers trees. Night falls on trees, pagodas, and tired park visitors.
Still...however...maybe... 
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