Twirling Leaf

The longer I live, and the more varied experiences I have, I realize that my psychological wiring is inclined toward feeling the peaks and valleys of the human experience. And while not everyone will relate to quite the level of intensity that I will describe here, I do think we all have the same, basic psychological needs that swing us across a spectrum of emotions and feelings. Here I’ll explain some of what it’s like for me to be an intense person, how that drives me to find meaning in the universe, my journey away from an established religion that used to meet these needs, and circle back to what I’m figuring out along the way. I’ll even throw in some tips for avoiding cults for free. 

In my darkest moments, I’m inescapably aware that I’ve got an aching soul that is fathoms deep. In these moments the adjectives are: insatiable, inconsolable, implosive. I feel like a black hole develops where my soul once was. No light can escape. I feel uncontainable. 

In my most illuminated moments, I am intoxicated by the very experience of being alive. I see profundity in the minutia and transcendence in the mundane. A song can enrapture me; a book can transform me. The adjectives are: passionate, electrifying, inspiring. I feel invincible.

I am pretty sure that I am missing just a teeny bit of momentum on the pendulum swing from being diagnosable as bipolar. I rely on Collin and my other closest relationships (including my therapist sister) to gauge this for me. For now, anyway, I’m comfortable understanding myself as: intense. 

Like seeks like sometimes, I guess. I’m drawn to intensity in music, art, food, coffee, wine. When I first heard Muse’s Map of the Problematique, I grieved that I wasn’t a note in that song so I could live inside of it. My soul quivered with deep relatability when I first listened to the lyrics of Frightened Rabbit’s Modern Leper. When I witness exceptional art of any kind—films, dance, song, poetry, painting, novels, sculpture, photography—I get goosebumps and could easily cry (if I let myself). I love philosophy and theory—often I spend more time with extraordinary, dead authors than living people. They are great company. Kant is a little bit of a stuffed shirt, but definitely a stand up guy. A reread of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein has given my soul great camaraderie as of late. And whenever I feel disappointment with regular life, I can count on Tolkien to immerse me in a world more akin to my need for the mythological. Give me strong, dark, French Roast coffee or give me death. Okay, not really. But f*** off with your overpriced cup o’ acidic light roast dirt. A finely crafted cheese can be a spiritual experience. The fragrance of baking chaparral in the mountains intoxicates my senses. You can extrapolate this quality of mine to feel both deeply and to great heights across every domain of life and being.

I’m never meh. There is no “mid” for me. “Easy breezy” has never been a phrase used to describe me (unironically, anyway).

My inner life is like the death of a massive star, and I expect that I will burn out in glorious explosion at the end. I hope I don’t just slip in the shower all by myself. That would be the worst. Since I hope it is many years down the road before I meet my glorious end, I am learning to accept my intensity as part of who I am rather than try to shut it down. Holding all of these vast and consuming feelings within oneself is a lot to contain, though. 

Wisdom is often found just by listening and understanding what’s happening in our natural world (after all, we are part of nature too). So, I sit with my intensity, and I wait for insight.

I’m reminded of wildfires. There’s one raging in Malibu tonight and another in Ventura. It’s that time of year here.

In the past, the thought was that it was best to just extinguish wildfires because they threatened homes, livelihoods, wineries, and other important cultural institutions. These extreme efforts to completely extinguish the wildfires have actually made them worse and changed the natural fire regime. Many fire-prone ecosystems are optimized for fire. The Ponderosa Pine has naturally flame resistant bark. The Giant Sequoias drop resin-sealed seeds that only open in fire, and the fires keep competing plant species from taking over the ecosystem. Many ecosystems need regular, destructive fires to stay balanced. In recent years, one strategy that has been working better for both culture and nature is the active management of wildfires. That is, letting them burn but not letting them get out of control. Sometimes the fire inside just needs to rage while we stand by as witness to our intensity and protector of ourselves and all those around us as we burn.

So, I manage my inner world of wildfires by running, eating well, sleeping enough, taking herbs, watching how often and much wine I drink (experiencing myopia is my favorite, but using wine too often to cope with being me is the potential pitfall), writing, reading, hiking, listening to music, constantly seeking meaning in this universe, and infusing my life with adrenaline-surging adventure and experiences.

There has not been much happening in terms of that last line item lately, though. Especially because we thought we were moving to a farm this fall and then didn’t. I’ve been in a state of…emotional flux…lately (read: some nights I lay in bed sobbing “the best is over; it’s all done.” And some days I skip around the house saying, “everything is possible! I am going to get my doctorate! I’m going to write a book!” On those days I’m super energized by that infinite possibility. And then the next day, I lie in fetal position in absolute paralysis. Often, I find myself questioning the meaning of life). 

Due to my intensity, and also the fact that I was indoctrinated from birth and then raised in a very all-consuming faith tradition that I intellectually left in my late 20s, I am constantly (often unconsciously) looking for a replacement paradigm that ties everything all together. 

While I’m not shopping for a new religion, I do have to hand it over to the institution of religion: it ticks off a lot of boxes in the psychological needs department. It can often be a one-stop shop for finding meaning, purpose, explanations, nurturing relationships, and belonging. 

When one departs from the core elements of their religion and henceforth their religious community, it can be disorienting. There’s an unraveling that happens as one walks away from the faith tradition of their youth. You take one, big step, you lose your explanations. You take another few steps, and you’ve lost your meaning and purpose. You take a few more steps, and you’ve lost your nurturing relationships and sense of belonging. It is just like Weezer and the sweater song. Soon you find yourself miles from church and naked—metaphorically speaking (possibly literally too). And then you realize: wow. I have a lot to figure out. 

The thing about psychological needs is that they are real and we all have them. To be aware of our needs means that we can be informed about how we meet them. Denying that we have them or letting others dictate how we may and may not meet these needs often doesn’t make things better. And yet, sometimes it’s so tempting to meet the needs for belonging, explanations, and meaning, and purpose that we buy these needs at the expense of self expression, authenticity, and our critical thinking. 

When an ideology or institution pressures people to suppress one, basic psychological need in exchange for another (say self expression and authenticity as expressed in one’s sexual orientation or gender identity in exchange for a sense of belonging) this is not healthy. And it’s also just people making stuff up. There are few universals; the rest is culture. Or as Ru Paul says, “we’re all born naked, and the rest is drag.”  And when a culture becomes too rigid and imposing, it can become oppressive. Worst case scenario, it could become a cult.

As for me, I’m always trying to avoid the cults. I admit that I am attracted to all-consuming groups and ideologies—at least in the beginning. I think it’s a relic from my past combined with my intensity-driven desire to be consumed by something bigger than myself. I used to want to live on a commune, and I was willing to give up a lot of myself to do so (especially if the commune would have been some sweet destination like Europe or a small island off the coast of New Zealand). I have to remind myself not to get too swept up in any one thing too quickly because I also have an analytical mind, and fortunately that always wins in the end. So it’s just a matter of time until someone says or does something that I think is madness, and if and when the group majority just goes along like everything is fine, well, that’s when I usually am like, “Dang it. I almost accidentally joined a cult again.” 

Here are some pointers I now keep handy for avoiding cults:

• Practice thinking analytically and try to come up with your own opinions incorporating real life (not just whatever the sacred text aka handbook is). Shop your ideas around a bit. See how people react. If they tell you that you aren’t “anointed” “enlightened” or whatever their special term is for “right” whenever your opinion is different than theirs—GTFO.
• Listen to whatever music you want. If someone tells you can’t GTFO.
• Wear whatever clothes you want. If someone tells you that you can’t: GTFO.
• If someone tries to get you to burn something to prove your commitment—money, music, books, photos, etc—just GTFO.
• If they try to control your body—including (but not limited to) your sexuality, GTFO.
• If you are noticing that there’s social punishment for authentic self expression: you may be in a cult and you need to GTFO.

We all have basic, psychological needs that compel us to seek belonging, meaning, explanations, etc. Different cultures and ideologies seek to address these needs in specific ways, but as we become a more global and integrated world—we can observe that these cultural expressions for solutions to our needs are not the universals in themselves. 

So all of this to say—psychological needs are real and important and part of humanity. Humanity is part of nature. As Carl Sagan once said, we are all made of star stuff. The iron in our blood, the carbon in our muscles, the oxygen in our lungs: it was all made inside stars before the earth was born. 

So yes, when I say that my inner life is like the death of a massive star—it’s metaphorical and possibly literal too. And rather than try to fix myself or escape myself, I’m learning to love myself as I love the stars, the mountains, the rivers, the ocean, and all the lovable beings that live among us. I would never consider a raccoon evil. Raccoons can lash out in defensive aggression when they are afraid. It’s the same with humans. We are not evil—sometimes we lash out—unfortunately in tragic and dangerous ways at times—when our psychological and physical needs are unmet. But underpinning all this, we all have the needs to belong, to find meaning and purpose, to self-express authentically, and among other things: to be loved. 

As I continue on in my journey of being an intense person who is trying to live an authentic, integrated life, I circle back to the value that has always served as my polaris: Love. Even my concept of Love has evolved through the years. I used to think that Love meant holding onto people never letting them go. But sometimes love means releasing people and encouraging them to evolve and become who they need to be. Sometimes love means noncooperation with unkindness or injustice. Sometimes love means laying down your life for others. Sometimes love means finding your own path and flourishing so that all those around you can be better for your flourishing too. Sometimes love means sharing your truth, and sometimes love means holding back when someone can’t handle it. Sometimes love means finding common ground, and sometimes love means creating a boundary. 

Love is a vital and dynamic force, so it takes practice and discernment to figure out what it looks like in different scenarios. And growth mindset: making mistakes is how we learn! I do think, however, that we are all equipped with the innate wisdom to connect with finding what the Loving path is when we quiet our souls and listen. Because after all, in the words of Juvenal “Never does nature say one thing and wisdom another.” If we are part of nature, then we have that innate wisdom within. 

I wish you all love and light, and may the fire of your massive stars within burn bright. “May it be a light to you in dark places when all other lights go out.” JRR Tolkien

My heart grew a chamber I didn’t even know was possible the day I brought my first, very own Labrador Retriever puppy home. When we arrived back to our log cabin in the Pennsylania woods that we called home, she strutted right up to the front door like she had lived there all along. Her waggly tail and puppy breath kisses were a balm to my soul that I didn’t even realize I needed. The first little being ever entirely dependent on me, she filled up my heart with a kind of love I had never known. We gazed into each other’s eyes, and a forever bond was formed. We named her “Zuri” which means beautiful and good in Swahili.

My sister and her little family, after having lived a very collaborative life with Collin and me in which we saw each other almost daily, packed up and moved away to Los Angeles later that summer. They spent their last night on the east coast at our house. They slept on a futon mattress and backpacking foam pads because we were 25 years old and didn’t have any spare furniture. The next day when we returned from dropping them off at the airport, I collapsed on the futon mattress face first and wept. I felt a little warm, furry body snuggle next to me. Zuri was just present with me in my sorrow. She didn’t try to change it or cheer me up. She was just present with me while I grieved. And that was exactly what my heart needed. 

Those upcoming weeks and months were hard missing my sister and her family. We felt their absence acutely. In the midst of the grief, however, there was a lovable, brilliant, emotionally intuitive and ridiculously goofy puppy. She loved all the same things that we did: hiking, camping, swimming, running, eating, snuggling, sleeping, and being outside as much as possible. She fit right into our life and hearts as though she was always meant to be there. And soon it became impossible to imagine that she ever hadn’t been there. 

She loved Christmas, and she would howl at her stocking on Christmas Eve when she saw it stuffed with all her favorite treats and toys. She loved to open her wrapped presents, and she would carry them in her mouth over to the person who gave it to her and thank them by snuggling up to that person and wagging her tail. Truly, she was one of the most gracious and fun people to give presents to. She really was a person to us; I often called her a “person in a dog suit.” I wondered if she thought I was a dog in a human suit. But either way, there was a large overlap of spirit and personality that we shared and where we related. We had our differences of course (these were mostly apparent in her undiscriminating tastes for various animal feces). But she really did have a deep, soulful understanding of human emotions and quite a wide grasp on the English language as well. 

Once we taught her a command called “stealth mode” whereby she would drop to her belly and crawl like a secret agent. Another favorite trick was “bipedalism.” For this one, she would stand on her back feet only, rising to her full vertical height, and walk forward and backwards to keep her balance for about 10 seconds. She looked like a dog on a unicycle because of the motion she had to use to stay balanced upright. It was one of my favorite things to see in the whole world. We had to tell her to stop this, eventually, because she started casually walking through the kitchen and taking food off the counter. What a comical sight, though, to come into a room to find my dog walking bipedally.

Another year or so passed like this, making memories with the third member of “the team” as we called it. She came pretty much everywhere with us, and one of us was always with her on a daily basis because Collin worked from home. She came on vacation with us. She trained for marathons with us. She was woven into our life in such an intricate and easy-fit way. 

About a year or so after having Zuri, I asked Collin if he was beginning to feel ready to have kids soon or not. Collin told me that he wasn’t sure he wanted to have kids…ever. This was a shock to me. This was probably bound to happen because we got married so young. On our pre-marital counseling test, there was a section about having kids. We both ticked the box that listed “5-7 years from now” as our potential timeframe for starting a family. When you’re only 21, that feels like an infinity away. So, when Collin explained his reservations about having kids, I understood. ish. But I had this intuition that we would love having kids, and that Collin would be an amazing dad. I could easily glimpse into the hypothetical future where one of our precocious kids would slightly mispronounce an elaborate word while taking themselves very seriously. In this hypothetical scenario, Collin and I would exchange a knowing but furtive glance that communicated “I might die of cuteness but play it cool to preserve their dignity.” That was enough for me to know that it was the best possible future for us.

Eventually, Collin came around on the kid thing. And I didn’t pressure him. I did what I knew how to do while he was deciding. I applied to graduate school and encouraged him to join a rock band. That gave him some much needed perspective—namely that he never wanted to be in a rock band again. 9 months later, we had Senya. 

When we brought Senya home from the hospital, I was worried about how Zuri would feel. She had been my first baby, and I was afraid that most people would now think of her as “just the dog.” I used to cry if someone would bring baby Senya a present and not Zuri. I slept with her on that same old futon mattress for the first couple of weeks that we had newborn Senya so that she wouldn’t feel displaced. Zuri, now 3 years old, seemed thrilled. Being a proud big sister, and elevated to the status of the family dog did not seem to dampen her spirits or diminish her sense of belonging. In fact, she seemed to take her role very seriously. She would hike out in front of the baby stroller and patrol for me, keeping at bay any other passing dogs. She would delicately use her stealth mode crawl to sidle up to baby Senya during tummy time. As Senya got older, highchair time came with some amazing perks—the glory of which Zuri had never dared to dream. All sorts of foods were continuously tossed from the highchair to her eager, smiling pupper face. Senya’s giggles and Zuri’s tail wags abounded. 

When Senya was 15 months old, the four of us packed up our most important belongings, rented out our cozy log cabin to another family, and moved to Topanga, California for a new job for Collin. We lived in a 450 square foot cabin. If you’re like me and can’t visualize that, just know that it’s TINY. We all shared one, small bedroom. Zuri and Senya shared a bed. “Bed” is a generous term. We all slept on mattresses and box springs on the floor. Then one day a pipe burst, and we had to get rid of the box springs. So it was just mattresses. We were, at that time, broke as a joke. That was how we found ourselves living 3,000 miles away from our serene log cabin. Though in our twenties we had known plenty, our thirties dawned just as the recession did too. We owned ten rental houses in Wilmington, Delaware, and they all dragged our financial situation down the tubes. Our property manager was also stealing from us, and we only found that out after he had caused a lot of long term damage to our finances. Around that same time, Wilmington, Delaware was named “Murder capital of the US.” It wasn’t great for marketing. 

I remember wondering if we were going to have to declare bankruptcy and trying to google what that even meant. That was the first time I became enraged at the man who would later become the 45th President of the USA. He, and others with too much money and power, had declared bankruptcy for their own financial gain so many times that George W Bush had pushed a bill into law in 2005 that made the consequences for bankruptcy bad enough that it would eliminate bankruptcies of convenience. Unfortunately, what’s bad for a business tycoon was also almost ruinous for a young family’s struggling finances. 

As I was thinking over all the assets that the bank could seize, my mind landed on Zuri. I didn’t know which technical category she fell into—asset or family member. My mind flashed into a hypothetical whereby the four of us were on the LAM headed for international sanction in Mexico. Fortunately, it never had to come to any of this. But I was ready. Instead we hired a lawyer, and, all-told, that plan worked probably much better than my go-to impulse to get the hell outta dodge. 

The stress of the financial situation was massive, but it was no match for my dynamic duo of cuteness and endless wonder. I was lucky enough to get to spend all my time with Zuri and Senya, and my heart was truly full of joy more than anything else. The three of us would trek around LA together exploring beaches, parks, and hiking trails. At 19 months old, Senya said her first “I love you.” It was to “puppy.”

A few months after Senya turned 2, Collin took another job in Arkansas. I was 3 months pregnant with Juniper. Growing up so close to the Mason Dixon line, it was important to me to identify as a northerner. I was nervous to move to the South. The people, however, were overwhelmingly kind, generous, and hospitable. The disheartening ordeal with the rental properties was a lot to bear, and somehow this little pocket of the world encouraged our weary hearts. 

We rented a tiny house on a big, gorgeous lake. We were optimistic about the neighborhood because the neighboring house had an Obama sign in their front yard. Also, the lake was perfect for Zuri. Those webbed feet got a lot of action during the almost 3 years that we lived there. Sometimes our neighbors would call us and inform us that Zuri was out for a swim about a quarter of a mile away from our house. She would swim up to people’s floating docks and lakeside patios—especially when people were grilling. She wasn’t a nuisance, though, she’d just paddle on if no one threw her any meat scraps. She had an obsession with swimming across the width of the lake—about 1/4 of a mile—daily and bringing back at least one, rather large rock in her mouth. The rocks she gathered were always the size of a small football; they were heavy! I’d worry about her as I’d see her paddling back with barely any of her face still above water. But she was a strong swimmer, and she loved her rocks. She’d roll on them, gnaw on them, and bat them around with her paws. By the time we left Arkansas, all four of her canine teeth were entirely flattened, presumably by this pastime. 

Juniper was born the first spring that we lived in Arkansas. Zuri welcomed her right into the pack with only a quizzical look at me as if to ask “just how many of these bald puppies are you planning to bring home?” But they got along like gangbusters. Juniper and Zuri were absolute partners in crime. Once, after mere moments of turning my full attention to something else, I found Juniper in the pantry with a box of crackers alternating a cracker for her, a cracker for Zuri. Another time, I walked into the room, and they were sharing her pudding. 

The second winter we lived in Arkansas, there was a huge blizzard. Zuri, now 7, was still strong and energetic. We outfitted her like a sled dog, and she pulled her tiny sibsters on a sled up and down our neighborhood street. She loved the snow. Sometimes, she loved it all little too much. She had a horrible habit of chasing me—just me!—anytime I went sledding. She would bark and nip at me while I was sledding! It was the only time she nipped me, ever! I would always forget this bad habit of hers until I was flying down a hillside getting nipped while she was frantically barking at me. Chaotic and maddening as it was, I couldn’t help but also laugh hysterically. 

When Senya was 4, Juniper was 2, and Zuri was 7, we made the very difficult decision to sell our wonderful log cabin in Pennsylvania. The decision to do so was difficult, but we felt that we needed to return to this vibrant city full of social, cultural, and natural resources to support us during the era of raising small kids. I had a dream of what our life would be like there—like an actual REM sleep dream. Many specific elements of that dream were realized in the upcoming years. 

The years we spent living in Topanga were full of sunshine and sandy days at the beach. We were outside every, single day. One year, Senya went to kindergarten a short walk from our house. We got to know a lot of people in our small town that way and formed some of our closest relationships with other Topangan families. We went camping on the Channel Islands together, made gingerbread houses every December, and shared a lot of playdates and meals together. The other years, we homeschooled with an amazing group of likeminded families. In addition to learning together two days a week, we also celebrated solstice and other special days together. We went on camping trips in the desert and the Sequoias together. Senya, Juniper, Collin, and I were rich in community and friendship, and we had fun and happiness sprinkled throughout every day. But Zuri was spending her life sleeping away the majority of her days in a tiny house. I would take her out for walks as many days a week as I could, but beaches and parks had cracked down on their “NO DOGS ALLOWED” restrictions since that first year that Zuri, Sen, and I paled around everywhere. Sundays we always went to a specific stretch of dog friendly beach in Malibu so that Zuri could swim and play fetch and dig holes in the sand. 

One Malibu Sunday, as a wave came gently rolling into shore, it knocked Zuri off balance and she fell down. She got back on her feet, but it happened a few more times that day. It was the first time that I really noticed that she wasn’t the invincible dog we had always known her to be. She was 9, but almost 10 at that point. Collin told me that this was an older age for a lab. 

I cried my eyes out. I bought her the most comfortable memory foam bed I could find. We got her glucosamine supplements to strengthen her aging joints, and we upgraded dog food to make sure she was getting the best nutrition for her age. 

Later that spring we decided to sublet our house, buy a used RV, and tour around the US and Canada for 3 months. Between the adjustments to Zuri’s lifestyle and the adventure of being on the road together, she really came back full-power on that trip. It was like Grandpa Joe when Charlie got the golden ticket. Collin would work during the weekdays and then drive a lot of the evenings and late into the night. Zuri would stand with her front feet up on the middle console, staring out ahead every minute that Collin was driving. 10:00 pm, you’d find Senya and Juniper fast asleep in their beds, and Zuri would still be standing up, next to Collin, helping him drive through the night to our next destination. 1:00 am and sometimes I’d be dozed off in the passenger seat, but Zuri would be standing there, 100% awake and dedicated to keeping Collin company in those long, dark hours of driving. Quickly into that trip, she earned the title of “Captain.” 

She loved that trip; right off the bat, we headed back to Pennsylvania. She loved the visit back east to her hometown. She loved visiting her grandparents and all of her family members out there. Everyone in our families got how central she was to our family. She had been with Collin and me from almost the beginning. Just the 5 of us, however, celebrated her tenth birthday on Old Tice Road, eating pizza and playing fetch. The double digits felt big. I wished I could slow down her age.

But she went on to live it up at the vitality of a much younger dog for the remainder of that trip. She loved the Grand Tetons, Glacier National Park in the US, Glacier National Park in Canada, and of course, she loved Banff. Collin and I had always dreamed of taking Zuri to Banff. It was one of our favorite places on earth, and we had backed 200 miles over the course of 3 weeks there before the Zuri era. Once we had Zuri and experienced how she loved hiking and camping and swimming as much as we did, we always wanted to take her to what we considered the quintessential place for exactly those things. And here we were, 11 years after that first backpacking trip, with Zuri and also Senya and Juniper. And all three of them loved it even more than I had dreamed. They loved the glacier rivers. Our whole family would swim down the glacier river currents for miles; the humans were all using inner tubes, but Zuri used those webbed feet with bliss.

She channeled her inner dolphin, swimming when it was deep and galloping anytime she could touch the bottom. She also hiked with us many miles on that trip. We summited mountains, traversed tens of miles to reach glaciers, and discovered many, gorgeous mountain top lakes together. The water was the color of gemstones. The memories we made there and then will always be some of my favorite moments of my lifetime. All 5 of us in my most favorite destination on earth. 

Once we got back from our road trip travels, we all resumed our lifestyles in California. For Zuri, this meant that she spent a lot of time sleeping on the sofa again. She did not consider our patio (our only fenced in outdoor space) a viable option for being outside. 30,000 cars a day sped or crawled (depending on the time of day) by our house daily. The noise pollution alone bothered her nerves. She found the heat and lack of grass equally off-putting. We took her on walks to dog-friendly parks several times a week, but this was such a different lifestyle than either her Arkansas or Pennsylvania lifestyle had been. I began to want to move back to the country life. Senya and Juniper were enthusiastic about this idea too. So, that following summer of July 2018, we got back in our RV and went to look for a place in the country. 

We investigated Boulder, Colorado (not exactly the country life, but we could at least have some semblance of a yard), and we examined Bend, Oregon. We considered moving back to Arkansas or Pennsylvania. But the place that kept calling to me was Vermont. We drove to Vermont and only planned to stay a few days to visit my uncles who lived there. We didn’t feel like seeing a lot of properties, so we narrowed it down to just one. It was in a tiny, rural town called Pawlet. The pictures made it look too good to be true. But then we arrived, and it was even better than the pictures made it appear. 

We drove about a mile up a dirt road, and then turned onto another dirt driveway. A former Buddhist retreat center, the property was studded with multiple log cabins: two the sizes of regular homes and one, small one. In the center of the unwooded section of the property, just steps in front of the main log home, there was a giant, clear pond surrounded by native bushes, grasses, flowers, and weeping willow trees. Out from the pond flowed a sparkling creek that cascaded down boulders and culminated in a large waterfall. Zuri yelped with delight when she jumped out of the RV. She was in paradise. Juniper and Senya loved it just as much. We put in an offer within the week, and within 3 months it was our new home. 

We lived there, on our beautiful mountain retreat becoming more intimate with nature than I ever knew was possible. It’s hard to mine the most sacred and intimate experiences from my soul to put them into words to share. Sometimes it feels like these moments recalled are like an ember pulled from the fire of my heart, glowing and sacred. How they are received by another depends on the fire of natural wonder in the listener’s heart. My words either become an ember they receive and add to their own glow, or the spark dims and darkens until it becomes a cold, dark lump of charcoal. 

One winter morning, the air was glistening with tiny flecks of ice crystals; the extreme cold had turned any moisture in the air to delicate, gold glitter. Another morning, we woke to almost 4 feet of snow after going to bed with none on the ground (Zuri all but disappeared when we let her out that morning). The Milky Way was stark and visible just outside our door– a celestial theatre broadcasting live nightly. The only sounds we heard were those from nature: birdsong, frogs, and crickets in the summer contrasted by a quiet hush from the soft blanket of snow or the wind rustling the bare branches in the winter. 

My heart hurts every, single day and longs to be back on our land. I had no idea how much it would ache to live away from the land where we had these intimate experiences as a family. Not only is that where Senya and Juniper’s childhood took place, but that is also where Zuri lived out the last years of her life with us. Therefore, my grief is all bound up together—grief for Zuri, grief for the kids’ childhood being over, grief for the land. If I could move back there today, I would. But I no longer have claim to that land, and the new residents have fallen in love with it too. This both hurts and comforts me at the same time. I am glad that the stewards of the land cherish it, but I also feel desperate to return home. I know the farm would be different; and the only way that I can hold that in my heart is to return to the story of Zuri. 

When Zuri died, I felt a loss I never knew I could experience and continue breathing. It didn’t make sense that my heart could hurt so much and yet still beat. It seemed that the pain and ache as intense as I felt in my heart should kill my body. Collin and I placed her well loved and lifeless body deep in the rich, earth of our beloved land– facing east towards the glorious sunrise and under where we’d see Polaris from our home.

Not everyone understands how someone can love a nonhuman person as much as they love their dearest humans, but that doesn’t make it any less real. She was simultaneously my first baby, my best friend, and my therapy animal. She shouldered so much of life’s burdens for me, and when she died—in addition to the grief so shockingly consuming that it stole my breath from my lungs—I also felt the heaviness of life return to my shoulders. She was no longer able to help carry the weight of life, and with the sorrow of her death it was heavier than ever.

I never thought I’d want another dog after Zuri died. But in the months following her death, I realized that the only one who could help me carry this particular grief was going to have to be another person in a dog suit. I didn’t know how to live life without a dog anymore. Love was the only thing that was going to heal my broken heart enough to be functional again, and I needed the kind of love that only a dog could bring into my life.

Indi came into our life like a little tornado. The opposite of Zuri in almost every way, she made it clear that—as younger siblings often do—she was going to fill the spaces that Zuri’s personality left vacant. She hates swimming (Zuri LIVED for water). She loves peanut butter (it was one of the only foods Zuri despised). She likes dogs more than she likes most humans (Zuri was more into humans than dogs), and she enjoys her dog-ness (Zuri always seemed a bit more refined and didn’t engage in butt-sniffing, crotch ramming, or jumping on people to greet them; conversely, these are Indi’s three top ways of saying hello). 

I will always, always grieve Zuri’s absence from my daily life. Where all the love I have for her brought me joy when she was alive, now, it still just hurts. It’s been more than 2 1/2 years since she died, and I still cry when I think of her. Having Indi hasn’t changed that, but she does help with the burden of grief that I shoulder. She did, indeed, help heal me with her unconventional methods of barking at me when I’d try to teach her commands, refusing to try to impress me, and sticking her entire tongue in my mouth unexpectedly.

Similarly, unless we ever move back to our old land, I will always grieve that loss. It felt like we had to move for various reasons, and I drive myself a little crazy if I question that too much. I know it’s been good for Collin’s company to be here for the start up phase, so I lean on that. We’ve met some dear friends we never would have known had we never left. And we’ve reconnected with family and friends in a way that has strengthened those bonds at a critical time in my kids’ lives. So, I try not to regret it, and these gifts help me accept what I can not change and be grateful for what we did gain.

But I’d be lying if I said that I don’t dream of returning to Vermont and living a land based life once again. I miss the seasons. I miss tapping the maple trees in the spring. I miss seeing the flowers return slowly and seeing the earliest ones get a snow fall. I miss the long summer nights and the short, dark winter days. The former good for being outside all day, the latter for cozying up by the fire around 6:00 pm (unapologetically in pajamas) with a mug of something warm. I miss the brilliant fall foliage that truly feels like a work of art. I miss the quiet. I miss the green. I miss living in the last place where I lived with my very first baby dog.

So even if I never return to the exact mountain where we used to live with Zuri and call home, I do know from experience that you can love another–dog, child, home–not the same way but the same amount as another. That is why I was reaching so hard for the farm. Because, I’ll say it again: love is the only thing that heals a broken heart. And that is why still, if we are ever lucky enough to move the farm, I know the love and bond that we have with the land and our nature based life can heal the grief and shoulder the burden of loss.

Until then, every morning I’m greeted by a big, wet dog nose on my cheek, followed by a dog tongue right on the mouth. And that helps a lot.

Nobody gets out of here unscathed. Let’s admit it—by the time we are born we are already a little dent and blem. In utero we have already incurred a certain amount of trauma whether it’s residual from generational stuff or whether it’s from our human host eating way too spicy Thai food. There’s a bit of grace baked into human development, however, in that our consciousness is a bit dull and sleepy when we are young. Childhood can be a temporary respite from facing the truly hard existential questions of life or the truly upending life events—for those of us who are lucky and born into a safe and resourced enough set of circumstances. When questions arise in childhood about why hardships exist, the young child can usually be pacified with a fun distraction, a simple answer, a hug, or some milk and cookies. At some point in any life, however, each person will eventually experience what Franciscan spiritual leader, Richard Rohr, refers to as one of the Big 6.

A Big 6 experience is something so huge that it breaks your framework for explanations. The 6 categories of experiences that can shatter your worldview are: love, death, suffering, sexuality, infinity, or an encounter with the numinous. This Big 6 event is the moment when we reach the edge of our psychological or spiritual skill set and our explanations and ability to make meaning fall short. In this moment, each of us has the opportunity to embark on a unique journey—one that will cause us to authentically navigate and not merely accept or pay lip service to an established path or prefabricated set of answers. Mythically speaking, this is what Joseph Campbell (and other mythological studies experts) calls the Hero’s Journey. When our framework or worldview no longer suffices, this is our call to discover our monomyth and to set out on our psychological or spiritual Hero’s Journey.

What does it mean to heed the call? I think that’s a personal discovery and will look different for everyone. I do think, though, that it begins with opening your heart and your mind. If you shut your heart and mind and believe you already know the path or that there is no path beyond an unpoetic existence of having a pulse until you don’t—then you may miss out on a deep and rich psychological and spiritual journey. In order to become who we can be if we realize our full potential, we do need to let our heartache crack us open to let our souls (or psyches) express and seek the meaning it craves.

Sidenote: If the word “spiritual” freaks you out, then just read “psychological.” The words soul, spirit, and psyche have been interchangeable in the literature regarding psychology, philosophy, and spirituality for thousands of years.

Sometimes there is an initial resistance and a moment of hesitation to heed the call of the Hero’s Journey. As one approaches the threshold of change—the departure from what they’ve always known—the desire to stay put can be appealing. The reluctance to answer the call could be due to a sense of duty or obligation to the status quo, fear of change, or any number of reasons that a person would rather not go on such an adventure. A temporary set back is not a problem, as the hero can still embark when they realize that this is their destiny calling. However, if the person refuses to answer the call finally, Campbell does not mince words about what he thinks will happen. It’s grim:

“Walled in boredom, hard work, or ‘culture,’ the subject loses the power of significant affir­mative action and becomes a victim to be saved. His flowering world becomes a wasteland…and his life feels meaningless …All he can do is create new problems for himself and await the gradual approach of his disintegration (taken from the Hero with a Thousand Faces). 

What exactly am I talking about when I encourage you to go on a spiritual or psychological journey? I’m saying—open your heart, do the inner work, ask the questions, challenge how you’ve always done things, disagree with the mainstream (corporate culture, pop culture, religious culture, whatever your mainstream is), honestly self reflect, and most of all: listen to your very own soul. Let your own soul have a voice and get quiet enough to hear it. What is it saying? What does it need?

We all have innate gifts within us—to mine and realize them we need to nourish the needs of our soul. According to Paul K. Chappelle, a Peace Literacy advocate and educator, there are 9 spiritual cravings (or psychological needs) that are an innate part of the human soul (or psyche). The 9 spiritual cravings are 1) purpose and meaning 2) nurturing relationships 3) expression 4) inspiration 5) belonging  6) self worth 7) challenge 8) transcendence. How much we weight these different needs will likely vary from person to person, stage of life, and circumstances.

Now, just like how when we get hungry we could eat something nourishing or we could eat something toxic, how we meet these 9 spiritual needs can be healthy or not. There are some very unhealthy ways to try to meet these needs. For example, this is one reason cults are a big hit. Well, maybe I’m the only one, but I am like a moth to the flame when it comes to extreme cultures and groups. My high needs for purpose and meaning, a sense of belonging, and transcendence can lead me right to the cults. Even if it’s like a one man band, sometimes I’m the only one living like I’m in my very own cult. I always realize I’ve landed in a cult-like frame of mind or group when I’m being super restrictive with my life (in terms of food, media, or influences that don’t singularly reflect whatever I’m consumed with at the moment).

Or another way a need that often gets tangled up is the need for transcendence so people abuse drugs.

However, if we keep our inner compass set to our true North, I believe that we can navigate our way. So, an important question is, what is your true North? Mine is Love. I believe that my moral compass doesn’t have to rely on following step by step GPS instructions when I allow my conscience to be aligned with the dynamic flow of Love. I will likely blaze my own trail, but that’s the excitement of true discovery and exploration. When you figure out what your true North is, you can set your compass and blaze your own trail. And that doesn’t mean I don’t need some assistance sometimes. A good friend, a therapist, a mentor of some sort—we don’t have to go it alone. But, I do think sometimes we don’t give our innate ability to find our path enough credit (I’m talking psychologically; in terms of physical navigation I’m doomed without googlemaps).

Campbell explains the situation for those of us who decide to take up this call to be trailblazers: 

“They’ve moved out of the society that would have protected them, and into the dark forest, into the world of fire, of original experience. Original experience has not been interpreted for you, and so you’ve got to work out your life for yourself. Either you can take it or you can’t. You don’t have to go far off the interpreted path to find yourself in very difficult situations. The courage to face the trials and to bring a whole new body of possibilities into the field of interpreted experience for other people to experience—that is the hero’s deed.” (Taken from The Power of Myth)

If you are reading this and it’s resonating with you, you are probably a free thinking, self growth cowboy (all genders can be included in that description) or perhaps you’re a sensitive artist in desperate need of a spiritual reboot. Again, if the word “spiritual” freaks you out, think of it as your psyche, your soul, the part of your being that is not flesh and blood but is arguably the most real component of you. 

It’s wild west territory to go spiritually rogue, and it’s definitely not for everyone. It is also not always an option for everyone. There are some phases of life or situations in life that demand almost all your attention or resources just to survive. That is really difficult, and if you’re in that place, then I hope you can find at least some small way to honor one need of your soul. Maybe it’s doing one creative thing per week (expression). Maybe it’s having an authentic conversation with a good friend (nurturing relationships). Maybe it’s meditating in nature or writing in your journal (transcendence and expression). Maybe it’s trail running or learning a new skill or discipline (challenge).

Listening to your soul, even if you have the resources to do so, and letting it express what it needs—that takes courage. To find your path in the bigger scheme of life, you need your soul to be healthy and your psychological/spiritual needs to be well met.  It’s a worthy endeavor to be psychologically healthy and to live an authentic life, however, and I think it’s more critical than ever that people acknowledge their psychological/spiritual needs. We are born with these needs just like we were are born with biological needs. And just like we have instincts to seek the resolution to our physical needs (i.e., we are born with hunger, and there is food; we were born with thirst, and there is water) we were born with a soul that has spiritual and psychological needs, and there are solutions out there for those needs to be met. 

Caution: It hurts. Allowing yourself to listen to your soul, allowing yourself to feel the pain and the ache of the needs not met is not for the faint of heart. To acknowledge suffering and struggle and yet still work to have wonder, curiosity, and hope that there is also beauty, love, and meaning here in this world to fill your soul’s cup when it runs dry—this is not an easy path. But this is the sacrifice that every committed artist makes; they allow themselves to feel. They allow the world to affect them, rather than steeling themselves, numbing their soul, or being resolutely apathetic in an effort to stave off the pain of truly being alive. And after all, our life is our greatest masterpiece, so let’s live like the most courageous artists we can be. 

When Senya and Juniper were tiny, and thus I was in the all-consuming phase of raising two kids under 5, wistful and nostalgic parents who were past their child-raising years would stop me in the grocery store or at the playground to admonish me to “Savor every moment. It goes by SO fast.” I never felt offended by this, but I also felt similarly to how I feel when people here and now tell me that my aura is blue or that their spirit guide revealed to them that they have telepathic powers. Just sorta like, “yeah, okay! That’s not really my take on reality, but if that belief is working for you, great!

But now, we are in the dawn of the era of high school and middle school. Those days of playgrounds, diaper bags, and morning shows are long gone. When I hear a theme song from one of the little kids shows they’d watch way back then (in the mornings so I could have a few solo minutes to keep up my basic personal hygiene) my heart tightens and my throat gets a lump as I viscerally go back to the feeling tone of that era. 

Yet, I would still say that it did not go fast while I was in it. I loved that era, as much as it was exhausting and all consuming. Not everyone, even amazing parents who love their kids, love the little kid era, and there’s certainly no judgment from me in that. We all have our target audience and demographic where we feel the most fulfilled or alive. I had extremely smart and conversational kids, so I attribute a lot of my fulfillment in parenting as a testament to their extraordinary qualities. 

By the time Senya was 2 years old, we were having pretty deep philosophical conversations enabled by their exceptional verbal and conceptual skills. When Juniper came on the scene, she had quite the joyful spirit and used her outlying intelligence quotient to bring a great sense of humor into the mix. The two of them kept me hopping between deep thoughts and goofy antics. I was never bored. There was no time for existential crises or questioning if what I was doing with my life mattered. I don’t think I ever felt so well-suited to any type of work until life made us an entourage. I felt like I was made for those days. And those days were exhausting. Both statements are true. 

So, while those days didn’t go quickly, I will say that the abruptness with which one realizes that era is over is sobering. It’s hard to articulate the “parenting trance” (as my friend calls it) because the changes happen somewhat seamlessly, yet relentlessly. And then one day you look back and those little kid days—and the versions of those tiny humans you so dearly and intimately loved and knew—are so far in the past that your heart feels a little tricked. And somehow you never realized when the last time was. When was the last time I carried Juniper around on my hip? When was the last time they both wore footie pajamas unironically? When was the last time Senya said “zuit case” instead of “suit case” (they got so few words wrong as a kid that we just let that one slide for as long as possible). When did Juniper stop having her tongue out all the time?

And while you know, cognitively, that these moments and phases will end, your heart is sometimes the last to get the message. It’s like you sign the emotional liability waiver with the Universe when you enter into the sacred bond of parenthood, but you just kinda skim it in your enthusiasm to just get to it (doesn’t everyone read the fine print that way? Or is that just my presumed ADHD talking here?).

The past two years have been another round of this processing in my heart. The last time we lived in Topanga (pre-Vermont) it used to be that whatever I was doing, my kids wouldn’t question coming along. They’d wear their Heelys through Costco and help me grocery shop. We’d spend hours in an empty parking lot biking, practicing our spelling in sidewalk chalk, or roller skating. We’d spend hours reading aloud in natural preserves and at the beach. We’d make flower crowns in the spring and I’d read books aloud about gnomes and fairies. 

When we moved back here post-Vermont, the difference was stark. No one was up for a Costco trip. No one wanted to bike around in circles in a parking lot. They were in a different phase of life, and their interests, musical taste, clothing expression, and hobbies all reflected that. Juniper was more interested in hanging with her friends than spending one on one time with me. Senya had traded books about gnomes for books written by Noam Chomsky.

I suddenly realized it had been quite a while since I had little, chubby-handed pals who were finding cool rocks or pretty flowers and giving them to me all day long. Gone were the days when I had people drawing me pictures upon pictures with the constant thematic purpose being to explicitly express in chunky handwriting across the page: “I love mama.” No one wanted to do whatever I was doing with me, side by side, just because I was doing it. People were fully clothed. And they were, of their own volition, taking showers. I started to realize that I was not their primary referent anymore; or at least, even if I was holding my own in the category of importance to their lives, their friends were giving me a run for my money in the influence department. 

Now, I’m sure that most parents go through this adjustment of their kids growing up. But, I’ll say, for those of us who have parented with our hearts and souls, it comes with some challenges. And it could be that this is part of why I moved back here to California. There may have been a part of my Peter Pan heart that believes Los Angeles is the closest Earth comes to having found Neverland. And because we were moving back specifically to homeschool again, I think I thought I could make time stand still or even rewind a bit. Like I wrote in another post, I was trying to move back to an era and I mistook that for being locatable on a geographical map. 

There was a lot of grief for me when I realized that the phase in which I found myself when we arrived back in California was vastly and permanently different from the phase we were in a year beforehand when we were just living our Vermont mountain life. Not even my version of Neverland could reverse the incessant march of time, forcing my kids to grow up. The cross-country move took up so much energy and focus that I didn’t realize how much they were changing. But that’s always how it feels in hindsight; after all, as Allen Saunders said long ago and John Lennon made famous: “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

So, I had to grieve that. And I suppose that’s an ongoing process. Because life with them will continue to evolve, eras will end, and new chapters will begin before I’m ready. So, after allowing myself to indulge in a good cry anytime I am alone and want to (which—bringing it full circle—means usually when I’m going to Costco), I am also dedicated to staying present and also celebrating what we have now. 

And now—when I appreciate this phase of life for what it is rather than grieve what it is not— is pretty great. 

For example, they still both love doing Friday family movie and homemade pizza nights. Total win. And, I’ll admit, the caliber of movies is a lot better than it was 10 years ago. 

Also, they still get psyched for family vacation. The destinations are also a lot of fun because we can plan around cultural features (like going to San Francisco, the epicenter of all things Pride) or hitting up a music festival where artists we all like are performing. We can also plan around natural features and everyone is a lot more physically capable for bigger hikes (willingness is a different issue).

They aren’t driving, so we are still very involved in their social lives by necessity if not choice. Also, they’re usually in bed and asleep long before I am, so when I go to bed I can still check on them one more time before I retire. 

They aren’t in serious romantic relationships or having the complexity of navigating sexual relationships or the intensity of being in love, so that makes life feel comparatively simple. Though I am very excited to welcome and love whoever they bring home whenever those days begin.

But for now, they are still totally willing to hang out with us, and they even enjoy it. Sure, maybe it can’t be doing just any old thing anymore (especially for Juni, she’s invested in the activity not just the company), but as long as you make it fun, Juni is on board with hanging out (which is why Collin was dizzy for days after going to Magic Mountain and riding extreme roller coasters, and I had goggle marks on my eyes for days after repeatedly diving down to the bottom of the deep end at the public pool). Senya, truth be told, is still down for doing just about anything together because they’re in it for the company and the good conversation. This is one stellar example of where the gnome to Noam upgrade really shines. 

Getting to know who they each are as they differentiate and self express more has been a rewarding joy. That is some of my favorite magic of now. 

SO, some of you reading are not parents. Or even if you are, maybe parenting isn’t your main or most defining gig. And I get that. But we are all humans, and we all experience this phenomenon of time passing. And we all have those moments when the finitude of life kicks us right in the heart crotch (not my most poetic turn of phrase, but it gets the point across, I think).  We all experience aging and the sense that once the door to an era closes, you can only look through the window of memories. Even specific events can feel this way. Some moments are like shooting stars streaking across the sky, and we are witnessing both their beginning and their end all in one brilliant, breathtaking experience.

And what is it that hovers around all this experience of life—especially once you yourself leave childhood? It’s that nostalgia that comes with truly understanding impermanence, finitude, essentially the death at the individual level. Holding in our consciousness our individuated finitude and the impermanence of all that is material can be a sobering and poignant experience. But it also lends itself to our thoughts to remind us that the moments we have right now are fleeting and poetic, though not perfect. 

So, I guess the point of this post is to say that if you’re too busy looking backward into the past or forward into the future, you may miss out on the magic of now. And yet, I am not great at the power of now, so I have to think of being present as something different from a “today is the only day” sort of approach. I view being present as more of an integration of the past, future, and present.

Embracing the past, I have an understanding that where I am today is a continuation of a path I’ve been traveling for quite some time (some would say my ancestors even started this journey and I’m just taking up my part on the trek). As I honor the past, I allow myself to grieve all that has changed. The loved ones who have died (the death that still looms largest in my heart is that of my first beloved dog, Zuri). The relationships that have ended or grown estranged. My own youth. My kids’ childhood. All that is obsolete (including rotary wall phones with curly chords and all those sugary gum flavors made by Bubble Yum, Hubba Bubba, Bubblicious). 

For the future, I hold a reverence for the relentless nature of time marching forth. I acknowledge, simultaneously, that our lifetime is finite and passing and that the bigger story of life itself (of which we are a part) is moving ever onward.

And with those two in mind, in the present, I try to hold with reverence and appreciation what is now. What makes life precious is that it won’t always be. What makes life poignant is the interconnectedness of our one, small part in the story with the great story arc. What makes life sacred is the love we create and share. And if we live well and henceforth love well, that love will go on long after we are gone. 

So, sure, parenting is a weird gig. You sign the emotional liability waiver a little too enthusiastically and only remember the deal you made when you feel that ache in your heart as you realize it’s a one way ticket to their launch into this world without you. But isn’t that a quality of love itself? Whether it’s your partner, your dog, your cat, your kid, your parent, your grandparent, your soul mate, best friend, or any one of the people whose name you have indelibly etched on your heart and soul. You sign the waiver, acknowledge the risks, and you give yourself wholly and with abandon to loving them. As for me, I want to spend my life loving until I’ve spent it all—all my energy up to my very last breath, the last beat of my heart. When I close my eyes that final time, never to see the sun, our great yet temporary star, shine its light on me again, I will think of all the love I’ve had in my life. And really, is there anything more worthy than that? In the end, isn’t that the closest our souls brush with the infinite? 

On that note, I will leave you with some selected excerpts from James Badwin’s article, “Nothing Personal.”

“Four AM can be a devastating hour. The day, no matter what kind of day it was is indisputably over; almost instantaneously, a new day begins: and how will one bear it? Probably no better than one bore the day that is ending, possibly not as well. Moreover, a day is coming one will not recall, the last day of one’s life, and on that day one will oneself become as irrecoverable as all the days that have passed.

It is a fearful speculation — or, rather, a fearful knowledge — that, one day one’s eyes will no longer look out on the world. One will no longer be present at the universal morning roll call. The light will rise for others, but not for you.

Sometimes, at four AM, this knowledge is almost enough to force a reconciliation between oneself and all one’s pain and error. Since, anyway, it will end one day, why not try it — life — one more time?…”

“For, perhaps — perhaps — between now and the last day, something wonderful will happen, a miracle, a miracle of coherence and release. And the miracle on which one’s unsteady attention is focused is always the same, however it may be stated, or however it may remain unstated. It is the miracle of love, love strong enough to guide or drive one into the great estate of maturity, or, to put it another way, into the apprehension and acceptance of one’s own identity. For some deep and ineradicable instinct — I believe — causes us to know that it is only this passionate achievement which can outlast death, which can cause life to spring from death.”

When Lindsay and I were in our mid-20s, we still lived in the community where we grew up. One of the things I loved most about growing up in Southeastern Pennsylvania was a decades-long stability of place that created a deep sense of belonging. I loved my intimate familiarity with the ecosystem, the regular and predictable cadence of the seasons, and I loved being a part of a community that had known me forever.

One of the examples where this last feature was most readily observed was in the church where I had grown up since I was two years old.  By the time I was 25, I was a card-carrying Green Party member and I didn’t believe most of the fundamental teachings commonly accepted in Christianity (i.e. the existence of a God, the reality of an afterlife, etc…). Nevertheless, I still attended the small, community church regularly. Lindsay asked me why I kept going when my beliefs were so dissonant with the institution’s. “I like the potlucks,” I said. “Plus, where else am I going to see Donna and Brian? Or Tom? Or Lynn? I love seeing those people.” And thus, I continued to go. 

Over the past decade and a half, our family has moved several times. We’ve made big moves across the country and, while we have sought to maintain consistency in practices that reflect and support our most deeply held values, we have fully abandoned the practice of attending any form of religious community. This has been a notable departure from our upbringing. Growing up, church was where we found friends, community, and a sense of belonging. Church is designed to address the core psychological needs for explanations, belonging, stability, and community. 

Across all of these moves, it has been important for me to maintain a close connection and warm relationship with the people I hold most dear from the early part of our lives. I love my family and friends and I don’t want to grow apart from them or lose touch with them. It’s a common thing for people to grow apart with distance. It’s even more common for people to grow apart after experiencing large shifts in belief and the systems that support them.

I’ve spent significant time thinking deeply about what I still share with the important people in my life who have not taken this same path. I have done a lot of reading about what binds people together despite differences in belief systems. Here’s what I think lies at the core: Shared Values. 

Throughout my exploration of the importance of core values, it has been helpful for me to distinguish between values and beliefs. Both are fundamental components of our worldview and decision-making processes, but they serve different purposes and influence our behavior in distinct ways.

Values are core principles or standards that guide what is important or beneficial to an individual. They are deeply ingrained and stable over time. They are emotional and evaluative. Some examples of a value might be, “Honesty is important to me” or “I value kindness and compassion.” Values are usually instilled by your family, culture, and/or societal influences. They are established at a young age and tend to be stable over time. While they can evolve over a lifespan, a change in core values usually requires a lot of new life experience and thoughtful work. Values serve as a compass for behavior and a guide for how we interact with others and make decisions. Values often underpin our goals and aspirations.

A belief, on the other hand, is an acceptance that something is true or exists, often without proof. Beliefs can be about facts, opinions, or perceptions. Beliefs are cognitive and can be based on knowledge, assumptions, or faith. For example, to express a belief, one may say, “I believe that hard work leads to success,” or “I believe that there is a God who loves me.” Beliefs often point to a deeper value. For example, “I believe that it is wrong to lie” is a moral belief that points to the value of Truth. Beliefs are formed through personal experiences, cultural influences, education, and social interactions. Beliefs change with life experiences and the assimilation of new information. Beliefs help us interpret and understand the world around us in real-time.

Simply put, values are the deep stuff. They define who you are. Beliefs are about what we think is true, but values are about what we think is important.

THIS is why a non-religious liberal still loved the church potlucks. Tom and I would talk about creative solutions to complex problems because we both value Creativity and Ingenuity. Lynn and I would connect on issues of inequality because we both value Justice. Donna, Brian, and I would talk about their kids because we all value Love and Family. None of our conversations were about the origins of the universe or what happens after we die. I knew we believed differently about those things. We talked about the stuff that we all cared deeply about. It was wonderful.

When you move beyond the level of Beliefs and look for common ground on the level of Values, there’s incredible opportunity to connect with other people. It is possible to form deep and meaningful relationships with other people–even if you do not share beliefs–if you DO have shared values. 

There’s a dark side here though. It’s something I have seen a lot with people of faith. When you invert the importance of values and beliefs and you place your beliefs above values, this can be deeply destructive.

On a personal level, this can destroy relationships. On a societal level, it can destroy entire people groups and cultures. This is not an exaggeration. Think of the Crusades. Think of the Holocaust. These are extreme examples of people acting out of a dedication to their beliefs in a destructive manner. The people behind these atrocities believed that they were right. In today’s world, we see this expressed in how people vote. Destructive and powerful leaders have been elected to positions of power because they purport to share a belief system with voters. I would implore you to look beyond a candidate’s stated beliefs and try to discern their values by examining their actions. Are they honest? Are they kind? Are they respectful? Do they seem wise to you? Remember we all value different things. People can value things you actually think are bad. Some people’s core values are power, control, and success over anything else. Some people think that kindness and honesty represent weakness. Placing belief systems above how values are expressed in action is a dangerous subversion that can come with horrific consequences.

On a more individual level, I’ve seen the personal impact of placing beliefs over values over and over again in my life. Growing up in the church, I have seen families grapple with this as their kids leave the nest (as well as the church and the faith). Some of these families have stayed close to their grown kids. Some haven’t. The difference? People who connect on shared values stay close whereas people who prioritize beliefs grow apart. 

If you place more importance on being right or defending your beliefs than keeping a strong and warm relationship, you will lose that relationship. Guaranteed. Remember, beliefs are PERSONAL. If you try to make them objective and hold others to them, you are placing your beliefs above the value of Relationship (also this may be this is a sign that you value Authority more than you value Connection… if that’s the case you can change that with thoughtful work). If you confront someone or refuse to accept someone because you believe that their religious or spiritual view is wrong or the expression of their gender or sexuality is wrong, you are placing your own, personal beliefs above shared values. You are rejecting something deep and personal about that individual by telling them THEY are wrong. You will hurt them and drive them away.

I can think of so many times I’ve seen this happen. Invariably, the aggressor says they are acting out of love for the other person. I would challenge this though. If you place your personal beliefs as your top priority, you aren’t operating out of Love. You’re operating out of fear. Fear that the other person is wrong because they don’t share your beliefs. If you truly believe that perfect love casts out fear, I would encourage you to pause and reflect before confronting someone on a difference of belief. Rather, look for a shared value. Look for a place to create connection rather than confrontation. Look for a way to nurture rather than control. 

I think that a good test for whether confrontation is a wise choice this: “Is whatever you are confronting harming or oppressing someone else?” There are times when it absolutely makes sense to confront a difference in beliefs. Most activism is designed to target outcomes that spring from a difference in beliefs. I think it’s admirable and right to stand up against oppressive belief systems like white supremacy. Even beliefs that are held with deep conviction can be deeply flawed and profoundly harmful. That’s when it makes sense to get in touch with your most deeply cherished values (for example: love, equality, justice, etc..) and confront forces that are working against those values.

Maintaining healthy relationships and activism are quite different pursuits. I do think that it’s a valuable skill to look beyond beliefs and focus on values whenever possible. It’s a tricky balance and one I’m sure I haven’t perfected.

In my 20s I rarely spoke up about the differences in my beliefs. It wasn’t because I couldn’t defend them. It was because I preferred to focus on the common ground rather than the differences. I preferred to connect rather than divide. But I was also afraid of the rejection I’d face if I was transparent about my beliefs. I saw this kind of rejection a lot. I can think of example after example from my childhood where people who were outspoken and honest about their differences in beliefs were rejected in deep ways by important people in their lives. A lot of those people are not doing well today. They lost a lot at a critical age and it left a mark.

A fundamental part of the human experience is a quest for belonging. But true belonging can only exist when we live authentically according to the stuff we think is most important. How can one belong without truly being known and how can one feel known without others understanding the deep stuff that defines you? I think this is why we all have such a reflex to assign labels; so we can easily know and be known. Each of us must confront a chasm as deep as the human heart that craves the eloquence of allegiance. What DO we stand for? Who are we, really? What do we think is most important?

But labels usually fall woefully short because they tend to focus on a tiny sliver of who we truly are. They tend to cover things related to beliefs, affiliations, views, vocations, etc… Counting people in or cutting people out based on one tiny aspect of their being is simplistic at best. True belonging can only come when we have time to share the deep stuff.

As I’ve grown older and built a life less vulnerable to losing resources due to belief-based rejection, I’ve become much more comfortable talking openly about my beliefs and my identity. You see, I’m confident in what I believe and I’m proud of what I value. I believe that Nature and all that it encompasses is beautiful and sacred. I have a deep reverence for life and all of its delicate interconnectedness. I try to cultivate wonder. I pursue awe. My heart melts for warm, kind, caring relationships. I love a supportive community. I marvel at the power that Love has to nurture, restore, and create beauty in the everyday. 

You see? That’s a lot of room for common ground. We may have different beliefs about origins and endings, but there’s a lot of great stuff in the middle where we can connect.

Hopefully someday I’ll see you at a potluck.

While being friendly is a genuine feature of my persona, it is just one facet on the surface of who I am. 

I have, undoubtedly, gone to great lengths in my life to present as friendly and nice, though. 

For example: 

If someone anywhere in any parking lot waves in my general direction, I would sooner drop my grocery bags and trip over them to wave back than risk not returning the wave. Fun fact: they weren’t waving at me 9 times out of 10. 

If a driver stops their car to let me cross at a cross walk, I make eye contact and wave mouthing the words “thank you so much” as I do the good citizen high speed shuffle across the road.

I have been known to wave at dogs. 

This overly nice persona started to back fire, though. Because, while some of my nice actions are motivated by sincere consideration, I am not only nice. What people don’t always realize is that beneath that smiling and cheery exterior, there is an intense, planet-sized amount of human constantly churning and metabolizing everything that’s happening on the surface. Planets have a lot going on. They’re not just nice. They’ve got storms, dust clouds, super sonic winds, mountains…okay, I’m currently realizing that I do not know much about planets beyond a 4th grade level. But they’re like whole worlds. No one would just describe Venus as nice. 

My indomitably happy disposition is like the strongest pair of Spanx the world has ever known. It is often holding what seems like a superhuman amount of feelings within it. I’ve recently come to describe this phenomena as such: I’m a dragon who sometimes disguises as a unicorn. So, let’s just assume my unicorn costume is made by Spanx. 

As one might expect, the happy unicorn Spanx suit isn’t invincible or perfect at containing my intensity. There are certain factors that disintegrate the disguise— dynamics that compromise the integrity of said unicorn Spanx suit. It’s been super confusing for others when this supposed unicorn everybody invited to the party starts breathing fire and burns everything and everyone in its path. Everyone rushes to leave the party like “there is something seriously wrong with that unicorn” Or, if the costume has been completely abandoned, “who invited that fire-breathing dragon to our good vibes only unicorn party?” 

As this “surprise, I’m really a dragon” thing happened more and more frequently, I realized that I needed to take some accountability. Namely, I was falsely advertising myself as a primarily nice person. I am not, in fact, a primarily nice person. 

Don’t get me wrong; I value kindness. I try to be a kind person. There’s a difference between being nice and being kind. Kindness and love are based in values and a code of virtue. Because of this, kindness can do difficult things that don’t always feel nice in relationships—set boundaries, end relationships, hold someone accountable for their actions, not enable others (which often feels very not nice to the other person in the moment, regardless of how truly loving it is), etc. Kindness is a posture of the heart dedicated to enact love regardless of feelings. Niceness is usually an aesthetic.  

So, why was I trying to market myself as nice? Well, the social messaging to be nice begins for AFABs (assigned females at birth) before the nurses in the hospital put that pink little hat on you. I’ll refrain for now from going on a fiery dragon tangent about how people always ask pregnant people what they’re having (I mean, it’s a human. But these people are presumably seeking a response that involves a binary concept of gender to which they can attach all their socially constructed pronouns and projections of whether this child will play with dolls (and be nice) or play with trucks (and be a tiny mr. tough guy) based on which genitalia the kiddo’s growing in there. Whoops. Seems like the dragon interjected a touch of fire after all). 

So much of the social script from those prying assumptive questions on out reinforces that code. Vulva equals girl equals nice. And so, I internalized from a very young age that it is generally accepted as common knowledge that most humans like nice girls rather than grumpy, intense, or unfriendly Demi-girls, so I went for the nice girl packaging and marketing. Smiles, eye contact, raised eyebrows, lots of nodding with my head tilted during conversations. 10 out of 10 for niceness.

But still, the more you know, the more accountable you need to be. So, as I realized that I wasn’t presenting a lot of my authentic self, I had to ask myself how I was responsible in creating this dynamic. What were my selfish motives? Yes, there’s social messaging, but why was I complying? 

There are sometimes systemic reasons that people have to comply with these social scripts to stay safe. People who aren’t as privileged in society sometimes have to mask and comply with certain scripts to retain access to vital resources, stay safe, and survive. 

But, I have privilege. My skin color, my socio economic status, my education, and a lot of the variables in the life I lucked into—allow me to be safe and be deviant from the expectations from society. So therefore, I’ve somewhat recently started using that privilege and safety to acknowledge and embody my true dragon nature. 

And in so doing, I’ve had to do some shadow work. To be a safe dragon who knows how to wield the fire, I’ve had to integrate the parts of myself that I’d rather not acknowledge. In addition to admitting that I am intense and not generally easy breezy about anything ever at all, I have also had to realize that some of this pretense was designed to get people to like me. To boost my ego. 

So, while the good citizen shuffle is often because I actually want to be considerate of the driver’s time, I also want a 5 star good citizen review on the imaginary Lindsay Yelp. I like to imagine that the driver is like, “you know, that’s a good person right there. They’re so considerate. They really seem to get that they are not the center of the world.”

Waving at dogs is purely motivated by (a slight lack of reasoning skills in the moment and also) my eternal and unwavering love for dogs. 

But doing the work to figure out when I’m being nice out of true kindness versus when I’m being nice to get good reviews has been some helpful shadow work. One is grounded in love and unattached to the results and one is primarily for the accolades. 

It is helpful to all your kin—nay, I daresay, it is helpful to society in general, actually—to know oneself and truly do your inner work around your identity. Integrating your shadow self is one of the kindest and bravest types of self work you can do. 

What do I mean by shadow work? It’s the process of trying to become aware of and work on the attributes of the part of your personality you try to keep hidden because it isn’t compatible with who you want to be. Oftentimes you can’t see your own shadow (because you keep it so repressed or suppressed that you aren’t consciously aware of it), yet the people closest to you in your life can see it. So, truly growing sometimes means that the brave, close souls in your life bring these shadow elements of your behavior or psyche to your attention. I’ve got two people in my life whom I trust (trust that they love me, share my values, understand me, etc) who are willing to show me my shadow. 

Now, I am not the, ahem, easiest to confront. That is to say, historically, my dragon has been known to emerge upon confrontation and become a little unwieldy. I am intense. And I really don’t like to be called out on my shadow. I mean, no one does, to be sure. But where someone gentle and meek (a true unicorn, perhaps) might shed some tears or request some moments of self-reflection, I have been known in the past to almost jump out of a second story window, argue for days on the basis of being “nice, goddammit”, give the passive-aggressive depressed affect for days (i.e., “YOU did this to me. You killed a rare and beautiful unicorn, and now I must mourn”). 

So, it’s brave when someone says, “Hey Linds, I’ve noticed this pattern and I think you and your relationships would be healthier if you worked on it.” 

I’ve really worked so hard over the last 25 years of being partnered with Collin (4 of dating and 21 of being married) to integrate, do my shadow work, not be tempted to jump out of windows (that was when I was a teenager, by the way), and try really hard to feel the burning, painful death of my ego whilst not using my dragon fire to hurt or harm when my complexes get triggered. 

Jung uses the term complex for emotional triggers that really trip us up and spring from our unconscious. It’s basically the landmines in your personal psyche that could get set off when someone is walking through your space. They may set them off entirely unsuspectingly, or if it’s someone who is trying to upset you, they may know your “issues” and detonate a complex. 

If you don’t do the inner work to know your own psychological landscape—if you don’t figure out what the landmines are and work to deactivate them—then you leave yourself and all those around you vulnerable to an explosion. Explosions can end relationships unnecessarily, cause harm to yourself and others, and leave you feeling resentment for years. 

As someone who has had difficult complexes to integrate and deactivate, I can say that it’s extremely unnerving to be in an emotional state controlled by an activated complex. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve had this happen to me, and it’s awful. It is almost like the rational part of my adult brain is passively watching as this activated version of myself takes the wheel and starts driving like a maniac. Or in my dragon analogy it’s like the dragon starts breathing fire without control. 

The great irony of realizing one’s potential is that we can’t become the person we want to be if we don’t embrace who we actually are. This includes embracing your shadow self and acknowledging your complexes. It starts with being present with who you are, being brave enough to explore your identity and really being open to learning and integrating all the parts of who you are. Sometimes this only can happen when a trusted person in your life holds the mirror up to reveal something to you that you wouldn’t otherwise be capable of seeing. And it’s not always fire breath; maybe you’re a people pleaser, maybe you sabotage your own success, maybe you’re a workaholic. 

When you know yourself—the light and the shadow, the socially facing persona, the complexes that lay beneath the surface, the shadow self—you can make informed decisions and thoughtful responses to the things happening around you and within you. Understanding yourself and making peace with your inner dragon (or mythological animal equivalent) means that when something happens in the external world (someone says something or does something) and then you have a reaction in your inner world (anger arises, fear arises, etc) you are better positioned to resist impulsive urges to act out of those feelings. You can also have compassion for yourself and make space to be present with all of yourself. Witnessing and being present with what is rather than trying to feel or think what you think you should feel or think is one of the best exercises in expanding your ability to contain your own whole self (inner fire-breathing dragons, sensitive unicorns, fierce Chimera, deadly Basilisks, etc).

Simply put: if you do your inner work to integrate the shadow elements of your soul with your higher consciousness, you will be less likely to snap when others do things that upset you.

Paradoxically almost, you will also become your own friend. You will understand yourself better, have compassion for yourself, and you will be able to articulately navigate difficult situations, relationships, and life in general. I always find that I feel loneliest when I’m ignoring my inner self and avoiding spending time with what’s going on inside of me. Sometimes the best friend we need is ourself. Sometimes our inner dragons need someone to see them, love them, and hold space for why they feel fiery.

When we become our own true friend we can stand in our truth without needing others to understand it to validate it. If we wave at someone and they weren’t waving at us, but we were motivated by our truth, it’s still worth tripping over your groceries. Even if they look at you like you’re pathetic. Because you did it—not for yelp reviews—but because you believe in kindness regardless of the effect it has on your ego.

So, this week’s post is just a weekend inspiration to be your best self. Which surprisingly means sitting down to tea with your worst self and lending a compassionate, listening ear. 

“I’m going to shoot the moon!!!!” —me, believing I can achieve the highly unlikely best outcome in most situations

It has come to my attention that I have a tendency toward optimism that borders on delusional. For the most part, this has worked in my favor (it’s bad; see?). It gives me the confidence and hope to make bold moves, take risks, and experience big rewards. From camping in Masai Mara with lions hunting just outside our back packing tent (I’m sure they’ll just eat the Wildebeest and not us) to maintaining a 4.0 in grad school while nursing my infant and working full time (I’ll sleep when I’m dead), this tendency towards optimism for the seemingly impossible can come in handy. It allows me to reach past the bounds of realism and work with my imaginal vision for what I want to accomplish. Perception shapes, if not becomes, our reality. 

However.

There are some downsides to this indomitably positive facet of my being. I can misjudge or underestimate the consequences of aforementioned bold moves. Like the time I jumped barefoot off a cliff in Maine onto the rocks below. I shattered my right foot upon impact. Fortunately I was with the two best friends for such a situation as this: Nick, a military-trained medic, and Collin, aka MacGyver of the woods. So, all in all, I was fine. We finished out our weeklong camping trip and then I went home and got a proper cast. Lesson learned: don’t jump off cliffs onto rocks 10 feet below, especially barefoot. 

Selling our 64 acres in Vermont was not quite as impulsive as jumping off a cliff barefoot (I was only 18 when I did that, by the way), but—I will say—I did not fully consider the consequences of how it would feel to be 8 months on the other side of that decision. I imagined a month, two months, three months into the decision—but I didn’t picture how I would feel by that following June here after the initial shine of the decision had worn off—especially if things did not go according to plan. The consequences were bigger than some broken bones. 

I would say that until last June, I had never experienced real regret. I had always been able to maintain this idea of “it’s all grist for the mill” or “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!” My belief around the current of vitality from my last post allows me to untether from my small self and plug into the bigger collective of Life Itself.

On June 6 of last year (Collin and my 20th anniversary, incidentally), however, I experienced something that changed my life and forced me to set out on the journey of reconciling some real regret for making such a drastic move, presumably under the influence of optimistic delusion. On that day, a parent with considerable influence and leadership in our homeschool group confronted me about Senya vocalizing about queer and trans rights in the group. Now, if you have a kid who identities as queer—gender queer or queer in their orientation—you know that the statistics are that LGBTQIA+ youth are more than 4 times as likely to attempt suicide than their peers. And you would also know that trans and nonbinary youth are 2-2.5 times more likely to experience depressive symptoms, seriously consider suicide, and attempt suicide compared to their cisgender LGBQ peers (https://www.thetrevorproject.org/resources/article/facts-about-lgbtq-youth-suicide/)

I had heard Senya confront some of these kids before, so I knew what this parent was referencing. When two cisgender, heterosexual boys were pretending to be gay, I heard Senya handle the situation with directness but not unkindly. They told them it wasn’t funny to make a joke out of someone’s orientation. When a cisgender girl told Senya that they were “always going to be a girl” and that they “needed to stop running from their true identity” Senya stood up for themself, but again, not unkindly. I know there were more occasions, and I know they probably didn’t always perfect their delivery in standing up for themself, but they were 12 and the only out queer kid in the group. So, they did their best doing a job that the most vulnerable person in a given social group shouldn’t be left to do for themself in the first place. 

So, given those stats above, and the fact that Senya was trying to be an ambassador and advocate for trans and queer rights—for themself and also for others in the group who had come out privately to them—I wasn’t about to apologize to this parent or tell Senya to tone it down. In the moment, ki when this parent was confronting me, it suddenly dawned on me: people aren’t going to understand. My kid is going to face discrimination in this world and they will be blamed for it. If this can happen in Los Angeles, a city that purports to be progressive and liberal, where can they be safe? 

It leveled me emotionally to have Senya’s identity and their attempt to make space for their existence as a trans-gender, non-binary person put beneath the level of importance of other kids’ hurt feelings or injured pride. “Senya is casting these kids as sexist, and that’s unfair” the parent wrote later in an email. Interestingly enough, another girl (the one who told Senya they’d always be a girl), called boys sexist all the time. And yet, this girl wasn’t getting singled out. 

I am going to just pause and recognize my privilege for a moment here as someone who has been able to mask and protect myself, despite my own queerness, whenever necessary to stay safe. Other more vulnerable members of society don’t have this privilege. This includes other members of the trans and non binary community and also Black, Indigenous, People of Color, and people of racial diversity. The most vulnerable members of society are those that live at intersections of these different facets of identity. It’s important that I note here that I have had the luxury of living a life where this was one of the first and formative moments of prejudice I’ve experienced on behalf of my child because they refused to mask and blend. This experience makes me realize the importance of speaking up and making space for people who are less safe to do so for themself and who do not have the option of masking. This is why it’s important to say “Black Lives Matter” or have policies around inclusivity, signs on institutions and businesses welcoming and protecting diversity, and legislation that protects the rights of vulnerable members of society. It takes saying it out loud, making it formalized, and taking a stance. Because it’s not a given. And if you think it is, it’s because you’ve been privileged enough to think that (as I was).

So, in the initial moments of this parent’s confrontation, I felt the ground beneath me fall away. My friend was next to me, with her hand on my back trying to support me, unable to find the words or actions to intervene in the conversation but sending the signal of solidarity and support by physically supporting me. I was shaking and began crying uncontrollably. I couldn’t think; I just felt bottomless grief for Senya’s journey of being misunderstood, for the shattering realization of how unjust the world was, for all I had given up to be here in Los Angeles. My heart was pounding in my ears, and images flashed across my mind of all the things I loved that I had given up to be here. With this group. The ramps that grow on the hillside in April. The bees we kept that pollinated our plants and shared their abundance of honey. Our neighbors who provided friendship and help in any pinch in which we’d find ourselves. The sunrises over the mountains I’d see from my kitchen sink window. Our pond that we’d ice skate on every February and then swim in every June. Animal friends—chickens, bunnies, a cat— we had to re-home. The chickadee who would sing to me to tell me that spring was on the way. The grief was filling me, choking me, and I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave the situation. And so I did. I went home and crawled into bed at 6:00 pm in the evening. Collin canceled our 20th anniversary dinner reservations and sat next to me in my sadness, sharing the burden of grief. 

In the following days, the parent and I went back and forth in a series of emails each trying to explain to the other our point of view. “All the kids deserve to be accepted” she wrote. Yes, but for some outliers to be included, there need to be changes made in the way we speak and think about gender to affirm their identity. Just like “All Lives Matter” minimizes or negates the specific, systemic oppression that Black individuals face, saying that all the kids’ hurt feelings carried the same weight as the one trans’ kid’s in these particular moments of ciscentric or heteronormative biases negates the specific, systemic struggle that a trans person experiences by virtue of living in a binary, cisgender society. 

By day three of email exchanges, it became clear that there was a chasm between us that could not be bridged with logic, for we each had our own. And while each of our arguments derived from different premises and resulted in different conclusions, they were both logically sound. Without empathy, there is no way across the divide of differing logic and world views. I understood that she was trying to protect the other kids from feelings of shame or judgment. I don’t think she ever understood that I was trying to keep my kid from the statistic likelihood of depression and suicide associated with their trans identity. We each had concerns; the stakes were higher for mine. And without a clear policy and uniform stance on LGBTQIA+ rights, inclusive language, and an overt mission to celebrate diversity, we could not stay in the group. In the absence of a clear, unified statement on inclusion and equity, the default is that each person’s opinion is as important as the next person’s. When it comes to social issues with this much weight and consequence, especially in light of the misalignment I was sensing about such issues, I didn’t feel that Senya would have the support they needed to be healthy. 

And so, we left the group that I had envisioned being our community for the remainder of the kids’ middle and high school years. The group that I had believed would off set the sacrifices of leaving our homestead in Vermont. 

I had to confront the grief and face the regret of the choice I had made. I had sold our home, our land, our beautiful intimate life and there was no going back. Fortunately, the only pragmatic reason we had moved here—for Collin to be physically here for the initial start up phase of his company—had gone better than we even hoped. So, that’s a win. But the life that the kids and I thought we were returning to did not pan out the way I thought it would. I tried to move back to an era, but eras aren’t geographical.

It was important for me to go through this process of grief and of reconciling how my optimistic delusion prevented me from sitting with the cost of the decision to move here. I did not allow myself to stay present with the grief of all we were leaving in Vermont because I steeled myself to make the difficult leap. This was where I went wrong. If you are making a big change, taking a big risk, or leaping for something beyond your reach—it’s important to be present with that decision while you’re doing it. You know you’re truly ready if you’re ready to stay present with the fear, the unknown, the cost, the grief and still make the decision to leap. I had to really embrace this truth prior to this idea of moving to the farm. I have a tendency to think that the answers lie in geography, when in fact, they are within us. I have spent many months soul searching and researching actual data about living here versus living in Vermont. They are both great places with a lot to offer. 

In addition to all the reasons I wrote about in my first blog post, for this season in life, I believe that moving back to Vermont and sending our kids to school is the best option for our family for now. While you cannot predict how each individual person will treat your kids, there is a different kind of peace of mind and support that comes with structural justice and policies that protect vulnerable people. The school where we plan to send Senya and Juniper, Long Trail School (LTS), has an overt inclusivity statement. They backed this statement with action when they went to bat this past year defending their star basketball player. She is a transgender girl and thus plays on the girls’ basketball team. LTS took some heat for this decision in the news and from other schools—one of which refused to play LTS’ team on anti-trans grounds. LTS held strong in their decision and support of their player and their policy that students can pick the team that best fits their gender identity. 

In contrast, we looked at several schools here, in LA, after we left the homeschool group. There was one school here that Senya was interested in attending. During their interview with the administration, Senya asked the teachers how they would handle it if someone misgendered them. The teachers said, “Well, if you come in here expecting conflict, then you might find it. It is important for people to assume the best of everyone here. These are all good students. No one would mean to hurt anybody regarding their gender, so if you don’t assume that they will, they won’t.” Essentially, this amounts to: “If you get hurt, it’s your fault.” This is a toxic attitude in general because it refuses to take accountability for one’s actions, but it is especially detrimental when there is a power differential regarding socially vulnerable members of society. Blaming the victim for standing up, speaking up, or trying to make space for their identity is harmful. Full stop. Supposed good intentions don’t justify harmful behavior.

Upon telling a friend that they planned to attend this school, Senya’s friend cautioned them (knowing they are non-binary and knowing their tendency to be vocal about trans rights). This friend informed Senya that she had known a trans student who had been expelled from this school for “disrupting the students” but in reality it was because the student, like Senya, was trans and vocal about their identity and vocal about trans rights. Parents with money and power convinced the school administration to expel the trans student. 

When we asked the same question of the school administration at LTS in Vermont, they said, “for homophobic or anti-trans comments or behaviors, we would likely give a student an in-class suspension whereby they spend their time researching and writing about LGBTQIA+ rights and the history of LGBTQIA+ rights in the United States.” 

There was no talk about intentions or goodness of people’s hearts—because that’s not what we’re talking about when we talk about standing up for justice when there is a power differential. Some of the worst injustices of history have been committed in the name of good intentions. Genocide via eugenics, the Crusades, Conquistadors, the Spanish Missions, The Carlisle Indian Industrial School…the list goes on and on. Just because people think they’re doing the right thing doesn’t mean they aren’t hurting the most vulnerable members of society. Usually they think they’re doing good and not harm because they’re thinking from their ego-centric, euro-centric perspective and not taking the time to perspective take or decenter their narrative. That doesn’t make the consequences less horrific for the people they hurt. 

I’m not under the impression that LTS will be perfect, and I know that even people who are trying their hardest make mistakes. It’s the fact that there’s a mechanism for accountability that matters to me. And it’s the fact that holistically, even on the worst days, we will have a beautiful home, a nature-based life, and an event barn to host gatherings that bring people together around issues of justice. 

I do want, however, to give a shout out to those who helped us through this difficult year. Brave Trails, the California based LGBTQIA+ youth organization has been so supportive and crucial to Senya’s success. Senya has been part of Brave Trails’ weekly Queer youth group, and they also have met with a Brave Trails therapist weekly. This has been vital for their mental health and has provided much needed social and psychological support. 

I also want to thank all the family members and friends who showed up for us. Queer aunties who adore my children. Loyal friends who took a stand for us, one of whom wrote an email to the group trying to explain the systemic nature of the social harm we had experienced. There were other friends who made time and energy to collaborate on carpooling, activities, and life in general. My niece who is in their twenties, queer, super cool, and works at the local gourmet food store has been a role model and an inspiration to both my kids. All these aforementioned people plus other family members and friends who show up monthly for a potluck. Friends from the former homeschool group made an effort to reach out and stay close even though we left the group. All the grandparents who use Senya’s pronouns. All the people who use Senya’s pronouns and just say sorry and move on when they make a mistake (by the way, that’s the most supportive way to handle an accidental misgender. Profuse apologies or anything that turns the energy around and compels the person to caretake YOUR feelings for making a mistake is unhelpful). There is no shortage of good humans here or abroad in our life, and we have been so lucky to have some of the very best in our life.

It’s just been a long road of difficult learning, especially because I leapt without really calculating the cost of what we were leaving behind. In this next move to Vermont, I am trying to stay very present with how much we do indeed have here. We will be leaving a lot of people we love and a lot of resources in that regard. I’m scared, and I think that’s important to acknowledge and keep top of mind. I also know it won’t be perfect because nothing is. Our beautiful age of homeschooling is ending, and this path in Vermont seems like a pretty good fit for who we are now and the era ahead. 

This was a difficult post to write because it articulates my personal experience, but I want to impress upon anyone reading this how not unique our story about facing discrimination regarding trans identity is. I have come to hear similar experiences from other parents of trans and nonbinary kids. Some of whom, like us, had made huge moves to be in places they thought would have the resources their kid, being gifted and exceptional, would need. There is a huge overlap in the Venn diagram of identity traits where queerness and giftedness overlap. Therefore, if you move for giftedness without knowing that the resources will also be supportive of queerness, your kid can end up lonely and hurt. Fortunately, we have found some communities that make space for both; Talent Development Institute in Vermont, for example, is a camp for gifted kids, but it also is extremely inclusive of LGBTQIA+ people. There is a girls dorm floor, a boys dorm floor, and an all-gender floor. It’s accommodations like this that make all the difference for someone whose gender identity doesn’t fit into the binary.  

This is a critical moment in history; while LGBTQIA+ rights are moving forward in some ways (Thailand recently legalized same sex marriage) 2024 was a record breaking year for anti-trans legislation in the United States. Donald Trump has already made it clear that, should he become President again, he, promises to roll back LGBTQIA+ rights. In conjunction with the Heritage Foundation (a conservative think tank) he will propose Project 2025, which details a host of anti-trans legislation and actions. This includes denying federal funding to institutions that don’t discriminate against transgender students (on the grounds that protecting LGBTQIA+ rights equates to violating the rights of people with certain religious beliefs), deleting the terms “sexual orientation and gender identity” from all federal rules, and for prohibiting teachers from affirming trans students. One of the worst proposals in Project 2025 equates transgender identity with pornography and states that it should be outlawed (that’s especially rich coming from a guy who, not only had sex with a porn star, but then paid her to remain quiet about it). This proposal suggests that librarians, teachers, and administrative staff that support transgender students or transgender ideology should be registered as sex offenders. These are his plans. You can read more at 

https://www.them.us/story/lgbtq-trump-trans-second-term

https://www.forbes.com/sites/saradorn/2024/05/10/trump-promises-rollback-on-trans-rights-heres-what-hes-said

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/us/politics/trump-transgender-rights.html

I want you to also take away something important: it’s often the parents who have the problem with accepting trans identities. Kids are, by nature, open hearted and open minded. It’s the parents who get worried about their children’s “innocence” (aka fragility) getting threatened by understanding trans identity, issues of justice, or having difficult but important conversations around social inequity that exists. It’s the parents who hold harmful views like, “well, boys and girls shouldn’t have sleepovers together” rather than talking to their kids about sex, the true meaning of consent, mutual respect, and how to communicate your own boundaries and listen to others’. Genitals don’t equal gender and neither gender nor genitals equal sexual orientation. 

I know not everyone is informed on all the nuances of these issues because the nature of privilege is that you can opt out of caring if it’s not affecting you. But I believe we can do better, be better, and co-create a society that holds complexity beyond the binary. I haven’t given up hope, remember? Indomitable optimism. But sometimes, optimism must be tempered with reality. And in this case, it’s important to hold the injustices that exist while keeping an eye on the hopeful outcome. On Monday Senya will find out if they got an internship with Outright Vermont, an LGBTQIA + organization, as a youth organizer and activist. If they don’t get it this year, they will apply again until they do. They are a born and raised activist; it’s their calling, their identity, and all hell can’t stop them. 

Sometimes hope is at the bottom of a murky quagmire of hurt, disappointment, and grief. It’s not always a pleasant journey to dive down to the bottom to retrieve it, but the process is necessary sometimes. 

And as for me, with hope back in hand, I believe we can shoot the moon.