Life&Work: Rafting the American Divide

My cousin Alan and I are engaging in an experiment. Despite the ‘polarizing’ atmospheric conditions, we are delving into controversial topics together, topics which have historically been avoided at sacrosanct holiday gatherings—politics, religion, gender, immigration, guns, taxes—but as of late have been avoided with most of the folks we encounter in our daily lives. Attempting to steer clear of the torrent of discord, many of us have become guarded, sharing our views with only our most intimate, vetted confidantes.

Theories abound about this ‘silo or silence’ phenomenon. Some blame social media and the exploitation of platform anonymity which allows the devils of our lesser nature to scream our minimally investigated positions into an expanding universe of minimally monitored online discussions groups. Some blame the free speech advocacy free-for-all, an over-reach allegedly encouraging the degeneration of our collective ethics, the annihilation of any modicum of tact or restraint. Some blame the exponential advance of technology, placing in our hands devices that shower with us, commute with us, dine with us, all the while ready to parlay our reactive, impulsive responses into massive, greedily monetized chat firestorms. Whatever the cause, the increasingly explosive nature of open discourse seems a generally accepted reality in both professional and personal circles.

This communication conundrum has built walls around us, compromising our collective vision, as friends, as colleagues, as Americans. And unless our news is sourced from balanced feeds such as Allsides or 1440, (and we actually take the time to consider the full range of viewpoints presented there), our positions on ‘the issues’—crime, homelessness, school board controversies—are generated from biased perspectives. The result is that we cultivate increasingly narrowed beliefs that we reinforce with our increasingly narrowed choice of folks with whom we ‘chew the fat’ or of pundits to whom we listen.

I suspect we have succumbed to a pandemic of scorn. And while that scorn may fuel our sloppy rants, it may just as frequently prompt our silence. Having determined the person speaking to us, spouting views deemed beyond our capacity to comprehend, as either ignorant of the facts or overzealous in their beliefs, we keep our mouths shut. We conclude that person and/or their stance not worthy of our time or effort.

I have grown weary in the face of this societal food fight. And up until now I’ve been investing what little residual energy I’ve managed to conserve in excusing myself from the table. I’ve opted for escape, seeking sanctuary in the neutral zone of mindful, well-researched podcasts rather than attempting to critically listen, curiously explore, gracefully hunt down the possible nuances some other is trying, even if messily, to communicate. I stay clean that way, but I also could not claim to be consuming a balanced ‘community views’ diet.

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So back to Alan. My cousin and I were raised in nuclear families with phenomenally different philosophical orbits. His mother, my aunt, was a card- carrying member of the John Birch Society and a bible wielding Christian. My mother, Alan’s aunt, was an anti-war activist and a card-carrying member of Untied Religions Initiative. My sense is that he remembers his own mother as a tad less fanatical than I remember her. I’ve no doubt about my own mother’s history of fanaticism.

In any case, I think we would both agree that the mix made for Thanksgiving battlefields. And as my mother was the only one of four sisters who preached progressive, (A fact my aunts agreed may have been the result of her being dropped on her head as a small child.), I was schooled early on in the use of the raised voice and the pounded table in the making of a point, particularly an outnumbered one.

As I detail our shared family history, I am reminded that the volatile nature of discussion involving controversial topics is nothing new. So I now wonder if the key variable today, the variable most contributing to the current rent in our collective sanity fabric, is simply the numbers. When my mother was born in 1922 there were under 2 billion people on the planet and TVs did not exist. Now we are rapidly approaching a global population of 8 billion and I would not even be able to name the various screen and device alternatives we might wield to inflame our fixed perspectives.

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Once again, whatever the underlying causes, I recently approached my cousin about starting a dialogue. For the record, here is the precise wording I offered up in my emailed proposal:

“I am terribly concerned about our nation and the world, and I believe much of that dire state has been insidiously generated by the siloing of dialogue in the past decade, the loss of ‘across the aisle’ discussion so to speak. So, I would like you and I to attempt to bridge that gap a bit.”

Happily, Alan agreed.

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Neither of us was so foolish as to think we could climb into this shared raft and survive the rapids ahead without careful planning. We knew we needed to  clarify our asks from this adventure, to establish ground rules. Who will steer and when? How do we avoid capsizing conditions? Why are we even trying to navigate these treacherous waters?

Alan was quite articulate in his answer to the last question. His reasons and expectations (abridged) are as follows:

1. To be able to vent, to bitch about whatever and be listened to with respect.

2. To be able to “try out ideas” and “subject [those ideas] to to sound debate and discussion.” His goal here, he goes on to clarify, is “to recognize our ideas are not locked in concrete, that the ideas and concepts of others may be rational in their experience base, may contribute to the evolution of concepts and ideals and policies ‘down the road.’

3. Trust, “the ability to to express a concept without being judged… the use of free speech even if what is uttered violates PC etiquette.” He notes this must be offered in return. “Trust is a two way street.”

Here are mine:

1. To restore my belief that middle path dialogue is possible, that two people at a time can challenge the rampant siloing trend of our culture.

2. To make broader sense of my world. To better understand how an individual I respect may thoughtfully hold views that seem anathema to my own.

3. To explore the facts together; to identify worthy sources that challenge our biases and mythologies—personal, professional, national, and beyond.

4. To honor the diversifying influence of experience and personality on our gut instincts about things, from justice to fairness to morality itself. To accept the inseparable nature of our feeling & thinking selves.

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I’m certainly not claiming our experiment is unique. You may have already forged these raging conversational rivers with a host of your politically polarized friends or co-workers. You may even be predicting our success or failure. Or, worse yet, the waste of precious time we are about to invest in this pointless, ill-fated endeavor. Be that as it may, with Alan’s permission, I am going to record our progress here. I am doing so more for our own consensus record keeping than any wisdom we hope to impart. But if I’ve triggered your interest, keep your eye out for future posts.

In the meantime, I will turn the authoring oars over to my cousin, letting him wrap up our first entry in his own words:

“Given the above, we venture forth in this endeavor to overcome those obstacles that impair effective communication between people regarding the issues of the day. We recognize that the current modes of communication are excessive and technologically challenging. So challenging that we question if society has learned how to effectively utilize these advances for the good of all versus stuffing one’s pockets. Compare this situation to yesteryear, when the trusted and effective modes of communication included word of mouth from trusted individuals or sealed letters. Things have changed and this change has been significant. Perhaps our efforts can serve as a means for others to open a door and start a conversation."

Life&Work: Could be good. Could be bad. Could be we have no clue.

The Dolphins beat the Ravens this week, 22 to 10. Remarkable.

Likely as not, you are not a football fan. You may even despise the game with its capitalistic and historically, still significantly, misogynous trappings. Fair enough. 

Nonetheless, stick with me here. This obsessional USofA sport, wrapped as it is in some of the finest cloth woven of our nationalistic fibers, will well serve our  discussion. And I promise you do not need to know the difference between offsides and false starts to read on. For my fellow football fans, I will also be referencing gambling, grandstanding, and sex, so lots of bonuses ahead.

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Anyway, quite unexpectedly, Dolphins beat the Ravens this week. Or, in industry speak, Unbelievable defeat!  “Miami stuns Baltimore in upset victory.” “Miami’s suffocating defense shuts down Lamar.”  “A defensive performance for the ages as America watched dumbfounded.”  Wow. Whatever your content embellisher of choice, I am guessing some serious money was lost on all those gambling apps populating all those smart phones owned by all those folks thinking they knew good from bad. 

What’s curious about all these shock and awe headlines is that underdogs win fairly regularly. Last week, despite Von Miller’s departure, Denver beat Dallas. In fact last week hosted so many upsets in the NFL that some locker-room insiders pivoted to a we-should-have-seen-this-coming position, determined to make sense of things, determined to still believe that game outcomes are predictable.

Mike Tanier, writing for NYT’s Trend Watch, conjured nine likely explanations for “all the upsets” in the league, from increased taunting penalties to Tinder. That’s right, Tinder. Tanier suggests we may be witnessing a fundamental disruption in the forever sacred home field advantage because dating apps now allow players on the road to have their cake and eat it too: “romantic escape and a refreshing night’s sleep.” He goes on to say he’s less convinced of the probable influence of this variable, but included it anyway in service of “scientific rigor.” 

Scientific rigor claims aside, I feel for the guy. Like all of us, his analysis is driven by a longing to predict things, to have a scoop on what might happen next, even if spied through the clouded lens of hindsight. And why wouldn’t we hold fast to this longing? 

The desire for prediction and control is a fundamental human trait, our attempt at stress reduction, our attempt to secure our futures. And to exercise this habit we rely on the odds. Why would we bet on a game if we knew our gamble was doomed? Why would we invest in a stock we knew was about to plummet? Why would we storm a concert at the Astrodome if we knew we were destine to be participants in tragic death and incalculable injury. We wouldn’t. So we turn to the odds makers for everything from insuring our car to ensuring our life everlasting. 

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Admittedly, certain concerns have verifiable, statistically significant, numbers in their predictions arsenal. Infectious disease experts schooling the lay public on COVID-19 pandemic trajectories and financial market quants parlaying pubic ignorance into massive profiteering schemes come to mind. 

Ironically, the more reliable prediction models are often all the more disdained by our fear-of-change instincts. Again the world of sports offers up great examples. Malcolm Gladwell has addressed our resistance to the underhanded free throw because it looks funny or the ‘pull the goalie’ move because it’s unpopular. That infinite fount of truth, The Simpsons, takes easy swing at our refusal to embrace algorithms in its delightful parody on SABRmetrics. (For you trivia hounds, watch the MoneyBART episode in which Bill James plays himself. Home run material.)

Yep. In the face of the facts, the brightest among us frequently default right back to gut instinct anyhow, convinced that the stars or the cards or their news feed of choice can still serve up a better odds. Freedom can be blind.

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The collective impact of our overconfidence in the predictability of things is a distant second to the immeasurable damage wrought by its evil twin, our fierce convictions about the inherent good and bad of things. Righteousness fuels heinous acts. Even if we scroll back to less disturbing influences, our insistence on the dichotomy of good and bad is just plain silly. 

Day in and day out each of us is confronted with hard evidence that ultimately good and bad fold into one another, that they constitute a continuum, not two finite and fixed points. We no more think that certain circumstances will usher in a period of goodness and light — our candidate sweeps the polls; our team’s first-round draft picks are solid; our job interview is a slam-dunk — than the future hastens the yin to our yang — our candidate’s positions shift, our draft picks fizzle, our would-be employer forfeits. We aren’t doing anything wrong here. This is simply the nature of life itself, the impermanence that plays out in life’s unending cycles. 

Star Wars and Harry Potter enthusiasts notwithstanding, the good and evil polarity is itself is a delusion. Life, in all of its forms, is the stuff of continuums. Physics teaches us this. Faith teaches us this. Politics teaches us this over and over again. All positions, all actions, all crusades, all mergers and breakups and best-laid plans, will spawn unintended, unpredicted, consequences. Could be good. Could be bad. Could be we just don’t know. 

Insisting otherwise only works if we remove nuance from our beliefs and stands, which not only makes our own lives a perpetual struggle and fight, but proves relatively frustrating for everyone else who has to deal with us on a daily basis. With a bit of wisdom and maturity, we move on from grandstanding. We accept that all things will carry pros and cons. We learn to lighten up.

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Back to football.

In his book Integrity, Stephen L. Carter tells the story of watching a game with his young son when this good versus bad business interrupted his Sunday leisure. Carter, who has tried his best to make the world a better place, was just looking for a day-off from pushing that ever heavier ethical rock up that ever steepening hill of unethical cultural forces. No such luck.  

What happened was this: During a televised game, an intended receiver missed a catch, the football hitting the turf before it came to rest in the receiver’s arms. Incomplete pass. No doubts for viewers at home, including Carter and his son. 

But the player faked (AKA cheated) his way out of the situation by masking his failure with confident (AKA conning) celebration as if the pass was complete. It worked. The refs were convinced, The play stood. (This has to have happened during that unfortunate we-won’t-use-video-replay-to-verify-calls period in the NFL… but I digress.) 

Rather than taking a stand for truth, justice, and plain ‘ol fair play, one of the TV commentators reportedly praised the move, calling the successful deceit a ‘head’s up play.’ And because Carter was obviously not destine to get a break that day, his son turned to him and asked, “Daddy, what’s a head’s up play?” 

If memory serves, I read the book years ago, Carter got up and turned off the game rather than contend with yet another of the morality lessons embedded in all the grey in-betweens of our lives. It was his day off after all.

What’s your take on the story? Was it a head’s up play? Is bending the rules our privilege or our failing? Before you rush to answer, consider how often you obey the speed limit. See what I mean? As another wise sage, Pogo, asserted: “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

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But let’s end here on an optimistic note. As in all arenas of life, the culture of football and its diverse membership also serve up moments of grace and humility.

It happened when one of the Fox Sports commentators, covering last week’s surprise Broncos win over the Cowboys, admitted the limits of their collective predictive powers. I’m paraphrasing here, but his basic message was this:  ’It just goes to show we don't really know anything." 

It happened when John Harbaugh, head coach for the Ravens, shouldered his team’s loss to the Dolphins. "Bottom line is, this falls squarely on me as the head coach. We were not prepared the way we needed to be prepared. Our schemes weren't up to snuff. And we weren't prepared to execute the way we needed to. So that's it. Not on one player. Our players played their hearts out. … We just weren't ready, and that's on me.”

It happens every week when opposing team members help one another up on the field, or stand in respectful wait when a rival player is seriously injured, or courageously wear helmets emblazoned with words which call on us all to examine our biases, to do our part to make the world a better place.

It’s why I still watch football. It’s why I’m still a fan. It’s why I’m hoping to post this blog before kick off...

Life&Work: Ghostings and Hauntings

Several years ago, I deeply disappointed someone. Or at least I think I did. One doesn’t really know when one has been ghosted. Silence offers no clues. Which is, of course, the power of ghosting. It’s a void. A hole. An isolating universe of no information.

And if the connection had been a treasured one, as it was in this case, the ongoing dead-air eventually morphs into a background noise, a discordant whisper distinctly audible in the middle of a sleepless night or during those quiet lulls when life’s distractions momentarily fall away; it’s a haunting grief.

I’m not thinking here of the ghosting commonly terminating brief, often dating site initiated, ventures. Those abrupt endings, particularly if recurring when one is sincerely trying to find lasting partnership, can indeed be painful in their impact. And there is some sage wisdom out there uniquely applicable to those short term encounters, when the emotional investment is still limited, when the mantra of ‘Next’ might still be useful.

What I’m mulling over is the sudden, unexplained ‘disappearance’ of a person with whom we have a long history, with whom we have built a relationship, with whom we anticipate sharing a social network or a work space or a family system as far into the future as we care to gaze. I’m talking about a rent in the continuing tapestry of our lives. These ghosters aren’t going anywhere; they just aren’t speaking to us anymore.

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Anyway, several years ago I deeply disappointed someone. And while I can’t seem to puzzle out the how or the why of things, I’m relatively clear on the when. Following my last response to the last correspondence I’d received, a correspondence in which we’d been discussing a tender topic, ... crickets. I was suspicious early on, given this delay in hearing back, that I had said something wrong, that my good intentions had failed miserably. Nonetheless, at first I simply waited.

Days in I reassured myself that folks get busy; weeks in I urged my worry to stand down; months in I reminded my self-absorbed ego that the world is fraught with a whole host of serious problems begging us to step up, that I might want to redirect my energies toward a more constructive, useful enterprise. (That last one has actually proved the most helpful through time.)

Despite ours best efforts however, ambiguous loss of any variety can prove a chronic affair. One that coaxes us to look back, to review the facts one more time, to hope for answers.

Initially, I obsessively reread our final exchange, hunting for any evidence I’d overlooked. What had I said that was troubling? Where were the offending words? How could I prevent myself from committing this hurtful misstep ever again? This tortured exercise always ended poorly, leaving me just as confused, just as sad, just as blindly culpable. So I eventually stopped.

Sprinkled through those initial post-ghosting months were also what seem to me now pathetic, breezy attempts on my part to reconnect with this beloved person. A friendly text; a light-hearted voice mail; a comment on their social media page. But when those few ‘Hail Marys’ failed, I stopped reaching out as well.

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On the topic of ghosting, advise abounds. An abundance, in my experience, inversely proportionality to its capacity to be of much help. Some psychology experts suggest the ghoster is, if not a narcissist, at the very least immature in their capacity to navigate interpersonal conflict. Friends will encourage us to just move on, that the ghoster is obviously not worth our time and energy. Buddhist teachings escalate this counsel even further, calling on our store of compassion and acceptance of impermanence and trust in inter-being; in other words: move on, but do so with an infinitely open heart.

Here’s why none of this has worked particularly well:

The psychologists suggesting ghosters are of a distinct immature and/or narcissistic type, implying such types might best be avoided, disregard the immature, narcissistic behavior of which all of us are capable, while simultaneously fueling our inner critic: “Yeah, why are you still mourning this type of person. Get a grip.”

Loving friends suggesting we just move on, likely defensive on our behalf, also miss the mark. Why would we be confounded by an episode of ghosting if ‘just moving on’ was a viable option? Moving on is not only our first inclination, but is often when we ourselves do the ghosting. We block unwanted callers; we unfriend bombastic high school alumni; we hang up on impolite customer service reps. But when we work with the ghoster or worship with the ghoster or are destine to while away many holiday hours with the ghoster seated at the very same extended-family table, far from moving on, staying put is where fate has landed us.

Secular Buddhist teachings, especially Pema Chodron’s practical instructions laced with her honest self-disclosures, have been of some comfort. The letting go in these wisdom domains is more metaphorical in nature, the release rooted in acceptance and an expansive heart. But it ain’t easy, even for the experienced practitioners. Renown keepers of the faith still succumb to sangha wars and sexual improprieties and right-path disputes aplenty; they are human after all. So while notions of forgiveness and compassion and inter-being and impermanence and so on are indeed worthy north stars, shit still happens. Personalities clash. Egos bruise. Ghosters ghost. Suffering results.

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Podcasts are an amazing resource. Like any digital media rabbit hole, one needs to choose wisely. But I have discovered remarkable gems. Recently I have become a loyal listener to Heavy Weight, Jonathan Goldstein’s production aimed at assisting folks address troubling interpersonal wounds.

And yesterday, in the midst of my struggle to compose this blog, I stumbled upon the perfect muse: Episode #34, Annie. Kalila Holt’s kind, humble exploration of this woman’s experience of family shunning, and the willingness of those involved to honestly share their conflicting perspectives, well it reminded me that my sense of wounding is legitimate, while also reminding me that intimacy is always a risky business. That things come together and then fall apart; and then come together again, only to fall apart again. That this is the cycle of relationships, of families, of jobs, of life.

Love is built on trust and respect. And the painful reality is sometimes those pillars collapse. People with whom we’ve been close leave us behind. Or we leave them. The circumstances vary wildly, geographical distancing or political tornadoes or sudden death itself. But in the wake of these missing-person-tsunamis, we are left washed up on an unfamiliar shore and in need of a new map.

I may never know how I failed this precious someone. And if I ever learn the whys of it, perhaps I may not judge myself having failed at all. In either case, being ghosted is tough. And in its aftermath, short of becoming callous and impervious, we suffer. We grieve. And then, with any luck, despite the occasional hauntings destine to follow us into the future, we redirect our energies, scars and all, toward more constructive, useful enterprises.

In Gratitude

After 33 years of private practice, the time has come for me to retire. And while mourning the closure of this chapter of my life no doubts awaits me, at this moment my primary emotion is one of deep gratitude for a long career in which I learned from those I served.

Advanced Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner was my second licensure. My first specialization was as a Critical Care Nurse. It was there that I was first introduced to the myriad of ways our health, (physical, mental and spiritual), deteriorates along the course of our lives landing us in those units. While many of the acute medical concerns I witnessed were secondary to accidents or sudden illness (the current pandemic serving as a prime example), many other of those concerns were years in the making. I became curious as to how I might enter into the story of a patient earlier. How might I intervene before severe illness followed chronic. How I might effectively teach healthy alternatives. How I might make a pre-emptive difference.

So in 1984 I switched gears. I returned to school and earned my masters in Stress Management, then a Board Certification in Adult Mental Health, followed by licensure in medication management. I smile as I think back to that young woman who felt, at best, cautiously equipped. Nonetheless, armed with that collection of wisdom, into the field I marched. Little did I recognize then the true gifts that awaited me.

And now, all these years later, I have the benefit of hindsight. For while I was fortunate enough to achieve my original practice goals, I received far more than I ever anticipated from my patients in return. The courage, resilience, determination, kindness, and natural grace of the individuals I had the honor to serve these past decades represents the primary legacy of my career. How I have learned from their example. How I have benefitted from their feedback. How I have been humbled by their tolerance when we hit hurdles in the delivery of care.

I am unsure what is next for me professionally. While I know my private practice years have come to a close, my passion for the field of mental health remains strong. And I will find ways to remain active as an advocate for psychiatric best practices. In the meantime, what will sustain me is the memory of the hundreds of folks who crossed my professional path. You have helped forge not only a better professional, but a better person. I hold you all in profound gratitude.

Life&Work: Epic Poem or Haiku

My mother died recently. My sister wrote a lovely obituary for her, comprehensive and charming. And one of my brothers has written a song for our mother’s upcoming services, her ‘Celebration of Life’ as we refer to it in our world. Mom had made a specific request for this musical piece, both the tittle and the tune to be Sunrise, Sunset, but the lyrics to be of my brother’s own design. 

He too has done a lovely job, creatively capturing the highlights of our mother’s ninety-six years. He has warned us the played song will likely last a full nine minutes, versus the seven minutes other service participants have been allotted for their parts. Fair enough. The song is one of few specific requests mom made.

One of my mother’s first instructions was to “keep it brief,” the service that is. When I explained the impossibility of honoring that demand given the sheer size of our family and the long list of her accomplishments, she looked away and muttered, whether with acceptance or resignation I cannot be sure, “Whatever.” 

My mother was a genuine paradox, swiftly toggling between passion and pragmatism in the course of any given conversation. But during the whole of our discussion establishing plans for her memorial, mom consistently held a position toward the latter end of that spectrum. For instance, when we were exploring what hymns she might prefer, she struggled for a moment to recall one she especially liked, and then waved her hands dismissing her efforts as irrelevant. “You know Linda, I don’t really care. I won’t be there.”  

I will be one of the speakers at the ‘celebration.’ I have edited my testimony to within an inch of its life. I finally printed out a draft yesterday. After reading it aloud, seven minutes on the money, the only feedback I could conjure up for myself was: good enough. My solace at this juncture is our mother’s laissez-faire approach to the whole thing. Given that premise, how far off the mark can I possibly be?

My other brother, the oldest surviving sibling, is choosing not to speak at the event in any capacity. He may well be conjuring a wiser truth: enough said.  

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When anyone is my inner circle passes away, it gives me pause to reflect on my own life. What contributions have I made? What is the scope of my influence? How might I be remembered? Here is my latest working hypothesis:

My mother’s life was an epic poem; my life is amounting to more of a haiku. 

When I shared this conclusion with a dear friend of mine the other day, he immediately reminded me that haiku might capture the essence of life as readily as epic poetry. I have no doubt he was trying to reassure me, but it’s hard to ignore that historically the human species has been enthralled with works of grand scope and heft. Homer comes to mind.  

My deceased sister Sheryl’s life was definitely an epic poem, particularly remarkable as it spanned only 51 years. My other sister likened Sheryl’s life to a SuperNova, short lived but of tremendous impact. It was a fitting metaphor. Our older sister’s life was punctuated with a phenomenal array of accomplishments. And, as I previously mentioned, so was my mother’s. They were both more limber in community and more expansive in interest than I would ever hope to be. Neither of their lives could ever be squeezed into haiku form. 

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My life has been quieter, my impact lesser. But as I sit on the beach at Alki, dictating these words into my phone, I harbor no regrets. I am fine with the life I have led. And I am deeply grateful for my professional legacy, such as it is.

While my private practice has been relatively small in scale, it has also been profoundly rewarding, a lucky twist of fate given how I first fell into nursing and then stumbled my way into my advance practice of psychiatry. I did not have a clear mission in my youth. It is not because of some fierce and intentioned efforts that I am now able to claim my career and my passion as one in the same. I landed here by meandering my work-life way through the years, stepping through doors that happened to open, taking guidance when the spirit moved me; dumb luck played not an inconsequential part.

Through the years I have experienced a deepening respect for my patients, witnessing their courage and perseverance in the face of remarkably discouraging adversities. Yet on and on the vast majority of them have forged, redefining their belief systems and remodeling their behaviors; finding and holding higher ground. They have quit disheartening jobs for better ones; they have left tortured relationships for healthier ones; they have escaped trauma from mild harassment to full throttle abuse. I stand in awe at the resiliency of the human spirit.

Perhaps because I’ve spent so much time witnessing and advocating for the stories of others, furthering them along in their own transformation narratives, I have been less clear on my own. Or perhaps this is my narrative. Perhaps as a reporter might be imbedded in a war zone, I have been imbedded in the daily living zone, documenting maneuvers and providing commentary to those who subscribe to my particular spin; offering the facts as I see them. 

Whatever the case, I am content. I sit on this beach charmed even now with the ordinary; the crows that go about their business with easy confidence; the Olympics Mountains that shimmer as the day heats up; the WDOT ferries that reliably cross the Puget Sound day after day after day, picturesque in their own lumbering way. At the risk of sounding completely over the top, I feel a sacred kinship with all of these everyday things. The story of my life is simply not epic material.

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I am curious what might be said about me when my days come to an end. I do believe my obituary might be well served by haiku. Maybe I will just go ahead and draft my legacy now...

Alki held spirit

sons and patients apt teachers

footsteps fade in sand

Enough said.

Our Collective Mental Health: The Armed White Savior Myth

Last night I went to the late show with a friend. We selected Wind River. Solid reviews; racial-justice issue; showing at a local independent theater. Seemed a worthy choice.

The film proved both troubling and predictable, written and directed with the same thematic bias driving super hero fantasies: Heavily armed white guys, (or a young, beautiful, gun-wielding, white woman), portrayed as the default saviors of all our vulnerable populations. And so the myth continues.

Taylor Sheridan claims the Wind River story is "based on thousands of actual stories just like it." Really? All those thousands of actual stories in which five or six armed law enforcement officers square off with five or six heavily armed oil rig employees in a scene reminiscent of the O.K. Corral?  All those thousands of actual stories in which a rookie and ill-prepared female FBI agent gets locked and loaded and miraculously survives after deferring to vigilante wisdom? All those thousands of actual stories in which two grieving men speak in cryptic language about a revenge killing and equate that outcome with justice?

The intention of the film, exposing our country's disregard for the plight of American Indian females who are murdered or go missing in criminally disproportionate numbers every year, was sacrificed in that uniquely Hollywood style. Here was an opportunity to educate the public; to paint a picture. Here was an opportunity to shed light on the complex cycle of poverty, racism and misogyny that continue to haunt our species. But, in the end, Wind River's creators were more aligned with the market-based principles of cinematic success than the cutting-edge challenge of ignorance. Perhaps the former objective will be met. I had hoped for the latter.

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Statistics themselves can appear dry and spiritless, less able to conjure empathy than shocking photos or enhanced films. But when the product of suffering is perpetually portrayed as an armed evil, then the correct response is mistakenly assumed to be a blast of testosterone and rapid fire weapons. This cultural delusion misses the mark entirely. We are, as a species, the worse off for the endless reinforcement of this machine-enhanced white warrior myth.

Conditions on the American Indian reservations are horrendous, evidently especially so on Wind River. Average life expectancy on the reservation is reportedly 49 years of age, "twenty years fewer than Iraq." Nation wide, American Indians are "twice as likely as any other race to die before the age of 24." And while addressing the violence perpetrated by non-Indians against American Indian women has indeed been hampered by political inertia and the "indefensible morass of complex, conflicting and illogical commands" foisted upon tribal law enforcement, "Native American men have been found to be dying at the fastest rate of all people."

It is also true that higher rates of domestic violence, drug abuse, alcoholism, and child abuse plague reservation communities. Of course, much of the same can be said of Suffolk County, Long Island. Nonetheless, when people are perpetually held in an economic strangle hold, they are more likely to perpetrate violence against themselves, and are far more vulnerable to violence perpetrated by individuals wielding power from outside their community as well. As Martin Luther King so desperately longed for people across the color spectrum to appreciate, it is the combination of prejudice and poverty that fuels intolerance and inequality in this nation, and nations around the globe for that matter.

* * * * * *

The cycles of economic and racial inequality, which in turn fuel cycles of violence, are complex and entrenched, and therefore interventions of any kind will forever be vulnerable to a host of unintended consequences. 'Helpful policies' to assist marginalized groups often fall short. Perhaps as Indian Country Diaries asserts when it comes to addressing substance abuse, addressing issues of violence within and against the native population "must come from within Indian Country" itself. If so, WEWIN (Women Empowering Women for Indian Nations) is worthy of our support.

In any case, once individuals of any racial group pass the age of 35, the leading causes of death quickly shift toward cardiovascular disease, diabetes and kidney complications, with substance abuse and suicide continuing to vie for high rankings. And patiently slogging though the identification and treatment of these pernicious conditions are legions of underpaid social workers, public health nurses, case-managers, doctors, teachers, counselors... the list goes on. I would wager none of these professional have ever been aided or inspired in their mission by a fleet of three-quarter ton pick up trucks spewing snow mobiles and heavily armed men.

* * * * * *

{As to the topic of guns and protection, I will defer to this article: "Does Carrying a Pistol Make You Safer." Frankly, I am far more concerned if your carrying a gun makes me and those around me much safer. There is scant evidence in support of that latter hypothesis. Concealed weapon expert, Mark Cortis, a veteran firearms instructor, strongly urges CPL (concealed pistol license) students to get more training, but adds "hardly any of them ever do." He goes on: "One of my concerns about state requirements for getting a CPL is that they don't really include the tactics and the strategy that one will need to win or prevail in an actual gun situation." Given the frequency of poor outcomes which regularly manifest in incidents involving professionals trained for armed engagement, I would assume Mr. Cortis knows of what he speaks. But I'll leave you to sort that out on your own.}

* * * * * *

As much as the likes of Hollywood and HBO try to convince us otherwise, life is rarely a drama, rarely an emergency, rarely a call to arms. And even in those rare instances when an acute and violent situation arises, it is how we wield our words, not our weapons, that has been proven to have the greatest potential to save the day. Law enforcement agencies are doing their best to train their rank and file in accordance with the fact.

It only makes sense. Gun violence is the tip of a deep and pervasive ice-berg. The vast majority of violence, most especially violence against women, is perpetrated within the context of language; written, spoken and implied. It is from this cultural turn of the blind eye that physical violence is spawned. So the most effective contribution we can all make to deescalating violence is to monitor our own words and the intention with which they are fired. And for those of us that want to do more, Futures Without Violence or The Center for Nonviolent Communication are great places to start.

Armed hero fantasies, the inclination to rush in and use force to save the day, will forever hold an appeal. And the core intention, rescue, is certainly a humane one. But until we all address our private bigotry and the subtle ways we continue to invest in the 'armed white savior' myth, we will miss the champion mark entirely. In the meantime, the Justice League may stand down.

Beyond the Mire: Standing on Common Ground

16 April, 2017
Dear Mr. President,

Sixteen years ago today my father died. He was not a perfect man. Like you, sir, his life was hobbled by conflicting demands, the inherent tension between private beliefs and public face, between single-minded intentions and professional obligations, between personal certainties and political realities, between what he felt was best and what others, his wife, his children, his associates, his nation, thought was best. He lived, as we all do sir, in a perpetual muddle.

While we grew closer in his final years, my father's inconsistencies troubled me greatly in my youth. When the beliefs my father espoused were not consistent with the behavior he modeled, I was disappointed. Why? Did I believe there existed a truer model, a purer example, a worthier recipient of paternal admiration? Perhaps, in my youth, I did. Perhaps it is that naive, unchecked inclination that seeds blinded loyalty of every ilk, political, religious and otherwise. Whatever the influences, polarized thinking, polarized judgment, does not lead any of us to glory or grace.

I did not vote for you, sir. But neither was I hypnotized by the 'progressive' echo chamber that attempts to divide our nation, the echo of the echo chamber into which 'conservatives' drum. In that nation: ignorance rules the other party; banks embed with the other party; lobbyists control the other party; war is mongered by the other party; disregard of immigrants and marginalization of women and acts of racial injustice are perpetrated only by the other party. It is a fictitious nation, a nation spun of Us vs Them. It is a nation that I have long since known does not exist.

In any case, you tried to position yourself above the fray, to brand yourself as different. You may have spoken as honestly as you were capable of speaking about your intentions, you may have honestly believed in your capacity to hold sway. Whatever your original inclination, "I alone can fix it" proves a tough bar to clear. And now, of course, regardless of the sincerity or truth of your intentions, you find yourself mired in the self-same swamp that all before you have grown stuck after their election, entangled in the very same host of unanticipated variables and unintended consequences that have inevitably plagued all presidencies regardless of their original design.

My father never amassed an empire, Mr. President. In fact, he held fast to a belief that money corrupts. He was perhaps compromised in other ways, his deference to academic hierarchy to name one, but I believe my father lived his principles to the best of his ability. Yet while he was plagued by his limitations, I believe it is only by honoring our limitations that we stand firmly on solid ground. the solid ground of what it is to be human, of what it is to be imperfect, of what it is to be, in the end, less than what we had hoped to be, but remarkably better people because of the humbling we are dealt along the way. The true common ground that burnishes character.

Like my father, I believe that money can corrupt. Money, and the arbitrary power it commands, can spawn fickle and fleeting markets, can weaken society's tether to genuine value. I need look no further than the speaking fees and book royalties exacted by notables exiting political office, fees that they and the systems that pay them apparently deem reasonable and deserved, to reinforce that perspective. But unlike my father, I do not covet any pedigree, academic, familial, political or monied. While these endowments may not prevent the cultivation of character, they in no way guarantee its development.

Were we to meet, Mr. President, the differences in our political and philosophical perspectives would surface far more readily than our shared beliefs. And so it seems with our national attitude these days; minimal access of, perhaps little trust in, our common ground. But no light is emitted from that cynicism. No possible compromise, no capitalizing on strength, no solution is generated from the mire of narrow-minded jaw-boning into which many of us on both sides of the political aisle, and many of us inhabiting those unaffiliated regions in-between, are allowing ourselves to sink. I have tried walking through that mire in the past. It leads nowhere.

Theodore Parker said it best: "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice."

I believe in that arc, Mr. President. And I intend to nudge that arc toward justice, no matter how small my contribution, no matter how limited my influence. So today, sir, I write to you with an intention of respect; I write with an intention of compassion. In honor of my father, in honor of you, in honor of the fragile, imperfect and yet miraculous potential that comprises our collective humanity, I wish you peace and vision. As your 100th day in office approaches, Mr. President, may you discover and champion humankind's common ground. It is the only ground on which any of us, sir, are able to stand tall. 

Wishing You A New Year Far Beyond Words

"I have a need of silence and of stars;
Too much is said too loudly; I am dazed.
The silken sound of whirled infinity
Is lost in voices shouting to be heard."
William Alexander Perry

The waters of the Puget Sound are roiling at dusk on this New Years Day. Folks are out on the beach anyway, braving the weather, but even from a distance it is clear conversation is at a minimum among those hardy souls. A cold wind is blowing strong, kicking up sand and a salty spray, discouraging speech of any kind. Shoulders are braced, hoods are tightened, cell phones are pocketed and eyes are focused outward: toward the mountains and the gulls and a lingering sunset of amber and purple and steely blue. These humans are, for the moment, quiet and free of words.

There is much we have to discuss in 2017. Our nation, our world, is in great need of words; effective, considered, inclusive, constructive words with the capacity to breed change of a comparable quality. But my concern, my belief, is that unless the majority of us treat ourselves responsibility, allowing time for maintenance of our bodies and our minds, time for quiet and reflection, time away from the excessive and overly-commercialized stream of words that has become the standard fare of our time, we will not have the capacity to make any worthy difference in our own lives, let alone in the lives of others. We will not have the capacity to harness useful words in service of useful impacts. My concern is this sea of words will simply swallow us all.

We are inundated with words and I've grown weary of the vast majority of them. I've grown weary of tweets and blogs (irony noted) and podcasts and media, streamed or printed or waved out from my radio. I've grown weary of brash opinions and easy answers and impulsive commentary. I am particularly weary of money-washed words thoughtlessly spilled by privileged factions, their blitzkrieg of obfuscation and deaf-ears certainty. But quality aside, I've simply grown weary of the sheer quantity words.

I am well aware that the volume of recorded words, in relation to my capacity to read or to hear them, has been effectively infinite and beyond reach since before I was conceived. And I suspect human-kind may have had an innate propensity toward unchecked chatter since the advent of language. Still, the bombardment of words today, the inescapability of the sources and the pressure to attend to those sources, has escalated to a tsunami of communication. And we are all paying the price for this deluge; in our moods, in our relationships, in our capacity to slow down, get a grip and think before we leap into the fray. We are drowning in a sea of words.

This is what I am hearing from patients on the front line, folks in the pursuit of change: Intention to, but not enough time, energy or will to, exercise. Intention to, but not enough time, energy or will to, eat better. Intention to, but not enough time, energy or will to, target more sleep or less sloth or pursue anything creative. Their dilemma is not unique, right? Most of us easily relate to this confounding inability to shift our behavior, to harness the motivation for change.

But in the face of this growing epidemic of inertia, what do we always find time to do? We always find time to ingest words. We read books, blogs and websites on how to improve exercise and diet and sleep and every other healthy enterprise imaginable. We learn. We plan. And then, even with our best intentions secured, we binge on Netflix or Youtube or Facebook or CNN. We morph right back into the time-eating and intention-nullifying world of others' words. (Compulsive video gaming is a variation on this propensity to escape into alternative narratives.)

I have listened to my share of phenomenal podcasts, episodes that have improved my understanding and broadened my perspective on everything from economics to physics. I am grateful to the miracle of social networking, allowing me to read posts from family and friends across long-distances and time-zones. And I have read amazingly illuminating blogs and articles and books, collections of words whose inspiration have not only bettered me as a psychiatric nurse practitioner, but have bettered me as a person.

Yet, as with all things, words are best consumed with moderation. The torrent of words to which we are increasingly exposed can compromise our energy, negate our resolve, thwart our goals. Patients regularly confirm this for me. They speak of the distracting power of their TV, their computer, their phone. They speak of time lost to compulsive viewing or impulsive posting or mindless reading. They speak of feeling overwhelmed, of their inability to step away from the din, of their discouragement and regret in the wake of wasted hours. They are, indeed, drowning in a sea of words.

The sun has set behind the Olympic Mountains. The sky is darkening and the beach is emptying. Voices can once again be heard as folks head back to their cars. I may be mistaken, but I would gamble that if I queried any of those people about the time they just spent, time on a stormy waters edge, time in a brisk wind, wordless time with a setting sun, if I asked them if they regretted any of those minutes, I feel certain they would look at me like I had lost my mind.

Wishing you a year filled with fewer words, greater momentum and occasional moments of precious quiet.