1 p.m. Father's Day. Gift to myself: a new power washer. There's something amazing about a high pressure machine to clean every last bit of the backyard pavers and deck. It's like cleaning your physical soul. I tend to do this barefoot, just because there's something about walking around without shoes on when the sun is out and the pavers are warm.
Monday morning. June marine layer hanging over Southern California. Drinking stern black coffee from my new Yeti press and looking forward to finding today's words. Just back from a weekend in San Diego with Callie, where I surprised myself by not opening my laptop even once. Thanks to all of you who sent birthday wishes. I read and appreciated each one.
Turning points are hard. It's nice to be a solo act again but that means working without a net. Thus, I typically spend an hour in the darkest hours of the night running through a mental checklist of worry and uncertainty. The monsters that ignore me by day pounce on my chest at night, happy to remind me that writing offers no guarantees….
It has been a week, my people.
The moment I realized things were getting under my skin came on Thursday evening, as I tried to park for the Springsteen show at the Forum. I went to the wrong entrance and was instructed to turn around and go back down the street to an entirely different lot. Traffic was coming from both directions. I had no choice but to make a very illegal u-turn.
I usually write these missives on Sunday. It's my down day for the week and my mind is free to wander. But Calene and I spent the weekend in San Diego, hanging out with our oldest son to celebrate his birthday. There was no agenda. We wandered the waterfront to start the morning, stopping to tour the USS Midway, something I suggested because I'm writing a book about the Battle of Midway and the visit felt like a fine symbolic gesture. I also thought it was a great way to kill an hour or so.
Last week in this space I hinted at some good news about Calene's cancer. It's actually great news, the first positive steps the fight has taken in two years. But I've learned that in the cancer world it's best to hedge your bets. Every cancer ward has a bell, for instance, usually hanging in the lobby. I used to think that ringing the bell was a sign that the bell-ringer had defeated cancer once and for all. Only recently have I learned that some people ring it after a course of chemo or radiation, celebrating the stepping stone. This bothered me, though it's really not my place to be bothered by when and why people decide to ring the bell.
I had visions of matinees.
Way back when I worked in the corporate world I was given an enormous promotion without the posted salary. I was working twice as hard, for twice as many hours, for not much than I'd been making before the new title. I hated the work but bills don't pay themselves. It was a watershed moment in my life when my boss told me I wasn't getting the big fat raise to go with the job. The scales fell from my eyes and I knew the corporate world would always be like that, broken promises and raised expectations that constantly meant putting work before family.
I vowed to get out.
It's raining.
The good kind of raining where I make a fire, move my laptop to a table by the dining room window so I can watch the storm, and bundle up in cozy clothing. I went to bed adamant that my distance runners would have morning practice, rain or shine. But when I got up at five and saw the dark and wet, that felt a little obsessive. We can make up the miles some other time. I sent out a text canceling the workout and got back into bed, pulled up the comforter, and slept until eight.
