Everything I Loved in August
A packing list, high school favorites, and GOOD self-help
Last night I had a dream that I wrote a newsletter about loss—specifically, all the miniature losses we endure all day every day…so minor we barely notice them.
My dream-self wrote about, how, as soon as we do notice them, we realize that to be alive is to experience continuous grief.
The mature among us call it “letting go,” but it’s really sad if you get to thinking (or dreaming) about it.
Then I woke up, thought, “Dumb idea,” but decided to tell you anyway.
“Loss” is on the brain because I briefly visited my hometown this week, on route to a wild island where I am writing this while looking out at a fecund bacchanal of overgrown squash plants shamelessly intertwining upon an otherwise sere beach landscape under an oyster sky.
Over a muscular sliver of ocean lies Seattle, the port city where I grew up, back at a time when it was unselfconsciously weird, and populated largely by grizzled-bearded Nordic fishermen.
I used to take such pride in being from Seattle Seattle, not Issaquah or Belleview or Sammamish or whichever mellifluous combo of syllables on a high school sweatshirt signalized to me: Suburban. Nice. Normal. Boring. Two parents one sibling. Sports.
This was the trip I realized it doesn’t really matter.
Maybe because Seattle has gotten much less weird and much more “nice?”
Maybe because so many people at my high school reunion—those I thought were obviously with me in my city superiority campaign—had moved out there, which I insanely interpreted as betrayal.
Or maybe because…who cares?
I’ve met a lot of people from cities and a lot of people from suburbs and even a few people from towns of populations less-than-forty, and we all get to the same place, more or less.
That was Loss #1. That identity. Like having a thick wad of currency that I just discovered was discontinued. Did it ever matter that I was from the city?
Loss #2 through Loss #3,687 were all the places and things that don’t exist anymore: parking meters and newspaper vending boxes, movie theatres and concert venues, and every cafe where I sat for hours and hours and hours.
I know this happens; it would be odd if it didn’t. And, I guess, like humans whose cells completely regenerate every 7-10 years, a city’s heart stays intact. The important parts stay.
(But what if those cafes were the important parts??)
Loss #3,688: The dissolution of high school mythology. Everyone from high school is now a person who was once in high school. Everyone is really lovely. I wasted time being judgmental and terrified. Another, retroactive loss.
Appropriately enough, it’s also the end of summer—a nostalgic time of soft sorrow even for us heat-haters.
(My dad would use the playful pejoratives “My little Seattle girl” or “My little Scandinavian girl” interchangeably to make fun of my connate heat intolerance.)
Yet, now that the heat season is fading, I get a lump in my lungs just thinking about the thinning evening light. Loss #3,689.
Even though September is a divine month, I’m not yet ready for it—though I don’t know what would all make me ready, as though I’ve completed summer.
A kayak trip? A snow cone? A skip down the boardwalk? One more week of nearly crying on the subway platform because New York’s humidity elicits a panicked emotional response from my Scandinavian-made body?
I guess a season is never complete; that’s why it comes around again.
Maybe I’m not so much talking about losses, as much as transformations.
Or maybe they’re just losses.
After all, no self-respecting Seattleite would pressure themselves to wrap a sunny bow around a melancholy fact of life.
We handle gloom very well—many don’t even own an umbrella.
In acknowledgement of the gloom and in appreciation of the sun, here is what I loved during this last proper month of summer—yes including the best high school reunion dress ever.
READING
SO MUCH GOOD READING THIS MONTH! WHERE TO BEGIN??
Let’s start in the Pacific Northwest.
Here’s a fantastic article by one of my favorite newspaper writers about the hypocrisy, apathy, dogma, and just plain inefficiency of West Coast Liberalism.
While it took me years to adjust to the political cultures of other cities after leaving Progressive Paradise Seattle, I absolutely recognize and am ashamed of my own self in this essay.
I’m now at a point where I appreciate ideological diversity more than ever, and I no longer see Seattle and other west coast cities as Liberal Utopias but rather just as puritan and narrow-minded as the fictional southern small towns we love to judge. The article lists some reasons why.
Here is a beautiful speech by Seattle’s namesake, Chief Si’ahl (Sealth), in 1854, a response to the treaty of the American Government for buying the land of Native Americans.
In it, he names and reconciles with the greatest loss of all—that of a people, culture, and land.
Can you imagine watching your civilization completely disappear? He said:
There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory. I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it, as we too may have been somewhat to blame.
And mourned:
Your God is not our God! Your God loves your people and hates mine! He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son. But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His. Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us. Your God makes your people wax stronger every day. Soon they will fill all the land. Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return. The white man’s God cannot love our people or He would protect them. They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help.
My heart fractures, and thuds to the floor.
Imagine being a Duwamish woman, pregnant during that time, wondering what world you were giving to your child.
Before heading to the northwest, I revisited a book I was lucky enough to study in high school: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, written by Seattleite Sherman Alexie who identifies as both a ‘Reservation Indian’ and ‘Urban Indian,’ as well as poet, essayist, screenwriter, and filmmaker.
Among all the Shakespeare comedies and killings of mockingbirds and greatest of Gatsbies we read in 9th grade, Alexie’s prose stood out to me the most.
“Oh, reading can be like THIS???” I remember thinking.
Years later, I’d watch “Smoke Signals,” the movie inspired by Alexie’s essay collection, and this monologue would be the first to tell me I wasn’t alone:
How do we forgive our Fathers?
Maybe in a dream
Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever
when we were little?
Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.
Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?
For divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?
And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speaking
or never being silent?
Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs
or their deaths
saying it to them or not saying it?
If we forgive our Fathers, what is left?
Mink River by my all-time favorite author kept me congenial company on island afternoons while ospreys glided overhead with wriggling fish in their talons and coyote puppies whimpered from the woods.
I loved reading descriptions of a place so similar to that special landscape:
“On a clear day the Oregon coast is the most beautiful place on earth—clear and crisp and clean, a rich green in the land and a bright blue in the sky, the air fat and salty and bracing, the ocean spreading like a grin. Brown pelicans rise and fall in their chorus lines in the wells of the waves, cormorants arrow, an eagle kingly queenly floats south high above the water line.”
I got to see a bald eagle assert his majesty over this patch of earth right before I read that passage:
I also picked up the gorgeous Goat Song at a used bookstore on the island and, despite its meditative pace and singular subject matter (…goats), it anchored me on a little bench overlooking the water from sunrise til I-should-probably-make-a-sandwich-o’clock for the two mornings it took to read.
I chose it as a cognitive workout to see if there are any perspectives I might be missing during my grand release of all animal products. Is milking animals not such a cruel practice after all—when done on such a small scale that each critter is known and named?
(I was especially curious about this question as I passed by farm stands with hunks of fresh local cheese flavored with the slaty clay terroir of the island, and main street ice cream shops which advertised August-only marionberry sundaes. Torture!)
A blunt line from midway through the book answered my question: “Dairying is a kind of violence. Even here in the best of circumstances. We force-impregnate our does, steal their babies, and sell them to strangers.”
Yeah that’s not going to work for me.
Even so, I fell enamored with Brad Kessler’s diary of quiet mornings with his herd on his little pasture I was heartbroken to leave on the pages. A particularly stirring chapter recounted a freak sickness that temporarily took over one of the goats, and the drama was captivating enough to rival any true crime series. And, throughout, entertaining tidbits of history, poetry, religion, spirituality, etymology, and orthography tethered me closer to humanity as I dug my toes into beach grass.
As Kessler wrote, “A book is like a key that fits into the tumbler of the soul. The two parts have to match in order for each to unlock. Then—click—a world opens.”
And oh how I loved being in this goat world.
And finally, I’ve been slowly absorbing Gabor Maté’s gorgeous work on addiction, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, drawing largely from his time practicing medicine in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside—North America’s most concentrated area of drug use. He unravels us-and-them mentality at the same time as he provides a truly entertaining memoir and compelling investigation into how we think about drug users.
Good self-help
I went on a self-help borrowing spree from the library this month, and most were…not good. But two of them were good! Let’s discuss:
The Fun Habit
It’s not perfect, but The Fun Habit is better than perfect: it’s affirming, it’s pleasurable, it’s re-orienting to the stuff that really matters most. I particularly valued the distinction between the pursuit of happiness vs the pursuit of fun….a contrast I’ve been wiggling around in my mind for years but never articulated. Fortunately enough, Mike Rucker did it for me!
The Creative Act
After dozens of evenings describing some work dilemma to my husband, all of which he responded to with, “Well as Rick Rubin says in The Creative Act…” I decided to allow the book’s advice to settle into my own mind.
It’s tremendously simple to read, constituted of one-or-two-page essay-ettes which clearly spell out loose ‘rules’ for living a creative life. None of the ideas were totally brand-new to me, but, much like Big Magic before it, it serves as a trusty atlas for those of us whose little creative antenna is raised and receptive but we don’t quite know what to listen for.
WATCHING
Olympics, continued
I’ve come down with Olympics Withdrawal Syndrome after enjoying every minute (even the extremely boring indoor volleyball minutes!) of the last week of the Olympics, and I’m SO relieved/thrilled the fun continues with the Paralympics!
In the meantime I’ve decided to train for Summer 2028…what do you think!???
Not exactly graceful, but I’m telling you who IS—the gymnasts of the 70s!
I’ve been watching old clips back when gymnastics was more about musicality and dance (replaced by astounding athleticism) and I could watch this routine all day and not get bored:
Sing Sing
This is one of those movies where I have to watch only about 5 seconds of the trailer to say, “Yup, that’s for me!” and immediately buy a ticket.
As someone who believes in abolishing prisons almost as much as I believe in the power of art, this glimpse into a prison theater program was a no-brainer, but I couldn’t have expected how strange, untidy, and entropic the film was—a bold move in service of an audience who most likely walked into the cinema expecting a well-worn Euro-lens redemption story: Prisoners discover Shakespeare and realize it’s just like hip hop!!!!!
…You know.
The movie avoided (almost) every cliché in the book, and still delivered a standing-ovation-worthy ending.
I can’t say enough good about Colman Domingo’s sophisticated performance, but I hope I won’t have to when Awards Season begins.
Presumed Innocent
This TV show has so many things I hate:
-courtroom drama
-lots of men talking
-confusing sub-plots
-scorned women taking their anger out on a treadmill
-those men’s dress shirts that are blue striped but have white collars and cuffs
And yet….I loved it!
It also had a rich storyline that was somehow easy enough for me to follow (you lose me with flashbacks and twists), with standout performances by Ruth Negga and Jake Gyllenhaal vs his real-life brother-in-law Peter Sarsgaard.
Colin From Accounts
When it comes to TV that aired post-Golden Girls I’m not much of a sitcom gal, but I watched an episode of Colin From Accounts to scratch my prickle of Aussie nostalgia (I don’t know when I’ll ever go back but I sure hope I do!), and I was immediately hooked!
In typical Australian fashion, the writing is wry, witty, bold, and creative (I kept thinking about how many of the jokes might get vetoed in an American writers’ room), and the storyline is lovable as can be. Your next Comfort Show if you’re going through it!!
LISTENING
MUSIC THAT MAKES ME LAUGH
Funny Punk
Before I met my husband, I thought I liked all music.
Then, via the dear love of my life, I learned about such horrors as “hardcore punk” and “thrash metal,” both which make me feel like I’m actively dying.
Because of his affinity for these ear-stabbers, I erroneously assumed that our music tastes could not possibly overlap.
And, I was kind of right! Mostly, they don’t!
BUT, last month, Mr. Mari introduced me to Irreverent Punk, which apparently is a genre that exists. Who knew? Not I, or I’d be jamming to it much earlier!
First, he played me this DELIGHTFUL number by Dead Milkmen:
It’s such an explosively fun song that I took an entire long walk playing it on repeat, and smiling so goofily the entire time that passersby thought I must know them from somewhere. “Good to see you!” some said.
Meanwhile, I was just beaming along to the romantic poetry of the last verse:
You look so wild, let's have a child
We'll name her Minnie Pearl, just you and me
Eat fudge banana swirl, just you and me
We'll travel round the world
Just you and me, Punk Rock Girl
Made me want to get married again so I could walk down the aisle to it!
(But I did walk down the aisle to a Blink 182 song, which is pretty close?)
Then, he introduced me to the darling “Even Hitler Had a Girlfriend,” which is SO funny and SO sad and SO dumb and I absolutely LOVE it:
These two songs fall into “Irreverent Punk,” a super fun genre that makes me shimmy and makes me smile and makes me connect to my inner preteen.
AND, now, our music Venn Diagram has gotten narrower! Thanks, punk! I don’t even have to learn how to appreciate a band called Anthrax!!
I asked for more of the same, so Mr. Mari made me a playlist:
Funny Pop
I’ve noticed that pop music too has been getting a bit sillier, sleazier, snarkier, and less-serious-er (reaction to a very serious news cycle, or so much “therapy speak” in the zeitgeist that nobody ever wants to hear the phrase “self care” ever again).
I am all for levity and humor in music (to balance out the heavy and depressing stuff I’ve listened to exclusively for the past three decades…), so I’m also loving Sabrina Carpenter’s cheeky new album which has made me do what no other pop music has made me do in years: LAUGH!
My favorite on the record is Sabrina’s best early-Dolly-Parton impression while tenderly crooning the so-sad-it’s-funny tale of modern dating:
To say nothing of her stunning vintage-tinged voice! I’ve watched this Chappell Roan cover 800 times.
Mix CD Memories
At my reunion, I made sure to greet a wonderful gal who I only grew close with the summer after my senior year when she was off to college in Montana—a fitting choice for someone so down-to-earth and adventurous.
As we parted ways, she called out a benediction: Let’s keep in touch! I still have a mix CD for you!
And decades whooshed backwards in my head, as though on super-speed rewind.
All of a sudden, I remembered that she alone was responsible for introducing me to my most treasured music at that time: Be Good Tanyas, Josh Ritter, Po’ Girl, and Dead Prez.
Everyone has their own version of these artists so I won’t bore you with veneration, but let’s say: They mean a lot to me.
And have braided into my life in significant ways throughout the years (like, for instance, befriending a Dead Prez member at a creativity retreat last fall lol).
If I was your barista between the years of 2005-2011, there is a 100% chance you heard me play this song on repeat:
My music taste, my library, my preferences and opinions, my favorites, and my whole inner world with its little histories, can trace their lineages to one person who once said something, or another someone who recommended something else, or a stranger who talked to me in line, or a random roommate I had for one winter, or a new old friend who gave me a mix CD the summer before college. Shout out to Katie.
BUYING
Rentals of the Month
Many people asked me why on EARTH I would attend my high school reunion.
Trust me, I wondered the same.
Should I go or should I light myself on fire? I weighed.
But I think anyone who looked like a British schoolboy in high school—and no longer does (?)—is legally obligated to show up after a couple decades in order to show a slight less resemblance to Christopher Robin.
And that’s just what I did.
Obviously, the main concern was my outfit.
I wanted to look demure and mindful per the theme of the month, plus true to my high school self who was never without a puffed sleeve, plus true to my adult self who figured out how to wear high heels—even if they are Naturalizers (and sooooo comfortable!).
I rented this dress, which was just kooky enough to make me feel confident without too loudly announcing that I had arrived…
I felt very nicely *me*!
Other rentals I loved from this month….
White Zig-Zaggy Dress, ideal for frolicking on hills
Sporty Mini Dress, ideal for airplane-to-waterfront
Travel Tips
SILLY STUFF THAT HAS MADE TRAVELING EASIER
I’m sorry to be the one to say it, but Crocs are a perfect and necessary shoe for all sorts of adventures. ESPECIALLY if you’re someone who loves standing ankle-deep in a creek.
They’ve come in handy so many times when I’ve wanted to dip in a rocky pond or cold-plunge in a craggy creek or amble down a pebbly beach.
I hear the sirens of the Fashion Police hunting me down as we speak, but I’m whispering “They’re on sale” before I make my escape.
Bliss made possible by Crocs:
To balance out my Crocs allegiance, I travel with a chill necklace which aaalmost brings sweats-and-Crocs to a level of public propriety.
This is my Chill Necklace of Choice, and I find that it pairs with airport athleisure and proper dinner attire equally nicely.
Fancy enough for a pad thai meal, relaxed enough for a stroll. I mean a hike.
I’m embarrassed to write this out, but I’ve found that traveling with mini olive oil has been shockingly handy. See also: mini Maldon salt tins.
My go-to plane meal is: crackers, good cheese (or vegan equivalent), a piece of fruit (citrus smells lovely!), and a tupperware of greens. Accompanied with airplane seltzer and your travel-size olive oil, this can be a dang Tuscan picnic on the clouds.
It took me far too long to realize that a gel manicure (which I was always afraid of for some reason??) is absolutely the way to go on vacation. That way, you don’t chip the paint off every one of your fingernails in security line.
And even longer to realize how handy packing cubes actually are.
And longer still to pack a zillion pairs of underwear. Gap Body remains the gold standard. And World’s Softest Socks. (Put a couple in your carry-on in case of delayed/lost luggage!)
For flights, I always take my beloved Muscle Stimulator Machine, which at $60 is a steal for offering lots of different types of massages that you can concentrate to anywhere on your body! I put the stickies on my legs for the duration of a plane ride, and then put them on my back for recovery afterwards.
And nothing beats a good Theragun session the moment you get home from travel!
I’ve recommended both products before, but I’m called to remind you that tailbone cushions and immediate bug bite solutions exist.
Perhaps specific to the West Coast, but I also found this plant identifier app invaluable for nature walks—especially the kind that might involve poison oak.