A page a day

A professional writer's private thoughts

Archive for Personal

Big News, Big Move

I’m sitting here on the floor of the living room in the Goleta condo where I’ve spent the better part of the last 20 years of my life. It’s taken me a while to get here, but now that most of the furniture is gone and I’m officially the co-owner of a house in another state, I guess I’m finally ready to publicly share my big news: as of this coming weekend, Santa Barbara will no longer be my home.


This place has been both my beloved home and the bane of my existence for many years now. For all my fellow ex-News Pressers, I know you’ll understand what I mean by “I could say it all started with a strange woman named Wendy ..” That fateful summer 11 years ago changed so much for all of us. And I have to note that for all of you whom I’m still in touch with, nothing makes me happier than to see how well you’re all doing in the revised iterations of your lives.

But at the end of the day, the paper’s dramatic and ungraceful downfall has nothing to do with my present life. In fact, it catapulted me out of Santa Barbara County, to two great years in San Luis Obispo and Paso Robles working with awesome folks like Don Murphy, Bert Etling, Tony Prado, Stephen Curran and Tonya Strickland. SLO was where I first became good at taking care of myself, so I guess I have crazy Wendy, indirectly, to thank for that.

Because I loved it here so much, I clawed my way back to Santa Barbara, taking two jobs to make ends meet. One thing you may know about me is that I always love my work. No matter what I’m doing, or how frustrated I might be at certain moments, I’m the daughter and granddaughter of some ridiculously hard-working European and Scandinavian immigrants. I’ve lost all of my grandparents now, save one, but their workhorse legacy is present every single day of my life. I never lost that second job, and it’s been one of the highlights of my career to be a contractor for Running USA these last 9 years.

I’m trying to transition here to something less positive, that I don’t really want to talk about, but if you are friends with me on Facebook you have probably already heard this. In mid-July 2015, I was dragged out of my home in the middle of the night by the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department because my ex-fiancé falsely claimed I had beat him up (in fact, I was defending myself when he tried to throw me down a flight of stairs). They didn’t care that I had reported domestic violence by him on prior instances. It was a brutal and upsetting experience and shook my faith in the system. More significantly, it shook my faith in myself.

I’ve been a difficult person my entire life, from childhood to today. My parents are gracious about this, and I’m consistently apologetic. If we’re friends, you are patient, and I appreciate you. I probably should have been in therapy many years ago. It took the incident I’ve described above to shake me awake and make me fully commit to taking care of myself. It’s something I have to work on daily. Whether it’s forcing myself to take the time for running, yoga, walking my dogs or reading a book, that balanced downtime might seem frivolous, but it’s usually the most important thing I do every day. Life is not just about work, family, fun or achievement. It’s most importantly about balance in all things. If you are like me (Type A to the hilt), that’s something you need to remind yourself of regularly.

So how does all that context lead to this big news, a sandy living room rug and two dogs who aren’t sure what’s happening next? It’s the outcome of a pretty cool love story, rooted in trust, friendship and hard work. It’s precious to my guy and I, so I’ll keep it private. But I will say that one of the things that has bonded us so closely is that we both knew we each needed a fresh start away from Santa Barbara and some of the things that had happened to us here. To be able to do that together has been a true blessing. Thanks to his service to the U.S. Marines, my flexible career, and the support of my parents, we have closed escrow today on a new home outside of Bend, Ore.

I am mostly spilling my guts here to explain myself, and in doing so express my appreciation for those who have supported us so whole-heartedly. We have some absolutely incredible advocates in Santa Barbara County, and we love you all. Even if we haven’t seen each other in awhile – thank you. Thank you for supporting me and being part of this ridiculous journey called life. If you’re ever in Oregon, please do let me know.

Doris C. Mitchell

Doris Christiansen Mitchell of Solvang passed away on Dec. 30, 2017 at Atterdag Village after a struggle with memory loss. She was 86.


Doris and Renton Mitchell

Born a first generation American citizen on Nov. 11, 1931, Doris grew up in Solvang. Her parents, Anne Helga and Christian Christiansen, were immigrants to the U.S. from Jutland, Denmark. They settled first in Flandreau, South Dakota, then quickly realized the warmer temperatures of a Danish community named for “sunny fields” might be more palatable.

At age two in 1933, Doris took a cross-country train trip to her new home. She would live in Solvang for the rest of her life, found a successful local business, and raise three daughters.

While attending Solvang Elementary School, Doris spoke English at school and Danish at home. Her mother was widowed in 1945 and supported her four teenage children with work as a seamstress.  Doris had three siblings, Elsie, Edith, and Harry. All preceded her in death.

After attending Santa Ynez Valley Union High School (class of 1949), Doris married Donald Doll, a high school classmate, that same year. They had three daughters: Dianne, Debra, and Donna. Doris was widowed when Don Doll died in a plane crash in 1961. Undaunted by the reality of raising three young girls on her own, she persevered.

In addition to the success of her children, Doris was quietly proud of her business, Solvang Children’s Shop – formerly Solvang Baby Gift Store – which she started at 1666 Copenhagen Drive in 1970.

The “baby store” as her family always called it, has been at the same location for the entirety of its 47 years. Taking a chance on starting a business she knew Solvang needed after being unable to shop in town for her first granddaughter, Doris and her daughters began traveling to Los Angeles several times each year to select children’s clothing from national brands.

Repeat customers often remark that three generations of their family have shopped for that perfect gift or outfit at the Solvang shop. It was Doris’ exceptional taste that made the business work.

A custom-created line of Danish style dresses, available only at the Solvang Children’s Shop, has been worn by thousands of girls for Danish Days and Scandinavian holidays. Even as she struggled with her memory, Doris sharply noticed that the Danish dress her great-granddaughter Laurel had on last September “was the largest size, and that was it after that.”

After her daughters Debra and Donna joined the business, it expanded to three stores, including the Children’s Boutique in Santa Barbara and Charlie’s Playhouse in Solvang. Today, Debra and Donna co-own and operate the flagship store.

In addition to running her business, Doris was a devoted grandmother. She was active in the lives of her five grandchildren, often picking them up from Solvang School and SYVUHS. True to her Danish roots, she was an exceptional cook and baker, talented gardener, and always had an immaculately clean home. Her apple pies and pebbernodder cookies remain family favorites, and her recipes are treasured.

Every Christmas Eve, Doris hosted a Danish celebration with shrimp cocktail, prime rib, scalloped potatoes, house made blue cheese salad dressing and traditional rice pudding with raspberry sauce. Her grandchildren all recall Christmas Eves at her house as the highlight of every holiday season.

After the death of her first husband, Doris remarried to Sheriff’s Deputy and real estate agent Renton Mitchell, in 1963. Renton’s children Robbie and Margaret joined the family. Doris and Renton enjoyed many travel adventures and the company of mutual friends. He preceded her in death in 2012.

Doris is survived by her daughters, Dianne (Ben) Etling, Debra (William) Etling, and Donna (Mark) Oliver, and her grandchildren Lisa Etling, Leah Etling, Will (Abigail) Etling, Anna (Ryan) Kloch and Peter Oliver. She had five great-grandchildren: Laurel Etling Socolow, Ian and Ellery Kloch, and Mercer and Rowan Etling, who brought her joy and smiles.

Her family is grateful for the exceptional care she received at Atterdag Village of Solvang for the last two years. Interment will be private.

Is this the year empathy ends?


I remember the moment in 2002 when I was first labeled an empath. Except the woman didn’t use that word. She said something else.

“You’re a classic people pleaser,” she said, somewhat jabbingly. Was she smiling or sneering? She was a sharp woman – in brain and tongue – and typically spoke her mind. I couldn’t exactly tell if it was an insult or a compliment. I mulled the words over and over in my brain, like you might worry a flat stone between your fingers before skipping it across a lake.

I wanted it to be a compliment. But it wasn’t. I wanted to deny the allegation. But it was technically true. I liked it when people around me were happy. I was willing to do most anything in my power to help them be that way.

15 years later, my empathy has only gotten worse. Age brings clarity of vision about the nonsense the world throws at us. Some of my personal trials – several of which are directly attributable to empathy-based decision making – have stressed the limits of my heart and well being. But I persist with the empathy, because to me it seems the only way to live a grounded, moral, religion-free life.

It’s behavior traceable to my grandmother on my dad’s side, who as my father puts it, “was a saint.” Fifty years ago, Grandma E would have been described as “virtuous,” a word we don’t use much in America anymore.

A nurse, mother to four boys, Sunday School teacher, endurer of medical challenges, political volunteer, charity donor, patient wife to a difficult man .. the list goes on. She had friends everywhere. Everyone loved her because she truly cared. If you met her she wanted to know who you were, where you came from and where you were going.

She didn’t do any of this consciously – it was just how she lived. Self was the last thing on the list when it came to her priorities. In fact, her health suffered as a result. I imagine her alive today, hearing the phrase “self care” and laughing about it. First she had to take care of everyone else. Self care could wait.

My empathy takes a different tact. I am concerned with the daily interaction of human beings and the well-being of my family, friends, colleagues and community members. Small details matter to me. I am the person picking up other people’s dog poop at the dog park and broken beer bottles on the sidewalk. I am the enforcer of “thank you” and ” have a nice day” at the parking kiosk or the grocery aisle. I take my friends’ dogs when they can’t walk them and bake pies for people who don’t know how.

Yes, I do some of this because I have time on my hands and can’t spend all of it working. But mostly I do it because I think society crumbles if we aren’t kind and big-hearted and giving of the resources at our disposal.  And now, finally, I am getting to my point.

A recently article by Om Malik in the New Yorker declared that “Silicon Valley has an empathy vacuum,” and described the impact of the Internet’s algorithms and technology’s fast-forward pace innovation on our culture.  I would expand the scope of Malik’s thesis to a broader and perhaps more frightening one. It is my belief that our current president, the stress of his surprising and unexpected election, and the pressure of a social media-fueled society is turning into a backlash on empathy at large.

President Obama called out the fallback of empathy as an American value set repeatedly. A couple of notable comments he made on the subject:

“Learning to stand in somebody else’s shoes, to see through their eyes, that’s how peace begins. And it’s up to you to make that happen. Empathy is a quality of character that can change the world.”

“We live in a culture that discourages empathy. A culture that too often tells us our principle goal in life is to be rich, thin, young, famous, safe, and entertained.”

Search for “Donald Trump quotes about empathy” and you get something else entirely – a selection of articles about the rare instances when the current President appeared to be concerned about something other than his own victories or ego. “Beautiful little babies” in Syria, for example.

A Forbes piece from last year asserts that Trump is in fact a master of empathy, but in a manipulative way. “His instinctive understanding of his fans’ emotional states and his willingness to exploit them drive his success,” wrote Emily Willingham. Empathy becomes a weapon, and not for good. Perhaps it should be distrusted, if it is merely a con to twist emotions in a certain direction.

Which brings me to the headline that prompted this blog in the first place. From the Washington Post: How Trump’s budget helps the rich at the expense of the poor.

USA Today: Trump budget cuts safety net programs, hitting states that voted for him

Post again: Trump’s plans to cut food stamps could hit his supporters hardest

While the one percent may include the majority of Trump’s friends and fellow global businesspeople, he was elected by poor Americans. Their priority for his campaign? Jobs. Jobs and a return to prosperity for struggling small cities and towns that have been left behind by the tech economy. Towns where Medicaid and anti-poverty initiatives are essential to survival.

They took a chance on Trump because perhaps he could bring his business acumen to their micro-economic struggles. Instead, they will be more likely to die early and hungry. That is the ultimate lack of empathy. Somewhere in heaven, my aforementioned grandmother, a lifelong Republican volunteer, donor, and campaign-runner, is horrified.

I won’t quit empathy easily, especially under these circumstances. My grandmother’s legacy deserves more than that. If you need me, check the beach. There’s an awful lot of trash to pick up.


Running with dogs



Yesterday my family and I were talking about dogs. You could safely call us “dog people.” We all have dogs, and have since I was 13 and my brother was 9, when we adopted our first dog, the amazing Kasha Montana, from a classified ad in the Santa Barbara newspaper. I will remember the drive to pick see her for the first time until the day I die.

It was my brother who wanted a dog so badly that he begged my parents to let us have one. As we had recently moved to a sprawling ranch outside of Los Olivos, and we were old enough to play with her responsibly, they didn’t have much choice but to say yes.

We’d picked out the name Montana because it was one of our mutual favorite states after many family road trips. But Kasha was a good name, one that I’m even fonder of now that I’ve been to Kasha Katuwe (Tent Rocks) monument near Cochiti, New Mexico. Sometimes life surprises you. Until my first trip to New Mexico I always thought her previous owner named her after wheat cereal. But it stuck. It was a great name and she was a great dog.

She was the first dog I ever drove around with in the car, after I got my driver’s license. And she appeared with me in Runner’s World when I was 16 years old and writing about why I loved running so much. We didn’t run together every day, but she was my first running dog.

I never spent a lot of time thinking about “when I’m grown up, I’ll have a dog that .. ” or “when I’m older I’ll go running with my dog every day.” Then again, I never spent any time thinking about “when I’m grown up I’ll have a family and two kids.” Which I don’t – and that’s OK.

But I do have a dog, my crazy corgi, and I spend a lot of time in the company of dogs. It turns out that dogs, like children, are better raised by a village. It also turns out that when you have suffered severe emotional trauma, dogs can help you heal.

This morning I woke up from deep sleep in an S shape. B – the corgi – was curled up behind my knees. Sam – the Rhodesian – was curled up next to my face and chest. This is our little pack, I thought to myself. We are completely safe and happy in our own little world.

While it was still dark, we went out to run. I’ve run with a lot of dogs over the years, but these two are the most fun. Sam is the ultimate running dog. Essentially he lopes along humoring us while B and I struggle to keep up. There’s a reason why they say that Rhodesians are the ideal running dogs. They make marathons look easy.

For the corgi, on the other hand, it takes a half-dozen steps to make up for one stride made by me or the near-miniature horse. But Bulleit has a heart that must be about as big as his body. He pushes himself to the limit to keep on hanging with us. It’s the kind of thing that makes me feel proud, like a parent would. I realize a lot of people think the idea of “dog mom” is absolutely ridiculous, and I get that. But I’m not just his owner, so maybe it’s best put to say that I’m proud to be part of his pack.

This weekend the three of us ran 9 miles together on Saturday, and Sam and I covered 10 on Sunday (we left B at home to rest). Miles go faster with friends, whether they have four legs or two. Sunsets are more spectacular and moments of joy more joyous. I know I can trust these two not to leave me behind. And that’s a lot more than I can say about some of the people I’ve met.




“I went to your blog but you hadn’t posted in forever!”

Hello, readers. (If there are any of you still out there!)

I recently learned that occasionally folks will come by here, checking to see if I have posted anything, and seeing yet again that I have not. I apologize for the long hiatus. Life took some unusual detours, and only recently have I felt like I am getting back to being myself again.

My hope is to begin remedying the “lack of regular posts” situation in the year ahead.

Lately I have been traveling for work and running, to places like Mississippi, where I ran in the inaugural Gulf Coast Half Marathon from Gulfport to Biloxi. It was my first race in quite awhile and it was great to be back out there competing again.


My most recent work trip was to Philadelphia, where I took advantage of any free moments to check out the Barnes Museum, Reading Terminal Market, and of course the famous LOVE statue, temporarily housed on Dilworth Plaza in front of Philadelphia City Hall.


If you’d like to see what I’m up to, or what B the wonder corgi is up to, you can follow us on Instagram, where we post daily updates about our adventures.

My personal account: https://www.instagram.com/leah.etling/

Bulleit’s account: https://www.instagram.com/sbcorgi/


We’ve been really happy to finally be getting some rain in Santa Barbara County this winter, leading to beautiful green landscapes at home in the valley.


And amazing runoff experiences like this one from the Ocean Meadows Golf Course this morning:


Thank you for stopping by, and I hope you’ll read more from me soon.

On giving up the newspaper

The LA Times didn’t show up in the driveway today. I didn’t think much of it at 5:45 a.m., just figured the delivery guy was running late, and it would be there when I got back from my run.

But it wasn’t there. And before I got up the front walk, I realized why: I’d written CANCEL on the last bill in big letters, and sent it back. They’d cut me off from my print junkie ways – because I asked them to. Then I promptly forgot about it, probably because I felt a little guilty.

I felt a little piece of my journalism pedigree get torn off in that moment, like I’d dog-eared a page, put down the book and walked away because I couldn’t figure out the ending.

It feels like that for me with newspapers now, every time I think about it. Since 2006, when my best-ever reporting job spiraled into insanity for reasons better explained over cocktails, I keep anticipating some kind of death star moment for the entire industry.

But it doesn’t go like that, of course. It’s a slow, protracted, infected-with-a-mystery virus kind of death. And the good doctors have given up because they realize the patient is low-income and finding a cure won’t bring much fame their way.

Meanwhile a shiny-faced distant cousin has shown up, whose name is CONTENT. CONTENT, whose name is all caps because he is a demanding and insatiable little rogue, professes good intentions but mainly just wants to be fed. He doesn’t care about craft or wordsmithing or Finding the Story. CONTENT is a brat, but he’s healthy and here to stay. We have to put up with him. So, many of us once journalists have been hired to babysit CONTENT. He’s not our favorite, but we appreciate that his parents are willing to pay for his care. They can afford it – they’re big companies with deep pockets.

I spend nine hours a day with content. It exudes from my pores. But I haven’t called myself a reporter or considered myself journalist since I quit my last newspaper to travel the Western U.S. back in 2009. I figured that one day I would work my way back, be an editor in Santa Fe or cover Santa Barbara County government and courts or write on international track meets and European travel in tandem. I’m qualified for all of those jobs.  None of them seems realistic these days as a long-term career.

I have to be positive and point out that there is amazing writing and reportage being carried out today, and it’s accessible to all of us because of the Internet. The New York Times Magazine and the New Republic, in particular, are producing some of the best stories I’ve ever read on a regular basis. Pacific Standard, right here in my own backyard in Santa Barbara, is finally coming into its own as a sharp thinking person’s magazine. There is great journalism online, and I challenge you to differentiate it from the content that is yanking your shirt tails and demanding your attention every second.

I gave up my newspaper, after always subscribing to a paper since I was 16, for three reasons:

  1. Because I read insatiably on the Internet, and gain a far more vast realm of knowledge than I ever could with one regional publication, honing in on my interests and passions.
  2. I am ready to accept the fact that I may never be able to return to journalism as a profession. It doesn’t feel like a heartbreak anymore to admit that out loud.
  3. The Times puts some of their best stories online before they ever appear in print. So I would find myself rereading articles from the day before, and wondering why I cut down a tree to do that.

There was a time, when I was reporting, when the short walk to get the newspaper off the driveway in the morning was the best moment of the day. I knew that when I grabbed that paper and unfolded it, I’d see a story I had written on the front page. A story that told my neighbors something about their community and the world around them.  A story I cared deeply about, even if it was a small one.

I miss that feeling. I guess I always will.

Heartbreak in Boston

I started wishing that I was in Boston for the 117th running of the Boston Marathon last Friday, in the morning.

You can scroll down and read proof in the post below: “You know you’re a runner when .. it’s Boston Marathon weekend and three days before the race you start thinking about how exciting it would be to be in Boston right now. Even just as spectator or a volunteer.”

I’ve qualified to run Boston twice in the past, but never registered. My lame excuse? I didn’t have someone who would be willing to take the trip out there with me for the race. Marathons are emotionally and physically grueling experiences. They’re impossible (at least for me) to run without someone’s arms to collapse into at the finish line.

The fact that the dead and injured victims of this senseless, evil, horrific attack were mostly spectators – people who were there to support their loved ones, or maybe even just watch strangers sweat and struggle to the finish line – is to me one of the cruelest wrongs of all. They were there to send their cheers and well wishes onto the passing runners, to help them reach the finish line by standing by. Someone decided to do them grievous harm.


There’s no answering that, and no logical explanation will ever come. I simply can’t accept the inhumanity of it all. An eight year old boy, there to cheer on his Dad running the race, died for no reason. So did two other young women in the prime of their lives. As of today, more than 80 people are still in the hospital with serious injuries suffered in this attack. There is no why, just awful wrong.

If you know runners, or are a runner, you may understand that we have a solidarity among us that runs very deep. As part of the contract staff of Running USA, I have learned that one of the reasons for this is that it starts at the top. The people who produce running events and road races in this country are some of the best people there are. They are kind, compassionate, logical, smart businesspeople. They work in an industry that brings out the best in its participants. Everything they do, every decision they make, is for the runners.

Every year at the Running USA conference, Boston race director Dave McGillivray and his team from DMSE Sports  (who produce the Boston Marathon on behalf of the Boston Athletic Association) are out on the course with us for our morning runs. They are one of the top race production teams in the country. Detail-oriented, exceptionally organized, cautious and competent. Somehow they manage to take care of 20,000 runners, and hundreds of thousands of spectators, without a glitch, at a storied and historic event. It’s a monumental task, and they knock it out of the park.

And now this.

There’s a quote making the rounds via social media, which is spot on: “If you’re trying to defeat the human spirit, marathon runners are the wrong group to target.” (Credit to David and Kelvin Bright)

I would expand that to include the running industry at large. Our sport has experienced a boom in participation that’s going on more than a decade. Huge increases in participation numbers have been recorded by our Running USA statisticians as Americans take to the roads. Those of us who have been running for our entire lives have welcomed them joyously. We would love nothing more than for everyone to be a runner, whether you jog a mile or race 26.2.

My colleague Christine Bowen, who was in Boston and thankfully uninjured in the attacks, put it this way: “We are all part of this amazing industry and I know we will all stick together and come out even stronger, but it’s going to be an emotional road.”

But if anyone can take on an emotional road, it’s the running industry, its runners and the people who love them. See you out there.


A few ways to contribute to the victims of the Boston Marathon attack:


Friday musings

Just a lot of miscellaneous thoughts that are junking up my brain today.

You know you’re a runner when .. it’s Boston Marathon weekend and three days before the race you start thinking about how exciting it would be to be in Boston right now. Even just as spectator or a volunteer. But you are glad, for once, that you’re not a truly competitive elite runner, because going into a race that big and important has to be one of the most anxiety-inducing experiences ever.

Marketing slogan that made me insane this week .. “Because places of profound beauty can’t stay hidden forever.” How about making it a little simpler: “Let’s take something beautiful and ruin it with a maddening crowd!” Sigh.

Want to laugh really hard? Watch this:

My favorite part is when he says “Listen ladies. Romance is deception.” Mr. President, you are a very smart man.

-Finished reading Gillian Flynn’s “Gone Girl.” I did not like that book. And I especially hated the ending. Oh, the depravity!

Have a great weekend, everyone.

My people

I used to carry my Fisher Price people around with me wherever I went. They were my village. Here we are in the bath:

peopleAs an adult, finding my people was a little more challenging. They didn’t line up for my attention quite so easily. My oldest friends are people I have known since high school and college. I made friends fairly easily at my many jobs and in the running community, but finding a group of people with whom I truly clicked in a big, dramatic, lightbulb-going-off-but-it’s-actually-a-firework-and-feels-like-a-transformer-just-exploded sort of way never happened until last year.

My people are awesome.

They are brilliant and kind and hilarious. They are fascinating, with backgrounds from around the world. (Some are boring Americans, just like me.) They are extremely hard workers, earning advanced degrees, starting businesses, traveling internationally, making scientific discoveries, creating better ways to do things, saving the environment, changing the way we look at the world. They put others before themselves. They have helped me see life, and happiness, in an entirely new way. I used to think that to be joyous would require a great love affair. It turns out that all it really takes is amazing friends – the kind of people who can make sitting on a couch at Restoration Hardware one of the best afternoons you’ve ever had. The kind of people who will show up at your doorstep with miso soup when you’re having an off night. The kind of people who help you with home improvement, encourage you to write a book, and get excited about chocolate pie. The kind of people who can make a boring triathlon volunteer assignment into three hours of pure hilarity.

This weekend I realized, with a sickening feeling, that some of my dear people may not be in Santa Barbara too much longer. They are grabbing new opportunities, heading out to do amazing things with their careers and their lives. This place isn’t meant to be their permanent home. I understand this and want them to be hugely successful and happy. That doesn’t mean I won’t miss the heck out of them – and shed more than a few tears –  when it is time for them to go. And in the meantime, every chance we have to hang around together is that much more significant.

I do wish I could put them in my pockets, like my Fisher Price people, and carry them around with me everywhere. But keeping them in my heart will have to do. My friends – please know that you have been one of the best things that has ever happened to me. No matter where we are, I hope I’ll still know you.






Everything is Meaningless – or is it?

everythingI got a text message from my friend Em today. She was concerned about the “Everything is Meaningless” image on my Facebook profile header. She wrote: “Etling what’s up with your post that everything is meaningless. That’s not like you!”

I replied, a little casually, “it’s Art!” and promised to tell her more when I see her next. But I wasn’t surprised by her reaction, because I know that running around espousing the belief that Everything is Meaningless is probably going to get me into trouble at some point.

Let’s see if I can write my way out of it.

First of all, the artist who created the print above is named Patrick Casey. Originally, it was a hand-painted woodcut. Now it’s a print, and I do not know how many of them exist. This one was bought for me by my brother Will and sister-in-law Abigail, and it hangs in my living room. They have the same print in their home in Echo Park.

The first time I saw their print I fell instantly in love with it. First, the imagery immediately drew me in. The colors and the texture, the loons and the canoe. Those who know me a little know that my family on my dad’s side came from Wisconsin (Brokaw) and Michigan (Detroit) by way of North Carolina, so this upper Midwestern woods experience runs in my blood. My grandmother’s parents had a little cabin at a place called Payment Lake. It was in the middle of a birch tree forest, with a tiny dock and an equally tiny rowboat to catch sunfish in. There were loons on the lake that cried haunted calls at night. A beaver dam blocked one end. We went there once, when I was about eight.  This is the first place I remember ever falling in love with. We caught fish, my great-grandmother cleaned them. We picked wild berries in the woods. My dad showed us how to make a (miniature) birch bark canoe. There was a faded red patterned camp tablecloth, stuck permanently to the table. It was real and perfect and felt like a place in a novel.

I have had many days in my life where I do believe fervently that everything is meaningless. Every day, I believe that every THING is meaningless. I have never wanted material possessions to define my life. Yes, I like having nice things and work hard for them.  But if you took them all away today, and I still had the love of my family and friends and the ability to write words well, and my people were all OK and not hurt or hungry, that would be fine. I have two strong legs and a brain. I could get from place to place somehow and figure out the rest – where to sleep, what to eat, how to live – day to day. It would be hard, but it could be done.

But if Everything is Meaningless, that means that nothing, not my hysterical laughing fits with my dear friends, not the hours of running on the beach, not falling in love, whether for the first time or the third or the next, means a damn thing. Right?

Maybe. That isn’t how I’ve worked it out in my head. One day in Kings Canyon a long time ago my mother said to my father: “What do you believe in? I don’t believe in anything.”

And my father replied: “I believe in you.”

This so perfectly defines my parents and it is this pivotal moment that has a lot to do with who I am.

Yesterday on my run at 6 a.m. there were two people sleeping on the edge of the Coal Oil Point bluff top in sleeping bags. They looked so peaceful. Their heads were tilted towards each other, and they were fast asleep, out in the open air. The waves were crashing on the beach beneath them.  It was a moment. It immediately became a memory. It was everything, it was meaningless, yet it affected me profoundly. For that one second, all I could see was two people trusting each other and the world not to hurt them, and nothing else mattered.