Happy Birthday

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You would have turned 55 today, Dad.

Bet you’d spend some time by the lake,
catching and releasing, fish and breath.
I’d bring treats over, you’d act surprised.
We’d sing the song, you’d make a wish.

I miss buying you gifts, writing cards.
I miss hearing your voice, full of answers.
I miss being your daughter, making you proud.
I miss you more on days like today.

I hang tightly to memories, making
daily promises to you, without you.
This day will never go uncelebrated,
not as long as I’m alive to keep you alive.

Happy birthday, Dad. Love, Kid.

Stung

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            I recall it more vividly than most memories. I was two years old, I think. It’s hard to determine the precise age of events that took place early on without parents to verify the details. Most childhood memories seem to come not from one’s own memory, but rather from parents or siblings retelling them. The dog attack, for instance, which required more than a hundred stitches across my face, is something I only know through my dad’s recounting of the bite, the blood-soaked towel pressed against my face, the surgery, and my escape from the recovery room in search of him. Standing in a hospital gown, I smiled through stitches, he told me, when I found him in the waiting room. He scooped me up and gave the nurses hell for not watching me more closely. I’m sure that’s how it went. I was his little girl, he my protector.

            My first memory is not one that was reconstructed for me like my face after the dog. I don’t even think I’ve discussed it with anyone who may have witnessed the incident. They probably didn’t think it too big a deal. As I said, I was two, a still-bald toddler (I didn’t grow hair until the age of three), just beginning to absorb the world, not yet capable of contemplating my place in it, like I often would later in life.

            It happened in the backyard of the small, barn red house I lived in until I was nine years old, the age at which my parents’ marriage went from the slow deterioration I’d thought normal, to a merciless avalanche, taking any good memories I had of them together down with it. I remember that house well. Two bedrooms, the bunk bed I shared with my little brother, the porch where I napped with our graying golden retriever Zack. The house may have been tiny, but the land was much larger than most lots in the suburbs. Our acre of land was bordered on one side by a creek and on the other by our neighbors’ wood-fenced arena for their two horses.

            The back of the yard met the woods where I spent hours venturing alone or with Zack close behind me, making sure I was safe. A weeping willow tree near the creek was strong enough to hold me as I swung from its vine-like branches like Tarzan before I knew who Tarzan was. An old pine in the front yard made the perfect climbing tree. Every now and then an apple would fall from the apple tree like a tennis ball from nowhere, and I’d inspect it for wormholes before taking a bite.

            I could always be found outside entertaining myself, from the nature-supplied distractions to the simple swing dad made by drilling a hold in the center of a thick, circular piece of wood—the seat—and threading a nylon towrope through one end, tying a massive knot, and wrapping the other around a strong tree branch more than 20 feet above ground. Looking back, I suppose I kept myself out of the house to avoid my mom in her drunken stupor until dad came home from work. He had to work harder and longer days to make up for her inadequacies. My brother remembers dad being gone a lot, but he doesn’t remember why. Dad’s job required him to be on call, which gave him extra hours but less time at home. I always asked to go with when he had to leave for a call, and sometimes he let me. Once when we passed the Mall of America on our way home, I asked what all the lights were and he took a detour to the mall to show me Minnesota’s indoor amusement park. Dad liked to see me smile.

            My first memory was not one of those days I spent outside in solitude. My parents, together then, were having a barbeque with a handful of friends in the backyard and I, the only child present, was cruising around the grass in my buggy, moving my feet Flintstones-style through the open floor. It looked like a toddler-sized golf cart, red frame with a yellow roof. I remember being inside it, turning the steering wheel this way and that way, maneuvering between the other toys strewn about the yard. I could hear my parents laughing and talking with their friends on the patio no more than 10 yards from me. I remember hearing an intermittent bbzzzz, then the noise stopped and a sharp pain shot through my ear. I screamed for my dad as hot tears started streaming down my cheeks.

            Someone must have seen the bee because everyone figured out what had happened. Or maybe “bee” was part of my two-year-old vocabulary. A bee had interrupted my pleasant summer afternoon, invaded my buggy, crawled inside my left ear, and stung me. It was the longest and hardest I had cried up to that point. I cried as my parents and their friends rushed me to the bathroom, sat me on the counter and poured peroxide into my ear. I could hear the bubbles popping loudly like popcorn so close to my eardrum. I cried as they were telling me it was okay, I wasn’t allergic, that they knew it hurt. They didn’t know. How could they have? A bee hadn’t stung them inside the ear. They couldn’t know how it felt.

            It was my first lesson in pain, an introduction to the surprises of the universe and to the notion that no one will ever truly know how I feel. I knew from that day on that at any moment I could be stung. Later I would come to learn that sometimes the recovery is quick, sometimes the stinging sensation lingers, and other times the damage is irreversible, with no one around to mend it and tell me I would be okay. I would have to figure out for myself how to be okay. When the world came at me fists swinging, I would learn how to fight back. 

A Tribute to a Sweet Lady

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{This will be read during my grandmother’s funeral service this evening.}

Hello. I’m Casie, one of Dorothy’s granddaughters.

For those of you who may not know, we (meaning my brother, cousins and I) called her Lady. Not Dorothy, not Dot, not Nana, not Grandma.

Lady.

I’m not sure exactly how it came about, but however it did, it was endearing and it stuck.

I’m a bit of a literary nerd, so as I was preparing what I was going to say today, I consulted the dictionary for the definition of “Lady,” of which there are several.

  • A gentle mannered and considerate woman.
  • Polite and well-spoken.
  • Of a lady; Ladylike.

What’s funny is those just about sum her up if you were to add humorous and kindhearted. The word “ladylike” hung around in my mind for a while and I started thinking about all the things I felt were Lady-like. Things she did and said.

The first quality that came to mind was that Lady never forgot a thing. She could recall events from decades ago in such detail you’d think they happened yesterday. She was the absolute opposite of an elephant in stature, but when it came to memory she could go toe to toe with one. Yes, elephants have toes. And, yes, there is scientific evidence that they, like Lady, never forget.

When I think of Lady, I also think about how deeply she cared for every person she knew. She gave everyone a nickname, always sent birthday cards, and not only remembered but stocked their favorite foods in her cupboards.

In fact, when her grandkids were young, Lady kept a candy cupboard. I’m not sure why she bothered to put it out of our reach because we were granted access to it every time we asked. Perhaps it’s because she wanted to see the joy on our faces when she handed us a 5-pack of Juicy Fruit gum, a Nestle Crunch bar or a Kit Kat. Beyond the special cupboard, she’d usually have a box of Whitman’s chocolates or Peppermint Patties, pound cake (which was Papa’s favorite that he was kind enough to share), plenty of Coca-Cola, and chocolate milk. Not the premade chocolate milk. No, no. She made us chocolate milk using whole milk and Nestle chocolate powder, and I’m sure all her grandkids can attest that Lady made the best chocolate milk in the world. We could never replicate it. It was simply the best.

Thinking back, I don’t know how she kept her sanity around sugar-fueled children, but she did. And she loved every minute of it. It could be that our energy was contagious, because she didn’t stop. She’d take us to the dollar store to get toys, sit down on the floor to play games, stay up late to do some star-gazing on the deck, then wake up early and make us a pound of bacon, which I consumed once by myself. Or so she told me. That is love. I can imagine the look on Papa’s face when she told him that their elementary school-aged Casie Doll, as she called me, had eaten an entire plate of bacon by herself and not left any for him.

I don’t know why sweets seemed to be at the center of our relationship, but it’s fitting. Lady was a sweet lady. When I brought her a slice of red velvet cake for her birthday a few weeks ago, she took it with delight. Now I find myself wishing we had shared it and continued what we called her “birthday party” for the entire weekend.

The strange thing about death is the seeming finality of it. The end of opportunities to create new memories. But death can only take away life that has not yet been lived. And if it hasn’t been lived, does it really exist? Has anything been taken? Death cannot take away the life that has been lived and the impact that life has made. That’s why we’re all here today: because Lady made an impact on each one of us.

I mentioned elephants before. I read a story recently about two elephants that were serendipitously placed at the same zoo after having spent just a few months in the circus together 23 years earlier. When they were reunited, they remembered one another instantly and roared with joy.

I hope you all never forget how Lady touched your life. Even the smallest kindnesses like offering you a stick of Juicy Fruit gum are important to remember. And some day, when you’re reunited by some force in the universe, I hope you’ll offer a stick in return. And she’ll smile, knowing you’ve been honoring her spirit since the day you last saw each other, in that circus we tend to call life.

Proud of Me

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My life is about to change, drastically change, in almost every way. Contrary to many of the changes that have occurred in the past few years, it’s changing for the better. You see, after losing my dad almost two years ago, I felt lost. Lost and alone, with a new appreciation for how possible it is that death is hiding just around the corner. As a chronic worrier, this was not an entirely new way of thinking for me, but experiencing the death of my favorite person in the world right before my eyes changed me. It changed the way I think about every single decision I make.

Now, I’m always asking myself: “If I die next week, next month, or next year, how will I have wanted to spend the last week, month or year?”

This new way of thinking seeing has changed the trajectory of my life. From smaller things like eating organic, unprocessed foods to monumental things like getting married, I’ve made some changes. And now I’m making even more. Several people have told me to slow down, but those who know me well know I thrive on progress and forward momentum. The only thing I’ve ever set out to accomplish and didn’t was saving my dad. I feel his absence every day, as if part of me has been hollowed out. I attempt to fill the void by doing things every day that would make him proud.

Starting tomorrow, my days are going to become even more meaningful. The first class of my three-year MFA in creative writing program starts tomorrow, and two weeks after that I begin a new job as brand manager for an inspiring children’s book publisher. I just keep waiting for someone to slap me awake. Is this real life?! Apparently I’m doing something right.

Oh, and in two months I’ll be moving (not far, but moving to a new yet-to-be-determined home nonetheless). Two months after that is my golden birthday. I think 27 is going to look good on me.

If I close my eyes, I can see my dad smile and say, “I’m so proud of you, kid.” If he were here, we’d be listening to loud music, making each other laugh, and talking about life.

I’m proud of me too, dad. Going to scatter sunshine and even save some for myself.

casiefamfun copy

A New Environment

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I’m not a great plant caretaker. I’m not even a decent one. Of the dozen floor plants that my dad had in his house when he died, I kept one. My dad had a way with living things…people, animals, and even plants. He could bring unwanted plants back from the brink of death, or help seedlings grow into thriving, green beauties. I tend to have quite the opposite effect on them. During my senior year of high school, I thought working at a floral shop would be a lovely way to make some money. Turns out, the duration of my employment was highly correlated to the rapid decline of all the flowers and plants in the shop.

Despite my historical lack of success, I figured I could keep one of my dad’s plants alive. Couldn’t I?

I’ve had this plant for almost two years now. I’m sure my dad knew its species and had a name for it. I haven’t a clue what kind it is and I didn’t name it. It’s just Plant to me. And Plant hasn’t been looking too healthy for the past six months or more. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong. Maybe it misses being called by its real name, whatever that may be. Perhaps it misses being watered the appropriate amount daily. I bet my dad talked to it too, so it probably misses having conversations. I remember him repotting all of them fairly often as well. It could use new soil.

I feel bad for Plant. It’s been sitting in the same spot for a year and a half or so. The spot doesn’t get much light and although I pass by it every day, I don’t acknowledge it. Some of its leaves are browning, others have been yellowing and falling off. It’s half as full as it was when I adopted it.

I thought about throwing it out, then I thought again. I can’t just give up. Especially since it’s my fault that Plant looks wilted and feels neglected. Yes, I’m suggesting Plant has feelings. In fact, I know just how Plant feels. When I compare photos of me from three or more years ago to photos of me today, I look wilted. I’ve been neglecting myself. I skip meals almost daily and regularly experience symptoms of dehydration. I haven’t been focusing on the things that make me happiest. I haven’t been me.

No more. I’m making a commitment to take better care of myself and of Plant, which will from this day forward be called Penny.

Like me, a new environment might be just what Penny needs. A new environment and some acknowledgement. Today I moved Penny to another room of the apartment that receives ample sunlight throughout the day. I’m going to do my best to make sure she gets enough water every day.

We’re going to get better together, Penny and I.

Happy New Me.

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I’m not particularly fond of New Year’s resolutions or celebrations because I feel like it perpetuates a mindset that it’s only once a year that we allow ourselves to reflect, forgive, and plan. To perpetuate this mindset deprives every other day of its potential for renewal. The notion of every day as a new beginning is not something that our culture makes easy to practice. We have jobs to do because we have bills to pay, along with other daily commitments that occupy our mind space. When we’re just trying to keep up, how can we be expected to gather the good sense to stop, reflect, and adjust or change our course? Ah, yes. That is why we celebrate New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. We need it to force ourselves to reflect on the past year and decide how exactly we’d like to spend the next.

I have a mind that does not settle and an unsatisfiable urge to feel productive at all times. This mental liveliness and ambition is beneficial most of the time (I get a lot done), but it can also be a bit maddening. A few days ago a friend introduced me to yoga, and I’ve practiced it every day since. Yoga allows me to tame my thoughts and focus, if only for an hour. For someone who’s never been able to do that, it’s like finding a spring in the middle of a desert. I’ve never known until now what it’s like to feel at ease, at peace.

Yoga, like writing, is something that I do for myself (though I do write with a reader in mind to ensure there’s something to gain from reading it). And yoga, like writing, renews my sense of purpose. Without purpose, we wander aimlessly through life. I don’t want to wander, I want to create, experience, and accomplish. I want to be good to myself, and I’m going to be, for possibly the first time in my life.

Happy New Me.

casie

Reunion

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In the same inherent way that I know my name, I know that people are supposed to help other people. People are supposed to make other people happy. That’s why we exist.

I wasn’t born with this idea preprogrammed into my psyche. Just like my name, I learned it from my dad. I don’t recall one time where he actually told me how to practice kindness, except for maybe telling me to be nice to my younger brother on the infrequent occasions in which I wasn’t. It comes natural to me because he was just that way. He bought coffee for the Salvation Army bell ringers who stand outside of shops and malls freezing in the Minnesota winter during the holidays. A friend of his who owned an HVAC company owed him a favor, so my dad had him send technicians to one of his employee’s homes because my dad knew he and his wife couldn’t afford to fix their heat in the middle of the winter. He bought and planted flowers as a surprise for his elderly neighbor who couldn’t afford flowers and wouldn’t have had the energy to plant them even if she could buy any.

He was simply the kindest, most genuine person you could ever hope to meet—and the hundreds of people who came to his funeral in March 2011 would attest to that at the mention of his name.

I thought after my dad passed away that I’d somehow sense his presence around me. I’ve told my closest friends how in the almost two years he’s been gone I haven’t experienced anything of the sort. That changed today.

I was standing in line at the customer service desk at Target and a white-haired woman probably in her 70s came up and stood alongside me. Although I’d been in line before her, when it came my turn to be helped I told her to go ahead of me because I wasn’t in any rush. She stepped up and asked the customer service associate if she could use the phone again because her taxi had still not shown up. (Yes, I’m an eavesdropper.) The girl behind the counter set an old, corded phone out for her to use, then asked how she could help me. She handed me the photo prints I was picking up and I thanked her and walked away.

After getting 10 feet from the counter I felt suddenly weighted down. And I felt a pull—an almost magnetic pull—back toward the desk and that woman who was using the phone. As I got closer to the checkout counter that I was headed for, an overwhelming warming sensation grew in my chest, like someone had just lit a candle inside me. I could barely concentrate while I was paying for my photos because the feeling I had was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I knew, knew, I had to go back and ask the old woman if I could do anything for her. I didn’t have a choice. It was as if someone was walking for me and preparing the words I was about to say to her for me. I was not alone; I was not acting solely on my behalf. I was being led, carried, pushed back to this woman.

I approached her and the words unwittingly came from my mouth. “Did you say you needed the phone to call a taxi…again?” It was like I hadn’t thought the words or spoken the words. I’d just heard them come from me. Like I was a witness to the conversation, not a part of it.

“Yes,” she said, stuffing her floral wallet, tissues, notepad and papers back into her big, red purse. “I’ve been waiting here for two hours and they tell me there’s nothing they can do.”

“Do you live close by? Where are you trying to get to?”

She described the area where she lived and I knew exactly where it was. It was only a few miles away. “I’d be happy to give you a ride if you want,” I offered.

Her shoulders lowered. I could see the frustration that had built up from the two hours she’d been stranded at Target waiting near the cold doorway drain from her body and her face. With a look of relief, she accepted my offer. “That would be so kind of you. Otherwise I might be stuck here forever.”

As we walked together to find my car in the dark, slushy parking lot, I figured I should introduce myself. “I’m Casie, by the way.”

“I’m Joan,” she said, trying to keep up with my pace. I slowed down.

“Nice to meet you.”

As we drove the five-minute drive to her apartment, she said over and over again how nice it was of me to help her. It wasn’t nice; it was my duty. I felt it. I had no choice in the matter, and I couldn’t have been happier about it.

I changed the subject, asking about her Christmas shopping, how long she’d lived in the area, the weather—you know, the typical small talk you make with people you’ve just met.

She told me that her husband passed away 7 years ago and that her children live about 20 minutes away, but that she didn’t want to bother them about giving her a ride. How she loves the cards, cookies and gift wrapping that comes with the holidays. How the most special part of the holiday season is spending time with people you care about.

When we pulled up to her apartment, I jumped out and opened the door for her. It felt like the right thing to do. She thanked me again. She was so grateful.

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

I wished her a happy holiday too and got back in my car, smiling. As I turned out of the apartment community, I still had the candle-inside-my-chest sensation coupled with a tingly feeling that then turned to weightlessness. I was, and still am, almost in disbelief about what happened. Not about the fact that I wanted to help someone, as that’s pretty typical, but that I was compelled to do it by something beyond my own conscience. I could almost see my dad standing behind me at Target, pushing me forward, palms pressed against my back, telling me: “This is what we do, Kid. Go on and help her.”

I was reunited with my dad today for the first time in almost two years. He walked for me. He talked for me. He drove for me. He led me. He carried me. And because he did, I could carry Joan home safely and in a much more timely fashion than the taxicab service.

The Happiness of Pursuit

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I recently had the pleasure of listening to Jane McGonigal give a keynote speech about the science and psychology of gaming. She has proved through research that games can make us happier and healthier. Gaming, after all, is simply a way of approaching problems.

One insight in particular that she shared resonated so strongly with me that I wanted to raise my arms into the air (an act she says we can do to gain physical resilience) and shout, “YES! That’s IT!” That insight was:

It’s not the pursuit of happiness, but the happiness of pursuit that makes us happy.

Think about it for just a minute, and then continue reading.

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{Flickr user photo credit: vermilionaire}

I regard my years as an undergrad student at the U of M as the happiest years of my life. No, I wasn’t partying every night and sleeping until noon every day. I didn’t even live on campus and I worked two or three jobs at a time for far more than 40 hours per week. All that work and I was the happiest I can remember being. And it’s because I was working toward something—a degree that held the satisfaction of accomplishment and the promise of doing something big with my life.

I was happy simply to be pursuing.

Since graduating, several life events and circumstances have contributed to my lack of fervor. My dad had a heartbreaking struggle with cancer that ultimately took his life. My younger brother and I became closer than ever, then more distant than ever. I’ve worked hard—too hard, sacrificing too much at times—at jobs that have introduced me to some of the greatest people and friends I’ve met and that have also taught me countless lessons.

THE PROBLEM 
Together, these experiences have made me realize that to enjoy life, you have to feel fulfilled at the end of each day. So I started pursuing fulfillment. I know that to feel good about myself and my life, I need to write, I need to laugh, I need new experiences, and I need to have impassioned, thought-provoking conversations with other people. I believe that stirring ideas and the right conversations and actions can change people and people can create change in the world.

THE SOLUTION
My approach to becoming fulfilled is to challenge myself to:

  • Travel to new places locally and internationally to expose myself to more global history, to new cultures, to new people, and to have fun (of course).
  • Complete a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing and become a working writer and college professor.
  • Spend as much time as possible with people who make me better and happier.

THE ACTIONS 
Since recognizing all of this fewer than six months ago:

  • I’ve been accepted into a fantastic MFA in creative writing program at Hamline.
  • I’ve started making travel plans that will happen.
  • I’ve spent more time with the people most important to me.
  • I’m applying to another amazing MFA program at the U of M that would allow (and require) me to teach as part of the program.

I still need to:

  • Budget for travel and create a travel plan.
  • Rearrange my life to accommodate grad school so I can do my best work.
  • Figure out financial aid all over again!

THE OUTCOME 
I’ll find out, I suppose.

See, it’s a game I’ve created for myself. And now that I’m focused again on pursuing, I’m becoming happier and more energized than ever. I have to make some big changes, but it’ll be worth it in the end.

Happy pursuing,

Casie

Wild

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It seems Cheryl Strayed is the fresh new author of the moment. I mean, Oprah resurfaced from retirement after reading her new book Wild just so she could rave about it to the world. Impressed yet? I wasn’t either. Not until I uncovered more about Cheryl’s life. She grew up in Minnesota and attended the U of M. I did both of those things. Her dad abandoned her family when she was young. My mom abandoned my family when I was also young. Her loving mother died from lung cancer when Cheryl was only 22 years old. My loving father died from lung cancer when I was just 24 years old. After her mother’s death, her siblings dispersed while she tried to hold them together. I’ve been desperately trying to keep my younger brother closer than ever since my dad passed.

It appeared that this woman’s life was somehow my life, only she’d gotten a head start.

Wild is the story of her 1100-mile solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail that runs from Mexico to Canada on the West coast, through California, Oregon and Washington. She was 26 years old at the time and feeling utterly alone in the world, having lost her family and divorced the husband she’d married young. I’m 26 years old and I’ve battled lonesomeness intermittently throughout my life, but more than ever over the past two years. This book, I felt, was written for me.

Of course, every reader feels that way about particular stories. Egotistical, aren’t we? Maybe. Or maybe we readers are bound by some force in the universe to find the authors we do. An energy that draws souls together and makes them feel connected—emotionally, spiritually, beautifully connected—to at least one other human who feels and thinks and experiences life similar to the ways we do.  

Cheryl writes that she always knew deep within her that she was a writer. (“Of all the things I’d done in my life, of all the versions of myself I’d lived out, there was one that had never changed: I was a writer.” p. 188) And at 26, she thought she’d have already published her first book. I’m reluctant to admit that my 20-year-old self also expected I’d have a published book by now. How ignorant, and arrogant. Though for any writer or artist the innate urge to empty yourself of what you presume you have to tell is with you since as far back as you can recall, it’s not until you’ve had the perfect medley of experiences that you can do your story justice and tell it from a knowing perspective. In fact, Wild has just now been published almost 20 years after Cheryl’s summer-long hike.

Beginning her trip, the only knowledge Cheryl had of the Pacific Crest Trail was that which she gained from the trail guidebook that had inspired her idea to hike it. While telling of her encounters on the trail (with people, nature, animals, her own thoughts even), Cheryl reveals significant life events that ultimately led to her journey. Her careful recollections of her mother’s diagnosis, suffering and death so heart-wrenchingly mirrored that of my experiences losing my father that I had flashbacks of my own life while consuming Cheryl’s words about hers. (“Those were the worst days, I believed at the time, and yet the moment she died I’d have given anything to have them back.” p. 100)

Reading the ways Cheryl described her love for her mother and her mother’s love for her, I couldn’t help but sense that their relationship must have been like the one I’d had with my dad. She refers to her mother as having been at the center of her, the way my dad had been for me. (“We were her kids, her comrades, the end of her and the beginning.” p. 13)

Several themes are thread throughout the story. 

  • She repeatedly refers to the aloneness she feels on the trail, her feelings about which fluctuate over time. // “I was alone again, just the trail and me.” (p. 287)
  • She also continuously tells of how she simply had to move herself forward. Turning back was not an option. // “There was nothing to do but go on.” (p. 238)
  • Then there was the presence of her excruciatingly heavy pack, called Monster, which mutilated parts of her body. // “I was amazed that what I needed to survive could be carried on my back. And, most surprising of all, that I could carry it. That I could bear the unbearable.” (p. 92)

While reading it, I felt about the book how I’ve felt before about new romantic relationships. Every hour away was too long. I couldn’t wait to be reunited with Wild each night. I came to the edge of tears several times, but the tears only broke free, rolling down my cheeks while reading about her mother’s horse midway through and then again for the last few pages of the book. As Cheryl recounts how she knew her hike would soon be over, I too realized that it would be, which meant I was almost finished with the story. A story that was now as real to me as my own life. “It was really over, I thought. There was no way to go back, to make it stay.” (p. 307)

I’m gushing with respect and admiration. I’m a better reader, a better writer and a better person for having read this penetrating, liberating, moving story. A brave journey, bravely and perfectly captured on paper.

Bravo, Cheryl Strayed.

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Some delightfully stirring passages.

“I’ve always been someone’s daughter or mother or wife. I’ve never just been me” (273).

“The universe, I’d learned, was never, ever kidding. It would take whatever it wanted and it would never give it back” (209).

“I loved REI more than I loved the people behind Snapple lemonade” (199).

“The amount that she loved us was beyond her reach.” (p. 13)

“We didn’t exchange a word. Not because we felt so alone in our grief, but because we were so together in it, as if we were one body instead of two.” (p. 12) 

“[The Ten Thousand Things] were all the named and unnamed things in the world and together they added up to less than how much my mother loved me.” (p. 303)

“One of the worst things about losing my mother at the age I did was how very much there was to regret. Small things that stung now…” (151).

“Here it could be the fourth of July or the tenth of December. These mountains didn’t count the days” (143).

“It had been so silent in the wake of that commotion, a kind of potent silence that seemed to contain everything” (145).

“The silence was tremendous. The absence felt like a weight. This is what I came for, I thought. This is what I got” (83).

“Alone had always felt like an actual place to me, as if it weren’t a state of being, but rather a room where I could retreat to be who I really was” (119).

“In my perception, the world wasn’t a graph or formula or an equation. It was a story” (141).

“The day we signed our divorce papers, it was April in Minneapolis and snowing, the flakes coming down in thick swirls, enchanting the city” (97).

“Everything I’d ever imagined about myself disappeared into the crack of her last breath” (34).

Be a good kid

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A darling coworker friend of mine graduated from college this past May. I was reminded of this today as I came across a photo on Facebook of her dressed in a graduation cap and gown and her mother standing beside her.

I was the first in my family to become a college student. When I was in school, my dad would tell people about it with unbridled enthusiasm. “Proud” doesn’t even suffice to express how he felt. It was deeply gratifying for him to see the daughter he’d singlehandedly raised become a Minnesota Gopher.

Although I officially finished my bachelor’s degree requirements in summer 2009, I didn’t participate in a commencement ceremony until December that year. I couldn’t have known then that my dad was going to be diagnosed with terminal cancer just three months later.

After the ceremony, I met my dad and my brother in the compact entrance of the University of Minnesota Northrop Auditorium, along with hundreds of other students and families. Crowded spaces and hordes of people make me anxious. When I’m anxious I become crabby.

As we talked in the entrance to Northrop, my dad asked if we could go outside and take photos together. I declined and said I just wanted to get out of there. Seeing in my voice and on my face how irritated I was with the surroundings, he happily led me and my brother out to the car.

We never took a photo of me in my graduation cap and gown and he next to me grinning ear to ear. Although I did have my brother take a photo of me in graduation attire a few days later and frame it for my dad as a Christmas gift (which made him tear up upon opening), it’s just not the same.

When he was diagnosed a few months later, my heart ached with guilt about not letting him take our photo on graduation day. I even cried to him about it and apologized for my behavior. Like a good dad, he told me that it didn’t matter and that he was just happy to see me walk across that stage.

He would have loved that photo. I would have loved that photo. I become teary-eyed just thinking about how if I had that photo it would be sitting on my bookshelves as I write this.

I will never have that photo.

After graduation he’d introduce me to people with a smile. “This is my daughter, Casie,” he’d say. “My college grad.”

Be good to your parents. What may seem trivial in the moment can feel monumental when you look back on it.