Birthday Thoughts

I recently turned the big sixty-five, and there is possibly no other anniversary more important for a resident of the United States. As an official elderly person, I realize I have plenty left to say, but it isn’t “get off my lawn!” or even “today’s music is terrible.” No, there are too many topics of far greater substance. Some of them are personal, some are collective.

My overall sentiment is that I have exceeded my expiration date. There is a certain degree of envy for those who have already passed, and thereby relieved of continued suffering, which includes watching others suffer, species going extinct, the brutality of imperialism, White Christian Nationalism, global capitalism, religious wars and terrorism, and climate change. I would rather not continue bearing witness, thank you.

If I do not find a way out of my current town of residence, surrounded by people mostly older than I am, more sickly, arguably more unhappy, and clinging desperately to “the good old days,” and a culture that no longer serves us well, then I will surely die sooner rather than later. I thrive when surrounded by younger generations with energy and creativity. Few people here have any respect for the natural world.

Turning the magic age of Medicare eligibility is not the reward you might imagine, either. One of the shocking revelations is that Medicare is definitely NOT free healthcare. Parts A and B cost me about $200 per month. Friends have told me that they have that taken out of their Social Security benefits. Because they raised the official retirement age to sixty-seven, I am not yet receiving that income. I would be left with little after the Medicare payment anyway.

Oh, and I still have to find a “Medigap” plan, through a private insurance provider, to cover what Medicare does not. Naturally, that still won’t cover dental, vision, or hearing. I did secure prescription drug coverage, but will I meet the deductible?

What concerns me most is my mental health. At best, I am not nearly as productive as I should be. I loathe writing, now. It isn’t that I don’t have something to say. I simply don’t have the energy and desire to execute the keystrokes to put it down. I may go back to longhand and then transcribe it, like I used to do.

My mental state does not even entertain the idea of engaging with anyone in my community, in person. I see my in-laws on the regular, for dinner out almost every Saturday. I attend meetings or events of the local artist group my partner belongs to, maybe three or four times a year. That’s it, pretty much. Oh, the homecoming game at my partner’s high school.

The most awful notion, right now, is the idea that I need to put my life in danger in defense of vulnerable people, at a time when I am the most vulnerable myself. I’m the physically weakest I have ever been, have even shrunken in stature. I do take long walks regularly, and perform a handful of upper body exercises twice per week, but that is not enough. The rage that once fueled me to protest vigorously, has subsided greatly, though my partner might tell you otherwise. I feel ashamed of my physical cowardice, when I could not be more aligned with those who need protection.

Finances are yet another worry. Overseas travel is highly unlikely. I regret terribly that I did not visit other countries when I was younger. I have been neglectful of too many friends here in the states because I cannot be everywhere at once.

The funny thing is, I can easily envision a better world for everyone, for every species, in fact. It involves the abandonment of global capitalism, corporate control of infrastructure, pursuit of continued colonialism and empire, and instead embracing a borderless landscape. We need a “ruralopolis,” a seamless network of smaller cities, with agricultural corridors in an otherwise sparsely developed environment. International commerce would be a rare, but guaranteed treat. Currency would be something nearly intangible, almost unnecessary. We would reach consensus quickly concerning what we truly need and want. Most of those items would not be products.

Am I optimistic? No, not currently, but apparently I do have hope, and that vision, to keep me going. I do, after all, want to live long enough to see the Indigenous take back control of what is rightfully theirs.

State of Myself Address

I know better than to use a search engine to clarify my mental state, but of course I did. I don’t believe that my condition is dire, but I am a bit concerned. At risk of oversharing, I am putting forth an analysis of my current state. This is not to extort sympathy, or solicit advice, but hopefully evoke a sense of solidarity.

I did muster some enthusiasm today for a live interview with an NPR program and podcast in Utah, This Green Earth, talking about wasps.

Let me say up front that this is all on me. I own it. Neither you, nor anyone else who knows me, nor any institution, is responsible for my lack of will to do actions necessary to make myself feel better, and/or engage in acts to counter what is happening in our society at large. It is unclear to me, in fact, whether this is a permanent change to my character, or a period of dormancy before I become an ally and agitator again.

According to that search engine that begins with the letter “G,” I may have “passive suicidal ideation.” It is true that some days, or even fleeting moments on an otherwise “good” day, I experience the sentiment of not wanting to live, but not wanting to die, either. I am not, however, having thoughts of self-harm. I simply do not desire to exist, and I can tell you exactly why.

The major reason for my malaise is that I am tired of seeing other people, other species, and the planet itself, suffer at the hands of powerful, cruel, and ignorant human beings. I am utterly fatigued by what I am witnessing. I am also paralyzed with fear that my assets, or even my identity, will be seized at some point, leaving myself and my partner in poverty, prison, or worse. I am normally rather generous and charitable. No more. Not since personal data has been compromised.

Furthermore, advances in technology have eroded my motivation to create, to educate, and advocate. My work is but a drop of genuine humanity in a sea of AI imposters. I still have plenty to say, but no impetus or energy to put it on paper or online. Everything has ground to a halt.

While I consider myself an introvert, I am now bordering on being a recluse. I rarely go out in public, and almost never engage with strangers. I am living in a town where I have zero interest in getting to know anyone else. This is ironic, because I recall that when I moved to Tucson, Arizona at the beginning of the 2000s, it became obvious to me that most people there, while friendly enough, already had their circle of friends, and were not interested in expanding it. I now think this is the norm for any town that is essentially a retirement community.

I vowed to never be one of those people who would shut themselves off from new relationships, but I understand now. You can only trust the friends you already have. Mine live nowhere near me. I have close friends all over the world, some of whom I know only through social media and/or who are colleagues in entomology and natural history. It is painful to know I may never meet them, or see them again.

Physically, I have lost nearly ten pounds in the last two or three months, and I have not been trying. I do not think I am eating less, to any obvious degree, anyway. I try to walk regularly, but the weather has been rainy and, when dry, quite windy. Seasonal allergies to grass pollen make outdoor activities a miserable prospect currently. There are really no truly wild places anywhere within walking distance of our house, anyway.

The distrust I have for other people now unfortunately extends to therapists, psychologists, and others who could “help” me out of my funk. I am not even sure if my health plan covers that anyway, or what the copay would be. On the bright side, I no longer drink alcohol (last time was October 7, 2024), and have never used drugs. Still too much caffeine, perhaps, and sugar and fats, but those are still sources of happiness, along with sleep, blissful sleep. I live for those pleasures, my partner, and the Facebook reels of Taylor Tomlinson and Elle Cordova. That’s about it.

Hey, I didn’t promise I would have answers on how to cope. Rest assured, if I do find a way out, I will share that, too. Please be safe, friends.

"Life Isn't Fair"

How do you feel when someone utters that phrase? Do you ever find yourself saying that? There is something about this simplistic statement that sticks in my craw, and maybe yours, too.

© Harvard Medicine Magazine

I put “life isn’t fair” into the same category as “thoughts and prayers.” It sounds dismissive, even if it is not intended that way. Such phrases are excuses for avoiding taking the energy and responsibility for tangible action to resolve the problem, tragedy, or injustice.

”Life isn’t fair” suggests that you accept this as a given fact of life, and that we should, also, so that we can “move on,” or “have closure,” or whatever else puts the ordeal out of your sight and out of your mind, as quickly as possible. It is about preserving your comfort.

In your defense, maybe dismissive language protects you from snowballing into anxiety and depression yourself, if you tend to dwell on the profound misery that so many people experience daily. Empaths are easily overwhelmed, I imagine, and self-care may demand keeping the problems of others at arm’s length.

Still, “life isn’t fair” is a statement that mostly discloses your privilege and entitlement because it reveals a situation or condition you rarely, if ever, face yourself, such as poverty, a shooting at a public school, or flooding from a hurricane because you have always been able to afford the higher ground. ”Get over it.” That might as well be what you exclaim, because those are the next logical words after “life isn’t fair.” Are you uncomfortable yet?

I have concluded that the sole purpose (and soul purpose) for my own existence is to make life more fair. I think that I have always believed that every species has a right to exist, whether it provides a direct service to humanity as a whole, or not. Other organisms are an endless source of wonder, fascination, and reverence for countless individual people, and that’s enough for me, enough for me to go on living, in fact.

It is only rather recently that I have come to see the depths of fear and loathing that we direct towards some members of our own species. We treat many artificial subsets of humanity worse than mammal vermin and insect pests. We call “those people” minorities, immigrants, and LGBTQ. An acronym, for God’s sake. That is what we are comfortable reducing human souls to.

Global humanity continues to persist, to operate semi-functionally, not because of government operations, nor economic cohesiveness, nor shared religious beliefs, but mostly despite those institutions. Some extremist politicians are wanting to write legislation further stripping basic rights from the most vulnerable of the world’s citizens. They are wanting life to be less fair for everyone but themselves.

By sheer coincidence, as I was writing this, a friend posted a meme on social media that listed other examples of “toxic positivity.” Most memes are overly simplistic, have a negative or even destructive agenda, are unhelpful, or outright wrong. To their credit, the creator of this meme matched common, dismissive phrases with more constructive and empathetic suggestions.

Toxic positivity is really a form of bullying, or at least condescension. It belittles genuine, appropriate emotions, and punishes vulnerability. It refuses to recognize suffering, let alone address it in any meaningful way. There is a reason we are able to cry, to experience emotional lows. It is not for the sake of comparing one degree of pain with another. It is not an opportunity to invoke your religious definition of God, and how He will provide. Sometimes the reason bad things happen is because bad people and bad socio-political institutions inflict trauma. Don’t add to it.

Toleration is not enough. Accept people’s ability to grieve, to cry, frown, or otherwise express difficult emotions. Reward it, in fact. Tell them you see them, seek to understand the depth of their situation, and simply be present for them. Ask if you can do anything beyond that. Check in again later.

If you are feeling extra-brave, start advocating for mental health. Help end the stigma surrounding depression and related illnesses. Stand up to toxic positivity, stoicism, and false bravado. We can build a better society if we stop saying “life isn’t fair.”

Please Don't Paint Me

The dead, but still stately, cottonwood tree in the image above is located in Leavenworth Landing Park, along the banks of the Missouri River in Leavenworth, Kansas, USA. The snag is slated to be painted blue as part of a global project related to promoting awareness of mental health issues. While this is a noble cause, the side effects of landscape art installations like this should give us pause.

The Blue Tree Project has its roots in the tragic story of Australian Jayden Whyte, whose suicide at age twenty-nine gripped headlines in 2018. During the eulogy at Whyte’s funeral, his best friend related the story of how Jayden had pranked his father by painting one of the trees on the family farm blue. That became the inspiration to paint trees elsewhere as a reminder to check on the mental wellbeing of loved ones, and foster a greater awareness of issues surrounding mental health.

There are now numerous painted trees, and other objects, throughout the world, on every continent except Antarctica. There are currently 1,138 trees registered by Blue Tree Project, mostly in Australia.

Some communities have taken to erecting facsimile trees instead of painting actual trees. One of the more innovative examples is a tree of fifteen basketball hoops. Unfortunately, the website for Blue Tree Project does not indicate where these artificial trees are located, nor how they were constructed.

While this endeavor is meant to send a specific, clearly posted message, what else is implied by turning trees into artistic and/or humanitarian vehicles? One message is that it is permissible to deface a natural object, at least if you have an important agenda. This is vandalism in any other context. We are also saying that nature is something that can only be improved upon by the hand of man. Natural landscapes, and the living things within them, must serve some kind of utilitarian value in order to justify their existence, even if that means reducing them to a “canvas” for artistic expression. This is not ok.

The Blue Trees (plural) is a landscape installation project by artist Konstantin Dimopoulos, designed in part to evoke thoughts about “ecological issues, such as the ecocide of our forests and climate change, and….raising our social consciousness referencing how individually and collectively we shape the world we inhabit.” His exhibitions involve painting the trunks of entire groves of trees a deep blue color.

The pinnacle of artistic hubris may be demonstrated by Christo and Jeanne-Claude. Their landscape-level work was temporary, and performed mostly in urban areas, wrapping buildings or monuments in fabric, usurping the profile and work of the original architects. They prided themselves on avoiding “deserted places,” focusing on “….sites already prepared and used by people, managed by human beings for human beings.” This did include vast rural expanses, though, featuring fabric fences, fabric “gates,” curtains, and other potential impediments to the normal traffic of wildlife, and obscuring scenic vistas. In Surrounded Islands, they draped a hot pink fabric skirt on the surface of the water around eleven separate islands (two were surrounded together). Who knows how marine life was affected.

Where does art cross the line into damage? Who gets the authority to decide? Do we give enough critical thought to these questions? Ideally, artistic license should not trespass on the works of the Creator, if one believes in such an entity. We should not allow historical precedent to dictate the path forward, either.

There are strong and valid arguments to support the fact that Mount Rushmore defaced a mountain held sacred by Indigenous Americans. Stone Mountain in Georgia features the carved depiction of three prominent figures of the Confederacy from the Civil War. The monument glorifies White supremacy, and overwhelms the stories of the Black people who once lived and worked there, and who still reside in local communities. It also defaces a natural landscape feature that figured prominently in Indigenous occupation of the region.

Don’t get me wrong. Art can be a powerful stimulus for positive social and cultural change. It need not be permanent nor massive in scale. I do wonder, though, what will happen when that old dead cottonwood at last falls into the river, as erosion is inevitable. Will the paint contaminate the water, or negatively affect aquatic life? Will another tree be painted to replace it?

Sources: Dimopoulos, Konstantin. 2024. “About the Blue Trees,” Kondimopoulos.
Meachim, Laura. 2019. “Blue Tree Project tackles mental health and suicide in regional Australia,” ABC News, September 30, 2019.
Powers, Benjamin. 2018. “In the Shadow of Stone Mountain,” Smithsonian Magazine.
Spellman, Rebecca. 2020. “Harrowing story behind a solitary blue tree in drought-stricken land takes a sinister turn as it’s found burned to the ground,” Daily Mail, February 17, 2020.
”Most Common Errors,”Christo and Jeanne-Claude.

I Want My Old Friends Back

Happier times, on a visit to Tucson

It dawned on me the other night, right before falling asleep, that what I want is to have my friends back. My partner will read this, and believe it is her fault. My in-laws may think they are to blame. No one is guilty except, perhaps, myself, for not anticipating the loneliness I would feel after moving to a new town. Two-and-a-half years in, and I am still grieving. I truly am misplaced here.

My partner and I agreed to come to Leavenworth, Kansas, to spend quality time with her parents, while they are still healthy, and relatively young. We have dinner out with them, at local restaurants, almost every Saturday night. I’m happy to do that, though the conversations typically cover the funeral(s) of the week, and news of people Heidi may know from her childhood, but no one I have any connection to. I’m used to talking about broader topics, society at large. I rarely do that now because of differences in ideology.

Let me emphasize that I like my in-laws, and most of the extended family of my partner. The problem is that this is my entire universe now. We get back to Colorado once per year. I think it has been close to a decade since we last visited Cincinnati. We both have friends strung out around the globe, some of whom we only know through social media, but are anxious to meet IRL (in real life).

Funny, as an only child many friends in my youth were adults. Now that I am an adult, or at least pretending to be one, I find the need to be surrounded by young people, to keep up my energy and enthusiasm for life. Colorado was a perfect mix of both youth and age. Everyone is physically fit, highly engaged in community affairs and in national and international issues.

Leavenworth, by comparison, appears at least on the surface to skew heavily geriatric. Many people are overweight or otherwise unhealthy, and you seldom see smiles. There are children and teens, of course, but I rarely encounter them. The twenty-somethings I see are wait staff at the restaurants. Fort Leavenworth fairs better, and despite the military affiliation, I have met some nice families there thanks to a couple of events I’ve participated in. You need passes to get on post as a civilian, though, and it is not a daily or even weekly proposition.

All this is to say that I am not incentivized to cultivate new friends here. I am simply not interested. It would take energy I do not have because I am deflated by where I find myself. It is a perfect circular storm of sadness feeding itself.

I want my old friends back. They gave my life purpose that I am lacking now, and I fed off the energy they have. I learned things from them. I helped teach them in return. We shared both optimism and pessimism for the collective future. We made each other laugh.

Practically the only thing holding myself together is an obsession and compulsion to document all the animal species I can find on our modest little property. It is enough of a healthy distraction to keep me away from potentially self-destructive impulses.

In the cold months I struggle constantly. I have lost nearly all my creative energy, and seldom write. It is not that I have nothing to write about, but I am unmotivated to do the exercise of pressing the buttons on the keyboard. Translating thoughts to actions is too daunting.

I believe advice is unhelpful. My situation is something I will have to solve myself. Maybe I’ll need to spend a year somewhere else, on my own. Who knows? I only hope that I recognize the solution once it presents itself.

Farewells and Goodbyes

This has been a hard week emotionally. I just returned from a memorial service where I said a permanent goodbye to a sixteen year-old student and friend who I knew for all too short a duration. Earlier in the week I said a (hopefully) temporary farewell to another young lady I have grown fond of and learned so much from. The grief and sadness is a little easier the older I get because I have learned to accept the choices of others, even when that means I am deprived of their regular company.

‑--------------------

Myself, Kaya, and Heidi

Kaya came to one of the Mile High Bug Club events at Cheyenne Mountain State Park about three years ago. She got my attention immediately because she had driven down from beyond the Denver area just to hang out with a bunch of "bug nerds" and look at moths and other insects drawn to the blacklights during the night.

As we got to talking, I learned that she, too, is an only child, with divorced parents, and eclectic interests. The more I got to know her over the years the more in awe I became of her intellect, adventurous spirit, and easy-going nature. She will be on to a new job now, in a far-off city, but I look forward to staying connected, and seeing her again someday should we agree on a place to seek new and fascinating insects.

It occurs to me that while I have genuine affection for Kaya, she embodies qualities I wish I had when I was her age: confidence, mostly, but an even richer analytical mind, a fearless approach to new experiences, trust in others, endless curiosity, and a sense of freedom. Yes, that romantic notion of just going wherever your heart and soul take you. Dream on, live fully, my friend.

‑--------------------

My late friend Erin

I met Erin Starkey, her brother Brad, and their mother in August of 2012 when we both turned out for a gathering of entomologists and insect photographers at a research station in southern Arizona. Imagine the surprise and delight to learn that we all lived in Colorado Springs. We got together again a handful of times, once for Erin's birthday if I recall correctly, and I shared books and insect specimens with her. I saw her last on my own birthday, last January.

Little did I know that she was equally enamored with all animal life, rabbits especially, and was a volunteer with our local Humane Society. I had no idea she was also artistically inclined, with a talent for songwriting, acting and directing, drawing, even animation. She was incredibly empathetic to the poverty-stricken, volunteering at shelters and soup-kitchens.

Unfortunately, I also did not know that she suffered from mental illness, and the spirit-sapping lows that come with that. On September 5, the heaviness got too much to bear and she took her life.

‑--------------------

She wasn't wanting to leave us, of course, she was attempting to leave herself. At least that part of herself that conjured demons of emotional misery, dominating every part of her psyche. As if that dimension of your soul could be shed like a snakeskin, killed with the equivalent of a silver bullet....but it always takes everything else down with it. Some people try and wash that part of their mind away by drinking. Others smoke, snort, shoot up, or otherwise exorcise one dragon with another. Some people try and outrun their own ominous shadow by literally running away.

The empty, unsatisfying, and self-destructive remedies abound, all of them equally useless, a mere temporary fix that might get you to tomorrow, but still leave you with no future visible to you on your horizon. You have choices only in what Devils to bargain with, what form of suffering is the least painful.

"You could choose to be happy if you wanted to..."

No, that is not how depression works. That is not how anxiety works. That is not how obsessive-compulsive works. That's not how any of this works. As long as you insist that it is "all in your mind," or imply that one has control over their state of mind, you are doing a horrible disservice to those cursed with mental illness. Stop being so damn condescending and free your own mind to contemplate the possibility that others can be "wired" differently than you, you healthy, sunshiny son-of-a-....

Listen, we all have our deficits, our ills, our weaknesses, our genetic uniqueness. I guarantee that you know people with mental illness whether you are cognizant or not. The manifestation of madness is not always what we have been taught that it is. Your job is not to assume, not to dismiss, not to pity, not to stigmatize, but merely empathize.

In Praise of Vacant Land

Growing up in Portland, Oregon in the 1960s and 1970s, I spent my lonely childhood exploring the forests, fields, and vacant lots around our neighborhood. Maybe it was the time period, maybe it was the culture, but I was allowed to roam freely for the most part. Not today. Our vacant parcels of land, whatever their size, have gone from implicit invitations to traverse them to extreme possessiveness and a clearly uninviting nature full of fences and other explicit boundaries and "no tresspassing" postings. I long for the good ol' days.

It would be an interesting exercise to plot a timeline of American land use over the centuries, from the frontier to current efforts to shrink public lands. Some things stand out from my own education, both formal and subsequently informed by "alternative media." We clearly usurped indigenous peoples in our effort to conquer the wild landscape and settle what were apparently chaotic ecosystems prior to our arrival as European colonists. Resource extraction went from individual mining claims during the Gold Rush to mountaintop removal for coal, to fracking done by faceless corporations. We tamed forests through logging and fire suppression.

If you believe that to have value, a given parcel of land must provide an economic return, then you are starting with the wrong premise.

Eventually, individuals with great foresight and appreciation of wilderness brought us the concept of parks, wildlife refuges, and roadless wilderness. Then came Aldo Leopold's land ethic, and Garrett Hardin's The Tragedy of the Commons. Our population boomed in post war celebration, and prosperity seemed boundless. The interstate highway system replaced the railroad as the way to move freely about the country, unfettered by fears of peak oil. Everyone could have everything, including their own piece of real estate. We could feed ourselves, recreate, work, and live, all in different locations. Sprawl was not the name for subdivisions back then.

Where once land was appreciated on several levels, today there is but one consideration: financial gain. If you believe that to have value, a given parcel of land must provide an economic return, then you are starting with the wrong premise. Land already has value as the ecosystem engine that keeps us breathing, keeps us grounded, keeps our minds resilient and stokes our creativity, awe, and curiosity. The idea that human activities enhance the value of land is a corruption of economics that ignores biology. I have personally never seen a natural landscape improved by the addition of a strip mall or suburban housing project. Indeed, such projects diminish the value of land at best.

Undeveloped acreage is protected the way ranchers protect their cattle before they take them to the slaughterhouse. The average lot is merely reserved for something "better" at some future date.

Today, the vacant lands of my youth are protected from children, and all other innocent and worthwhile interests. Undeveloped acreage is protected the way ranchers protect their cattle before they take them to the slaughterhouse. The average lot is merely reserved for something "better" at some future date. I ask what could be better than wildflowers, the hum of bees and songs of birds? What could be better than an unofficial playground for our wonderfully wild, exuberant children? I never got curious about illicit drugs because I was curious about insects and reptiles and other wildlife. I was able to satisfy my inquisitive nature precisely because I had places I could go, safe or not, where I could find and observe other organisms. This is saying something considering that I am an only child who was raised mostly by an overprotective single mother.

Vacant lots are only as much of a blight as we allow them to be, at least in urban settings. Why not take that weedy block and turn it into a butterfly and bird garden, or even a community garden that feeds people as well as wild things? Grow something other than another concrete and steel building. Density and infill are not dirty words. Apply them humanely and shrink your city's sprawl. Leave the larger pieces alone or manage them for all the biological services they provide us. Leave them for the kids.

Mandatory Meditation?

© The New York Times, nytimes.com

I recently posed a question to my friends in social media who are gun advocates, for lack of a better term. I asked what they were so afraid of. The overwhelming response was to avoid answering directly. Instead they offered the usual arguments for their position. One even suggested that there should be mandatory gun safety courses in middle school and/or high school, I cannot recall which. That met with some sharp replies and "wow" emojis. It got me thinking, though, about what else we might want to become mandatory in our society.

How about mandatory meditation? We need mindfulness more than ever now. Desperately, in fact. The ultimate in being proactive is not learning how to use a gun, it is learning how never to need one. Maybe we should be required to learn meditation, and to exercise it before we shoot off anything, from our mouths to our magnum .44s. I myself am not entirely sure what constitutes meditation. I know there are many different styles, some related to religions, others that are independent of any dogma, but I am embarrassed that I have not sought to learn more. It is unfortunate that meditation is something of a casualty of dismissing the "New Age" movement. Meditation is not a fad, nor a dinosaur. It is a life skill, emphasis on "life."

The point is that we are all too well-prepared to be violent. No one is prepared to be peaceful.

What is that long-standing joke? "I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out." How wonderful it would be if, metaphorically speaking, we went to a mass shooting and a yoga convention spontaneously occurred. Collectively, we have a profound disconnect between our minds and our bodies. We are over-stimulated and on edge almost every waking hour. Then we cannot get to sleep. Advertising has become a substitute for education, and so we believe that exercise must be vigorous, even violent like boxing, and can be accomplished in as little as what, fifteen minutes? We do workouts. We should be doing peace-ins.

"Did he say mandatory medication?" No, but we pretty much have that already, and it is both a blessing and a curse. Pharmaceutical companies are rich enough as it is, thank you, and the side effects of the drugs they are turning out are no doubt underplayed. Perhaps mandatory marijuana would be worth considering, though, to mellow everybody out. Here in Colorado we have decriminalized both medical and recreational use. We are still working out the kinks, but if it ever loses its stigma entirely, I like our chances of being a more peaceful community.

There are lots of things beginning with the letter "m" that might be nice if they were mandatory. Mandatory mediation is a cornerstone of the discipline known as restorative justice. It certainly de-escalates matters, and is arguably more effective in conflict resolution than traditional paths of legal recourse.

Mandatory music? Here is a facet of our school curricula that is often the first to be sacrificed as unnecessary, an "elective" and a frivolous use of our taxpayer dollars. Really? When was the last time you saw an angry, stressed-out musician? What about a hostile mob surrounding a solo musician in the subway station, at a bus stop, or on a public square? Music is energizing in a positive way, stress-relieving, and emotionally moving when it is at its best.

"Did he say mandatory masturbation?" No, but that does seem to help keep the peace in societies of Bonobos, formerly known as Pygmy Chimpanzees, our closest living relative. They are quite literally lovers, not fighters, from what I can gather, and worthy role models for the rest of us Great Apes. There should be no shame in any non-violent behavior that is consensual, self-gratifying, or calming, be it a nap or self-pleasuring.

Homo sapiens, it can be argued, is a violent species because we do not practice peace and love. Again, we allow greeting card companies, candy manufacturers, and florists to educate us about what love is. It is none of that. Peace does not come from any commercial outlet. No weapon is a "Peacemaker," not even the Colt Single Action Army revolver of the old wild west.

The point is that we are all too well-prepared to be violent. No one is prepared to be peaceful. Mastery of weapons is a "death skill," not a life skill. How we define preparedness has to change if we want fewer incidents of mass carnage, if we want the very fabric of civilization to remain intact.

Dieting and Other Punishments

© HealthPartners.com

I am privileged to have many friends, both in real life and through social media. One of the recurring themes I see, especially among female friends, is dieting and weight loss. Some are able to handle this aspect of their lives in a healthy fashion, and others struggle. Personally, I think it is a shame on our society that we put women in a position where they self-reflect in anything but a positive way. Meanwhile, overeating, binge eating, and other eating disorders are usually the outcome of stressors that we have to identify and address.

One of the smartest quips ever uttered in the weight loss industry was made by Richard Simmons. No, really. One of his most famous sayings is "It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you." Look at our "coping skills" in the United States: eating, smoking, drinking alcohol, drug use, gambling, pornography, excessive exercise, and other addictions. It becomes a never-ending cycle of stress, addiction, and rehab. We need to cure the stressors, but that is not going to happen in our current capitalist economic model.

Combating stress in any meaningful way is problematic if you look at it only from a profit-making perspective. Stress is difficult to define, and we tend to frown on the idea of leaving your job, your spouse, or abandoning your children, to name but a few triggers. Stress is subjective, and not outwardly obvious. The effects of stress are obvious, and so we market solutions to the symptoms rather than the cause. A vacation is surely the best prescription, and we will even float you a bank loan or credit to make it happen. Vitamins and supplements and energy drinks will help you get through your day. Treat yourself to that pizza, bacon cheeseburger, ice cream dessert, or other favorite comfort food. You get the picture, but this is where the treadmill starts.

Oops, overdid it with the food? Try [insert any commercial diet plan here] to get back to normal. This "solution" only adds another degree of stress, and so it is no wonder that diets fail. Maybe we start drinking now, too.

The idea of "cheating" on a diet is also harmful. It implies wrongdoing and initiates feelings of guilt and shame, which add to stress and reinforce a poor sense of self-esteem; which makes one more likely to "cheat" again, and so on and so forth. This is not the same thing as cheating on a spouse or significant other, or cheating on a test, or breaking any kind of vow or law, yet how many of those on a diet equate it with such? Baloney. Forgive yourself, if there is even anything to be forgiven for.

As long as money is to be made from treating the symptoms of stress, the diet, cosmetics, and personal finance industries are going to keep peddling destructive "solutions" instead of devoting resources to get to the roots of it all. Our personal goals should be to resist not the temptations of the marketplace, but the personal behaviors and situations that lead to stress. We don't need punishments for negative coping mechanisms, we need alternatives to those bad habits.

We also need to alleviate stress to begin with. Maybe that means limiting your time with family over the holidays. Maybe that does mean taking time off from your workplace. Maybe it means going off of social media if the feedback you are getting from sharing your struggles is anything but supportive and understanding. If we do these things, then the impulse to overindulge in anything harmful will ebb, at least a little bit.

So, how do I cope in healthy ways? I make sure I get outside and take at least a 30-minute walk every day, weather-permitting. I take breaks to watch the odd "guilty pleasure" television show. I should read more, a lot more, and it is one of my goals to make that a higher priority. I draw, and I write, and I take photographs, for pleasure as well as part of my income. Am I successful one hundred percent of the time? No, of course not. Probably not even 70% lately, but I forgive myself for that.

Please share your own secrets for stress-relief success in the comments. We need to encourage each other more than ever.

An Hourglass of Inheritance and Insanity

© YoungLifePerception.Wordpress.com

John Lennon forgot to "Imagine" one crucial scenario in his classic song of that title. "Imagine there's no money" would be the lyric I would add. That unnatural resource of currency is perhaps the one thing that rules all of our so-called civilized behavior as a species. That and sex, of course. I know that my life would be a lot less complicated if money were not an issue, and recently it became an even more stressful complication in the care of my aging father.

The facility where my father currently resides has petitioned the court to appoint a "guardian ad litem" to take over all of my father's decision-making capabilities. A guardian ad litem is most often appointed in cases of child custody disputes, abuse, or neglect, the guardian being a supposedly unbiased party advocating solely for the child or other person who is incapable of fully defending themselves. I learned of this when I received a copy of the papers in the mail from the petitioner's attorney. No phone call, no interaction, just straight to a judge.

Furthermore, statements in the documents assert things that I never said, judgments I never made, and describe all of this in language that I could interpret as libelous, defamatory, and slanderous. If the retirement home my father is residing in treats next-of-kin like this, no wonder he is unhappy.

This legal action probably stems from an incident in which my father became combative, and could be construed as endangering himself as well as the welfare of others in the building. My father is a chronic alcoholic. He drinks when he is depressed, bored, and otherwise unhappy; and he either has not availed himself of recreational programs at the facility, or there are none that he is interested in, or both. He repeatedly expresses his desire to be done with life. He never fully recovered from the passing of his second wife (my stepmother) several years ago. While his emotional state continues to deteriorate, his cognitive abilities remain intact, which is why this legal action is all the more revolting.

Meanwhile, I am not in a personal financial position to take any action myself. In fact, I have no potential income on my immediate horizon. My major client employs me mostly from late spring through early fall. Yes, I do have some hesitation to visit my father for the same reasons the retirement home finds him to be a handful. He is hard of hearing, and prone to temperamental outbursts. Still, the overriding reason I do not visit is because I cannot afford the airfare. I am an only child, so I also do not have sibling help. My cousin, who does live closer, has understandably reached wit's end, and he also has his own family, and a business, to look out for.

I received the court documents late on a Friday, naturally, so contacted the attorney for my father's estate via e-mail the following Monday. The attorney is the kind of guy that makes you think twice about telling a lawyer joke. He is kind, understanding, thoughtful, and expensive. Retaining him in this matter would bankrupt me in a matter of days. I told him as much, politely. His response was that his firm's fees would come from my father's estate since this issue pertains directly to his estate.

Here is the thing. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I was rather looking forward to a bit of inheritance from my father, to ease my own financial burdens in the future. I have concluded that I will be damn lucky if the whole thing doesn't get burned up in efforts to protect that inheritance. Forget the "death tax," attorney fees and other expenses will take a greater, ongoing toll. Heck, the retirement home appears to want to get as much as they can out of him right now.

Everybody wants their cut. The yacht club got a sizeable chunk out of him to build a new bar. How appropriate. Given that the yacht club has been one of the communities my father truly has felt comfortable in, I don't object to his donation, honest. Still, the sands of money and time in the hourglass steadily slip away.

It is all I can do some days, probably like my father, to just get through, accomplish something of worth, and steel myself for the next day. My father and I are a lot alike, it occurs to me, in our isolation, our internal demons, our addictions, and our struggle not to have a bleak outlook on the future, both personally and for the world at large. At least I have my words, and expressing my mounting frustrations, dwindling hopes, and raw emotions does help. One of those hopes? That this kind of thing is never visited on you.

Can You Live Too Long?

© Shutterstock.com

Earlier this week my father turned ninety-two. At least, we're pretty sure, when you get over ninety it is easy to lose track. There was really no celebrating, at least not with me here in Colorado and him in Washington state. It got me thinking again about whether an extended lifespan is really a good thing.

Almost a year ago now, my father sold his house and went into an assisted living facility, initially in the most independent wing. One broken hip later and he was forced into a more "managed care" wing that took away his independence. He hasn't been the same since. He had fallen in the parking garage while trying to get into his vehicle to go renew his driver's license. The outcome of having him off the road is probably a good thing, but I wouldn't tell him that. He has always been an excellent driver, but at his advanced age, anybody is going to be slower to react to traffic situations.

Dad calls his new home "assisted dying," and I find it hard to argue with that. In their defense, such facilities cannot do much for someone in relatively good health, but with reduced mobility. The best they can do is wake me up at one in the morning to tell me he has fallen again, and refuses to go to the hospital. I'm not at my most reasonable at that hour, and if he is lucid enough to comply with response protocol, then he can make his own damn decisions as far as I'm concerned. He's paying seven grand a month to live there, he ought to have some say in his care. That reminds me, I need to get a better itemized account from them.

Truth be told, my father's welfare began to decline after his second wife passed away, rapidly, from cancer, in July, 2006. Like me, he has never been that successful when left to his own devices. Our genetics have probably managed to get us this far in spite of our lifestyle. My father's coping mechanisms have always been anger and alcohol, and I have had to unlearn a good deal in order to get through my own days, and become the most minimally desirable spouse. At least I can articulate my emotions most of the time, something his generation never learned to do.

Ironically, our phone conversations are much more peaceful now. This is mostly due to his difficulty in hearing and, even more to the point, his resignation. He tells me not to worry, he has had a good life, and he is happy to go to sleep permanently whenever that happens. We still worry he might try and hasten that final goodbye, so his firearm is safely locked away; and we do what we can to prevent enablers from furnishing alcohol, though that has been impossible so far.

My father's business, for most of the time I was part of his life, was making custom jewelry, and I can say without bias that his designs were ahead of their time, exquisite in attention to detail, and worthy of every penny he charged for his creations. His skill extended to woodworking and model-building, too. Unfortunately, his current accommodations do not provide ample room to execute anything artistic, and it is probably best that he does not have access to sharp objects anyway. What is left, then? He has no interest in computers or the internet, like many of his era, and in some ways I envy that; but it means that he has fewer things to distract himself from tedium.

At his age, my father really has seen it all, or at least all that he wants to, and I find it excruciating that there is no socially acceptable exit for folks who have no joy in living this long. I would think that by ninety or so you would have earned the right to decide when you have had enough. Heck, here I am at over fifty-five, and I am already not liking what is on my horizon. All the benefits one has traditionally gotten as they age are either being taken away, or the age limit increased, forever putting senior discounts and other privileges just beyond one's reach. For shame! Where are my incentives to go on living?

I do hope that my father passes peacefully, without undo pain and suffering, even if he inflicted that on my mother, and myself in my childhood. I've no more animosity towards him, though I still have my truths about him, many of which are not pleasant. As a culture, though, we have a long way to go to make life worth living for our elderly. They are more than a revenue stream for care facilities, for pharmaceutical companies, and investment firms. They are living history, tangible wisdom, and our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. They deserve better.

Gratitude

I struggle with gratitude. It should not be a problem. There are plenty of friends and strangers who suffer more and never complain. In fact, they often offer words of gratitude in place of sharing their misery. Bear with me if you will, though, as there are reasons gratitude is difficult for many people to express.

Those who express frustration and despair at their financial, social, or physical circumstances are often shamed for it. Constructive criticism, if even warranted, has been replaced with indignation and hateful remarks. Civility is no longer the order of the day. Even well-meaning friends often couch their sympathy in religious, condescending tones that still imply that you more or less get what you deserve. If only you were more grateful, more positive, or more....something other than who you are, you would be happy as you are.

All of us are constantly bombarded with examples of material comfort and excess by the news and entertainment media, as well as advertising aimed at ever-wealthier consumers. We invariably either allow ourselves to be persuaded that material wealth is something we should aspire to, or we become despondent over our realization that we are in debt for things we already have. We compare ourselves to others and become depressed over our "failure" to provide for ourselves. It does not matter how unrealistic our views of ourselves and others, it is a nearly automatic response. Our work ethic erodes as we see ourselves as devalued, or at least undervalued, cogs in a machine that makes other people comfortable.

Meanwhile, we are still cognizant of friends and strangers who are worse off. The Facebook couple who were in a wreck that totaled their vehicle. The friend on Twitter fighting cancer with physical, mental, and emotional strength you cannot comprehend. The town erased by a tornado that you saw on the evening news. "Minorities" who struggle daily against intense public hatred, bigotry and discrimination based on attributes determined by genetics. You are grateful for your White privilege, your gender privilege, your "normal" lifestyle, but also ashamed you have not done more with it. Gratitude for your own condition seems somehow empty or false in the face of that.

A good many people were raised with the idea that one should suffer in silence, that it is not your place to disclose "personal" trials and tragedies. Exposing your vulnerabilities was inviting someone to take advantage of your condition. It was also considered poor taste to flaunt your good fortune. Modesty and humility were virtues that garnered respect. How times have changed. It is important to share emotions, even negative ones, because it helps ease stress and also opens the doors to treatment for depression and other psychological illnesses. You cannot receive professional help if no one knows you need it and you won't admit it. Unfortunately, we no longer have the same sentiments toward snobbery and irresponsible affluence as we did back in the day.

Personally, I have no desire for wealth. I would rather have fewer material possessions, in fact. Were I to want to become wealthier, it would be to help others a lot less fortunate. It pains me at least as much to be unable to donate to causes I believe in as it does to be scraping the bottom of my bank account to meet my own financial obligations. I do wish my wife and I could travel more, learning more about other cultures, other nations, other organisms we share the planet with. That is what life should be about, rather than status and luxury.

I will be the first to admit that I need to express gratitude more often, but you cannot coerce someone into gratitude. One way I am guaranteed to remember and express my "blessings" is when I see someone else setting the example by sharing what they are grateful for. Leading by example, being the change you wish to see in the world. Those credos are popular and longstanding for a reason.

Suicide Prevention Month

September has been National Suicide Prevention Month. That seems like a great idea; so why am I struggling with the concept? Between friends, families of friends, and friends of friends, I have entirely too much personal experience with suicide and would not wish to visit that kind of ordeal on my worst enemy. Still, the idea of depriving an individual of death on their terms seems equally wrong.

© SPRC.org

Looking at our society's schizophrenic approach to dealing with suicide, I can see I am not alone in my ambivalence. This November there will be a ballot issue (Proposition 106- "End of Life Options Act") seeking the legalization of physician-assisted suicide here in Colorado. Citizens in my home state of Oregon have had this legal recourse for some time already. At the same time, suicide is generally regarded as the "coward's way out," an ultimate sin just this side of murder. Why the polar opposite opinions?

I think we tend to draw the line based on what we interpret to be the intent of the victim in carrying out their lethal measures. Did the person do this to end their own suffering? If so, while tragic, we can comprehend it to a degree at least. If not, then we view suicide as punishment for those left behind, abandoned literally or figuratively. Few, if any, decisions we make impact only ourselves. Life-altering and life-ending rationales obviously stress a great many others.

It is only natural to feel conflicted on this issue. We are by nature selfish organisms. We want our loved ones and friends around for as long as we are, to give us comfort, to provide us with joy, love, counsel, and all the other positives that come from personal relationships. Just the same, if we truly love someone, we have to recognize the boundaries for personal decisions like suicide do not encompass us. We can choose only how we react in the aftermath.

Janet Adkins was the wife of my Boy Scout Troop Leader, Ron Adkins, and mother to three boys who were my friend, classmate, and friend respectively. When she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, she turned to Dr. Jack Kevorkian to help her end her life. June 4, 1990, she did so, with the blessings of her family and friends. Anyone who knew the Adkins family knows that they did not reach this decision without a great degree of deliberation and mutual understanding. At the time, Alzheimer's was in no way treatable and both patient and family endured horrific emotional suffering. Mrs. Adkins did not want to visit that hell on her children and husband. I respect that and marvel at their resolve in the face of the public spotlight.

More recently, a dear friend and colleague apparently ended her own life after suffering decades of severe depression. The family is understandably quiet in the name of privacy and respect, but it seems an inescapable conclusion. I desperately wish they did not feel stigmatized if that is what happened. We have no right to demand that a person, no matter how much we love them, continue to endure excruciating pain, be it physical, psychological, or emotional, just for our own benefit. That is not love, that is the worst kind of selfishness. If you consider suicide a sin, maybe the real sin is in believing that you have any stake in determining how someone else lives their life, or decides to end it. Have you ever thought about it that way?

Don't look for the "healthcare system" to have mercy on you, either. The horrible truth is that no matter what our personal suffering, we are precious lives in the economic sense. The medical marketplace will twist and distort your sense of self in every way imaginable if it preserves your living, dollar-spending soul. We are not good at healthcare, but even worse at deathcare. The system will cling and claw until it can no longer drain you of any more financial blood. It is extremely convincing, to the point that it will turn surviving family members against your own desire for eternal peace.

So, this is what we need to prevent: the extension of life beyond the wishes of the individual affected. We need to prevent bullying, harassment, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, and other willful behaviors that cause unbearable suffering leading to suicides on impulse. We need to stop allowing for-profit entities from sticking their noses and money-grubbing fingers into the ultimate of personal decisions.

To friends and family who have chosen to end their lives: Worry not. Rest in the peace that you deserve. There is nothing for which you need forgiveness from me. Nothing. I know that all the king's horses, all the king's men, and all the love in the world could not have saved you. And that's ok. Love, Eric

Depression

My mind is an emotional train wreck right now. Depression has many faces, at least that is what I believe is true for me, and I can speak only for me. It is a condition that can be fleeting, or stubbornly entrenched for weeks or months; and it can be triggered by many stimuli. Lately, the monotonous and unseasonably cold, wet weather, is largely to blame.

© Healthination.com

Frustration

Feeling powerless to change circumstances is without a doubt one of the leading emotions that causes me to fall into despair. I truly can't change the weather. It is going to be bad until it is good again. I cannot change the marketplace. My chosen profession and its attendant skills and knowledge will continue to be devalued for as far into the future as I can see; but I also can't change who I am, which, at its core, is a writer. It is also difficult to accrue new skills and new circumstances when one does not have the financial capacity to attend classes, travel to better weather, or otherwise self-improve....because you can't earn enough at your profession.....a vicious cycle.

Anger

Frustration for me results in one of two things: sadness or anger. Usually it is the latter. Lately I have been more silent than usual because I fear nothing but a string of expletives would leave my mouth (or my fingers as they dart across the keyboard). I wish that it was more widely considered by the scientific community that violence and depression in men are strongly linked. Men have a much harder time expressing themselves verbally. Why do they smash the plate against the wall during an argument with their spouse or significant other? "There! Do you see that? That is my heart, shattered." Men want desperately to have a tangible expression of how they feel, and this often comes out violently.

Snowball Effect

One expression of depression for me is what I call the "snowball effect," whereby one negative thought leads to another and they keep accumulating until there is no stopping them and they almost bury you. During one of these episodes your life seems to stink more than it really does because the snowball is also a dredge that hauls up memories that are not necessarily still applicable to your current condition. The good thing is that I am getting better at recognizing this before the snowball builds enough momentum to be all-consuming. The bad lunch does not carry as much weight as I thought initially, and can be allowed to fall off the conglomerate of other matters.

Coping Poorly

I will assert that few people are able to cope with depression, tragedy, and other life challenges in a healthy manner. Such things usually trigger extremely bad coping "skills" such as addictions, flight (from relationships, reality, etc), suicide, and homicide. These days, another coping mechanism is "oversharing" on social media. This is understandable. Misery doesn't necessarily love company, as the old saying goes; but misery does crave understanding and empathy; and reassurance that most situations we face are only temporary. Facebook has become in many ways a 24-7 version of Oprah or The Phil Donahue Show, or Sally Jesse Raphael for those who can remember that far back (I even appeared on Phil Donahue's show in February of 1989 to talk about adult children of divorce).

Anyway, few of the ways we want to exorcise our demons are productive. I cannot go on a shooting spree when what I really want is to kill the marketplace, not its inhabitants; and the social fabric of our world already has enough holes in it anyway. We need more patches and some really good seamstresses. I can't kill myself because then I send someone else down the road I just exited. Drugs and alcohol only serve to make one more destitute financially, and more unhealthy physically.

Therapy?

Suggesting someone suffering from depression get "counseling" can seem helpful, but here timing is everything. So is type. Personally, I am so self-analytical as it is that seeing a psychoanalyst is redundant. Back in the day I eventually tried a twelve-step group for adult children of alcoholics. I was receptive enough to the idea in that particular window of my life to actually get a few things out of it. This is when I first realized my problem with "God" was actually rebellion against religion, a human social institution. I also finally started understanding how my "buttons" were getting pushed, and began rewiring the mental circuitry so that I could better articulate my own position instead of reacting inappropriately to the other person.

Both one-on-one therapy and peer therapy groups can be helpful if only because you are expressing yourself out loud and you tend to hear yourself better when you do that. Listening to the experiences (traumas, really) of others helps build empathy and creates a more holistic view of one's place in the spectrum of personal atrocities and joys. Ideally, it does this by creating a reverence for those who suffer, including one's self.

Comedy

There is a reason that you never see the theatrical "tragedy" mask without the "comedy" smile right there next to it. I find that the one sure-fire antidote to depression is humor. I think I may start building a library of stand-up comedy DVDs to have at the ready for my next low spell. A good dose of humor might not cure me permanently at any given time, but it will get my head out of itself and probably get me started writing my own material or drawing a cartoon. Comedy is also an awesome substitute for those times when the weather, lack of transportation, or other obstacle prevents you from doing equally healthy things like getting outdoors in nature, or exercising. Maybe music has the same effect on you as comedy has on me. Personally, music can be profoundly sad to me, so I have to be careful in my choices of artists and albums.

Onward

I have no way of knowing who is reading this, and what their own struggles may be. I do hope that they gain a measure of hopefulness and a sense of brotherhood out of this essay. Meanwhile, I need to scatter my eggs among less weather-dependent, market-driven baskets and reclaim my identity as something more than what I do for an occupation. We're all much deeper than we know, and far more substantial than what society tells us we are. Don't fall for it. Laugh at it instead, and be the individual example of what you want humanity to be. You'll fail early and often, but don't we all.