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Early this morning, as my son and I headed out the door for a jog, our thirteen year-old dog trotted to the door, tail wagging.

Our dear dog, in the past weeks, had been limping around on three of his four legs. We were unsure if he had broken his left hind leg; the one he wouldn’t put pressure on. We soon realized it was arthritis.

My son and I looked at one another and with an imperceptible nod, my son motioned to the dog to go outside. It had taken me by surprise.

“We can jog tomorrow and take the walking route today,” he said.

Taking a semi-deaf, aging dog on a walk, without his leash, is a frustrating experience. In the past I yelled to the dog to, “Heel!” and catch-up. My son usually admonished me to not yell; that the dog cannot hear me anyway but our sleeping neighbors can.

I hit the walk icon on my watch and resigned myself to a long, frustrating journey.

I am on a tight time schedule in the mornings in order to get my chores done and to work on time. Pack my lunch. Clean the cat litter. Feed the bunny. Make sure the dog has enough water. My to-do list ran through my mind. A thirty minute jog was going to turn into an hour walk.

I watched my son pick our dog up as he veered out of the crosswalk. Thankfully there were no cars on the road but he did it anyway.

I forged ahead, my minutes ticking away as my to-do list looped in my mind. I listened for our dog’s collar and the tread of my son’s footsteps and when I didn’t hear them behind me, I stopped.

The dog sniffed most of the bushes on this walk we’ve taken many times through the years. But as I watched the dog sniff and my urge to yell at him came to mind, I took a minute. Deep inhale.

From a few feet away my son noticed my body language. He had been hovering near the dog and nudged him gently. I got the long look from him to not yell.

I slowed my steps and, instead, chose to tap my leg. This got our dog’s attention. He understood to heel and slowly trotted to me. As my son took the rear and frequently nudged, I took the lead and tapped my leg often.

Our aging, arthritic dog happily sniffed and stayed with us most of the time. When he got tired my son would carry him to give him a break.

This dog has jogged next to me for many years without complaint. The tension of the leash would be taut as he tried to run ahead to chase a rabbit in our path or birds in nearby bushes.

I found myself staring at tree bark and noticing different colors aloud to my son who would grunt in response behind me.

I’d hear the bell of my dog’s collar as he trotted nearby.

I stared at the sky and remarked how the purple clouds looked like a painting in Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.

I pointed out my favorite tree whose branches grow over our path.

I was grateful for the fifty-four minute walk.

The dog walk was action faltering but the mindful moments were day altering.

As we entered our street our dog immediately knew to run home. The son and I walked briskly to catch-up. Our arthritic dog was happy.

As I handed him his treat I realized he had given me a gift. Unlike my canine who sniffed everything and stopped to smell the bushes, I’m usually busy trying to check-off my things-to-do.

I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts and have tripped myself up; not paying attention to the changing terrain. I’ve missed the beauty of sunrise, the chirps of the birds and the silence of the usually busy street.

I don’t know how many more dawn trots I’ll have with my furry friend or my twenty year-old son. Today I truly appreciated their company.

I found the little guy above while shopping with my activities team, for work. While our large RCFE community was closed these past two weeks, to mitigate the spread of the Omicron strain of COVID-19, we roamed the aisles of the arts and crafts store to find ways to engage our assisted living residents.

This particular day was National Tea Day so we were focused on decorating our carts to deliver hot tea, cookies and muffins to over one hundred apartments; with encouragement and a smile.

I have grown fond of the gnomes, including them in my succulent planters I dropped off at my family members’ doorsteps Christmas 2020. For 2021, they also are prominent in my gift giving; the ones I have yet to deliver after our recent bout with Omicron.

We’re happy to be back to “normal” in our household. But these days, “normal” is hard to define. These past two years “normal” = constant change.

My beloved assistant laughed as I hesitated near the gnome. My all-male household has asked what my fascination is with them; though my middle son was the one who first found them and wanted to bring one home.

The engagement coordinator had a quizzical look on her face as I grabbed one, and returned for two more. Two of my co-workers also enjoy gnomes and there were only a few left on SALE!

I’ve found myself in lines in the grocery store, at the coffee shop and in specialty shops discussing gnomes. I really hadn’t known gnomes were a thing.

It was nothing for me to put the gnome on the desk of one co-worker, who remarked it’s too soon for Valentine’s day. I brought my own gnome home to put in my galvanized tiered tray that is part of my “tablescape.” The third gnome I placed on my work desk to save for one of our physical therapists (PT).

Today as the PT walked the hallway with her patient, I followed them. It was fortuitous she was with this resident (I must have manifested it LOL) since I needed to coordinate transport with him; and it gave me the opportunity to give the gnome to her. It was a quick exchange and I went on my merry way with my day.

An hour later she came into our office to thank me for the gnome. Normally upbeat, she shared that she had had a rough week and the gnome was much needed. By the time she shared her story, we were all in tears. She gripped the heart of the gnome in her pocket; grateful to have a talisman to change the course of her day.

Simple things.

We talked about how we can do this for our seniors who feel isolated and frustrated that we are, once again, temporarily shutdown. They are vaccinated AND boostered and feel like prisoners in their own community. We will thankfully open up our doors again this weekend.

We shared the hot cups of tea and dessert items and exchanged greetings. Between the three of us we went through approximately half-of-the rooms before the end of the day. Our decorated tea cart brought cheer but it is also our way of engagement, to make sure everyone is physically and mentally okay.

And though I return home to my hubby and three sons, I also feel isolated. You don’t need physical barriers, like my residents, to feel alone.

I mourn the loss of my furry feline. Last weekend, after two months of force feeding meds, food and IVs; we knew the time had come to put her down. We picked up her weak body and hugged her one last time. I’m thankful our veterinarian is a friend who gave us ample time to sit with her. The cat always remained next to me for her seven years with us.

At 7AM, the day before her appointment, I began eradicating Christmas from our home. I dismantled, organized and packed and finally had everything in boxes by 11PM. I left only our staircase tree; the tree my cat always sat under this and every other holiday season.

But that night the hubs asked where the cat was, worrying that she had hidden herself in our home; an instinctive action of ailing cats to hide from prey. We found her atop our eldest son’s bed. He had placed her there to spend this last night with her.

Yesterday I sat in radiation oncology, almost two months since my radiation therapy. After my lumpectomy the cat sat with me on my couch as I recovered; sleeping alongside. It was only as I began radiation therapy that I realized there was something wrong and rushed her to the veterinarian. During my radiation sessions I would look at the painted cat on the ceiling and think of my own ailing, jaundiced cat at home.

We were both sick but were working on getting better together.

The radiation oncologist strongly encouraged me to return to my normal life and he’d see me in a few months.

Physically I am no longer restricted; my catheter site incision almost closed. It had only been two months of my life but my mental block is starting to catch up with me. This physical chapter of cancer is closing although the experience will forever remain etched in my mind.

I have been focused on the well being of my seniors which has distracted me from my recent losses.

My cat’s physical presence is gone, but my memories with her are priceless. I wished she had lived nine lives.

I walked out of the cancer center trying to re-adjust to my new normal. I give myself grace and time; to figure it out.

After the fourth prick in my arm, this morning, I slowed my breathing; trying to inhale deep as the two nurses tried to render blood from my veins. As my eyesight softened and the room blurred I heard one of the nurses saying, she’s getting cold and clammy, and felt their urgency.

I exhaled. And the blood flowed into the test tubes.

Getting old sucks.

And after that guilty thought I remembered my elderly seniors at work and sucked it up. I’m half their ages. The tears pricked behind my eyelids as I considered this new stage in life and my mind snapped back as the nurses cheered beside me. The vials were full.

My diagnosis was finally kicking in and I thought of my husband waiting in the parking lot in the car. Visitors are currently not allowed to accompany patients during pre-admission due to COVID guidelines. I wished he was beside me.

Today kicks-off Breast Cancer Awareness month. I donned my pink bracelets and my new pink scarf; the bracelets I’ve collected over the years to honor those who have survived breast cancer.

Never did I ever imagine that I would be one of them.

You hear about family histories with the BRCA-1 or BRCA-2 gene. I know two women who had this diagnosis and one beat the odds, the other didn’t. I think of my family members who have had mastectomies.

I am one of the lucky ones who, for now, will undergo a lumpectomy and radiation. I am estrogen and progesterone receptor positive and my prognosis for treatment is good.

The thing of it is, I feel fine.

I am healthy. I exercise regularly and choose to eat whole versus processed foods. I love my job and survived working in-person throughout the COVID pandemic. In the past year I discovered meditation and yoga. And I’ve taken many things off of my “to do” list and only spend time doing things I want to be doing.

The mammogram found the rapidly dividing cells invading my breast tissue. There was no lump. I did not feel pain. The ultrasound saw the mass. The biopsy confirmed it was malignant.

During the pandemic I had no routine exams and did telephone appointments if I needed anything. I have never had any issues regarding my breasts except after the birth of my eldest son when I had mastitis and found myself in the ER.

I grin at my new purse charm (pictured above). My bff had no idea what they were.

It was the bff who had been with me and my wailing son; far from my home over two decades ago. My last day of work was yesterday and I am finally able to focus on myself before my surgery early next week. Only SHE would think of these things.

I took a break from all things financial and sorted through my bras. I STILL have my bra from my wedding day twenty-three years ago. I do not hoard (Marie Kondo would be proud) and toss many items away but I kept that first one. My hubby had purchased the wedding bra from Victoria’s Secret (VS) and I have always purchased the same underwired VS bras through the years.

When the text and link came from the bff 2,000 miles away I was mildly surprised. I opened the link which revealed bras needed after lumpectomy and mastectomy surgeries.

Who thinks of these things? She does.

So it’s only fitting that the one who sat with me in a naval hospital two hours from home with a newborn would be the one who knows I would need to find a bra with no underwire. After my biopsy I realized my bras irritated me but I had never actually put the thought into words.

I didn’t have a lot of time as I scrambled to plan two months of activities in a week before I went on medical leave. I was grateful for her thoughtfulness. She is the most efficient person that I know.

Years ago my husband was in awe. She had visited us and had mapped all of the errands and places she needed to do in Little Tokyo within a few hours. We were on a timeline and my husband, to this day, reminds me of her organizational prowess and her attention to detail. She had been in town to attend the other bff’s wedding, the one who held my hand during my youngest son’s birth and stood with my hubby during my last surgery.

I stare at my bras and wonder if I’m going to have to throw them all away. Trivial details, I know, in the larger scheme of things.

It’s a reminder of this new season. I have to embrace the change to navigate through it successfully.

I see the pile of bills on my desk and ponder the cost of all things medical. My vanity kicks in as I ponder if the hormone therapy (to block the estrogen and progesterone receptors on my cancer cells) will cause a lot of weight gain. I wonder if eventually I will need a mastectomy. I mourn these things.

This quote, from the Calm app, this past week is saved on my phone.

And so I wear my pink, just as I have for many years; for breast cancer awareness month.

To all of my women brethren who are of the age to get a mammogram, git ‘er done! (In my Mater aka Larry the Cable Guy voice). They caught mine early.

I am grateful.

There are so many nuances to the phrase, “I’m fine.”

There’s the polite answer for casual acquaintances who make small chit-chat or wave a friendly, “How are you?” I’m usually the one roaming around my work place asking everyone how they are and when they parrot the same question back at me, I answer in my sing-song, cheery voice,

I’m fine.

There’s the harried response when the day goes awry and you really don’t have time for conversation. “Do you need my help?” comes the inquiry to which your quick reply as you busily rush off to the next thing on your list is the above in a punctuated monotone.

Or the response as you grit your teeth when someone really pisses you off and you’re trying to keep the peace but you’re secretly repeating the f-bomb mantra in your head before you lose it. You succinctly, in your deadpan passive voice, share this phrase.

But I often wonder, are people really fine? And do people really care when they ask how you are?

My sons sometimes think I’m insincere when I ask these things and that these phrases are equivalent to meaningless discourse. If someone actually takes the time to explain their true thoughts with more than two words, would I patiently and sincerely listen or would I tap my foot and politely wait for the slew of words to pass before I go on my merry way?

When you ask these things in text, they are ways to open conversation. But it’s hard to read the true intent without looking at the person or sensing the situation.

So when people currently ask me how I am, after a recent breast cancer diagnosis, most are surprised that I answer that, “I’m fine.” I thoughtfully considered my response and, instead of just texting the words, I cut through the flowery language.

Those who know me well know that I don’t mince words when it really counts. And I love words and language.

This is a learned behavior. Growing up I was always taught to be polite. To remain private. To not share about personal circumstances because people use them against you. Prideful humility.

When I had a hysterectomy for simple endometrial hyperplasia, four years ago, I kept those details to a small few on a need-to-know basis. What I discovered, months after the fact, was that there were hurt feelings and different perspectives who misread my silence.

Currently in my work place I interact with people every day which include my elderly residents. Do I disappear on medical leave and not share my predicament? Is it fair to not share? Should I expect others to really support my team if I don’t share why I’m not there?

I made the conscious decision to share. For my team. For my residents. For my family.

And I gained a support group with two breast cancer survivors in their 70s and one who just turned 90. They’re the moms I don’t have, who share their personal stories of diagnosis, treatment and recovery.

Their knowledge and depth of care caught me by surprise and I was humbled by the trials and tribulations they went through decades before, when breast cancer wasn’t the popular fuschia pink worn by sports teams in October. When funding was just beginning and treatments were emerging.

I discovered that as the person newly diagnosed, that I actually am “fine.”

That the collateral damage happens to those close to the epicenter who don’t have the various avenues of nurse navigators, doctors. surgeons and support groups. They are left to try to grapple with a loved one’s mortality; something I, as a gerontologist, am constantly exposed to.

The waning full moon started my morning.

Normally I naturally rise before five AM to begin my day. I jumped out of bed at 5:26AM, knowing I would have to skip on my morning workout. The day continued in the same vein with a fitness instructor canceling due to illness. I gained an hour of exercise by teaching two classes; giving up the planning of the next three months. Our transportation to appointments was delayed and my co-worker, our driver, is vacationing on a tropical island. All of these wreaked havoc on an already tight schedule.

Happy fall to me!

You can imagine my surprise to the mid-day text stating the best man at our wedding, 23 years ago, drove 35 miles to leave something on my doorstep. I instructed him to drive the short mile to my work from our home to which I received hugs. When he asked what he could do for me, my answer was simple.

Take care of my husband, his best friend.

I shared the same with my girlfriend who talked me through my delivery of my youngest son as my Lamaze coach, while my husband stood frozen next to me. As my blood pressure dropped and I went into distress, it was her voice who yelled to me as I shivered and the team crowded around me. These two were my stanchions as I headed into surgery for my hysterectomy. She knows the drill this time. Take care of the hubby.

Ironically, this year we changed our health insurance and my choice was to return to the family practitioner who birthed my youngest son. In August when I accompanied my sixteen year old for his wellness/ new patient appointment I looked forward to explaining to her how she helped me with his birth; knowing she wouldn’t know us.

But when she entered the room, the doctor took one look at me and said,

“It IS you.”

She had seen my name on the chart and the tears came to my eyes.

My labor was memorable and as the sixteen year old, who had heard me repeat the birth story as we sat in the waiting room as I relived memories of my pregnancy there, grimaced and introduced his ornery, charming self. I grinned and pointedly stated, “THIS is what you birthed.”

It was through a routine mammogram, which led to an ultrasound, then a biopsy that found the rapidly dividing cells that currently reside in my right breast.

And when this doctor shared the diagnosis with me, she said she was sad to have to tell me this kind of news after being away for sixteen years. In the past month I have seen her four times.

And so, to those who ask, I am fine (for the time being). Cancer is silent and had it not been for early detection, I would never have known the oncogenes lurking within are invasively pushing through my ducts.

My physical breast exam, conducted by my doctor, had been normal.

My eldest son shared when I told him of my diagnosis: breast cancer is the most successful to treat. My three support moms are living proof of this, as well as my two family members who’ve had mastectomies and are still here.

Nothing hurts. I live my life, for now, in normalcy and receive my surgery date from my surgeon tomorrow. I’m most humbled by the support of my friends, both near and far.

Thank you.

Recently as I led a round-table discussion about defeating worry and anxiety, I asked my elderly residents what they were most thankful for.

Most answers centered around their families, God and their health and I readily agreed. But a song was stuck playing in my head and when my turn came, I surprisingly shared how thankful I was for music.

As I type, the Keith Urban/ Carrie Underwood song, “The Fighter” is playing on my Spotify playlist. I think of all the fighters in my life who haven’t let me fall; who’ve propped me up.

My subconscious conjures up faces of my past who enter into my dreams. I awaken thinking of people I haven’t thought of in decades.

In mid-March I had struggled with turnover in my work place as the pressures of the pandemic hit the year anniversary and our executive chair continued to turn over. Since March 2020 five different people have occupied this position. Resident and staff morale suffered without a consistent, strong leader.

As yet another interim person filled the chair, I felt the frustration of those around me. This time, instead of shouldering the burden and trying to prop everyone else around me, I chose my authentic m.o. (modus operandi).

I became transparent.

In being true to myself, people could feel affirmed. I truly needed affirmation, as to why I was there, myself.

The unlikely spark that brought me back was a discussion about karoake and my “go to” karaoke song. My song is “Tide is High” by Blondie.

Our interim boss shared his songs and from that day forward, music became our language. Each day our activities office had a theme song and we found ourselves blaring music with our residents and fellow staff members.

With my childhood piano officially fixed, my fingers found the ivories once again. Upon returning home from work my sons could be heard playing music from my piano or electronic keyboards with YouTube tutorials from Kanye to the Peanuts theme song played by Shroeder.

At work we got our groove back.

• During chair exercise we blared L-O-V-E by Nat King Cole
• As we sang, “Happy Birthday” to our seniors we danced and decorated apartment doors and traipsed up stairs and elevators singing, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”
• We line-danced to country songs and the Macarena and our co-workers began to join in the melee.
• We cried with our seniors who made requests of their favorite songs and memories overtook them
• I occasionally played our baby Grand piano (when few people were around) at work to jog my memory/ neuronal pathways
• My girlfriend who teaches HS choir and has a master’s in piano performance donates an hour each month to play for our seniors

These days I can be found walking the hallways to a beat, a song running in my mind. A new song runs on repeat daily and so, for Mother’s Day, my sons gave me air pods so they would not be subjected to my musical whims.

At work in our daily stand-up meeting, the person running it must share a quote. We never know who will run the meeting so I’ve been stockpiling them.

I am not a product of my circumstances. I am a product of my decisions.

Stephen Covey

Each day I must choose to make it great. I was getting lost in the doldrums of instability, fear, anxiety, worry and a lack of leadership. But I’ve come to realize the following:

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

And although not all of my days are great, if the songs continue to run in my head, I walk to the beat of my own music. I create my playlist.

As the Stephen Covey quote says above…I can choose to not be a product of my circumstances and make my own decisions. Or as MLK shares, life is always going to be a challenge and I want to be the person that stands and navigates through it.

The faces of my past, interestingly enough, are mostly male with two females. I manifest their wisdom into my daily practice and lead with the qualities that made them my mentors. Fairness. Humility. Emotional and IQ Intelligence. Charisma. Authenticity. Empathy. Leading by Example.

These mentors didn’t tout their titles (which ranged from doctor, professor, band director, administrator, father). They led with their hearts. They cared.

The face always present is the one of my hubs, my fighter. There have been times in our marriage when I had to be my own fighter, fighting him and finding my authentic me.

I got lost being a wife, daughter, mother, co-worker, friend and forgot who I was without any of those titles. But the spark that always gets me through it that “favorite” song.

And the faith that all of my mentors had. In me. Thanks for always propping me up.

When things get me down, the air pods go on.

My arms are opened wide, twirling to my own music. Find yours.

As I drank my coffee this morning the recent conversation with my coworker came to mind.

It’s harder to be happy than frustrated all of the time.

As I engage with my senior residents in our assisted living community I am mindful to be present in the current moment. Most times when I plan things and they don’t work out I can say that it will be better next time. But with some of my elderly residents, there may not be a next time.

I make every moment count.

As in every workplace there are many things to be frustrated about and my coworker and I usually vent with one another. She made the comment above because I always appear happy. It made me ponder if I came off as artificial.

In this week several different scenarios merged together and it was as I sipped my coffee that my a-ha moment presented itself.

I was asked to teach my high school booster program how to manage their budget.

I served for many years on the board and chose to walk away when my values did not align with theirs. I had been surprised to receive the text from the president and treasurer for assistance. Shocked when the following text asked if the two directors could join, as well.

I briefly looked at the text while at work and had to re-read it again. I made the quick decision to go ahead and help the program. My youngest son is currently involved in it but that was not why I chose to do it.

I chose to assist to help because this was the former director’s legacy. He was a person whose fairness and vision inspired this program to be one of the top twelve in the nation.

I did it because it was the right thing to do.

In my workplace I have supported staff and residents as we have gone through various leadership transitions.

It has been a work in progress since before the pandemic and as we come out of it, we are finally seeing positive change. After having four different executive directors, our current interim is finally making things happen. He is also a person whose fairness and vision creates a positive culture in our company.

But there are days I find myself going toe-to-toe with him and my fellow directors; going outside of my lane. As a team we must coordinate and communicate and when these things do not happen it reflects on our company.

My coworkers are surprised that I am succinct and honest since I appear happy most of the time. My flippant response was, “what do I have to lose?” to which my coworker’s reply was, “your job.”

I am transparent. I advocate for my residents and my staff.

For years I’ve told people that I don’t like to jog and run.

When they discover I naturally awaken at 4:45 AM and am out my door by 5 AM I share that it is my way to burn off energy and work out things in my head. And these things are true. But when I developed plantar fasciitis and was with my podiatrist last month, I finally acknowledged that I like to jog/run. That I would do anything to not give it up.

I am a jogger/runner.

“My mother raised me to be polite, to be demure. I have long operated under the idea that civility is subservience. But it hasn’t gotten me very far, that type of kindness. The world respects people who think they should be running it. I’ve never understood that, but I’m done fighting.”

~The Seven Husband of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid, pg. 9.

I read the line above and shared this with my book club. My culture and my parents’ generation raised me to always serve (which may explain why acts of service is my love language). My father pushed for higher education although my mother asked him to let me remain home, to help her care for him as he battled stage four colon cancer when I was sixteen. They kept it from me for months.

I am eternally grateful to my two cousins, may they rest-in-peace, who intervened and told my mother I had to go to college. My father passed my freshman year over Thanksgiving break.

Our book club talked about legacies and what our mission statements were. I contemplate this often but I noted the question caught my fellow members off guard.

As the pandemic restrictions ease my calendar already is filled. I make a mental note to create time and space for myself.

The silver lining in the pandemic is that it gave me the time to contemplate, meditate and appreciate who I am, the life I have and the people/things that bring me joy and satisfaction.

After educating my booster program’s treasurer, president and two directors I shared my reasons why I did not support the program’s philosophy and used my pocket book to make my point by not supporting the program financially this current school year.

I had not known that board parents had chosen to give their monetary credits towards my youngest son. Their generosity did not require for me to make any fair share contributions. The joy of serving this booster program was the lifelong friendships I’ve gained.

The board members and directors were surprised I addressed the elephant in the room. But as I reminded them, I am transparent. And I will fulfill my son’s financial contribution in the 2021-2022 school year. I had not intended on setting the record straight and I felt lighter, being able to speak my mind.

Speaking my truth freed me to enjoy my son’s involvement in this program once again.

In transitioning my name off of the booster program’s bank accounts, the president discovered we were born in the same city on the central coast. One of the questions for online access was “place of birth” and she had been surprised. We went to high schools across the street from one another. It was THIS that I was contemplating as I drank my coffee.

My persistence at work paid off when I discovered a resident, who was inappropriately placed in assisted living, will be transitioning to a new place in memory care. I had been encouraging the staff to document this resident’s changes of condition and after months of suggesting various memory care places, the family finally took the steps and involved a neurologist.

My coworkers do not really know that my personal life experiences and educational background is Alzheimer’s. They only see the happy-go-lucky person that engages people. After discovering the end-result I promoted the Alzheimer’s support group for the family and quietly shared why I am intimately familiar with this disease.

There are those in the workplace that must constantly share their background and experiences to validate what they do. I find that those who do it the most are the most insecure. But if you know what your purpose and/or mission statement is, you do not need to answer these questions because you are confident in your own abilities. And unless people personally ask me, I do not share.

Doing what needs to be done, with humility, speaks volumes. These are the best leaders.

I did go toe-to-toe with my boss about ageism. He did not receive this well and I suspect it is because he is feeling older and needs a lot of affirmation that he is still youthful. Age is just a number and I would never choose to return to any other age. I reminded him that we work with centenarians and that discussions about feeling “older” leave an impression with our residents. I share that in the past that I had been the youngest person and the only female in my workplace.

Do I lament my physical changes with age? Yes, I privately do. And I urged him to privately do this as well versus saying things in front of our population. He is a charismatic leader, youthful and handsome. Our residents LOVE him and will be sad when he leaves to his next assignment.

I am a gerontologist and I appreciate aging and the wisdom I’ve gained because of it.

I particularly feel the physical effects of aging when I jog in the morning. I can track my minute per mile pace on my watch and as my middle son lopes before me with my dog, I’ve tripped a few times adjusting to my new orthotics. But I don’t run to beat my time.

I run because it clears my head, I enjoy the silence of the morning and watching my dog and son jog in front of me. Quality time.

My book club book choice was not what I had expected. Some of our members are quite conservative but I appreciated that they read the book anyway. Being a part of diverse groups opens my mind to different perspectives and I don’t get offended if people disagree with me. It’s taught me to navigate through conversations of religion and politics.

I like being the mediator and enjoy probing deeper questions with my girlfriends. It is easy to say I am a mother, a spouse etc. But I wanted to know their deeper convictions because seasons change but our values do not.

I hope they discover what their mission statements are. Thankfully, I know mine.

When my boss asked me if I ever considered being an executive director, I paused. He told me my silence spoke volumes. I have turned down positions because I do not want to be that person and enjoy advocating and engaging for my seniors. I replied with this statement and left the office.

I shared this with my husband, the one person who does know my history and who has been pushing me privately, to be the leader. Again I balk, just as I did with stating I am a jogger, because I like what I do. He made me acknowledge it. Somehow I always land into leadership positions by default, not by choice.

My strength is in coordinating people.

It is something inherent, something I’ve always known. But over the years I’ve fought it, choosing the subservient, polite role. It is unseemly to appear assertive/aggressive but I think I’m done fighting that story that I tell myself. Because the truth of the matter is, I don’t want the responsibility of all of these people depending on me to fix everything because I cannot.

I sipped my coffee thinking of my high school years. The days when I wished I didn’t have to wake up to a silent home to the whir of oxygen tanks and rattling breaths; feeling the oppression of my father’s health wondering what the future would bring.

I recalled walking out of my government class and returning to find the assistant principal quietly sitting at my desk, waiting for me. I had walked the empty high school halls clearing my mind and the assistant principal never addressed me, and had merely moved out of my desk chair.

It was his acknowledgement that he knew things were happening in my home. I suspected my high school songleading coach shared this with the staff. Outside of my wandering behaviors, they could not say I was being disruptive. I graduated third in my class.

That day we had been assigned to write a paper about a federal institution. Most of my classmates chose things like the Federal Bureau of Investigation, a judicial branch or military service. I had chosen the National Cancer Institute. At school my sense of normalcy was needed.

I learned to be happy with the little things before I went home to the heavy things.

My interaction with the booster president opened up these thoughts for me which then tied into my coworker’s comment about appearing happy all of the time.

I learned at an early age to BE HAPPY most of the time. I lived each day moment-by-moment knowing that soon I would lose my beloved father. I married a man who was always deployed so I cherished the times he had been home for our young family.

I am grateful for my husband’s steadying presence in my life.

I continue to live the present with my residents, acknowledging their thoughts and feelings right now. In the past year I’ve lost too many to count, thankfully not to COVID, and so I appreciate what each person brings to the table. I seek their wisdom and witness what successful aging looks like.

I’m grateful for the mentors in my life who have made me assert, do the right thing and appreciate my transparency to affect change.

My happiness is not contrived.

The ability to tap into it is a learned behavior trait and is very real. My mindfulness practices help me clear my head of life’s constant frustrations so that my person-to-person engagement is meaningful. I accept my flawed nature but I try my best each and every day.

All of the above happened this Monday through Thursday.

I value choice. To do the things I want to do because I want to; not because I have to. This makes me happy.

My coffee mug is empty but my heart feels full.

When it all comes together, it’s priceless.

You, alone, create your narrative and know your story. Live it.

Namaste.

I have a thing about toilets.

On a Sunday, I was told a bathroom was locked at my workplace. Since this is unusual, I grabbed my keys, knocked, with no answer, and lo and behold; upon opening the door I found a mess in the toilet.

Someone locked the door for good reason. And lately there is no housekeeping on Sundays.

I considered my options. I knew there was a maintenance guy who I could call to handle this but he was busily steaming hallway carpets.

I thought of the sentence I had highlighted in John C. Maxwell’s book, “Change the World.”

“The reality is that most of us are waiting for somebody else to do something about the problems we see. We want change, but we hope that someone somewhere will do something to bring it about.”

Maxwell, John C. and Rob Hoskins “We Can’t Wait for Change.” Change the World. Kindle. Harper Collins Leadership. 2021. pg. 8.

I asked the maintenance guy to bring me cleaning supplies and he brought the whole cart. I looked at the unfamiliar bottles and tried to read what they were. I knew he was on a timeline to finish his carpets so I set to work scrubbing the toilet.

Is this going to change the world? I highly doubt it. At home I clean my three bathrooms because toilets are my thing while the other members of my household do their duties.

What I hadn’t realized was how the simple act of cleaning a disgusting toilet, at work, would change my perspective.

The corridor near the bathroom was empty when I began my task. But soon several residents came over to see what I was doing, then a family member and two of my co-workers. I decided to enter the bathroom and shut the door, for cleaning privacy, but it limited my access to the housekeeping cart.

Most days the past year I felt a sense of hopelessness against the COVID pandemic. I shut doors, sheltering-in and tried to do my repair in private. But in shutting doors I lost access to my support network. I needed to work through the fears I was dealing with.

I am grateful that those I immediately work with are honest and transparent. After finally voicing my own concerns, they felt comfortable sharing theirs and we worked through our issues TOGETHER.

Entering 2021 I began a season of change; to fix things. Some repair items dated back DECADES

• Our backyard fence fell during high winds and it finally got fixed.
• The hubs began to maintain and repair our automobiles.
• I spring-cleaned and organized closets, files and finances.
• I brought torn work outfits to the seamstress to get them mended
• I finally got the screw back for my favorite pair of earrings, from a milestone birthday, and fixed the charm bracelet the hubs gave me as a wedding present
• Just recently my childhood piano, which was produced in 1960 (according to the serial number) was gutted to be re-tooled and tuned.

Most importantly, though, the hubs and I embarked on improving our health. To support his 2021 resolution I have walked the fitness path, with him, to lose the weight, and convinced him to try yoga and meditation.

But in my workplace I kept hoping that others would lead and get things done. That problems will get resolved. I am not part of the problem, NOR part of the solution.

To affect change, one needs to engage.

In my own home, when I scrub my bathroom toilets, I gain a sense of calm. Some of my best ideas come to me as I clean my porcelain bowl with the bidet.

During the holidays I bought the toilet light as a joke. Anyone who has used our restroom has asked where I bought them and I have one for each of my three toilets. Even my in-laws want one!

https://www.amazon.com/16-Color-Activated-Detection-Birthday-Gadgets/dp/B07L2Y62G2/ref=sr_1_6?dchild=1&keywords=toilet+lights&qid=1616388422&sr=8-6

On a non-descript Sunday during the Lenten season, I had my own “come to Jesus” moment as I contemplated my clean work toilet bowl.

I saved myself frustration, not by waiting for my toilet-bowl-cleaning-savior to appear, but by doing it myself. If Jesus humbled himself to mankind, crucifying himself to save us, then I could certainly put gloves, spray cleaning fluid and use a scrub brush to clean up someone else’s crap; literally.

Nobody is above anyone else. We all have to give our fair share to our community in order to get something back.

So when the hubs asked how my day went, as again I was raking crap (aka fertilizer), in the newly built raised garden bed the hubs made…the only thing that made an impression wasn’t payroll, or helping an older gentlemen how to do a cross-stitch or event planning with the marketers.

My only answer was that I cleaned a toilet.

The residents commented that I had many hats. The staff saw that I wasn’t above cleaning a bathroom. But I discovered that I can do anything; big or small.

It’s the littlest things that define who you are.

I need to step into the BS to deal with it. Watching from afar and waiting for a savior to save me isn’t going to make it happen. I have to own it.

A few definitions of resolve from Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary

Resolve (verb): (transitive verb) 1a: to deal with successfully : clear up b: to find an answer to c: to make clear or understandable 2: to reach a firm decision about (intransitive verb) 2: to form a resolution

~ merriam-webster.com

Each January I take stock of the year past and look forward to the year ahead. Then, in present tense, I create resolutions for the here and now. I thought the worst was behind us as 2020 became 2021 until the events of January 6th at our nation’s Capitol. The worst can always creep up unexpectedly and the only thing I can really work towards is how I navigate my daily choices and reactions.

My daily resolution is to be mindful of what I can control and to let go of the things I cannot.

Each day I have a choice. As my plaque above my computer screen reminds me I can, “Inhale the future. Exhale the past.” But there is the point between our inhale and exhale; the pause. I am learning to acknowledge it. To embrace it. But it’s in appreciating this pause, that allows us to breathe in and out, that has brought me some mental clarity.

The COVID pandemic made us pause in our busy lives to take stock. To not take life and relationships or breathing for granted. A lot of times people focus on the big milestones but one of the things discovered during COVID is the importance of the little details. Recent, seemingly unrelated events, brought this home to me.

Each year after January 6th, the epiphany, I look forward to putting away the rich colors of the Christmas season to return to my home’s simple, and very neutral, decor. I had begun my work day sharing with co-workers this sentiment. Throughout the morning staff began to share news of the electoral vote count which became known as the Insurrection. Upon arriving home I news-binged at the horrifying images that had taken place and my frustration manifested in a “Clear Christmas Clutter Marathon” on my days off.

I needed space. Simplicity. A pause from the world to clear my home; which is my sanctuary.

My husband and sons watched me manically organizing and cleaning non-stop. Normally I implore for their help but they left me to my frenzy as I threw things away and put things in their place. At the end of the weekend my three sons noted the bareness of our home; missing the festive reds, greens and golds while I breathed a sigh of exhaustion.

What was there to celebrate anyway?

I reside in the region that is the epicenter of the virus, numbers growing exponentially. The US constantly safeguards against foreign threats but members of our own country defiled and disrespected our democracy.

As a military family I was aghast that our own veterans and law enforcement would choose to desecrate our national landmark. I was equally angered that a co-worker would lie and tell us she was taking a break to watch her grandkids while she travelled, mask-less and not-socially distanced, to Washington D.C. to join the rally and march; conveniently forgetting that she works with the population that is the most at-risk for getting COVID and calling it a “hoax.” It is amazing to me how lying can easily be justified. How facts can be distorted.

On January 9th, as my anger simmered, the request from my sons took me by surprise. They suggested that we should decorate our very boring house with reds, for Valentine’s day. When my hubs heard this announcement his look was priceless.

One of his most detested domestic chores is putting away our Christmas decor. As he grumbled at the boxes stacking in our garage I pointed at the one box holding Valentine’s decor. I made the request for it to be brought down to which I got an imperceptible nod. By the end of that day, the box was tossed unceremoniously down by our garage entry. It was mostly empty.

It has been at least five years since I decorated my home for any holiday, except Christmas. Those years had been tough for our family as we navigated difficult storms and many transitions and it is only in the past year that we’ve finally settled. As an only child my parents did not acknowledge a lot of holidays unless they had religious significance and we celebrated primarily with our cultural traditional foods.

With the birth of my first son, over twenty years ago, I vowed I would celebrate all milestones with him and any other children I would have. His first year scrapbook is full of all the “firsts” and pictures are my journaling of choice. As each successive son was born, I started new books and throughout their primary years I decorated for any holiday under the sun and hosted many playdates and gatherings.

But as these boys turned into tweens and teens, they mocked my decor. One Christmas, exhausted from trying to create the “perfect Christmas” I realized my efforts were in vain. The hubs hated dealing with bringing down and putting up boxes. In years past when we decorated the tree it was a family affair and in recent years it was only myself. Soon after I stopped decorating for all holidays, leaving the boxes in the rafters of our garage with my hubs relieved of his duties.

I learned to enjoy the simplicity of less and chose to decorate with the things that mattered most to me; which were the pictures and keepsake ornaments of their youth.

But with the COVID pandemic and having all three boys and hubs remotely going to school and work from home, they had wanted to celebrate the passage of time. They asked if I was going to decorate for Halloween and in mid-November when they requested Christmas, my tall sons brought the boxes down and helped me decorate. As I had packed away the holiday I figured I was done with my decorating until next Christmas.

I looked into the mostly empty Valentine’s day box with items purchased two decades before. I never updated them and found myself throwing the remaining decor of plastic heart plates and store-bought heart placemats worn with the passing of time. With the few items I had, I got to work.

During this same week our workplace received the notification that we would receive the COVID vaccine in a week’s time. One of the duties of my job is to put on events and decorate the large RCFE where I am employed. As I shopped in various party and craft stores I looked for a theme that would fit, while also searching for Super Bowl, Chinese New Year, Valentine’s and Mardi Gras decorations. Vaccine parties aren’t exactly the rage right now as we are sheltered-in with no small group gatherings. Here and there I’d find something I’d like for work or home and eventually themes began to form in my mind.

When vaccination day came I unveiled my vision which set the tone. There were many logistical hurdles to vaccinating anxious elderly residents and staff in a large long term care community but the festive atmosphere allowed them to enjoy their thirty minutes of observation time at my “celebration station.” When their thirty minutes of post-vaccine observation, to make sure there were no adverse reactions, were done many did not want to leave. They enjoyed their masked, socially-distanced time seeing their fellow neighbors and laughed at my, “let’s beat COVID” decor. I did not take the recommendation of one of our residents to play the movie, “Pandemic” on our screens and was mildly shocked two of our residents chose to drink my warm Corona beer decor!

The short interaction with people, for our residents, was so meaningful. We took it for granted until we were forced to shelter-in. Over-half of our community was vaccinated so I am already preparing for round two.

My home is full of Valentine’s love with things new and old. Again, I chose the things in my home that matter and added sale items I found shopping for work. The a-ha moment came to me on Christmas day as our family of five sat alone for Christmas dinner.

For decades my side of the family have Christmas dinner together with traditional fare. In years past I had worked hard to pare down the gift-giving and emphasize the family gathering and cultural traditions, just as my parents did with me. We gave gifts only to kids and played a white elephant game for the adults while we enjoyed one another’s company. This year we did not gather and saw everyone on a Zoom call instead.

I tried to re-create Christmas dinner with my family of five. I used the poinsettia plates and crystal goblets from my late cousin, the silverware and crystal candleholders from our wedding registry given to us on our wedding day and my decor I’ve had for years. As we ate by candlelight, it was then that my sons asked why we have never done this before.

I kept my table-scape for Valentine’s day, replacing the poinsettia plates for my mother’s favorite china. I can still envision the china in her hutch prominently displayed, but rarely used, and the memories of when family visited flooded over me as they were brought out on to the table. The goblets, silverware and candle holders remain with different decorative touches, that I already own.

Why do we wait for a special occasion to use our favorite things? What’s wrong with using them now when I can enjoy them with those that I love most?

The pause in our busy lives makes us dig deeper into our resolve to overcome anxiety and fear. It brings into focus the things that matter.

I now enjoy my spaces and the hubs and I find ourselves seated at the table with the candles lit, sharing details of our work days. With the lack of social gatherings he has become my new in-person book club as we currently read Dr. David Perlmutter’s book, Grain Brain together. In the past we’ve read Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma and enjoy watching food documentaries such as What the Health or Food, Inc.

My hospitality is slowly returning as I discover my life’s theme of celebrating favorites.

I have strengthened my resolve to celebrate them daily. Whether it is lighting the candle at my table-scape all by myself, grinning at my casual vignette on our every day table or drinking coffee in my mom’s china cup…it’s these little details that I see each day that can make a difference.

Celebrate the present moment. It only comes once.

I felt anger.

For the inconsistent protocols and challenges in dealing with our COVID pandemic.

For the political divisiveness and rhetoric that obstructs forward progress.

For the lack of consideration of others’ needs and people’s self-centeredness.

We all miss human interactions that involve physical presence, hugs and intimate conversation. As the Christmas holiday looms on the horizon, I feel the anxiety most of the elderly residents feel in our long term care community.

When will we get the vaccine? Should we or should we not take it?

I hear the discussions with our seniors and my co-workers on the pros and cons and the unofficial verbal survey found that over 90% of our seniors want to take the vaccine and more than half the staff were wary of taking it. It is not mandatory.

I shared this with my hubs as I, myself, waffled. I initially said I WOULD take the vaccine but after hearing the discussions at work, pondered it again after hearing about negative side effects. Thankfully, the hubs is my sounding board and after some back-and-forth, I had made my choice.

If our residents in their late 80s and 90s, some over 100, will get the shot; I will too. It can’t come fast enough.

As yet more cases of COVID arise in our community, staff and residents continue to take COVID tests. The anxiety level rises exponentially as we hear of more cases and the psycho-social component of this pandemic causes people to behave in irrational ways. Amid the negative it is hard to find the positive. Our ICU bed capacity is 0% in the state and county which I reside.

My anger rose to the surface as I, again, watched our residents go into depression. It is heartbreaking to have to watch the decline because we had been thriving as we approached Thanksgiving. We were blessed to not have any COVID cases and people were learning to navigate social distancing, mask wearing and hand washing. It had taken months for everyone’s psyche to bounce back from our initial shutdowns in March.

The morale was low. None of us really realized how close to Christmas it was and the overall feeling was, what was there to feel merry about? We can’t gather with family. People were out of work. It didn’t feel like Christmas.

Life sucked.

As management struggled to implement the ever-changing landscape of COVID, how to appreciate employees and bring holiday cheer to our entire community, the nine-month battle with this pandemic finally got to me.

One eve, this past week, I arrived home and was greeted by my eldest son inquiring what would be for dinner. My hubs was working virtually. The middle son was taking his college final virtually and the youngest was on his computer online gaming. The eldest had just finished his work day working remotely.

That night I vented my frustration to the hubs. After eight plus hours of dealing with work I returned home to a family, who did not go anywhere, jumped back into my vehicle, with the eldest son, to the neighboring city to pick up Indian food (his request), walk in, pay for the meal and get assistance from the restaurant owner while the twenty year old sat in my car holding our dog! No consideration.

I raised this person. Three of them, in fact!

My hubs and I always reference the advice given to me by my cousin. When my kids were toddlers they constantly were in the way as I cleaned. They wanted to help. To keep them occupied I bought a mini broom and gave them towels to pretend they were helping. As they grew older I assigned them tasks but would get frustrated that they didn’t do a detailed job.

Let them help.

My cousin advised me to let them help. Yes, it IS easier, and faster, to do the job myself. But she regretted that she didn’t foster this with her own kids and we can’t always rush in to clean up after them.

Yet here I was, driving and doing things after a physically and mentally taxing day at work. I kept my angry words to myself, for the time being. I knew if I voiced them, they would be ugly. My saving grace was that this is my favorite Indian food place and the owner thanked me for continuing to patronize his restaurant; to help him stay afloat. I left a hefty tip.

When the attendance call, once again, came from the high school stating my youngest was late or tardy for his first period class, that put me over the edge.

For nine months I’ve been doing the same thing regarding the pandemic. I’ve kept my simmering anger to myself, knowing if I voiced my thoughts, they would would be ugly.

As I sat quietly after eating our Indian take-out dinner, I absorbed all of these feelings within my sanctuary; my bedroom. I stared at the “Happy” journal I had been gifted from our 2019 December book club exchange; a book that was almost completely filled. Journaling each night became a habit that I began on January 1, 2020 and I faithfully added this to my bedtime routine.

My mindful practices were paying off.

After my tears of frustration I calmly breathed deeply in and out.

• My daily Calm app has taught me to focus and center. During my lunch, I sometimes close the door of my office, turn off my lights and breathe deeply amid a hectic day for fifteen minutes.
• I make the effort to walk the large building of our residential care facility for the elderly. As I connect with my senior neighbors, I am reminded how important engagement and interaction with others is. It’s easy to ruminate about the negative when you are isolated.
• I take the time in the morning to be outdoors and jog/walk in the silence of pre-dawn; to work through my day’s to-do list and issues while pounding the pavement. It also gives me some physical time with my sons who quietly jog, with our dog, beside me. I do this at least four mornings per week, more if I can wake my sons and dog.
• I pray. After I pray I list the things, in my head, what I am grateful for each and every day. My health. My job. My family. My friends.
• I continue to attend my faith services virtually each Sunday evening. I am fortunate that the clergyman from my church visits our RCFE monthly to provide services to our seniors; to have the physical connection.
• I take my multivitamin, remind myself to drink lots of water and watch my Google news BEFORE my hot cup of coffee. If I don’t do it first thing I know it doesn’t get done.

The very next morning, my mind clear, I knew what I had to do. I shared my vision with my staff and I got to work. I quickly typed the memo, sent it for approval and set out to work on distribution.

For the remaining ten days of Christmas I was going to bring holiday cheer to my community and my home.

The sixteenth of December started off with ugly sweater day. The stockings went up in the break room. I played Christmas music as I wrapped presents or put up decorations at work.

And so it went. I consciously made the effort to accentuate the positives and acknowledged the negatives. I am no Pollyanna. The words I always use to describe myself to others are transparency and authenticity. Sure, I can push holiday cheer but I also hear the concerns of residents and staff, acknowledge them and try to deliver the reality in simple words; not sugarcoat them.

I can’t say that I have always been this way but maturity brings this kind of wisdom. When you work with the older population, my words have to ring true because they can see right through you. It’s one of the reasons why I enjoy working with seniors. They constantly keep me in check, share their wisdom and keep me learning.

Our seniors have so much to contribute and it is my job to remind them of that.

It is a “win” to see a smile or chuckle. To watch people find ugly sweaters to groan about. For those who know me, I dress for the seasons with jingle jewelry and colorful scarves and I have been this way since I was a teenager in high school. Who knew these quirks would still be who I am decades later?

I laughed when my son brought out his ugly sweater to wear yesterday. The boys commented on my reindeer barrettes and how I placed them improperly upon my head. As I went into Costco for a work errand, not one person commented on my misplaced antlers. I had forgotten they were on my head.

I shared my angst about my boys’ inconsiderate ways and how, as a mother, it pains me that they have not learned this. I said this in plain language, not in angry tones after several days of coming to terms with my triggers. I tell them how I feel they are entitled and that it is my fault. That is my job, as well as my hubs’, to teach them to be better men.

The memory came unbidden and to my surprise, I voiced it out loud. At age eighteen, upon getting my first paycheck, my first purchase was to buy myself a leather jacket. At Nordstroms. I have never walked into a Nordstroms until that first day, paycheck in my hand and it was November. I had been selfish. I felt it was deserved. But after that first purchase, I roamed the mall and found gifts for my parents and extended family for Christmas. I was proud that I could finally purchase something, with my own money, for them and I was heading home for Thanksgiving.

The weekend of that Thanksgiving, my father died of colon cancer.

I was grateful to be there, to hear that last rattling breath. My recently deceased cousin had been with me, holding his other hand. As life would have it, that same cousin would be the only hand my mother held onto as she died in her hospital bed fourteen years later as I tried to fly home from vacation to be there. My cousin died of lung cancer in February 2019. I had missed her last breath by sixteen minutes. I rushed from work to try to be there. Thankfully her sons and husband were there, to hold her own hands.

I had gifts for everyone that Christmas. But my father was gone.

I don’t share all of the above with my sons, only my husband, but in my mind, I wonder if my sons could be considerate. They rarely see me when I do come home, except for dinner, as they continue with virtual school, work or gaming. How long would it take for them to miss my presence?

When the text from 2000 miles today asked if I was ready for Christmas, the words for this post was the long response I wanted to answer. It took forty-five minutes.

This Christmas, again, I have the presents. But what does it mean if they aren’t present and lost in their own worlds? If as a family we can’t gather and give to one another? If they don’t acknowledge the real reason for the season, the birth of the Christ child?

I can show you pictures of my home, it is decorated and mostly ready. But if you’re not ready in your heart and mind, the point is lost. Especially in a surging pandemic.

I find myself getting caught up in the material and negative mindsets. I recently looked at my photo album from last year, filled with activities, concerts and parties; feeling the lack of them this year. I miss them.

But in other ways, I do not. The lack of distractions has given me a true look of my own home and self, to discover what I can live with and without. I miss the interactions but I don’t miss the busy-ness. I still can create my own chaos even without outside scheduling.

It is all in our mindset.

So today, as I clean my messy home and ponder my messy life, I accept it for what it is. I clean and tell myself that I’m preparing.

“…a voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.”’

Mark 1:3 NIV

I breathe deeply. Namaste. I mentally work to straighten my paths.