Early in my career, I landed a coveted university job that came with a cozy on-campus apartment in a dorm, which, I grant you, may not sound enticing. But the perk was offered by Roger Williams University, which perches above the Mount Hope Bay in Bristol, Rhode Island. Through my picture windows, I delighted in million-dollar views of the sparkling bay through the tree line. Residing in a dorm engenders drawbacks, though, including occasionally having to address student disruptions late into the night. One morning, after one of those long nights, I hit the snooze bar and, without even getting out of bed, called our administrative assistant to let her know I would be coming to the office late. I was still snuggled under covers when I got a call from Terry who seemed worried that I hadn’t yet arrived. I said something along the lines of “I’m sleeping in a bit; I told you that when I talked to you earlier.” She said “ok; I’ll see you soon then” – in an oddly hesitant tone. As I lay awake contemplating hitting the shower, it dawned on me that the phone, when I answered it, was not in the same place it was when I had called in my late start. I sat up and rang Terry back. “I never talked to you about coming in late, did I,” and she laughed and said “no, you did not.” I had dreamt the entire episode. Thus is one of the perils of a lifelong dependence on the snooze bar. I readily admit to routinely hitting snooze a half dozen times and often set a second alarm out of reach if I am worried about getting up on time. I have incorporated the sound of the alarm into my dreams rather than wake up to shut it off. I have slept through the entire hour of allotted snooze time without noticing that I’m hitting that bar with abandon. I have bargained with myself about which aspect of the morning routine to skip in order to get nine more minutes of sleep. Yes, I know snoozing between alarms probably isn’t the most restful strategy; I’m interrupting my sleep cycle, spiking my stress levels, and getting crankier with each trip of the alarm. Yet still, the snooze bar remains in my estimation a most marvelous invention for us not-a-morning-person people. I’ve lived my whole life fully aware of the differences between morning people (early larks) and evening people (night owls), and it’s an easy call what bird I am. Larks get out of bed raring to go, challenge themselves to a run or gym session before breakfast, and arrive chipper to early morning meetings. They’re primed to debate options and solve problems before lunch, but drag by late afternoon. They appreciate leisurely evenings and tuck themselves in bed well before 10 pm. Night people have to be prompted to get up (if not by others, then by an annoying alarm). Their energies, their creativity, their analysis skills, all peak much later in the day. They’re all-in for getting projects done after dinner, or to socialize until well after the stars come out. Scientists tell us that affinity for morning or evening distributes on a bell curve (small percentage at the edges, the vast majority in the middle). On the Morningness-Eveningness Questionaire (a popular research tool), I scored in the “moderate evening” category, which kind-of surprised me, but I guess there are night owls up much later than I am, some even quite nocturnal. According to cycadean rhythm research, morning people are characterized as introverted, conscientious, agreeable and emotionally stable; they’re happier and more successful. Night people garner descriptors like extroverted, open-minded, and smart (higher cognitive functioning), but they are also more likely to be narcissistic, psychopathic, and impulsive. Owls get bad news on the medical report as well; the eveningness type is linked to depression, addictive behaviors, and other mental health problems, and night owls tend to die younger. I suspect that trying to mask our identity as night owls exacerbates all these negative outcomes. Sleep researcher Dr. Kristen Knutson concurred to a degree, “Trying to be a night owl in a morning lark world can affect how you sleep, how you eat, and how you exercise — all things we know can affect mood and overall health.” Her recommendation is to try to align with your natural rhythms, but the world seems to have a lot of morning-hour demands. We not-a-morning-person people live out of step with the routines of work hours (and school hours, but I’m long past that problem). We suffer “social jet lag,” that odd dissociative feeling of being a step behind because our preferred sleep and awake patterns are not well accommodated. In my experience, corporate world norms favored morning people: 8 am meetings were commonplace; 4 pm meetings, frowned upon; 7 am emails were not noticed, but 11 pm messages drew sarcastic commentary. It felt more acceptable to come in early to work on a project than to stay late the night before. Morning people seemed to be perceived as go-getters, late night people, as inefficient. If indeed most people don’t fall on the far morningness end of the bell curve, then why do we feel so much pressure to conform to the schedule of the larks? We’re told “the early bird gets the worm,” and that “early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Where are the proverbs giving accolades to the night people? As a night owl, I’ve found ways to adjust to morning lark expectations. I force myself to go to bed earlier than I like to be able to wake earlier than I like. Taking my shower first thing combats the grogginess of a too-early rise. I complete as many morning ritual tasks as possible the night before: putting my lunch bag together, selecting my wardrobe, packing things in the car (or gathering them at the door) – all so I can shave as many minutes as possible off the time needed to be ready to go for the day. And I make liberal use of the snooze bar to give myself a slower wake-up routine. For those brutal early-morning commutes, I found places I could pull off to rest my eyes for a few minutes when necessary. The night owl gods shone on me when several of my roles allowed me to switch up my start time to 10 or 11 am; I never minded the later end times as I could work in quiet after most other people went home, and I didn’t have to deal with the evening rush on the highways. When I started my own consulting practice, I kept off-beat hours, rarely starting before 10 am (despite the much shorter across-the-hallway commute), and often working until 10 or 11 at night after having taken part of the day for errands or long walks in nature. Mind you, in indulging my night owl ways, I haven’t had to worry about schedules of spouse or children; I have managed my time with only myself to consider. I feel it’s more natural to wake up well after the sun comes up. I encounter fewer crowds during later meal times and the final hour before store closings. The dark of night beckons to me as quiet time for deep thinking work. My energy for housecleaning and baking is brought to bear later in the evening. And there’s nothing better than curling up with a good book with hours of uninterrupted time to indulge. I imagine that larks experience the flip side of the annoyances I’ve mentioned. Their bounce-out-of-bed energy may be met with eye rolls. They go hungry in late morning while waiting for the standard lunch hour to tick up. Housemates may keep them up by reading and watching TV when they are trying to get to sleep. They miss out on night life and may wonder why socializing can’t be organized for more civilized times of day. Their accommodations may well mirror mine: cherishing unpopulated venues in the mornings and having high energy to expend before the work day. It seems diversity in cycadean rhythm is another arena in which we could all learn to give each other grace to be who we are. I’m happy to report that the loose structure of retired life provides that freedom. I have at last turned off my morning alarms and self-imposed bedtime to let my internal clock do its thing. Turns out, I’m naturally more of a 9 am to 1:30 am kind of gal, and allowing myself to live within those hours has been glorious! I’m gifting myself slow mornings: leisurely routine, simple breakfast, reading on the balcony. I’m also changing my typical meal times: moving lunch to 1-2 pm and dinner to 7:30 – 8:30 pm (how Mediterranean!). I dedicate more of my prime hours to the absorbing challenges of writing. And I’m working on reserving late evening time for reading or cross-stitching or walking, staying off the computer. It’s possible that I’ll morph slowly into a lark as I age; there are some indicators that may be the norm. But for now, I’m loving the more consistently owl-like rhythms of my life these days – and I’m retiring my snooze bar.
They say a picture is worth 1000 words, but it is more often true that 1000 words evoke more than a picture ever could. While doing some decluttering the other day, I came across my senior yearbook and flipped through it to revisit some of my younger years. The 77 Gate: a slim volume with a stylized red-on-white cover opening to a black-and-white photo album. Groups of students staged in varying arrays representing each class, sports team, and student organization (although unhelpfully identified by first initial, last name only). Faculty and staff in several columns of informal headshots. Pages of candid stills that don’t quite create a coherent story arc. Each senior devised their own page (a perk of having a small student body), and these showcased self-selected photos, an activities list, a favorite quote, and a paragraph of “dot-dots” meant to recall things we were known for (but fifty years later are mostly inscrutable); mine included my teen-age fashion caveat, “It’s a Sears original” and an inexplicable reference to “volleyball” which I never could play well. The yearbook struck me as oddly still life, lacking in vibrancy. It generated fond smiles, sure, but it didn’t begin to capture the full experience of high school, the personalities of my friends, or the moments that I remember most. The amusing photo of the Chez Nous editing team doesn’t show the long hours putting together articles and using x-acto knives and rulers to lay out the newspaper for printing. The choir pages display formal group photos and a summary of performances, but they don’t talk about how finely tuned we were that year, with gorgeous harmonies and ethereal soloists, and they don’t recall our adventures, like the laughter-filled van ride in Washington, DC. The action shots of team sports don’t capture the screaming-on-the-sidelines moments and school spirit – or the lingering memory of the horrific car accident on the way to a field hockey game our sophomore year. Even though the pictures are set on campus, they don’t evoke the sense of place I can still feel when I go back there in my imagination. The handwritten messages from those who signed my yearbook testify to relationships and memories a bit more, but these are necessarily short and often messages of farewell. I can’t help but wish we had filled the yearbook with heart-felt reflections and deep-dive articles to remind us of the events, the emotions, the experiences we hoped would linger when we look back from future decades. There’s something magical in the power of words. Many of us have thousands of photographs, from special occasions, to well-plated meals, to holiday shenanigans, to everyday selfies, which our cloud and social media providers organize into “yearbooks” with no indication of the significance of each year’s photo stream. On social media, we make “stories,” but these tend to be carousels of pictures, with little more than captions or musical selections to indicate what the deeper story is. Perusing pictures taken by my brother’s family on their trip to Italy, or the photographs captured at my niece’s wedding, or the candid snapshot albums posted to Facebook – these all provide tantalizing glimpses into others’ lives, but I can’t help but want to know more of their personal experiences of these days. My friends and I – as we grow older – have all commented about how picture boxes from our parents, or even from our childhoods, are not meaningful (or particularly bequeathable) – and people, place, and events are often not even identifiable. Still, we hesitate to throw these photo collections away; there’s a sense of something precious missing and we have no way to find what that is. I can only imagine what will be lost when what people inherit is a trove of thousands of everyday digital photos with no hints of which are artifacts from truly impactful events and relationships. In my vacation blogging (a habit over the last 20 years or so), I’ve captured musings that are part photo journal, part travelogue, and part rumination. My posts bring me right back to those days in ways that snapshots and searching my memories don’t. Still, I notice that they capture much more of the ‘what’ than the wonder. I could have shared more about how those gorgeous landscapes, inspiring art works, small town wanderings, and interesting people impacted me. Now that I’ve thought about this, I challenge myself, and I challenge you, to take time to create short essays, voice recordings, or revealing captions for those photographs that constitute a scrapbook of your most personally important days. Quote little kids so that when they are big kids and adults looking back on their childhoods, they gain insight into their still-forming personalities from back then. Future generations will revel in hearing inner voices and learning more of the details and sentiment of those days. We take pictures to capture memories, but they don’t carry meaning in their metadata. If we hope our future selves or our descendants will take away more than still life, if we want to treasure our yearbooks and photo albums and scrapbooks and desire them to carry some deep significance forward, then we – I as well – should add at least 1000 words.
We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.1 The people are what matter to government, and a government should aim to give all the people under its jurisdiction the best possible life.2 In the final analysis, a democratic government represents the sum total of the courage and the integrity of its individuals. It cannot be better than they are.3 It falls to each of us to be those anxious, jealous guardians of our democracy; to embrace the joyous task we’ve been given to continually try to improve this great nation of ours. Because for all our outward differences, we, in fact, all share the same proud title, the most important office in a democracy: Citizen.4 They may not think like you do, they may not pray like you do, they may not love like you do, but they’re your neighbors. You look out for them, and they look out for you. Everybody belongs, and everybody has a responsibility to contribute.5 It is for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.6 1 The Constitution of the United States, 17892 Frances Perkins, Two Views of American Labor, 19653 Eleanor Roosevelt, Tomorrow is Now, 19664 Barack Obama, Farewell Address, 20175 Tim Walz, VP nomination acceptance speech, 20246 Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address, 1863 For the 4th of July, 2026 – the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, in which our founding fathers vowed to “mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” I couldn’t say it better myself.
I am officially retired – have you heard? (She says with some degree of sarcasm since she’s been shouting it from the rooftops.) So: here’s a little bit about how I am now spending my days… kinda living my best life. Friday, May 15 – A Sunday-paper kind of morning. A time lived mostly in my head, absorbed in newsletters from some of my favorite thinkers. My heart hurts as they explore the origins and implications of current crises; my mind whirls as they delve into some of my favorite topics; my fingers itch to write. I collect ideas, notice turns of phrase, consider what to pursue further. Among this day’s treasures: Audrey Waters rebukes tech bro arrogance as “full of historical inaccuracies and scientific impossibilities drowned out by great bravado.” Anya Kamenetz, a New Orleans native, wonders how to mourn a city that will eventually be lost to rising seas while it is still so vibrant to her and her family. “How long is the long run? How long does it need to be, to be worth loving and caring for this place?” Anne-Laure Le Cunff cautions about turning hobbies into hustles, uncomfortably echoing my concern that pursuing publication will be exchanging one exhausting and disheartening performance pursuit for another. As a counterpoint, Austin Kleon (who has managed to turn his doodles into best-sellers) thrums with excitement over the imminent publication of his newest book, Don’t Call It Art. Lisa Sibbett pens the most memorable phrase twist of the day when she describes those “whose vivres bubble over with joie” and I think that might apply to me. These authors often recommend links, and I dive into rabbit holes with a measure of glee. And on it goes: political analysis, provocative opinion, topical essays, advice columns, book news, humor. While I enjoy a ginger muffin and glass of orange juice, I’m learning, rethinking, marveling, exploring. When I look up, it’s well past lunchtime already. Sunday, May 17 – A spectacular early summer day. I feel untethered, relaxed, amused, expectant. I appreciate that I am so incredibly fortunate. Happy-tear emotions arise unexpectedly from a day-long meander around Rehoboth Beach at its sunny, warm, sparkling best, where I go to do do-nothing things and to absorb the sights and sounds: the joy, the bustle, the life. Families tow littles dressed in matching outfits. Portable A-shaped sidewalk billboards advertise menus and sales and grand openings. Store doors open wide to invite comings and goings. I hear the cadence and tone of conversations, but not the words. Music spills out – Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, The Fate of Ophilia, a cover of a folk song I can’t quite name. A young teen-ager calls out, “Hey, that’s Michael Jackson!” – a fact I knew three seconds into the distinctive Billie Jean backbeat. While the scent of French fries and funnel cake and fresh pizza lure some people, I treat myself to a small black-and-white milkshake. On the beach, the rental shacks and lifeguard stands have been returned from their storehouses. People plant chairs and blankets, only to set out searching for stones and shells and metal treasures, to approach the sea to test the temperature and brave the waves. As I settle into my thinking spot on a boardwalk bench facing the ocean, the breeze is refreshing, the sound of the waves is heartening, the action on the beach is fascinating. Someone flies a fancy kite, its long panel of primary color bands slithering like a Chinese dragon’s tail. A group of teens holds conference with a quad of police officers and their conversation thankfully ends without drama. A swarm of seagulls scree discordantly as they swoop in for French fries that a beach-goer carelessly tosses into the air. Deep cleansing breath. I want to imprint this feeling in my mind forever. Thursday, May 28 – Learning the sea breezes’ personalities. This morning’s atmospheric current works like a celestial shepherd, breaking up the poofy clouds, prodding them to spread out and meander for the day. Later, while I’m wandering the stores in Bethany Beach, I’m joined by a Rastafarian zephyr off the ocean, a cool cat with a beachy vibe. It hums past me, fluttering my shirt, tempering the heat of the sun. When I seek a quiet shady spot in the garden patio of Coastal Library, the breeze caresses me like a sweetheart’s breath, playing with my hair while I lose myself in a novel. Returning to the boardwalk later, the ocean-cooled airflow annoys like a kid brother. It teases at me on my walk, whips up my hair, and pokes my attention when I pause for a sit. At the same time, it’s a surfer’s best friend, churning up the waves to rideable heights. As I leave for home, the wind gods are gathering a threatening cloud bank to block the sun. Yet out on my balcony after sunset, the air moves softly like a cabaret performer, tinkling my neighbor’s windchimes. Friday, May 29 – Am writing. On my beach walk this afternoon, I realize that these essays have yet to cover the best part of my retired life: time spent writing. It isn’t long before – as is often typical – I start composing in my head while ambling down the beach. At first, I wonder if I should describe the flow I get into when writing, how hours slip by without my noticing. But I quickly realize that, better, I could describe a writing session. The quiet rhythm of wave action and walking motion energizes my thinking; I am absorbed in it even as it fades into background. I start mentally cataloging the writing and editing I did earlier today, even pausing to jot notes on my phone… I reviewed each entry of this journal, challenging myself to make better word choices. “Very very lucky” was reduced to one very, and then to incredibly fortunate. I deleted the unnecessary adjective winter in front of storehouses. Airflow doesn’t just act like an annoying kid brother, it annoys like a kid brother (with apologies to my own, who are never annoying). I realized that the ending of the breezes essay needed to circle back to the wind at my condo, and then I described the wind off the balcony like a cabaret performer not singer which better aligns with playing the wind chimes. I reorganized paragraphs for better flow. I shortened and sharpened a few sentences. I read aloud, and rewrote a couple of sections because I kept stumbling over them. More word refinements, small additions, judicial deletions. After several hours, my body needed the kind of good stretch that a beach walk can provide. And so it seems I am earning the writer-beach-walker title I aspire to. I hope you enjoyed a peek into my new rhythms: nothing extravagant, just appreciating the vibe and doing what I love most. These essays were initiated as an assignment for my latest writing course. Thanks to Maribeth and my classmates for helping me to refine my writing.
An Art in the AM reading prompted by the Ian Friedland piece pictured at the bottom. The artfulness of a marquetry master flows through every decision he makes. He considers and selects specific veneers based on their species, their color, their grain, the way each can be cut. From thin sheets of wood and the use of sharp implements, the artist is able to piece together the picture he has imagined. Depth and pattern are created in juxtaposition, each piece placed and honed to fit exactly so. I imagine he sometimes takes a step back to deal with ragged cuts or placement mistakes or low supplies. Or to consider evolving ideas about what the piece might be, what picture or pattern might ultimately be made manifest. The marquetry is mesmerizing; the piece is alive, human-made, art. Perhaps I am so taken with this piece because it reminds me of how to make my own art. I, too, have many elements of choice: genre, framework, shell, tone. From a nearly limitless supply of words and using an array of writing techniques, I piece together sentences and paragraphs and essays. I search for words with the right color and texture, shape sentences to capture my meaning, my sentiment, or my story. And Lord knows, I often rethink, restart, revise – evolving far from original plan to write the piece that seems to want to be written. But the most interesting similarity between the marquetry artist and my work is the study in contrasts – how often our best work is revealed in juxtaposition. For me: An unexpected word choice. A change of tone. Modulating rhythm. Alternating voices. Evocative metaphor. Dark and light. Parallel and perpendicular. Mundane and peculiar. Sharp edges and shadows. Contrasts prompt my readers to engage, think, look again, to find the pattern, the deeper meaning, that is being revealed in my marquetry.
Early in my career, I landed a coveted university job that came with a cozy on-campus apartment in a dorm, which, I grant you, may not sound enticing. But the perk was offered by Roger Williams University, which perches above the Mount Hope Bay in Bristol, Rhode Island. Through my picture windows, I delighted in million-dollar views of the sparkling bay through the tree line. Residing in a dorm engenders drawbacks, though, including occasionally having to address student disruptions late into the night. One morning, after one of those long nights, I hit the snooze bar and, without even getting out of bed, called our administrative assistant to let her know I would be coming to the office late. I was still snuggled under covers when I got a call from Terry who seemed worried that I hadn’t yet arrived. I said something along the lines of “I’m sleeping in a bit; I told you that when I talked to you earlier.” She said “ok; I’ll see you soon then” – in an oddly hesitant tone. As I lay awake contemplating hitting the shower, it dawned on me that the phone, when I answered it, was not in the same place it was when I had called in my late start. I sat up and rang Terry back. “I never talked to you about coming in late, did I,” and she laughed and said “no, you did not.” I had dreamt the entire episode. Thus is one of the perils of a lifelong dependence on the snooze bar. I readily admit to routinely hitting snooze a half dozen times and often set a second alarm out of reach if I am worried about getting up on time. I have incorporated the sound of the alarm into my dreams rather than wake up to shut it off. I have slept through the entire hour of allotted snooze time without noticing that I’m hitting that bar with abandon. I have bargained with myself about which aspect of the morning routine to skip in order to get nine more minutes of sleep. Yes, I know snoozing between alarms probably isn’t the most restful strategy; I’m interrupting my sleep cycle, spiking my stress levels, and getting crankier with each trip of the alarm. Yet still, the snooze bar remains in my estimation a most marvelous invention for us not-a-morning-person people. I’ve lived my whole life fully aware of the differences between morning people (early larks) and evening people (night owls), and it’s an easy call what bird I am. Larks get out of bed raring to go, challenge themselves to a run or gym session before breakfast, and arrive chipper to early morning meetings. They’re primed to debate options and solve problems before lunch, but drag by late afternoon. They appreciate leisurely evenings and tuck themselves in bed well before 10 pm. Night people have to be prompted to get up (if not by others, then by an annoying alarm). Their energies, their creativity, their analysis skills, all peak much later in the day. They’re all-in for getting projects done after dinner, or to socialize until well after the stars come out. Scientists tell us that affinity for morning or evening distributes on a bell curve (small percentage at the edges, the vast majority in the middle). On the Morningness-Eveningness Questionaire (a popular research tool), I scored in the “moderate evening” category, which kind-of surprised me, but I guess there are night owls up much later than I am, some even quite nocturnal. According to cycadean rhythm research, morning people are characterized as introverted, conscientious, agreeable and emotionally stable; they’re happier and more successful. Night people garner descriptors like extroverted, open-minded, and smart (higher cognitive functioning), but they are also more likely to be narcissistic, psychopathic, and impulsive. Owls get bad news on the medical report as well; the eveningness type is linked to depression, addictive behaviors, and other mental health problems, and night owls tend to die younger. I suspect that trying to mask our identity as night owls exacerbates all these negative outcomes. Sleep researcher Dr. Kristen Knutson concurred to a degree, “Trying to be a night owl in a morning lark world can affect how you sleep, how you eat, and how you exercise — all things we know can affect mood and overall health.” Her recommendation is to try to align with your natural rhythms, but the world seems to have a lot of morning-hour demands. We not-a-morning-person people live out of step with the routines of work hours (and school hours, but I’m long past that problem). We suffer “social jet lag,” that odd dissociative feeling of being a step behind because our preferred sleep and awake patterns are not well accommodated. In my experience, corporate world norms favored morning people: 8 am meetings were commonplace; 4 pm meetings, frowned upon; 7 am emails were not noticed, but 11 pm messages drew sarcastic commentary. It felt more acceptable to come in early to work on a project than to stay late the night before. Morning people seemed to be perceived as go-getters, late night people, as inefficient. If indeed most people don’t fall on the far morningness end of the bell curve, then why do we feel so much pressure to conform to the schedule of the larks? We’re told “the early bird gets the worm,” and that “early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Where are the proverbs giving accolades to the night people? As a night owl, I’ve found ways to adjust to morning lark expectations. I force myself to go to bed earlier than I like to be able to wake earlier than I like. Taking my shower first thing combats the grogginess of a too-early rise. I complete as many morning ritual tasks as possible the night before: putting my lunch bag together, selecting my wardrobe, packing things in the car (or gathering them at the door) – all so I can shave as many minutes as possible off the time needed to be ready to go for the day. And I make liberal use of the snooze bar to give myself a slower wake-up routine. For those brutal early-morning commutes, I found places I could pull off to rest my eyes for a few minutes when necessary. The night owl gods shone on me when several of my roles allowed me to switch up my start time to 10 or 11 am; I never minded the later end times as I could work in quiet after most other people went home, and I didn’t have to deal with the evening rush on the highways. When I started my own consulting practice, I kept off-beat hours, rarely starting before 10 am (despite the much shorter across-the-hallway commute), and often working until 10 or 11 at night after having taken part of the day for errands or long walks in nature. Mind you, in indulging my night owl ways, I haven’t had to worry about schedules of spouse or children; I have managed my time with only myself to consider. I feel it’s more natural to wake up well after the sun comes up. I encounter fewer crowds during later meal times and the final hour before store closings. The dark of night beckons to me as quiet time for deep thinking work. My energy for housecleaning and baking is brought to bear later in the evening. And there’s nothing better than curling up with a good book with hours of uninterrupted time to indulge. I imagine that larks experience the flip side of the annoyances I’ve mentioned. Their bounce-out-of-bed energy may be met with eye rolls. They go hungry in late morning while waiting for the standard lunch hour to tick up. Housemates may keep them up by reading and watching TV when they are trying to get to sleep. They miss out on night life and may wonder why socializing can’t be organized for more civilized times of day. Their accommodations may well mirror mine: cherishing unpopulated venues in the mornings and having high energy to expend before the work day. It seems diversity in cycadean rhythm is another arena in which we could all learn to give each other grace to be who we are. I’m happy to report that the loose structure of retired life provides that freedom. I have at last turned off my morning alarms and self-imposed bedtime to let my internal clock do its thing. Turns out, I’m naturally more of a 9 am to 1:30 am kind of gal, and allowing myself to live within those hours has been glorious! I’m gifting myself slow mornings: leisurely routine, simple breakfast, reading on the balcony. I’m also changing my typical meal times: moving lunch to 1-2 pm and dinner to 7:30 – 8:30 pm (how Mediterranean!). I dedicate more of my prime hours to the absorbing challenges of writing. And I’m working on reserving late evening time for reading or cross-stitching or walking, staying off the computer. It’s possible that I’ll morph slowly into a lark as I age; there are some indicators that may be the norm. But for now, I’m loving the more consistently owl-like rhythms of my life these days – and I’m retiring my snooze bar.
They say a picture is worth 1000 words, but it is more often true that 1000 words evoke more than a picture ever could. While doing some decluttering the other day, I came across my senior yearbook and flipped through it to revisit some of my younger years. The 77 Gate: a slim volume with a stylized red-on-white cover opening to a black-and-white photo album. Groups of students staged in varying arrays representing each class, sports team, and student organization (although unhelpfully identified by first initial, last name only). Faculty and staff in several columns of informal headshots. Pages of candid stills that don’t quite create a coherent story arc. Each senior devised their own page (a perk of having a small student body), and these showcased self-selected photos, an activities list, a favorite quote, and a paragraph of “dot-dots” meant to recall things we were known for (but fifty years later are mostly inscrutable); mine included my teen-age fashion caveat, “It’s a Sears original” and an inexplicable reference to “volleyball” which I never could play well. The yearbook struck me as oddly still life, lacking in vibrancy. It generated fond smiles, sure, but it didn’t begin to capture the full experience of high school, the personalities of my friends, or the moments that I remember most. The amusing photo of the Chez Nous editing team doesn’t show the long hours putting together articles and using x-acto knives and rulers to lay out the newspaper for printing. The choir pages display formal group photos and a summary of performances, but they don’t talk about how finely tuned we were that year, with gorgeous harmonies and ethereal soloists, and they don’t recall our adventures, like the laughter-filled van ride in Washington, DC. The action shots of team sports don’t capture the screaming-on-the-sidelines moments and school spirit – or the lingering memory of the horrific car accident on the way to a field hockey game our sophomore year. Even though the pictures are set on campus, they don’t evoke the sense of place I can still feel when I go back there in my imagination. The handwritten messages from those who signed my yearbook testify to relationships and memories a bit more, but these are necessarily short and often messages of farewell. I can’t help but wish we had filled the yearbook with heart-felt reflections and deep-dive articles to remind us of the events, the emotions, the experiences we hoped would linger when we look back from future decades. There’s something magical in the power of words. Many of us have thousands of photographs, from special occasions, to well-plated meals, to holiday shenanigans, to everyday selfies, which our cloud and social media providers organize into “yearbooks” with no indication of the significance of each year’s photo stream. On social media, we make “stories,” but these tend to be carousels of pictures, with little more than captions or musical selections to indicate what the deeper story is. Perusing pictures taken by my brother’s family on their trip to Italy, or the photographs captured at my niece’s wedding, or the candid snapshot albums posted to Facebook – these all provide tantalizing glimpses into others’ lives, but I can’t help but want to know more of their personal experiences of these days. My friends and I – as we grow older – have all commented about how picture boxes from our parents, or even from our childhoods, are not meaningful (or particularly bequeathable) – and people, place, and events are often not even identifiable. Still, we hesitate to throw these photo collections away; there’s a sense of something precious missing and we have no way to find what that is. I can only imagine what will be lost when what people inherit is a trove of thousands of everyday digital photos with no hints of which are artifacts from truly impactful events and relationships. In my vacation blogging (a habit over the last 20 years or so), I’ve captured musings that are part photo journal, part travelogue, and part rumination. My posts bring me right back to those days in ways that snapshots and searching my memories don’t. Still, I notice that they capture much more of the ‘what’ than the wonder. I could have shared more about how those gorgeous landscapes, inspiring art works, small town wanderings, and interesting people impacted me. Now that I’ve thought about this, I challenge myself, and I challenge you, to take time to create short essays, voice recordings, or revealing captions for those photographs that constitute a scrapbook of your most personally important days. Quote little kids so that when they are big kids and adults looking back on their childhoods, they gain insight into their still-forming personalities from back then. Future generations will revel in hearing inner voices and learning more of the details and sentiment of those days. We take pictures to capture memories, but they don’t carry meaning in their metadata. If we hope our future selves or our descendants will take away more than still life, if we want to treasure our yearbooks and photo albums and scrapbooks and desire them to carry some deep significance forward, then we – I as well – should add at least 1000 words.
We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.1 The people are what matter to government, and a government should aim to give all the people under its jurisdiction the best possible life.2 In the final analysis, a democratic government represents the sum total of the courage and the integrity of its individuals. It cannot be better than they are.3 It falls to each of us to be those anxious, jealous guardians of our democracy; to embrace the joyous task we’ve been given to continually try to improve this great nation of ours. Because for all our outward differences, we, in fact, all share the same proud title, the most important office in a democracy: Citizen.4 They may not think like you do, they may not pray like you do, they may not love like you do, but they’re your neighbors. You look out for them, and they look out for you. Everybody belongs, and everybody has a responsibility to contribute.5 It is for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.6 1 The Constitution of the United States, 17892 Frances Perkins, Two Views of American Labor, 19653 Eleanor Roosevelt, Tomorrow is Now, 19664 Barack Obama, Farewell Address, 20175 Tim Walz, VP nomination acceptance speech, 20246 Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address, 1863 For the 4th of July, 2026 – the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, in which our founding fathers vowed to “mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” I couldn’t say it better myself.
I am officially retired – have you heard? (She says with some degree of sarcasm since she’s been shouting it from the rooftops.) So: here’s a little bit about how I am now spending my days… kinda living my best life. Friday, May 15 – A Sunday-paper kind of morning. A time lived mostly in my head, absorbed in newsletters from some of my favorite thinkers. My heart hurts as they explore the origins and implications of current crises; my mind whirls as they delve into some of my favorite topics; my fingers itch to write. I collect ideas, notice turns of phrase, consider what to pursue further. Among this day’s treasures: Audrey Waters rebukes tech bro arrogance as “full of historical inaccuracies and scientific impossibilities drowned out by great bravado.” Anya Kamenetz, a New Orleans native, wonders how to mourn a city that will eventually be lost to rising seas while it is still so vibrant to her and her family. “How long is the long run? How long does it need to be, to be worth loving and caring for this place?” Anne-Laure Le Cunff cautions about turning hobbies into hustles, uncomfortably echoing my concern that pursuing publication will be exchanging one exhausting and disheartening performance pursuit for another. As a counterpoint, Austin Kleon (who has managed to turn his doodles into best-sellers) thrums with excitement over the imminent publication of his newest book, Don’t Call It Art. Lisa Sibbett pens the most memorable phrase twist of the day when she describes those “whose vivres bubble over with joie” and I think that might apply to me. These authors often recommend links, and I dive into rabbit holes with a measure of glee. And on it goes: political analysis, provocative opinion, topical essays, advice columns, book news, humor. While I enjoy a ginger muffin and glass of orange juice, I’m learning, rethinking, marveling, exploring. When I look up, it’s well past lunchtime already. Sunday, May 17 – A spectacular early summer day. I feel untethered, relaxed, amused, expectant. I appreciate that I am so incredibly fortunate. Happy-tear emotions arise unexpectedly from a day-long meander around Rehoboth Beach at its sunny, warm, sparkling best, where I go to do do-nothing things and to absorb the sights and sounds: the joy, the bustle, the life. Families tow littles dressed in matching outfits. Portable A-shaped sidewalk billboards advertise menus and sales and grand openings. Store doors open wide to invite comings and goings. I hear the cadence and tone of conversations, but not the words. Music spills out – Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, The Fate of Ophilia, a cover of a folk song I can’t quite name. A young teen-ager calls out, “Hey, that’s Michael Jackson!” – a fact I knew three seconds into the distinctive Billie Jean backbeat. While the scent of French fries and funnel cake and fresh pizza lure some people, I treat myself to a small black-and-white milkshake. On the beach, the rental shacks and lifeguard stands have been returned from their storehouses. People plant chairs and blankets, only to set out searching for stones and shells and metal treasures, to approach the sea to test the temperature and brave the waves. As I settle into my thinking spot on a boardwalk bench facing the ocean, the breeze is refreshing, the sound of the waves is heartening, the action on the beach is fascinating. Someone flies a fancy kite, its long panel of primary color bands slithering like a Chinese dragon’s tail. A group of teens holds conference with a quad of police officers and their conversation thankfully ends without drama. A swarm of seagulls scree discordantly as they swoop in for French fries that a beach-goer carelessly tosses into the air. Deep cleansing breath. I want to imprint this feeling in my mind forever. Thursday, May 28 – Learning the sea breezes’ personalities. This morning’s atmospheric current works like a celestial shepherd, breaking up the poofy clouds, prodding them to spread out and meander for the day. Later, while I’m wandering the stores in Bethany Beach, I’m joined by a Rastafarian zephyr off the ocean, a cool cat with a beachy vibe. It hums past me, fluttering my shirt, tempering the heat of the sun. When I seek a quiet shady spot in the garden patio of Coastal Library, the breeze caresses me like a sweetheart’s breath, playing with my hair while I lose myself in a novel. Returning to the boardwalk later, the ocean-cooled airflow annoys like a kid brother. It teases at me on my walk, whips up my hair, and pokes my attention when I pause for a sit. At the same time, it’s a surfer’s best friend, churning up the waves to rideable heights. As I leave for home, the wind gods are gathering a threatening cloud bank to block the sun. Yet out on my balcony after sunset, the air moves softly like a cabaret performer, tinkling my neighbor’s windchimes. Friday, May 29 – Am writing. On my beach walk this afternoon, I realize that these essays have yet to cover the best part of my retired life: time spent writing. It isn’t long before – as is often typical – I start composing in my head while ambling down the beach. At first, I wonder if I should describe the flow I get into when writing, how hours slip by without my noticing. But I quickly realize that, better, I could describe a writing session. The quiet rhythm of wave action and walking motion energizes my thinking; I am absorbed in it even as it fades into background. I start mentally cataloging the writing and editing I did earlier today, even pausing to jot notes on my phone… I reviewed each entry of this journal, challenging myself to make better word choices. “Very very lucky” was reduced to one very, and then to incredibly fortunate. I deleted the unnecessary adjective winter in front of storehouses. Airflow doesn’t just act like an annoying kid brother, it annoys like a kid brother (with apologies to my own, who are never annoying). I realized that the ending of the breezes essay needed to circle back to the wind at my condo, and then I described the wind off the balcony like a cabaret performer not singer which better aligns with playing the wind chimes. I reorganized paragraphs for better flow. I shortened and sharpened a few sentences. I read aloud, and rewrote a couple of sections because I kept stumbling over them. More word refinements, small additions, judicial deletions. After several hours, my body needed the kind of good stretch that a beach walk can provide. And so it seems I am earning the writer-beach-walker title I aspire to. I hope you enjoyed a peek into my new rhythms: nothing extravagant, just appreciating the vibe and doing what I love most. These essays were initiated as an assignment for my latest writing course. Thanks to Maribeth and my classmates for helping me to refine my writing.
An Art in the AM reading prompted by the Ian Friedland piece pictured at the bottom. The artfulness of a marquetry master flows through every decision he makes. He considers and selects specific veneers based on their species, their color, their grain, the way each can be cut. From thin sheets of wood and the use of sharp implements, the artist is able to piece together the picture he has imagined. Depth and pattern are created in juxtaposition, each piece placed and honed to fit exactly so. I imagine he sometimes takes a step back to deal with ragged cuts or placement mistakes or low supplies. Or to consider evolving ideas about what the piece might be, what picture or pattern might ultimately be made manifest. The marquetry is mesmerizing; the piece is alive, human-made, art. Perhaps I am so taken with this piece because it reminds me of how to make my own art. I, too, have many elements of choice: genre, framework, shell, tone. From a nearly limitless supply of words and using an array of writing techniques, I piece together sentences and paragraphs and essays. I search for words with the right color and texture, shape sentences to capture my meaning, my sentiment, or my story. And Lord knows, I often rethink, restart, revise – evolving far from original plan to write the piece that seems to want to be written. But the most interesting similarity between the marquetry artist and my work is the study in contrasts – how often our best work is revealed in juxtaposition. For me: An unexpected word choice. A change of tone. Modulating rhythm. Alternating voices. Evocative metaphor. Dark and light. Parallel and perpendicular. Mundane and peculiar. Sharp edges and shadows. Contrasts prompt my readers to engage, think, look again, to find the pattern, the deeper meaning, that is being revealed in my marquetry.