For Jen

Meaning and depth can come from the most unexpected places sometime. Thank you, Jen, for sharing your current story when I asked for suggestions on writing topics.

Jen said, "I’ve been going through some dark times lately. My father tried to commit suicide about 2 years ago when he was diagnosed with the beginning stages of dementia. I found him. Thankfully, he is still with us, but I question at times if it really is “thankful” - certainly not for him as he tried to commit it again, and for me, it’s been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever gone through. Of course I’m in counseling. But I question - where is his quality of life. His dignity. I don’t know actually where I’m going with this - he was in the Air Force and fought in Vietnam. Out of all of the things in life he’s accomplished (House of Delegates, father, farmer, lawyer, business owner) he identifies with his time in Vietnam & the Air Force the most. I don’t know if you can write anything from this short interlude, but perhaps it would spark something."

Jen, if I could figure out how to put a hug into words, I would offer it to you right now.

We haven't seen each other since probably May 1990 at our high school graduation, and as I remember it, we weren't even close to being besties in school...more like friendly acquaintances who ran in lightly overlapping circles. I was smart and weird and tried to put a good face on not feeling accepted. You were equally smart and much more popular, active in more sports and extracurriculars than I can count, and friendly with everyone. I see the same smile you had as an 18-year-old still so clearly on pictures you posts these days, and I am delighted and thrilled to see you happy, doing what you love with people you love.

And I am so sorry to hear about your father's decline. Watching a parent age and trying to help them through their transition with love and understanding is one of the suckiest parts of adulting there ever was. Therapy helps, but is hardly ever enough to smooth out the day-to-day, difficult grind of watching a loved one physically deteriorate, wear out mentally, or simply run out of care for their life.

My initial response to what you wrote is to talk about my experience with helping my mother through the last few months of her terminal cancer or disengaging from my father through his last decade because I was tired of always being the one to try to have a relationship. I blogged here about my graceless surviving of my mom's last summer. I don't know that I ever took the same time to write about going through my dad's death three days after I reported to a year-long overseas tour. I probably should do that at some point. But not today.

Because I think what you're really asking about in your suggestion is how your dad is experiencing this, especially as it relates to how his military service, short and long ago, defines him to himself. I would not want to try to comment on that for anyone else, so I'll turn the mirror on myself, and ask how does my service define me to me?

I always erupt with a sniggle (giggle + snicker) when I think about that fact that I joined the military *at all!* never mind stayed in for 22 years and rose to be a senior officer and Commanding Officer of numerous warships. It sounds so absurd. You remember that jean jacket I wore in high school...the one with leather fringe down the sleeves and the big peace sign bleached on the back? I cut class with Erica when we heard the news about the US invading Grenada, sitting in a patch of sunshine to try to cheer ourselves up. I demonstrated against the first Gulf War in front of the White House during my first year of college. I was a paying member of NORML while I was in college, even though I could barely afford textbooks and groceries simultaneously. I wanted so badly to be a hippie, but I couldn't justify the expense of patchouli oil to myself back then. I went to class barefoot instead.

Fast forward a few years, past graduate school and a year of working too hard for too little pay for a non-profit, and I wanted to do more than live paycheck to paycheck without health insurance. I was living in Wilmington, NC, where the Station Wrightsville Beach 47-foot motor lifeboats would sail out through the inlet by the dog beach, DILIGENCE (though I had no idea of her name or significance) moored up downtown, and there was a recruiter in a small strip mall on Shipyard Blvd who offered adventure and was very kind about encouraging me to apply directly to Officer Candidate School because I already had a master's degree. I enlisted for five years, with the hope of stabilizing my financial situation, saving some money to buy a farm, and going into environmental pollution response. One outta three ain't bad, I guess! Took me all 22 years to buy the farm, and I never scrubbed a duck my entire time in the CG.

I never had grand patriotic ideals about Serving My Country and Defending Democracy. I gained those along the way. This past summer, sitting at a Norfolk Tides baseball game, my sister and I talked about our individual patriotism for the first time I can remember. For me, I love our country. It's home. It's not perfect, not by a long stretch. We have so much work to do on so many issues of equity, both past, present, and future. It is a whole lot better than a lot of other places. And it's home...I'll work here to make this better where I can, instead of giving in to vengeful, useless whining about how much things suck or how the "good ol' days" were so much better (newsbreak -- they weren't). I was lucky to be born here, not because I'm more worthy than any other human being...simply a vagary of geography. Read my previous posts from early 2016 (especially this one) when DILIGENCE did back-to-back Florida Straits patrols when high numbers of Cubans were trying to make their way to the US before President Obama ended the decades old wet-foot, dry-foot policy to understand where my visceral belief comes from that my privilege of being born American is just pure dumb luck. I honor that luck by saluting the flag, with my Service, and by helping to change what I can where I can to benefit more than just me and mine.

I get there -- just on a different path than many others. Sounds like a definite theme that runs through my life.

It's hard for me to mentally or emotionally separate my service in the Coast Guard from my time as a cutterman. They are one and the same in many ways, because that's how I spent most of my time. And cuttermen are...not the entire Coast Guard, no matter how much we think we should be. I am proud of (and still awed by and in shock from) my 11-and-a-half years stationed on ships. I survived -- no -- thrived in that crucible. I had adventures and overcame challenges, often with little sleep in shitty weather, undermanned and overtasked. I earned my command swagger, and I walked equally among giants.

I don't think I've internalized that yet. Might take me a while still. I tend to focus on my faults, mistakes, and short-comings instead of my impact, successes, and general bad-assery.

And now I face the rest of my life wondering if my greatest days are behind me. If my all-too-brief and incandescently different path I strode as a cutterman and the impact that had on others', peers, superiors, and subordinates (in terms of rank only, not in innate value, of course) alike, was the pinnacle of what I have to offer in this life. While I am enthralled with and committed to my vision of life as a farmer, how can growing tomatoes ever compare to watching a junior officer I've mentored moor a ship in nearly impossible conditions with skill and grace, or leading a crew to save six lives on a broken fishing vessel, or safely land a helo on a ship out of sight of land? It's a righteous question.

It's like comparing apples and horizons...both glorious in their own way, and on totally different planes of existence with a barely shared language.

One other thought, Jen, for your situation. I recommend reading Sebastian Junger's "Tribe" for perspective on what military service can mean to individuals. It's been a while since I read it, so I don't remember many details. I do, however, remember a lot of "ooh, that feels familiar" and "of course, yes, that sounds right and true for me."

I think there are lots of other tendrils to explore about my service. And I didn't touch on any "quality of life" thoughts...which I have plenty to say about since that's a lot of why I decided to retire.

And Jen, hugs and thoughts and thanks and bows to your courage and strength. The only way out is through -- it shouldn't be any other way. May you find the richness on your path.

Do You Journal?

Thanks to Jason Ryan for the prompt.

Yes, I journal. Sometimes. When the mood strikes. I've tried in the past to have some discipline with it; 30 day writing challenges or journaling in connection to my meditation practice. And as I was prepping for retirement, one of the goals I had for myself was to write more. I'd have the time since I wasn't rushing off to work each morning, and I'd have the brain space since I wasn't continually bashing my head against the brick wall of boat problems.

And yet, it hasn't seemed to work out that way. There's always the endless rabbit-hole of retro refrigerators and laundry-to-lawn grey water recapture systems and New Hanover county zoning rules to fall into for hours and wasteful hours. And right now, I have hours and hours more to track that time suck because I'm not at Pond Place, wearing myself out on brush clearing and chipping.

So it's been a few months now that I've sat down with the intention to write more than a couple of sentences or a business-related email. I'm having to force myself into it a little, knowing that once I get started, the words will eventually flow and the log-jam hopefully broken. It's certainly not a hardship for me to write...just requires that discipline that I've let go without the immediacy of work or Pond Place's needs to drive me.

I have a beautiful setting in which to write this morning, on the beach of Playa Carmen in Santa Teresa, Costa Rica. The sun is shining even though it's the rainy season. The waves are about six feet, clean and as close to glassy as it can get with a light side-shore swirly breeze. Greg is out in the water, with about 30 other guys spread over a quarter-mile stretch of surf. I just saw my first dog fight of the trip. A local red mutt got agro with a gringo's chocolate lab, and then a couple other pups piled on the fun. Took about four guys to break it up, all of them dancing around clearly with the experience of having been bit in the past trying to get dogs off each other. I'm not sure how long my comfy spot of dappled shade will last as the sun tracks overhead. There's plenty of other shady spots for me to move to if I need. I wish I had a cup of (decaf) coffee, but that would take me interacting with people to get and my ego isn't up to the disappointment of being looked at like I have three heads when I ask for decaf in a country that is so proud of its coffee production.

When I read Jason's prompt suggestion, I snorted lightly in amusement that there was ever even a question about whether I journaled or not. In typical fashion for me, it took a moment of reflection to see the goodness and potential depth of the query.

I started journaling in the summer of 1988. I was 14 years old, about to turn 15, at flag camp for the marching band. There were boys on the same campus. I gushed over them. I still have those journals. They are not fit for *anyone's* consumption.

Actually, I started writing years before that. I have a vague memory of being eight and thinking I should write a book. How hard could it be? I was reading "Cheaper by the Dozen" by ?????, who was one of 12 kids whose dad was an efficiency expert. Clearly I didn't have as rich a subject matter as they did. I don't think I kept those earliest attempts at storytelling. Thankfully.

From even those earliest efforts of writing, I saw the benefit of getting thoughts out of my head. Using the act of putting words into form to help clarify and quiet the constant chatter of my brain. I kept at it, always sporadically. I went years a time or two without writing. I shouldn't be surprised that those years without writing were some of my hardest and most personally destructive. Alcohol is surprisingly effective at keeping deep thought at bay -- until it isn't any more.

In 2008, I got a little more formal with my writing. My sister had been blogging about professional stuff mixed with a personal touch for a couple of years. I get many of my very bestest ideas from her, so I copy-catted her like any good annoying little sister does. I was in Bahrain, a first-time Commanding Officer in a bit of a pressure cooker, and writing became an outlet for me. That was before the Coast Guard had a policy against posting anonymously on social media, so I genericized my descriptions so I didn't give away my role or mission specifics.

I didn't much like my leadership at the time, and now realize (especially! after having *been* Deputy) that calling the Deputy the "Big Number Two" for all the world to read, while funny (still makes me giggle) was mean-spirited and disrespectful, and not at all the example I want to set for people who are looking to me for leadership guidance. Now I would shift the discussion to how much more useful, beneficial and effective it is to have a cutterman in that position, for both the short- and long-term benefit of the community.

When I got back to the States, there wasn't any way I could see to keep blogging anonymously. That's how justagirlindaworld.blogspot.com came to be on at least two Commandants' and numerous flag officers' radars. I probably should have told my boss at the time that I was writing it, and not let them find out from CCG's EA...whoops. Lesson learned.

I know that blogging is not the same as journaling. I had to be very careful of my audience, and took great effort to spin things positively. And in many ways, that helped too...my journaling can turn into pure whiny bitching vent sessions, which, though cathartic, are not effective at helping me work out my way ahead. Blogging forces me to think about issues from many perspectives and clearly defining desired actions well-rooted in positivity. The wonderful feedback I got from readers was a huge boost in the virtuous cycle that kept me writing that way.

One other benefit of blogging, and I'm finding about journaling online -- no one (including me) has to suffer through my handwriting. I still have my third-grader's penmanship, increasingly marred by age, hurried thoughts and impatience. My family members are kind about very rarely chiding me for it. and one of the first things my JOs learned about working for me was to ask early for a translation if they needed interpretation of my chicken scratch, so my short-comings didn't slow them down needlessly. I have pages and pages of handwritten journal entries that are virtually unreadable because my brain was working faster than my fingers, or I was too tired to try.

I remember my sister being understandably incredulous when I sent her a picture of a penmanship award I won, circa 2010. It was my first time being stationed in DC, and I was volunteering for WAMU's on-air fund drive, answering phones to take pledges. The organizers warned us to be careful with our handwriting so the data entry folks got the right information for the pledges, and they incentivized it with hourly penmanship honors. I was nervous, so I was careful and used my best all caps style, marginally improved by years of hand writing Bridge Logs as a JO. I still thought it was pretty awful, so no one was more surprised than me when the volunteer coordinator handed me the certificate for the second hour of my shift! So I know I *can* write prettily -- I just hardly ever have the patience for it.

That recognition was almost as important to me as when Lynn, my first boss, decided I was capable of writing directional signage and pricing information for Larriland Farm. Very few people were trusted with that back in the day :)

Another bad habit I have with journaling is picking up any random piece of paper easy to hand or being seduced by a brand new fresh journal when I already have one going. I downloaded a journaling app yesterday. Figure I can write everything here, and copy/paste into the blog if I want. Not sure what to do with that so pretty pink, never-been-touched journal made from stone paper I bought this past New Year's Day. I can't save it for "special thoughts," since one of the points of journaling for me is to just get it all out without qualitative judgements. Maybe I'll gift it on.

I feel better now. Lighter in my head. Reassured that the clarity is still there, and with some time, effort and attention, I can find that space, even temporarily, through this medium. Many thanks, Jason, for the simple and effective prompt.

More to come on the rest of the amazing prompts...just not today!