Facing Trump

The day after the election, my 11-year-old daughter protested with a piece of art on our kitchen table.

“F… Trump” she crafted with grey putty. To the left of this text, she created a stick figure with a grimacing face.

Her mini-sculpture was at once vulgar and modest—dropping an F-bomb but not actually spelling “F-U-C-K.” It strikes me that both the passion and the restraint on her part get at what we need more of as a nation. For it will take ferver as well as forbearance to make America great, to make it stronger together.

…

My first response to Skyla’s art and to the Trump election overall was more reckless than disciplined.

Caught up in the frustration of the moment, and appreciating Skyla’s creativity, I took a picture of the artwork and posted it on Facebook.

Within a few hours, my father-in-law commented critically on the post. I did a 180 and took it down. 

I realized I didn’t want to encourage Skyla to add to the disrespectful tone of America’s discourse. Or to subject her to unnecessary judgment. I regretted my post as a rash move.

But in retrospect, I think there is something worthy in my impulse to share Skyla’s expression of dissent.

Trump represented nearly the opposite of everything we value and have taught our kids. Respect for women, racial and religious inclusiveness, a love of learning, truthfulness, kindness.

Just his Access Hollywood recording and the many allegations of sexual assault against Trump justified angry feelings on Skyla’s part the morning after election Tuesday. After all, as an 11 year old on the cusp of puberty, she’s exposed to the sexualization of women’s bodies. To the kind of misogyny that Trump has embodied for decades. 

In fact, Skyla’s rock band, Sticky Situation, is working on a song about sexism in the workplace called “22 percent.” In light of research showing that women earn about a fifth of men, the song lyrics include these:

22 percent

22 percent

What the hell is going on?

It’s 22 percent.

How come all the credit goes straight to the boys

I’m sick and tired, so I’m going to make some noise

We girls have big dreams, we want to touch the sky

But when we hit glass ceilings we have to say goodbye

Punch the glass ceilings ‘til they shatter on the floor

Sue is getting hired, so, Bob, there’s the door

In other words, Skyla is attuned to how being female may limit her. And to how Trump seems to represent an America all too willing to stunt her. I’ve been surprised, since the election, to see that Skyla is far from alone. A good friend’s daughter, 12, was so distraught by Trump’s victory that she sobbed uncontrollably the next day. My friend could barely get her to school. Then there were the events in San Francisco and elsewhere, of young women taking to the streets with chants of “Pussy Grab Back.”

Those rallies were the first in my lifetime of street protests in the immediate aftermath of a presidential election. And they signaled to me just how viscerally upsetting Trump’s victory has been to women in particular. It’s not surprising that Skyla would want to lash back at Trump

…

Even so, her election-response artwork was not as extreme as it might have been. She wrote “F” followed by three dots.

I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe it was out of fear of getting in trouble with her parents. Or because she believes it is wrong to swear at people. Or because she’s uncomfortable with the sexual content contained in the phrase. On the other hand, maybe Skyla gravitated to “F-You” because she knows Trump has claimed for himself the power to violate women sexually. That as a Hollywood celebrity of sorts he has unlimited “access” to women’s bodies.

Skyla knows he shouldn’t have that. And a consolation to me in the wake of the election is that Americans in general seem to share that view. As election night progressed and Trump’s slim leads in the battleground states persisted, I pored over exit polls to try to understand why. I was both puzzled and relieved to find that 70 percent of voters said Trump’s treatment of women bothered them some or a lot. And voters had reassuring answers on immigration and Trump’s trustworthiness as well. Seven of 10 voters think illegal immigrants working in the U.S. should be offered legal status. And just 33 percent of voters judged Trump to be honest—a slightly lower score than Clinton’s 36 percent rating on the issue.

In effect, America voted for Trump not because they trust or respect or even agree with him, but as a protest against a broken system. It makes a certain sense. Our U.S. economy has become a roller coaster of economic instability for many people, one where gains have gone mostly to those at the top. The resulting anxiety and sense of unfairness fueled Bernie Sanders’ surprising campaign as well.

The pull of Trump and Sanders can be seen as a collectivedesire to push the pause button on the way the U.S. and the global economy work. So that it can work better for everyone. I’m sympathetic to that impulse to slow down or stop the machine. I see in it a rebellion against a business climate that is speeding ahead so fast and demanding so much of our time that many Americans feel overwhelmed and out of balance. We do need a reset. Trump, more so than Clinton, told “forgotten Americans” that he cared about them. And they put in him in office.

…

I’m inclined to think those voters have just been conned. That Trump will hurt rather than help angry, frustrated Americans. But I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he sometimes says things that are quite reasonable. Like in his victory speech Election night. “Now it is time for America to bind the wounds of division,” he said. “Every single American will have the opportunity to realize his or her fullest potential,” he added. “The forgotten men and women of our country will be forgotten no longer.”

Sounds good to me. And I like the fact that Trump wants to dramatically improve our national infrastructure.

That plan has serious question marks, I realize. But I’m trying to practice forbearance with Trump and voters who elected him. At the same time, I’m determined to fight for people and principles Trump and his allies may attack. A friend, an Episcopalian, plans to sign up as a Muslim if Trump follows through with his Nazi-like plan to make all American followers of Islam register. I plan to join him.

In other words, combine protest and patience. I’m trying to choose these over apathy and panic.

…

In the wake of the dust-up over my Facebook post of Skyla’s putty protest, my wife and I discussed how to talk things over with Skyla. And about what else could be meant by “F… Trump”

Rowena liked “Fire Trump.” Clever, I thought. But I don’t think that treats him much better than the F-U-C-K version. I wanted a go-high-when–they-go-low version.

I thought of “Fine”, as in “Fine, Trump, you’re the president-elect. Let’s try to make this work.” But that’s a bit passive, if not passive aggressive. So I did a word search for four-letter words beginning with “F.”

And the first one I found struck me as spot on: “face.”

“Face Trump.”

That is, look clear-eyed at what his election means, what led to it. Confront what risks he presents, as well as what possibilities. Be open to new facts and humble enough to listen to the other side, in the spirit of moderation—a mindset that is especially important to our democracy at the moment.

In other words, deal with the reality of Trump's election with courage, grit and humility.

Even if with a bit of distaste.

In fact, that’s basically what Skyla’s stick figure was doing—its big round face looking outward with a half-smile grimace.

In a provocative yet restrained way, Skyla’s art may have contained an answer for how we all can move the country to a better place.

Protest the Trump election. Yet also grin and forbear it. 

We Need More Kayaks

 I recently accomplished a feat once thought impossible. I swam from Alcatraz Island to San Francisco.

It was a high-point in my life, a great personal accomplishment. And I got a hero’s welcome by family and friends, along with a medal, at the conclusion.

But the lens must be widened to see what really happened that September Sunday morning. My achievement was far less individual than it can appear. I had an army of assistance. Or rather an armada. And it strikes me this lesson from “my” swim applies to America today. We would benefit from recognizing the way public support bolsters our private courage, and from giving ourselves a greater measure of security.

***

This was my first Alcatraz swim. And even though I’d trained for months in a pool and in a protected part of the San Francisco Bay called Aquatic Park, I was nervous as some 650 swimmers and I took ferry boats out to “The Rock” at dawn on September 13.

I had the great fortune of getting coaching prior to the swim from my pal Chris Jones, a veteran of some 12 Alcatraz swims and a past winner of a race from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge. And as Chris and I and another friend found seats on the Ferry, we discovered we were surrounded by even more impressive swimmers. Two former Cal State San Luis Obispo Poly swimmers were at our table. One of them had won the Alcatraz race a couple of years ago and was now a professional triathlete.

Sitting among such strong swimmers was at once inspiring and scary. I – never a comfortable swimmer as a kid and only recently more confident in the water as an adult – was clearly out of my league. Was I crazy to think I could complete this challenging swim?

Well, maybe not crazy. But so tense that my body almost betrayed me as soon as I jumped from the boat into the bay.

When I bobbed up to the surface, I discovered that I could not open my mouth more than half an inch.

I’ve had occasional bouts of jaw problems dating to a basketball injury a decade ago. And I can usually reset my jaw and regain full mouth opening movements with a little effort. But as I took a few front crawl strokes away from the ferry, I couldn’t get my jaw to cooperate—probably a function of all the anxiety that had accumulated on the way out to Alcatraz.

Unable to open my mouth much more than a centimeter, I began to panic I would not be able to breath. And I considered doing what the race organizers had said to do if you feel overwhelmed: raise your hand, and a kayak or jet ski will fish you out of the water. I could see these vessels nearby. They were starting to form a channel to San Francisco, and I had deliberately jumped off the Western-most door of our ferry to be able to hug the line of water craft as I swam back to the city.

About 30 yards away, I could see a police jet ski. In fact, I could smell its gasoline exhaust. So I knew I could get the policeman’s help. But then a thought occurred to me. I might go down in history as having the most ridiculous reason someone was yanked out of the Alcatraz swim. I imagined the police officer joking with colleagues later: “Hey guys, I had did-not-finish on account of lockjaw. How about that?!”

So I tried to make do—to twist my body a bit more on each stroke to get my head turned up better for air. And it worked! Within a few strokes, I realized I was Ok. Phew! (A constricted “Phew!”)

But it wasn’t smooth sailing yet. In fact, I immediately confronted another watery hurdle.  

Or better said, watery hurdles. That is, waves of 2-3 feet, coming from all different directions. The choppiness was disconcerting. I felt like I was being tossed around, unable to make progress toward the city. And the wavy setbacks were amplified by a giant container ship that had crossed our path just prior to the start of the race. Several minutes into the swim, the ship’s wake hit me—a 5 or 6 foot mound of water that I slid up and over.

All the ups and downs of the waves were a downer in large part because I’d been hoping for and even expecting much calmer conditions. In the days leading to the swim, I’d heard from Chris and others that there as a better than 50 percent chance the Bay would be smooth, even glassy. I could tell on our way out on the boats that my glassy hopes were shattered. Still, I didn’t anticipate this much resistance from the Bay. It was more than I’d experienced during practice swims in Aquatic Park. More than I’d felt during a warm-up open-water race in a lake several weeks early. The level of aquatic anarchy in the Bay this morning had me battling feelings of powerlessness, helplessness.

But I wan’t alone in that battle. Because I wasn’t lacking help. The kayaks and the jet skis were out there with me. And they steeled my will when the water seemed to have its way with me. In fact, I welcomed the exhaust fumes from the jet ski I’d first noticed, which I smelled for much of the race. The comfort of knowing that rescue vehicle was nearby far outweighed any sense of revulsion at the scent or environmental concern.

Kayaks guiding swimmers from Alcatraz

And those jet skis and kayaks kept other fears of the bay at bay. I knew there could be great white sharks underneath me, and that tides eventually could pull me out to sea. Adding to the potential horrors were the bay’s murky waters: I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me. But the presence of the little boats encouraged me, and the channel they created focused me on the swimming task at hand.

At one point, I looked up and saw a guy in a kayak holding his paddle up, lance-like, in the direction of San Francisco. He seemed to take pride in serving as a guide, as if he were George Washington leading troops across the Delaware. I was buoyed by him.

And in this environment where I knew others were concerned for me, I gradually got into the flow. By the time I’d swum a mile or so, I felt great. I’d reached the breakwall surrounding Aquatic Park, and had swum into the current enough that I’d overshot the opening of the Park. I could float for a bit, letting the flood tide carry me into the mouth. I looked up and saw a squadron of pelicans flying directly overhead. My heart leapt. Pelicans have long been a spirit animal of sorts for me. I’m drawn to their tight formations—they’re the blue angels of the animal world. I wonder if they soar so effortlessly in part because it feels cool to be part of a bigger whole. They may dive individually for fish. But they are a thick posse passing through the sky.

After the pelican reverie, I swam the final ¼ mile to the shore on the other side of Aquatic Park. And I finished that swim feeling stronger, faster in the water than I have ever felt. I was flying.

Soon after running up the sand and across the finish line about 30 feet away, someone put a gold medal around my neck. My son Julius found me and led me to my wife Rowena, my daughter Skyla and two other friends who came to cheer me and another swimmer on. The welcoming committee all hugged and praised me, and Rowena snapped a picture of me in my post-Alcatraz glory. I promptly put the photo on Facebook, where I got plenty more kudos for bravery and athleticism. In fact, that photo earned me 109 Likes—the most I think I’ve ever had for a Facebook post. “WOW! That is kick-ass, Ed!” wrote one friend. “Dude you are my hero,” said another. And this from a third: “Ed... Who knew you were such a jock! That's a crazy swim! Congratulations!”

***

On one level, all the acclaim made sense. Alcatraz was made a prison because it was thought impossible to escape by swimming to shore. For me, making it from Alcatraz to San Francisco also represented breaking out of a mental confinement of sorts. I had harbored anxiety about swimming long distances since I was a kid, and that fear, combined with worry about great white sharks, had made Alcatraz seem a personal impossibility for nearly all the 20 years I’ve lived in San Francisco. I envied friends who’d made the swim, and I often eyed the island from Bay Area bridges with a longing to join the ranks of those daring souls. But until the past year or two, when I grew comfortable swimming a mile and a half or more at a time, I never thought I would take the Alcatraz plunge.

So overcoming my doubts, freeing myself from a personal prison, felt great. But my individual effort cannot be separated from the way I was aided along the way.

And not only by the kayaks and jet skis. The support started with my family making time for me to spend hours doing laps in a local public pool. It included Chris Jones and the hours he spent counseling and encouraging me. And by the race organizers, who timed the swim start to minimize the pull of tides and arranged for shipping traffic to cease during our crossing. 

It even included the people who invented wet suits and Sports Basement, the store that rented me the wet suit I wore for the swim. Because while Chris Jones and many other swimmers just wore bathing suits, I doubted I could make it across the 60-degree waters of the Bay without a layer of neoprene keeping me warm.

In short, I never would have made that personal journey from the prison island were it not for the help of so many people. The close-up picture of my achievement—the one I posted to Facebook-- must expand to a wide-angle shot to do the swim justice.

Not long after the race, I began to do this lens widening. The cheers from family and friends fed my ego, but it felt unfair to be treated as a solo hero getting all the credit. And I soon saw a bigger picture still: that swimming from Alcatraz is a lot like trying to make it in America today. It’s a challenge to succeed in our economy. And it feels great as an individual to achieve a version of the American Dream. But we don't really win without support, as Malcom Gladwell and others have noted. And we tend to ignore the social scaffolding that enables monumental personal accomplishments—even though doing so makes us unhappy.

We Americans lionize the rugged, risk-taking individual. But research suggests that deep down we dislike significant amounts of uncertainty. That our happiness increases when our relationships with others are strong. That the security provided by the group frees us to take our biggest gambles as individuals.

Throughout this year, I plan to write a series of blogs exploring our American failure to see the connection between social backing on the one hand and personal breakthroughs and, ultimately, national well-being on the other. I’ve dubbed the problem Schizecurity, because I think our inability to recognize the debilitating effects of instability amounts to a kind of madness.

For now, suffice it to say I’m very glad my Alcaltraz swim had kayaks.

We need more of them.

Trying in 2014—From Barf Tunnel Blindness to New Point of View

About a year after my mother’s death, Julius, Skyla, Rowena and I attended another funeral.

And it was at that memorial service, for San Francisco artist and teacher Dwayne Calizo, that I saw clearly how good our life had become.

How we’d made it through the barf tunnel.

The barf tunnel is a phrase I learned from Leslie Cooper, the mother of Rowena’s and my friend, Sean Riley. Some 15 years ago, she explained to Rowena and me that yucky stretches of life such as break-ups, personal reckonings and losses of loved ones are like crawling through a tunnel lined with vomit. Completely unpleasant paths dripping with emotional stink that seem to have no end and yet do not allow U-turns. You just have to keep moving through them blindly.

From mid-2014 to mid-2015, our path was defined by the sadness of my mother’s dying, Rowena’s cancer diagnosis and treatment, financial insecurity and other troubles. Lots of dark and dank.

But we’re through it.

That’s not to say things are perfect now. Take my mom’s death. I continue to miss her. But like Obi Wan Kenobi, my mom is in a way more powerful to me than she was before she died. Her portrait photo on my desk at home, placed there after her death, frequently reminds me of her principles of love, joy and service.

And while my father has had a rough time adjusting to life without her, little by little he has come around. A big break came around Christmas last year. My father had been despondent to the point of wishing he were dead and with my mom in the weeks and months following her death last July. But while spending time with old friends the Battaglias in his home town of Buffalo, a light flickered on. “For the first time since mom died, I actually had a feeling of happiness,” he told me at the time.

My dad now lives in St. Paul, pursues business projects and grocery shops with my brother Kirk every Saturday. He also cooks big dinners for Kirk’s family every Sunday night. He recently told me how pleased he was that his granddaughter Tigist enjoyed a Greek chicken dish he’d prepared. “And she’s my toughest critic,” he said proudly.

Rowena, meanwhile, is out of the breast cancer and treatment woods. Her early-stage tumor was removed, she completed chemotherapy in February and finished radiation treatments in April.

To be sure, cancer took something out of her. Or things. For starters, her sense of certainty around knowing her own body and her ability to heal herself. Then there was the sapping of her energy and physical wellbeing, as chemo poisons infiltrated her whole physique and radiation blasted her breast. Every tissue was touched. My famously flexible dancer wife could barely touch her toes, so tight were her hamstrings after the toxic tonic.

The loss of her hair was surprisingly tough on both of us. Rowena had a mane of wire. Rain could barely penetrate those thick strands. But chemo strafed her follicles, and clumps of hair began to fall out over Christmas. She reluctantly agreed to shave the rest off. And it didn’t come back quickly. I wondered if baldness might be her new normal. Whether she might be suffering a Samson-like fate—that with the hair went some of her power on a permanent basis.

But this summer she sprouted a new head of baby-soft hair. Grayer, maybe, but chic and a surprising new texture for her. Rowena’s physical strength also has recovered. And perhaps most importantly so has her artistic oomph. I think she has three projects in the works at the moment, including a reading soon on the “Dirty Laundry” of cancer.

It’s a similar, better story on other fronts. Last December, I got a full-time position with research and consulting firm Great Place to Work, resolving my fears about financial security. And although I’ve experienced some job uncertainty amid changes at the company this year, I’m excited about my role at Great Place to Work heading into the future.

Meanwhile, things are going swimmingly with my body. I mean that quite literally, in that I’ve made a regular practice of swimming. Front-crawling a mile or more two to three times a week not only is easing aches and increasing fitness, but marks a triumph over long-held swimming anxieties. In two weeks I will do something I once thought impossible for me: swim from Alcatraz to San Francisco.

My back is back as well. Despite some reservations, I had a nerve-burning procedure on my lower back in June. It succeeded in killing 60-80 percent of my pain, and alleviated a lot of my stiffness. I started playing soccer on a weekly basis, returned to yoga classes and am imagining triathlons. I can even see attempting a comeback in my beloved sport of basketball. For the first time in a long time I’m feeling hopeful about my body and athleticism.

And the new hope is more general. A widely applied sense of appreciation. Gratitude about the goodness all around me.

My sister-in-law Melanie Danke captured this feeling in a blog earlier this year:

“Every damn day I should be "AAAAAH! My freaking fabulous, fortunate life!!!!!" But for whatever reason, we humans don't seem to be wired that way. Probably there is a good reason. If we allowed ourselves to be overcome with the tender fragility and miraculousness of our lives we probably couldn't get on much with our days. Undoubtedly bills would not get paid. Very possibly commerce would grind to a halt. There is a chance our hearts would flat-out explode. I guess the best we can hope for are these periodic moments of lucidness, when we are filled both with an overpowering love and a profound sense of loss, reminding us, just for a second, that amidst the toast crumbs and lost mittens and bank statements, something fairly wonderful is going on.”

Melanie titled that blog item “Sentimental Horsetwaddle.” And it is hard to avoid sounding sentimental about this stuff. But the truth is the curses of the past year came with blessings tucked inside. Not just a sense of wonder but some gems of wisdom. The old saws about patience and persistence paying off. About what doesn’t kill you making you stronger. I believe those adages more than ever. And I think I’m better prepared to teach them to my kids.

I also think our family’s little story is part of a bigger, human family one. The ancient one of getting through trials and tribulations with courage, perseverance and community support. And a contemporary, hopeful tale as well. Of potentially greater enlightenment and kindness as a species. I’ve been reading a book with the claim that humanity is headed to better and better days. Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny, by Robert Wright, argues that things have been moving in a generally positive direction since life began. Although human nature contains the capacity for cruelty and selfishness along with goodness and generosity, the benefits of “non-zero-sum,” win-win exchanges keep pushing people to greater levels of cooperation and interdependence.

“More souls are crammed onto this planet than ever, and there is the real prospect of commensurately great peril,” he writes. “At the same time, there is the prospect of building the infrastructure for a planetary first: enduring global concord.”

Despite all the bad news in the world today, promising signs that Wright was basically right can be found in plenty of places. From what we at Great Place to Work see as the beginnings of a new era of better working environments, to the rapid progress America has made in recent years in terms of treating gays and lesbians with dignity, to the Iran nuclear deal that carries the seeds of greater Middle East peace.

Julius, Skyla, Rowena and I aren’t always paragons of peace these days. Our tempers flare. We can be unkind. Maybe some of the animosity is a product of the past year, when all the stress strained our ties and made us wobble at times. But overall I think we’re closer, sturdier than ever. That’s partly because we have tighter bonds with friends and family. We know we can lean on them, as well as turn to mental health pros if things get too overwhelming. And we are committed to spiritual practices that sustain us.

Like funerals. This July, we went as a family to the memorial service for Dwayne Calizo, a long-time artistic collaborator of Rowena’s. And I noticed parallels between Dwayne and my mother. That comparison is ludicrous on the surface. My mom was a conservative Catholic educator, while Dwayne was a radical, queer musician. But like my mom, Dwayne brought out the best in people. Especially when it came to their voices, and his work with them as a musical coach. Dwayne was sometimes penniless and wrestled with addiction, but hundreds of people came to the memorial service and told of the profound impact he had on them by believing they could sing.

Singing, in fact, also linked these memorials. My mother’s in St. Gertrude’s Church in Chicago included “On Eagle’s Wings”—a spiritual song deep in my bones from childhood. At Dwayne’s service, in a San Francisco theater space, Rowena and other former collaborators sang “In This Heart”—a Sinead O’Connor acapella tune that I have sung as a lullaby to Julius and Skyla for many years.

I cried like a baby as we sang the song at the memorial. Tears for the loss of Dwayne. Maybe also for the loss of my mom. But also joyful tears. I am grateful for both Dwayne and my mom. Inspired by both. Informed by their spirits.

Dwayne’s memorial service concluded the following day, with a dozen of us taking handfuls of his ashes and carrying them into the surf at San Francisco’s Ocean Beach. I could feel what seemed like grains of bone between my fingertips. As a wave crashed into me, I dunked my head, let go of Dwayne and prayed my glasses would stay on.

They did. And I now see that Dwayne’s funeral was a kind of bookend to the year. An emergence from the barf tunnel, complete with an ocean cleansing of crud and bile. I hadn’t quite noticed we were out until that moment. The worry and sense of foreboding had lingered after we’d made it through the worst. In fact, the insight that we’d been in a barf tunnel and had crawled clear came to me as I saw Sean Riley at the memorial service. I hadn’t seen him for perhaps a year or more, and I summed up how we were doing with the metaphor his mother had given me. “Suddenly, it seems like we’re out,” I told him.

“That’s the thing about barf tunnels,” he responded. “You don’t see the end until you’re through.”

But once you’re through, life smells and looks so much sweeter. The view opens wide. At least it has for me.

So yes, this past year was trying. But it gave me new eyes with which to see the world. I’m not sure I can hold on to this gift as life gets easier. But I'm going to try.

Trying in 2014—The Hand of God

When I couldn’t sleep over the past year, I sometimes said this prayer: “God, please hold me in the palm of your hand.”

And I had a vision of a particular hand. A thick, soft, warm hand. With pillow-y finger tips and pads at the base near the wrist. A hand like my father’s hands. But a giant, 10-foot long version. Its fingers would curl slightly to make a kind of hammock, in which I lay safe and comforted. 

With that plea and that image I would try to let go of the worry gripping my mind, the thought loops around the aftermath of my mother’s death, my wife’s cancer, financial insecurity and other troubles. I would try to put things in God’s hands for a while.

And this spiritual sleep-aid gets at the way faith is the final piece in the puzzle for how my family and I got through a tough year. 

Thank God for the help. But that’s not to say my relationship with God has been a simple, purely positive one. And spirituality for my wife Rowena and kids Julius and Skyla likewise is complicated.

I was raised a Catholic, by a mother who had a lifelong career in Catholic education and a father whose family had a building named after it at the local Jesuit high school. There is a lot I cherish about growing up Catholic and going to Christ the King church every Sunday. God loved me and all people. And I loved God back, especially through singing.

One of my earliest memories is standing on the blond wooden church pews of Christ the King’s lower, less formal chapel. Standing so I could see the front of the church better, and singing with joy. Folk songs like “Blowin’ in the Wind” and contemporary religious tunes like “On Eagle’s Wings.” That song gave me the image of being held in God's hand:

And he will raise you up, on eagle's wings
Bear you on the breath of dawn
Make you to shine like the sun
And hold you in the palm of his hand

Part of what I loved about singing that song and others in church was harmonizing. Finding notes above or below the melody that somehow fit with it. There has always been something mystical, something sacred, about harmony to me. About two or more notes that are distinct but belong together. Maybe it captures something about the human condition, of us being social yet separate creatures. Or about our relationship with the divine—familiar yet apart.

So Catholicism enriched me with spirituality. But it also took away some of my sense of self. Limited me with the weight of its martyr message. The Jesus-sacrificing-himself-for-us story was something I took deeply to heart. So did my mother. I learned only after my mom died that she spent much of her adult life eating pizza with our family even though she disliked cheese! As she got older, my mom got better at setting boundaries and getting what she wanted. But with her as a role model, and Catholicism as a guiding philosophy, I had trouble as a young person knowing my own mind and acting accordingly.

In the years after college, for example, I applied to and got into law school as well as PhD programs in history and education. I ended up deciding not to go to any of them. And while I grew in vital ways through my first marriage, the fact that it ended in divorce had something to do with that same self-sacrificing impulse—of putting other people’s interests above my own.

Fortunately, I found a counter-weight to Catholicism in the spiritual traditions of the East. This started by distancing myself from Catholicism. Beginning in college, I grew critical of the sexism and hierarchy of the church, and of the intolerance of other religions by much of Christianity. I also was drawn to the notion that I could wrestle with God and find my own version of the sacred. Inspired by the Gnostics of early Christianity, I came to believe I had an important divine spark and could determine the God I wanted to respect and serve rather than just accept the deity that came with my upbringing.

And then I came to choose elements of Buddhism and Hinduism, largely through the yoga classes I began taking in San Francisco in the mid-1990s. On some level, I see the chanting during yoga and calls for inner peace during the final, shavasana, pose as superficial. But over the course of some 20 years of yoga, those religious, New Age-y overlays have worked for me. Especially from some of the wiser teachers, the spiritual commentaries have stretched, relaxed and elevated my spirit as much as the poses have done these things for my body.

Over the past several years, I have found a way to bridge this West Coast, Eastern spirituality with my childhood Western, Midwest faith. A foundation of the bridge is Old First Presbyterian Church in San Francisco. Old First and its Pastor, Maggi Henderson, reconnected Rowena and me to the Christian tradition. And over the past, difficult year, Maggi’s sermons and the church community have strengthened our spirits and provided welcome practical help.

I like to say Maggi’s “got the spirit”—not only an abiding faith in a loving God but an ability to exude that soulfulness in ways that comfort and inspire and provoke. Without smothering, losing touch with reality or getting “preachy.”

I especially like the way she makes the Holy Spirit feel nearly tangible. This third leg of the Christian trinity has long appealed to me—I have grafted onto it the “Goddess” that is found in many pagan spiritual traditions. Maggi doesn’t typically talk about the Holy Spirit as a “She,” but she portrays it as a constant, caring, nearly maternal presence. She often ends Sunday morning services at Old First by charging us to go “knowing that you are not alone—the Holy Spirit goes with you always and may lead you to places you never expected.”

One place I never expected to make a holy sanctuary is my bathroom. But given the lack of privacy in our one-room apartment, that is where I practice a morning mix of meditation, Christian prayer and Eastern chanting. Toward the end of it,

I say this: “Ommm-men”

It’s a blend of Ommm and Amen, my attempt to stitch together East and West in a word.

This personal practice may seem batty or the equivalent of flushing a “real” religion down the toilet. But I’m not alone in having found my own way in the realm of the spiritual. Nearly 1 in 5 Americans calls themselves spiritual but not religious, and Christians have dropped from 78 percent of the U.S. population in 2007 to 71 percent in 2014.

A blend of religious traditions also helped me make it through my mother’s death last July.

At my mom’s funeral, I knew I wanted to deliver a eulogy. One that did her justice and honored her strong Catholic faith while also staying true to my own understanding of what her death meant. I was nervous. Worried I couldn’t pull it off, especially in the company of my extended Catholic family. But I think I did a decent job. I hinted at the Eastern stuff in noting my mom’s recognition of the importance of relaxation and of a positive attitude before those things got such a big mindshare in our society. And while I have at times doubted the Jesus resurrection story, Old First has over time restored my faith in a God that does bring us home. I was able, then, to end with these words:

Martha Frances Frauenheim died in the arms of her beloved husband Ed Frauenheim. At St. Frances hospital. Right at the feast of St. Martha—who prompted Jesus to say “I am the Resurrection and the Life. He who believes in me will live a new life.”

My mom used to say—usually over a chocolate chip cookie—“It’s like dying and going to heaven.” Mom, I trust you are there. As your friend Elena White put it, “If Marty isn’t in heaven, the rest of us are big trouble.”

Following my mom’s funeral and into Rowena’s cancer diagnosis and treatment, Old First continued to raise me up. If not on eagle’s wings, on the soaring melodies of the choir, on the reassuring, thoughtful sermons from Maggi, on the lavish generosity of Old First friends. When Rowena’s cancer became known, the church responded with expressions of concern, prayers and practical assistance. Meatballs, soup, a necklace with stones with supposed healing properties for Rowena, they all came our way from Old First folks.

Rowena has plenty of skepticism about religion, including Christianity. She also is drawn to the Gnostic notion of a divine spark in every person. “If I were to define God, it’s that light inside all of us, the collective light.” Neither Rowena or I feel comfortable officially joining Old First because of the creed members have to recite—a creed that feels paternalistic and smacks of intolerance toward other religions.  Still, Rowena attends Old First, well, religiously. She sings traditional Presbyterian hymns to the kids as lullabies. And she wore that necklace like a talisman throughout her cancer treatments.

Old First was a comfort to her this past year, mostly because of the people. “The idea of being prayed for by all those people is powerful,” she says. “Isn’t that what church is? The place to be loved and lifted up? You don’t go the gym to be loved and lifted up. Church is very unique that way.”

Church, or some version of spirituality, also bolstered the kids this past year. Skyla and Rowena have a ritual of singing the nightly prayer--“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” Skyla told me she imagines God as a face made of clouds, with a bushy moustache and a goatee.

“I dream about him a lot,” Skyla said. “Once he said his name was George, another time he said his name was Fred. Apparently he doesn’t know his name.”

Vintage Skyla, a sometimes irreverent 10-year old. But she also told me she sometimes takes comfort in thinking of God looking down on her. Skyla also makes earnest, touching art during Sunday school. Like this poster Skyla produced during a lesson on Martin Luther King, Jr.

Julius, meanwhile, got interested in the Daoism he studied this year. He and his classmates wrote a play in which a wise Daoist emperor gives a beggar food and farm land, telling him “Yin and Yang won’t let you starve.” In other words, Julius explained to me, the forces of dark and light in the universe provide a balance, a harmony.

Whether we experienced moments of sacred grace through musical harmonies, sermons or art, spirituality sustained us amid struggles. Faith helped calm our fears.

Looking back at a sad, scary year, I also can say that I made a certain peace with the tension between accepting God’s will and determining my own destiny. Struck a better balance between letting go and not giving up. It had something to do with realizing the distinction between sacrificing one’s self and hearing the call to serve others. For me, that call sometimes took the form of helping out at monthly Old First dinners for local homeless people. It also meant helping Rowena give herself daily immune-boosting shots in the stomach for nearly a month despite my queasiness around needles.

As difficult as that was, my biggest burden over the past year has been helping my dad recover from my mom’s death. As he puts it, he and my mom were more than entwined—they “lived within each other.” Despite his own Catholic faith, my mom’s death left him despondent and struggling to find meaning and some sense of happiness. As the person who probably spoke with him most frequently right after my mom died and for months afterward, it was sometimes hard to help him see any brightness in the present or future.

But my dad himself—his body and his spirit—eased my burden. My dad can be a very affectionate and loving person. He recently told me he almost always held my mother’s hand or was physically in touch with her. I bet she loved that. I know I love holding my dad’s hand. Its warmth and softness make it the most pleasant, comforting, cozy hand I’ve ever held.

A few months ago, I held my dad’s hand. And I told him that I thought of his hand when I thought of God’s hand. He smiled. A bit of comfort back to him.

And for me as well. When I pictured the dad-inspired hand of God holding me during boughts of insomnia, it usually worked. My mind would take a break from worrying, my body would relax and I would fall asleep.

Trying in 2014--Life Support from Killer Counselors

I’ve written about a range of ingredients that went into our family keeping it together during a trying2014. Our own resilience, the aid of relatives, the power of pals.

We also had professional help. And the assistance from mental health experts proved vital.

First was the family counseling: Hanna and Anna, the two counselors who’d been working with our family since fall of 2013.

In essence, Rowena and I had developed some “clogged pipes” when it came to communication. By the middle of 2014, after about nine months of working with Hanna and Anna, we’d made a lot of progress. But then we took a few steps backwards. The strains of my mother dying, Rowena’s cancer diagnosis, job insecurity and other troubles made me, at least, revert to some unhelpful behaviors and positions. Especially right after my mother died in late July, I found myself losing my cool with Rowena and feeling like we might never agree on how to raise our kids.

Hanna and Anna to the rescue.

Not only did they give us a weekly forum to flesh out our emotions, but they equipped us with a ritual to find common ground on our own. It was simple but effective: let the other person talk for five minutes straight, and then paraphrase their words and your own emotional reaction to them. Only after this active listening to your partner do you get to say your piece for five minutes.

Rowena and I added a physical routine to this communication tactic. Our one-bedroom apartment makes it nearly impossible to have a conversation without our kids hearing us, and Hanna and Anna strongly suggested we not hash out conflicts in front of Julius and Skyla. So we would talk while taking a walk around the block. These mobile conflict-conversations almost invariably put us back in rhythm. Reconnected us. 

I still chuckle at the names of our family counselors. You can’t help but think they are an act out of Vaudeville or the Muppet Show. Hanna and Anna, the amazing twins of talk therapy! Or Hanna and Anny, the dynamic duo of family counseling!

But they were real-life superheroes to us.

And they weren’t alone. By late fall, after Rowena’s cancer diagnosis in September and growing worries about whether I’d have a job come the new year, I found myself in a state of high anxiety. I knew the aches and pains I was feeling in my back, feet and other body parts had something to do stress. So I turned to another mental health pro: Dr. Robert Foster.

I’d seen Dr. Foster a few years earlier for another bout of anxiety. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wrestled with excessive worry and fear. My anxiety probably isn’t quite at the level that Atlantic editor Scott Stossel experiences. He bravely describes the nearly debilitating way phobias affect him as well as his response, which includes finely calibrated use of alcohol and sedatives to make it through public speaking events. I haven’t faced such consistent, extreme anxiety. But I’ve had awful enough episodes of worry and corresponding psychosomatic troubles. These include during my first college final exams, when I was beset by hives, and on the eve of my son’s birth, when I was convinced I’d become incontinent.

Thankfully, my mind wasn’t trying to play that trick on me this time around. But I was hopeful Dr. Foster could ease that troubled mind of mine. And he didn’t disappoint. Dr. Foster had introduced me to meditation the previous time I’d seen him. And I had continued to meditate several times a week.

But now he added a twist—quite literally. He suggested I try a more active, Tai Chi style of mediation, and that I start shaking.

Shaking?

Yes, he said, citing a book by stress expert Peter Levine that highlights the way animals recover from trauma by shaking their bodies. My initial skepticism soon gave rise to curiosity and a connection to dancing—something I’ve always loved and found I could do no matter how much my back seemed to hurt. Rihanna’s words from “Please Don’t Stop the Music” came to mind: “I gotta get my body moving. Shake the stress away.”

So I took to shaking. A full body shimmy, usually coming just after a series of back stretches during my morning shower.

And it seemed to help. Dr. Foster’s primal detoxification joining forces with the relationship repair services of Hanna and Anna to ease my mind and mend my marriage. To make life much better.

During a year marred by one death and the threat of another, our counselors were killer.

Trying in 2014--Friends Stand Us Up, Cheer Us Up

Our friends sidled up so close to us during a difficult year that we didn’t have much room to fall or fall apart.

Yes, we had to work to keep our balance in the center of the mother-mourning, cancer-battling, job-securityseeking and other challenges. But every time we tipped to one side, started to splinter, pals showed up to shore us up. And more than just steady us, they made us smile.

Rowena’s diagnosis of breast cancer in the fall pulled a rug out from under us. But as we tottered in fear, a sudden host of medical procedures and outright pain in Rowena’s case, a community of saint-like friends rushed in to brace us—in ways that took our breath away. Our refrigerator was never so filled with yummy food, much of it homemade. We had more child-care offers than we knew what to do with. Friends—both close and less-intimate—gave us wigs, hats, helpful books. Our pal Art, who owns SF Wash, stunned us by announcing he was providing six months of free laundry service.

Rowena and I came to feel embarrassed by the wealth of help. We knew a couple splitting up. Did this less-visible trouble—no loss of hair, no chemotherapy appointments requiring childcare—trigger as much support? I asked the wife of that couple, as she gave me a bag of food, if she had enough assistance in her own struggle. She assured me she did, that plenty of people were propping her up.

That conversation reinforced a realization I had about the friend-aid fest. People can be extraordinarily good. They come to each other’s side during hard times. Lean-on-me, trouble-me talk often isn’t lip service. And this lesson made all the help a kind of double gift. First, the food, the childcare, the flowers themselves. And second, the booster shot of hope in humanity.

Who doesn’t need that? In recent years, I have found myself less and less eager to learn about the news. This is despite the fact that I was a journalist myself. And that for the past year I’ve worked for an organization with profoundly hopeful vision. But as you grow older and see so much strife in the world, humanity’s dark side looms large. ISIS killings, free-speech suppression in China, Russia’s effective invasion of Ukraine. It all can be deeply depressing. At times, it has left me less optimistic about our species.

But maybe that gloomy sentiment comes from paying too much attention to headlines. Or not seeking out the positive. Indeed, this is a finding of much research on happiness in recent years. The brain can be trained to notice better, more encouraging patterns. That’s why positive psychologists—and spiritual leaders from many traditions—focus on practicing gratitude.

I knew about this research. Wrote about it, in fact. But the point came to life this fall. A positive pattern about human nature was all but tattooed on our brains and hearts by friends and family giving so much. We had daily reminders that people are good. Or at least have better angels that are real. That slip from shoulders into ears, inhabit human souls and steer them to do amazing things.

Amazing things like making us see the world more brightly at a time I least expected it. During a year that on the surface was defined by the dark news of death and disease, the goodness of friends not only lightened our days but often made them feel glorious.

Among the radiant moments was the time we got a mud-colored smoothie. Our friend Martina Jones had whipped up two highly healthy smoothies, and her husband Chris arranged to drop them off to me as I was finishing up work one day. These acts of kindness came on top of others from their family—they’d given us a lovely orchid, hosted band practice at their home every week for our son Julius and his two band-mates, and welcomed Julius into their Tahoe home to celebrate his birthday. And while you might think it would be hard to keep up with the Jones’ on the generosity front, plenty of other pals were! Food gifts especially flew in on a weekly basis from multiple people—women in particular, it should be noted.

So I already was in a state of It’s-a-Wonderful-Life awe at our friends when Martina’s brown smoothie arrived. And its color said something to me about the depth of Martina’s care for Rowena. I think of Martina as having a strong sense of style—her home is beautiful and she’s always put together, even when she’s coaching soccer or cooking up a dinner. A muddy smoothie did not seem to fit her aesthetic. But it showed that she put Rowena’s recovery above any superficial concerns about appearances.

That smoothie made me giddy. Made my cup overflow with gratitude and faith in people.

When I told Rowena my thoughts about Martina and the muddy smoothie, she pointed out a flaw in my theory. Martina, Rowena noted, is super health-conscious. In that sense, it’s not surprising that the former Stanford cyclist and current biathlon practitioner would place nutrition over presentation. But before I could get too down over my faulty epiphany, Rowena added some tidbits that made the story even better.

Martina, it turns out, had researched exactly what smoothie ingredients mixed well with Rowena’s particular cancer drugs. She’d taped a list of those promising plants on the wall of her kitchen to make sure she’d do Rowena right.

So that muddy concoction was an even clearer sign of how true our friends were. Truly being there for us, and reminding us about the truth of human kindness.

Friends can be tricky. They can smother you and get on your nerves. Or they also can abandon you at a crucial time. Stand you up.

Ours, though, stood us up by showing up. By surrounding us, steadying us, they helped us from collapsing amid crises. And their charity cheered us in a way I never would have thought possible. 

Trying in 2014--A Family Affair

I didn’t recognize the power and beauty of extended family bonds until my own, immediate family unraveled some.

Families aren’t perfect. They’re full of complex relationships that can be maddening and mean. Mine is no different. But mine, like others, also can be miraculous, kind and heroic. It was last year.

The death of my mom in July, followed by Rowena’s cancer diagnosis and other challenges this past fall, prompted our relatives to spring into action.

For one thing, all three of my cousins on my dad’s side flew to Chicago from Western New York for my mom’s memorial mass. This despite the fact that we have not been in great touch for years. And the presence of Jamie, Jill and Julie lifted my spirits at the funeral.

Then there are the Tobins. My mom, born Martha Frances Tobin, was one of eight kids. And after she died, the Tobin clan proved to be a life-saver to me, my brother, my sister and my father. Even as they mourned the loss of their own sister or sister-in-law, my aunts and uncles helped us take care of funeral arrangements, pitched in with my dad’s apartment packing and comforted us generously in those early days.

During the extra week I stayed in Chicago, for example, I took my dad to the “Prayer Porch” at my Uncle Mike and Aunt Dorothea’s house. This remarkable ritual dates back to the summer of 2012, when my cousin—and Mike and Dorothea’s youngest son—Billy Tobin died in a freak accident at the age of 19. The morning after his death, Dorothea’s sister Peggy showed up at Mike and Dorothea’s to pray with them. In the days and weeks that followed, up to 20 people would gather each morning on the porch and pray.

The original purpose was to prop up Dorothea, keep her from collapsing from the grief of losing Billy. But even when she regained her footing in the months that followed, the Prayer Porch continued. The group would meet even on freezing, dark winter mornings, warmed some by restaurant-style kerosene heaters Mike bought, and its scope expanded to petition God to aid others.

I’d been moved by the idea of the Prayer Porch, and had attended it during visits to Chicago. Now I was benefitting from it directly. My dad and I added my mom’s laminated prayer card to the half-dozen or so held on a wire stand. And I read aloud the prayer on the back: the one attributed to St. Frances that begins, “Make me a channel of your peace.”

Dorothea and the rest of my relatives have been that channel for me as I wrestled with the loss of my mom. My sister Kate graciously invited my dad to live with her and her husband in Alabama, and my brother Kirk agreed to handle the bulk of the logistical duties related to the death, including helping to sell my parents’ car. The three of us checked in with each other throughout the fall about our emotional state—and about our dad’s.

What’s more, when my dad moved back to Chicago in November to try to restart his personal and professional life, Mike and Dorothea, as well as my aunt Patti and uncle Pete—who live just outside Chicago—regularly got together with him and sent me dispatches.  

Our family circle also steadied, cared for us four San Francisco Frauenheims amid the upheaval of cancer and other shocks this fall.

Rowena’s family, centered in Scottsdale, rushed to our aid upon learning she had breast cancer. Her brother Carty and sister-in-law Bunnie are both doctors, and offered medical advice as well as moral support. When Rowena began losing her hair, for example, Carty shaved his head in solidarity. Even though the dude looks good bald, it was still touching to have him there with us. Prayers flowed from Rowena’s younger brother Steve and his wife Abbie. And Rowena’s parents Carl and Parris combined prayers with acts of generosity.

With Richie Clan members in Phoenix over Christmas

Parris came to stay with us when Rowena had her lumpectomy in November. And then when we visited all the Richies in Scottsdale for Christmas, Carl and Parris treated Rowena and me to a night at a Tucson spa. That time away from kids served as one of the “quarterly retreats” that Rowena and I have tried to observe for many years now. And this Tucson excursion, including a desert hike, luxury hotel room and exploration of the city’s hip/hippie downtown, did more than usual to refresh our relationship. It gave us a chance to take stock of a topsy-turvy year and recharge for the chemo and radiation challenges ahead.

Although all these family members tended to our spirits in the second half of 2014, my aunts Dorothea and Patti in particular held me up. Dorothea is my adopted godmother. That is, I asked her to be my godmother when my original godmother, my Aunt Gretchen, died many years ago. It made sense in a way, because Uncle Mike is my godfather. But I’ve also always been drawn to Dorothea, amazed at how she has managed to raise seven kids, teach in inspiring ways to troubled Chicago students and still find time to make me and others feel like we are worthy of her undivided attention. Her Catholic faith has bolstered my own beliefs, in part because she is brutally honest about how much death hurts.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Dorothea on a recent visit to SF

 When I texted her on New Year’s Day that my mom died in a “perfect way,” Dorothea kept it real: “Good for her. Not so good for you.”

Patti, meanwhile, has been a much-needed pep squad leader. She and Pete hosted my dad at their Naperville home just before he drove off across country with his friend Tom Mino, and it was on their patio that we all laughed about the “Overbearing Brothers” and their journey. When Rowena and the kids were still in Chicago, Patti noticed Skyla playing with their big “bernedoodle” dog Murphy. Soon after we were all back in San Francisco, Patti texted a photo of Murphy with a new haircut.

Patti sent this photo via text: "This pic is for Skyla...wishing 
you were here to throw my green ring!"

Patti’s positivity also has taken more sober forms. She made sure to remind my dad to remember the suffering of his children amidst his own grief—and he immediately responded with much greater empathy for Kirk, Kate and myself. And late one night in her kitchen, Patti taught my father and me a simple prayer to repeat again and again during the darkest moments: “Lord, have mercy on me.”

I have been surprised by the ability of Patti’s prayer to bring me peace, to keep me from unraveling. Here it was again: family coming to my aid, to our aid, in a powerful, unexpected way.

I didn’t know what a family affair this fall would be. In trying, tough times, our relatives were tenaciously present and persistently tender.

Even as I mourned the loss of my mom and worried about losing my wife, I fell in love with my family.