September 23 is the anniversary of my ex (and our dog, Rose¹) moving out.
And I am going to be honest, here: I’ve been struggling the last few days.

Rationally, I get that he was not a good partner for me in many ways and I know that if he wanted to try again it would be, frankly, a dangerous thing for me to agree to. But I also know that his appalling behavior was the result of a spectacularly abusive childhood and so I give him a lot more grace than I would someone who did not have that background.

All that said, he has given me no hint that he thinks about me at all or, if he does, it is not fondly. And I think that is what hurts the most.

I wrote him a letter which I gave him on the day of our parting. I have no idea if he ever read it. I read it yesterday, again, and it was a good letter. I wished him well, truly and without reservation. I also stood up for myself–saying that his blaming me for the end of us does not make that a truth². I said that he needed to accept that he has the power to make choices, like all adults do, and that he made a choice to end us; and that he was completely entitled to do that. I also said that sometimes our choices cause pain for others, necessary hurts, as his choice did me. I said that I understood that he did what he needed to and that my being hurt by that was unavoidable. It happens. But blaming me for his choice was, well, bullshit³.

I also pointed out that while he was a (powerless) victim as a child–he was not one now, er, then. I tried to explain that our ability to make our own choices in life is a good thing–it empowers us when we realize it. We have that control, that real control, to say “I choose not to live like this; I choose to live a different way.” He didn’t do something to me by ending us, he did something for himself. And he had every right to do so.

And then, I finished the letter wishing him a list of good things, like metta on steroids.

But, in the end, he did not leave me well. I mean, his behavior was not good from the time he pulled the plug until, well, it hasn’t gotten markedly better. He said before that if we ever broke up, he wanted to be as friendly as possible–for him, I guess it just wasn’t at all possible. And it sucks.

Being honest with myself means admitting that I was hoping that sometime in this year he would have said something conciliatory. Not “let’s get back together” stuff but rather something like “Hey, I behaved like a jerk at the end and I’m sorry” or “You were a good partner; it just didn’t work.” Just something… kind.

So, I think the reason I am so upset now is that I have to accept that I was a dork to ever hope to get that. I know better.

My most recent (and wonderful!) therapist said, last year, that I was repeating the pattern with my mother, trying to fix it. See, Mom died not talking to me⁴; she shot me the same hateful looks; I never got kind words despite everything I had done right and good, taking care of her while she, over the course of 18 months, died of lung cancer. Welp, my therapist was right about my pattern: I fell in love with someone who is very much like my mother, emotionally, and I had hoped for a different outcome.
I know better.

They (mental health pros) say relational trauma is healed in relationship. What they don’t always say is that sometimes that healing doesn’t mean a happy ending. It doesn’t mean we get what we (think we) want. That’s what happened to me. But it can mean we can see our patterns and be mindful enough to make better choices in the future. That’s, I hope, I think, also what happened to me.

The old me would reach out to him and try again to get that kind word. The more healed me knows that would be a super bad idea. So, instead, I think I’ll sip on a very fancy cocktail to mark the day, and my growth, and get on with my life.

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1. I miss her a ton; but Ruthie is happier to live dog-free. ↩︎
2. To be clear, I didn’t do anything like cheat or steal or even invade his privacy…there was no big causal event. ↩︎
3. I did not use that terminology, of course. ↩︎
4. Except for medically necessary orders or to say “Get out–I can’t stand to look at you.” Oh, and I was 18. ↩︎

I very much enjoy figuring out how to fix something and then actually doing it. I like using my hands, using tools, and using my brain to suss out the problem and its solution. I love learning how to do repairs as well–the little tricks, especially. For example, when the artisans who replaced the dining room windows introduced the ex and me to door shims, to fix a rubbing front door, it was a revelation!

I do not come from a family of handy people. You’d think that my father, having grown up on a farm, would have been handy… nope. I mean, he could use a tool better than my brothers and mother, but not much better. It was like he had repair dyslexia: the kitchen faucet he replaced worked backwards (cold/hot lines obviously switched and never fixed), as did a light switch in the hall.

Mom was absolutely dangerous with a tool. I think every time she used a screwdriver¹ she ended up bleeding from a self-inflicted wound. We didn’t even really have a tool box with a decent set of tools. A hammer, yes, because there was always art to hang, but art hangers were not used–just whatever nail/brad/or even screw that could be pounded into a wall to hold up the work². Instruction sheets were often ignored. Duct tape abounded. When I think about what she would have done with a power tool like a drill³, I shudder; it would surely have resulted in hospitalization.

I have no memories at all of my eldest brother ever using a tool. I mean he must have, but I don’t remember it, except for his dismantling small reel-to-reel tape recorders (and never putting them back together successfully). I do remember him painting my dad’s old double as a summer job; but repairs? Nope. The other brother was his mother’s son. I remember when he got the parts to make a dining room table for himself and his girlfriend (or wife already? I forget), from an unpainted wood shop of some kind, and proudly showed it off. As I went to sit at it, it went ka-lump: it was not level. Not even close. I’m pretty sure he just had to screw in the legs–that is they were pre-cut, etc.–but he couldn’t manage to make it work. Yikes.

Me, I liked watching repair people do their stuff and learned, somehow, over time, how to do some things. I watched a lot of This Old House as a kid, too, which I think helped. I think it is my nature to read instructions–for anything from a homework assignment to an IKEA flatpack–and to follow them precisely that has helped me too. But, overall, it was probably working in the studio with Steve Webster where I learned the most.

Being a photographer in the pre-digital days, Steve built his own sets. He built out his studios⁴, too. And he maintained his equipment. I learned a ton from him–how to use power tools, how to properly hang something on different kinds of walls, painting techniques, when and how to “cheat” a repair (aesthetic stuff versus actual repairing), and how to try to fix something without the assumption that it (I) would fail⁵. Instead of repairs being a drudge, they became fun–puzzles to solve.

And I loves me some puzzles.

Sadly, some men do not take well to a woman offering them suggestions on how to do a repair. I have more than one ex who fit that mould. Instead of accepting that I might have a clue and could offer good advice, I have often been dismissed or, worse, told I was emasculating by telling them⁶ what to do. If I did a repair myself, that too was emasculating.
Ah well, they are exes now…

Being single (again) has given me the opportunity to do repairs and maintenance myself. I am mostly enjoying it. My latest mini-project was upgrading the tv antenna. My Fabulous Neighbor acted as if I rewired the house when I told her about the mini project. Really, though, I simply purchased a new indoor antenna, swapped out its cable (I wanted white and a smidge longer), and added an LTE filter. I also got cable clips so the coax is hardly noticeable, although I have to admit it was a bit of a challenge to install them just because of the very limited space (no room to swing a hammer). Now I get all the channels I want without the signal loss from passing cars and planes, and it looks much better.

I’m surprisingly handy⁷. I think some of it is also because of all my mindfulness work. Fixing things often requires extra focus and deliberate movement. It can be a form of meditation–like walking or playing an instrument can be. So maybe that’s another reason I (mostly) enjoy it.

With the seasons changing, I have a big project in mind, one that I have wanted to do for years. However, it will require buying (or borrowing) a (miter) saw and maybe a nail gun. We’ll see. Meanwhile, I will enjoy watching football without signal loss.

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1. Frankly, if she bothered to use a screwdriver it was a minor miracle–a flatware knife was her usual “tool” resulting in lots of wonky tips on our flatware. ↩︎
2. Forget about mollies or pilot holes…brute force and swearing were her techniques. ↩︎
3. FWIW, I love my Ryobi power drill. I refused to get rid of it when the ex and I got together (he had a different brand); now I’m extra glad I held onto it. ↩︎
4. The old Worldwide Hideout was in a casket building; then, later, he bought an old church for the new Hideout. ↩︎
5. Again, this was in the very early days of the internet, so it wasn’t like you could just look for a tutorial on YouTube or something. ↩︎
6. That they couldn’t see the difference between someone (me) offering advice and dictating directions is a big tell here. I was almost always doing the first–the latter was very rare and when it was something of mine that I needed help with, like “I can’t get this to turn, could you help me? You’ll need to use a lubricant…” ↩︎
7. Maybe not so surprising–my cousins (mom’s sister’s kids) are both very good with tools–doing finish carpentry and making stained glass, etc. ↩︎

The other evening I got to thinking about how much I enjoyed my little motorcycle ride to get my facial last week. Riding up to Normal Heights to go to an appointment is a very typical ride for me. I don’t take long rides out into the mountains or desert; I ride in town. I use the Triumph as joyful transportation–running errands and the like. Even when I go to Cabrillo or Soledad, I will almost always stop and pick up some groceries or whatever, before going home. I ride to sangha. I ride to go someplace–not just to ride. This means I ride at least once a week, more often, weather permitting. No big planning–just put on the gear and go.

My ex has/d a motorcycle. When he rode, it was pretty much exclusively on long excursions into the hills or desert. We’re talking hours-long trips requiring GPS and planning¹, like to Julian and beyond. With all that complexity and time required, he rode less often than I. The few times we rode together, on separate machines I mean, he acted kind of resentful when I said I wanted to keep it shorter². It took me a while to understand what was going on: it wasn’t exactly what he had envisioned, so it wasn’t okay. He had problems with good enough. With compromise. With acceptance.

Honestly, that seems to be an issue for a lot of (cishet) men I know–being comfortable with good enough.

For example, when a (cishet, throughout this post) man buys a car or truck, his next stop is to some aftermarket place to change out the wheels or add on a rack or tint or, well, something substantial. Most of the women I know buy a car (or truck) and, well, simply drive it. At most, they may get a mount for their phone (if needed) or maybe a decorative seat cover, but nothing huge. Guys, on the other hand, are swapping out suspensions and exhaust systems! No matter how much they love their new vehicle, it isn’t good enough as it is. It must be tweaked, improved, made better. I have definitely noticed that every modified vehicle that drives through the neighborhood has a guy behind the wheel.

Do the men you know ever just buy something from Ikea and put it together exactly as it was designed to be, or do they paint it or modify it somehow? I know a ton who do the latter.

Even houses. A woman will think about painting a wall or getting new window coverings when she buys a house. While later she may want to make changes, in my experience at the time of purchase, she accepts the house as good enough. A guy, on the other hand, will think “Yeah, I’ll buy it, but this place will be perfect when we get a bathroom added.” My ex was this way when we bought the house and I was really surprised by it. He said he loved the house³; but, right after we moved in, he talked about massive changes: add a second story kinds of changes. In my head I was thinking “Why did we just spend $850,000⁴ on something that isn’t good enough for you?”

This failure to accept good enough makes no sense to me. Why not be satisfied with something just as it is? I’m not talking about settling, I’m talking about accepting something, as it is. Settling, to me, is when you can’t get good enough so you reluctantly make do (I can’t get chocolate? Damn, okay, I’ll live with vanilla⁵); accepting something as good enough is, well, more positive: sure, the car doesn’t have 200hp, but it’s fine as it is.

In relationships, good enough is extra important. First, there is the good enough of compromise. No one is perfect and every partnership requires compromise of some sort. A compromise is, for example, partner A wants to watch X movie, partner B wants to watch Y movie, let’s agree to flip a coin and we’ll watch the winner’s tonight and the other tomorrow. Good enough.

More importantly and fundamentally, however, you have to accept (and, I would add, happily) your partner as they are. That is, your partner needs to be good enough in your heart and mind exactly as they are now, not what they may become in the future. “I don’t like basketball and he does, and that’s fine” is healthy; “I don’t like basketball and he needs to stop liking it” is not. “S/he has potential” is a recipe for a bad relationship.

And I don’t just mean romantic relationships. One needs to accept friends (and family, if one chooses) just as they are. The whole of them. You don’t have to like every bit–maybe you have a friend who is chronically late; it’s fine to say “hey, it bugs me when you’re late” but don’t try to fix them. Accept that they are who they are (Betty Latearriver) or let go and maybe get a new friend.

Moreover, if you apply it to yourself, accepting good enough is a form of self-compassion: I’m good enough, exactly as I am now. Maybe I will change X or Y someday, but I am 100% happy with who I am today. It’s not downplaying future growth–maybe next year I’ll learn Japanese; right now I’m learning to crochet–but rather a full acceptance of our inherent okayness, now. In the moment.

Frankly, I think a lot of the problems with the techbros and the MAGA-folk can be traced to an inability to accept good enough. The push for more more more, the greed, looking down at others, othering groups (immigrants, LGBTQ+, etc.), seeing enemies (where they don’t exist)…it all seems to circle back to a failure to accept good enough…in themselves. I think most of them strike out at others (and grab whatever they can asset-wise) so that they can feel better about themselves. I think the push against professionalism, specialization, credentialing, etc., (think MAHA, anti-vax, etc.) is all connected to this. They take offense at superior knowledge and/or skills, personalize them, and say “You’re not better than me just because you’re a lawyer/doctor/scientist/etc.” rather than accepting the differences between people and their skill sets. They can’t see themselves as good enough and hold the possibility of someone being better, in any arena. That is, they see it as an attack against themselves as good enough generally if someone knows more than them about, say, medicine.

These fragile egos…causing their own suffering and the suffering of so many others, simply because they can’t hold themselves as imperfect and good enough. It’s quite sad.

I don’t know. These are, of course, just my thoughts. All I can say with any true knowledge is that I’ve found that accepting good enough has contributed to less suffering in my life. It has definitely brought me more joy. Like the motorcycle–I didn’t need the bestest or fanciest model and I can get something out of almost any ride. Makes me think: maybe more folks should try it.

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1. To be sure, I know a lot of men who do this: they have their long weekend rides, often with other guys, like up Palomar or to take the curves of the S1. There is nothing wrong with it, but these same guys often won’t ride on an errand–like it has to be a production or something. ↩︎
2. I was also a new rider (despite my many years of riding pillion) and my moto is considerably smaller than his–literally half the engine size. ↩︎
3. To be honest, he was actually more thrilled with it than I was at purchase–I liked it very much and accepted it as, gasp, good enough, then later grew to love it. ↩︎
4. An unrelated side note: coming from Ohio, I couldn’t deal with the house prices when we were looking and would repeatedly, unconsciously, subtract $500K from any price. It was like a twitch. So, the house was $350K in my Ohio brain even though I knew, rationally, it was $850K. ↩︎
5. Of course, there is Sally in When Harry Met Sally who modified any food she ordered. To me, this is not about not accepting good enough but rather asking for what one wants. If she, for example, ordered straight off the menu then, when she got the food, complained about it, that would be not accepting good enough. ↩︎

Yesterday, I went to my neighbors’ little fête down at the tiny park on the corner. There, they and other neighbors gathered to drink spaghetts and just be social. It was, with the exception of the mosquitos (I am a magnet for those) and the heat/humidity, mostly lovely. I’m very lucky to live in a neighborhood with mostly kind, liberal, educated people.

I had one spaghett, which was refreshing (although I think maybe more lemon would have helped), and stayed and talked with people for about 90 minutes or so. I met new people, like a lovely young couple who just moved into the area with their 6-month-old son (who was not at all annoying–and from me that is saying something!) and really sweet little scruffy (in the best sense) dog. Everyone knew me for my yard signs and the dog bowl. There was much laughter and, well, neighborliness.

I realized later, after I got home, that I could have listened better and asked more questions. I was too much the center of attention at times. Oh, it’s not like I talked only about myself, but rather that didn’t ask them enough about them. For example, I realized that I didn’t ask one neighbor where his wife was–something obvious that I ought to have done¹. It was a bit of a fail on my part.

Worse, though, is those who knew about my breakup and how I was trying to assume the mortgage asked about that and my ex and, well, I don’t really like how I sounded when I answered their questions; that is, I sounded bitter.

Fuck me. I really don’t like that. But, and this is a difficult admission: I was bitter, in the moment. I’d love to say that I am above all that but the reality is that, standing there with all those families, I was furious at my ex and feeling sorry for myself. When some of them were discussing trees and yard maintenance and then house maintenance, I felt the weight of my singledom and the burdens on my (and only my) shoulders. When they talked about vacations planned or taken, I felt the sting of promises broken, especially the financial security and opportunity to (finally) work a bit less ripped away. I felt alone and hard done by, as the English say. In other words, I was feeling like a victim and so, yeah, one could easily call that bitter.

This, combined with the talking too much, sent me into a bout of overnight anxiety that interrupted my sleep, repeatedly, and had me still on edge this morning. So, I decided to take the day off–to just take care of myself, including figuring out what was/is going on in my brain that caused all that. Yard work, etc., that can all wait. I need to take care of me.

I’ve noticed very recently that I am feeling off. Not sick, but more physically sore, often bloated, easily distracted. I’m arguably self-medicating a bit by drinking more than I usually do². And, ugh, I’ve been picking at my cuticles, which is a big sign for me that I’m heading in a bad direction. In sum, I have be exhibiting a bunch of low-level symptoms that all point in an unhealthy direction. So, I’m stopping and giving myself some kindness and compassion. And making healthier choices.

First off, I realize, logically, rationally, that last evening I was missing something I didn’t really have in the first place: a true partnership, that is, someone with whom to share life, good bits and bad. The ending of our relationship, rationally and objectively, was for the best.³ Moreover, while I may have sounded bitter last night, the feeling wasn’t actually that–it was grief. Bitterness is marked by being stuck in the past and a need for resolution/apologies. I don’t feel like he needs to make anything up to me. While it would be nice to hear, for example, that he doesn’t blame me any more, the reality is he may think whatever he does about me and our relationship forever, and that’s okay. Those are his thoughts and feelings, not mine. In essence, last night I was hot and pretty exhausted–so not my best self. It was easy to slide into victimhood. Really, I was simply mourning the stories I told myself, the what could have been stuff, nudged a bit by all the ostensibly happy couples⁴ at the party.

That said, I was (and am) missing a simple but profound connection with someone. I would like to have that felt sense that someone is there, even when (especially when) I am less than my best self. The externals for all of us these days make life generally more stressful. The world, particularly here in the USA, is almost unrecognizable in its darkness, cruelty, greed. Having someone with whom to say “Holy shit, this sucks–but at least we have each other” would be grand. Necessary for happiness? No. But lovely if it happens. For now I have Ruthie and my friends.

Also, I can take better care of myself–be kind to my body and my mind. I can re-jigger my activities to focus on things that bring me joy–like cooking (as soon as the heat breaks⁵) and making art. I can paint that wall in the kitchen I have been thinking of doing. Same in the bedroom. I can make my life. And I can put myself out there to others, despite my social anxiety, and forgive myself when I am imperfect when I do.

For today, I am going to forgive myself for my imperfections and rest. Ice cream may be eaten. A nap may be taken⁶. Novel reading is likely. Overall, admit that I need the break and permit myself to have it.
I am only human, after all.

_____________________________

1. In retrospect, I think some of this was simply being out of practice. I have not been in larger groups, socially, for a bit. I have a little social anxiety (like my dad) and I mask by talking too much sometimes. ↩︎
2. To be sure, I’m not getting drunk and it’s not every night–just more than usual and I think it’s important to be aware of trends like that. ↩︎
3. And even if I had had that, it would have ended at some point anyway–impermanence is a universal truth. He could have been hit by a bus or something…or had a stroke or whatever. ↩︎
4. The way couples appear in public is not the full reality, of course; all couples have good and bad bits; maybe some of them were just masking really well–no one but they know. ↩︎
5. I really think this long heat wave is a big contributing factor to this malaise. It’s hard to do anything when it’s this hot and humid for so long. ↩︎
6. I am not a napper; but last night I did not get enough sleep. ↩︎

My wonderful friend Bee sent me a leash sheath that is red with white block type, reading “No Men” for my birthday. I snort-laughed when I opened the mailer today. Not having a dog, much less one that doesn’t like men, this is extra funny. I immediately had an idea of where I might be able to display the gift and, turns out, I was right. It fits perfectly on the passenger seat handle of my Triumph.

As I looked at the addition, and laughed, I noted the Feminist Power sticker on the side of the box. Then I looked at the top of the box where there is a square green sticker that reads “Don’t tell me to smile.”¹ I realized that I have turned the moto into the Triumph of Feminism.

This cracked me up and made me kind of proud.

I’m pretty sure this will be off-putting to many men. I’m not too upset about that. I mean, if a man is threatened by my feminism, he is not right for me. Sadly, many age-appropriate men are threatened.

My ex, a “girl dad,” got more and more bothered by my feminism the more I wore it openly. I think he had issues with women generally (thanks to his mom, especially) and that, despite his sincerely wanting to be a supporter, it was more than he could do. And, of course, when a relationship is already struggling, things like smashing the patriarchy feel more important to the woman in the hetero couple, and more of a threat to the man. But generally, even when things are good, I’ve noticed that otherwise decent, liberal, educated, well-read men still get weird more often than not when presented with open feminism.

I suspect that is true particularly for many men of a certain age, that is older². I get the impression many GenX men say (and absolutely believe!) “Oh yeah, you should be paid equally!” However, they also say/think things like “But would you shut up about the mental load inequality bullshit?” They tell their daughters they can be whatever they want to be, do whatever they want to do, accept their college girlfriends and their pronouns (then later their post-college boyfriends and their pronouns), but at the same time they privately wonder how their little girl will ever settle down and start a family. And they get frustrated that their female partners are exhausted and not interested in sex (see mental load).

Even at my sangha, which is super liberal, supportive of all people no matter what their particular flavors of whatever, they very well meaningly refer to the person who is hosting a meeting as “the host.” I’m your host, Bob. I’m your host, Leslie. They (and maybe you, dear reader) think “That’s not sexist! That’s the non-gendered term!”

As Maxwell Smart said: Missed it by that much.

Host is gendered: male. Host v. Hostess. When we choose to use the traditionally male form of a title for all, we are being sexist. Male privilege. Sneaky patriarchy.
By the way, something like “Greeter” would be non-sexist, instead.

I read a thread today that was on, I think, BlueSky (linked to from Mastodon)³ where some man wrote an article about how hot women were “Shreking”; that is, they were dating guys who weren’t as hot and successful as they should be dating.
Yeah, you can hear my eyes rolling, right?

Of course, all the women were replying that these women weren’t dating down, they were dating the men who treated them well, who were good, kind, interested and interesting… 10s to the women. The only people who saw these men as less than were the looksmaxxing douche-bros who treat women like objects. I mean, they are deciding who the women should date, not respecting that the women get to choose for themselves. Guys who either are incels or would be, if they weren’t lucky enough to find some women who haven’t learned their own value yet. Several of the more “enlightened” male responders said “I see it all the time–in couples the woman is always hotter!”

Cue more eye rolling.

To be sure, I don’t hate men. I’m definitely heterosexual⁴, too. I do, though, hate being talked over, looked over, held to a different standard, and being told what I think (and that what I actually think isn’t what I think, because I couldn’t possibly know my own mind…). I hate being told I’m a threat if I stand up for equal treatment.
But men, generally? Nope, don’t hate ’em.
I’m just tired of the bullshit.

And yet, I remain hopeful that, some day, I might meet someone who gets it. I’m pining for a good kiss… at least. So, I thought for a second about going back onto the dating apps but putting only this as my bio:
If you understand that wanting a man who wants to help me smash the patriarchy does not mean I’m a dominatrix, say hello.

Yeah, no… maybe before AI fucked the apps even more than they already were. Now, nope.
I’m fine on my own. I have the Triumph of Feminism.
Now if it would just cool down so I could take a nice ride!

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1. The black star is for the Alpinestar brand, whose boots and gloves I wear. ↩︎
2. Unfortunately, however, the younger generations may be getting actively worse here, not better, thanks to the Manosphere, etc. ↩︎
3. I wish I had bookmarked it, sorry. ↩︎
4. As I’ve said, sometimes I wish I wasn’t so straight, but I am what I am. ↩︎

People often come to Buddhism thinking it will make them happier; as if Buddhism is about happiness. It’s not. It never has been. The historical Buddha never said “Meditate your way to happiness” or even anything close to that. If anything, he pointed out that the path is difficult. Buddhism is about acceptance; that is quite a different bird.

Buddhism teaches that what we think things are is almost certainly not what they actually are. Very (very!) much simplified, there is conventional reality and ultimate reality. We experience something through our senses then create projections in our minds based on those sensations, and then we believe those projections are reality. Truth. The way things actually, objectively are. Those projections are conventional reality. We think the table is made of wood because our senses tell us this hard, wood-like thing with four legs and a flat top reads to us as “table” and the material reads as “wood.” And conventional reality isn’t wrong¹, exactly; it’s incomplete. I mean a table is a table and wood is wood. Ultimate reality, though, is more and beyond our (unenlightened beings’) scope.

Think about a brick. A typical, generic, red brick. It has weight. It feels solid. When you hold it in your hand it is a heavy, kind of rough-surfaced thing that you are holding. It is not you–you are softer and fleshy…it is something not you: a brick. But where does the brick end and you begin? Can you find that? What about the space in-between the atoms that make up the brick and that make up you. Neither it nor you are as solid as we like to think. Is there an overlap of the electron shells? When the dust of the brick stays on your skin after you put down the brick, is the brick less a brick? Are you, with the brick dust on your skin, now a bricktohuman? It is unknowable; that is, the ultimate reality regarding the brick and you and the interplay of them both is unknowable. The ultimate reality is beyond conventional reality, and beyond our own capabilities of knowing.

So, in Buddhism, we learn to accept that the brick is both the brick (conventional reality), a thing in our hand, and something more/different/other-than-brick (ultimate reality). So is our hand. So are each of us².

Moreover, our understanding of conventional reality is based on our (flawed) senses (sight, touch, taste, smell, hearing, thought) and our interpretation of those senses is even more flawed and pings our brains to like, dislike, or feel neutral about whatever. We make choices based on how we feel about things. As the leader at my temple says sometimes, “Do you ever go to a restaurant and have a meal that tasted awful then go back to that restaurant and order that same thing the next day? Of course not! You didn’t like it so you push it away (aversion). But if you liked it, you may order it again (craving).” Aversion and craving cause dukkha, i.e., suffering. I like this person, I don’t like that one. I like this feeling, I don’t like that one. This one I don’t feel anything about (neutral). I want more of what I like and less of what I don’t… boom, dukkha.

Basically, and I mean basically, when we try to control what arises, to get more of what we like and less of what we don’t, we get neither and a big old pile of dukkha, instead.

However, if we recognize these sensations as they arise, like/dislike and all their variations, and curiously observe the pull and push rather than be jerked around by them or trying to control them, things feel better. Oh, I don’t like that flavor…isn’t that interesting; I notice I smile a lot when I’m with Barb…huh, what’d you know. We can learn to just be with whatever is arising, react less and respond more. Do that, and everything shifts. That is, if we practice acceptance for things as they are, not wish for them to be otherwise, we suffer less. We may not be “happy” but we’re definitely less miserable.

We can do this with all the emotions that arise. Today, I feel sad, really sad…I can feel it in my chest and there is even an odd sensation around my temples…this is what sadness feels like in my body today…huh, interesting… Or, my chest hurts from laughing at that comedy and I’m tearing up even…this is definitely joy. I’m surprised at how strong my appreciation for this comedy is… wow, there’s more than just the laughter, how cool… Or, I’m hurt by what my partner just said…I wonder what is going on with them that they said something hurtful…

No matter what it is that we are experiencing, we can accept that we don’t know the whole of it and we can choose to accept it for what it is, as best as we do understand it. Moreover, we can know that it will end, like all phenomena. Impermanence is a universal truth: everything changes/ends. Sad now…not sad in 30 minutes (or whatever)³. None of it lasts. When we accept the impermanence of what is arising, as well as whatever is arising itself, everything feels less weighty.

In that lightening, we can then actively choose how to respond to whatever it is. Your partner says something hurtful and, instead of reactively sniping back, being curious about the causes behind their action gives you space to respond. Still hurts, sure, but now instead of yelling at them you can choose to calmly say, “That was hurtful. Can you tell me what’s going on with you that made you say that?” You’re not letting them get away with being hurtful–you are seeking to understand the bigger picture. Moreover, the hurt they inflicted will be lessened.

I can attest to this shift, especially in the physical realm. I’ve written before about my butt surgery and what got me through it was the acceptance (1) it was whatever it was; and (2) whatever it was would end, eventually if not sooner. Did I experience pain? Absolutely. But when I chose to accept it (both 1 & 2, above), I did not fear the pain and process as I had in the past. I am sure it was less bad than it would have been if I was stuck in the aversion to pain. I’m not saying the surgery and healing process were easy; I am saying that I had less anxiety and suffering, even though there was pain, etc.

So, although Buddhism (and meditation) is not about happiness (sorry!), but rather acceptance, at least to my mind that acceptance and its effects feel more like happiness. At the very least, it sucks less.

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1. Well, except about the truth stuff, then it pretty much always is wrong. The truth about anything is probably more than we can fathom and, thus, is in the ultimate reality realm. ↩︎
2. This, by the way, is related to what Buddhist are talking about when we talk about non-self. There is no actual thing that is Leslie, separate from everything else, separate from the air, the earth, Ruthie, a morning poop, or the brick… everything. Leslie arises interdependently and as a result of all sorts of other phenomena, but there is no such thing as a solid Leslie…which is kind of a relief, when you think about it. ↩︎
3. Same for happiness, too. It’s not just the “bad” stuff that is impermanent…it’s everything. ↩︎

I was thinking about tech recently…actually, I think about tech often, but this was specific: we have all these tools to (in theory) make our lives easier, like digital assistants and smart appliances, and we have all sorts of tools for health tracking and improvement; yet, we are mostly more unhappy/dissatisfied (and less healthy) than ever.

Why? I think one part of it is that we are making ourselves miserable by reducing our friction with/in life. Matthew Crawford¹ writes a lot about this. I think our brains fire better when we are trying to do something difficult, and especially so when we are doing something that requires our bodies as well as our minds (like fixing things, riding a motorcycle, driving a stick shift, navigating). Remove that friction, the difficulty, and our brains look for it someplace else. Boom, there it is: dissatisfaction, discomfort, unhappiness, anxiety… dukkha, in Buddhist parlance.

Today, I saw an article about GPS and never being lost, and what we may lose by not ever being lost. Turns out, we may be hurting our brains with all that GPS use. I must admit I felt a bit smug because I rarely use GPS. In fact, I hate it in the car². I’d much rather print out a map and take that with me when going someplace unfamiliar. But most people use GPS and why? We are afraid of getting lost.

Why do we use all the apps (and “smart” devices) we use, every day? I think mostly out of fear…or laziness, or the combo. We’re afraid of not getting enough steps, that we’ll miss a call/text/email, that we’re not maximizing whatever the hell it is that we feel compelled to maximize. We’re afraid of wasting energy or having food go bad if the fridge dies and we don’t know it the second it happens³. Mostly, we’re afraid of failing at anything and everything, in part because these “tools” essentially make us afraid.

I noticed this more with the Ex’ kid–my touchstone of the younger generation. Sure, she’d go hiking or camping or travel to foreign countries, but do any of that without a device? No friggin’ way. Nothing is left to chance in their lives. In a way, she, like so many of her cohort, was walking on eggshells through life.

I think we all do that the more we rely on “smart” devices: live our lives as if walking on eggshells. That is a short route to depression and anxiety. Can’t make a mistake, must be perfect, errors are impermissible… **shudder**. I lived far too long walking on eggshells⁴; I don’t want to do that now, at all.

So, I stopped wearing the Apple Watch, except for my actual exercise period in the morning (and I’m trying to find a good solution to dump it there, too). I don’t look at a lot of the data it provides, now–just distance and calories, really. I don’t download apps for anything that I can access using a web browser, instead. Is it slower and a bit more difficult? Yup. When I do download apps, they are usually on my iPad, not the phone, so I don’t have them accessible if I’m not at home.

Speaking of home, my appliances do not talk to the internet. I had a string of “smart” lights the Ex had purchased that we had on the wonky arbor. They were programmable and had infinite color choices; they were also buggy and annoying, so when they acted up, again, I threw them out. Instead, I got a very unsmart Ikea string that turns itself on at dusk/off at dawn (via a light sensor) and has just a couple of color choices. Works great.

I recently bought a singing bowl and started using it and a timer⁵ to meditate. The apps kept demanding more attention (“What’s your meditation goal?” one even asked), which seems particularly wrong for a meditation app. I don’t care that Apple Health doesn’t know my mindfulness stats. I don’t HAVE mindfulness stats.

I find that the more I get rid of these attention-demanding apps and things, the better I feel. This usually means more life-friction, like using a printed map or not having some app with me when I’m out or choosing to stay in hotels and never use an AirBnB when I travel so maybe fewer choices available. However, in exchange I notice that I feel less afraid, overall. My anxiety is much, much lower.

When I backslide and spend too much time online/using apps/tracking/checking, I feel worse⁶.

Sure, this is just my experience, but it seems to be the same for other folks who make similar changes. The more I read about the science of the “attention economy” the less I want anything to do with it, and others seem to be feeling similarly. Is it age? Perhaps, in part. Whatever, since making these changes I generally feel braver, more at ease, and present. I like it.

1. To be sure, there is much about which I disagree with Dr. Crawford (the patriarchy is sometimes quite strong there), but I think he gets it right when he is talking about the difference between humans using tools to do things and things being done by tools (allegedly) for humans. ↩︎
2. I do not have it built-in, by the way. My lovely 2014 Miata has no screen, etc. ↩︎
3. I was forced to install a “smart” water monitor device to get home insurance and, even though it did actually catch a leak shortly after it was installed (one I would have caught myself, though), I hate it because I now worry about it failing, or working…just another potential problem. ↩︎
4. My Ex demanded I not trigger him–which is actually super unhealthy because one needs to learn how to live with triggers, not expect the world to stop producing triggers–anyway, it meant serious eggshell walking. ↩︎
5. Yes, the timer on my phone, at least for now; but not a meditation app. ↩︎
6. I did that yesterday, actually. It was awful. ↩︎

On July 28, 2025, my world underwent a fundamental shift: my ex called us done; that, as they say, was that¹.

For the record, he wasn’t wrong. The us we had been had been on life support for some time before and, whatever the particular circumstances that led him to calling us done, again², I knew it was indeed time to pronounce the death of us.

I was heartbroken, hurt. I was also worried about basic survival (money, housing, etc.) and angry, mostly at myself. I was deeply concerned for him³. But, beyond all this, I was terribly, profoundly, endlessly exhausted in body, mind, and soul. I couldn’t take it any more, which is why I didn’t fight to keep us together this time. I knew, in my bones, the time had come to save myself⁴, even if it meant losing everything.
And I was seriously concerned it could mean losing everything.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

So, I write not to mourn. Sure, I’m still sorry it didn’t work out, but I accept things as they are. Instead, I have chosen to make today one of celebration. Not celebration in that I’m-happy-I-got-that-bum-out-of-my-life sense, because I don’t feel that way (he’s not a bum and I still, truly, wish him well and happy), but rather celebrating my growth over the past year.

I have come far. With my therapist’s help, early on especially, I addressed some underlying trauma stuff that I hadn’t fully processed in the past⁵. I learned how to grieve better. I let my friends be there for me (and accepted that my family wouldn’t be). I got better about meditating and returned to sangha. I am making new friends, volunteering, trying things to see if I like them. I’m reading a ton more. And, so importantly, sleeping better.

I have made home repairs, taken care of things like new insurance, and paid the mortgage and bills regularly and better than on-time. I’m starting to think about things I want to do to the house and yard, not just what I have to do⁶. I kept my business running (had a great first 6 months of 2026, actually) and did a webinar for a photo group. I’ve been more neighborly, talking with anyone/everyone who walks by (usually when their dogs drink from my bowl). So many people have been kind, generous, supportive… I feel myself at home here, even more than before.

I let myself feel my feelings now. In particular, I feel the joy that I experience in my life which, honestly, I had locked away for a long time⁷. But really, I let myself feel everything, good and bad. Little things, bigger ones, doesn’t matter. I laugh. I cry. I recognize what arises and apply open curiosity to it all. I am present and alive. It’s not always easy and I still have waves of grief and sadness, but there is the full range of emotional flavors in my life now.

I feel profoundly lucky, most of all.

So, I bought myself some yellow roses when I was at Trader Joe’s this morning. They are my favorite roses (yellow over red, for sure) and, since there weren’t any Shasta daisies (my fave-fave flower), they made a fine runner-up. They brighten my dining room table and I can see them from where I am sitting, in the living room, now. I will indulge in a celebratory cocktail later, if cool enough on the upper deck (looking at the Pacific) or, if not, then on the patio. I will breathe and appreciate where I am.

It has been a full year, in every sense.

_________

1. Unfortunately, we had to live together for a couple of months before he actually moved out (separate bedrooms, separate lives), but it was done-done on that announcement date. ↩︎
2. He had said he was done when he was dysregulated, for years. I hated it, every time; but I understood that taking anyone at their word when they are dysregulated is a fool’s errand. ↩︎
3. Watching someone you love flailing and making poor choices, is awful (even when the relationship is over). ↩︎
4. My therapist never said outright that I should end things or that the relationship was abusive or anything like that. They were supportive of my stated mission to be a better partner if I could; but they also helped me to see how I was not honoring my own needs. The most they ever said in regards to events in the relationship was, occasionally, “I don’t like that for you.” On our last meeting, months later, I asked if that was kind of code and they smiled and nodded. ↩︎
5. EMDR for the win, really. I was super skeptical about it–it sounds like hooey–but it helped so much. I did some before the break-up, actually, and I think that helped me to be able to do what I needed to when it happened. ↩︎
6. I got replacements for the Sofa and the mattress, for example; maybe I will paint some walls? ↩︎
7. Not that he ever asked for this, but it seemed kind of mean to be joyful around my ex when he was so not joyful (depressed/anxious/in pain…). I didn’t want him to feel like I was rubbing his nose in it. ↩︎

You are so irresponsible.

That accusation still gives me palpitations, as if it were happening now. Money, in fact, still makes me twitch.

One brother said that awful phrase when I miscalculated my checking account and accidentally bounced a small payment while traveling in Europe, when I was a “starving” college student, about to turn 22. This was before traveling with debit cards (so I wasn’t hitting the ATMs or anything in Europe–my boyfriend and I had travelers checks!)–so it was a payment that I thought I had left enough money in my account to cover and for him to make while I was gone. It was an error, and a minor one, and one he could have simply taken care of for me and then I could have paid him back when I got home; but, instead, he had to berate me when I called to check in. The idea of making a mistake on my checkbook made me ill. Even before this. I can still remember the feeling of panic–thousands of miles away and unable to do anything but be called irresponsible¹.

I have been counting pennies my whole life. I grew up with a mother who intentionally kept us poor. See, when my parents divorced, their agreement said that she would get paid a small alimony and more in child support². My father thought she would go back to work and the alimony would be a bump on top of whatever she made. This was around 1969-70 and women were starting to go back to work after divorce–friends of my mom and dad did that. Any normal mother, especially one with her skills (she could type 100+ wpm on a manual typewriter, do shorthand, etc.) would have gone back to work.

Mom was not normal.

She simply refused to work. She felt owed. The universe and, especially, my father owed her… more. And if it meant her kids would go hungry or without things, well that would just prove what a horrible person my father was, in her mind. So, we did without³.

When it came time for my brothers to go to college, my father said he could pay for college (including dorms, etc.) or pay the child support (for the student), but he couldn’t do both. This isn’t just reasonable, it’s generous. But not generous enough for Mom who made it clear to my brothers that if they accepted the college money, they would be traitors and depriving her.

By the time the second brother left for college, when I was 11, every penny we could squeeze went “to the boys.” I was informed that buying anything for me was a waste of money–“the boys” needed more⁴.
I was, rather clearly, worth less.

Eventually, the second brother turned 21 (just before I turned 15) and the monthly check from Dad became $585. The other brother was working in another state, but not sending money home (Mom would never take money from her boys!). So, we lived on $585. Rent for our 2-bedroom apartment was $235. $350 for everything else, including giving the second brother money for his art supplies (and drugs⁵). I can still remember these numbers, 46 years later. Trying to figure out how to make it until the next dad-check was a regular way of life for me.

I swore that I would never be like my mom. I didn’t need to be rich, but I was not going to rely on someone else to “take care of me” and certainly not mooch off anyone. If I was going to succeed or fail, it was going to be by my own efforts. And I have…succeeded, I mean.

Also, throughout my life, I have paid more, given more, asked for less, tipped more, and done everything I could to not ever make anyone feel like I was taking advantage of them or that they were worth less. I could not bear causing anyone the pain I felt. This has, in fact, cost me. A lot. Especially when it comes to the men in my life⁶ (a pattern of giving more than I should have) but also in how I don’t count every minute when I bill hourly in my business, have historically undercharged, worked for free, or not pushed for raises, etc.

Turns out, all of that is shockingly normal for “driven” women. For women like me who have made ourselves financially successful⁷, often despite pretty amazing odds, the poverty mindset when it comes to ourselves is common. In fact, we’ll give to others, then freak out at buying ourself a pair of $75 shoes. Or (And) we compulsively check our financial accounts online–as if something drastic may have happened. We’re just crazy when it comes to our own finances.

Learning that I am “normal” in my crazy here means a lot for me. I’m not ignoring it, nor am I fearing it. It doesn’t weigh on me as it has. Instead, now, I’m reading up on it⁸ and taking steps to do better in my life. Some of that means grieving not standing up for my worth more in the past, sure, but mostly it is being able to sit with the discomfort⁹ about money and choosing to respond instead of react.

In fact, I just bought myself some new shorts without researching whether I could find similar ones for less somewhere else. I have a pair of these shorts, love them, and simply bought two more. In the past, I would have agonized over doing a purchase like that and probably not done it… at least not on the first try.
Today, I felt the discomfort… and did it anyway.

Crazy, sure. But a little less today than yesterday.

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1. There have been other times I have been called irresponsible; they weren’t money-related and hurt and were, frankly, just as much bullshit. ↩︎
2. Until we turned 21, by the way–not the usual 18. ↩︎
3. Except for the one year when she sold the house (she got it in the divorce) and then, in that year, spent everything living in a luxury high-rise apartment (John Glenn had a unit!) and buying fabulous art and going to parties… my fourth grade year we lived rich; my fifth grade year we were eating peanut butter, again. ↩︎
4. Much later I learned that she was lying about this–she sent money to one of my brothers, her favorite, not to the other. ↩︎
5. This brother once confided in me that not only did he inject cocaine the first time he even tried that drug, he regretted never getting to try heroin. Regretted. But I’m the irresponsible one… ↩︎
6. See, e.g., paying for 50% of the appliances when my partner had just inherited over $1.5 million, mentioned in Pizza. ↩︎
7. To be sure, I am not rich…in fact I have a lot less than my siblings, for sure; but I’m not poor either. ↩︎
8. See, e.g., Annie Wright’s (therapist) work in this area, like https://anniewright.com/financial-trauma-why-successful-women-still-have-a-painful-relationship-with-money/ ↩︎
9. Thanks, Pema Chödrön. ↩︎