Horoscopes from the Afterlife

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): The sky this summer was yellow, ash-filled, irritable; the world created a new palette: red at night, yellow in the morning, gray in the middle.  It's been strangely dry, electric, apocalyptic.  One bad thought could ignite the entire planet.  Use caution, Pisces.  Keep a cool head and a warm heart.  

Aries (3/21 - 4/19):  My dad used to always say, "Live each day as if it were your last."  I think a bunch of other people said it too, but he's the one I heard say it the most.  He didn't mean it in a hedonistic, spend all your money now way, but more in a, 'mend fences, use your time well' sort of way.  I've taken to thinking, "Live each day as if yesterday were your last."  Because if last week was the apocalypse (fires, hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, North Korea), this is the post-apocalyptic after life.  It turns out, Aries, that the after-life is pretty good!  Our friends and dogs are here, and we still have IPA and trees.  Be grateful for each bonus day we get.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I've been feeling a little left out because I haven't been fired from the Trump administration yet.  Upon getting fired, it looks like you have a lucrative speaking or dancing career ahead.  But I do have this to report:  I applied for a job at Amazon Mechanical Turk -- companies that need menial computer tasks post jobs, and people get paid by the click.  I thought, gee, I'm a really good clicker!  I should do that.  You can make $5 an hour if you're fast.  Anyway, I applied.  After two suspenseful days, I got this:  

We have completed our review of your Amazon Mechanical Turk Worker Account. We regret to inform you that you will not be permitted to work on Mechanical Turk.  Our account review criteria are proprietary and we cannot disclose the reason why an invitation to complete registration has been denied.

Take that, Spicey!  And Comey.  And Flynn.  And Priebus.  And Bannon.  And The Mooch.  Etc.  I got fired without even having to work at all! I'll see you in our lucrative after-life careers. Taurus, live as if you already got fired.

Gemini (5/21 - 6/21):  Lately, when my dog jumps onto my bed, at every point of contact with her paws, the comforter sparkles like phosphorescence at the beach.  That can't be from the regular life can it?  Sparkling dog paws?  I've never heard of that before.  I didn't even google it because, why bother?  This is the afterlife, where I don't waste my time noticing things like this:  If I type "How long do..." into my browser, the number one question is... drum roll... "How long do snails sleep."  THREE YEARS!  That's one long nap, Gemini.  See if you can fit something like that in this week.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  Another thing that smacks of the afterlife:  The other day, my eye doctor, after revealing that she started school with the intent to become a certified nurses assistant but upon discovering how hard it was, decided to be an opthomologist, kept saying things like, "Yes, you have a bit of macular degeneration, but I'd say you have a happy life, don't you?"  Or, "Well, your vision has declined quite a bit, you're forming cataracts, but I think you have a pretty happy life!"  It seemed weirdly comforting, and the kind of metric used in the afterlife, not the primary one.  In the regular life, you're all, "EEEK, I'M GOING BLIND!!!"  But in the after life, it's all, "meh, pretty happy, wouldn't you say?"  Which is why I like the afterlife so well.  

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  She gave me the pitch about Lasik.  I declined, and started talking talking about that Annie Dillard essay where the deaf children get hearing and discover that the world is a loud unpleasant place, and cover their ears, shrieking like some Edvard Munch portrat.  I told her I was afraid it would be that way with me and vision.  She looked confused but passed me off to my favorite glasses guy so I spent a million dollars on glasses because wtf, this is the afterlife and it doesn't really matter.  

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): I've been struggling to find a gracious and kind way to let men know when they're mansplaining.  I assume they don't realize it, and when a white guy about my age explains to me that "new" means, well, you know what it means. I guess he just thinks he has a more complex understanding of the word than I do. (This is an actual word that was explained to me.  I'm not exaggerating!)  But if you pipe up, "Jeez, I know what NEW means," you're easily dismissed as a tender defensive snowflake.   If you smile and nod and say, "Thanks, that's super helpful, I had no idea," it persists.  Suggestions, Virgo?  I think sarcasm breeds bitterness, and there's enough of that in the world already, so I bite my tongue from saying, 'wait, give me this again -- are you saying that "new" means recent, unused, not old?  How do you ever keep track of all this, you smart man?  Oh, how I wish I had man parts so this stuff would come more easily!"  I don't say that because it goes against one of my core beliefs.  But I so want to be able to gently point it out.  Any tips, Virgo?   Luckily, though, there's no mansplaining in the afterlife, but some of my readers may still be in regular life.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): At first I thought we were all in the afterlife.  The floods, hurricanes, wildfires, Trump administration -- it's end times for sure.  But then I took a picture with my gigantic iPhone that doubles as a surfboard. (Or, if you're Marcel the Shell, it's an aircraft carrier).  Anyway, my picture came out green, unlike all the other people's, which were regular colors.  So I've started to wonder if it's just me in the afterlife. I've started asking people, "can you see me?"  I initially asked, "Does your hand pass right through my body," but that seemed to be borrowing trouble.  So now I say, at random intervals, "you see me, right?"  Or if no one is around, I just try holding something to see if it passes through me or stops at my hand.  Most often, I can stop objects, like plates with my bare hand.  This will be useful in my new job as a waitress!  The afterlife is so full of opportunity!  More on this later.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): And this:  at the art show the other day, someone offered me, for free, a hissing Madagascar cockroach.  She has 35 babies that are up for adoption.  "You can train them," she said.  I'm kind of thinking about it, because jeez, 35 trained cockroaches.  I could create one hell of a parade if I made them little kilts and taught them to play the bagpipe.  Oh, how I love the after life!  It's like a giant after party, it is. Have a giant party yourself this week, Scorpio.
  

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): More evidence:  I bought paper towels the other day, something I do very rarely, but jeez, the afterlife is VERY STICKY.   So I peel off the paper towel, and it says, "Good Morning, Beautiful!"  And the next sheet says, "Here's to a great start!"  That's weird, right?  Positive affirmations on the paper towel, which, as far as I know, is normally used when some sort of mini home disaster occurs?  I can't imagine how the sayings got on there.  Board room chatter: I think we should add happy sayings on the disposable towels, so that when someone has sticky stuff dripping all over everything, and there's honey on the floor, and on your shoe, and on the dog, and every freakin' surface is sticky and there are bees and hornets everywhere, they are reminded that it's morning, and they're beautiful!  Sag, it is morning, and you are beautiful.  Keep it up.  Well, keep up the beauty.  Morning, this too shall pass.

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19): The real beauty of the afterlife is that I have so little expectations for it.  For one, I don't even believe in the afterlife, so it's all a gigantic bonus, like when you play pinball, and you know the little ball is going to eventually go down the shoot and it's game over, but instead, just this once, they give you an extra ball.  And you're just plain happy.  That's what the afterlife is like.

Aquarius (1/20-2/18):  The afterlife forces us to shift from the glass half-empty, the world is going to hell in a bucket, things aren't turning out as planned approach, to gratitude.  It's easy to despair, I know.  I've spent my adult life crawling around in the bushes, tying plastic flagging on the jurisdictional wetland boundary and requiring people to plant one tree here, 30 trees there, but it turns out to be deck chairs on the Titanic.  I could have been a day trader or sold junk bonds for all the good it seems to have done.  But, as Hemingway said, 'You lose, of course.  The point is how you conduct yourself as you're going down.  That's it.  We may be perpetrating the largest mass extinction in a while, as if we're our own meteor, but that's how things go.  Each of us, doing our best, being exquisitely kind and conscientious, teaching the children and the dogs and the hissing cockroaches that it does matter, every last moment, every kindness, every weird orange sunset, every time we wonder, or worry about, or wait patiently for someone we care about.  That's all there is.  Enjoy every last drop, Aquarius.

The Eclipse

Our little moon, making a stand.  
Saying, for a moment, “not today, Sun.”

We love our moon so much.  It’s not that we don’t love the sun, but the sun is foreign, powerful, bright in ways we don’t understand.  We can’t even look at her without special glasses. The moon, she’s one of us.  The sun keeps us alive, but the moon is where magic lives.  She was forcibly blasted from the earth 4.5 billion years ago, and like some poor orphan sister, she didn’t get all the stuff she needed.  The things that make the earth so cozy for us:  an atmosphere, water, air, gravity, plants that photosynthesize, IPA, coffee, the Internet, dogs – the moon doesn’t have any of that stuff.  

But she follows us around like a puppy, endlessly circling, going nowhere.  We ignore her during the day, and wonder whether it will be sunny or not.  We don’t ask whether it will be a moony night.  But when the tide is low, the babies are born, and the dogs howl, we remember that she’s out there, with her ghostly, invisible hand in our lives.

Earthlings visited her once and left a flag; I’m not sure why.  Not that there’s anything wrong with the flag (at least… well, I won’t get into that here.  Because this is about the moon, our faithful little sister.  But jeez, what ever happened to 'take only pictures, leave only footprints'?  Do we really think we can own the moon?)

And, truth:  she’s moving away from us.  With each orbit, imperceptibly farther away, like a child growing up.  Eventually, we won’t experience total eclipses of the sun.  Right now is the perfect time, when the distances work out so that the tiny moon can completely obscure the huge distant star.  As our relationship with the moon grows more distant, that won’t work.  (I know – you’re acting that out right now.  I did too.  Holding the penny, the orange, the soccer ball.  Experimenting with distances between them so that the penny can blot out the soccer ball.)

So, my kids and I set out for a basic quick family trip.  The kind where you learn little things about one another, like this:  we all find strange comfort in staying at cheap motels on the outskirts of town, the part of town that isn’t particularly walkable.

On the morning of the eclipse, we drove a few miles from our campsite to get deeper into the path of totality, and parked by the side of the road.  In Oregon, the high desert is so beautiful that every field involves gorgeous scenery.  Our particular view revealed amber waves of grain, Mount Jefferson, and the high desert where the scarce water creates a precise, thrifty order.  "The plants," my daughter said, "are so organized here."  We sat, playing with our cardboard glasses, and waiting.  It was fun – a science field trip that I was able to lure my kids on.  The eclipse was the bonus, but time with my kids was the main event.  Not much was apparent with the eclipse for quite a while.  If you looked through the glasses, you could see the moon beginning her little march, but without the glasses, meh.

But weird, tiny things began to happen.  This:  a group of bicyclists rode by in spandex, and in the very short amount of time that they were passing us (30 seconds?), we overheard a man say, “Yes, I have a friend who’s blind, and he does tandem mountain biking.”  I’m still thinking about that.  And then, a little kid, whose family was parked across the street from us, wearing a shirt that said something like, “I’m from Oregon and I have a gun”, said “You won’t even be able to open that car door, it’s 3,000 times heavier than normal.”  It seemed like, as the sun slowly disappeared behind the bold little moon, everyone became a little more interesting than normal.

And suddenly, when darkness fell, I started crying and couldn’t stop.  I’ve been thinking about it for 10 days now, wondering why.  I expected an amazing scientific event, not an emotional one.  Maybe it’s because, with the sun disappearing, I felt vulnerable.  We can’t rely on the things we need.  It can get cold and dark in the middle of a bright morning.  Maybe it was inherited fear, embedded in my cells, from ancestors who didn’t understand that the eclipse was temporary, that the sun would come back, that we would still have light and heat and fuel for plants to grow.  Maybe, looking across the high desert landscape at the horses running into the barn, I could relate to their fear.  Or maybe, as the sky turned hauntingly yellow, and then dark, it allowed my deeply repressed panic for our little earth to surface.  Things are changing so rapidly that I don’t think we’ll be able to live here in the future.   The apocalypse is upon us.  And yet, in spite of it all, there was this moment, this beautiful, tender moment that I had the good fortune to spend with the people I love most in the world.

We shall not be moved

When Obama was president, I had the luxury (and the good spirits) to have a funny blog.  I wrote about the quirky people and circumstances that cross my path, and all was light and fun.  It’s not funny around here anymore.  We’ve been hiding out in our basements, waiting to see if North Korea is going to call 45’s bluff, because we’re in nuclear warhead distance, as it were, of N. Korea.  They talk on the radio about what to do.  (Note:  Eclipse glasses won't do a bit of good in the nuclear bomb situation.)  We don’t even have basements here.  So we have been lying around in our crawl spaces with the rodents.  And, until a few days ago, the skies were dark with soot and smog from the fires in Canada -- a preview of what’s to come if we don’t start taking climate change seriously.  (I wanted to say that with more emphasis, like, “Dead-ass seriously” but that didn’t sound quite right.)  And, it's been unbearably hot, like in the 90’s.  No rain for months.  We were already at that, “fine, North Korea, bring it on, we can’t breathe here anyway,” point.

But the heartbreak ratcheted up to a new unspeakable level this weekend:  white guys with tiki torches and their rally against oppression.    The kind of oppression that healthy young men with names like Bob and Dave suffer routinely.  Where they make 20 percent more money than the women they sleep with, where businesses are closed for the religious holidays they celebrate, where citizenship, the one they happened into by being born, protects their freedom to rally and spew their angry, small-minded, hate-filled rhetoric.  Those oppressed guys.  You know the ones.  I started crying about the whole situation and couldn’t quite stop.

Anyway, just like North Korea, I realize that I’m in a good spot to take some risks. I’ve enjoyed the good fortune of being born white and middle class and all that comes with it.  I’ve raised two beautiful humans, and been able to live in one of the most gorgeous places on the planet, and I’ve had all the thumbs and legs and friends and brain cells that I’ve needed (so far).  Life has been good to me.  

No one is counting on me for anything at this point, except for my dog, who enjoys kibbles at precisely 6:30 am and 5:00 pm, uncannily, as if she wears a watch.  (She doesn’t even wear pants, so there’s absolutely no way she’s getting a watch.  Have you ever seen a naked dog in a jewelry store, trying to buy a watch?)   Although I know she loves me madly, if I disappeared, she would find someone else to give her kibbles.  In a day or two, she would have forgotten all about me.  That’s the beautiful thing about dogs:  they move on with a grace that we can only dream of.  They live in the present moment.  My point with all of this is simply that I’ve got the freedom that Janis sang about, in a good way. 

So I went to a counter-protest yesterday, which is a confusing phrase.   I was there to protest the people who are protesting that this country is rich with diverse cultures, ethnicities, and religions.  The protesters want this country to be populated only by people from European countries who celebrate Christmas and wear polo shirts and MAGA hats.  They believe, I suppose, that expressing hatred towards people who are different from them is the way to make America great. The counter protesters want all beings to have a place at the table:  a roof overhead, clean water, satisfying work, acceptance, a chance to love who they love in peace, and with the support of their community.  That's what the counter protesters are for.

I took the bus with two lovely friends who thought to bring milk and bandanas and almonds.  I thought to bring change for bus fare, which seemed pretty good.  Because this is our world, where we mostly feel safe and white among white people, we chatted about art and what to make for dinner with a special kind of peppers that I’d never heard of as we rode into the city.  Because the assumption, of course, is that we’ll always make it home for dinner if we feel like it.  I wonder if Heather Heyer thought she’d also be home for dinner on Saturday.   Probably.  

We disembarked in Seattle, and walked toward the park where the counter protesters were gathering.  The opposite of “protest” is “agree”, so I’m going to call us The Agreeables from now on.  At the park, we encountered the mix of humanity that

You have to appreciate a broom
that doubles as a peace sign

you’d expect to see – the grey pony tails with peace signs attached to brooms, young anarchists wearing masks and carrying “Fuck You” signs, and the people like us, whatever that is.  

We tried to listen to the speaker, but as usual, there was a crummy PA system and a lot of crowd chatter, so it sounded like what my dog hears.  “Blah blah blah blah blah let’s go for a walk Blah blah blah blah kibbles” But instead of a walk, it was solid blah blah punctuated by applause.  We eventually did go for our walk.  We filed out of the park and tried to join in the garbled chanting. I didn’t want to chant some of the things because they seemed so negative.  (After all, I thought, we are The Agreeables!)   There’s also something that freaks me out a bit about being in a crowd thick with people chanting, even if I have no problem with the words.  I tried to get singing going but, as you know, I have an inside voice and, well, I’m not much of a singer either.  For a little bit, we all sang “We Shall Not Be Moved”, and that was pure goodness.  (Side note:  our culture needs to learn more songs, and be able to pull them out when it's time. It's time.)

From Crosscut.com

The police blocked us from going the way we intended to go, which is toward the actual protest.  The Agreeables wanted to face off with the guys named Bill and John whose lives are riddled with oppression. I don’t know exactly how that would have gone –  but the police were having none of it.   They pepper-sprayed people and shot off loud noise-making bombs; the sound, like a dozen cannons, bounced off the tall buildings, bringing the adrenaline level of the crowd up a hundred notches.  We backed up and dispersed for a bit.  I thought maybe we should go somewhere out of harm's way and wait to let things unfold.  I was all, "hey, guys!  Let’s take a break from protesting and have a cocktail at the Virginia Inn!" But my much braver and more ethical friends reminded me that to be an ally, you can’t just leave when the going gets rough, because duh, that’s privilege in a nutshell.  Which was an excellent point, so we stayed with the march.  

There was a guy with another muffled PA system leading a chant that I can’t recall right now, but we said it over and over until I literally began to laugh so hard I almost wet my pants.  That’s the kind of protester I am.  It wasn’t really funny at all – our purpose was anything but funny.  Our purpose was to show the haters that they can’t get away with it here, and we mean business.  Not a laughing matter.  But all I could do is imagine that we would walk around endlessly, circling a park that was blocked from us by cops with weapons and pepper spray, following a funny little man garbling out, “SAY IT LOUD, SAY IT CLEAR, NAZIS ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.”   Like that scene with the goldfish in Me and You and Everyone We Know.  Driving at one speed, forever, so that the goldfish doesn't fall off. But I also started laughing because suddenly, unexpectedly, irrationally, I was struck by a giant dose of hope.  

I think we’ve got this.  I think there are so many more loving, engaged, smart people, than tiki torchers.  So many people have moved past the developmental stage where strength is measured by blowing things up or ripping a toy out of someone's hands.   Most of us live in a world where strength is related to integrity, being candid, humble, consistent in word and deed, and loving our loved ones as generously as possible. And then, trying to reach beyond our little tribe to love the rest of the world as generously as we can.  That's where our power lies.  Let's use it.

Horoscopes. The "Things We Never Tire Of" Edition

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): A friend told me that she never gets tired of people toggling blue ribbons on dowels to give the impression of water.  At first I thought it was ridiculous.  But then I remembered that I never get tired of it either.  I will never be heard saying, "whoa, I'm so damn tired of people waving the blue ribbons on dowels -- when will it stop?"  Pisces, you water-y sign, conjure water in whatever ways you can.  And never tire of water.  It's all we've got.

Aries (3/21 - 4/19):   I never tire of popcorn, Aries, and I hope you don't either.  I wish it were considered real food instead of merely a movie snack.  It magically transforms from a hard yellow kernel to a white piece of fluff, which is what I hope will happen to me one day.  Then there's taste, salt, texture, and handy size.  When I was in college I had a friend who used popcorn as a litmus test for friendship.  "She's okay, but I wouldn't have her over for popcorn."  Which makes sense -- popcorn is a little more intimate than a taco.  Aries, this week, make popcorn-worthy friends and do what you can to keep them.  Our lives are only as good as the people we cherish.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  The invisible, transparent wall on the Mexican border is all done.  That is some fast government work!  I'm glad they made it invisible, because, as the POTUS reminds us, people are constantly heaving 60 pound satchels of drugs over the wall, and you could put someone's eye out with that!  I think you could put someone's eye out with this administration, Taurus, so that's not your horoscope.  No sirree.  Because that would be wrong.  Here you go.  I never get tired of watching William Wegman movies.  Especially the Hardly Boys, but I don't think you've got that kind of time (27 minutes). 

Gemini (5/21 - 6/21):  Did you ever watch Lost?  I watched season one and two and got super interested, and then it got more and more complicated and dystopian, and I couldn't follow it.  That's a bit like what's going on with the White House.  Things are happening so fast, and there are so many random players brought in for just one episode (like The Mooch!) that I want to go back to Season One again.  But what I never get tired of, Gemini, is seed catalogs.  And seeds themselves.  Imagine, all that potential stored in a tiny little capsule.  Which, Gemini, reminds me of you!  So much potential.  Sprout!

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  But there's another wall that I'd like to talk about, this super ugly wall going up in my neighborhood. Something there is that doesn't love a 6 foot tall plastic fake rock wall.  My question for you, Cancer (oh wait!  That's not how horoscopes are supposed to go.  But these are special times, and Cancer, you're particularly special.)  So, what's the most effective way to get the designers of the invisible wall to contact my neighbor?  Back to your horoscope, Cancer.  I never get tired of changes of state: condensation, evaporation, freezing.  Oh, and mushrooms.

Happy little disco bee

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  One thing I never get tired of is the joke setup involving some collection of people or creatures walking into a bar.  "A guy walks into a bar.  The bartender says..."  But I saw a particularly hilarious the other day: A lawyer, a spy, a mob boss, and a money launderer walk into a bar. The bartender says: "you guys must be here to talk about adoption." Leo, talk about adoption in the most unlikely situations. This week, adopt a good attitude, a stray kitten, or a starving artist.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): I never get tired of seeing people act out celestial events.   I have a vague memory of trying to explain the solstice to a group of kindergarteners using a flashlight, a handful of children, an orange, and a basketball.  I can laugh quietly in my head just thinking about it, 20 years later.  Virgo, this week, bring back the planetary skit.  See if you can inspire random groups of people to revolve around an orange.

Mason bee in dark times

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  I never get tired of hearing about the path of totality, where the planet will turn dark, animals will catch a 2-minute nap, birds will sing bedtime songs, and humans will wear cardboard sunglasses.  And to think our tiny little moon is responsible!  Libra, this is a great bit of inspiration.  The moon can stop the sun, which is 400 times its size, in it's tracks!   Okay, actually, I get a tiny bit weary of the Path of Totality, even though I'm so very excited about the eclipse.  So I'll change this 'scope to something a little more surefire:  the scene in Monty Python where they use the coconuts for hoofbeats.  I think there's a connection there, between the fake horse sound and the moon facing off with the sun AND WINNING.  Do it.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): I never get tired of dreaming.  By day, I live a boring life where I crash around in the bushes for a while and then sit on a computer writing reports.  That sounds like the life of a drunk person, but it's an actual job.  But at night, the dreams!  Last night I dreamed I was creeping along on the eaves of the coffee shop, trying to get from the upper parking lot to the front door, when the roof came right off in my hands.  My first thought was, "wow, second time today that's happened."  (!!)  Anyway, with the roof off, gorgeous details in that old shoe store were revealed, including pressed tin wainscoting and weird botanical stencils. I was taking photos and eating cake when the police arrived to arrest me for my roof-removal spree.  Anyway, it's probably time to call my sister, who interprets my dreams.  Here's how she does it.  She says, "Take out an index card.  Ok, on one side, write down what happened in the dream.  On the other, write down what it means."  I know.  Scorpio, dream big this week.  What else is there?

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): I had another great dream the other night where I took my car in for an oil change.  A friend asked where I took it, and when I said I just parked it in Seattle on Second & James, they gave me the lecture, like, no no no, that's not how it's done, you have to make an appointment, and take it to a place, and so on.  So I flew in to the city to find my car, where I encountered a woman who promised to help if I would tag along on a few errands.  It turns out she ran an actual circus, and we had to go around the city, finding people and giving them special gifts.  She's pop into a bright little tent, hand the occupants a tube of glitter glue, and remind them that the show starts at eight.  In this pleasant way, I passed another night of my life.  Sag, spread glitter and good cheer this week.  We're counting on you!

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19): I never get tired of the scent of vanilla.  It's weird how vanilla has come to mean bland, lacking an identity.  Because when you open up that little bottle of real vanilla and bring it to the nose, ... pause while you go do that... it's completely transformative.  It can shake up your whole day.  Also, because it reminds me of one of my favorite books, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, when Mick Kelly dabs vanilla behind her ear as perfume.  

Aquarius (1/20-2/18):  I never tire of tracking packages.  Even when I already know, "due to arrive at the end of Wednesday", I still like to look.  Updates like "Left the facility," make me strangely happy.  (Not as happy, of course, as "out for delivery").  Aquarius, don't be like me.  Just wait patiently, and spend your time actually doing stuff.  

What now?

We watch, experiencing various states of dismay, anger, outrage, overwhelm, and discouragement as the president flagrantly contradicts himself, acts poorly, works to dismantle regulations that protect the downtrodden, the planet, and the children, has cozied up with a hostile foreign power, is cavalier about war, and is stunningly ill-informed about the world.  

I’ve been thinking a lot about lately the broiling anger that I see toward people who voted for Trump.  I completely understand it, but I also think its the worst thing we can do right now.

I truly believe that most Trump supporters love their children, they want bright futures for themselves and their families, they expect drinkable water from their tap, they’d like to catch a fish or see a bird once in a while -- they don’t want all the other species to die.  They hope that their grandchildren will be able to laugh and play and marvel at a magical moonrise, a lush tide pool, or a piece of art that makes them choke up with emotion.  They love their dogs.  They are not evil peoople.  Most Trump supporters have a different understanding than I do of the way the world works, based on the news they read and the biases they’ve been exposed to.  There are also some, the “bucket of deplorables”, who are excited about the racism, misogyny, and bullying represented by this president, but I think those are a minority.  There are deplorables on the left as well, like the woman who wrote a nasty article wishing that John McCain would die.  We can disagree with someone’s politics without wishing them ill.

One of the hardest things for the humans to do is to admit that we’ve been wrong;  that we’ve made a mistake.  I don’t think it’s fruitful to blast the 45 supporters; it’s not getting us anywhere.  In fact, it’s making it harder to begin working together to solve the problems of the world.  They will believe what they believe, and launching facts that they consider “fake news” only deepens

the divide, and makes it harder for Trump supporters to change their mind in a face-saving way.

As we can see all around us, the truth has it’s own life to live.  People can believe whatever they want, but the truth doesn’t particularly care.  We don’t have to believe in climate change, but glaciers are melting.  CO2 is rising at an unprecedented rate, and the implications are dire.  We can think vaccines are harmful, but the measles and smallpox rates suggest otherwise.  And so on. Our beliefs direct how we respond to the world, but not believing in something doesn’t change the facts.  Our country is in a huge crisis, lead a president who has demonstrated again and again that he doesn’t care about anyone but himself, isn’t concerned with the truth, believes he’s above the law, and isn’t very well-informed about world affairs.  He is behaving in a small-minded, vindictive, mean-spirited fashion.  This is new behavior for a president, and terrifying.

 But I think it’s time to stop being angry with Trump supporters.  Think of them like that friend who’s dating an asshole.  Feel genuinely sad for them.  Resist the temptation, when they show up with a black eye, to pounce and say, “I told you so.”  Instead, let’s try to respond with compassion.  “It looks like your eye really hurts.  I’m so sorry.”  It’s going to take acknowledging the pain and disappointment in a generous way to allow people to move on and begin to solve this crisis together.  That woman whose husband has been cheating on her for years?  She doesn’t want to know.  She will ignore until she absolutely can’t anymore, not because she’s an idiot, but because the truth is so painful.   Showing her snapshots of his car in another woman’s driveway, or his body in another woman’s bed will only cause her to be pissed off at you.  That’s what’s happening here.  

Let’s give the Trump supporters the chance to come to their own conclusions without feeling the need to defend themselves.  If we put down our end of the rope, we’ll open that possibility.  And if they do, we can offer genuine condolences.  We’re so sorry your guy turned out to be so disappointing.  I know you expected good things.  I know you dreamed of a bright future for our country, and you didn’t expect this disaster.” 

I can hear the resistance to this idea.  “I’m never going to make nice with the people who put us and the rest of the world in this terrible, dangerous, embarrassing position.”  And, “I’m not okay with racists and mysogynists.  I will continue to speak out against the people who are for that.”  And I get all of that, and I agree.  I’m not asking us to be okay with racism, or to shy away from our deeply held values.  I’m just saying that there is an embarrassed minority out there that needs a face-saving way to get on board with impeachment or whatever else it will take to rescue us from this crazy, terrifying time.  

I think we need to try being the sort of people we want the world to be full of.  We want the world to be compassionate?  Let’s show compassion.  Let’s truly raise the bar.  As hard as it is to acknowledge our own mistakes, it’s almost as hard to resist rubbing someone else’s nose in theirs, but we can do it.  Trump supporters are likely feeling heartbroken and embarrassed now:  their republican party, which used to stand for family values (or at least white heterosexual Christian family values), has become the party of greed and deception.  It used to be the party of law and order, and now it’s the party of violating laws.  It used to be a party of patriots, and now it’s a party of treasonists.  Can you imagine?  We’ll never get anywhere if we lord this situation over them.  Not to mention, it’s good to practice to be loving and generous with people who make mistakes, because isn’t that what we all really need?

But most importantly, we are in a crisis.  This isn’t an intellectual debate about how to make sure everyone who’s sick can see a doctor, or what the best response to our increasingly polluted planet is.  We can't even see that debate from here.  This is about stopping this fraudulent, dangerous, crazy narcissist before he wrecks the whole planet.   We need to work together.  If we want the world to be peaceful, we need to promote peace amongst our neighbors and friends.  If we want compassion, we need to rise above our opinions, and meet people of different view points with courtesy.  If we want to encourage healthy intellectual debate, we need to make it safe for people to change their mind.

20 Things I'm Afraid Of. Ok, 21, for good measure.

I listened to the rerun of a This American Life episode where the guy listed all his fears.  I thought it was a good prompt.

1. I’m afraid my children will die before I do.  

2. I’m afraid of turbulence on an airplane.  I fear that each buffeting downdraft will continue forever until we crash into the earth.

3. I’m afraid of Lunchables.

4. I’m afraid of dying in a way that involves gasping for breath.

5. I’m afraid of being trapped in a boring conversation.

6. I’m afraid of Target (the store).

7. I’m afraid of talking on the phone.

8. I’m afraid of being trapped in the middle seat on an airplane when I have to go to the bathroom.

9. I’m afraid of being boring.  Of being the person people are trying to get away from because I’m telling a long story about my dog or the King County zoning code.

10. I’m afraid of getting to a point in my life where it doesn’t matter what’s going on with the weather.

11. I’m afraid of fancy shoes, especially if they are pointy.

12. I’m afraid of a cervical spine injury that leaves me unable to communicate except by blinking my left eye, and no one notices that I am actually telling stories with my eyelid.

13. I’m afraid of Mitch McConnell.

14. I’m afraid of Dementia.

15. I’m afraid of leaving my kids with a pile of unfinished projects and a messy house.

16. I’m afraid that Trump will give away public lands to his buddies and there will be no wild places for the grandchildren and their grandchildren.

17. I’m afraid of passing trucks on the highway.

18. I’m afraid of losing my sense of smell.

19. I’m afraid that my sense of smell isn’t up to snuff, as they say, because when I read sad stories that involve someone going to find a shirt of their deceased beloved, because “it still smells like them,”  I realize I would never do that.  I don’t know if the issue is my nose or their laundry, but I don’t really believe that’s a thing.

20. I’m afraid I’ll outlive my dog.

21.  I'm afraid of potpourri.

The Future! (And maybe even the past...)

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  The reason I hardly write, or go to yoga, or go to the coffee shop anymore is because of my dog.  I'm so in love with her that it's embarrassing.  I'm in a serious, monogamous relationship with her that takes up much of my time, and my micro-

adventures are unremarkable to anyone who doesn't love my dog.  But here's something that happened a few weeks ago.  I went to the dog park in Carnation, which is kind of hilarious because no dogs are ever there.  It's eight acres of fenced grass, but it seems like 100 acres because it's so vast and empty, much like the political landscape.  But one day I went, and there was another dog there!  So the dogs played and I talked to the owner, who seemed like her natural habitat was a bar stool and her beverage of choice was whisky.  

I asked her what kind of dog it was -- pure lab, or something else?  And she said, "well, if you look at the pants on him, there's more feathers than on your dogs pants."  I couldn't see the pants on either dog, which brings me to your horoscope, Pisces. Be the pants you want to see in the world.  

Aries (3/21 - 4/19):   After a bit, the lady told me that her dog does tricks!  She held out a treat while her dog sat in front of her.  She circled her hand in a clockwise direction, and the dog followed the treat with his nose, also in a clockwise direction.  "He can go the other way too," she bragged.  And lo and behold, when she switched the rotation of her hand, the dog tracked the treat by rotating his head in a counter clockwise direction!  Aries, back to you.  Your horoscope this week is to celebrate all the simple things you and your loved ones accomplish.   Try going counter-clockwise once in a while.  You can do it!

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20): She was so proud of his trick, so I made the appropriate oohs and ahhs, and she said he had another trick, that he could say 'I love you'.  The dog barked a few times ("RUFF!"), and she responded, "NO, say 'I love you.'"  And the dog said ruff.  After three times, the dog said ruff in a slightly different accent (undetectable to me, but obvious to her), and the ecstatic woman said, "I love you too!  Good boy!"  Taurus, if you're going to be a little bit crazy, go crazy in the way that you hear "I love you" when a dog barks, or a bird chirps.   Did you know the squirrels talk to me?  They talk to you too!  And they say really nice things.  I feel sure of it.

Gemini (5/21 - 6/21): 45 uses a Samsung Galaxy 3S.  Three, if you aren't up on all the Android levels, 3 is a low number.  Low numbers are good for some things (cholesterol, golf, unwanted intruders), but not so good, apparently, for the cell phones.  Gemini, this week, get low numbers for the right things.  Upgrade your phone, fer goddsakes.  (Oh, wait, I'm not sure why I even said that.  Your flip phone is just fine.)

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  The Natural Resources Conservation Service offers free (ish) farm planning services.  They look up the soils and put a 34-page report together saying what the soils are mapped as.  I think I would like to offer farm planning services that address what farmers really need:  A bunch of names.  Animals will be coming through their lives -- cats, chickens, goats, dogs -- and every single one will need a name.  That's the hardest part of farming, besides all the other really hard parts.   If I wrote your farm plan, Appendix A would be a list of names that we all agree on.  One thing for sure, Cancer, is you won't find "Chuck Norris" on the list of suitable dog names.  But Humphrey would be available for chickens, dogs, and Guinea pigs.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Well, Comey did his thing, and now the Repubs will scurry around and try to re-form all the doo-doo into sound-bites.  I'm so very weary of the whole thing.  That's all I've got, Leo.  It's too tedious and corrupt to even joke about anymore.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): I've been goofing around with my insect drawings and started a little store, Bugs on Your Pants.  It's fun so far, because no one has come back to me and said, "Jeez, there were hardly any bugs on my pants!  I want my money back!"  Virgo, this week, in low moments, sing a little song!

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  The other thing I've been trying to do is graft queen bees, which is harder than it sounds.  (That wasn't even a joke.)  I wear these ridiculous glasses that make me look like a gynecologist as I try to get really close to the tiniest little bee eggs, and the bees are all buzzing around like they own the place, which they do, and then I take this very tiny tool and scoop out the egg as if I can even see it, and try to put it into this plastic situation that supposedly the bees will "take to".  So far, it isn't going down like the videos, where the bees are calm and the scooping is easy.  But Libra, LIFE IS NOT LIKE THE MOVIES.  We know this.  Because in the movies, Donald Trump doesn't get to be president, because good deeds are rewarded and thugs are punished.  Libra, reward the good deeds this week.  Banish thugs if you can.  

Swollen eye from "beekeeping"

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): Can we come back to my dog for a minute?  She needs some hobbies, and it's become increasingly clear that most hobbies are easiest when you have thumbs.  She can't read -- in fact, she hardly speaks english.  Stamp collecting, model airplane building, carpentry -- all out of the question.  She shows a lot of interest in beekeeping, but we disagree on the basics (for example, she likes to chase and eat bees until she throws up and her face is swollen.) She tried starting a blog (Gotnopants), but creepy people were reading it due to the name, so that ended.  Scorpio, this week be grateful that you have thumbs and hobbies.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): I'm thinking of doing a little Kickstarter Campaign to get a few thumbs for my dog -- maybe just two or three.  If there's enough interest, we'd go for four.  Perhaps they could be printed on a three-d printer.  It would really improve her quality of life, and isn't that what Kickstarter is for?   She would really enjoy being able to open things.  You too, Sag.  Enjoy opening things when you can, and be grateful for friends who will open the hard things.

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19):  Did  you hear about the new evidence of Homo sapiens around

even earlier than we thought?  I think that makes me feel a little better -- it's taken us longer to muck things up than we thought.  350,000 years is a pretty long time for us to go unsupervised here on the planet.  Spend your week trying to undo harm where you can, Cap.  In your personal life, on the planet, and even in the galaxy.  (Did you know that NASA sent Phidippus johnsoni, the spider, into space in 2012?)

Aquarius (1/20-2/18):  I've been considering a new business (because apparently that's the form my ADD takes, and wetland biologist, massage therapist, wanna-be writer and bugs on pants isn't enough...).  Anyway, it would be offering workshops on how to be someone else.  So I've been surveying some of my wonderful friends, and trying to create curriculum on how to be them.  They seem mystified, like, "who would take these workshops?"  Of course, the answer is people who want to be them.  The first step is to load the goodie bags (yes, there will be goodie bags!) with each person's 10-essentials.  Aquarius, spend the week discovering what your own ten essentials are, and be sure to have them with you at all times.