A couple of people have commented that I have not been posting. My husband comments about that every couple of days. [It’s been almost a month, I think.] Gary is worried about me, and maybe I have even been a little worried about myself.

Yesterday, there was a young seal playing in the tide pool at the base of the sea stack we call “the seal.”

For Lana Lubecke, valedictorian at Kalani High School in Honolulu, the pandemic and the political and social turmoil of the past year gave her a stronger sense of what she wanted to do. “Before the pandemic, I felt like I was stretched really thin,” Lubecke said. “And when basically everything was canceled, I kind of got the time to sit back and be like, what do I care about? What activities do I want to prioritize? What are the most meaningful and how do I think I can make the most impact? And I think I learned a lot.”

The Washington Post, 25 May 2021

The past fourteen months have been a serious mix. We went nowhere we did not absolutely have to go; we consistently and rigorously followed reliable recommendations about contact and masking; we got our vaccinations as soon as we were able; and only recently did we began seeing similarly vaccinated people face to face. In recent weeks, I had stopped weaving, piecing, knitting, writing. I pretty much stopped reading. Like Lana Lubecke, I wanted to understand what mattered.

It is that old question: Why are we here? The “What’s it all about, Alfie?” question.

I worry about a lot of things—Mom taught me to worry. She considered it basic. The roof needs mending and eventual replacement, the fridge is acting up, the sofa’s springs up and quit. I had to have a root canal last spring, but we’re so happy with the volunteers and plantings in the front yard, we are certain now that we do not need to replace the deck. (Good thing as lumber prices are through the roof!) I am thinking of selling my mother’s ring to pay for some of this, but it’s obvious that money is not the point. Love is more basic, even when you can’t afford a new roof.

Our older son came out for the day this past weekend and that was great fun. It was a bright, sunny day and our granddaughter ran all over the beach. I seem to have taught him to worry—just one of my regrets. But he’s a good husband and a good father and he knows I am not perfect.

An essay by a memoirist describes interviewing her mother in order to better understand the experiences she had as the child of two heroin addicts. As a result of their conversations, she began to forgive her mother for not being a better parent. Undoubtedly her memoir will be a rich and fulfilling read. 

Speaking as a 68-year-old daughter, mother of two, grandmother of three, I will say that that writer’s mother’s claim that “she had been a good mother [because her daughter] had two parents who loved [her], who cared whether [she] was fed and safe, who played games and read [her] stories” is a realistic goal parents might aim for. Not all children feel safe, well fed, or have parents with time to play with and read to them. They might even be loving and devoted parents without bad habits, but simply working hard to support their family. Some children spend much of their childhood worried about meals or world hunger or overpopulation or other crises they should not have to be concerned about. Parents do what they can.

I never used heroin or left my husband or broke the law or beat anyone. I stayed home before they started school, I worked hard, I tried to teach them to be good and loving people, but I was not a perfect parent. My own mother was a dear, sweet woman, but she wasn’t perfect either. My grandmothers? Not perfect. All of us deeply flawed women prone to unfair demands and irrational views, impractical habits and displays of temper, who nevertheless loved our children dearly and did the best we could to raise them well.

My sons were never arrested, got no-one pregnant until they were married, they are generally polite, and both graduated from college and are currently employed. They both speak to their parents. (That last is the thing that matters most.) And I made dreadful mistakes as a parent that I try not to agonize over because it does no good for anyone. (Unless I were writing a memoir.)

A killer whale mother carried her baby for days after it died in Puget Sound a while back. When she recently showed up with a new baby, many human beings had sense enough to be happy for her. I imagine seals love their babies. I know I love my children and my grandchildren. Gary keeps reminding me to tell the people I love. We have friends in Oregon, Washington, and Alberta that we tell. Gary has a lot of family members, and I have hardly any, but we see Tom and Tammy on the beach most mornings. We might say we love them and some of our neighbors too. We might remember to tell them while we are able.

People matter, and the people you care about are important. Let them know.

And make something. You’ll feel better.