I realize that’s a strange title, and probably even stranger when I tell you it’s a new mantra of mine.

Go to the funeral.

No one wants to go to a funeral. Culturally we’re pretty uncomfortable with death and grief. Going to a funeral isn’t a pleasant way to spend the day. But you should go, and here is why.

Death is a reminder of our mortality, and working through them collectively reminds us of our humanity. Funerals can be powerful, cathartic, joyful, and sublime. But that’s not the main reason for the mantra.

I got married in 2009, and while I treasure every person who came to our wedding, I have clearer and deeper memories of the people who came to my grandfather’s funeral in 2000. My other grandma, and many others from the other side of the family who didn’t really know my grandpa came, and I remember that really striking me at age 13.

Likewise, at my grandma’s funeral last fall I was blessed by the presence of several friends who had never met my grandma. But they loved me and my family enough to travel and hour and a half one way for her funeral.

That’s what I mean when I say, “go to the funeral.” Go out of your way to be with someone in their grief and need. They will remember. I heard someone else describe it as running towards trauma. It’s not instinctive, but it is meaningful and powerful.

It’s hard, and I’m going to fail at it, which I hate. But I’m going to keep trying. Because there are people in my life that I love, and I want to love them in their hard times, not just the good times. I can’t change the world, but I can make an impact on someone’s world.

And I’m going to do that by going to the funeral.

Today I am thinking about rocks.

Those of you who know me in person or on social media know I have an obsession with sharks and other marine creatures, and that’s probably a post for another day. But I’ve also always had an interest in geology. (Actually most of the natural sciences. Again, a post for another day.)

This afternoon, I am thinking of this rock. It’s on the counter at Replay Games, the store I own with CJ in downtown Fargo. We found this rock inside our store after it was used to break the window during the riot last month.

But this isn’t a post about that. I still don’t believe I have anything valuable to contribute to that discussion. Everyone is screaming about everything, and I’m overwhelmed.

Connor was holding this rock today and he said, “This rock is heavy, and it is pretty.” He seemed pretty intrigued by the idea that it had these two attributes. He didn’t say much more about it, but it got me thinking.

Rocks are classified by their attributes. Much more scientifically than “heavy” and “pretty,” but the concept is similar. Rocks of the same type have the same characteristics. Sedimentary, metamorphic, igneous. Ringing any bells?

It is human nature to sort things. It is how we make sense of the world. Sometimes we discover that the system of sorting is inaccurate, and we need to adjust. But most of life is sortable. But we do ourselves a disservice when we assume that humans are as easily sortable as rocks.

I’m going to talk about sorting myself, sorting ourselves, because I think that how we see ourselves has power.

Too often I look at my attributes and see how they don’t quite fit. I feel like a platypus. A mammal, except that it lays eggs, which is distinctly un-mammalian.

~I like to play games, but I’m not at all competitive.

~I like to bake, but cooking everyday is a challenge.

~I love to read, but haven’t been able to pick up a new book in months. All I do is reread old favorites.

~I like people, but I really struggle to talk to them.

The thing is though, all those other people who I think are mammals? They’re actually platypuses too. Everyone is a platypus. Now that’s not to say we’re all the same, because we’re not. At all. That’s the point. We are alike in our uniqueness. We all have distinct attributes and roles and that is what makes us human, and why we can relate to each other despite not being the same.

I realize I’ve drifted pretty far from rocks, which if you follow this blog often, you know that’s what happens. The thoughts percolate through and turn into something else. Like the water that percolate through the coffee grounds and becomes that delicious elixir, coffee.

So in conclusion, I will leave you with another seemingly random connection that my brain made while writing this piece:

Today I’ve been thinking about pinecones. It started when my son and I were outside and he spotted several on the ground.

Symmetry and structure in nature, especially in the tiny things, has always fascinated me. Design that is beautiful and purposeful is a wonderful thing.

But what I really started thinking about right after this was fire. I remembered learning on a family trip to Yellowstone about how some varieties of pine trees will only germinate after burning. I looked it up today; it’s called serotiny. Apparently a fair number of plants will only release their seeds after an environmental trigger, and it’s not always fire. Fire is the most well-known and this type of serotiny is called pyriscence.

But I’m going to continue with the fire theme. We have a tendency to view a forest fire as a terrible thing, and I’m not saying it isn’t. Sometimes. It is frightening and dangerous and destructive. And it is beautiful and necessary and constructive. I think that’s why they always included fire as one of those four elements: earth, air, water, fire. (I also may have just watched Frozen II.)

Fire is an element of change. Think blacksmithing. And baking. And volcanoes. And the mythical phoenix. Nothing touched by fire is the same as it was before. There’s no going back, and the changes wrought by fire are uncomfortable.

The discomfort of fire can lead to such beauty, should we choose to persevere. Should we choose to see it. It doesn’t always; life isn’t like that. But often, with time and growth and cooling off, the beauty crafted by fire transcends our narrow vision.

It makes me think about the glass formed by lightning striking sand, like in Sweet Home Alabama. The dangerous creates the beautiful, but you have to give it space and time, and be brave enough to return to it later.

Lately I’ve been doing a bit of soul searching. Mostly this has related to figuring out how I can do what I want to do and also what I need to do. Figuring out how, as a mother, I can fill my cup and pour from it regularly and semi-equally. A life long challenge, I can already tell.

But I have discovered some interesting things from an unexpected source. I picked up a journal at the end of December called The 52 Lists Project created by Moorea Seal. The concept is simple. There are 52 prompts, one for each week of the year, and you don’t even have to write complete thoughts, just lists.

I’ve been surprised that some of my most meaningful realizations have come from what I would have classed as shallower prompts. The ones that ask me about my goals or the happiest moments of my life haven’t inspired as much deep thought as “list your favorite characters” or “list the ways you love to have fun.”

The favorite characters one was the easiest for me to generate the list. I spend a lot of my time in the world’s of other characters. But then the question at the bottom of the page asked me to look for common characteristics among them and I realized that many of the characters that I love are rebels and rule breakers, while still being heroes. I pondered that for quite awhile.

It has always been easier for me to meet the expectations of others (what Gretchen Rubin would call an Obliger), often to the point of not doing what I’d like to do instead. So it makes sense that characters like Han Solo and Captain Kirk would be on my list. I admire those that work hard, and do good, and still do what they want.

Which actually ties in to this week’s list about the ways I love to have fun. I’m still figuring it out, but paying attention to what I like to do and making time to do those things is an important part of keeping my cup filled.

So, what about you? What characters do you admire and what does that say about you? What do you love to do for fun?

Hello all! I’ve been rather absent the last week or so, and I wanted to address that. This is a departure from the fiction and writing about writing I’ve been doing lately.

My grandma passed away sort of suddenly last week. I say “sort of” because she was 87, she’d been in a nursing home for about a year, and recently took a rather abrupt turn. So while it was a bit of a surprise, I also can’t say that it was entirely unexpected.

Biologically, this woman was my great-aunt, but she was grandma to me. I’m struck by the power of names when I consider situations like this. There are already people in my life who we call “aunt” and “uncle” to Connor despite having no blood ties. They say you don’t get to choose your family, but I disagree.

When I think of my grandma, one of the first things that comes to mind is baking. Cookies, buns, donuts, kuchen, pies. There was no shortage of carbs in her house. My brother even nicknamed her “Cookie” for a short time when he was just learning to talk; he knew there’d always be cookies there. As a good German girl in ND, she kept people fed. Food was her love language.

We used to stay with her in the summers for a week or two at a time. (I say “we” because I was never brave enough to do it until my sister was also old enough to stay.) Grandma lived a block from the city pool in her small town, and we spent every afternoon in the water. She watched us carefully from the shade, ready to jump in and save us, despite the fact that she couldn’t swim. Despite the lifeguards in their chairs.

Grandma loved babies and little kids. I’m so happy she got to meet Connor. Although he won’t remember it, I will treasure her smile whenever we came to visit her. I’ll treasure the God-coordinated visit we had with her the weekend before she passed. Some things humans can’t take credit for and this is one of them.

Grief is a funny thing. It’s not just sadness and loss. I think if it were, we’d find it easier to cope with. Grief is layers of feelings, sometimes separate, often mixed-up. It’s missing her now and missing who she was before the dementia. It’s incredible peace, knowing she did not suffer long. Grief is memories that suddenly strike us while driving down the road, at the smell of turkey and stuffing, at the sight of a clear, blue swimming pool.Those moments of tear-filled smiles. It’s the joy of a life well-lived.

Grandma, I know you’re watching the Yankees from heaven this fall. I bet the reception is amazing. Maybe I’ll even root for them this year. Until we meet again. Love always.