Dear 2024,

Fourteen years ago, when I was in the middle of a five-month road trip driving around the country seeking shama (inner peace), I started an annual tradition of writing a letter to the new year. I’ve largely kept all my resolutions, and I like to think that they have helped me grow with humility and compassion into a more centered, shama-filled person. However, being human means that my innate flaws and shortcomings will keep me growing until the day I die. That became abundantly clear this past November when I had a meltdown while lighting prayer candles on Thanksgiving Day.

Eric and I have four candles housed in repurposed sauerkraut jars that sit in a vintage white enamel tray. Years ago, we started a dinner tradition of lighting each candle for someone who needs uplifting. For the first few years, our sauerkraut prayer candles filled my soul. However, in 2023, I began to dread them. That’s because we don’t have enough candles for all the people we know who are in a literal fight for their lives, not to mention endless others struggling with loss and heavy life burdens.

Being an empath, I feel the pain of others deeply, often in a way that is detrimental to my own mental health. I can get flattened by the grief of others, as well as from the state of the world. Combine that with how I’ve spent the past year looking for answers about my own multiple chronic conditions that have affected me neurologically ever since I was in a 2022 car accident in Mexico, and that means our nightly prayer candles began to symbolize pain and suffering instead of hope and healing. So, on Thanksgiving, through a curtain of tears, I asked Eric if we could convert our nightly prayer candles into gratitude candles.

My reasoning: Endless small, fleeting moments of delight slip through the cracks as we routinely go through our daily motions. I want to condition myself to notice—and remember—each day’s micro moments of magic that bring a flash of wonder and awe.

Lighting our gratitude candles has been harder than it looks. It’s common to focus first on the big and the bad in life, and initially, we’d scratch our heads as we tried to remember the minute things we were thankful for each day. I think that taking notice of magic in seemingly mundane moments is like flexing a muscle. The more we do it, the stronger it becomes. It’s my hope that the effects of this practice are cumulative, and that we are rewiring ourselves to see through the cloak of pain and approach life with optimism.

My idea for gratitude candles arose from the puffs of breath of an early morning buck. The rising sun cast a pinkish-gold glow through the clouds, making the frost on the grass sparkle. I was sitting outside in my robe when the regal buck appeared, gingerly taking steps out of the woods towards me until he was standing smack dab in that strip of glorious early morning sunlight. His breath was like oversized puffs of smoke. It was so majestic that I said out loud to him, “What message do you have for me?” The answer was obvious—he was there to remind me to stop and enjoy the precious moment of the now.

In the past month I’ve lit gratitude candles for simple things that pop up during the day:

  • The winter sun on my face
  • The swirl of steam rising from my morning coffee
  • Sitting on a park bench with Eric and Lunabelle
  • Pulling carrots out of the ground on New Year’s Eve
  • The childhood good luck marbles a friend gave me when he heard about my own health struggles
  • A phone conversation with Lunabelle’s sister’s mom, a surprise friendship that began with DNA tests for our dogs
  • The swirling and swooping synchronized dance of a flock of red-winged blackbirds flying in front of me as I drove on I-78.

These little moments are the ones that sustain us, providing reassurance that despite the chaos of the world, there is always comfort to be found in the ordinary.

So, with that in mind, dearest New Year, my promise to you is to seek out micro moments of magic each day. My guess is we won’t have enough gratitude candles for all the little things for which we are thankful. But that’s the way it should be.

In short, Year 2024, I think I love you already. Please love me back.

Sincerely,

Kee Kee

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“Is this weird?”

Our eyes met and we burst out laughing.

The windshield wipers squeaked in response, as if to drive home the point that this was, indeed, very weird.

It was Easter Sunday. My husband, Eric, and I had been in the backseat of an Uber for the past 45 minutes. Our suitcases were in the trunk, and our carry-on bags were wedged between us. We’d been visiting family in Olympia for five rainy days and were heading to a Seattle airport hotel so we could fly out the next morning.

But first, we were making an important pitstop. To meet Fern. The biological sister of our dog, Lunabelle.

We adopted Lunabelle two years ago when she was 4 ½ months old. She had impossibly big ears, earnest eyes, and a zigzag on her tail. Lunabelle was surrendered to a Texas kill shelter when she was only three months old. New Jersey Misfits Canine Rescue, a non-profit in Frenchtown, NJ, stepped in to rescue her and transport her across country.

When we got the call from the rescue that we had been selected as Lunabelle’s new humans, they said they’d be dropping her off at our house in a few hours. Eric and I made a frantic dash to Petco to buy a bed, lots of toys, and kibble for our new puppy. When we got to the checkout lane, I impulsively added an Embark Vet DNA Test to the basket.

A month after we received the DNA results (Malinois—Dutch Shepherd—German Shepherd—American Pit Bull Terrier), Embark notified us that another dog, named Fern, just appeared in the system and was Lunabelle’s sibling. I immediately sent off a message to Fern’s owner, Christy, through Embark’s chat feature. We quickly moved to Facebook messaging so we could watch our little girls grow up on each other’s pages. And after that, we switched to texting, and soon thereafter to USPS with cards and care packages sent between the two sisters.

Fern had a stormier start in life than Lunabelle. Fern was malnourished and starving when she was rescued by 4LeggedFriends in Lubbock, Texas, and ended up being rehomed with Christy and her family outside of Seattle through Project Freedom Ride, a service that connects abandoned dogs from Texas with families in the Pacific Northwest. Fern’s pre-adoption puppy photos just about rip your heart in two because she was basically a walking ribcage.

But now, Lunabelle and Fern are the spitting image of one another, right down to that puppy zigzag tail. They have the same sweet, loveable personalities (except when it’s time to trim nails, in which case they are both melodramatic psychopaths), each have food sensitivities, and they even have similar personality traits like playfully snapping their teeth when they want something.

When Lunabelle received a Christmas care package from Fern, I took the time to tell her all about her sister. I promised her if we ever have the chance, she and her sister will be reunited. Watching them run and leap together with their athletic Malinois grace will be a dream come true. The problem is that we live on opposite coasts. It’s not like we can hop in the car and drive for a few hours to visit, and we aren’t about to stuff Lunabelle in an airplane’s cargo hold. So, for now, we’d have to settle for meeting Fern ourselves.

The interesting thing is that Christy and I have so much more in common than just being dog moms to two long lost sisters. I’ve felt a kindred spirit connection from the very beginning. Would that translate to meeting in person? I was as eager to meet Christy as I was to meet Fern.

♥♥♥

“Hey folks, looks like we’ve arrived. Good luck,” announced the Uber driver. He was laughing. Because, well, why not? This was insane. We were crashing the Easter Sunday gathering of a stranger’s family.

We hauled our suitcases up to the front door as the Uber drove away. I looked at Eric as I pressed the doorbell. “I sure hope this is the right house.”

He smirked as he considered all the luggage at our feet. “We look like we are moving in.”

Christy opened the door. Behind her in the foyer stood her husband, her two sons, and her parents. And right there, weaving between their bodies to get up front as fast as possible, was Fern. Fern! Lunabelle’s sister! Eric’s and my “niece.”

All advice from the experts on how to properly greet a dog promptly went out the window. I didn’t hold my hand out for Fern to sniff. I didn’t speak calmly and softly. Nope. Instead, with a squeal, I dropped to my knees and immediately went for a hug. Fern was a willing participant, greeting us like we were long lost family. Which made perfect sense, given we are her aunt and uncle. It goes without saying that if you are as committed and obsessed with your dogs as all of us standing in Christy’s foyer were, the aunt/uncle/niece labels are perfectly normal.

After the initial love fest with Fern, we moved to the living room. It wasn’t awkward. We laughed, shared stories, and got to know one another. We gave Fern a bag of Easter gifts from Lunabelle, and Christy gave us some gifts that Fern picked out for Lunabelle. And then we moved to the dining room. Christy and her mom had made Pacific Northwest delicacies— huckleberry pies (including a GF one for me) and mixed berry pies. While Eric ate seconds, Christy and I ended up back on the living room floor with Fern.

Before we left, the group of us posed for a “family photo” with Fern. At a glance, it may as well be Lunabelle in that picture. After heartfelt goodbyes to Fern and her family, Christy drove Eric and me to our hotel. I know this is a friendship that will last. And I hope that one day the stars align, and we will figure out a way for the two sisters to finally be reunited. I’m convinced they will remember each other because, for those of us lucky enough to have sisters in our lives, we know that a sister’s love is something you never forget.

 

 

 

 

 

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Dear Year 2023,

I’m writing my twelfth annual open letter to the new year from isolation. Covid finally got me, and because Eric is healthy and we want him to remain that way for his January concert tour, I have barely left the bedroom since Monday. He was at the same holiday party as me 10 days ago—the one where we took off our masks for a photo with Santa Claus and then kept them off to eat and drink. The one where two days later my throat was scratchy, and four days later, I tested positive for the first time. I guess, unlike Eric, I was on Santa’s naughty list.

The problem with the world of Covid (besides spreading sickness and death, disrupting the global supply chain, and separating us from our families), is that in not-so-obvious ways, it is a dangerous world for introverts like me. Overall, I’ve thrived since initial lockdown in 2020. I’ve always needed a lot of time alone to recharge, which is when my creativity and productivity levels soar. Although I love connecting with small groups of friends, the greatest moments of shama/inner peace to be found are when I’m spending time with Eric, hiking with Lunabelle, or hanging with Shama Sanctuary’s resident deer family, Precious, Lolly, and Bridget. The opposite happens when I’m at a loud party with lots of people. So, with the permission of the CDC’s pandemic guidelines, I’ve enthusiastically drawn deeper into myself over the past three years, creating a quiet, but fulfilling world of spirituality and imagination. I’ve been very content. Maybe too content. Because life is starting to feel stagnant.

For me, growth always happens when I get uncomfortable. It’s exhilarating to put myself into unfamiliar surroundings, whether it be people or places. What always follows is a time of retreat into myself to process and integrate. Living fully is like the work of the lungs—inhaling and exhaling—a time of expansion followed by a time of inner sanctuary. The problem is that with this pandemic world, I retreated inward, and stayed there.

The day before my Covid symptoms arrived, I was texting with my friend Alissa, saying that I need to start having more adventures again. I’m not sure yet what that looks like, but it probably means saying yes to a lot more things, more travel, a different phase of work, and maybe something as simple as attending a henna tattoo workshop or new yoga class in a neighboring city.

It’s interesting that as soon as I voiced my intentions to Alissa, my life became even smaller, shrinking to the size of my 16’x18’ bedroom. So, with that in mind, dearest New Year, my promise to you is to step out of my comfort zone and LIVE LARGE in 2023. That is, as soon as my Covid test is negative.

In short, Year 2023, I think I love you already. Please love me back.

Sincerely,

Kee Kee

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How is it that we are living through an unthinkable period in world history? If presented with a screenplay that included everything we are experiencing, the former Hollywood executive in me would say that there is no way that all this tragedy—all at once—would be believable in a movie.

We are living through it in real time, so it’s not like I need to point out that the number of mass school shootings—the gunning down of innocent students and teachers in a place that is supposed to be safe—is simply unconscionable.

Nor do I need to talk about climate change with extreme temperatures from polar vortexes to heat domes and droughts, and increasing severe storms such as hurricanes and nor’easters. Just ask my Texas friends who lived through seven days without heat or electricity when the state power grid failed during the February 2021 winter freeze. They lived a dystopian existence as they created bed sheet tents in their houses where family members huddled together hoping their collective body temperatures would keep them warm.

I also don’t need to mention the deadly wildfires sweeping the west, obliterating the homes of two of my friends, and taking the lives of so many others. And then there’s the Supreme Court readying itself to tell women that we have no right to make choices about our own bodies. That goes hand in hand with the partisanship in politics that has divided our country, as well as the nonsensical and dangerous conspiracy theories that have gripped seemingly intelligent people. And of course, there’s Russia’s unprovoked, brutal invasion of Ukraine.

And let’s not forget about the ongoing worldwide pandemic that has killed millions and is now in its third year.

No, I don’t need to mention any of these things because we are all reminded every day that we are living on a frightening, angry, and treacherous planet. Quite simply, the world is an ugly place.

But it is also shockingly, achingly, beautiful.

So much beauty exists, but it’s disguised as the ordinary, so we don’t realize it is there. When the catastrophic nature of the state of the world gets to be too much, all we need to do is stop, take a breath, and open our eyes to the splendor surrounding us.

The woods of Shama Sanctuary (what we call our home) are filled with tulip trees. They are majestic hardwood trees that can stand 90 – 150 feet tall. Most of what we see is the long, stately, straight trunk of the tree, with the leafy branches towering so high overhead that we don’t even think about them. But once a year, around this time, these trees shower us with beauty and drop goblet-shaped tulip flowers all over the yard. The fragrant blooms are a dramatic rainbow of lime-green, yellow, and orange, and it’s awe-inspiring to think about all the hummingbirds, bees, and swallowtail butterflies having pollinator parties so high above—while we are completely oblivious down below.

One morning this week I was sitting outside looking up at one of the tulip trees, thinking about how the good in the world really does outweigh all the bad, but I often forget to look for it. As if to prove my point, a hummingbird flew right up to my red coffee mug, inspecting it to see if it offered any nectar. And this morning, I walked outside to see a fawn taking a nap in the clover. It opened one eye and looked at me, and then settled back into its slumber.

The wonderful, spectacular, glorious part of the world isn’t limited to nature. Just look at all the first responders who regularly put their lives on the line to help others, including teachers who educate our children at the risk of another senseless shooting. Every day in all our communities, neighbors are helping neighbors (just yesterday mine came over with his riding mower to cut our grass because our mower is broken).

The tender acts of love in the world include a man grabbing a box of cereal off the top shelf for a hunched-over elderly woman. It’s in the smile I exchanged with someone I passed on a hike. It can be found in the bagpipe music that a man plays at the state park near our house, and with the mailman who drove up our very long driveway to drop a package at our door instead of leaving it at the street. I experience an act of love every night when my husband washes dishes after dinner, or when he takes our dog out at night in the rain so that I don’t have to.

My goodness, when we really pay attention, it’s clear that every day we are all surrounded by beauty, love, kindness, and grace. If we consciously take moments each day to notice these things, our hearts will be full, and we are less likely to be knocked off our foundation when the next tragic headline hits the newsstand.

A few days ago, I gathered up an armful of tulip flowers and put them in a large bowl of water. It’s a gorgeous centerpiece that reminds me to pause what I’m doing and notice the simple miracles all around me.

The world is a magnificent place, and we are lucky to live in it.

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Dear 2022,

Year 2021 was one big whoosh. One would think time would crawl when plodding wearily through the second year of a global pandemic. Yet despite being cloaked in disquiet about the ongoing Covid crisis, numerous climate disasters, and all the horrible things that go along with both, I have gratitude for much of what the year brought. One thing the tenacious virus has taught me is a deeper appreciation of the small things, because at the end of the day, they are what truly matter. Eric and I have our health, we were finally able to hug our families again, we have carefully expanded our social dates from zoom calls to actually visiting with people in-person again, a young group of spunky deer has moved in at Shama Sanctuary, and our organic vegetable garden thrived through November. But the most surprising gift bestowed upon us by 2021 was a 4-month-old Belgian Malinois-mix that Eric and I welcomed into our family last March.

As with all the letters I’ve written to each new year since 2011, I have a promise to make to you, Year 2022. But first, I must tell you about our new puppy.

From the day the animal rescue delivered Lunabelle to us, we knew she was a special one. She seemed like a wise old woman trapped in a playful puppy’s body. That sage presence has deepened now that she is 13 months old. We braced ourselves for life with a puppy, thinking we’d have shredded belongings and potty-training accidents all over the house. But neither of those things happened. She has rarely gotten into anything that wasn’t hers. For a few months last summer, she was on a garden glove kick where she would gently bring one over and drop it down in front of me. And once she took a clean folded pair of socks out of the laundry basket and carried them over and set them at my feet. But other than that, for the most part, she intuitively knows which toys are hers and which things she should leave alone.

These are some things I admire about her:

  • Lunabelle is curious and likes to learn. If a Mensa for dogs existed, she’d be a member. Her intelligence makes us look like rock star dog trainers, but in reality, we only need to teach a command a couple of times before she’s mastered it. She regularly sits and calmly observes—whether it be following us with her eyes as we work around the house, looking out the car window, or watching the goings on of people and animals when we are out for a hike. She’s intensely focused, as if the wheels in her head are turning as she gathers information, categorizes it, and files it away for later recall.
  • Lunabelle loves to play, whether it be rolling on the floor together or chasing a ball, she knows the value of fun. Given she adores other dogs, her favorite place in the world is doggy daycare.
  • Lunabelle lives for exercise. I’m mesmerized by her effortless grace as she leaps off the deck to the grass below and then breaks out into a full sprint around the pool while avoiding trampling the vegetable gardens. This dog is like a gymnast with all her muscles working in sync through each precise movement.
  • Lunabelle cherishes her alone time. I’m the same way, so I respect her need to recharge in a corner of the house all by herself.
  • Lunabelle is a cuddler. Hooray! This wasn’t always the case. It wasn’t until she turned 11 months old that the snuggling started. Before that, no matter how much I begged for her to join me on the sofa, she’d usually go off on her own to nap or gnaw on a chew toy.
  • Lunabelle doesn’t hold grudges. If she is scolded, she remains chill and looks at us like, “Hmmm. Okay, I’ll do better next time,” and then moves on. Sulking isn’t in her repertoire.
  • Lunabelle is kind to everyone she meets.

So, New Year. At this point it may be obvious that my promise to you is to be curious, play, exercise, cherish alone time, cuddle, not hold grudges, and be kind to people.

In short, my New Year’s resolution is to Be Like Lunabelle.

In closing, Year 2022, I think I love you already.

Sincerely,

Kee Kee

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Lily and Me

by Kee Kee on October 11, 2021

in Change,Favorite Posts,Grief,shama sanctuary

 

Pearl and Maude are the new regulars at our woodsy New Jersey home that we call Shama Sanctuary. Pearl has close-set beady eyes and carries with her an air of superiority. She’s a bully, snorting and chasing off the twin orphans, Precious and Petunia, who are yearning for companionship. To show her dominance she’ll strike the two yearlings on their backs with her hoof so hard that I jump when I hear the loud thump. Pearl is working hard to establish herself as the new alpha in the group, but she’s doing it in the frenetic way of an inexperienced young doe, desperate to make her mark on the world.

Old Maude is easier to love. Her personality is quite chill, probably due to her advanced age. She walks slowly and stiff legged—perhaps from arthritis in her hips—and her back sags. One of her ears lies flat against her head, likely due to a prior injury. With her one floppy ear, white spot between her eyes and white tuxedo stripes running the length of her legs, I’ve developed a soft spot for her quirkiness. That said, each time I sit outside with the deer, my heart hurts. Bad. I’m familiar with this feeling. It’s called grief.

October 9, 2019 was the last day I saw her.

Lily had been the matriarch of Shama Sanctuary since I moved here six years ago. She was a nimble doe, with jagged ears and nicks in her fur—a sort of scrappy edge to her beauty that came from years of leaping through the scraggly brush. Lily’s entourage included her daughter Sparkle and all of their many offspring. Carrying with her fearless traits of a born leader, she was assertive and strong, but also loyal to and protective of her tribe. Moreover, she was compassionate, and, unlike pretentious Pearl, even adopted orphaned fawns that she raised as her own.

My connection with Lily was not at all immediate. In fact, it was her spunky one-antlered yearling Magic whom I first felt was my spirit animal. A few years ago, Magic helped me through the grief of losing my dog Yoda. There were times that I would be so overcome with emotion that I would go outside and holler “Magic, I need you!” Moments later he’d trot out of the woods and I would blubber snotty tears as I told him all about Yoda while he snacked on a handful of corn at my feet. Magic, now a majestic 10-point buck, occasionally still visits; often bringing with him a posse of young bucks under the protective cover of darkness.

It wasn’t until late summer of 2016 that Lily let down her guard. It was as if after months of cautiously observing me, she finally made the decision that I was friend and not foe. She never retreated from her choice to befriend me. From then on, the trust between us grew. Relationships in both the human and animal worlds take time to develop, and my friendship with Lily had finally reached that cherished state of comfortable intimacy. She’d visit at least once or twice a day. If I was sitting outside, she’d sometimes lay down in the grass near me and chew her cud. She once did this for an hour, and my sense of contentment was a feeling I will never forget. It was no longer me sitting outside with a wild animal. It was now me simply sitting with Lily.

When it was time to give birth to her fawns each spring, she visited in the mornings as big as a house. She had an expectant mother waddle to accommodate her giant pregnant belly, yet she could still gracefully leap over a fallen log as she disappeared into the woods. She would then come back later in the day, noticeably slimmer after giving birth. I like to think she wanted to share the news with me, but in all likelihood, it was simply that she wanted a snack to replenish her energy.

Lily had the most gorgeous eyes of any creature I’ve ever seen. They were big, brown liquid eyes rimmed with exquisitely long lashes. She’d stare in the window at me at my desk until I noticed and came outside with an apple. She would gaze intensely into my eyes before she took her first bite. She’d take her time, never rushing, seemingly content to spend time together.

Yet last summer I saw something different in her eyes. It was around the time that her new fawn disappeared—likely prey of the coywolf who obliterated the small woodland creatures at Shama Sanctuary over the summertime months. In place of the well of trust, warmth, and wisdom that I always found in her eyes; I now saw sadness. Not only did she lose her fawn, but her two-year-old daughter Sparkle and the other deer that have always been a part of Lily’s family were no longer around either. It was Lily, all alone. And I know she didn’t like it.

A couple months later, surrounded by autumn trees bearing brushstrokes of amber and crimson, I sat outside with Lily and talked to her while she gingerly nibbled at her apple. She was savoring every bite. I told her that I knew about the savage slaughter that had taken place at Shama Sanctuary over the summer, and I said how very sorry I was that she lost her fawn. But I also reassured her that this is the cycle of life, and that one day things will shift back and our wildlife will return. Hang on girl. Please, hang on.

The next day my husband and I left for a business trip to LA. When we returned a week later, Lily was nowhere to be found. This in and of itself wasn’t cause for concern. When we traveled, Lily would go elsewhere to feed on woody vegetation. But within a few days of our return, she had always made her way back to her home range of Shama Sanctuary. Only this time she didn’t.

It’s now been two years since I’ve seen her, and I’ve finally stopped holding my breath with hope that she’ll appear. She’s gone. I miss her. My heart hurts.

These days, instead of talking to Lily, I talk to myself. Hang on girl. Please, hang on.

* * * * * * * *

October 9, 2021 update: An earlier version of this essay was posted a year ago. It has now been two years since I last saw Lily, and I still think of her every day. To work through an unexpected grief surge (probably triggered by the goings on in the world), I decided to honor her memory by rewriting the essay as an expression of love.

Pearl is now the alpha at Shama Sanctuary. Her mother, Maude, died last winter. Petunia also disappeared last winter, but her twin sister, Precious, still visits and is now a beautiful and gentle two-year-old doe. In the spring of 2020, Pearl gave birth to Jeffrey and Jaime, twin male fawns (who are now handsome yearlings sporting their first antlers). This past spring she had another set of twins, Hansel and Gretel. It’s taken a couple of years for Pearl to learn to trust me and let me sit with her, but she is still pretty bristly, both with me and with other deer. We don’t have the same deep connection as Lily and I had. Not even close. Hopefully one day I’ll share a bond with another deer. But even if that happens, there will never be another Lily.

Rest in Peace, Lily. Thank you for the memories.

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An Open Letter to the New Year – 2021

January 3, 2021

Dear 2021, You are a mystery. Well actually, every new year is a mystery—what will it bring? But you are a ginormous mystery with the state of the world being as it is. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time. But now that you are here, well, right off the bat […]

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Slugs = Shama

December 16, 2020

It’s December and we just completed a final harvest of our pandemic vegetable garden. December! Considering our first planting was in March, that’s one helluva long time in NJ to be eating veggies grown in one’s backyard. We grew rainbow carrots, a medley of radishes, pole beans, bush beans, snow peas, sugar snap peas, kale, […]

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Denial of Interconnectedness and the Mask Wearing Debate

October 7, 2020

It’s a heated issue: why or why not to wear a mask in the age of Covid-19. But before I get into the mask debate, I’m hoping you will consider the interconnectedness of being, and to do that, I need to first talk about poop (which seems to be a recurrent theme in my recent […]

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My Fecal Transplant, Your Immune System, and Covid-19

August 20, 2020

Living in a pandemic world is like a rotting tomato floating atop a gazpacho of natural disasters, a divided nation, racism, climate change, job loss, a collapsed economy, and on and on. On top of all those things, we now need to obsess over how to keep ourselves healthy. There is so much to worry […]

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