O, Nostalgia

November 6th, 2020

Nostalgia is a powerful thing.

It can transport you through time and space. It can trap you in pocket dimensions made of moments. It builds worlds from smells and sounds and feelings you had never felt before or since.

I’m the kind of person who can feel nostalgia before it happens, while I’m still living in the memory that I’ll be looking back on. It’s a strange kind of wanting, being able to imagine yourself in the future imagining this moment.

When my mom passed, I almost immediately found myself on eBay. I know that a lot of people use shopping as a form of distraction or relief, but this was different. I had a mission, a purpose. I wanted artifacts from my childhood that reminded me of the person I love.

We had a shared obsession of Disney. 101 Dalmatians was one of her favorites. When I was six years old, they re-released it in theaters. I remember her taking me out of school, picking up McDonald’s (I ate so much McDonald’s as a child of the 90’s) and watching the movie together. Theaters (and a lot of TV sets) didn’t have closed-captioning at the time, so Disney films were perfect because you didn’t really need to know exactly what anyone was saying; the characters were so beautifully expressive, emotions expertly expressed, and the stories so easily followed. We just got to take the ride together.

Bambi was another one we loved, and is probably my absolute favorite Disney film. Rewatch it if you haven’t in a while; it is a perfect movie. (That Bambi lost his mom too soon only makes it resonate more.) The collecting of McDonald’s toys was another passion we shared, and that comes with its own strife; because my mom didn’t speak, she would have me check the Happy Meal, make sure we didn’t already have the toy they gave us, and if we did, I was responsible to ask the kid behind the counter to get us a new one. At the time, it was mortifying. But guess who had full sets of every line of fast food toy? My mom taught me not to settle, and to go for what I want. I’m just now realizing that she’s a reason I’m such a collector of things myself.

If my dad was going to the store, we were maybe lucky to convince him of a candy bar. If my mom was going, you better believe I was coming home with an action figure. I had all the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, their sensei, their enemies, and their van. I adore the Turtles. I couldn’t wait until I had three brothers of my own. (Spoiler alert: I got three lovely sisters instead.) I actually got my first punch to the face because I quoted a Raphael line at a rougher kid from the block (bloody nose and everything!).

So many people will look at things and see junk. I can’t help but see my entire existence through the constants of my pop culture existence.

I used to think that somehow made me less than. That it was strange I held things in such reverence. But now I realize that it just makes me human, simple when heartbroken.

There’s a difference between being stuck in the past and being wonderfully tied to it. What I’m working so hard on is eliminating the former, and embracing the latter.

HOPE

November 3rd, 2020

2020 has not been a hopeful year, nor one that has particularly cared about our plans or dreams. Despite this, a few people have reached out to me and said that I could probably write something great about hope.

You kind idiots. I disagree with that sentiment. I have been holding on to the cellar door with a pinkie, and my intense anxiety has been the storm of whose eye I am in.

But anyone reaching out, looking for hope, means that hope still objectively exists.

So, fuck it — let’s talk about hope.

There’s an solid idea out there that we are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. There is a better idea that because we are insignificant, anything we do becomes significant, just by virtue that we did it.

If that’s the barometer of measuring meaning in the universe, then this year may be one of the most significant of all.

We’ve seen millions of people adapt and adopt ways of life that we believe will save the lives of others, including people we don’t even know. We’ve seen countless march for and alongside their brothers and sisters, even if their privilege would have allowed them to stay out of the fight. We are watching record numbers of our fellow citizens vote for a country that we love and wholeheartedly believe in.

Nothing we do matters. The fact that we are doing so much, on the behalf of one another and for the love of other humans on this planet, is the most significant thing we can do with our lives.

And I guess that’s hope.

Despite how this plays out, I will still be me, and you will still be you. We will still live in our communities, and we will still be a vital part of the lives of our friends and family.

And if you’re anything like me, you will still deeply care about the people around you.

So that’s how we carry on. We look out for each other. We carry someone when they can’t carry on themselves. We fight for one another. And we remember that every human being’s singular right is the right to be.

Be insignificant. Do significant things. And never, ever lose hope. Especially when others come to you looking for it.

Do You (Still) Believe in Magic?

November 2nd, 2020

I chose the wrong time to peek behind the curtain.

This year has been one of intense loss for many. I have to keep my face forward, because as soon as I turn my chin to look back at my own losses, it feels impossible to steer it toward the future again. A salmon resigns to go with the flow.

Over the summer, I read a series of lectures that discussed religion and science hand-in-hand, strange and seemingly impossible bedfellows that have indeed been canoodling since the beginning of time. I found the lectures enlightening, frustrating, and simply brilliant, and I’ve spent a lot of time dealing with what I’ve learned.

And what I’ve learned, unfortunately, is that a lot of religion is like magic, and I’ve seen how the most popular tricks work.

At a time when I could really use some magic in my life.

I’ve always believed in the universe, and I still do. It’s mysterious and infinite and, if it doesn’t have a plan, it definitely has a sense of humor.

I got close to death a few years back, in the way that you get close to a pal. It became less a terrifying inevitability, and more an ever-present roommate. This familiarity made me less scared, but it never made me less sad.

An organ is named for the thing it does that makes it unique. A heart pumps your blood. Your lungs let you breathe. In that sense, religion does have an undeniable function: it is the only organ we have that lets us process death and what happens after death in any significant way.

Without it, it feels like standing just offstage, staring behind the set, waiting for it all to fall down.

I think looking behind the curtain was inevitable for me. Curiosity and cats and all. But just as the universe (and its sense of humor) chose this moment to reveal some of its secrets, I have faith in it to provide hope and love and indirect but intimately satisfying answers.

I have faith in the simple idea of faith.

Kindness Sticks

October 29th, 2020

I’ve been pretty quiet lately, and I have no interest in adding to the political discussion. I’m also not the kind to give direct advice, but I do have something to say during this last week of the election.

What I’ve learned, especially over the last few years, is simple: when your base of beliefs and system of discourse is love, compassion and understanding, you can never be objectively wrong. A person may say you are, but morality is a perfect judge.

Look, this year has been awful, and the past few weeks especially so, on a personal level. I just feel so heavy all the time.

But as I watch argument after argument unfold, debate after meaningless debate spill over, I find the only things worth holding onto, and the only things sticking to my hair, to be the things of kindness.

We live in a post-fact world. It’s terrifying, but it’s true. People have always been seeking to find the evidence to support what they believe, and not necessarily what is true. Truth is the basis of democracy, and without truth, democracy ceases to exist.

Love is an absolute truth, and with that in mind, I want you to remember something:

This election will come and go. But you will forever have to live with the person you’ve been during it.

I know a thing or two about saying the wrong thing. I’ve done it a lot, and I’ve said things, even to strangers on the internet, that I wish I would have said differently, or not at all. Only by being able to admit that I make mistakes am I okay being in this physical body I inhabit.

So be kind, but not false; don’t adopt a fake manner that betrays who you are.

No, be kind — like the fate of your country, heart, and soul depend on it. It’ll be the only way we get out of this alive.

No Matter What

October 21st, 2020

During my high school years, at least once a week, my mom asked me if I’m gay.

Spoiler alert: I’m not. But she would make sure that I was sure. And when I would reaffirm that I was not gay, despite being an absolute nerd who loved theater and musicals and dressing up and just had a lot of friends who were girls, she would remind me that she would love me no matter what I was or who I loved.

It seems like a silly story to share, but it’s always what comes to my mind when someone asks me what kind of person my mom was.

That’s who she was. She loved me so much that she would imagine situations in which I might believe she wouldn’t love me, and she assured me that she would love me. There were times I wished I was gay, or that one of my gay friends had my mom as their mom, just so she had that chance to prove her love.

Not that she ever had to prove it. Everyone felt it. The entire world was her gay-not-gay son. She defied conventional boundaries and social expectations to deliver the most pure love, a kind that exceeded imagination.

I cry a lot. I’m crying right now, in fact, writing these words. I get that from her. I inherited those intense feelings she forged, and I spent a lot of time trying to ghost them. She knew better, and I eventually learned her lesson.

Love people in a way that they could never believe you wouldn’t.

It’s easier said than done.

Things I’ve Learned Happen When You Lose Someone Close To You

October 17th, 2020

If you’re an obituary person (which is an odd kind of person to be, but no judgement), my mom’s will be in Sunday’s edition of the Star Tribune. You can also read it online here:

https://m.startribune.com/obituaries/detail/0000371633/?fullname=diane-marie-vogen

I’ve been told by many people that apparently I am the type to write down words, and that I should continue to do that process through this new process. With 48 hours under my belt, I humbly present:

Things I’ve Learned Happen When You Lose Someone Close To You

– Nearly everyone will say the wrong thing, because you realize there isn’t really a right thing to say.

– People who have also lost a loved one will  look at you like you’ve just joined their club, but you will initially resent them because this isn’t a club you ever wanted to join.

– As long as you remember that this is just waves, everything can be okay. When I find myself in a deep dip, I just have to imagine the oncoming crest and I am fine.

– Remembering that this is a wave won’t stop you from sobbing in the frozen section at Wal-Mart.

– Despite how well you’re doing, the absolute dumbest things will make you cry. I can say with complete honesty that, until this week, I hadn’t even realized that song from the Fast & Furious franchise about Paul Walker was a sad one.

– I don’t have any regrets, as far as my relationship with my mom goes. We both always knew how the other felt, and I can’t remember a time in my life when we let anything substantial come between us. In fact, her approach was to love any problem, and she was a genius mathematician.

– You will start to credit your departed loved one for everything good that happens. Example: when a green light stays on just a little longer to let you pass through, you find yourself saying “Thanks, mom” even though that makes no fucking sense.

– Same thing when something annoying happens. Just add “Thanks, mom” with a side of shade and sarcasm.

– Acknowledging the person isn’t physically here while still referring to them like they are is the only way I know how to do this.

– Flexible spirituality begets remarkable solutions. No system of comfort goes unconsidered or ignored.

– Most grab bags, like those found at birthday parties and soirees, are delightful. The grab bag of mourning — with its guilt and anger and sadness and humor and longing — is a terrible substitution but, like the former kind, is better when you share.

– You find out how strong your family is when they’re placed on the ropes. To not see a single member of mine shrink in the face of something unbearable was an extraordinary show of who we are, and that strength will be there when we need it.

– Dogs make everything better, even slightly, which is sometimes all you need.

I love you all and can’t possibly show you how much I appreciate every word, gesture and emoji. I know this is a process, and we’re just starting it. My mom was always bigger than life, so this new chapter is just a literal extension of that. All my love. ❤

Bigger on the Inside

October 15th, 2020

My dog loves everybody.

She cannot handle her damn self when presented (or creating) an opportunity to love on someone. This often displays itself as complete face-licking abandon; sometimes she pulls on her leash so hard my arm is dislocated from the shoulder.

The other day, she was happily flopping on the end of her line when a neighbor walked past. The neighbor made me snort when she said to my girl:

“You are too little to be doing all that.”

I laughed and agreed with her in the moment, but in reality, I couldn’t disagree more.

Never let anybody tell you that you are too small to be who you are.

I would argue that none of us have a body that adequately contains everything we keep inside.

In one of the multiple universe theories, it argues that are there are an infinite number of infinite universes that are perpetually growing. Think about that. In order for there to be separate universes, it requires that each universe has a border; but within each so-called border, the universe is infinite AND growing.

As my favorite doctor would say: “It’s bigger on the inside.”

So let it spill out. Let your enthusiasm and knowledge and curiosity and heart — your infinite love and soul — escape your pores and break through your dams and let yourself do “all that.”

Love on everyone around you, with complete, face-licking abandon.

There is no greater lesson.

Half/Hearted

October 11th, 2020

When I tell somebody I’m going to do something, it’s always half-heartedly.

In my head, a plan has as much of a chance failing as it does succeeding. Me saying it aloud isn’t a declaration of my certainty or confidence; it’s more akin to me casting a spell, pushing forth the initial ingredients needed to start the process.

The magic is in the encouragement.

If a person says something doubtful or negative about the thing, it swings my own opinion that way, too. It’s someone taking the air out of the balloon. It doesn’t mean that I won’t do the thing, but it does mean that the thing will have more power over me, it will be more challenging, and the potential rate of failing will be higher before I even begin.

But the magic is in the encouragement.

It’s when someone decides to see the worth in a plan that it sets early roots. A faucet turns on above my glass-half-full, and the positive vibe ratio increases, giving me the energy I’ll need in reserve when the thing isn’t happening like it’s supposed to.

And the thing rarely happens like it’s supposed to.

This is just a reminder to think about how you react to the plans presented in your life. Do you generally find strategic ways to shoot them down, even when you think you’re doing it for the right reasons? Or do you staple on paper wings with your words, giving the ideas lift while they find their own strength to become reality?

Your encouragement is magic. And I think you’ll find your world enchanted by the dreams you decide to approve instead of deny.

Artists Gotta Art

October 7th, 2020

I’ve seen countless posts, mostly from well-meaning parents, about technology and how it’s taking away our artists. How our children are being deprived of creativity by cell phones and video games and computers.

I, respectfully, disagree. But (also respectfully!) I feel like I have the pedigree and point of view to explain why.

If a person is a creator, they will find a way to create. Period. If a person is an artist, they will create art. Period. If they’re a writer, they will write words. Yet another period.

And how do I know this?

Because for my entire existence, creating art has never been easy. In fact, it’s been consistently hard and sometimes nigh-impossible. And yet I keep finding ways to do it.

I loved making movies when I was young. I did have a camcorder or two. Okay. But I didn’t have editing equipment. And tapes were both expensive and barely held any length of footage. And I only had so many friends — not enough for a crew of actors and technical positions and directing roles and everything else a normal production would require.

But we made movies.

I’m a writer. But I’ve never had a publisher. That hasn’t stopped me from releasing four novellas and a graphic novel. And not just digital versions; real-life books to hold were part of the package. Do you know what that required of me? I had to learn how to write (and it’s debatable if I did), how to edit, how to format, how to art design, how to digitally produce, how to find a place to print material, how to raise funds, how to promote — I had to do everything a publishing house does. It wasn’t easy.

I still did it.

And on and on. So what does this have to do with technology? Technology makes it EASY. Look around at the young artists in your life. They’ve been given a near infinite canvas to express themselves, and they do.

They take photos. They use filters. They make movies to share on social media and YouTube. They paint in Photoshop. They type on Word. They play video games with artistic depth that rivals feature films and literature. They create memes (and brilliantly). They play music, and often learn how to play with online tutorials. They do things with make-up that I could never imagine.

They express themselves with the voice they possess and the tools they have with as much ferocity and ingenuity as I have ever seen any creator express themselves.

So don’t worry about our artists. We will always make ourselves heard.

Instead, just make sure you’re listening. Caring. Supporting. Because we’re creating in more ways than ever before.

Live & Let Live

October 3rd, 2020

Superheroes have taught me a lot of lessons, but I learned one as a kid that I never forgot, and it feels especially relevant now.

At the end of any Spider-Man or Batman cartoon or comic book, I always found myself with an uneasy feeling.

I didn’t like how they let the bad guys live.

To me, it made sense to kill them, so they couldn’t hurt anybody else. I wasn’t a psychopath or anything (though that’s arguable); my soft, feeble brain just saw a primitive logic in removing evil from the equation of life.

By doing something over and over again that I didn’t quite initially understand, they normalized the idea that every person’s life is important, no matter who they are.

This means that we don’t wish for anyone — not even the bad guy — to die.

Because every life means something.

Just a thing to think about during these times. There are some days when even Spider-Man or Batman question whether they’re doing the right thing.

They are. I know that in my heart.

[Photo by audrey nicole photography]