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Spoiler Alert

2021 August 13
by Rachel Turiel


I’m in the garden, taking a self-guided tour with coffee, when Col wakes up. “Come out and see the garden!” I call to him like he’s just arrived in the country. He’s bleary, sun-shocked, some teenaged part of him still anchored to his bed. “Okay,” he concedes, “you can show me three things.”

I lead him to a pollen-fuzzed bee plunged deep into a zucchini blossom; cucumber tendrils spiraling by some vegetal sonar towards a trellis; and, the fence-scaling morning glories–flowers yet to open–singing a song called potential.

They bloomed!

“This looks familiar,” he points to a basil plant, trying perhaps to make conversation in the last 30 seconds of his window of tolerance. “Basil!” I exclaim, as if still navigating his toddler world by naming every noun in his vicinity.

“Thanks mom, garden’s looking pretty nice.” He aims himself towards the kitchen to grab his phone en route back to his room.


My friend tells me his whole life revolves around his 2 1/2 year old twins. “They’re all I’m interested in,” he says, sounding worried, like he may have lost something irretrievable. I am always cautious about revealing the unthinkable to people with young kids. But, I’ll tell you here (spoiler alert): those small ones you’re so enchanted with and beleaguered by? They grow very big very fast. They will want space and privacy. They will no longer track your every move like fine tuned sonar; nor will they so fully and transparently narrate their lives to you as if you’re their personal biographer. They will get jobs and earn their own money. They may want to spend their money on take out meals, despite your garden and freezer overflowing with ingredients, a small monument to single use plastics slowly rising in your recycling bin. Or, they may float, distractedly, through your garden (formerly the backdrop of every goddamned, summer childhood scene), their minds tendrilled out on girls, hip hop, video games, carbs, who even knows, while for a brief moment an explicit memory of a basil plant hijacks the system.


About every other week Dan and I leave the kids alone and head out for a short backpacking trip. This is a parenting trick akin to once getting them both to nap at the same time. There’s a lot of strategy and up front effort. But it delivers. It’s like getting something precious returned to you that’s been lost.
Getting curious about castilleja heydenii, or paintbrush.

These trips tend to bring out a strange mix of euphoria-despair in me. There’s the joy of reuniting with familiar places. Remember when we hiked to the top of that ridge and saw six bull elk bedded in the meadow below?  And, the stunningness of peering into a whole different universe. A pika chews up a purple columbine flower, little pink tongue darting in and out.

The boletes were fo real this year. 288% of normal rainfall in July. Also, we are not ultra-light backpackers. (And Dan’s camera has a big, permanent smudge on the lens).

And then, there are visible changes that I register like a stone in my gut. Climbing out of a tent at 12,300 feet in the shade-draped morning and not needing a jacket. Lakes turning into marshes; marshes drying up. Spruce slopes skeletonized by bark beetles. Flowers blooming 2-3 weeks early. Dan and I watch a singular, large mountain goat perched on an impossible rock ledge, its wooly white coat looking out of fashion on this hot alpine day.


We take our annual end of summer trip a month early because Col is scheduled to be on the Colorado river for 2 weeks mid August. (Spoiler alert: they want to be away from you. Double spoiler alert: you will love–and pay good money–for this).

We arrive at the remote, highcountry Conejos river cabins and the host is about to announce the wifi password. If this were a slapstick comedy I’d have flung myself across the room to take her out before she could utter the words. I’m slightly less obvious but we manage to steer everyone out of the room unawares. Oh well, we shrug to the kids, no wifi for a few days.

Alternative activities to checking ones notifications.

A rare moment: Dan sitting. Note dog face peeking out of screen door.

The next day we hike to Bear Lake and something strange happens in the absence of internet connectivity. Rose forages strawberries and blueberries like a wild bear. (Yes, wild blueberries in Colorado. Smaller and more tangy than their domestic kin). She’s delighted by the wildflowers, and like someone waking up from Instagram-fueled amnesia, remembers that she loves sucking the nectar out of columbine spurs and popping cucumber-fresh bluebell blossoms in her mouth.

Col spots a vein of chanterelles under the spruce. “Wow – you recognized those chanterelles even though it’s been awhile since you’ve gone mushroom hunting with us,” I say.

“I’d never forget chanterelles,” he says. And a small balloon of reassurance inflates in me.

Col starts remembering other things. He wants to hold my hand and tell me everything. “Remember when me and Mathew used to go looking for snakes in the soapwort? We never actually saw a snake in there,” he confesses.

“Remember that winter the bucks used to spar behind our house and Daddy was totally obsessed? That was cool.”

“Remember when I ate a live grasshopper at homeschool co-op?” (Shudder).

Oh how I do. We let our minds travel together through the scrapbook of stories. Those days when we all seemed to be shipmates sailing through life together. It’s happy and sad, wistful and confusing (where did we go if we’re all still here?), all at once.

5. We spend five days together, hiking, eating and trying to understand and orient to one another. We’re not the same as we once were, and yet, we still fit together. The current fit requires some finessing and adjusting in ways that are new, and sometimes uncomfortable. Some of us are enamored of the made world, looking for novelty and excitement you can put on your debit card; and some of us are drawn to forage mushrooms and apricots; our excitement tethered to repetition and traditions. Dan frequently reminds me that the kids are ultimately more like us than not. When I ask Col and Rose if they think they’ll grow gardens someday, they both say yes, offhandedly, as if it’s inevitable rather than desirable.

We make 5 star dinners in the communal kitchen of the funky Taos hostel while rain douses the land. (just like at home, it’s just that we’re all eating the same thing at the same time).

At the Rio Grande river, plunged into cool, soothing waters after a particularly sketchy hike, Rose announces, “Daddy leads us into rocks and poison ivy, but he always fixes everything.” How sweet to be known and accepted exactly as you are. The kids soothe the anxious beast of me by putting their phones up and playing silly board games and calling it “family time.” That will earn them at least two episodes of Breaking Bad on the hostel’s TV which will likely grease their willingness to take a walk up El Salto Road after dinner, where we marvel at the bountiful, monsoon-fed ditches and the sunflowers splashing yellow onto the high desert. This is how we fit together.

I don’t know what comes next. Maybe you do. No spoiler alerts, please.

this very simple formula of life

2021 April 29
by Rachel Turiel

Right now, what I really want to tell you is that six pine grosbeaks have been visiting our crab apple daily. They’re new to our yard and each time they show up—earnest beaks clipping at red berries—I’m filled with the maternal joy of so easily providing for someone’s needs.

In other social structures, ahem, that is, inside the house, well, things are a bit more complicated. I would like to create this app that decodes everybody’s needs. Because there is this very simple formula of life: we all are all the time moving towards satisfying needs. The pine grosbeaks are searching for sustenance. Our dog is looking for purpose, hence the protective woofing every time our upstairs neighbors suspiciously ascend their own stairs. All the tomatoes in our greenhouse lean towards the sun: photosynthesis is life, baby!

And then there’s us people. We’ve lost some of the fluidity we came into this world with. (Remember that? Baby cries, we pick her up. Boom! Strategy clear. Needs met). When I wander out to the kitchen with a search image for chocolate burning in my eyes—for the fourth time this morning—I am looking for some stimulation, ease and predictability in the midst of acres of uncertainty. Hmmm, tall order for a square of cacao. Maybe that’s why I’m on my fourth trip – still searching for that stimulation and ease.

This I understand.

And, omg, this. 

I would aim my app at Rosie when she’s on the couch, three hops from the kitchen, though texting me in the next room to see if I’ll get her a snack. I think you’re wanting some nurture and care from your Mama. Is that it, my precious daughter? I would ask. And, when Col says “Mom, leave,” with urgency in his voice after I’ve popped in on his bedroom fortress of remote schooling, my app would tell me: this child wants to be trusted to manage his workload, and his whole gorgeous life, Mama!

See? It’s so beautiful. In this world there are no lazy, entitled or impertinent children, just billions of us humans who have not been taught how to make our needs known nor ask for what we truly want. Billions of us who’re trying to tamp down our vulnerability, to appear less full of desires, because we’ve been told it’s easier that way.

But, as Miki Kashtan says, “Because needs are the stuff of life, they cannot go away. Consequently, when we don’t allow ourselves to have a need, what we lose is freedom. We lose access to conscious choice about how to meet this still-present but unacknowledged need.” So when we tamp down a need with our cultural slogans (“don’t sweat the small stuff,” “first world problems,” etc…) we pay the costs, and usually take others down with us. And, when we demand that someone else change or we judge them for not changing, we’re sidestepping touching into the vulnerability and honesty of what we’re actually wanting. 

Not *exactly* 3 generations.


3 generations minus 1. Thank you Baba and Nana for driving 6 days roundtrip to see us!!

Much of the work I do, using principles of nonviolent communication, is helping people understand what needs they’re attempting to satisfy, and to determine if they actually like the strategies their nervous systems have developed. 

There’s so much more space in me when I understand that the reason my throat seizes when I see a new (artificial-ingredient, endocrine-disrupting) addition to the array of body care products on Rose’s dresser is because I am burning with a passion for all of us to know that our worth is unshakable so we can get on with the project of expressing our gifts. 

The more I make room for this desire in me, this need for our belonging and significance to be uncoupled from flawless skin (and the mourning of how Capitalism has co-opted our self worth), the more quickly I can recover what I know is true: this is a systemic issue manifest in my innocent daughter. And, being critical of her is the most ineffective strategy to meet my precious dream of a world where we know our worth is unshakable. 

I can see clearly that these purchases are her strategy to meet needs for self care, mattering to herself, belonging, acceptance and fun.

And I still want the artificial fragrance out of the house. So, I might say, “Hey love, you know my concern about artificial fragrance. Can I take you to Dancing Willow Herbs where you can pick out a body spray made with essential oils?”

Or, I may just let it be. Because giving a teenager the sense of being accepted is like infusing them with unshakable worth.

I find Rose doing remote school on the couch.

“Hey I want to acknowledge that sometimes it’s hard to have me as a mom.”

“Yeah. What made you realize that?” (Damn – thought maybe she’d argue with me on this one).

“Well, I was thinking about how I have opinions about what you put on your body and that’s probably hard for you when you just want acceptance from me.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mama, that’s nice. Now, can I show you my slideshow on Andalusia?”

Andalusia is pretty dreamy, but I’d have a hard time leaving the cold frames right now.

Afterwards, I return to the crabapples. For five minutes I’m completely enraptured by the pine grosbeaks’ world—pluck, nibble, discard—hundreds of red berry bits strewn across the ground. Their strategy is almost the same as their need. No app needed to understand. Meanwhile, the humans in the house go about their complex ways, and until that need-decoding app gets invented, I’ll put all my brain power into making room for understanding what challenges me, breaks my heart and delights me, and all the complex ways we attend to this very simple formula of life.

the sweet in-between

2021 February 26
by Rachel Turiel

It’s that time of straddling two seasons, where part of me is like, bucketloads more snow would be fantastic, but if not, can I get started planting every inch of our garden? But it appears neither is happening, at least not for the foreseeable future.

And, it’s that sweet in-between season, the long pause, that finger-tapping anticipation of everything bursting forth. But, not yet. And, actually, because I’m not distracted by pursuing the grandma-esque dopamine rush of xc skiing, nor tending to a daycare of seedlings, each chirping for my attention, others things come into view.

Every day I cheer on the robins as they strip our crabapples top to bottom, like their own ear of corn. Though the greens in our cold frames outside aren’t yet eating-size, they’re actually growing rather than hanging on, pissed and bewildered. Each slight increase in temperature and day length is deliciously noticeable. Our dinnertime–in which we all sample from the full emotional palette just by being four interconnected humans convening for thirty goddamned minutes, now features sunsets in the background, rather than a drape of darkness.

This greenhouse calendula just gave me a dopamine rush.

Rose and I are both working on new websites. Hers is called Sip. Savor. Satisfied. Featuring delicious, homemade drinks like this spinach-banana smoothie.

Also, I just switched a few technological pieces concerning notifications, so I’m hoping this has made it to your inbox. Feel free to drop a note in the comment section to let me know.

Meanwhile, I’ve read some excellent books, When Stars are Scattered, a graphic novel memoir that will make you cry, first with grief then with relief; The Knockout Queen, which was perfect fiction: captivating, surprising, triumphant, heartbreaking and full of humanity. And now I’m just sad that I can’t read it for the first time ever again. And, The Beauty in Breaking, the gorgeous, honest memoir of a Black, female ER doc. Oh, and Beast in the Garden, a non-fiction book about mountain lions encroaching on human settlements (or, is it the other way around?), and written with such suspense and excellent storytelling that Col is now reading it as if it’s some Stephen King novel.

And, classes! Now that I’m teaching online, and you may not actually live next door, I would love to meet you in one of my two upcoming nonviolent communication classes. One is for parents of teens and tweens, and one is a practice group which will turn your world inside out and sprinkle your life with power and liberation. Check ’em out.


Dan’s latest very cool project. Yes, that is a deer tail. Stay tuned.

Col’s oil painting of the great Ali. 

Oh, and before I got some technological help I wrote this post about our grinch-free holidays, which you may not have seen.

Sending so much love and care, because goodness knows, we all need it,


being heard is its own balm

2021 January 4
by Rachel Turiel

It got snowy and cold quickly here, which has promoted a certain wholesomeness in all of us, the snow burying some measure of monotony-induced cynicism. Three of us are skiing and sledding, the other is tracking deer in the blue-black dawn. 

When the kids rise in the morning to find Dan not home, one of them will say, “Where’s Daddy – looking for deer again?” 

When I confirm, Col will say fondly, “Oh, Dad.” 

How sweet it is to be known. To have others know that for you finding the deer in the depths of December is to inhabit mystery, intimacy and awe. (Even if Rose says of the gorgeous buck which dropped dead in a neighbor’s yard and was later loaded into our Subaru by Dan and two police officers—long story—though turned out too decrepit to eat, please Dad, do you have to drive me to work with a deer carcass in the backseat?)

Sunrise on Sangre de Cristos

We made it though the holidays with everyone’s sense of integrity intact. The older Col and Rose get the easier it is to say, “I’m sorry but I just can’t in good conscience buy you that techno-whizzdoodle which is designed to dazzle you briefly before becoming obsolete in three eyewinks.” Or, “That mini waffle iron is cute but heating up food on lab-produced nonstick surfaces gives me the heebies. Can we talk about other options, darling?”

The flip side is that along with holding to my consumer limits I can also deliver truckloads of empathy about how hard it is to have me as a Mama. I can picture 20 other more palatable versions of myself. Each, like the talking baby dolls of the 80s when wound up, parrot some version of, “Yes, honey, you can have that thing without any conversations of downstream effects on your body, the Earth or oppressed people!” 

I found a bereft Rose on the couch one December day and asked, “Do you want to tell me about your disappointment?” 

“Other people just get what they ask for,” she sighed. “They don’t have to negotiate every item on their list.”

(And really, the phrase ‘on my list’ triggers me no end. Why has the birth of a radical humanitarian turned into list-making of consumer goods we believe we’re entitled to? See above: Not the funnest mom.)

“It must be hard to have a mom who is so oriented towards simplicity, practicality and meaning,” I offered. (And I meant it; I exhaust myself sometimes.)

“Yes! I’m a teen girl and I like fun gifts.”

“I totally get it. You wish it was easier with me, that I could just say yes to what you want, could happily buy what’s on your list, that I was just more relaxed about stuff and products.”

“Yessss. And other kids just get ski passes every year without having to count it as a gift!”

“Ah. Yes. You’re wishing we could get behind the whole holiday giving thing, that I could appreciate how much fun it is to receive gifts and how reporting gifts receieved gives you a sense of belonging, acceptance and mattering amongst your friends.”

We went on like this for a short while, her inching closer to me, both of us implicitly understanding that being heard is its own balm, different than having the world instantly orient to our desires. 

Because ultimately, when only 1% of consumer goods are still around in 6 months, it is not more stuff that we really want. It’s the relational needs—being seen and heard, knowing we matter, contributing to others, connection—that fill us up. And, really, these are the needs on which I can easily deliver: no guilt, ambivalence or compromise involved. Also, these are the needs that make a lasting imprint, long after the waffle iron has short-circuited and been tossed in the trash.

Eventually Rose sighed and said, “I know I have everything I need, and I actually just want to get better at feeling grateful for what I have.”

The world screeched to a halt as we both sat with these words for a moment.

“Ah. Feeling grateful would be a way out of the cycle of wanting and disappointment, and measuring yourself and your stuff against others? A way to have some peace?”

“Yeah.” She slid into me and I received her child self, simultaneously fragile and powerful. Like all of us.

She never mentioned the mini waffle maker again except to say, “I realized I didn’t actually need anything on my list – I just made one because that’s what you’re supposed to do. And I’m actually really excited to have a ski pass.”

Where have we *not* hacky-sacked?

Sand dunes

Dual family germ pod

We took a little trip over Christmas, which included skiing and hot springs, sand dune-sledding and 8 person hacky-sack circles. Christmas Day we took a hike with friends in a stunning valley populated by pronghorn and hemmed by unending ripples of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Later we soaked in hot springs under dark skies, clusters of stars arranging themselves into familiar constellations. Everyone seemed to know they had what they needed, and that it was enough. 

Holiday outtakes:

The kids decided that for the 8 nights of Hanukkah 2020 instead of presents (True Hanukkah miracle?) each family member would take turns making dinner and choosing a family activity. First night was a Mediterranean feast in honor of my Greek, Sephardic ancestry and newspaper snowflakes.

2nd night of Hanukkah Col chose: frozen waffles, Wu-Tang and art. Dan asked “where’s the vegetables?” “No vegetables,” Col replied cheerily. (We all made a pact to honor each others’ Hanukkah leadership). As we listened to Wu-Tang Clan, digesting our waffles and doing art, Col kept saying “The interesting thing about Wu-Tang is…”

Night 3 was potato latkes and a magic show by Dan which morphed into watching a pre-selected video of a church pastor performing a magic show for elementary aged children interspersed with bible verses! Later, Dan said to me “I guess I should have vetted that for skeptical teens.’

Also, in all the time saved from shopping for presents, I have read so many good books:

The death of Vivek Oji 

Writers and Lovers

The Vanishing Half

The Pull of the Stars

All the love to all of you,

Election Cake

2020 November 3
by Rachel Turiel

I am self-soothing by making sauerkraut; by planting more kale than we have cold-frame space for; by looking at all meals as vehicles for pickled jalapeños and melted cheese; by baking cake for breakfast.

Election Cake! It’s healthy! It’s delicious! It’s a snack, a meal, a balm! Recipe follows.

My friend Rebecca’s kraut hands; also, turns out processing food with friends restores something human in me.

Today is Election Day in America and for the first time possibly ever, people that I know, respect and genuinely like are voting for the person I’m not. At times this feels like a great opportunity to understand people who are different than me. Other times it feels like a stumbling through a house of mirrors with tacks in my mouth, disorienting and painful.

Col came home from school yesterday reporting that it was not a good day. He sparred with a friend over politics. “We got into an argument,” he said. “So no one won.” This seems to sum up our country right now, or at least my Facebook feed. When everyone is talking, no one is there to listen.

I’ve noticed we have a lot of ways to explain why people think differently than us. We’ve become so polarized that our most generous guesses tend to be, “they’ve been brainwashed by their lie-spewing media.” Our less generous guesses are the verbal daggers cleaving apart friendships. 

A few weeks ago, my mom and I pondered what might lead someone to vote for Donald Trump in their words, with the most dignity and generosity we could muster. Honestly, it was a challenging exercise, the point of which is to remind myself that people whose decisions are bewildering to me have their own stories that are full of dignity and good will and hope and love. If my votes come from a vision for a better world, so must theirs. 

Charles Eisenstein says, “Part of the tactics of war is to characterize and dehumanize the other side. It’s almost an act of betrayal to really seek to understand them.” Wouldn’t it be revolutionary if the folks who condemn the Black Lives Matter movement were curious about what matters to the human hearts behind the protests? Maybe this is why something in me flares up when white, middle class people say “Can’t they ask for equality in a different way?” Wait, I want to say, have you listened to what matters to them?

And yet, when I see a clever meme excoriating certain politicians, a small, hard part of myself cheers. This is the place that wants to believe people can be slotted into evil or virtuous columns and if I just align myself with the right side, I will be safe and seen and belong. This narrative keeps me separate and polarized.

(Recently, I wrote off some behavior of Col’s I found annoying as “surly teenage boyhood.” A day later I got curious with him and he helped me see how what he did was out of care for someone else. It all made perfect sense when I opened myself to his experience. Righteousness fuels me like empty calories, whereas understanding nourishes connection).

I have a good friend who leans conservative. We have long, sometimes tense ideological conversations punctuated with light, personal sharing about kids and work. He and I are really fond of each other. Sometimes we check in with each other in heated moments. “Hey – are you triggered? Did that just make you mad?” I have come to realize we want the same things, namely, an equitable society and healthy planet, a world where we can share our gifts and receive the gifts of others. We just have wildly different strategies to get there. But we’ve influenced each other, listened to each other, and every time I talk to him my heart grows a little.

This weekend Rose and some girlfriends had a little verbal skirmish about politics, finding themselves on different sides of ideologies. Everyone said their piece and then they ate Halloween candy and went ice-skating. “It was a little annoying,” Rose reported, “but I love my friends.” 

In the spirit of expanding our hearts and minds, I am offering 4, free 30-minute sessions in which together we look at what may be motivating someone whose behavior seems bewildering with the most generosity we can muster. This could include anti-vaxxers, pro-maskers, your ex who feeds the kids donuts for dinner, the gun-toting “patriot” at the BLM march, your father-in-law who has cancelled your vote forever. First 4 people to email me at sanjuandrive(at)frontier(dot)net are signed up.

See y’all on the other side.

Love and cake,


In other orbits,

:: Col’s been cooking his own meals. In the microwave. Slay me.

:: Col and I got to help Dan pack out a buck deer past bedtime! Col carried a shoulder and both rib racks. Rose was invited too, but declined, “You know that’s not really my thing.”

:: The teenagers carved pumpkins!

“I just love that you two are still willing to carve pumpkins!”

“Mom, you’ve already said that twice.”

Col working on his Black Lives Matter pumpkin

:: Not squirrels, but elk ankle hocks. “For projects,” Dan says.

:: Family photo #1: Is this thing on?  Kids are not amused.

#2:One kid is still not amused.

:: Arlo turned one years old on Sunday. One of his presents from Rose was letting him lick her as much as he wanted for one day.

Every night we all pile on top of Arlo, the kids snuggling him like he’s both the family medicine man and the goofiest baby brother. It’s so funny because Col and Rose are about one centimeter away from each other, gushing love at the dog, and I just have to think some of it is spilling out onto each other.

ELECTION CAKE RECIPE -sweet, nutty, dense, fruity, spicy.


1 cup grated apple

1 cup grated carrot

1/2 cup applesauce or 1/4 cup yogurt

1/2 cup shredded coconut

1/4 cup raisins

1/3 cup sunflower seeds

1/3 – 1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup melted butter or oil

2 TBSP molasses

2 eggs

1 1/2 cups flour (if gluten free, almond flour is fab)

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

to taste: salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves

Preheat oven to 350F. Mix everything except flour together thoroughly, then fold in flour lightly. Bake at 350F for 35 – 45 mins depending on how unreliable your oven is, like ours!

the magical formula of physics in which the more you give the more is available

2020 October 20
by Rachel Turiel

Last night, after a full weekend of butchering Dan’s bull elk, the kids joined us for the finale of packaging up the elk grind. It wasn’t quite like the old days when Rose skipped around the solarium draped in cheap purses and wielding a sharpie, delightedly scrawling her name across a bazillion packages; no longer was Col poised on a chair, belly to the butchering table, saucer-eyed and aiming a sharp knife at raw muscle meat , all the adults slightly awed and terrified. 

No, this year I tried to pull the teenagers out of their rooms via text message. “Would you be willing to help for an hour to finish up packaging?” I typed out, feeling extremely attached the outcome I wanted.

“I’m working,” Col replied, referring to his eBay research involving Pokemon cards and a very dubious wealth-building scheme.

“I would, but I’m folding laundry,” Rosie texted back. 

I was staring down a dizzying mound of ground elk, pork fat and spices, which needed to be thoroughly mixed, hand-shaped into 1-pound patties, wrapped in plastic wrap then butcher paper, taped up, labeled and sunk into the freezer. It was 9pm, the hour at which we’re all usually tucked into bed, the house quiet and free from any aspirations of effort. I had been at this butchering table all day. My body ached, a certain panic settling into my joints.

In the paradigm that permeates our parenting culture, I had two choices. I could give up on my need for support, which would likely involve telling myself that my kids are selfish and unwilling to help others. This discouraging story would embed itself in my consciousness, becoming the explanation for why the bathroom floor still hasn’t been swept after 3 reminders, or why the house is peppered with dirty socks, flung from sweaty, selfish feet. 

The other option would be to fight for my need for support by motivating them with guilt or bribes, which still involves telling myself the same story: I need help and these selfish, self-absorbed kids will only make room for my needs if it benefits them.  

I’m interested in something different.

I showed up in person at their bedroom doors, blood-smeared apron, hair disheveled, and said “Hey, I know you’re busy with others things, and I wish Daddy and I had planned better so we would have finished up during daylight. But I’m super exhausted and would so love your help. It would make this final stretch so much more bearable to have all four of us in there. Would you be open to giving us an hour of help?”

And then I paused with a silent prayer about their willingness to stretch and my willingness to hear no gracefully.

Soon all four of us were in the solarium, each of us focused on a task, all contributing to the whole. “It’s a family affair,” Dan sang as he dumped another grinder-load of meat in front of me for spicing. I shaped patties of meat, while Col ripped squares of plastic wrap, into which Rose swaddled the meat. Over and over. I could feel my burden lift, carried now by four sets of hands. A small balloon of celebration rose in me for what’s possible.

Col and Rose weren’t excited about helping, but they were willing. And contributing to others’ happiness actually boosts our happiness because we’re wired for interdependence; interdependence runs on mutual generosity. It’s the game where everyone wins.

And yes, I could have insisted they help. (And, there are daily and weekly contributions that we each have agreed to). But when we help out of obligation we miss out on the beneficial feelings generated by true willingness to give to others. This willingness creates the scaffolding that supports cooperation, creative problem-solving, fearless honesty, and the trust that everyone’s needs matter. This is the fuel I want our family to run on, rather than the hope of reward or fear of punishment. And willingness to show up is sometimes enough to get a bull elk in the freezer.

The next day, I got this text from Rose who was biking home from her job at a coffee shop, “I’m five minutes from being home. Wondering if you could prepare a snack for me so I could get right on my schoolwork? Something like chips, vegetables, fruit roll and something sweet?”

I was in the middle of writing this, but yes, like a magical formula of physics in which the more you give the more is available, Rose’s willingness to care for my needs creates more willingness in me to care for hers.

The willingness snack plate.

How to Make a Request using principles of nonviolent communication

  • Requests are clear and specific. Rather than, “Can you give the dog some exercise?” You might ask, “Can you throw the ball for the dog for a few minutes before you go to school?”
  • Requests express what you want, not what you don’t want. Instead of “Please stop flinging your sweaty socks all over the house,” you might ask, “I’d love for all dirty socks to go in the hamper. Can you do that?”
  • Requests are doable. A successful request won’t compromise anyone’s values, and usually doesn’t contain the words “never” or “always.” 
  • Unlike a demand, a request maintains everyone’s dignity and allows for honest assessment of capacity by allowing for the option to say no, or for negotiations. “I’m willing to help package the meat but I’d like to be able to  listen to music/join you in ten minutes/choose the butchering tasks I do.”
  • Requests are more enjoyable to meet when we know how it will contribute to others’ happiness. “If you could silence your phone while we’re chatting for the next half hour I would so appreciate a chance to have your full attention.”
  • Sometimes finding willingness, rather than a big YES, is enough. And, willingness is a muscle that grows in proportion to its use. “I know you’re enjoying reading right now, but do you have any willingness to throw the ball for the dog for five minutes this morning?”
  • If someone is hesitant to say yes, get curious about the obstacle. There may be an easy solution.“Yes, totally fine if you follow up on some texts before silencing your phone for half an hour.”
  • If it’s not a request, don’t phrase it as one. We all appreciate honesty.
  • If an alternative solution can’t be found, and it is a true request, accept the ‘no.’ When people are free to say no without consequence, trust will build, which leads to willingness and the joy of knowing a ‘yes’ is a true yes, which is the best kind of yes.

p.s. New Class Announcements here . For non-locals!

p.p.s. These movies were so, so good: Ladybird and Ali

celebration is an extreme sport

2020 September 15
by Rachel Turiel


We are cruising towards the San Luis Valley after dipping in the Rio Grande, our wet bathing suits standing in for air conditioning in our elderly Subaru. Col is plugged into music while reading Gone Girl; Rose is ceaselessly texting with friends she’s been efforting to keep up with since we left home 2.18 hours ago. Though we have granted unlimited access to music and texting, the phones are like extra personalities in the car; I try not to catastrophize. 

Dan is methodically shelling acorns in the passenger seat, and I am talking talking talking to him, trying to cover everything while he is captive here beside me. This has less to do with kid interruptions and more with the rarity of finding Dan stationary for a couple hours. 

The acorn hulls start to split on their own as they dry and mature

Col unplugs long enough to ask, wariness coating his voice, “So, what exactly will we be doing on this trip?”

“Oh, swimming, hot springs, hanging out, relaxing, eating well, hiking, you know, just being together before you two go back to school.”

I am hoping this registers somewhere in the realm of not as good as hanging with friends but as long as I can keep the Gangsta Rap rolling, better than staying home and doing chores. 

“You guys aren’t like typical Colorado parents,” Col notes. “You know, you’re not like mountain bikers, climbers, skiers, rafters, like a lot of my friends’ parents.”

“True. But I once broke 400 points in Scrabble,” I tell him. 

Dan throws a few acorn hulls out the window into the sagebrush. “And, I know when the acorns are ripe.”


We leave Joyful Journey Hot Springs, which is an unbelievable bouquet of relaxation (see above: not so much extreme sports). The night before I take a picture of Rose in one of the hot springs with a pinked up sunset lighting the Sangre De Cristo mountains behind her. This is expressly for her Instagram account and she asks for my editorial assistance coming up with a caption.

Rose and I are tinkering with the exact wording, when I realize that social media is a little like how dogs find a really good stick and parade it in front of each other. Did you see this? Isn’t this a good stick? I found a good stick so I belong, right? RIGHT? I want to implant this insight directly into Rose’s brain so it appears to have originated from her. We all want belonging, but it doesn’t live on social media. But, no hearts have changed from a mom-lecture. I wrestle my agenda to the ground, and help her spell Sangre de Cristo.

We drive to Salida, both kids plugged into music, giving Dan free-reign on R-rated innuendo from the passenger seat.


This year the kids were ambivalent about going on our annual end of summer trip. They’d miss their friends, they don’t love our style of camping, they’re afraid of endless hours of boredom, filled only with acorns and Scrabble. We decided to ask them what would make our end of summer trip fun for them.

“Not camping,” one said, 

“Stopping in towns for cold drinks,” the other said.

“And thrift stores.”

Part of me was in full blown panic: we’ve ruined their love of camping! And another part was like, Seriously? That’s all it’ll take? Deal! Col and Rose did go backpacking and car-camping with us this summer, and though I love the stripping away of complexities and dubious American culture when we’re in the woods together, more important is the being together. Always.

We stop for our first cold drinks before we even leave Durango.

(And, still we bring two coolers containing eight jars).

DAY 2 cont..

Rose makes a project of outfitting us at the Salida thrift stores. (Not altruistically; have you seen our style?) She finds Col several bathing suits and Dan a snazzy shirt that he puts on immediately and hardly removes for the rest of the trip. Col selects a black, felt fedora which quickly becomes an appendage.

We swim in the Arkansas, slurp ice cream and head to Monarch Pass, acorn shells flying out the window. Dan and I sing along to the Rolling Stones’ Angie (he replacing Annn-geee with Rach-ieeeee) and the kids are stone-faced in the back, likely trying to tamp down the visceral possibility of their old, non-sporty parents in mutual passion. 

New(ish) bathing suits from Salida thrift stores!

We arrive at the Monarch Mountain Lodge, a cavernous ski hotel, outwardly decrepit and suspiciously empty. Eerie comparisons to The Shining’s Overlook echo in the empty stairwells. The kids descend upon our hotel room with the enthusiasm of people who’ve spent hours shivering under tarps in the wilderness rain. We get permission to set up our cookstove in a vacant banquet hall, and Dan and I crack beers and cook elk fajitas, our dog Arlo woofing protectively at every sound, while the kids watch Simpsons reruns in our room.

The memory of having kids underfoot is so distant, when I turn my head towards the past I can barely make out those days. Now, Arlo and I make regular trips up and down our home hallway to see if anyone needs us. “Just checking in!” I wave, when their bedroom doors open to me, like a friendly guidance counselor, available but not pushy. Used to be there was no separation between us; any thought that bloomed in their heads was headed my way. Their small bodies needed regular plugging into the large recharging station of my own.

Now, I hear the clock ticking. Everything’s recalibrated. Every connection is a celebration, as if any day now these kids will don their parent-repelling armor and shut us out completely. At the end of the day, like our own governing board for the project of raising teenagers, Dan and I review the small celebrations: she held my hand in public; he asked me to wrestle with him on the couch; she shared her feelings without blame; he asked for a salad.

Empty banquet hall at The Overlook, Monarch Lodge.

Dan ceremoniously sets a table by the enormous heat-leaking windows, and brings the kids in. They are sweetly awed by the cooler-sponsored buffet line. Col, who often admires Arlo’s life of sleeping, eating and playing, leans into me in our corner booth, all doped-up from TV, and says, “How did you guys make this dinner so good?”

“I may not have a kayak, but I can cook, right?” Dan replies.

After dinner we take a walk on the trails, each parent walking with a kid and then switching partners for the walk back. Col grabs my hand, like an involuntary reflex from a different era. I inquire if I can ask him things. Things regarding upcoming school, soccer, girls. Sure, he says. I try to engineer a curiosity that’s attentive though not over-bearing, like hey, if you wanna tell me about the girl you’ve been texting, cool; if not, we can talk about Tupac and Biggie. He tells me things I didn’t know, which I meet with casualness, rather than taking notes for a future board meeting with Dan.


Morning in the banquet room, we fry a cornucopia of an omelet while the kids snooze. Later, we take another walk, pack up and head towards lovely Gunnison (cold drinks, thrift store, and our favorite town park for lunch and soccer). When we hit cell reception, Rose gets deluged by texts, so much checking in, keeping up, what are you doing? eating? wearing?

“It’s hard to see what my friends are doing without me, but I’m always going to be missing something,” Rose announces bravely, trying to convince herself.

“Do you have to ask your friends what they’re doing?” I ask. “Cause, it seems like knowing makes you feel worse.” 

“Well, I have to ask because then I know what I’m missing and can prepare myself rather than worrying about what it could be.”

Col shoots her a bewildered look from behind his headphones.

Sometimes it seems like all we can hope for is progressively less suffering.

It gets hot quick and we plunge into Blue Mesa Reservoir, no gear, no sports, just us, human-powered in the deliciously clear cold Gunnison River water. 

Why are swimming dogs so cute?

My new(ish) bathing suit, found by Rose at the Gunnison thrift.

We check into our cabin on the Little Cimmaron River, where we’ll be the next two nights. Rose announces that there is no wifi nor cell reception. “It’s probably a blessing in disguise,” she proclaims with shaky faith. 

Dan and I spot muskrats in a nearby pond and bring the kids back after dinner to view the scruffy little aquatic mammals. We creep around the pond, certain the muskrats will come out at dusk, but the water is still. We crouch at the shore, wanting the kids to be compelled by the possibility of wildness, and wishing, as always, we could have a few more moments with them.


At our one room cabin on the Little Cimmaron River, acorns are drying on every surface. Arlo is woofing protectively (and embarrassingly) at our neighbors. Col is all amped up, wanting to snuggle-wrestle everyone. “At least he’s not being Quiet, Surly Teenager,” I say to Dan. 

“I’m going to become Quiet, Surly Teenager very soon,” he deadpans.

We plan a hike into Black Canyon of the Gunnison, wait for the kids to riot, and when they don’t, we paste on our ‘hiking is a perfectly normal family activity’ smiles.

It’s quiet on the trail, and we descend into the canyon, steep, dark walls enveloping us. We spot trout in the river; butterflies flash orange and yellow like summer’s last flowers. 

“I’m just really happy we’re doing this,” Rose says grabbing my hand. 

We reach the Gunnison river, shimmery clear and cold. Swallows dip and race over the water. We throw sticks in the river for Arlo, sit in the sun and Dan asks, “Can I get mushy with you kids?”

“No,” is the general response. But Dan pushes on. “As your dad and a person who loves you very much I want you to feel belonging, significance and happiness. And as the challenges come, I recognize you won’t always be happy. I know it’s not my job to fix your sadness and I just want you to know I honor your process to meet those challenges in your way.”

Is he actually listening? Who knows.

Back at our cabin, Rose discovers a tiny sliver of cell reception between two cars in the parking lot, and immediately gorges from the banquet of what everyone else is doing (reminding me of when she’d wake from a nap at two years old, disheveled and disoriented, and immediately ask, “What Col doing?”)

I’m annoyed that she tracked down the cell reception like a junkie needing a fix; worried about the emotional costs of trying to make meaning about our own worth and belonging through following others’ lives; and sad, because I want her to find enough in the present moment to hold her. And I remember what Dan told the kids. There will be challenges, and we can’t fix them. We will be here to hold your painful feelings with you, but not for you. 

We eat elk burgers outside on the picnic table while hulking semis, rerouted off Hwy 70 because of forest fires, lumber by. After dinner Dan pulls out our annual end-of-summer questionnaires, and we sit around scrawling in our answers: What surprised you about this year? What are you celebrating about this past year? “How many weeks did I run that summer camp?” Col asks.

Later, after spending 20 minutes at her wifi spot, Rose is ready to visit the muskrat pond. “I guess I didn’t really need to catch up,” Rose concedes, though has a FaceTime call scheduled for tomorrow. The swallows launch circus dives through the cottonwoods, but the pond is still. We crouch in the thistly grass, waiting for the charming dog-paddling rodent to surface.

There is a campfire roaring in the community fire pit when we walk back from the pond, muskrat-sightingless, and we grab seats. A young man strums the guitar and sings passionately about murder, mayhem and LSD. An older couple who look like they just got dropped in from America’s heartland nod along appreciatively, and the owner of the cabins sips a wine cooler and tells stories about her worst guests ever. Col and Rose take it all in, each kid leaning against a parent, and I could stay here forever, semis rolling by into the night.


It’s our last day. We pack up the acorns, the last dregs of our food, wet bathing suits and books, and I keep wanting to invent reasons to stay a little longer. One last trip to the muskrat pond! The kids, who can smell home, grudgingly agree, though they no longer believe in the possibility of muskrats. We walk past last night’s fire pit, under the mammoth cottonwoods, and over the drought-anemic Little Cimmaron River. I update the kids on the plot twists of the book I’m reading, and like it’s old-days storytime, each kid grabs one of my hands unselfconsciously.

Yellow warblers in willows are spotlit like exquisite statuettes in the sun. Cows laze in the grass beyond the pond. I miss the kids already, because I know they will keep leaving us in different ways. Two muskrats, so small they must be babies, cross the pond, and we point and shout and laugh and celebrate. 

Acorn waffles with applesauce. Hells to the yeah.

and I will

2020 August 12
by Rachel Turiel

Col and Rose scoping out a herd of mountain goats across the gulch.

August is coming in hard and fast, each evening reclaiming a sliver more of daylight, and everybody is feeling it: Rose, who has two potential ‘back to school’ outfits in the works, the intergenerational house sparrow flock thundering their invasive selves around the yard, the garden tomatoes aiming for ripeness.

The clouds just paused after a generous monsoon season, the meteorological IV to every living thing in this high, arid place. For a couple weeks I became bystander to the magic, the rain coaxing every garden plant to be its best self; there was nothing I could have improved upon despite my big primate brain and ersatz tools. Please, more of this.

It has been a weird and wonderful summer, as usual, but more so. I can see myself on the spectrum of parenting—having begun at you are responsible for keeping this child alive every second and moving at a rapid clip towards some other point on the trajectory, like, outta the way, this is not your life.

Col actually sat me and Dan down recently and said, “I want you to trust me to make my own decisions, even if you don’t agree with them.”

Long pause. Inhale. Exhale. Whomp.

Part of me was like, You go, beautiful teenager! Love the clarity and self-advocacy of your expression! Yes, tell me what you want!

Another part was like, Well, does this include when you leave for the whole day to jump off cliffs into the Animas river with no food, towel or water bottle…?

Col’s request has actually created a threshold question for me, which I ask myself 50 times a day: “do I need to interfere here?” (Interfere, meaning: suggest, remind, correct, advise). I was surprised to realize that approximately 48 times a day, the answer is no. (And, the last 2 are debatable).

Sometimes I make deals with myself. Ok, Col’s camp starts in 30 minutes (he’s running a very small neighborhood summer camp) and he’s still not home. I will do my childbirth breathing while waiting 15 more minutes before I text a reminder. In he saunters 14 minutes later like the king of timeliness.

Some of Col’s recent art (you are invited to follow him at artbycolhinds on Instagram):

Tupac Shakur

Eazy E

The King

For the last month Dan and I have been stationed in the kitchen, pitting cherries, freezing serviceberries, cooking apricots down to a splattering orange gruel. Meanwhile, the kids come and go, earbuds in, social micro-dramas swirling in their heads. Sometimes, someone will sit down, chow some fruit and tell us about their lives. We take any morsels given. You can talk to us about West Coast vs East Coast rap and we will give you our full attention. You can tell us about how confusing texting with friends can be and we will turn towards you, cherry-stained and empathetic, wanting to understand your world.

Cherries + earbuds

We will do our best to empty the pockets of our parental fears and frustrations with each other, so what’s left, dear teenagers, is the spaciousness to see you and give you the acceptance and understanding you crave. We will fail; and we will try again.

There is a hummingbird sipping from the Rocky Mountain bee plant, the gorgeous native that planted itself amongst the tomatillos, which I couldn’t pull, even if they took a little something from some future tomatillo salsa. 

Everyone is stretching into new territory, though I think Dan and I have grown the most this summer. Somewhere between wanting to live off roadkill/apricot kabobs and trying to see the world teens live in, we said yes to smartphones (for the kids, we still have our flip-dinosaurs). We’ve applied firm limits (thank you Screentime app) and oodles of trust. And it’s surprisingly fine. Yes, you can tell if Col’s home by the presence or absence of rap music coming from his room, and there are Instagram-stimulated emotions that arise for Rose, but I’d rather be available to support those emotions than bubblewrap the kids or force them to live in my world. They know my world, they’re always welcome there. I want them to visit willingly.

Dan tells me, after pitting thousands of plump cherries, “I think this is the most human thing you can do.” Next day, I wake up with a long legged teengirl nestled into me, asking, “Will you pay for the headphones on Amazon?” (“We’re done with $%#@ Amazon,” I tell her, wishing it were true). Both kids are studying teen culture like they’ll be tested on it. Then, at night they skateboard down to our neighborhood park where kids and dogs meet up and play games, games that require their full presence, their bodies, their unstoppable energy (cell phones set aside in the wood chips), the same games I’m certain kids have been playing forever.

Selfie gen.

Every day a handful of tomatoes ripen. I push myself to savor them exactly right now, even though I want a pantry full of tomato sauce in December. This savoring is sort of how I feel about the children. Although they no longer orbit the planet of my doting motherhood, I don’t want to get lost in savoring what is no longer true. Today Col invited me into his room and played me snippets of NWA and Wu Tang Clan, offering his commentary. “They’re really good storytellers,” he says about the lyrics which make me wince. Rose spent this morning texting a million people like she was president of her own small country, periodically including me in her emoji-filled missives, from 20 feet away in our house. I loved every minute. This is what’s here to savor now. And I will.

P.S. Chi-An, you won the book giveaway. Please send your mailing address!

P.P.S. Loved these 3 fiction books: Sea Wife, Homegoing, Separation Anxiety 

2 new classes, resources, solidarity, and book giveaway

2020 June 4
by Rachel Turiel

Dear dear friends,

There is so much to say right now; my head is swimming with it. And there is even more to which to listen. As a teacher and practitioner of Nonviolent Communication, I am deeply aligned with nonviolence, and I recognize that I live in the privilege of never having been systemically, historically oppressed and dehumanized.*

The relevant question, in my mind, does not center around the legitimacy of the protests against police violence. The question is why are people of color so exhausted, discouraged and outraged, and why haven’t white people been listening?

Author and activist Ijeoma Oluo says in this stunning interview, “There’s no way to avoid absorbing our American culture, which was designed to benefit white males. We absorb American racism in ways we’re not fully aware of.” In essence, the soil of our country is poisoned with racism. And this is the soil we eat and drink from. And yet, many of us have been taught that we’re not racist, but are the “good white people.” No wonder we come across as racially fragile and defensive when presented with our impact.

Waking up to privilege is uncomfortable and liberating. Here are some resources I’ve appreciated:

Facing Privilege Free Conference Calls  – Miki Kashtan does a beautiful job of holding all with care while pressing our feet to the fire of transformation.

White Awake combats white supremacy by focusing on educational resources and spiritual practices designed to engage people who’ve been socially categorized as “white” in the creation of a just and sustainable society.

A couple resources to learn more about racism in this country:


Mindful of Race by Ruth King

How to be an Anti-Racist by Ibram X Kendi

Post-traumatic Slave Disorder video – Dr Joy DeGruy

Suggestions from POC on what white people can do to support:

Performative Allyship is Deadly and What to do Instead

The Untold: Talk to your white children about racism

I am no expert. I am likely to cause pain from my ignorance. And, I will care for my discomfort and keep trying because a world that works only for some is not a world that works.


As always, there is a lot of eating:

Two New June Classes:

I am offering two online classes in June, one for parents and one for anyone. 15% of all proceeds will go to Bryan Stevenson’s Equal Justice Initiative

The Revolution Starts at Home – for parents of tweens and teens
~ sponsored by La Plata Family Center Coalition
This series consists of four stand alone classes using principles of Nonviolent Communication to address issues relevant to raising teens with the goal of maintaining connection, dignity and trust for parents and kids while holding your limits and values.
You can sign up for all 4 classes, or pick and choose.
Classes are Tuesdays, June 9th – 30th, 4pm – 5:30 MST on Zoom.
More detailed description on these classes here.
Offered on a donation basis; 15% of proceeds to be donated to Bryan Stevenson’s Equal Justice Initiative.
To register email me at
Effective Dialogue for Uncertain Times – 4 spots left
These are uncertain times. I’ve seen friendships strained over mask-wearing, acquaintances “break up” on Facebook over differences in perspective. Sometimes a respectful “goodbye” is an apt strategy, other times something greater is lost, which may be simply the capacity to stay in dialogue with someone you care about. Most of us weren’t given the skills to navigate conflict in a way that maintains everyone’s dignity while striving for solutions that work for all. We often reach for blame, shame, appeasement, and power-over to “win” conflicts when tools of listening, perspective-taking, dialoguing, and sharing power can wrap relationships in connection and trust like a security blanket. In times that are uncertain, building resilient relationships is some of the truest security I know.
Three Wednesdays, June 17th, 24th and July 1st, 4pm – 5:30pm MST on Zoom
Cost: Sliding scale $75 – $50. Scholarships available. 15% of proceeds to be donated to Bryan Stevenson’s Equal Justice Initiative.
To register, email me at
Testimonials on my work here
Wishing you inner strength, love and power,
* although being Jewish, historic oppression, displacement and genocide has been a part of my ancestors’ not so distant past.

Enter the book giveaway for one copy of So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo by entering a comment below.

And, if all else fails with your teenager, turns out getting a dog addresses at least half your problems.

no one is ever alone anymore

2020 May 14
by Rachel Turiel

Outside, the flip just switched from spring to summer. Fruit trees got all dressed up, partied hard, and now are disrobing in thousands of pastel teardrops. A male house sparrow wakes up the neighborhood at 6:32am, a lusty, one-note symphony on repeat. Tiny wild mustards sing their yellowness on the shale hillsides.



This is our new puppy, Arlo. He’s da best baby buddy boy.

Inside, there are so many people. People who are stressing about isosceles triangles at 7am. Other people who remember at 8:30pm that they didn’t actually start their past-due humanities assignment. Some people have set up work stations in the living room, hissing at family members who are “making disgusting noises” while online math meetings are in progress. And all these people are constantly eating.

And I am in my office bedroom offering support and coaching to a parent hundreds of miles away, trying to be somewhat professional. Outside my door, someone is spelunking in the cereal box and asking very loudly, “scalene triangles have no equal sides, right? RIGHT?”

Which is to say, everyone’s world has shrunk to this small space, and no one is ever alone anymore.

“They never leave anymore,” I cry to Dan after three mother-child conflicts before 8:30am. “Make them leave!”

For a week, I sit in a bathtub of grief, fear and anger. And I know that if I don’t care for these emotions they will metastasize into aggression towards myself, my family, the world. How do I know this? Every time I open my mouth, something ugly and judgmental flies out. My kids duck. I cry.

Snapchat notifications ping into our shared space like children, issuing urgent pleas for Rose’s attention; it seems Col could play video games until he loses circulation. I’ve lost touch with what I’m supposed to be doing. Protecting kids from the ways social media erodes their self-love? Accepting that social media is how kids communicate these days? Finding the middle ground? From where I stand the middle ground looks like a crevasse.

I meet with two friends who once worked for a local wilderness therapy program for adolescents. They tell me that the biggest common denominator in families whose kids need treatment is the parents inability to set and hold limits. 

I think of how so much on the internet offers a drop-kick of dopamine to our brains, or a shiny distraction to sitting with ourselves in fear, grief, boredom, awkwardness. Or even, the illusion of connection and belonging, needs so integral to humanity it’s no wonder we mistake “likes” on a post for being liked. I think of how setting limits for ourselves, for our children, is an act of love, of protection, of valuing their time, creativity, emotions, connection with themselves.

At a certain point, I meet what is with as much love as I can. And, this is what is: My children are teenagers exploring society and their role within it, while being raised by two people who thrive outside of many societal norms.

We start to talk. 

I have cared enough for my grief, fear, and anger that I no longer come across as a predatory animal, striking with fear-driven agendas and demands. Now, I can come with curiosity and care. Rose tells me that even though she “snaps” with some girls several times a day, it doesn’t seem like they’re actually becoming better friends.

Col shares that video games distract him from boredom; and with friends less accessible, he’s not always sure what to do with his time.

We keep talking.

Rose tells me that when she sees people commenting “you’re gorgeous” on a friend’s Instagram selfie, but not hers, she wonders if she’s pretty.

We set some limits together, and I can actually feel the kids relax. I feel all of us relax. The next day Rose deletes Snapchat; she whittles down who she follows on Instagram.

We all commit to shutting down devices for the evening as often as possible, which feels like freedom, not restriction.

Today is day 60 of quarantine and bizarre things are happening. Col invites Rose to take a walk around the neighborhood kicking the soccer ball. They bicker and insult each other all the way to the door, but walk out together.

Col is illustrating the headline Chimp seen Sucking Brains from Monkey. He plays Black Sabbath, both of us singing along to War Pigs. All this, at 11:30am. Later, I tell Dan, “it’s OK that I don’t like all of Col’s art, right? I mean, I like that he’s doing art.

I like that he’s *doing* art…

In the garden, it’s the season of leaves. Spinach, chard, kale, bok choi, lamb’s quarters. Everything else is under cold frames, dreaming of their future. 

Lamb’s quarters – like spinach, but free!

Chard plus smoothie

After spending all week together, we often go hiking on the weekends, together!

We celebrated Rose’s 13th birthday last weekend. Rose wrote a menu for the day and Dan performed a parody (on the tennis racket guitar) to the Flaming Lips song “She Don’t Use Jelly”

Well, I know a mom, her name is Rachie

When she gave birth, she was happy as can be

Cuz she didn’t want a puppy

She didn’t want fleas

She didn’t want another boy

Or any of these

She wanted Ro-oh-oh-sie

She got Ro-oh-oh-sie

By the end of the night, full of spaghetti and cheesecake, we all gather in the solarium. Rebecca, who lives upstairs, and sits exactly between me and Rose in age, bridges our worlds. She serenades Rose on guitar, playing Taylor Swift, seasoned with earthy funk. Rose throws her smooth and strong 13 year old legs over my unshaven and strong middle aged legs. And I feel the power and love we are, intertwined, mutually influencing each other. 

I think this is called homeschool P.E.



p.s. If you are a parent wanting support in communication with your family, let me know. I’d love to support you in caring for all the emotions that get triggered in these weird times so you can respond with love, creativity and wisdom to your children.

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