Inauguration Day

Published in the Idaho State Journal on January 17, 2021.

I never go into the office on Inauguration Day.  Sometimes I take an actual vacation day. Sometimes I work at home in the peace of my personal space. This isn’t an intentionally patriotic act where I watch news coverage and immerse myself in the fruits of our democracy. My mom died on January 20, 2001 - smack dab in the middle of George W. Bush’s first inauguration. Inauguration Day has become my day to force a pause and take stock in my life, my mom’s influence and my world around me.  This one is shaping up to be a doozy.

I always make sure to get in a good workout, write and eat some of Mom’s favorite foods. She was a substantial woman who loved to eat, so that last one is easy. I also tune in to at least a bit of live coverage of the ceremony and imagine what Mom would be thinking, shrieking or cheering.

Heart and lung disease had forced her into retirement just five months earlier to her last inauguration. The TV and email were her connections to the world, and she watched the constant coverage of the Florida recounts to the detriment of her health. With little sleep and a terrible diet in the days before she died, she was sneaking extra oxygen – often wearing two sets of hoses—and rooting for Al Gore. She wasn’t in love with him as a candidate, but among other things, her career as a child protection and social worker led her to align with the Democrats of her lifetime. 

I’ve written columns about that day before – how I had gone shopping for Mom in the morning at the old Fred Meyer, and I wasn’t feeling well after a tonsillectomy a few days prior. I was dreary and glum and in the back of my mind pondering how to approach her about assisted living. I didn’t spend my usual amount of time with her to do chores and visit, and as I left to go nap she said, “Well, it’s a beautiful day out there. I hope you get out and enjoy it.”  When I got into my car, U2’s “Beautiful Day” was on the radio. I smiled at the coincidence.  Those were the last words she spoke to me.

Although she had voted for Al Gore, Mom still watched George W. Bush’s inauguration and the all-day coverage. I had called a couple times later to check on her, and when she hadn’t answered, I knew.   The TV was on when I got there.

During Barrack Obama’s first inauguration, I took a full vacation day. I went to the gym and spent a little extra time wearing myself out. I dilly-dallied at home with a few things before turning on the TV to play in the background while I putzed around the house. Paying little attention, I hit the power button on the remote with my back to the screen.  Suddenly “Beautiful Day” was playing. I flipped around to see footage of the Mall in Washington DC as crowds were forming and dignitaries were arriving. The song was booming across the speakers at the event.

Four years later on the day of Obama’s second inauguration, I went to a 5:30 am spin class. I needed to work at home that day, so I got an early start that morning on the exercise bike.  I had been attending this class for a few months and been somewhat of a regular each winter. The instructor would change her playlists now and then and on that day, she pulled out something new. As the end of the hour neared, she promised the cool-down song was coming. Without warning, there it was – U2’s “Beautiful Day.”

It’s been a lifelong lesson for me that Mom used the word “beautiful” to describe the day she died - the day her body was failing her and the day that a man she didn’t vote for took office. She still saw the beauty.

This will be the fourth inauguration that mom’s missed. Sometimes I think she died on Inauguration Day just to get me to pay attention to all that it could possibly entail. Transition. Rebirth. Opportunity. Beauty. My eyes are wide open looking for these things on Inauguration Day. And, I always find them.

Hello, January

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on January 3, 2021.

While writing last week’s piece I was in a chipper emotional state having revisited my smiles of 2020 in a photo project for our kids. This week, I just spilled an exquisitely blended cup of coffee and eggnog all over my laptop keyboard. I’m typing this on my phone with my thumbs. What a fitting farewell to 2020 and perfect prelude to 2021. Hello, January.

I don’t like January. My favorite dog died in January six years ago. My mom died in January twenty years ago, and although it’s just weeks after the winter solstice indicating the days will start getting lighter, we still have 14 hours of darkness on any given day.  January is dreadful and dark.

I’ve considered that I might need antidepressants in the winter. When I first heard about seasonal affective disorder or SAD (my, how fitting), I realized I fit the bill beautifully. I have, so far, managed each mounting January with an awareness and acceptance of how the “winter blues” affect me, but also with the gold standard mental health tricks of healthy eating, increased water, and daily exercise.  January is sit-ups and celery.

When January and I do get along, it’s because I am the one making all of the effort.  I kick off the new year with a weekly meal prep comprised of recipes and vegetables. I plant healthy snacks around the house with inspirational and cautionary sticky notes.  An arsenal of herbal tea is assembled at home and at work, and I get up earlier to ensure there’s time for exercise.  I check the weather app for forecasts of sun and arrange those workdays by a window with time outside. Our dogs love a cold, sunny mid-day walk, and the bounce in their steps with wind-sniffing smiles inspire the same in me. January is effort and intention.

The only thing January seems to bring to our relationship is the appearance of a fresh start. After this past year, I’m certainly up for a fresh start in various avenues. I can envision so many possibilities with my career, fitness, friendships and general habits, but that also feels stressful with the confines and influence of the COVID-19 pandemic still in full swing.  Does this fresh start have to happen immediately? January is promise and pressure.

Every winter, I go on a trip to Vegas for a long weekend.  The joyous preparation takes up brain space in the weeks beforehand, and the afterglow usually carries me right into March. Spending three days surrounded by the bustle, cigarette smoke and “sin” make me appreciate tranquil, fresh, wholesome Idaho. As the trips wind down, I can’t wait to get home. I have some dear friends with birthdays in January and we usually enjoy game nights and fanfare, but none of that will be happening in 2021.  This January will be lonesome and different.

People often tell me I would like January more if I skied. I’ve tried it on a number of occasions and, even with the latest and greatest ski technology, it’s a no-go for this former rugby player’s back and knees. With my love of mountain biking, winter fat-biking would seem like a natural fit, but I’m a purist and want the dirt beneath my wheels and the hot sun on my shoulders.   January’s misery is probably why I feel such love for June and September in southeast Idaho.   January is the grueling uphill before the magnificent descent. 

As Kindergarten as it may sound, whatever this January will be is up to me. The dreadful and dark. The sit-ups and celery. The effort and intention. The promise and pressure or lonesome and different. January will always be a hill I have to climb. And here it is. I best get pedaling.