Musings – Sisyphus and Associates

SoBe, The Blue Heeler

The Origin Story

December 4, 2018

Out of the Mystic

December 4, 2018… A cold, nearly winter, overcast Tuesday morning. Bicycle rides on Tuesdays are routinely on roads less traveled east of my home in Merced. On this day, there were three of us, Pete, Tom, and yours truly, on the saddles. It’s apparently different from when on horseback you’re in the saddle that’s on the horse’s back.

We were just making our way past the last of the pistachio orchards approaching the rangeland of the Sierra foothills when a little blue heeler spotted us, popped out of the rows of trees, and ran up to greet us.

There’s no other way to explain my reaction other than it was love at first lick. My second thought was I’m taking this dog home. I’ve always had the notion of adding to the long list of Labrador Retrievers canine family members we’ve kept over the past 32 years, either a Standard Poodle or an ACD, Australian Cattle Dog.

The Dilemma

Why a Standard Poodle? That’s easy, because of Charley, John Steinbeck’s Standard Poodle there for companionship and comic relief, was along for his journey in Travels with Charley.

Though I was only six when Travels was published—I read it later in college—the book touches on themes of nostalgia, identity, and the complexities of post WWII America. I vividly remember how Charley was more than a pet along for the ride. He was an essential character in Steinbeck’s assessment of the rapid change he witnessed taking place in post war America.

Homeward Bound

Why an ACD? Because Bluey, who lived to 29, holds the Guinness World Record as the “Oldest (verified) Dog to have Ever Lived”. Since longevity is a characteristic of ACD’s, and Skidboot’s intelligence declared him the “World’s Smartest Dog,” Heelers are the very embodiments of hearty stock with brains. Labs are friendly and playful, Poodles smart and sophisticated, but they live on average for 12 years. Note: neither ever earned titles of longevity and intelligence.

Of course, I would end up doing due diligence, stopping by the few residences along South Bear Creek and asking if they knew to whom this little blue heeler, perhaps less than a year old, belonged. I would then place ads in the local newspaper and list her on social media as lost. And I would contact the local county animal shelter and SPCA about her status and advice on the statute of limitations for claiming a “found” lost dog.

But honestly, the little blue heeler wasn’t lost. She found me and I was prepared to suffer the two weeks that is required before you can claim “ownership” of an abandoned animal. I can’t explain the anxiety I experienced in those two weeks… It bordered on heartbreak akin to that I felt longingly for Molly and Godiva, our yellow and chocolate Labs lost to old age and knowing that dogs only occupy the physical world for a short time but live on in our hearts and memories. The longer they live, the greater the memories.

On the ride home with SoBe, reluctantly tethered to my side by a leash fashioned from roadside rope, she must have been wondering, “what’s with this thing around my neck?” She couldn’t imagine how her life was about to change. I don’t know what perils she faced before I found her so it wasn’t hard to accept her pulling against the rope while I struggled to stay upright. I knew it was this little ACD’s fate to securely join Luna and Dakota, another pure bred English yellow and black Lab rescue respectively, that would erase any of her anxiety and add to the joy of yet another member of our pack. We own a Subaru. We’re dog people.

At the corner of Plainsburg Rd and E. South Bear Creek, as I looked at the signpost marking the intersection, a perfect name appeared to me. SoBe, from South Bear Creek. No, I did not name my dog for an iced-tea beverage from South Beach. I decided to call my wife to ensure safely bringing SoBe home as the traffic increases from this point to home.

The phone call went something like this:

“Hey sweetie, you’ll never know what I encountered on this morning’s bike ride,” “A damsel in distress…” I intoned.

“Oh, and so what is it that you needed to call me about your encounter?” my skeptical wife replied.

Thinking fast, I thought, “Well, I’m smitten with finding this pup’s home and since I’m getting closer to traffic, I thought you might be able to come fetch us in the Outback, you know, the dog friendly Subaru.”

I was amazed and somewhat shocked when my wife, after sighing, agreed to leave her work to meet us at SoBe’s namesake intersection. I knew she would resist my intent to keep SoBe. She’s skeptical of my “great ideas” about 85% of the time. So, I assured her that something this beautiful and sweet had to belong to someone. Only later I lamented the fact that SoBe was deliberately abandoned and she deserved so much more in life. I leveraged keeping her on that basis. My wife eventually relented. SoBe reigned in that 15% of good ideas!

Welcome to your forever home Now, just make it through the next two weeks…

The Interloper

“Who is this? She looks innocent enough?”

While sitting out the two week statute of limitations, we had SoBe vaccinated and spayed. With no response to two weeks of searching for her “owner” due diligence, we formally adopted SoBe, registering her with the county, getting vaccination tags and a name tag with our address and phone number.

As spirited and fearless as a heeler can by way of breeding be, SoBe quickly adapted to adoption and membership in our pack. Luna was the senior member but not the alpha. She was a goofy love bug. Dakota was a few years younger, arriving at our home a few years after Luna. She was a tad less jovial, nevertheless asserting herself alpha-like. This perhaps because as a rescued mix of German Shepherd and Labrador Retriever she may have been a little less “refined,” more given to instinct.

SoBe, bred to nip at the heels of animals a thousand times her mass, had chosen to be an unofficial “alpha,” age and/or instinct be damned, much to Dakota’s chagrin. There was always tension simmering between the two of them that might erupt as play would escalate to combat, not unlike that of the sibling rivalry between our two boys. Luna simply dismissed all of the dramatic posturing, finding Swiss-like neutrality leaving any quarreling to the late-comers.

A Dog Is (for) Life

It is as though I find myself in the same circumstance as Steinbeck in my own Sisyphus and Associates musings and screeds navigating encounters and insights, nostalgia and identity in contemporary America on my two-wheeled travels. Having SoBe long for me as I long for her when we are apart, has given me a portal to gratitude that the evening news, now 24-7, robs from me. I have found out there, on the road, traveling through the West such generosity, encouragement, and genuine curiosity. I have a sense that the America in the news or online, isn’t necessarily the America most of us know. I just know that trust is earned when it comes to people. When it comes to dogs, it’s just a lot easier to build. Now, how to acquire a side car to bring SoBe along for the ride…

Time Flies Like an Arrow

Since those early days introducing SoBe to our pack, we’ve lost Luna and Dakota. Well, sort of. Their ashes, along with Godiva’s are in our closet awaiting a fitting internment. Molly’s ashes are entombed in a boulder at the top of Chair 3 at Dodge Ridge where she spent her best years.

My intent is to continue sharing SoBe stories. SoBe is still with me, which means there’s more road to travel. This isn’t just about finding SoBe; it’s about what she replaced, what she has filled, what she represents in the ongoing cycle of love and loss that comes with keeping dogs. With all due respect to all of my family and friends, SoBe is my best friend.

12/8/25 Sisyphusdw7.com

In memory of Buddy, Bill and Ginger’s baby…

Of This Specific Emptiness

No Italics Necessary

It’s been two weeks of fog and I don’t know what to write about. The holiday season is pressing in with its expectations. The motorcycle has been quiet and to ride the bicycle is a challenge in enduring the cold. The blog is waiting. All of it creates this particular kind of hollow that needs filling. As I gaze out the window I see a redbud that has retreated into dormancy, stripped of its life affirming leaves. An acer holds fast to its red-orange leaves drained of chlorophyll. The redwood towers over all of this drabness, ironically, taking succor from the moisture that flattens the light.

The last of the citrus, Persian limes and Meyer lemons, have been harvested. The annuals and perennials that provided exuberant blush to the landscape just a few weeks ago have collapsed into a damp, dreary withering beneath leaves shed by the crepe myrtle, now barren. The last gasp white flowering begonias and lantana with enduring lavender or orange, yellow, and red sepals and leaves of deep green await a chilling frost to join its flowerbed mates. The azalea, ferns, and hearty primroses whose blossoms are only now awakening, give some relief to an otherwise fading landscape.

Living in an area surrounded by almonds, pistachios, walnuts, and other assorted deciduous fruit bearing orchards, dormancy is overwhelmingly apparent. Ornamental trees both native and cultivated non-natives, are taking on their winter semblance, stripped of energy producing leaves as well. Only the conifers that we barely keep alive during the brutally hot summers by inundating with the remnants of the previous winter’s snowfall that comes from their native Sierra Nevada appear to thrive.

Gardners revving leaf blowers and leaf collection machinery dispatched by the city to harvest their efforts break the muted neighborhood sounds. Dog walkers are shuttered in their warm homes, rather than brace the cold dampness. Even the playful cries of children at recess attending neighborhood elementary schools is vague, only occasionally do the high pitched squeals of little girls, likely chased by little boys, break through.

Crows squawk on their morning journey northeast and again on their return flight southwest before sunset. Flickers peck for insects on the dead birch branches. Sparrow hawks dispatch cedar waxwings down from the mountains – the waxwings drunk on fermented pyracantha berries, excreting everywhere. Squirrels from Rascal Creek scamper about storing the last of wild pecans in flowerbeds that become deeply rooted nuisances as they forget their larder and I try to extract them come spring.

Birds getting drunk, squirrels being squirrels, nature carrying on messily despite everything. Yet for all this dormancy and dampness, something else is happening. Even in the gray stillness, there’s an impulse to create light and warmth and community when nature withdraws. It shows up at Christmas, and exists across cultures. It’s what humans do when it’s dark and cold. It punctures the fog. People have been doing this for thousands of years. When it’s cold and dark, we light fires, we gather, we feast, we make noise and music. Decorating, celebrating, gathering is a kind of gentle rebellion against the dreariness. We refuse to just hunker down like dormant trees and wait it out.

Familiar carols and seasonal music create a soundtrack that the fog can’t quite muffle. Christmas has absorbed and carries forward these older winter traditions of light-making and gathering. Squawking crows, orchards of naked trees, bone chilling cold that penetrates, and those forgetful squirrels cannot stifle a spirit that the Christmas season evokes. I may find myself toasting the cedar waxwings, acknowledging that my spirit can be warmed by a yule log from without and a cup of eggnog from within.

Cheers and season’s greetings!

Sisyphus 12/5/2025

Fog

No Italics Necessary

Fog

The gray mask of the fog, the pale plate of the sun,
The dark nudeness of the stripped trees
And no motion, no wave of the branch:
The sun stuck in the thick of the sky and no wind to move it
The sagged fence and the field
Do not remember the lark or her mate or the black lift of the rising crows,
The eye sees and absorbs; the mind sees and absorbs;
The heart does not see and knows no quickening.
There has been frog for a month and nothing has moved;
The eyes and the brain drink it, but nothing has moved for a number of days;
And the heart will not quicken.

William Everson

The tule fog arrives like a whispered incantation, stealing across California’s Central Valley on phantom feet. It is no ordinary mist—this is fog with weight and presence, a living shroud that swallows orchards whole and erases the horizon line between earth and emptiness. The fog denies fellowship with lunar transit; phases of the moon marking the progress of the month. Denied also is communing with emerging winter constellations scoring the progress of the seasons.

Born from the marriage of high atmospheric pressure, cold winter air and moisture rising from irrigated fields, it pools in the valley’s basin like spilled cream, thick enough to taste. Tule fog doesn’t drift like the summer coastal fog, so much as settle, heavy and deliberate, transforming familiar landscapes into liminal spaces where distance loses all meaning. A grove of almond trees becomes a procession of gray ghosts. Highway signs emerge from the white only to vanish again, oracles speaking their warnings to no one. Even Christmas lights appear diffused, in soft focus, haloed as if the fog absorbs their illumination.

There’s something primordial about tule fog, something that predates the geometric precision of modern agriculture. It takes its name from the tule reeds that once dominated the valley’s marshlands—those ancient wetlands now mostly drained and paved, yet the fog remembers. Each winter it returns like a revenant, reclaiming the valley floor, asserting the old wilderness beneath the cultivated rows.

In the half-light of winter dawn, the fog transforms the mundane into the mythic. Travelers become pilgrims crawling through an achromatic dream. Sound behaves strangely here—absorbed, muffled, made intimate. The world contracts to whatever small circle of pavement your headlights can carve from the white.

And then, just as mysteriously as it descended, the fog lifts, burned away by afternoon sun or banished by wind, leaving only damp memory on fence posts and a peculiar clarity to the air, as if the valley has exhaled.

No Italics Necessary: Adventures in “Kosgrowvic” Surgery

Join Sisyphus in his adventure in youthful indiscretion.

A Public Service Message (Warning: Graphic photos follow)

I greeted the good doctor early on a recent November morning, “You know Dr. Mehrany I have a low incentive threshold,”

“How’s that Mr. Jones?” he asked.

“Well, all it takes is a maple bar in your waiting room, and I’m willing to have you take a knife to my face.”

“I guess it beats cancer, eh?” he replied.

“But what about donut-induced heart disease or diabetes?” I beseeched.

“Everything gives you cancer, there’s no cure, there’s no answer except that Mohs surgeries are 98-99% successful, the most efficacious treatment for any cancer,” retorted the doctor, “You take your chances with cholesterol and blood glucose.”

Drop the mic!

My apologies to Dr. Mehrany whose response I doctored and Joe Jackson’s line about cancer from Everything Gives You Cancer.

What are the Odds?

And so began my most recent appointment with Kosgrow Mark Mehrany, MD, a skin cancer specialist whose practice is divided between San Jose and Modesto, near my home in the Central Valley. This would be my fourth basal cell carcinoma removal by way of a procedure known as a Mohs surgery.

Skin cancer is the most common type of cancer in the United States, with about 1 in 5 people developing it at some point in their lives. Each year, more than 3.5 million cases are diagnosed, making it a significant health concern. As one of the 3.5 million—it’s not a league in which I am proudly enrolled.

It Pays to Have Good Doctors

My now deceased family doctor, Christian Gallery, began detecting suspicious growths he diagnosed as a type of pre-cancer called actinic keratoses a decade ago. He was comfortable removing most of these scaly patches on my back and chest by freezing or a simple surgical removal, the standard treatments. When he suspected there may be a more serious basal cell carcinoma on my face he recommended I see a specialist.

That was my first encounter with Dr. Mehrany in his office in Modesto, CA in the spring of 2019. Dr. Mehrany confirmed Dr. Gallery’s diagnosis by biopsying a spot on my cheek. The resulting confirmation was that of a basal cell carcinoma he proposed to remove, using what is known as a Mohs micrographic surgery.

Mohs surgery is a procedure performed by a specially trained surgeon. Dr. Mehrany’s six page curriculum vitae* is impressive, but the fact that in his career he has performed over 20,000 Mohs surgeries is even more reassuring.

His manner is straightforward yet he has an amicable sense of humor. At least he feigns to laugh at my jokes. And once he’s executing the procedure his focus and attention is razor-sharp. Ugh. His staff are all equally genial and give you the sense that even though the office waiting room is full, each patient is accorded sincere regard and every effort is made to erase apprehension. Perhaps that’s the purpose of the donuts and coffee…

What Is Dr. Mehrany Screening For?

Skin cancer comes in a variety of forms, and some kinds are more frequent or dangerous than others. More than 98% of skin cancers are either basal cell and squamous cell carcinomas. Melanoma is another, less common type of skin cancer. Melanoma can be deadly unless it’s detected and treated early. Getting your skin checked regularly by a skin cancer specialist, like Dr. Mehrany, helps to protect you by catching skin cancer early when it’s easiest to cure.

Given that my youth into adulthood was spent when skin cancer detection wasn’t as refined as it is today, all of the summers spent in swimming pools, backpacking in the Sierra, riding bicycles, running, sailing, golf, and skiing meant I had a healthy year-round exposure to UV wavelengths of natural sunlight. Skin cancer develops when skin cells grow uncontrollably, in my case due to damage from ultraviolet (UV) rays from the sun, or tanning beds for those whose desire for sun-kissed aesthetics don’t have the time or hobbies to bronze in hours of exposure outdoors. And for those whose labor exposes them to harmful solar radiation, my sincere empathy.

This damage can lead to changes in the DNA of skin cells, resulting in abnormal growths that can become cancerous. Though I became aware of damage that repeated long exposure to sunlight was a form of Russian roulette that only emerged later in life, my haphazard mitigation with protective clothing and topical sun screens was preempted by naiveté. In the hypocrisy of pretending that tanning beds were for the vain, I was convinced that celebrating life in the great outdoors could achieve the same aesthetic that was beyond consequence. Vanity, it appears, is in the skin of the beholder.

Warning, the photos below are quite graphic. You can thank my wife who enjoyed the surgeries from the peanut gallery.

April 2019-The First Round: Mapping the sutures

Cheek surgery site with stitches and the surgical wound dressing you flaunt leaving his office

January 2021-Round Two: Can’t You Hear Me Noggin

Start to finish, about three weeks. “Covid doesn’t stop for cancer…” declared Dr. Mehrany (I neglected to “flip” the selfies)

February 2022-Round Three: Another Cheek Crater

in the middle photo is the pressure dressing, awaiting results of the first scraping. We were still masking.

November 2025-Round Four: Too Close to the Eye for Comfort

Oddly, all four carcinomas have clustered on the right side of my face. (The flipped selfie makes the appearance of the scar on the left side. I assure you, it’s on the right side.)

How Mohs Surgery Actually Works

Armed with a pocket full of syringes, donning appropriate PPE and surgical loupes, with a surgical blade called a curette, and a cauterizing pen at hand, Dr. Mehrany removes a layer of cells. Although the official name for the procedure is Mohs micrographic surgery, the shortened version of Mohs Surgery is common.

The surgery is performed as follows: the skin suspicious for cancer is treated with a local anesthetic, so there is no feeling of pain in the area. In fact, the most painful part of the procedure is the “poke and burn” of the injection. To remove most of the visible skin cancer, the tumor is scraped using a sharp instrument called a curette. A thin piece of tissue is then removed surgically around the scraped skin and carefully divided into pieces that will fit on a microscope slide; the edges are marked with colored dyes; a diagram of the tissue removed is made; and the tissue is frozen by Dr. Mehrany’s technician, Manny. Thin slices can then be made from the frozen tissue and examined by the doctor under the microscope.

I asked Dr. Mehrany if there’s any way to know when the damage actually happens. Turns out it’s impossible to pinpoint. The two biggest variables are how aggressive the mutation is and how well your immune system fights back. The damage could have occurred decades ago, but when it decides to show up as cancer? That’s anyone’s guess.

Of course minimizing exposure is the gold standard for preventing skin cancers, however a history of sunburns along with genetic factors of having lighter skin and a family history of skin cancer are the most common causes. Other factors include having many moles or atypical moles and certain skin conditions. When the damage occurs and how long it takes for the cells to mutate is widely variable. Thus any pale skin entitlements are moot when it comes to skin cancer.

It Doesn’t Smell Like Bacon Frying in the Kitchen

Most bleeding during the procedure is controlled using light cautery, although occasionally, a small blood vessel is encountered, which must be tied off with suture. A pressure dressing is then applied, and you’re asked to wait while the slides are being processed. Dr. Mehrany will then examine the slides under the microscope to determine if any cancer is still present and subsequently annotate his map of the cancer location accordingly.

If cancer cells remain, they can then be located at the surgical site on the patient by referring to the map. Another layer of tissue is then removed, and the procedure is repeated until Dr. Mehrany is satisfied that the entire base and sides of the wound have no cancer cells remaining. As well as ensuring total removal of cancer, this process preserves as much normal, healthy surrounding skin as possible.

More Donuts Await

The removal and processing of each layer of tissue take approximately 1-3 hours. Only 20 to 30 minutes of that is spent in the actual surgical procedure. The remaining time is required for slide preparation and interpretation. It usually takes the removal of two or three layers of tissue (also called stages) to complete the surgery. Fortunately for me, the most recent surgery took only the removal of a single layer of tissue. Even the more severe first case only took two tissue layers. I figure that’s about a donut per stage

Therefore, by beginning early in the morning, Mohs surgery is typically finished in one day. I was in at 7:30 am and out by noon. At the end of Mohs surgery, you will be left with a surgical wound free of tumor which is then reconstructed that same day. Several options for reconstruction may be discussed with you in order to weigh your preference of what will provide the best possible cosmetic outcome versus what will provide the easiest and simplest recovery.

Time to Lace Up the Pigskin

Suturing the wound was interesting from my perspective. The site was completely numb, so I did not feel pain. However, the snugging of the suture was a little unnerving. For this surgery, there were some 25 stitches. Times four surgeries—those are the battle scars of freedom. Or inattention. Dr. Mehrany’s skill at reconstructing the surgical wound is truly his genius.

There was modest discomfort following the wearing off of the anesthetic. Not unlike what you might feel after a dental procedure like a filling or crown, and the slight pain was softened by a couple of extra strength Tylenols. Sorry RFK, I’ll risk autism for relief from surgery whether I plan to get pregnant or not.

Moving Forward

These days wide full brimmed hats have replaced ball caps. UV protective arms and legs are a part of my cycling kit. SPF 70 is used on the other exposed parts, namely my face and neck. Prevention. It’s never too late, I suppose. It beats the consequences of my youthful naiveté masked as virility. In January of next year, I have my six month follow-up exam. I’m hopeful that I will get the all clear, until the following exam in July.

Despite displaying the battle scars of freedom, I’m not ready to look like the patchwork of grandma’s quilt, but it beats an early departure for the dirt farm to join her…

My advice? If you’ve spent anytime in the sun be aware of the consequences! Also, you’re likely to gain more weight from the donuts than lose weight from the removal of the cancer…

*Dr. Mehrany’s Information

No Italics Necessary: On Friendship, Loss, and Survival

Friendship is messy. Loss is constant. And men? We rarely talk about it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what we carry, what we lose, and how we show up—or don’t.

These thoughts came from listening to an episode of Offline with Jon Favreau called “Are Men Okay?” featuring Zac Seidler, a psychologist who studies men’s health for the Movember Foundation. The show opened with a startling fact: more than half of American men die before the age of 75, and that number is getting worse.

Seidler and Favreau talked about how men often misunderstand what wellness means, especially in a digital world that celebrates performance over vulnerability. His words struck a chord. I’m no longer a young man, but I have sons who are—and I recognized the quiet ways men of every age hide what hurts.

Among my own circle of old friends, I can see that same silence. We’re all facing losses—some recent, some long ago—and each of us is trying, in our own way, simply to survive them. You don’t conquer loss; you learn to live beside it.

Childhood Friend

One of my oldest friends is someone I’ve known since childhood. We grew up together, went to the same schools, drifted apart for years, and eventually both returned to town—he to teach college, I to teach younger students.

We still crossed paths occasionally, mostly through our shared obsession with staying fit: he ran, I biked. Once, during a casual conversation in a grocery store line, he surprised me with, “You were always an underachiever.” I never knew exactly what he meant. Maybe teasing, maybe judgment, maybe even a sideways compliment. It stuck with me.

Years later, at our fortieth high school reunion, he sat alone at a table that included me and a few mutual friends. Once known for his easy charisma, he seemed withdrawn, almost impatient with the sentimental tone of the evening. When a slideshow of classmates who had passed played to soft music, he muttered something about sparing him the “maudlin sentimentality.” I understood the impulse. Grief sometimes makes cynics of us all.

Not long ago, his partner died. I reached out simply to say I was sorry and that I was here if he needed to talk. He thanked me, but I keep thinking about him—loss isolates even the most social among us.

Teaching Colleague and Musician

Another friend is a former teaching colleague—someone I shared a wall, a schedule, and twenty years of classroom chaos with. We both taught math and science to sixth graders, juggling equations, experiments, and preteens on the verge of self-destruction.

We also shared a love of music: he played bass; I played drums in our staff band, proudly called Staff Infection.

When he retired, a few years after I did, he and his wife seemed to embrace the good life—travel, golf, family. Then, suddenly, she was gone. I saw him at her memorial and later sent a note, offering an ear if he ever needed one. He thanked me, but we haven’t talked since.

I think about him often—even deep friendships can slip into silence, especially after loss. Maybe it’s time to call again.

Cycling Companion

The last friend I want to mention is someone I’ve known almost entirely through bicycling, going back nearly forty years, with a few shared backpacking trips in the Sierra. Recently, he suffered two strokes, days apart, which threatened the thing he loved most: riding at a high level, even as he approached eighty.

When I checked in a couple of months later, I saw both his pride and his quiet embarrassment—the strokes had shaken him, but not his determination. He is slowly recovering, taking long walks and gentle rides, and refusing much of physical therapy because, in his words, it was “just balance work.”

His setback isn’t only physical. Since retiring from his photography business—a career largely erased by the digital era—he’s been more isolated. Cycling remains his anchor, the thing that keeps him connected to a small community of fellow riders. I just reached out again and will be picking him up tomorrow for a local ride.

Reflections on Friendship and Loss

Loss changes everything. Silence isolates. Connection saves us.

Thinking about these friendships, I see a common thread: loss reshapes our lives in ways both visible and quiet. And yet, it also reminds me of the enduring power of connection. Reaching out—even when it feels awkward, belated, or uncertain—matters.

The podcast Are Men Okay? reminded me that men rarely talk about how they’re truly doing, and I recognize that pattern in myself and in the friends I’ve written about. But in spite of—or perhaps because of—our losses, we can choose to persist in connection. A shared ride, a text, a moment of music, or simply showing up can make the difference between drifting apart and surviving together.

I don’t claim to have all the answers, and grief has a way of reminding us that life rarely unfolds as neatly as we wish. Still, I believe there is grace in reaching out, in extending empathy, and in sustaining the bonds that have shaped us.

So here’s my invitation: call the friend you’ve been thinking about. Send the note you’ve been putting off. Show up.

We survive loss better when we survive it together. And sometimes, survival is simply showing up—on a bike, on a walk, or in a conversation that refuses to be postponed.

10/22/2025