​Sometimes, running alone on a forest trail, you see things. 

Hearing things is pretty common: grey and brown song sparrows flitting through the scrub oak, tiny chipmunks startling in the dry foliage and making enough racket you’d think a bear was in there. I love the solitude and the silent background to the birdsong and chipmunk drama. Though I’m mostly focused on the trail so I don’t trip over a root knob and eat dirt, I scan my surroundings so I don’t run into a bear, or more likely a moose, eating breakfast and oblivious to my presence.

But sometimes, you see strange things. One day while descending, I came around a bend on Orton Trail and caught a glimpse of a dark figure ahead of me. Except - there was nothing there but the short, dark and dead trunk of a tree, rough and bulging wide at the center - with a face! His one blue-grey eye stared at me inquisitively, nose and mustachioed mouth questioning “who are you?”  This tree sprite put a grin on my face. 

After that, I made sure my route included my friend. Each time I ran up Emerald I would say “Hi” as he gave me a look of encouragement, and each time I ran down his nod of “nice job” would always make me smile. I’d even tap the trunk in hello. What a stalwart supporter for each and every training run all last fall. 

In early summer this year I finally made my way back to run on Emerald. As I’ve written in There’s No Place Like Emerald Mountain, these trails are my favorite place to be. It truly is the wonderland of trail running - at least for me. The way Eye-to-Eye twists back onto itself repeatedly so that I’m almost seeing myself run by in the opposite direction. The thickening of the trees on Hudson near where the old Hudson car is, the trail dark and eerie, despite the sunshine elsewhere. The way the gnome has a way of hiding in the foliage at the Blackmere entrance to Larry’s. I’m not a fan of magical thinking - but the stories and experiences and community contribution to Emerald Mountain have created a place in nature that is both magic and whimsy.

So as I ran up Emerald in June after six months away, I was excitedly anticipating greeting my friend the tree sprite. As I approached my smile and hello tap were ready…but the face was gone. All that was left was one little screw.

For the rest of the run I shifted between sadness and anger. Did someone steal the face? Did they have so little understanding and regard for the Emerald vibe, were they that clueless? I cursed them through my disappointment. And really, it was beyond disappointment. I felt bereft, desolate - something precious had been taken.

I didn’t run up there again. 
Until this past Saturday. I decided it was time to head up Emerald. The first climb usually gets my heart rate into the red in about ten yards, and it felt good to be back. I even passed a cyclist climbing Blackmere - which was something, considering my pace was slo-mo. Approaching the tree of my old friend, the sprite, I was prepared for the sadness of his expressionless trunk…but lo and behold, he was back!!! New face, comical expression…and somehow Emerald felt complete again.

That face in the forest is a friend, and more. The sprite is a wink to the quirkiness and fun, a testament to the friendliness and camaraderie, a nod to the spirit of the unknown…the enchantment of a face in the forest.

​Last week was the kind of week where I am under the illusion of youth. I think I can work a bursting-at-the-seams massage schedule, prepare my place for houseguests, run and teach Essentrics and strength-train - and do it all on very little sleep.

My parents, daughter and her boyfriend were visiting for the weekend to celebrate my mom’s 80th birthday (yay!). Squeezing four other people into my small living space was requiring a lot of organization and creativity. By Thursday night I was sleep-deprived and looney-tunes, hanging artwork in Charlotte’s room while watching the video on how to install those darn new-fangled picture hangers and standing on a memory foam mattress trying to use the tiny level to ensure the art was hung straight. (It isn’t.)

A noise caught my attention. It was dark out, and I thought maybe one of the family that I rent my place from was on the driveway. I walked to the hall and out of the corner of my eye saw movement. I looked toward the kitchen. One part of my brain computed “Bear!!! Big, Large, Huge Bear!!!!” while another part computed “but we are inside!” and it wasn’t until the startled bear was running back out the sliding screen door it had walked through that the two parts of my brain came together and I started screaming. I remembered that you should scare the bear off so I yelled “get outta here.” Pretty sure the bear called back over its shoulder, “I’m already outta here, crazy lady.”

Once I got up the courage I slammed the sliding glass door shut and locked it. The screen was pulled off the frame probably as the bear walked right through it. I’m guessing the bear didn’t even see the screen, just opportunity.

A kitchen inspection yielded nothing unusual - nothing taken, no damage - no muddy paw print or bad smell. It hit me how lucky I was.

In an effort to vent my freakout adrenalin, I texted some friends and wandered around my  apartment pretending to get stuff done. I decided some chocolate would help. I walked out to the kitchen counter and that’s when I discovered it. My bag of Ghirardelli chocolate chips was gone! That rascal! Good thing I had a back-up bag. I snarfed down chocolate chips and eventually my anxiety ebbed a bit. I had a lot more work that night to do, so by the time I went to bed I was too exhausted to be kept awake by scary bear dreams.

The next morning I checked, and just outside my sliding door, in the grass off my deck, was the empty chocolate chip bag. That bear must’ve sat right there eating the chocolate chips, like it was enjoying popcorn at the movies, watching me run around my house freaking out. Sheer entertainment. I hope the bear enjoyed itself. 

*****
I was really so fortunate. The bear could have refused to leave or have been aggressive towards me. 
We have a higher incidence of bear activity this summer due to dry conditions in the higher country. Bears are smart and looking for food. Keeping car doors locked and car windows rolled up all the way, locking house doors and windows as well are crucial. If my sliding door had been closed and locked that night the bear wouldn’t have had its Ghirardelli fix. 

Please see this Steamboat Radio article for more info on bear activity and how we can help keep bears and ourselves safe.

​​Last weekend I drove to Salt Lake City to see my daughter. I arrived late afternoon in 100-degree heat, my cooler balanced atop a tacoed memory foam mattress under which were boxes of jumbled candles and lotions, and on top of which a heavy piece of furniture held it all down like a paperweight. We sweated and swore our way up the switchback stairs - grateful she lives on the second floor rather than the third.

This is a new location I haven’t yet seen, as Charlotte just moved in the week before. She’d been living in a shared apartment situation, now known as The Orc Palace or The Bad Place, mostly due to the two roommates who transformed from besties to a couple of Cruella de Vils, only meaner.

This studio has been a long time coming, as Charlotte’s been scheduling tours and applying for months. It is very small, very sweet, and it is hers. She couldn’t be happier. Well, she would be a bit happier if things were a bit more organized. So we get to work. She finds a used platform frame with headboard storage (every item must do its job of providing some form of storage) 30 minutes away. A couple more trips up the stairs and some assembly time, and the frame is perfect, with the bonus of its accommodation for under-bed bins. 

Sunday is my only full day there and we make it count. We’ve started the day with a long walk and then a homemade breakfast (Charlotte makes a delectable veggie-egg scramble). By evening we’re doing laps through Target and when the list is just about checked off, we head to The Front.

The Front is a “climbing gym.” This might not sound like much - when I first heard about it I pictured a tiny building with a small climbing wall. But there is nothing tiny or even medium-sized about The Front. It boasts a three-story climbing wall, a separate bouldering section, bluetooth climbing training boards, two separate gym areas, an upstairs eaterie, and an outdoor courtyard for events and just hanging out. 

Charlotte suits me up in a rented harness and a pair of climbing shoes and we walk over to the wall. There are over two dozen routes to choose from, made up of a huge array of holds for feet and hands that are different textures, shapes and sizes. The colors of the holds mark specific routes. Since I don’t know how to belay, she starts up a route with an auto belay (device that keeps the rope taut as the climber climbs so they don’t fall very far, should they fall). My daughter’s strength and grace is evident as she moves up the wall, her skill as a climber and problem-solver comes to the fore as she works out some stickier segments of the route.

Then it is my turn. We choose a beginner route. The last time I climbed was when I was 25, which was 33 years ago. I am afraid of heights, and wonder how quickly the shaking and fear will kick in. I figure I won’t make it very far anyway with my not-ready-for-prime-time-climbing arms and hands - but I’ll give it a go and see what happens.

Charlotte is well-versed in climbing safety, with many courses and years of experience under her belt. She is going to belay me. She shows me the proper set-up with my harness and the climbing rope. I use a little chalk from her bag to give my hands a bit of extra grip. She teaches me to say “girl on rock!” and she responds “rock on, girl!” as a safety that we are on the same page. And I start to climb.

At first I don’t think I’ll make it beyond the first foot or two. But as my feet find their holds, and my shoulders, arms and hands continue to do the work, sweat dripping down my back, I find that I am moving up the wall. Charlotte keeps the rope taut and I feel that security. If I go for something and can’t make it, the rope will catch me and I won’t go anywhere, just hang in the air. I notice that this sense of complete safety is new to me. I have explicit trust in Charlotte, and the rope and harness are like an extension of her support. I am almost two stories up and I don’t feel afraid.

There is a small overhang that is my goal, about two-thirds of the way up. When I get there, I don’t see an obvious way to get over it, and I let Charlotte know I’m ready to descend so she can ease me down with the rope. She asks “are you sure you don’t want to give it a try?” I look at it again, and give it a try. Lo and behold, I make it over and up to the top of the climb. She lets me down and when my feet hit the floor I fall over. Guess my legs were more wobbly than I thought. My forearms are pumped so tight I can barely move my fingers. Charlotte is grinning hugely. I look up at her and say “I can’t believe I did it!” 

She climbs another route, making it look so easy. Then I climb again, doubting I’ll make it very far due to my fatigued forearms. And once again I find that my body delivers and I make it to the top. Wow! 

I watch Charlotte climb a few more routes. It is like a form of dance, this movement that is now all limbs reaching out wide, now narrow and vertical, now almost horizontal, adjusting her body to the whims of the holds and available surfaces. Sometimes she briefly studies her next move, but mostly she moves effortlessly up, elegant and powerful, at home in this colorful facsimile of nature’s rock face. I know that watching her climb outdoors would be even more beautiful.

Later, as we enjoy our picnic dinner on my tailgate and gaze at the golden-orange sunset silhouetting the city skyscrapers, I think about how our roles were reversed and how that opened my mind and body to do something I doubted I could. I was so sure of my safety with Charlotte belaying me that I was not distracted by my typical fear of heights. I was physically supported by the harness and rope so that I was confident to reach for holds that were a little out of my reach zone - and was able to grasp them. I was mentally-emotionally supported by Charlotte, who did not doubt me. Her belief was a game-changer - because of that I kept reaching and kept climbing all the way, even when I didn’t think I could.

When we’re back at her place, tired from the long and demanding day, the overwhelm of the remaining stuff needing to be organized gets to her. I find myself providing moral support and realize we’ve switched again. This is the depth and breadth of what is between us, mother and daughter, friend and friend, that we can move from the one who offers support to the one who receives it, back and forth, in an exquisite, unique and beautiful dance of our own.

What does Essentrics® mean?
It is a play on the word “eccentric.” An eccentric contraction is a muscular contraction in which the ends of the muscle are moving away from one another, like when you lower your arm with  the weight at the end of a biceps curl. The actual biceps curl is a concentric contraction, where the ends of the muscle are moving towards one another. 

What makes an Essentrics workout so effective? 
Eccentric contractions are more efficient in building muscle strength than concentric contractions. Joints are decompressed with eccentric contraction, and tendons and ligaments are strengthened leading to injury prevention.

In an Essentrics workout, we focus on movement of all 640+ muscles of the body. This results in the rebalancing of the entire body, rather than just focusing on one specific group or chain of muscles. We gently move within a stretch rather than hold it in one spot, because the myotactic reflex kicks in with a held stretch, causing the muscle to tighten. We also move and articulate the joints throughout the body, for example the hands and feet, which helps increase mobility and energy. If you don’t think tight hands and feet drain your energy, try flexing your feet stiffly and walking a few steps that way, or grip your hands tightly and try opening a doorknob. 

The music and movements of Essentrics help us to move fluidly and rhythmically, and the focus throughout on pulling up our posture, using specific muscles in specific movements, and the reasons for doing each move (yes, every movement has a purpose), enhance body awareness and brain engagement. In fact, one of the most effective things you can do for brain agility is combine physical exercise with brain-work, and I start each of my classes with a few minutes of brain-work to get that ball rolling. 

We don't use weights in Essentrics. Rather, we work against our own resistance which allows us to work as hard (or as loosely) as we want to, supporting gains in strength without injury.

Did I mention that we have our arms up overhead for a good portion of our workout? This is how we really strengthen our back and improve posture. One of the things that consistently grabs my attention is the amazing participants in my classes, and how over time they have developed the strength and flexibility to have their arms reaching for the sky like pros. 

What might you expect to notice after an Essentrics workout?

• Improved energy because you’ve released tension throughout your body. 
• Increased range of motion in your hands, shoulders, hips, knees, ankles and feet.
• A sense of ease in your body as you move through your day.
• A brain that is alert and aware.
• Over time, stronger muscles, improved posture, and better balance.
• A decrease in chronic pain.
• A decrease in developing injuries.

Learn more

• The science behind Essentrics®
• My Essentrics® classes

Originally published June, 2022

​Growing up in Huntington Beach California in the 70’s, we had a woodburning fireplace. The logs gave out bright robust flames, and we had a screen for the sparks that sometimes shot out in tiny little explosions. Resting on the brick hearth was a metal mesh basket with a sliding lid on a long handle that my parents used to pop corn over the fire. One long weekend my cousin was with us for a Sunday night sleepover. We all four played Monopoly, drank hot chocolate (made with whole milk and Nestle Quik in a pot on the stove), and ate popped corn in front of the crackling fire. The warmth, the banter, and the joy of no school the next day all make that night one of my favorite memories.

We moved in 1980 to a home whose fireplace sported a tile hearth. We still had cozy fires, but I more clearly remember the smell of woodsmoke in the neighborhood - a smell that I associated with apples, pumpkins, Halloween and piles of raked leaves under our big willow tree. During the summer our fires were at the beach. We’d gather with friends and family around one of the many concrete firepits along the sand for a beach party on a weekend evening. We’d roast hot dogs and marshmallows. In the early days if you ran out of firewood a neighboring party would happily give you a piece of theirs. As the sun set, we’d inevitably end up bundled in a sweatshirt and pants - even thick coats and hoods as the ocean breeze could be chilly. Getting closer to the fire to warm up worked great until the wind shifted and you were enveloped in smoke. 

The nights around those fires were merry celebrations. Wind-whipped hair, bare feet dusty with sand, faces talking, laughing, looking into the fire that made their cheeks glow orange and their eyes sparkle. 

*****
Growing up close to the ocean meant I was oblivious to the other facets of fire. There was a phenomenon that occurred each year called the Santa Ana winds. The hot dry wind would blow, bringing the smell of smoke - but not fireplace smoke. This was wildfire smoke. And sometimes ash would cover the cars in the neighborhood. I was clueless as to what that might mean for the wildlife and people in the vicinity of the actual fire. The Santa Ana winds and the fires they stoked didn’t mean danger or loss - I could still associate the scent brought on the winds with special times. For me, the Santa Anas meant that fall had officially started. 

When I moved to Steamboat in the early 90’s, wildfire in Colorado wasn’t on my radar. It wasn’t until the 2000’s, living in the Front Range, that fire began to mean something very different. We experienced several smokey seasons, but the one I remember most was the High Park Fire in June 2012. We were living in Longmont at the time, and it was hot. Really hot. We didn’t have AC, and keeping the windows closed against the smoke made for a stifling indoors. Our normally exuberant dogs were in slow motion on our walks, as if we were under water, even in the early morning. They’d look at me with a question and expectation in their eyes: “Why in dog’s name were we out here? When would we go home?”

A Longmont neighbor told me about a friend’s home during the Fourmile Canyon Fire above Boulder. A story that stayed with me. The outer structure of the beautiful home survived the fire - it was built of stone. However, the intense heat of the burning flames exploded the windows; thus the fire found its way in. Sadly, the home was destroyed from the inside out. 

When I moved back to Steamboat in 2013, wildfire went off my radar again. Surely it would never threaten Steamboat itself. But things had changed. There were more fires - hotter fires. The top three largest fires in Colorado history (Cameron Peak, East Troublesome, Pine Gulch) occurred in 2020. Last year’s Lee Fire in Meeker is the fifth largest in Colorado history. And then we had the winter of 2025-2026. One of the lowest snowfalls in recorded history. Way too much of the wrong kind of history-making.

I once remember thinking how horrible it would be to live under the possibility of evacuation. And now, we are facing that very thing. We should all have a plan. A go-bag with the essential stuff (clothes, toiletries, meds). A box for the irreplaceable photos and documents. A designated place to meet up with family and/or friends. An alternate route out in case one route is closed. These are grim plans to make. But crucial.

Fire is mesmerizing, brings warmth and pleasure, gives light in the dark, cooks our food, eases us with its subtle crackling. But when it grows quickly, escaping boundaries, it is insatiable. It is an elemental force of nature, and just as wind, water and earth are a vital part of living on this planet, when these elements go unchecked, we see the incredible and awesome power of Mother Nature. Tornadoes, hurricanes, tsunamis, mudslides, wildfires. 

It is fire that is front of mind these days. I walk under a milky sky, feel the irritation in my eyes from Utah - smoke from six hours’ drive away, smoke that first stung the lungs of my daughter. Strong stuff. I look up at the lurid orange ball that is the sun, lending an unnatural glow to the eerily silent evening.  

Resources

• Sign up for Routt County Alerts to be alerted about emergencies, weather events, evacuations, etc.
• Watch Duty app - download to your phone so you can stay on top of current fires and be notified of one in your area.
• Routt County Wildfire Mitigation Council website - mitigation tips, info on how we got here, evacuation planning guide, and a Wildfire Risk Viewer from Colorado State Forest Service. Much of Steamboat is in the red - highest risk.

​I used to think warming up before any athletic endeavor was an optional nicety if time allowed. In my twenties, my boyfriend would stretch his ski legs before hopping in the lift line, and I thought, “how novel!” When I watched other runners warming up at marathon start lines, I thought, “I’m about to run 26.2 miles, surely I will warm up along the way?”  When I ran weekly with my store manager (I worked for a sporting goods store in California before moving to Steamboat), we always had to schedule our start around his hot tub time. He told me he couldn’t head out on a run if he didn’t get everything warmed up before-hand. I thought he was a bit of a princess.

Now at 58, I know that the warm up is not novel, not optional and I am certainly not a princess. 

Moving first thing in the morning by way of a brief but thorough warm-up not only prepares me for exercise, but gives my body and brain the foundation for a good day. The variety of movements that get my legs and upper body moving and encourage circulation help not only warm my muscles in preparation for my run, but specific things like ankle circles, body weight squats and upper body figure-8s help my joints (specifically my ankles, knees, hips, shoulders and spine) move more smoothly. The increased breathing and heart rate prepare my heart and lungs for the work to follow, and the increased oxygen to my head dissipates some of the early-AM brain fog. Even if I’m heading out for a walk, or just getting right into my day, the warm-up is valuable. I’d like my body and brain on-line no matter what.

That ease into the day or exercise warm-up is key. But I’ve recently experienced a next-level warm-up that kicks my bum.

I do a weight work-out at Old Town Hot Springs twice weekly. For the past seven months I’ve sweated my way through lifting heavy (6-8 reps max per set). Results? My glutes are no longer in hiding and I can lift heavier weights than when I started. But my running hasn’t changed an iota. As I’ve written before (Salida Trail Marathon Epilogue: A Run Through Time), despite the lifting, my running is less “moving swiftly” and more concrete legs dragging a heavy load up a steep mountain. It isn’t just strength I need - and strength is defined as the ability to exert force against resistance. I need power too. Power is defined as the ability to exert force quickly, as in explosiveness. My daughter, running circles around my straight line shuffle, has power. I do not. That’s why it feels like I’m dragging an anchor the size of the Queen Mary around. I can drag it (strength) but not quickly (power). 

To that end, I decided to take a class right after my lifting session. PowerFit - the perfect choice. I showed up for my first class, and we started with the “warm-up.” Skipping (forward, backward), high knees, kick bum, side-steps, twisting lunges, etc., etc. By the time we were done I was ready to lie down on the floor for the rest of class. Unfortunately, the instructor wanted us to do more than just warm-up and nap. We did rounds of hamstring curls, lunges, single-arm rows, and a few other things my brain prefers to forget. Then we did broad jumps. I had to check my shoes - why were they stuck to the floor? It seemed I could not actually get my body off the ground. This girl had no hops. The instructor discreetly suggested I do another round of high knees instead. Then, after class, he kindly suggested a dynamic warm-up I could do on my own, incorporating several of the exercises we did in class. If I did this dynamic warm-up consistently, it should help. Several weeks later, this warm-up is still challenging, but I can see incremental improvement. And, last week, I was able to do the broad jumps!

The warm-up has become not just a way to prepare, but a way to improve. According to the instructor, power is one of the first things to go as we age. I wasn’t doing wrong by focusing on strength training, but I needed to add in training for power as well. Dynamic, quick bursts of movement such as what I get with that challenging warm-up will help balance the strength gains with more explosiveness. Although I’m still a ways out from being explosive.

My goal is to be both stronger and more powerful. Will this get me up the hill any faster? Not tomorrow. Not next month. I’m probably looking at a year from now. That might seem like a long time to see results. But think about it. I haven’t been working that dynamic power system consistently for decades. And, especially in the last decade, that system hasn’t just been waiting for me to pick back up and be right where I was in my twenties. That system has been declining. So training for power will begin to stop that decline, and even make some modest gains. Of course I will still have dreams of being able to keep my daughter in sight on a run, though the truth is I may never do that again. More important than realizing that dream is that I can still improve. I can get stronger, and maybe a little quicker. And that improvement, even just the possibility of it, is worth warming up for. 

​​May: the time of year in Steamboat when things are a little quieter, AKA mud season. Thankfully there’ve been enough days of rain and snow to earn that name, every drop potentially staving off the imminent fire season following the less than lackluster winter snowfall. 

The quiet around town is oh so welcome, but the quiet in my massage practice is disconcerting. Busy weeks and lulls are a part of the normal rhythm, but the busy weeks this past winter paralleled the snowfall - less than the kind of busy I’ve come to expect.

And so, as has happened in prior slow periods that extend for longer than I think they should (I start panicking after a day or two), my go-to coping mechanism is to have an existential crisis. What am I even thinking, having my own business? What am I doing? Who am I? Why am I here? 

An attractive solution in the midst of this mind chaos is: “I know, I’ll go get a job with a reliable paycheck and benefits, and sit on my can behind a desk all day.” After breathing into the proverbial paper bag, I calm down and remember why I do massage therapy.

*****
I earned my BA in Cultural Anthropology, thinking I’d head somewhere exotic to study some fascinating people. As anthropologists do. The Amazon Basin, Africa, Central America…all intrigued me. Instead, I got a position in a legal office, saved up some dough, and headed off to travel Europe, where I planned to end up in Barcelona and establish myself prior to the ‘92 Summer Olympics. 

Instead (seeing a pattern here?), after about six weeks of solo travel I decided I really wanted to do Ironman, a triathlon consisting of a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run. So I returned to the U.S., got a job at a sporting goods store to support my athletic habit, and did my first Ironman.

Fast forward to the summer of 1996. My Great Aunt Dorie in Maryland passed that summer just before I moved from Steamboat to Boulder. Aunt Dorie was a delightful whimsical sweetheart of a person. When I was a kid I would beg to wash dishes in her kitchen because she made it such fun…something about oodles of soap bubbles and a literal spoonful of sugar when I had the hiccups, which was very often. The last time I saw her was a year before she passed, and she was in a nursing home. She had suffered a stroke, and was completely dependent on nurses and aides for her care. She could not communicate. Her once bright, twinkly blue eyes were dim, and the only bit of color in her tiny room was a small flower bouquet and a little mobile hanging above her bed. I left there heartbroken and bereft - how could magical Great Aunt Dorie, whom I loved so much, be in this situation? Somehow, in my sadness, I had the conviction that if she could be given compassionate touch, it would change the quality of her remaining life. Since we lived so far apart this was only a wish, so when she died I thought about how I could make a difference in other people’s lives, even if I could not have done that for her.

I didn’t pursue that right away. It took a second person passing to seal the deal. Surprisingly, that person was Princess Diana. I despised the whole royal wedding coverage, and detested the in-your-face tabloids at the grocery checkout blaring the latest sordid scandal of the monarchy. But when she died in August, 1997, it struck me as so wasteful that a woman - a mother - who’d been doing such meaningful work in the world (with HIV/AIDS, landmines, and the homeless) was now gone. Princess Diana’s death was the impetus for me to make some kind of a difference myself. I enrolled in the Boulder College of Massage Therapy and graduated from the 1000-hour two-year-long night program with my certification in December, 1999.

Eventually I landed a position doing massage therapy at a continuum-of-care facility in Boulder. The thirteen years there gave me the opportunity to work with many different people, young and old, and many different conditions. People with Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s patients, folks recovering from surgery, from illness, people in wheelchairs, with chronic and acute pain, and staff who were athletes. Several clients were residents who transitioned all the way through that continuum during the time I worked with them: from independent living, to assisted living, to skilled nursing, and sometimes to end of life. 

One of these clients was a woman named Florence, who transitioned through those phases with humor and happiness. Florence wore bright colors and had a zest for life. She loved to swim, to dance, and to paint. And as she progressed, those things that she loved to do became the things she used to do. Her response to this was unfailing graciousness. When I went to her apartment in assisted living, we’d walk to the peaceful greenhouse room so she could sit among the growing plants and gurgling little fountain for her massage. When I went to her room in skilled nursing, she would tell me at least once per visit how blessed she was to live there. When she had a stroke and could no longer get out of her bed without assistance and could no longer communicate, I would put on her music and massage her neck, shoulders, arms and hands, legs and feet as she lay in her bed. One day while I massaged her hand, she made a little movement with the music. On her lips was a little smile, and I thought I heard the slightest whisper of a hum. Florence was dancing.

*****
Do I believe I’ve made a difference in people’s lives through massage work? I do. When someone’s pain is relieved, when they perform their sport better, when their anxiety is calmed, when their grief has a little more space, when they sleep through the night on their massage days, when they move better so they can do what they want to do - I believe that these people’s lives are made somewhat better through this work. I can’t change the really hard stuff, like dear Aunt Dorie having a stroke, or Florence not being able to swim. But I can bring moments of good. And maybe, at least on some days, that is enough. Certainly enough to keep me in the game.

​It is spring, and Mr. Marmot has made his annual appearance at the gazebo outside my office building. He guards the rocky entrance to his subterranean abode, slouching back against the wooden gazebo base, short front arms resting on his chest, watching the world go by.  His lounging comes to an abrupt end when anyone or anything is too near. He glares, harrumphs, and then disappears down the burrow. 

The marmots living in Colorado are yellow-bellied marmots. Marmots are also known as rockchucks and whistle-pigs. They can be over two feet long, and weigh roughly eleven pounds. They prefer chomping on flowering plant stalks but will feast on green grasses and leaves as well - the important part is to eat, and eat all summer long, as they must put on lots of fat to make it through their long hibernation. They lose half their summer weight during hibernation, and hibernation is a major factor in their mortality: not enough weight going in, or a burrow not deep enough, means they won’t make it to spring.

With the arrival of spring, and plenty of green foodstuffs, the marmots lose no time in mating. Mama Marmot will give birth to anywhere from three to eight little ones. The gestation period is only 30 days - imagine producing up to eight babies in just one month!

No wonder Mrs. Marmot is a rare sight around our gazebo. She needs all of her energy to grow those teensy ones, and once they are born, she needs all of her energy to nurse them in the burrow. At 20-30 days the babies are weaned and begin to step out. This year I’ve counted five baby marmots at the gazebo, all roly-poly miniatures of their parents. These little balls of joy scamper about, though under the watchful eye of Mr. (and sometimes Mrs.) Marmot, and never too far away to quickly dart under the protective gazebo, inquisitive face peering out from the shadows.

Marmots are typically out of the burrow for mid morning and early evening meal times - much of the rest of the day they are in the burrow. This is partially to avoid predators like owls, golden eagles, hawks, coyotes, and weasels. 

Our marmot family doesn’t seem to follow some of the behavior mentioned in some articles. For example, there is no evidence of the burrow harem of several females - it seems Mr. and Mrs. Marmot of the gazebo are monogamous. Also, though eating is most likely high on their agenda, most of the activity I observe is playing, rolling, running around, and basking in the sun. They also don’t do a lot of whistle-warning, they simply slip into their burrow sanctuary. 

As the summer days become warmer, and the marmot babies become larger, Mr. Marmot seems to relax a bit. He waddles around showing off his successful weight-gain, and last year he somehow made it to the gazebo railing where he posed his sleek self for all to admire.

Seeing the marmots each year is something people frequenting the building take great delight in. There is a bit of happy hopefulness to see this furry family in action. Something comforting in their day to day, in the safety of their gazebo burrow, under the luxuriant green shade of old tree friends, in their play, in their cycle of life that keeps on keeping on.


Sources/Learn More
Yampatika: Wildlife of Steamboat 
Colorado Parks and Wildlife: Yellow-Bellied Marmot
National Park Service: Marmot
YouTube video: Meet Colorado’s Marmots

Originally published May, 2025

Today, May 1, my daughter graduates with her BS in Environmental and Sustainability Studies from the University of Utah. I feel all the ways you might expect: proud, excited, happy, curious, thrilled and definitely awed. Some of that awe stems from the fact that she earned her degree in two years. Some of it stems from the person my daughter is: caring, generous, fun, driven, athletic, self-aware, and adventurous. Some of it stems from the way she approaches life, a confidence to take on new things without holding back. This isn’t just because she’s young. It is how she engages with living, and it is inspiring.

Along with the expected ways I feel about Charlotte completing her undergraduate education, I notice something else. A tightness in the center of my stomach, a tinge of heaviness at the back of my heart. She’s travelled the educational conveyor belt from preschool to university, and is now jumping off into the world at large. With this discernible step into real independence - working full-time, creating a structure for her life that is dictated fully by her choices and not by her parents, teachers, or an educational institution - as her parent I feel a bit…irrelevant.

When Charlotte first came onto the scene, there was a moment of tremendous resistance and heel dragging on my part. I had an identity - endurance athlete, runner, cyclist, and though married, an independent woman. To shift into being a mother was, to me, a departure almost unfathomable. At 38, I didn’t want to have someone dependent on me, and I certainly didn’t want to give up my athletic and independent identity to be a mom. I didn’t know how to be a mom.

But, something had been happening. From the early days of my pregnancy, what I felt for this being inside me was growing along with her. The visceral love and literal connection I experienced was profound - the “not knowing how to be a mom” was no match for that. My resistance, and my old identity, subsided as I found myself completely immersed in mama-hood.

Parenting is hard. From sleepless nights to figuring out needs without words to saying “NO!” and the response is to look you in the eye and do it anyway. From being right where you laid them down to crawling across the house in three seconds flat to scampering out of reach with a delighted giggle. From looooong, even boring, days at the park to being awakened at 2am to continue an argument over the pajamas to full-on meltdowns. And as your child moves from little one to teen and beyond, you exchange one set of difficulties for another, again and again. 

But here’s the thing - you have a clear purpose. You know your place as a parent, however imperfectly. 

As a parent I had (and still have) two unequivocal goals. To see my daughter, truly and deeply, for the person she is. To learn about her, and myself - the dynamic between us, and how I could become a better person and thus a better mother. These aims were challenges that I was not always equal to, and at times I failed badly. But the goals were my guiding principles, and no matter how low or exhausted I felt, I always knew my purpose. 

Today, those goals are still guiding me, but feel less immediate. My tasks as a parent - chauffeuring, planning, baking, medical/dental appointments, etc., etc. were often the structure by which I could focus on my parenting goals, and thus feel my purpose in real time. But those tasks, which have been waning for years, are done now, and this graduation feels like the true take-off. She stands fully in her own life, which is amazing and exactly right - and yet I feel disoriented.

It isn’t like I can go back and pick up where I left off twenty years ago. I certainly am not the same body and mind I was at 38. I am grappling with being the parent of an adult, and how to dip my toe into what’s next, and I feel somewhat lost because for 20 years - I was “Charlotte’s mom.” 

I have written about the idea of looking forward with my current running abilities rather than comparing them to my past. But this shifting of identity is different. This is about bringing forward the mom parts of me and the me parts of me, so that I’m a melding of pre-mom and mom, and maybe something altogether new.

There’s a story that Clarissa Pinkola Estés shares about her Uncle Zovár, a Hungarian WWII refugee that her father helped bring to their tiny farming village in northern Michigan. When Estés was very young the U.S. government seized land from their town to put in a highway. The construction work destroyed the nearby wood that was precious to the townspeople, and Uncle Zovár was devastated, as this triggered memories of all that was taken from him during the war as a peasant farmer in “the old country.” When the construction was finished, the highway was at some distance from the town and so the destruction of the wood was unnecessary after all. Uncle Zovár headed out one morning with a hoe, and began to dig a deep trench on one side of the now flattened wood - more a field at this point. Neighbors, many of whom also had roots in the old country, joined him in the trench digging, until the field was a giant rectangle framed by the deep trench. Uncle Zovár then set fire to the field and the once living things that had been laid to waste, the trench containing the flames. He sat watch over the fire all night long, Estés at his side. 

The next day, the field was flat, blackened, and lay open to the sky. Estés asked if they should plant seed. But Uncle Zovár explained to her that their work had been to prepare the soil. The field was now fertile ground, and they would leave it be - to let grow what would grow. The breeze would blow in what it would. Birds flying overhead would drop what they would. Critters large and small would track into the field what they would. New life would come. 

Time passed, and the field did become a wood. Full of new plants, trees, and wildlife.
​Full of new life. 

​Have you ever been so stressed out that you can’t think straight? How helpful is the advice to “just breathe” from some well-meaning person? Or you do a quick Google search for taking that high anxiety down a notch, and your result is a picture of a perfect-appearing human in a perfect lotus pose, perfectly blissed out. Not real, not helpful, and, for my money, anxiety-promoting.

A useful strategy for pulling back from the stress-cliff is taking a peek around and becoming aware. If I’m outside, tuning in to the melodic birdsong from the branches overhead, breathing in the sharp evergreen scent, and gazing into the distance - at the Flat Tops or Emerald Mountain - is a sure way to pull me out of my head spin. Inside, I can feel the texture of the floor or the socks under my feet, and listen to the sounds around me - the blowing of the fireplace heat, the hum of the refrigerator.

This awareness, also called mindfulness, is one method of focusing the mind on something other than the stress/anxiety and instead bringing attention to what is actually happening around you in the moment. 

To deepen that, and apply not only to reducing anxiety and stress but reduce the monotony of the daily grind, you have something called “psychological richness.” Philosopher Lorraine Besser and psychologist Shigehiro Oishi have researched and defined the term to mean cognitive engagement. They found that for some, a psychologically rich life surpasses a meaningful or happy life.

The components of psychological richness:

1. Mindfulness 2.0. Paying attention with neutrality - noticing without judgment. That could mean taking in the details of a tree: the roughness and color of the bark, the length of the needles, any bird nests built in its branches. By focusing on the details, you stimulate the mind. 
2. Curiosity. Ask questions to take the mindful details a step further. How does the bark get its different shades of brown? How long did it take the birds to build that nest, and where did they gather those nest-construction materials? These simple questions help expand your perspective.
3. Creativity. Doing something new or differently generates novelty, another way to stimulate the mind. This could be something as simple as taking that walk with the trees and the birds at a different time of day than usual, or reversing the direction of your habitual route. It could mean stopping where you would not typically stop to take a look around and notice something in your surroundings you haven’t before. Breaking monotony, doing something a bit different, are ways to stimulate cognitive engagement.

Psychological richness is an individual concept in that each person will find engagement in their own way. The key is to start simple with using mindfulness 2.0, curiosity, and creativity. You can develop the capacity for psychological richness on a daily basis with small things like the examples above, and it can then be a tool at your fingertips for those stress-filled moments when you need an uncomplicated way to side-step the anxiety and focus on the here and now.

Source/Learn More

• Optimist Daily article: Transform your daily grind with 3 simple strategies for a more engaging life 

Originally published March, 2025