A thank you letter to one of my super fans:

Dear Michael,

Here’s a question for you, since this is the 10th anniversary of Stumbling Toward the Buddha: Can you believe it’s been ten years since we did the Santa Barbara reading together?

You organized the heck out of that … no, no let me rephrase … you produced, directed, MC-d, and acted the heck out of that book launch! Thank you for being multi-talented, on my behalf.

First of all, I could not believe how you found us a venue, with me in Kansas City and you in Santa Barbara. After the third call you made, I was ready to say never mind, because god knows you weren’t getting paid for the effort, and I absolutely hate making phone calls like that. You taught me an unforgettable lesson when you told me making those calls was just part of the process, no big deal. After a few more calls, you found the perfect venue.

Your calm explanation taught me this: just because I hate something, doesn’t mean other people hate the same thing. And this: other people will be happy to do the thing I hate, because they don’t hate it. And therefore this: Ask for help, Dawn!

You changed my whole outlook.

But wait, after you first read Stumbling, you emailed me a two page single spaced response to the book. Michael, I saved that email and refer back to it to remind myself what I’m doing well.

When you told me why “The Inheritance” was your favorite essay, it blew me away—you quoting Aristotle’s “insistence on impeccable structure,” based on your expertise as a professor of drama. I got a college education from studying your analysis.

Puleeez! I am a genius to have a super fan who’s a professor, playwright, producer, promoter. Ahem, and brother.

Did somebody say promoter? I don’t know how many copies of Blindsided and Listicles you bought and then gave away as gifts, spreading my words like Johnny Appleseed. You’d tell me, “My friend so-and-so NEEDS this book.” I’d periodically get surprise emails from your friends, “Michael gave me your book. I love it.” Always exactly when I needed a perk-up.

You’re just what the doctor ordered—a time-release confidence-booster.

And when I say super fan, I’m serious, because your super power is Everywhere-ness, always singing my praises. Not just behind the scenes, but on camera, too. Pop into a Dawn’s Monthly Author Reading, and I’m like a little kid. “Michael’s here! Michael’s here!”

You’re even willing to be recorded and on record till the end of time. At least till the end of YouTube. I’m so proud you let me read an essay to you and have a conversation about Blindsided for an Author on Demand video.

There’s more. (there will always be more, because you are the gift that keeps on giving) You know my whole story about being locked out on the screened-in front porch on East 15th? Right? When you told me East 15th didn’t have a screened-in porch, no porch at all, I could not grasp that reality. After we drove over to the house and proved my misinformation, you inspired the topic of my next book, How To Remember, stories that show how memory works and doesn’t work in the body.
Seriously, I’m one lucky writer and one lucky sister.
Thanks for being a super fan.

Love,
Dawn

“It seems to me that I’ve been traveling in reverse.”
———Anne Tyler
——--Back When We Were Grownups

Periodically, my husband and I watch Monsters, Inc. Sully is my hero, an antidote to the nightmares I was born into, a big snuggly cure for the monsters in the closet on East 15th Street.

At a craft show, I met an artist who custom-painted designs on sneakers. Her table displayed tiny toddler sneakers painted with Disney characters. The Little Mermaid was hot at the time. After a lot of oohing and aahing, I asked if she could paint Sully for my grown-up feet.

I splurged on white leather Nikes and via texted pics from the artist, watched their transformation. She painted the shoes turquoise, Sully on the toes, grinning up at me.

Sully does cardio. I walk the track at the YMCA in my turquoise kicks. Even though I pull up the hood on my turquoise hoodie to fend off the draft, I can see the other walkers smile at my shoes. Sully makes everybody happy.

I needed more.

Sully guards the house. I discovered a plush Sully at Disney dot com, way too expensive. I didn’t care. My blue buddy now sits on a shelf by the front door, just daring any monster to even try to come through the coat closet. He’s the first thing I see in the morning when I wander downstairs bleary-eyed. Last thing I see before I go upstairs to bed.

Sully washes my car. I hold the equivalent of a season ticket to Kevin’s Car Wash, where I play out my OCD, as Bob Marley blasts on the overhead. Picture me q-tipping a.c. vents while busting senior citizen moves to “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright.”

Last year, the monsters from East 15th relocated to Kevin’s. Whenever I thought about washing my car, I panicked. I could not get myself to drive through that tunnel.

Where therapy, meditation, and dammit what’s wrong with me proved useless, Sully to the rescue.
Now, as the conveyor belt pulls the Honda through the monster-hiding car wash tunnel, Sully sits on my lap. We hold hands, our voices overtaken by a Jamaican lilt.

“…singin’ don’t worry, about a ting, ’cause every little ting….”

I came into the world cowering, as though I’d already suffered a lifetime of the terror awaiting me.
Thanks to Sully, I’ll depart the world younger than the day I was born.

I admire how basketball players fall. Splat on the belly and then slide across the floor, slick as a sled down a snowy hill. Or they thud onto their butts and pop up like it was part of a tumbling run. They leap right back into the game.

My husband and I checked into the Y for our usual cardio. When we turned the corner from the welcome desk, athletes in wheelchairs swirled around us and spilled out from the gymnasium doors. Guys and girls, men and women, from peewee league to NBA hopefuls, they were in town for a regional basketball tournament.

We climbed into the bleachers, along with other fans.

As in all endeavors, a star emerged, the kid with genius moves. He was fast, graceful, smart, and accurate. Both legs were missing from the hip down, his right arm amputated at the elbow. A seat belt strapped him into the chair. As he executed a series of intricate fakes, dribbling into position for a three-pointer, his chair rolled over. It pinned him underneath, wheels in the air, spinning. I couldn’t tell how it got worked out––I’m often six moves behind while watching a game––but he was upright and sinking a free throw before I could gasp. Before my respect finished its artless free fall into pity.

I admire how basketball players fall.