When I was just shy of three years old, my dad took me to the hospital. I held his hand, my own stretched as high over my head as it could go. There was a brown reception desk. We were directed toward a room. We walked the few steps toward it. In it was a very tall white bed with a TV nearby. In the bed was my mother, hair down to below her shoulders. She was happy to see me. Next to her was my newborn baby brother.

Here’s what I know for sure:

• My approximate size when my brother was born. (I know my age then due to wonders such as legal documentation and subtraction. Plus, there are photos.)

• That my mom’s hair was below her shoulders. (There are photos).

Here’s what I’m reasonably sure about:

• I held my dad’s hand. (I’ve shared this memory with my parents many times and they never contradicted this.)

• My mom’s bed was white. (Isn’t that standard?)

• She was happy to see me. (Wouldn’t you be?)

Aaaand… basically nothing else.

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Did I arrive to the hospital with my dad? Was he the one to walk me in? Was there a brown reception desk? Was the room right next to the desk? (Likely not.) Was there a very tall bed and a TV in the room? I don’t know.

And I’m not sure it matters.

Even as time has passed, even now that I no longer play this memory reel over and over for myself as I did when I was little, even now that it’s less a clear video and more a series of faded microfiches that match the yellowing color photos, it sticks in my mind.

It sticks because being a sister is a key part of my identity, my personal history. I remember, or remember remembering, that it happened, because my brother matters to me.

Similar memories probably stick for you: you remember, certainly, an adventure you went on, when you first (or last) fell in love, or what it was like to meet a new family member of your own for the first time.

They stick, and, supposedly, the more we recall them, the less accurate they become.

This may matter if we use our memories to make decisions that affect someone’s well-being. But in a treasured memory like this, does it matter what exact color the furniture was? Exactly what someone said? How everyone was positioned? The order in which things happened?

I’m not so sure it does.

What do you think?

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!

This winter, we realized our bathroom pipes were a bit old and could stand to be replaced. So why not, we thought, just renovate the whole bathroom? 

“Just.”

Since then, A. has been carefully taking apart and rebuilding the bathroom. Step by step, we’ve been making progress, except right now, where we are, it’s amazingly difficult to get a plumber.

So we are still a bathroom down. We’re still waiting on those pipes. And we still have tools, a ladder, and boxes to replace some of the things that need to be replaced—everywhere.

Then this weekend, after weeks of making odd noises (“But does it work?” A. asked each time), we opened our dishwasher to find clean dishes… and a pond full of water.

Now we have tools spread all over the kitchen floor, too. 

The dishwasher has several motors and pumps: to pull water in, to push it out, and, it turns out, to swirl the water while it’s in. A. rigs the dishwasher to think it’s closed when it’s not so he can test it out, and when we peek inside, we get dishwashed, too.

But it doesn’t drain.

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You know when your normal plumber stops responding and you try calling ten, eleven, twelve different plumbers and the only one who is currently in business, not stealing someone else’s business license, willing to answer the phone, willing to work in your zip code, and willing to do anything beyond only changing out the water heater happens to quote a price that’s double what everyone tells you it should be, and then while you’re stuck waiting for someone reasonable your dishwasher breaks down? 

Here’s my defense mechanism: I laugh. I imagine someone out there pulling strings to add drama to our little lives.

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So we have another thing to fix. And if a replacement drain pump doesn’t work, we might need a new dishasher. 

That’s what happens when you have a home, people say.

When it rains, people say.

But maybe it’s not exactly like that. Maybe it’s the other way around.

Maybe life is maintenance.

We eat, we sleep, we shower, we brush our teeth, we buy and prepare food, we load the dishwasher, we wash our clothes. That’s self-maintenance.

We work to allow ourselves to do all these things, and, if we’re lucky, to also maintain active minds. That’s also self-maintenance. (As are phone calls to insurance, filing taxes, keeping up with our financial lives.)

We meet up with family and friends, call them up, listen to them, write to them, send them gifts. That’s relationship maintenance. 

Some of us have partners children or older parents or relatives who are unwell to take care of. We include them on our insurance plans, prepare food for them, hire help for them, write wills considering them. That’s helping maintain other people.

And we maintain our things. We water plants. We change lightbulbs. Tighten screws. Fill up gas tanks. Change oil. Put things away on shelves, in dressers, in closets, in cabinets. (Or elsewhere.) Get rid of things that no longer serve us, by throwing them away, donating them, or selling them. And if we know to look out for more, we may do more: patch our clothes. Check for problems in the walls, the floorboards, the ceilings, and patch them. Install better appliances to make life more comfortable.

Our computers break down and we take them in. Our phones stop charging and we take them in. Our health suffers and we take ourselves in. Our relationships have ups and down, and maybe we take them in, too. 

We go through periods when the maintenance is limited and routine and ideally even enjoyable: it feels good to get enough rest, to exercise, to spend time with people who love us, to do work that allows us to live the rest of our lives, and maybe even gives us something beyond that. 

And we go through periods when some areas demand more attention. Something is broken. Something has a hitch. Something has been neglected for too long and now the problem, we discover, is deeper than we had thought. And if we didn’t realize there was a problem till it became very, very obvious… it can feel like an interruption. We have to adjust our lives to make space for figuring out a solution. 

For things, it usually takes longer than we hope it will take. If we’re not in a place to fix them completely, maybe we learn to work around them. We don’t turn that knob in that direction. Don’t flip on this lightswitch and that appliance at the same time. Don’t step on that part of the floor. Leave the one door open because we’re not sure how to fix it. We deal with some inconveniences, and the dealing becomes part of our routine.

If we’re lucky enough to have an A. in our lives, a person who feels comfortable fixing things but also is horrified by the concept of living with screws that are not fully adjusted, maybe we don’t live with those inconveniences. Instead, we get used to stepping over joists and hammers and screws and around ladders. And wires. So many wires.

For people, ourselves included, good quality maintenance sometimes changes our lives completely. We may need to learn new habits to take care of ourselves, to relate better to others. Or, as with the things, we may choose to—or have to—learn to live with certain things that become not-optional, because sometimes some things are not irreversible (health-wise) and other things require cooperation. 

We can ignore issues, avoiding caring for our health and our relationships. And like our appliances, they may be okay for a while okay for a while. But ultimately, everything needs our attention at some point, whether we hire someone to help us fix it or do all the work ourselves. 

And all of this maintenance continues until we die.

Hopefully we can address all these issues with the bottomless patience we can summon for a cry for help from the people we most adore:

“Wow, you must be in a lot of pain to be acting like this. Let’s figure out what’s going wrong so we can fix it.”

Hopefully we enjoy the bulk of this maintenance. 

Hopefully we get the help with need with the temporary bigger issues (please call us back, plumbers). 

Hopefully the little surprises turn out to be innocuous (A. found a pistachio shell in the drain pipe of the dishwater: Problem solved). 

But maintenance is not only something you can expect if you have a home, friends. 

Life is maintenance. Maintenance is life.

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I’m curious: What comes to mind when you think of maintenance? Do you have a favorite story to share? Leave a comment and share below.

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!

I’m 16 years old, nearly a year into living in a new community, surrounded by friends I adore. It’s been a good year, and I’m looking forward to more.

One day, close to the end of the school year, I find out we’re moving.

No more late nights talking at the flower-free botanical garden next door. No more study groups spread out around my room. No more friends jumping the fence to hang out in our backyard after basketball practice. No more overpowering cologne at parties.

Well. That last one might transcend borders. 

It has been a fantastic year. My favorite one that I remember. So I’m sad.

But soon, I’m not.

Soon, I’m noticing details that frustrate me. How people act, how things work (or don’t), everything that isn’t going well, that I wish would end. I’m annoyed. I’m ready to leave.

Or maybe I’m getting ready to leave. 

Because I’m only 16, but I’ve figured something out, subconsciously. If something in our lives is about to change in a way we don’t like, we can do a little trick. We can make ourselves believe we’ll be ready for the change. We can limit the fallout by looking for the good in the change, or, perhaps more easily, perhaps because of the human tendency toward negativity bias, by looking for the bad in the status quo.

This works in reverse, too: if we’re overstretched in any way, we may subdue our feelings until it’s safe to feel them. Like the sudden need for a break that you feel just as a scheduled break arrives. The travel itch, just as you become available to travel again. The exhaustion that sets in a mile before you finish a run, whether you set out to do three miles or a six. Or your readiness to go home right about when a trip is ending anyway, no matter how long it’s been since you arrived.

But when we feel this sense of being done, this readiness, this itch, I wonder: Are we releasing suppressed emotions now that we feel safe enough to let them out? Or is this feeling the result of a self-protection spell, because it’s easier to handle change when we believe that we want it to happen?    

Sometimes, it’s not so easy to tell. 

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If you measure distance in kilometers, does exhaustion set in a little bit closer to the end of your run? 

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Ahem.

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(The Other Kind of) Morning Sickness

Watching my fingers cut a bagel in half
As if they are not mine
As if someone else is doing the work
Which would explain
Why I can’t control the knife
As it nears my hand slowly
And with a brief jab
            Or a slice, rather
Tears at my skin
Almost imperceptibly-
            Except for that stream of blood flowing onto the countertop
And as my other hand tries to rinse this away
            At least dilute it
                        So it’s not quite as striking a shade of red when my roommates awake
            And the good hand dabs at the injured party
A sudden lurch deeper inside my body ends it diligence
And my legs carry me to that famed Porcelain God

My brain searches for a reason
It feels the need to confess, the yogurt
            (last night)
Did seem a bit old
But did it have to end like this?

Elbows atop the seat
The uncut hand supporting my head
A rumbling makes its way up from the depths of my soul
And my stomach reacts to a poor choice of nutrients
            (Not really nutrients then, eh?)
My stomach, legs, hands
            Go through the motions
            Undoing the damage I have inflicted on them
            With time to spare to get to class

And all I can think
As I peer into the bowl is
This Toilet
            Really
                        Needs
                                    Cleaning

-Ophira (circa 2005)

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Now tell me: Do you use food poisoning as material? Because this writer thinks you could.

You’re welcome.

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Next up: A sonnet about the cockroach I bravely caught in a toilet paper roll before realizing they open on both sides. From the collection, Living Alone for the First Time.

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Once a week, sometimes more, we go to the beach.

Sometimes it’s high tide and prime time, so visiting means navigating crowds. Sometimes it’s such low tide that you can fly a kite—an activity that’s clinically impossible to do without feeling a burst of joy—without running into anyone. Even if you are actually running.

There is sand, and there are waves. Ever moving. Ever the same.

Recently, I visited the sand. I squatted over it, barely touching it with the pads of my fingers. Resisting.

There’s a point with sand where you’re not yet fully submerged. You can still shake it off, leave it behind.

I considered that.

And then I surrendered. I welcomed the grime under my nails, into my pockets, onto my skin.

I sat in it, nestled in, and played.

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Sand is crumbled rock. You build a fortress of sand, make it strong, but it can’t withstand the water, because you make it strong by using water. Water, whose movement is incidentally one of the main forces that creates sand in the first place. (I looked it up: also wind, tectonics, and gravity.)

Water always wins, because it keeps moving. It has no heart, no muscle, no brain, no desire. We mere mortals, with our limited lifespans, our depleting willpower, our tiring bodies, our large feelings, cannot compete. But for some reason, it’s fun to play. Maybe to see which shapes we can create, what we can try that we haven’t thought of before. Maybe to test ourselves against nature, to see how long our efforts will last before the next wave wrecks them.

Why?

Why is it so fun to try?

Why is it so enjoyable, so satisfying, to succeed, if only momentarily, before hours of work are destroyed by a single wave?

I think it’s something about the nature of a project. Maybe specifically something about physical projects. You can point to it—for a moment or a minute or an hour. But also: even in this age of knowledge work, we remain physical beings. We get something out of physical activity. Why else do we run when we’re not running away? Why else does it feel so good to be outside? (If we’re dressed for the weather.)

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When we moved into our current home, I picked up a paint roller for maybe the second time in my life, and used that, several brushes, and a quick tutorial to paint a simple mural. It was the first time I’d made anything artistic that—while it could be covered—would not be easy to throw away.

It took hours of work over several days, on top of freshly painted walls.

It’s hard for me to express how satisfying it was to see it take shape.

It would have been easy to stop at any point and decide to paint over it with the abundant leftover dominant wall color that still sits next to the washing machine. It would have been easy to slow down and leave it unfinished near the end, like we’ve left boxes, piled in a corner or a closet, for months after moving.

Like the non-mural walls that remain unadorned to this day.

But for once in the realm of home decor, I was determined. And when I completed the wall and it was solidly good enough, I had a sense of accomplishment that lasted for days. Even though I’m not a painter. Even though I’d never be hired to do this for anyone else. Or maybe because of that.

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I think perhaps sand gives us the same opportunity. To use our bodies and physical surroundings to do things we wouldn’t normally do. To try new things with low stakes. To work alone or collaboratively. To adapt a project to our desires within the constraints of nature. To challenge ourselves within those constraints. And to know it’ll be there for us the next time we want to try, too.

I built a fort, and it was was fun and fulfilling because that’s what it’s like to build a fort out of sand.

Once you embrace the grime.

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!

At my physical last year, my doctor asked about vices. I told her I eat too many dates and I read too much fiction.

She laughed.

But I was being serious.

You know the Costco date boxes? Those.

How long do they last in your home?

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Is it normal to be laughed at by your doctor?

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Cell phones can be balanced on the top of a chair back. Or on the corner of a towel rack. Or on an oven handle bar. Or flat on the floor.

Headphones don’t generally wash well.

Keys are fungible. If your partner tends to lose theirs, you might want to find a secret hiding place for yours.

LaCroix is pretty tasty. It’s okay to get it just because it’s more fun.

Guiding a wire through an attic is more fun when someone’s waiting for you with the ladder.

Wires are useful. As are drills. And vacuums.

Still, there can be too many wires. And perhaps drills. But maybe not vacuums.

Flint helps start campfires.

Taming wild eyebrows is pretty gratifying.

I’ll probably never treat mornings with the sanctity some people expect.

We can get better at the relationships we already have.

Laughter is nearly always a moment away, if you know where to look.

Hugs make life better, no matter how the day is going.

It’s okay to let someone else hold down the fort sometimes.

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!

Whenever I travel somewhere, I go through reliable stages.

First, I notice details. The sky, the buildings, the ground. Colors, shapes. How people look and dress and talk.

I try to understand how to get where I want to go. To remember how to get back and what back looks like. To figure out how the shower works and how to calibrate sink water temperature and where to store my things. To decide how to prepare which foods. To come up with at least a vague schedule.

Soon, I adjust. I get used to waking up in this current place and going to sleep there.

And I begin to imagine: What would it be like to stay? What if I don’t drive back? What if I don’t board that flight, that bus, that train?

Could I imagine living here? What would it take?

And also, sometimes: Is this my life now? Is there really another home to return to?

Then, the trip ends. It’s time to check in for a flight, to pack and check itineraries, to return a car or catch a train, to make my way back. And when I arrive, all my essentials, like toothpaste and the clothes I prefer to wear, are packed up, so they need to be unpacked. Washed. Put away. And life goes back to normal.

(Did I really leave? I sometimes wonder after the fact. The photos sure look convincing, but, you may know by now: I’m a skeptic.)

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Because of how I grew up (moving, visiting, moving, visiting), and also because I love to travel, I’m usually the visitor. The one who goes to others, stays with them in a room they can spare for a few days or a week, invades their lives, laughs at their jokes, tries not to take up too much space, and then disappears—till next time.

We live in a popular conference destination. If people visit the area, they’re usually staying at a hotel. We’re not usually overnight hosts.

But recently, we were.

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Being visited is similar to visiting others in some key ways.

You pack things up and move them around to make space for incoming guests. Maybe you move to another room, empty some drawers for the visitors, keep out only the things you need on the daily, like toothpaste and contacts and towels.

When guests arrive, you take time to adjust to each other’s rhythms and spaces, volumes and topics of conversation, food needs and activity levels.

And then you’ve adjusted and so have they. You’re sharing space and time and hopefully also laughter and hugs.

And you think: What if they stayed?

If they stayed at your place, you’d have to buy food more often than usual, and perhaps figure out a schedule for sharing some key work spaces, but everything else is pretty much set. (How many families went through this with COVID?)

IIf they stayed in town but found another place to live, you’d have to coordinate less and you’d have their company.

But that imagining doesn’t change their plans.

The visit ends.

The room that’s normally yours but became theirs, chaotic and colorful and full of them, in all their loveliness, is empty.

The floors that echoed with their footsteps and voices are quiet.

And unlike when you travel, you’re in your own home. Your toothbrush is still available. Your clothes are folded up and accessible. You don’t need to return to how things were to function.

But, in a few days, you put everything back anyway. So it feels whole and full again, not like a space someone else left behind.

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I’m at a park, sitting with a group of people. There are kids and toys around us.

One kid sets up a stomp rocket right under some very tall trees. She launches it—and the rocket is lost in the canopy. We can see it from certain angles three, four stories up. No one’s climbing to get that thing, and there are no baseballs around (she checks) to try to dislodge it.

Oh well, says the owner. It’ll come down when it comes down. But maybe move the setup to an open area, kid?

The day continues. The kids run around, barefoot, making balls of mud and discussing dragons and climbing and creating new worlds. We talk about things grown-ups apparently talk about, beginning with things to do in various parts of town. It comes up that we’ve moved a lot. When we get to the indignities of renting, of always living with something broken or awkward (or both) that the landlord just won’t fix, I share.

Our first local move was because of something like that, I say.

We lived in a duplex that was over 100 years old with a 1954 Kenmore stove that had three pilot lights permanently on… except they’d go out, and we’d have gas leaking into our apartment. We had these ancient windows with the top and bottom windows attached by a rope, where when you unlocked them, the top came down and the bottom came up. We nailed the bottom window in place so we wouldn’t fall out the window when we sat on the window seat or the armrest of the couch.

The landlords were DIY types who didn’t believe a lot of things needed to be fixed… or completely replaced.

Then, A. had some serious medical issues. His parents said we couldn’t stay in such an unsafe place on top of it all. We had to move.

And I was so angry they’d even suggested it. No way were we moving. We already had so much stress due to the medical issues.

One morning, I journaled about my frustration and wrote that we would only move “under duress.”

That day, the drop ceiling over our living room collapsed.

[Here, my audience gasps in collective shock.]

Then I said,

I’m not a religious person.

As I said those words, the stomp rocket fell from the tree.

Maybe you should be, said an audience member.

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This story is absolutely true.

I thought it was a funny story, but when I told A., whom I suspect is one of those people who’s always open to proof that something more powerful is out there, he almost jumped out of his chair.

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Now I’m curious: What surprised you about this story? Did you remember the stomp rocket was suspended above the ground? Did you make the connection yourself before I reached the end?

Are you afraid to spend time with me?

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Send me emails like this, Ophira!