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Empathy

What is empathy?
What are its goals?
Its risks?

Should we offer empathy to enemies?
To those who don’t?

Is it empathy if we don’t “get” another?
But instead who we mistake them to be?
Wish them to be?
Can charity and empathy be at odds?

Is there a risk in rethinking empathy?
Is that risk less empathy?
Or more?

Invisibilia’s The End of Empathy1 tells the same story from two perspectives, one with empathy2 and one without.3 In the process, it addresses these questions. At least, it talks around them. It certainly doesn’t answer them. But you have to answer these questions for yourself, regardless. Good luck!


  1. Trigger warning. Suicide, abuse, threatened violence against women, weight shaming, misogyny. Incels. 
  2. Maybe? 
  3. Again, maybe… And that’s the point. 

Longboarding the Banks to Vernonia trail

As a last hurrah of Jamison’s spring break, he invited me to longboard the Banks to Vernonia trail with him. It’s a nice, long, gentle ride. The weather was wonderful and the trail was dry. Jamison also tooks some videos with his phone.1

Thanks, Jamison for the invite! That’s my boy. :-)


  1. The tall, skinny pics are screen grabs from Jamison’s videos. Posted with his permission. 

Westward into the Fair Complex MAX Station

This past Sunday, the camera in my Google Pixel 2 just quit working. After a nice online chat with a Google representative and an RMA in hand, the phone is off to be replaced. In the meantime, I’m carrying my old Samsung S6 with its cracked screen. After all, how else could I capture these early morning MAX station pics with incoming trains?! ;-)

May your commutes be as peaceful as mine.

Remembering mom, two years on

Two years ago, I lost my mom.

In our family room hangs her oil painting of me in the redwoods when I was a child. On our kitchen drainboard sit the orchids I got after going to an orchid show with her and dad. Outside our kitchen window, the muted chimes resemble those in the gentle tree guarding where she rests. And the moon watches over all.

They all remind me of mom.

Yet, it’s not just things that do.

When I iron a shirt, when I cook a favorite recipe, when I mop the floor and make my bed.

She taught me how to do all these; they remind me of mom.

But it’s not just housework.

When I send a card, when I take the time to help, when I volunteer, when I say a kind word, when I’m at my very best.

That’s my mom. That’s who I remember.

And I’m thankful.