TL;DR: This week I was the overnight caregiver for my mom in Petaluma so my sister could rest, and I rode my bike through West Marin twice with nothing but cows and a white line for company. Both required the same thing - showing up, being quiet, and letting what needed to happen, happen.

TSN 26.12: "On Conditions"

March 22, 2026 

Hiya

Twenty-one miles from my parents' driveway in Novato to the SMART train station in Petaluma. 

It took me 75 minutes to bike through West Marin to get there. Twice.

Cows on one hillside. Sheep on another. No earbuds. No podcast. Just tires on pavement and whatever my mind decides to do with the silence.

By about mile twelve, both times I rode this week, the thinking stopped. Not because I figured something out. Because the road didn't expect me to.

That's a condition. One I chose.

The house in Petaluma smelled “warm” – it already feels like summer.

And floral.

People have been making sure my mom has fresh-cut flowers. For as long as I’ve known, in the restaurant I grew up in, at home, or any of the places she’s lived over the past 15 years, she’s always had flowers nearby. It's fun to watch her fuss with the vases when she has a new bouquet, rearranging the stems with her left hand, tilting her head to check if it looks right.

I spent two nights with her this week. Not to visit - to be the overnight caregiver so my sister could check into a hotel and breathe for two and a half days.

Twenty-eight days a month, Felice manages everything. 

Caregiving, resources, doctor appointments. 

She works full time. 

She's there overnight. 

What I feel most of those twenty-eight days is that I'm not doing enough.

So, when I'm the one holding it - when I know she's somewhere she can press pause - a calm comes over me. She trusts me. I can do what's needed.

Here's what the nights look like. I wake Mama from her afternoon rest. Stroke recovery is supported by resting between the physical, emotional, and cognitive work of improving. She got up. She walked from the bed to the bathroom. 

Not the wheelchair. 

Her feet on the floor, moving. 

That's progress.

Before dinner both nights, she stood for four minutes. Her face still carries doubt - so much time sitting during the day, standing only in short bursts. Her right arm hasn't moved at all. The right side of her lower body isn't connected to all her neurology yet. It's hard to do. 

But my sister and Jodi have told me for years: "If you say something, Jay Jay, she'll do it." I'm conscious of that - prizing her and pushing her at the same time.

After dinner both nights, she read cards.

Out loud.

My mom is a reader. Always has been. It's how I got my love of reading... and writing. She read to us as kids (we didn't have a TV until I was twelve or so) and she didn't just read the sentences. 

She brought the pages to life.

Now she's connecting with people (even those she doesn't know, thanks to SO many of my friends writing her a card... read about it below!) by reading their words out loud. It's not as smooth. Takes a little longer. But it is music to hear her try.

The conditions: a card placed in a little holder, like what you'd put an iPhone in if you were watching something. She wheels herself to the table. I don't open the envelope - she's figured out how to do all of that with her left hand.

Thank you - so much - to those of you writing her cards. Since we lost our speech therapy, one of the best things we can do is get her practicing her voice. Mail does that. She loves it.

This week I also kicked off the CONNECT series - eight months walking through the seven connections that deserve our attention - and worked with seventy-plus Guardians at the Guardian Field Forum (GFF) on their first day together. 

Both sessions asked people to stop, reflect, and then turn toward someone they didn't yet know. When it works, I feel useful. I feel like the way I see the world is amplified, not drained.

Next week I'll hike into the Grand Canyon with a friend I've thought alongside for almost twenty years. Jodi will bird along the rim. Some of the hike will be conversation. Some of the time, we'll be silent. 

I've already started preparing - not logistics. The other kind.

Conditions aren't luck. They're choices. A road with no earbuds. A card in a holder. A hotel room so my sister can rest. A trail that drops thousands of feet with someone who knows me well enough not to fill the space. And, when to ask me a question.

Much love from Pasadena,

JW

PS: I found a way to get just the UPDATES to show up as a link, if you wanna catch up/keep up to the recovery journey we're on, here you go...

PPS: I wrote about the letter-writing thing here, along with a couple of other pictures!