Sorry. I Swear.

All apologies.

Ice? What ice?

Last week, I met a friend near the Mississippi River for a walk. Although our pace was conversational, I had to unzip my light jacket. On January 31, 2024, in St. Paul, Minnesota, it was 54 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s thirty degrees above normal. A record high.

Joggers passed us, wearing shorts and T-shirts, some with the white cords of earbuds forming a Y on their chests. The trees on the steep slopes to the river were bare of leaves. The river reflected a cloudless, intensely blue sky.

“Hey, a red-tailed hawk!”

I stopped talking and looked in the direction my friend was pointing.

Perched among those bare branches was, indeed, a motionless raptor. My first thought was to pull out my phone and take a picture. But with no telephoto lens, the resolution would be terrible. I’d sit down later and delete the blurry outline of a bird or a squirrel’s nest or a smear on the lens. Then I’d curse myself for having missed another one of life's beautiful moments by holding a black rectangle in front of it.

The hawk sat still for another thirty seconds, then lifted itself up, made a couple of loose circles and flew off. We watched until it found another branch farther down the cliff.

A few minutes later, I was yakking again about something that seemed important, when she grabbed my arm again.

“Bald eagle!”

There’s nothing in the world that can match the sight, and no other word for it than majestic. We stood there, awed and silent, as it soared high above us and back over the river.

Two young women walked toward us, heads bent together in conversation. The one on the left was pushing a stroller. The child seated in it, probably not old enough to walk, held an iPhone in both hands, staring intently at the screen.

I zipped mine into my pocket.

Thirty degrees above average is a gift. The ground completely free of snow; the river clear of ice. Still, I felt uneasy. Was it wrong to enjoy a perfect day?

In order to meet my friend for a three-mile walk, I’d driven 1.9 miles. Tacked on another half mile for circling to find a parking space. I drive a compact SUV. Not a gas guzzler, but not a hybrid or electric vehicle. Not a bike. I felt the undertow. Was this a day that the Lord had made, or was it the work of the fossil fuel industry?

We walked back to our cars. On the street, something glittered. I bent to pick it up.

“A lucky dime!”

“Lucky? You think so?” My mood was slipping fast.

She’d scored a hawk and an eagle; my find didn’t compare. If this thin disk contained luck, that was its only value. Dimes haven’t contained real silver in decades. Once behind the wheel, I leaned to drop it into a cupholder. As I did, it slipped from my fingers onto the rubber floor mat.

“Sorry!” I groped between my feet, digging in the gravel. I hadn’t vacuumed the car all winter. Didn’t vacuum it the previous year, either. The dime blended in with the dried residue of road salt. Was a dime worth the effort? Yes, if brought luck.

“Sorry!” I said again. As I straightened up and put the key in the ignition, it occurred to me that I’d just apologized to a coin. Twice.

Even my dishwasher apologizes.

There’s a Facebook meme that pops up sometimes in my feed. It’s photo of two jars placed side by side on a kitchen counter. One is labeled “Swear”; the other one, “Sorry.” You placed a quarter in the appropriate jar each time you said a bad word or apologized unnecessarily. The joke is that the Sorry jar is full, and the Swear jar is almost empty.

The first time I saw the post, I laughed. There’s an element of truth in every stereotype. Each time after that, I’ve scrolled past. It hit too close to home. The load-bearing part of the equation is obvious.

It wasn’t too long ago that a president of the United States referred to certain African nations as, well . . . I don’t need to repeat the word. The media did a thorough job of it, printing it without asterisks. So why is the Swear jar almost, but not completely, empty?

The guilt is residual from my childhood. Facebook tells me I’m not alone.

Growing up, I was not allowed to say gee, gosh, golly, or any variation of these expletives, including jeez and gee-whiz. Fudge, or shoot? Heck? Not even under my breath.

---

The Avon Lady visited every couple of weeks, always with a new catalog. Those booklets showed pictures of perfumes, makeup, bubble bath: the grown-up things my nine-year-old heart craved. Whenever she paid a visit, I’d hang out in the kitchen, washing dishes, organizing spices. I’d grab that booklet the minute she left, along with the lipstick samples she’d leave behind, although my mother wore no cosmetics.

One day, she said, “Oh, I’d love to see that film. But from what I’ve heard, it might get me sent to H-E double toothpicks.”

My head whipped around.

To where? The Avon Lady looked up from the kitchen table. She smiled at me and winked.

Winked!

H-E-double-toothpicks.

I peeked at my mother as she flipped through the pages, debating between Skin-So-Soft bath oil and the cheapest face cream. Was the Avon Lady swearing a blue streak — another of her sophisticated expressions — for my benefit? I’m not sure my mother caught it. The Avon Lady took a sip of my mother’s coffee, set it down, and stirred in two teaspoons of sugar.

“Skin-So-Soft. Great choice. Did you know it doubles as a mosquito repellant?”

My mother walked her to the door. I grabbed the catalog, and — yes! — a pot of creamy blue eyeshadow. The Avon Lady had left it, I knew, for me.

Back in my room, I emulated her mannerisms as I tried on those precious samples in front of the mirror. I mouthed her words. The epitome of elegance. My signature fragrance. It’s enough to drive one to drink.

H-E- double toothpicks. I savored the phrase, knowing I’d never dare to repeat it. Not even in a whisper.

---

Now, profanity has been normalized. No one swears, because everyone swears. Even the current and former Presidents of the United States swear, and those words are quoted, without asterisks or bleeping, in the mainstream media.

It’s far more shocking to think of the image suggested by Bob Dylan: Even the President of the United States sometimes has to stand naked.

Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you.

Is this Barbie’s shopping bag?

Sorry is another story.

Whether it’s culture, genetics, or something in the water of our ten thousand lakes, the reflex is a curse of being Minnesotan. I apologize for making a left turn at a four-way stop, even if I have the right of way. My mind goes back to driver’s ed, where I got a perfect score on the written test. What’s the rule? I was there five seconds before the other guy. Why did he honk? I signaled. I know I did. I always signal. Did I do the wrong thing? What’s wrong with me?

Drawing on decades of therapy, I attempt self-compassion. Mary, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt the little girl inside of you. Then — decades of therapy unraveling — Stop apologizing. To yourself? You’re a grown woman, not a child. What’s wrong with you?

I apologize to tables for bumping into them. To shopping carts for walking away, leaving them in a narrow aisle where other shopping carts can bump into them. To fruit for letting it go bad, plants for not giving them enough sun, other plants for giving them too much sun. And now, for mom-shaming. Baby on a cell phone? Never too young, right?

At least I didn’t mutter it in her presence.

I take a deep breath, exhale, and practice self-compassion. I say: It’s okay. You are allowed to take a walk on a beautiful day. To marvel at seeing a bald eagle and a red-tailed hawk. To pick up a dime from the sidewalk and believe your friend when she tells you it’s lucky. Because she’s right. And it’s also okay to apologize unnecessarily. It’s in your DNA. Don’t punish yourself. Use your quarters to buy yourself something nice. Makeup. Bubble bath. Perfume.

I allow myself to be human.

---

As a human, I’m going to apologize to you, my readers.

I’m someone who likes to keep promises. When I tell you that I’ll send you my newsletter in your inbox at least once a week, I try hard to get it there on time. But I want, more than anything, to make it worth your while to read it. This one’s a couple of days late; you would not have enjoyed the rushed, rough, messy but on time version.

So I write, rewrite, delete. Repeat, as many times as it takes. Finally, I hit Publish, and clutch my comfort object until the desire to call it back goes away. My comfort object is a foam bolster encased in fabric printed to resemble the log carried by The Log Lady in Twin Peaks.

One more thing: I want to give a huge thank you to every single one of my subscribers! When I sent out my first post, I had zero. When I checked this morning, there are 400. Exactly. Now, that is a lucky number. So glad I held on to that dime! Twelve of you have chosen to support me with a paid subscription.* This allows me, for the first time in my life, to say that I’ve earned money for doing the work that brings me tremendous joy.

*A little side note here: Using the public TV model, I’m working on some bookmarks to send to my paid subscribers. They’re pretty cool! Hope to finish them soon.

All subscribers will receive my newsletters in your inbox at least one a week, and can read and comment on all posts. If you value my work and have the means to do so,** please consider becoming a paid subscriber. You’ll get bonus personal notes and a surprise gift or two. Right now, I’m offering annual subscriptions for $35. That’s 30% of the regular price, until the end of time. Just hit the button below. All subscribers have my undying gratitude.

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