This weekend I volunteered at WordCamp San Francisco and joined over a thousand folks who use WordPress, listening to great talks and meeting fabulous people from all over the world. In Matt Mullenweg’s “State of the Word” he included this slide to thank WordPress contributors. It’s pretty amazing to see how many people contribute to the open source project.
Act I
I didn’t think it was that serious. I fell while hiking and figured I had sprained my ankle. Rest, ice, compression, and elevation. Repeat. After two weeks I couldn’t flex my foot and each morning I would wake up to find it more swollen than when I went to bed the night before. I went to a doctor, then a specialist. She said, “See how your ankle is moving like that?” I enthusiastically said, “Yes!” for some reason thinking that was a good thing. “It’s not supposed to move like that.” Oh. An MRI and x-ray revealed I had torn all the ligaments in my ankle, as well as chipped part of the cartilage. Surgery was pretty much my only option.
I had multiple pre-op appointments and learned that after the surgery I wouldn’t be able to travel for a few weeks. That I should keep my leg elevated to reduce swelling. That I should apply ice, and that I may be nauseous afterwards from the general anesthesia. That I’d be in a cast for approximately six weeks, with three of those on crutches. We talked about the procedure, who would perform it, and what I could expect afterwards. I was feeling pretty optimistic.
Act II
I groggily woke up after the surgery, somewhat disoriented, and finding it difficult to form words. My friend Warren picked me up, drove me home, and explained to my parents (who were in town visiting) all the doctors had shared. I slept.
I woke up a few hours later. Oh, my goodness. Doctor, I think you buried the lede. We talked about a lot of things pre-op, but never did you mention “You’re going to be in excruciating pain. For days.”
Maybe this seems like common knowledge, but for someone who has never had real surgery, the kind where they cut you open, it seems like kind of an important detail. Knowing I would be in pain wouldn’t have prevented me from having surgery, but I wouldn’t have questioned my sanity as I woke up every 43 minutes during the night from searing pain, wondering, “Is it normal that I’m about to go Incredible Hulk on this cast and bust out of it?”
Act III
The pain subsided around day five post surgery. Not disappeared, but subsided to the point where I felt somewhat normal again. And grateful. Being on crutches has slowed me down. I notice more details. I’m more deliberate about decisions. I appreciate, more than ever, having a small apartment. I notice so many acts of kindness, both large and small. I love that my parents left homemade chicken soup in the refrigerator before they left. I am appreciative that strangers hold open doors for me and that Uber drivers help me in and out of their cars. I love that friends stop by in the evening, just to say hi. Or to make dinner. Or to do the dishes. It’s lovely to open an email with movie or book recommendations. Or open the door and find an Amazon package there, someone sending well wishes. I look down and smile at the brightly colored scribbles on my cast, artwork by friends’ children. This isn’t so bad after all.
I love this! Reading stories on the Longreads blog is one of my favorite parts of my day and I’m super excited that member contributions are now going directly to independent writers and publishers. If you enjoy great writing, I encourage you to check it out (and become a member)!
Since 2009, Longreads has thrived as a service and a community thanks to your direct financial support. Without Longreads Members’ contributions, it’s possible we would have had to shut down after just a couple years.
Now, here we are in 2014, with a global community of more than half a million readers. In April, Longreads joined the Automattic / WordPress.com family, which meant that the Longreads Member dues were no longer necessary to keep our four-person team going.
This also meant that we could finally make good on our original intention for the Longreads Membership—which was for 100% of your contributions to go directly to independent publishers and writers.
So that’s what we are announcing today: The Longreads Membership is now a great big digital story fund, financed with your generous support. The more Longreads Members who join, the more contributions we gather, the more stories we’ll help…
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Touring The Rock is one of my favorite tourist attractions in San Francisco (the audio tour is first rate!) but today we were there for a different reason. Artist Ai Weiwei’s exhibit @Large opened last week and I was curious to see it. My parents arrived yesterday – what better way to spend the day than boating out to Alcatraz and enjoying some art? I was particularly intrigued because Weiwei had created the exhibit without ever visiting the space; he isn’t allowed to leave China because of alleged tax evasion; many believe he is grounded because of his outspoken criticism of the Chinese government. As we arrived to the dock, we saw these words from Ai Weiwei:
The misconception of totalitarianism is that freedom can be imprisoned. This is not the case. When you constrain freedom, freedom will take flight and land on a windowsill.
We were greeted by a large, brilliantly colored dragon head, with multiple bright circles following behind as the body. The dragon wove throughout the length of the hall where prisoners once did laundry. The bright swirls of colors mesmerized me – reds, blues, purples, yellows, greens. As I wandered, I noticed a few of the circles had words embedded in the patterns: “Our march to freedom is irreversible,” “…privacy is a function of liberty,” etc. I loved the contrast of the brightness of the dragon’s body and the hope in the words to the drabness of the prison.
We continued into a room which showcased over a hundred portraits of people who have been detained because of their beliefs or affiliations. All made of Legos. Tiny, 1×1 or 2×4 Lego blocks. Millions of Legos. Binders identified each portrait, and the reason they were detained.
Next we made our way to the Cellhouse, where we heard the sounds of those detained for their beliefs. Some were familiar – Martin Luther King, Pussy Riot, Fela Kuti; others were not – Ahmad Shamlu, Mahjoub Sharif, Victor Jara. Standing in the tiny cell, listening to the words that landed others in cells similar, an eery feeling crept over me.
We ended our tour in the mess hall, writing postcards to prisoners of conscience all over the world. Weiwei said that it’s easy to feel forgotten in prison – this was a small gesture to let prisoners know their acts weren’t in vain, and they weren’t forgotten.
A great recap of our all company meetup in Park City, UT, earlier this month. We have a lot of fun when we’re together! 🙂
Automattic is a distributed company — we all work from wherever we are. Right now, “where we are” is 197 cities around the world: New Orleans, USA. Montevideo, Uruguay. Tokyo, Japan. Vilnius, Lithuania.
Once a year, we get together somewhere in the world to meet, work alongside, learn from, and laugh with one another in an exhilarating, exhausting week called the Grand Meetup. This year, 277 Automatticians descended on Park City, Utah, for seven days in mid-September.
We introduced ourselves to new colleagues, reconnected with coworkers we haven’t seen since last year, and worked on ways to make WordPress.com even better. And of course, lots of us blogged about the experience, in words and images.
We were…
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Timmy, a co-worker (and excellent fisherman), organized a fly fishing trip at our all company meetup in Utah last week. I had never been fly fishing. I like rivers. I like fish. I signed up.
The Trout Tales guides picked us up at the hotel on Friday morning. We climbed into their rugged vehicles, ready for adventure. Timmy, who I just met that morning, and I were with our guide Walter. We stopped at a dusty parking lot, donned waders (basically a waterproof overalls/rain boots contraption), and were on our way to another parking lot, even further out. We parked, grabbed our rods, and walked into the brush along the river for about 10 – 15 minutes. We were headed towards a favorite spot of Walter’s. When we got there, we heard him groan. Between the time we parked, and the time we arrived, someone had claimed the spot we were eying. “Wait here,” and he ran ahead.
He came back. “It’s all good. He’s fine with us fishing next to him.”
And with that we waded into the water. I paused. I felt the sensation of the very cold, not quite icy, water rushing around my ankles, my knees, my thighs, as I waded deeper and deeper into the water. I felt my legs cooling down, even though they continued to stay dry. That surprising feeling of reality not matching expectations. I loved it. To our left were mountains covered with trees just starting to turn color, blotches of red scattered amongst the green and yellow. The sky was a baby blue, with perfect fluffy white clouds. I thought to myself, “Even if we don’t catch any fish, it’s already a perfect day.”
Walter showed me how to cast, let me try, and gave me pointers – not so much wrist, keep my arm straight, aim for a particular spot in the water. He showed me how to watch the little white bobble that would indicate when a fish was nibbling. And how to hook it. Then reel it in.
He turned to talk to Timmy. I saw the bobble dip below the water. I jerked the line and started reeling it in. When I was sure it was a fish and not the current, I hollered, “I think I have a fish.” He came over and coached me on how to reel it in. Elbows up. Let the fish swim and run the line, then reel it in when it’s not struggling. Be patient. Work with the fish.
When the fish was close to us, he scooped it up in a net and gently removed the ittiest, bittiest, tiniest hook from its lip. It was beautiful. A beautiful brown, coppery color, with red dots along its side. I whispered, “Hi, Oscar. Thank you.” Then Walter released it back into the water.
This basically continued the whole day. A few fish got away. Several were large, a few were babies, many were medium sized. All were beautiful. Mostly brown trout, but one glistening whitefish, and one multi-colored, shimmering rainbow trout. Each glimmered in the sun, and stopped struggling as soon as our hands were on them. The goodbyes were my favorite part – putting them back in the river and watching them strongly swim away.
The day ended much too early. I could have stayed out in the river all day, just casting and staring at the mountains, listening to the rush of the water around me. Would I go again? Why, yes. I’m hooked.
I know the fog of sadness will come. The knowing doesn’t make it any easier when it arrives.
It’s happened every year for the past five years. Sometimes it sets in the afternoon I arrive home, like today. Sometimes it sets in after I wake up from the post trip nap (last year’s “nap” was 18 hours long, due to sheer exhaustion from too much fun).
This year our annual all company meetup was held in Park City, Utah, and more than 250 people attended. This is a highlight of the year, because it’s often the only time that I’ll see many of my co-workers. We’re a distributed company, and everyone’s primary workspace is their home office. Oh, did I mention we have folks in thirty-five countries around the world? We’re really spread out. It’s a whirlwind of a week – learning at internally led code academy classes; project teams launching new features or improving on existing ones; dinners with colleagues you haven’t met; catching up with your mentor/mentee; attending (or leading) workshops on design, diversity, and leadership; and, of course, a healthy dose of fun.
I love this week of the year because of the camaraderie and bonding that occurs. I love listening to the discussions among colleagues, and hearing ideas, concerns, and solutions in their own voices. I love discovering who can sing 90’s karaoke without the words on a screen. Or who has a special interest in biology. Or who has a special talent for creating their own personalized lyrics to popular songs. Or what past companies (many outside of technology) my colleagues have worked at. Or who was a former competitive food eater. The variety of my colleague’s experiences and backgrounds awe me.
My favorite memories are the meals, and the moments. Dinners were generally groups of 4 – 6 people. The perfect size for intimate conversation. For learning who someone’s favorite author is, and why. For getting book recommendations. For hearing about people’s travel. For sharing stories from childhood. For hearing about someone’s first trip to Burning Man. For learning what excites them about their job, and what frustrates them.
This morning was filled with so many hugs (and maybe a tear or two). I told myself that I was looking forward to returning home. To my own bed (although the sleep I got in the silence of the Park City night was the best I may have ever experienced). To regular exercise and home cooking. To the routine of my everyday life. And I was looking forward to that. And even though I knew I would miss my colleagues (it’s happened every time I return from a trip), the weight of the fog of sadness still surprises me when it descends.
I read their blogs. I like their Facebook posts. I retweet their Tweets. And I miss them.
The night sky is a swath of velvet with pinpricks shining through. So many stars. So. Many. Stars. So many that the constellations don’t stand out as individual formations, but are a mass among masses of twinkles. I stare, and everywhere there are twinkles. I can’t not see twinkles. I stare up and my eyes drift down all the way to the horizon. Dense darkness and sparkly stars are all I see.
I know now why The Milky Way is called such. The cloudy path across the sky, which upon viewing with binoculars are millions and millions of sparkling stars, so close together they appear opaque. Milky. A giant brush stroke across the sky.
The rocking of the boat, whispers with my best friend, and a sky full of sparkles. This already is a great trip.
Nothing.
That’s what I hear when I’m underwater. I love the all encompassing silence while snorkeling. I gracefully move through the water, my arms close to my sides, kicking only intermittently to propel myself forward. I breathe in slowly, I breathe out slowly. Life has slowed down. I’m so happy.
I watch schools of fish swim under me, coming closer, and closer. I’m tempted to reach out and touch them, but I don’t want to disturb them, their perfect formation. I love being the observer, just watching, drifting, and slowly moving closer to the observed.
The sunbeams highlight the matter in the water, the murkiness is cut by the piercing beam of light. It’s a world in which everything is not crystal clear, a world in which more and more things are revealed the longer you wait. Patience and stillness are rewarded.
A marble ray materializes. As it gently glides below me, I hover above it, watching and wondering, “How quickly can it move? Does it generally attack any body part? Or does it go for the face?”
A sea lion pops up. Others swim towards it, gradually encircling it. I worry. Is it scared that it is surrounded by people? Does it feel trapped? It responds by simply diving under and around them, as though in a game of tag. I want to see it, but I don’t want to get too close (could it bite my arm off?). I stay back. I watch it swim, flip, and dive. I lose sight of it.
I’m floating, happily, lazily, and feel a presence beside me. I turn my head and see the sea lion right beside me. I’m still. I turn on my back and slowly swim away, watching it; it follows. It swims around me, nipping at my fins. I back away some more, very slowly, concerned that it is bigger than me, wondering if sea lions like to nibble at humans, wondering how thick my wetsuit is and if it could bite through it. I turn over, laying in a dead man’s float, quiet and still, watching it out of the corner of my eye. It spins, dives, swims, tumbles through the water, claps its fins, and swims directly towards me at high speeds then turns at the last possible moment. Oh. It’s playing. It’s not going to hurt me. I imitate its moves, until it targets a new playmate and swims away.
We’re called back to the boat. Already? I don’t want to leave the water. I do, reluctantly, and am greeted by the ever friendly crew and hot cheesy empanadas. This is going to be a great trip.
I am so fortunate to work with the author of this post, Automattic’s general counsel Paul Sieminski, who always fights the good fight. Net Neutrality is important, and it’s under attack. Read on for more info…
“Net Neutrality” is the simple but powerful principle that cable and broadband providers must treat all internet traffic equally. Whether you’re loading a blog post on WordPress.com, streaming House of Cards on Netflix, or browsing handcrafted tea cozies on Etsy, your internet provider can’t degrade your connection speed, block sites, or charge a toll based on the content that you’re viewing.
Net neutrality has defined the internet since its inception, and it’s hard to argue with the results: the internet is the most powerful engine of economic growth and free expression in history. Most importantly, the open internet is characterized by companies, products, and ideas that survive or fail depending on their own merit — not on whether they have preferred deals in place with a broadband service provider. Unfortunately, the principle of net neutrality, and the open internet that we know and love, is under attack.
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LoriLoo 