Wonderstruck

03/09/2025

Was there anything genuine happening with pop music in 1982?

Probably not. And there probably isn’t today, either. But in 1982, at 20 years old, I was still under the illusion that some musical acts and performances weren’t entirely staged. Things like Elvis Costello’s performance of “Less Than Zero” on SNL, or The Stray Cats’ stripped down and unconventional rise to stardom. Or Springsteen, whom my college chums assured me was the Real Deal.

Well, my bubble burst when Mark, Jerry, Bob, Bob, and Alan walked into the Terminal B café at SeaTac airport, where I happened to be bussing tables and washing dishes during the holiday break.

I had been at the Oh, No! It’s Devo! concert at the Paramount in Seattle the previous night, and had been blown away by 1.) The Blasters’ opening set (!); 2.) Mark Mothersbaugh’s flamboyant entrance, throwing a rope from the balcony, clambering down to the main floor, and running down to the stage right past my aisle seats; and 3.) the innovative incorporation/synchronization of rear-projection video behind the band throughout the two-set show.

Devo, as most of you probably already know — and as well-documented in the new Netflix band bio — were always recognizable, wherever they showed up in the media. Whether it was the yellow biohazard suits, the flowerpots on the heads, or the plastic JFK do they sported throughout the New Traditionalists tour, they never dropped the schtick. Never.

Oh, except, of course, when they traveled. Even if you’re flying first class, you don’t want to stand out like a… well, like a flower pot.

Oh, but Mark, Jerry, and the boys. Well, they still wanted to stand out.

While I was bussing tables that December 1982 morning, the band walked in and slid their orange trays, right beside perfectly ordinary people, down the cafeteria line.

I instantly knew who they were. Not because they were tricked out with any schtick — but because I was a fan, followed them closely in papers and music rags, and had physically been in their presence — albeit at a distance of 60 yards — just the night before.

But when I spotted them, I also thought, “Really?”

They weren’t schticking it that morning, but they sure were rock-starring it. Every one of them was decked out completely in black, each with a turtleneck and an ankle-length black leather trenchcoat. Like they were anticipating The Matrix by 15 years, or emulating Major Toht in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Except with turtlenecks.

Now, if you didn’t want to draw attention with flowerpots or plastic JFK coifs, why on earth would you voluntarily stroll into a public space looking like Trinity? In 1982?

The answer appeared to be: “Well, at least they’ll never guess we’re Devo.”

The ruse appeared to be working. Not a soul was giving them more than a “What the hell?” glance.

Until, that is, they took up seats right next to the table I was bussing.

I sidled over and conspiratorially intoned to Jerry, “Hey, great show last night, guys.”

Oops! Cover blown! Someone was on to them! A mob scene was sure to ensue!

Without even acknowledging my presence — or eating a single bite of the food they had just purchased — the band immediately (and quietly) rose and exited our swanky airport dive.

I was truly dumbfounded. Who did they guys think they were, exactly?

Now, by the time I had seen Devo live for the first time, at Seattle’s Arena in November the previous year, I already knew they were swimming in a pretty murky sea of arrogance and disdain. They way they sneered at the silly costume party that Arena show turned into, I was under no impression that the band actually liked or respected their fans. But as their art matured, I thought, Surely, the boys in the band must also mature, right?

Well, just take a gander at Devo on Netflix. It’s certainly a well-made band bio, and gets at the heart of what made Devo unique, how their music found an audience, and how their philosophy of performance art blended with corporate America to produce a self-fulfilling and obnoxious descent into irrelevance.

And we get to see — at least, director Chris Smith would have us believe — that the boys have not particularly matured.

Mark Mothersbaugh seems to be more cognizant than Jerry Casale that Devo’s demise was a product of hubris, inexperience, and superciliousness. Really: What do you think will happen when your alternative culture-mocking sociologic-klaxon music actually connects with the zeitgeist you despise? And when you play it up to the hilt every chance you get, even when talk show hosts press, “Are you really serious about your music?” Because, you know, the merch and the relentless schtick say, “No.”

Now, Mark, Jerry, and co. were certainly not faking any of it. The “Beautiful World” film still makes me cry after all these decades — especially now, given how both knowledgeable and prophetic it has proven to be — and you don’t achieve something of that power without a healthy measure of conviction.

And gosh — look at the other fish populating the waters in which they swam: David Bowie, who reinvented himself every three years; Elvis Costello, whose very name and stage persona were an invention of rage, booze, and Jake Riveria; Queen, who in 1978 declared a moratorium on all that Jazz, and were now opening playing The Game; Bruce Springsteen, who would very soon manage to persuade Reagan America that Born in the USA was upbeat beefcake patriot machismo; and so on, and so on, and so on.

One can hardly single out Devo for being disingenuous.

And yet, methinks they protested too much. And Jerry apparently still does, finding the whole Devo experience to be some kind of cosmic injustice.

The documentary does, however, confirm for me the near-genius level of Mark Mothersbaugh’s artistry. I won’t spoil things for you, but when he talks about Pachelbel, or when people like Bowie, Eno, and Neil Young crop up with specific accolades… well, you know those were rarified waters in which they swam.

Devo could well be an eye-opener for a lot of people who thought “Whip It!” was just a lot of goofy fun… and, perhaps, finally be the wake-up call that the band hoped to be forty long years ago. Our culture is more full of cruel and thoughtless B.S. than ever.

20/07/2025

It’s not just a hat. It’s a story.

And this time, the tale is not mine… though it is mine to tell.

Three years ago, I wrote about the Pak Hat, a creation of Mary Cates in Bozeman, Montana. I told of my original discovery of the hat on an odd, magical morning in Fort Benton as I was departing on a canoe trip down the Missouri River. I told of my long love affair with this dear piece of mustard/plum outdoor gear, and my equally long search for a replacement as the Pak Hat began showing signs of too much love. I told of finally locating Mary and the remaining Lights of the Sky inventory, and of procuring that remaining stock for sale at our retail store, The Iron Horse, in Winthrop, Washington.

That was about five stories in one, right there.

Now it’s time for stories six through nine, again wrapped up in a single post.

Mary Cates texted me yesterday.

“Hello, this is Mary in Bozeman,” she wrote. “A customer of yours tracked me down and wants more of the Blackfoot beaded sports caps.” These were a specialty item from Lights of the Sky — not the classic Pak Hat, but a lightweight simple billed cap hand-beaded by members of the Blackfoot tribe.

“What number should I give her to talk with you? She sounded determined, like you were, to find me. Hope the hats did well at The Iron Horse!”

Did they do well? I should say! We bought hundreds of Mary’s various hats, and I informed her that we are now down to three of the beaded caps, four of the silk-screened trout hats, and six or so of the lighter-weight all-black second-generation Pak Hat.

“Terrific on all counts!” Mary replied.

“I have told quite a few customers the tale of tracking you down,” I texted back.

It was no small thing starting only with the manufacturer info on the tag inside the hat — given that I did not know Mary’s name, and the company had long been shuttered. That the customer with the beaded cap had repeated my quest was in itself worthy of wonder!

“The story of my search,” I continued, “is even a chapter in my latest book, published last month!” I texted her a photo of pages from the book.

“Really?” wrote Mary. “Congratulations! Writing consistently isn’t easy. Please give me the title!”

The title, of course, is Wonderstruck: because the universe wants us to be surprised at what comes next.

And this is where yesterday’s tale began to get Wonderstrucky.

“Once again, Greg,” wrote Mary when I told her the title, “serendipity is at play. This couldn’t be a more perfect title at a more perfect time.”

“Today?” I asked. “Or just these dark times when the ‘lights of the sky’ stand out more brightly?”

“Oh, I love that,” Mary wrote.

“But simultaneously with our communication just now, a friend who is a tough Stoic loner-analytical type has had an immense spiritual and loving awakening.

“I could not be more astounded or overwhelmed.

“And you gave me the title of your book. Wonderment and the appreciation of it all!

“What can I say?” she concluded.

I told her, naturally, that such is my experience of the world.

“I’m honored to meet you on so many levels,” Mary replied. “You are the rare one who has really understood — holistically comprehended — what the hats are all about.”

And remember, these are indeed hats we are talking about. Not communion wafers, or paintings in the Louvre. And yet Mary is correct; the Pak Hat and its cousins are not just hats; they are love affairs with the outdoors and the human connection to it — a passionate investment in making the experience richer… and not by overwhelming nature by demonstration of human dominion over it, but by helping people ease into it in practical, enjoyable, enriching ways through choice of fabrics, color combinations, simple adornment, and quality construction.

Then I informed Mary, “The last of our original Pak Hats, a teal/plum model, went to a like-minded soul just last week!”

I had spent twenty minutes talking with a young hiker who was falling in love with the hat the way I had in July 1999, telling him the whole story of tracking down Mary Cates once more and giving him the last promotional instruction sheet detailing the many ways in which the hat could be worn. I even told him the serendipitous tale of how I came to own a hat store so that I could sell them.

Uh, serendipity. Yeah.

“Okokokok!” Mary shot back. “And now add this to your tally.

“I finally dissolved the Lights of the Sky corporation last week.

“After thirty-three years.”

The very week that the last of her original run of Pak Hats sold.

I sent her the photo above, taken on a backpacking trip the first of May this year. “Here’s the most recent sighting of my mustard/plum model,” I wrote.

“I’m all grins,” Mary replied. “Thanks ever so much, Greg. I wonder which of you has the more miles?”

“Well,” I typed, “this is mustard/plum number two, taken from the Iron Horse inventory. So it’s pretty young!”

“Breaking it in, then,” concluded our exchange.

Yes, I suppose so. Breaking it in a quarter century after my first encounter with the hat.

I wonder what surprises the next quarter century will hold… for me, for Mary, and for Mary’s friend?

For you?

And I continue to be wonderstruck by all that the lights of the sky hold for us in times that have always been, and will continue to be, rather dark.

Originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission.

27/05/2025

The tiny town of Twisp, Washington, is a remarkable place for theater. It hosts three different troupes: Methow Valley Theater, which stages its shows at The Methow Valley Community Center; The Merc Playhouse, which produces a wide variety of programs at its own facility, a retrofitted mercantile, on Glover Street; and the Liberty Bell Drama Company, the local high school troupe which stages its shows at the Merc.

I recently snagged a wait-list ticket for the series of sold-out performances of the LBDC’s production of Hadestown at the Merc. I’ve seen some terrific shows staged in Twisp over the last year, including MVT’s moving and stellar Sound of Music just a month ago and Cindy Williams Gutiérrez’ The House at the Merc — which I have to say is probably the most thoroughly enjoyable piece of theatre I have ever witnessed in person.

Still… Hadestown. Wow.

Right off the top, the lead performers in this show were simply dynamite. Hadestown retells the Greek legend of ill-fated lovers Orpheus and Eurydice, the latter of whom loses hope and is seduced into hell by Hades himself. Orpheus descends into Hades to strike a bargain with its lord and bring Eurydice out of the pit — only to lose her in the end. In the “teen version” of Hadestown, the pair are simply starry-eyed chaste youngsters experiencing what “being in love” is like for the first time.

The show is a musical, so the actors must also sing. As Eurydice and Orpheus, Eme Loucks and Orlo Parkinson really blew me away. Not only did they carry the emotional arc of these characters through flawless acting, they are both dynamic vocalists in their own right. Parkinson in particular floored me by easy transitions between his falsetto range and his normal, modal register. Credit some great vocal coaching there, along with obvious natural talent.

Nick Leon was a serious eye-opener as the physically-imposing Hades, and Rowan Kelley played a necessarily brassy and strong Persephone opposite Leon. Rounding out the leads, Bry Romero, as Hermes, was an excellent choice for the emcee of the proceedings.

But wait… that’s not all! As I told the show’s director, Kelly Grayum, and the mother of teen co-choreographer Ruby Culp, Winthrop Town Planner Rocklynn Culp, every bit of the background action, costumes, props — everything — was delightfully engaging to watch, even away from the main action. The blocking was all purposeful and motivationally executed by the cast of dozens, no movement was wasted, and every performer delivered exactly as much as was required by the role without the typical selfishness of background actors who feel they have been “undercast.” There was a ton of mutual respect and trust on that stage.

I have seen some outstanding high school shows in my 62 years, but this one really takes the cake. It didn’t feel in the least like a production of amateurs.

I guess this is what can happen when you raise kids in a community that is saturated in the arts!

Originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission. Photo courtesy Nicole Loucks.

22/05/2025

The Methow Valley is a special place… but it’s also quite ordinary. That is, I imagine you can run into extraordinary people in just about any town in the world. All you have to is look.

True, they tend to stand out a little more in a one-Stop Sign town, standing on the corner in the twilight on a slow spring evening in a summer-tourist setting. So as I ambled out of Sheri’s Sweet Shoppe popping tiny spoonfuls of rainbow sherbet into my craw, I spied an unusual sight across the street.

I’m used to seeing waffle sleeping pads strapped onto the packs of Pacific Crest Trail thru-hikers on their way from tagging the Canadian border to a rest in the hostel on Castle Avenue; but that’s usually in August and September… and this time, a waffle pad was strapped to the back of a bicycle.

You never know the stories you might hear, so I jaywalked the sleepy highway and approached the biker as he pulled a water bottle from a pannier.

“A thru-biker, I take it?” I offered.

“You might say that, I guess,” the biker replied.

“Where to, and where from?”

He sheepishly grinned. “I’m heading to the northernmost road in Alaska.”

“That’s quite a ride,” I nodded, and took another bite of sherbet. “And where from?”

“The southernmost road in Argentina.”

I just about spat my rainbow on my shirt.

And so I met Steve, a solo bicyclist who has been on the road for two years straight. On this evening, he was stopping by Winthrop to water up before heading to the Boulder Creek camp up the Chewuck River. On the morrow, he plans to cycle over forest roads to Conconully, and thence over the coming days along Highway 20 to Metaline Falls and into Canada. He hopes to finish his ride before September this year.

Might I say I was wonderstruck? Uh, yes.

And in that spirit, I thought he might be interested in some reading material and gave him a copy of Wonderstruck by The Methow. Because, you know, The Methow is a very ordinary place… and quite special.

I run into people like Steve all the time! Mindblowing.

Originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission.

13/05/2025

You've read some of the essays... now read them all! The complete collection of six years worth of essays in three volumes, 800 pages in all. Purchase link in the comments...

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13/05/2025

You've read some of the essays... now read them all! Collected in three volumes totaling 800 pages. Purchase link in comments.

Send a message to learn more

01/03/2025

The morning after our recent visit to Machu Picchu, Misuk and I walked through our hotel’s garden and talked about the experience.

There are a handful of places on Earth that are widely accepted as magically spiritual — and Machu Picchu is one of them. Not surprisingly, a reputation like that isn’t achieved without millions of people having visited.

So my takeaway was: Wow, what a paradox. Flight to Cusco; ninety-minute guide-van to a remote hotel; another ninety-minute ride in the morning to the train station; an hour in the waiting room; a street procession to board for the two-hour train ride to Machu Picchu village (reminiscent of Namche Bazaar, the jumping-off point for Everest expeditions); and no, you’re not “there yet” as a harrowing half-hour bus ride remains, scaling countless steep switchbacks up the Old Mountain’s flank. And, of course, once you’re at Machu Picchu you’re jostling with about six or seven other busloads of tourists aiming for the same magically spiritual experience that you are.

But experiences are what you make of them. I saw the paradox; Misuk’s take was more profound: “I learned this. Don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t make your vision come true.”

Point taken. Whoever first saw a jungle-covered saddle between the Old Mountain — Machu Picchu — and the Young Mountain across from it and thought, “Oh, yes, I can see a city housing eight hundred people here, and temples for both the sun and the moon,” and then went about persuading his fellows to help build it… well, “undaunted” doesn’t really provide an adequate description for that sturdy soul.

The same applies to the archaeologists who over four years once again cleared the jungle from that saddle after a local boy led Yale scholar Hiram Bingham to the site in 1911 — and to the Peruvians themselves, who in 1981 established the Historic Sanctuary of Machu Picchu around the site and turned it into the tourist attraction it now is, drawing up to two million visitors a year… while carefully preserving the actual site itself. Once you enter the sanctuary, there are no modern conveniences whatsoever. You can stay until you have to use the facilities outside, but no longer than that.

The mountain citadel and worship center truly is in as pristine condition as one could imagine after several hundred years of jungle encroachment. And unlike other cultural heritage sites like the Parthenon or the Great Pyramids of Egypt, the stones of Machu Picchu have never been scavenged for other buildings. Remarkable.

The invading sixteenth-century Spaniards also missed sacking the site as it had already been abandoned by the Inca. When you tour other locales throughout South America, your guides will invariably point to certain places, as in Cusco, and tell you what indigenous structures used to be hither and yon… but usually, all that is left is the odd wall or two. Here, all the stone elements remain as they were.

The era of the conquistador was nonetheless pretty ruthless, lethal, and thorough. When perpetual agonists Spain and Portugal signed the Treaty of Tordesillas in 1494, they understood that they could gain tremendous economic advantage over competitors like the French, English, and Dutch if they collaborated to get the Pope’s blessing and formally carve up the parts of the New World where they had already established outposts.

And advantage they did indeed gain, pillaging what is now the central and south Americas to the tune of more than 180 tons of gold, and a staggering 16,000 tons of silver. At current market prices, that amounts to something like $20B. And that doesn’t count other goods of the day, such as slaves. Or the cost in human life, estimated in the millions. This is what happens when the powerful meld religious zeal with greed — and a highly effective public relations campaign about the supposed “good” they are doing.

Today, of course, we also have perpetual enemies cozying up to one another in order to carve up new frontiers — including cryptocurrency, AI tech, developing energy markets, and Mars. Not everyone realizes it, but global technological objectives cannot be achieved if one or more superpowers are cut out of the deal. If the West tries to go Mars without Russia or China, the project will fail due to complexity, cost, and risk. Earth cannot endure a competitive race to plant flags on another planet, and the mineral wealth is too valuable to leave unexploited.

Elon Musk understands this full well, of course. Just take a look at the two seasons of the TV series Mars, produced by National Geographic — which features “historical” interviews “from the past” with visionary Elon Musk. In the series, the sci-fi 2033 mission to Mars is accomplished through the ruthless vision of Ed Grann, “CEO of the Mars Missions Corporation, a consortium of private aerospace companies preparing Mars expeditions.” Global governments find themselves complicit in his morally corrupt schemes.

Who does that fictional character sound like? Well, Musk, of course. “Don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t make your vision come true,” indeed.

Curiously, on the train back from Machu Picchu, I sat across a table from a young Colombian sales rep for a global tech company. I asked her about Musk, and what she thinks of his shouldering into global politics.

She paused for almost half a minute before replying.

“I think he’s doing what he needs to do. He has a thing that he wants to accomplish, and he’s going to do what he wants.”

I asked her if that concerned her.

“No. Nobody in the industry is worried about it.”

Really? Why not? Isn’t it dangerous for corporations to be making global political policy?

“It’s the future,” she replied quite simply.

As a career technologist, I am afraid I must reluctantly agree with her. I could go on at length about why she’s right; suffice to say that history does pivot on technological advances. And the future is often made as history repeats itself.

But I am not at all comforted by this eventuality, with which politics simply cannot keep pace. How many people will have to die so that America, China, and Russia can carve up Mars for exploitation?

But back to Misuk’s answer about Machu Picchu. “Don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t make your vision come true.”

“And what’s your vision?” I asked.

Without hesitation she replied, “To find out what God’s will is for me in this world, and do it.”

Amen. That’s always the best we can do, and for the best possible future.

Wonderstruck.

Originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission.

26/02/2025

Bingsu, where have you been all my life?

In Korea, apparently, and in other Korean communities springing up along the Pacific Rim.

Bingsu is an iced dairy confection of uniquely Korean origin. Similar to American “Shaved Iced” — yes, “Shaved,” not “Shave” — bingsu consists of a condensed milk-based solution poured slowly over a rotating sub-freezing drum from which the flash-frozen concoction is shaved with a broad blade and deposited into a waiting receptacle below. The bingsu, being freshly shaved and not compacted, is served in a dish.

Got it?

Toppings of various sorts can then be added, much as we do with froyo.

But here’s a huge difference: bingsu is made fresh with every sering, unlike ice cream, which can sit for quite a long time before an ice cream scoop — or your tongue — hits it. Even with frozen yogurt (or other softserve products) you never know how long the mixer has been cranking.

I had bingsu — twice — while visiting Lima, Peru. I knew that Misuk’s childhood friend Hee-sook had opened a Korean-style food counter in a college-neighborhood food court — a stand featuring Korean standards like tteokbokki and chapagetti. When we stopped by the shop late one morning to help Hee-sook make a delivery of fresh rice cakes, I paused to look at the visual menu (at right in the accompanying photo) — and quickly exclaimed, “What’s that?!?!?”

Hee-sook’s shop, K-Food Comida Coreana, offers four bingsu toppings: fresh mango (and you don’t better mango than Peruvian mango), fresh strawberries, chocolate sauce with brownie bits, and red beans. (The latter is a very, very Korean thing.)

I had never seen such a thing before, and immediately ordered a cup. And of course didn’t have to pay a Sol for it. Thanks, Hee-sook!

Bingsu is lighter in flavor than either ice cream or froyo. “Brighter” might be a good word for it. I can tell you, with great honesty, I enjoyed that cup of bingsu as much as I have enjoyed any cup of ice cream or froyo, ever.

How Hee-suk came to open K-Food CC is quite a story, too. Several decades ago she came to Peru with her husband Jae-min to invest in an off-shore fisheries opportunity… which shortly afterward collapsed completely thanks to international politics and how the fisheries were divvied up between countries.

Left virtually penniless, with two children to raise and no way to afford a return to Korea, Hee-suk and Jae-min got creative. The latter started a tour guide business (he’s been to Machu Picchu over one hundred times!) while Hee-suk began producing rice cakes on a commercial scale.

Twenty-five years ago, you couldn’t buy fresh rice cake in Lima. Or much in the way of fresh Korean staples, for that matter. But the Korean community here (fifty of whom I had lunch with today, incidentally) has a way of supporting each other. When one of them comes up with a business idea, they crowdfund it amongst themselves the old-fashioned way. So Hee-sook’s friends all helped buy the necessary equipment to scale up her kitchen production to a factory — still housed in her garage! — and instantly became her first customers. Today, Hee-suk makes regular deliveries to Korean restaurants all over Lima.

One evening when we were served tteokbokki at a nearby restaurant, I asked if the rice cakes were Hee-sook’s. Sure enough, they were! Delicious. The difference between H-Mart rice cake and Hee-sook’s is remarkable.

And now I’ve also had Jae-min’s secret bingsu recipe, too! Yum.

If you have a Korean community near you, you might Google bingsu. Odds are you’ll find a place which serves it. Try some!

Originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission.

21/02/2025

“Did you fall down a lot when you were a little boy, too?”

To clear the record, I don’t fall down a lot now.

But Misuk’s question was at least relevant. For the second time this year, I had just taken a hard fall, tripping over a poorly-marked boardwalk hazard at a slightly decrepit national park, skinning my knee pretty badly and bruising my left palm. After I got the wounds cleaned up we were chatting a bit.

“You do need to look out for yourself better,” she continued.

“Yes, that’s probably true,” I conceded. Both times I have fallen this year, I have been trying to look out for Misuk, who was some dozens of yards away, while taking care of other business at the same time — trying to find us a place for us to sit in a crowded public place, drying my hands after using a restroom. As I counsel when I guide friends on remote and rugged mountain trails, “Gawk or walk. One or the other. Don’t walk and gawk. You’re asking for trouble.”

And, of course, when in the mountains I take my own advice, and take it very seriously. The last time I took a fall in the woods was 1983, and I spend a lot of time in rugged backcountry.

In more domestic situations, though, I find myself trying to do three or four things at once… and Misuk is right. When I’m navigating unfamiliar places, I should focus on one thing at a time. If I’m looking for Misuk, I should stop walking and look. When I’m done looking, concentrate on the walking!

The concession chafes me, though, particularly as a pastor and reformed self-centerist. When you live in survival mode, as I did for the first half of my life, you learn very well how to look out for number one — “Greg first,” as you might say. When you train as a pastor, as I started doing thirty years ago, you flip all that on its head. “Consider others more important than yourself,” Scripture says in more than one place. Jesus and his disciples were most certainly not looking out for number one, were not of the “Israel First” or “Make Israel Great Again” school. We might not like hearing that today — but it’s nonetheless true. Do your own research, and see if what I learned in pastor school rings true to you.

And yet… there’s a certain logic to what Misuk says. In times when looking out for others is particularly important, looking out for oneself is also crucial. As they remind you when doing safety briefings on airline flights, “Make sure your own oxygen mask is secure before helping others with theirs.” You can’t be much help to Bucky or Gramps when you’re oxygen-deprived yourself.

So, point taken. Whenever you’re wondering, “How can I best help others?” also be sure to look to yourself.

As Misuk told me, “I need you to be healthy.”

Originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission.