I'm thankful for a weeklong vacation that wasn't really a vacation at all

From Saturday's Briefing (and will be in Thursday's Dallas Morning News):

My week away this summer was atypical. Yes, I packed my bags, boarded the dog, left town and returned exhausted. Instead of sightseeing and sampling local fare, though, I worked 18-hour days while grocery shopping and cooking for 120 people.

I can't wait to do it again next year.

Teens and adults from four Texas churches descended on Granbury last week. A local church opened its doors, allowing us to eat, sleep, worship and play there. The campus served as home base for work teams that spread out to help rehab homes, build wheelchair ramps, replace roofs, spiffy up community centers and clear piles of debris.

I'm not confident with power tools, but I do know how to follow a recipe, so I signed on to support the kitchen team. Our job was to make sure that volunteers were well nourished for their important work in the field. We four Frisco women planned, shopped, chopped, sautéed, boiled, baked and served three meals a day.

We burned our hands, spilled an entire tray of macaroni and cheese, (accidentally) squished a tiny toad that hopped into our path, boiled over a batch of tea and started a tiny grease fire.

Those mishaps were inconsequential compared to the sleepy smiles at breakfast each morning and the profusive "thank you so much" dinner compliments from folks who'd just worked long hours in typical July conditions and couldn't wait to dig in to tacos or cold watermelon slices or piles of pasta and meatballs.

Dinnertime was the best time to catch up on project progress and hear about clients.

One gentleman had been confined to his home after suffering a stroke. His house is elevated because of its proximity to the river, and getting in and out in a wheelchair had been impossible — until a group of volunteers constructed a ramp for him.

Another resident was living with a hole in the floor that revealed the earth below. His back wall was so unstable it could be pushed out about 6 inches. A crew installed new flooring and reinforced the wall.

There were rotted fences and ramshackle roofs. There were jungles to tame and wasp nests to contain.

Volunteers didn't only perform manual labor, though. They worked on building relationships — with one another and with their homeowners. Volunteers invited clients to join their group for lunch each day, and clients in turn often invited volunteers into their homes. Everyone was in service together — the people who need a little help and the people in a position to offer it.

When the week began, I considered the sacrifices I was making. I sacrificed my usual sleep routine, getting at most five hours a night. I sacrificed comfort, sleeping on an air mattress in a nursery room. I sacrificed control, keeping a schedule that was dependent on the needs of others.

As Tuesday turned to Wednesday and then Thursday dawned, I thought less of the sacrifices and more about my advantages. My temporary living conditions were warm, dry and safe. I would return to my own home soon enough, where accessibility and security are no concern.

When the week ended, I gave thanks for all that I had gained. New friendships, new memories, new perspectives.

I am thankful for teens who give up cellphones for a week, work in hot and humid conditions without complaint, initiate conversations with strangers who become friends. I am thankful for adults who guide them through difficult tasks. I am thankful for neighbors in Granbury who trust strangers with power tools, offer genuine hospitality, share their stories.

I am thankful for a week that wasn't really a vacation but was refreshing nevertheless and a week of insignificant sacrifices that fuels a year of gratitude.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

On Friday, Cooper's team helped to install basketball goals at a Granbury community center.

Summer is the perfect time to loosen the reins and give kids more freedom

From Saturday's Briefing:

About 50 adults squeezed into a conference room for advice on sending our children to college. I was expecting revolutionary ideas that hadn't yet been revealed on this parenting journey, tips that are reserved only for the moms and dads of 18-year-olds.

In fact, I heard variations of the exact words I tell my new middle-school parents at the beginning of each academic year.

Let your child make mistakes and learn from them. Encourage your child to advocate for herself. Insist that your child solve his own problems.

If teachers are asking parents to do this with 11-year-olds, why do colleges need to do the same with parents of young adults? Because it's not easy.

Though I try not to be a helicopter mom (constantly hovering and swooping) or a lawnmower mom (eliminating obstacles on behalf of my children), I'm also not a permissive parent (yes to everything!) or a free-range parent (good luck out there, little one!). Actually, I'm guilty of — and sometimes even proud of — a few characteristics of all those styles.

Summer offers excellent conditions for testing new parenting techniques. Lazier days with fewer commitments mean more freedom. My Katie and Adam, our neighbor and honorary third sibling, spend hours each week outside. As they've grown older, they've started living a little more like 1970s children — running into one house or the other for water or supplies but otherwise playing outside until dusk beckons or a parent hollers, "Dinner!"

It's the way I grew up. When I was 4, 5 and 6, I was part of a gentle gang of North Dallas kids who would gather in the middle of the street, discuss possible adventures and then set out. We'd climb trees, explore trails and fish crawdads out of Joe's Creek — all without a single supervising adult.

A few years later, my sister and I would roam the streets of tiny Belton, Texas. We'd walk a couple of blocks south to spend 27 cents on a small Slurpee or, if we had saved our money for a few days, $1.07 to buy a drumstick and biscuit from Golden Fried Chicken. Or we'd wander farther north to peruse the aisles of TG&Y and the Hallmark store. There were pay phones if we needed them, but no one expected us to check in.

All of that freedom created natural opportunities for building consensus, solving problems, settling disputes and figuring out basic first aid.

Yet we 21st-century parents are often paralyzed by fear. What if someone makes a bad decision? Gets their feelings hurt? Feels left out? Gets lost? Gets injured?

When is it appropriate to let go and allow your child to experience the inevitable disappointments — and inherent lessons — of life?

Earlier this summer, Katie rushed into the house, seeking duct tape and bungee cord. She dragged our rusty red wagon from the front porch to the alley. I was suspicious. She told me not to worry.

I, no doubt, worried.

Upon further investigation, I discovered that she and Adam had used the tape and cord to attach the wagon to the back of his bike. She would sit in the wagon while he pedaled. As he turned, she also turned, but without control or grace.

I held my breath and closed my eyes as they careened through the alley. She tumbled out a couple of times. I eventually insisted that they stop.

Her left leg still shows scars from the concrete, and I can't get the image out of my head, but it's one of their favorite memories of summer so far.

I try every day to make the right decisions for my kids — or, better, to let them make their own. I'm working on not rescuing Cooper in the mornings, when he sleeps through his alarm but needs to get dressed for work. (I'm mostly failing.) I've encouraged them both to cook more often and experiment in the kitchen. (Katie's a pro with the toaster oven and George Foreman Grill, and Cooper can bake some tasty chicken.) I don't swoop in to finish their chores. (Even if that means the sink fills with dishes. I take lots of deep breaths.)

When school starts this August, I'll once again advise my students' parents to step back as often as they're comfortable — while trying to trust my own two kids to rely on the foundation we've built together.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Bike. Wagon. Duct tape. Bungee cord. What could go wrong?

My roles may change, but this mom business (and miles of memories) lasts a lifetime

From Saturday's Briefing:

Long ago, during my firstborn's first year, we were visiting longtime friends in Baltimore. We were seated at a tiny Fells Point cafe, having stowed the diaper bag and settled Cooper into a highchair, when Gretchen asked, "Has parenting changed you?"

I answered "yes" before she finished the question. Then I stumbled through explaining how this nascent parenting adventure had changed me, how all decisions were made from a new point of view, how the weight of being responsible for another human altered everything.

I've never stopped considering the question, and it feels especially relevant as Cooper prepares to launch his own new journey.

One big change? Vocabulary. Though it's been years since a child in my home watched an episode of Dora the Explorer, I will forever call tape "sticky tape." (I'm not sure why Dora feels the need to modify a noun that is, by definition, sticky, but I've learned to embrace it.)

If anyone says, "We're going on a trip," I can't help but finish the sentence (almost always in my head, not aloud) with a singsong "in our favorite rocket ship, zooming through the sky, Little Einsteins!"

And, like all mothers of a certain age, the only way to finish "to infinity" is with "and beyond!"

Our children's obsessions become our own, especially when they're young and require constant supervision. I can still recite every word from The Going to Bed Book by Sandra Boynton and Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. I can decipher the mysteries of a Lego instruction manual. I know my way around the paper, washi tape, paint and clay aisles of three major arts-and-crafts stores. I can sing most every word of the Hamilton soundtrack.

Our children's experiences and memories are entangled with our own.

When summer began, the three of us wrote a wish list to conquer before Cooper leaves for college. We included restaurants and museums to revisit, board games to play and movies to watch again. We can't possibly fit in all of our favorites from Cooper's 18 years and Katie's 14, but we're willing to try.

Our list of Disney favorites is long, and last week we settled in for Toy Story 2 and Toy Story 3 at home. (We all agree that the original Toy Story is good but the least charming of the franchise. Plus, we're a little traumatized by Sid.)

We can reenact the entirety of Toy Story 2, a video on constant repeat in our family room for many years. By the time Toy Story 3 was released, though, we'd mostly moved beyond the watch-a-movie-100-times phase. I'd somehow forgotten that the movie's premise is now-teenage Andy packing his room as he prepares to leave for college.

Could I endure watching a fictional mirror of my own current experience?

I chose courage and watched it from beginning to end for the first time since 2010. The three of us laughed at jokes we had forgotten — or hadn't noticed the first time. We cheered for strengthened toy relationships and held our breath as those toys held hands on the path to a fiery doom.

I wept when Andy's mom, standing in his empty room, says, "I wish I could always be with you." Amen, Andy's mom! 

Yet the truth about parenthood is that these children who we swaddle, cuddle, bathe, feed, correct, shelter, entertain, teach, guide, shoo, support, discipline, push and, above all, love, are always with us. We carry their entire childhoods in our hearts. We don't see only a 17-year-old on the way to college or a 13-year-old on the way to high school. We also see in one fell swoop a tiny infant and a stubborn toddler, a precocious preschooler and a rambunctious kindergartner. We hear rap lyrics mixed with The Wiggles and lines from The Office jumbled up with giggling Elmo.

Parenting continues to challenge me and change me, and the journey's far from over. My roles may change, but this mom business (and miles of memories) lasts a lifetime.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Cooper, on the eve of Camp War Eagle, looking like a college student 

My daughter's last day of middle school ended with tears — and hope

From Saturday's Briefing:

As the final minutes of the school year tick down, our eighth-graders walk the halls on a farewell tour, waving goodbye and giving high-fives to teachers and younger middle-schoolers. Parents crowd the end of the path, welcoming their newly minted high school freshmen into the sunshine and summer break.

My Katie vowed that she would complete that final walk without crying. Why would she be sad when she was looking forward to ninth grade?

I saw her three times on the walk — first with a peace sign, then an enthusiastic smile and, finally, dramatic sobs. I totally understand. I've always been a last-day-of-school crier, too.

Endings are tough, no matter what opportunities await.

Katie's tears welled up when she thought of friends she wouldn't see over summer, of friends who are moving, of friends who might not be in her classes next year or even share the same lunch period.

I understand all of this, too. I'm often guilty of experiencing emotions for circumstances that haven't yet happened. We're both planners, for better or worse.

Childhood offers enviable chances to make friends. It's as if there's some sort of unspoken code. "You're at the playground. I'm at the playground. We clearly both enjoy sliding and swinging and climbing, so let's be pals." It's the same in kindergarten classrooms and bouncy houses, at neighborhood pools and grocery store aisles. Little kids are instinctively drawn to other little kids, without pretense or fanfare.

As children get older, they become choosier, taking note of qualifiers that might invite or exclude a future friend. Clothing, hairstyle, shoes, obvious interests, other friends. Yet each new school year or activity welcomes another opportunity to meet new people.

There's a whole crop of ninth-graders coming from the other feeder middle school, and there's unknown possibility among the crew she's grown up with. So while Katie and and a few friends may naturally drift apart, there will be new people and previous acquaintances in debate class and French, in the cafeteria and the gym.

I met some of my dearest friends in eighth and ninth grades — the women who would eventually stand next to me when I got married, who I call or text with good news and tragic news, who know my quirks and love me anyway. I can't imagine life without Jayshree, Karen, Melissa and Swati. But there are many others who were important at the time and eventually faded away, not because anyone was frustrated or angry but because maintaining strong friendships requires work from both sides.

Sometimes there are simply not enough common interests to keep the bond healthy, and that's OK because one of the great blessings of growing older is continuing to expand your circles of friends.

I also can't imagine life without Gretchen, who I met when we were young journalists in Lubbock, or Julie, who has been my neighbor for 17 years, or Sharon, who was my boss for a little while but has been my friend for much longer, or Jenny, who I met through PTA, or Jana, who mentored me through my first year of teaching and is still my go-to school confidante.

We don't know what each season will bring, which people we'll meet, which memories we'll hold on to. The end of one season doesn't necessarily mean the end of friendships, but it almost always offers the hope of new relationships.

On that last day of middle school, I embraced Katie as she cried and then stepped aside as she continued to say goodbye to friends, most of whom she would text later that afternoon. I look forward to watching (and advising when asked) as her relationships deepen, as she discovers more of her people, as she learns for herself which friends she can rely on and how she can be the best kind of friend. There will be more tears in the journey, but I'm expecting a greater number of peace signs and cheerful smiles.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Peace out, middle school

My soon-to-be high school graduate is ready to make his own way — 751 miles from home

From Saturday's Briefing:

This time, 18 years ago, I was sitting in my newsroom cubicle, working on a project but distracted by a nagging concern: How would I get my child to soccer practice on time?

My office was downtown, and my husband and I lived in the suburbs. Practice usually starts around 6 p.m., but I worked unpredictable hours, and traffic on the tollway is dicey.

We'll figure it out. We'll make it work.

I did have the advantage of time. I was pregnant with our first child, at least four years from registering anyone for recreation soccer.

That firstborn is now days from high school graduation, heading to Auburn University to study mechanical engineering and nuclear power systems.

When all the graduation festivities settle down, Cooper and I will start his dorm packing list in earnest. In the meantime, I've been checking off the list of intangibles that he'll need, too.

That list includes resiliency, tolerance, grace, humility, determination, compassion and flexibility. He's had ample opportunities to practice them all here, and I'm praying that those life lessons stick with him when he's far from home.

Every family has its own story of unexpected twists, disrupted plans and even tragedies.

Our story includes learning disabilities, a cancer diagnosis and death. But our story also includes hard work, silver linings and life.

When Cooper was diagnosed with dyslexia — a condition we never planned for — he adjusted.

He received daily intervention at school for two years. He received some accommodations for class work. He learned to advocate for himself. He often had to work harder than many of his peers.

He figured it out. He made it work.

He refused to be defined by a label. He continued to devour fantasy, mystery and adventure novels. He signed up for challenging courses. He asked questions. He never gave up.

There have been all kinds of opportunities to practice similar determination at home. Steve's cancer and death certainly were never part of our plan. For almost 10 years now, it's been only me, Cooper and Katie. They don't have many memories of two parents who shared housework, decision-making, driving and bedtime routines.

Instead, they have earned experience as members of a small team that cooks, cleans, walks the dog, takes out the trash and performs other duties as assigned.

We have figured it out. We have made it work.

They don't dwell on the loss. This is our normal. They have built layers of independence and empathy. They understand sacrifices and compromises.

These aren't lessons I planned, but embracing them is better than being smothered by them.

Way back in 2001, when I was worried about car seats and strollers, preschools and soccer teams, it never occurred to me to consider 2019, the year that my baby would graduate high school.

My heart couldn't have handled the conflicted emotions of celebrating this milestone while anticipating a new beginning — especially without Steve by my side.

Even now, I can't anticipate or plan for every trial that Cooper will face as a freshman living in a dorm with strangers, 751 miles from home, while taking 16 hours that include calculus, chemistry and computing for engineers.

I expect he'll have some social conflicts, struggle with a class or two, make a few poor choices and occasionally feel homesick.

He and I can keep talking through scenarios until he leaves. I'll be available via phone calls, text, FaceTime and email. But most of the preparation for this big step has already happened.

He'll provide his own rescues or seek help from trusted sources.

Perhaps the best advice I can offer him now is the reminder that we've always figured it out. We've always made it work. He's equipped for the adventures and challenges and rewards to come.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Reedy High School Baccalaureate, two weeks before graduation

What I'm most thankful for after a wonderful Teacher Appreciation Week

From Saturday's Briefing:

Teachers were celebrated last week with handwritten notes and PTA breakfasts, with flowers from children and discounted food from restaurants all over town.

Teacher Appreciation Week comes once a year, just when teachers need it most -- in the final sprint toward the last report card, when we're working hard to engage and encourage children, some who believe it's already summer, while also celebrating the accomplishments of the year and the growth of each child.

While teachers have been my heroes since kindergarten, I never fully understood the demands on educators until I became one almost six years ago. I also didn't fully comprehend the intangibles that have me hooked.

Before I was a teacher, I was a full-time journalist who thrived on deadlines and nonstop decision-making. I had no idea then that it was training ground for my future career as a teacher.

One day last week I tried to keep track of the number of decisions made and questions answered between 7:55 a.m. and 4:05 p.m., but the work of writing them all down and keeping tally got in the way of, well, all of the decisions to make and questions to answer.

A sampling:

• Can I have a pencil?
• Can you come to our soccer game tonight?
• Do you want to read my joke book?
• How many primary sources do I need for this project?
• Can I have three rubber bands?
• May I have another Band-Aid?
• Does this part of the rubric mean that we need to compare and contrast time periods?
• Do you know why my Google Form isn't working?
• Will you please read this email before I send it?

Some interactions are routine. Others represent evidence of monumental growth or strengthened relationships.

Would you like to read this poem I wrote?

After our recent sixth-grade poetry unit, one of my students started composing poems on the back of other schoolwork. I'll be standing in the middle of the hallway, greeting students and directing traffic, when this young poet pops up and presents her newest poem, written during lunch or at the end of social studies.

What's your favorite brand of jellybeans?

I teach a seventh-grader who likes to visit during morning tutorials. Somehow the topic of jellybeans surfaced, and we discussed the best brands. I told him about the plastic jellybean necklace I wore in the early 1980s, when jellybean aficionado Ronald Reagan was president. I regret that I lost it along the way.

This student also takes Skills for Living (modern-day home economics) and has recently learned how to sew. After our conversation, he bought a bag of jellybeans (his favorite brand) and used a needle and thread to create a necklace of dozens of jellybeans, to replace my long-lost version from the '80s.

Jellybean necklace in my classroom

What does that mean?

We're studying The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in seventh grade. I read the novel when I was young and didn't enjoy it, most likely because I didn't take the time to understand it. Mark Twain's attention to dialect plus archaic cultural references can be daunting.

Teaching the text has been an unexpected gift. My students and I reread passages, ask questions, discuss social norms of the 19th century and marvel at Twain's ability to capture human nature. Every time they ask, "What does that mean?" we work together to discover the answer.

I'm thankful for our one week each year, the first full week in May, when families and communities go out of their way to show gratitude to teachers. Every gift and note is a sweet reminder of why we teach.

Just as meaningful, though, are the everyday interactions and contributions from students — precious poems and candy necklaces and literary epiphanies. Those are the moments that fuel us to the end of May.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

This single mom's May survival kit: An organized calendar, a sense of humor and plenty of naps

From Saturday's Briefing:

Long weekends in springtime are dangerous, as they give children and their parents a hint of summer. Sunshine beckons and bedtimes lengthen.

Yet the freedom is fleeting, and soon real life looms again.

We enjoyed four days off in Frisco last week. I used one day to clean the house. Another to run errands and cook. Another to celebrate Easter with family. By Monday I was worn out. There were still more house projects (that list is long). There was a stack of papers to grade. There were meals to plan and prep.

My body and mind, though, told me to stop. To sit in the big green chair and do nothing. To watch the first 30 minutes of West Side Story before succumbing to a nap.

I felt a twinge of guilt and heard the murmur of unorganized closets and ungraded poems and unchopped vegetables.

Louder than those whispers of guilt, though, was the rolling thunder that announces May — that glorious season of celebration, the 31 days that give December competition for the title of Most Overbooked Month of the Year.

I'm no stranger to the bittersweet and exhausting demands of May. It's wise practice to conserve energy and strength in advance of this emotional rollercoaster.

This year's combination is the most powerful in the Damm house so far: single mom who's a teacher plus daughter finishing middle school plus son graduating from high school. There's not a moment I want to miss.

Our family's calendar includes but is not limited to multiple STAAR and AP exams, a band concert, two performances of Schoolhouse Rock Jr., booster club scholarship night, alumni receptions at elementary and middle schools, baccalaureate, senior Sunday at church, mentorship presentation night and the moment that Cooper has been working toward for 13 years of public school — graduation.

It's a moment that I've been working toward for almost 18 years, nurturing and pushing, cajoling and applauding my firstborn toward a finish line that's also a launching pad. All of the work and love leading to this moment feels like a lifetime and a blip all at once.

I have no intentions of bemoaning our celebrations, scorning our milestones or wishing away a single day. I've learned to embrace all that May represents, even when it makes me weepy or weary.

These events showcase individual progress and teamwork toward a common goal. They celebrate learning from mistakes, taking risks and persevering. They acknowledge that it's a community of family, friends, teachers and coaches who help to raise a child. They offer a tidy end to one season and invite a new season to begin. 

Experience tells me that the whole month of May is more joyful when you face it with a game plan that includes but is not limited to synchronized calendars, shortcuts for meals, a ready supply of Kleenex, a sense of humor and a whole bunch of grace for yourself and your people.

Katie and Cooper, Easter Sunday 2019

I've also learned to revel in whatever downtime presents itself. We'll share as many low-key meals together as possible. We'll recap our day and share plans for tomorrow. We'll ignore the chores that can wait in favor of needed breaks and the comfort of one another's company.

I'm ready for you, May — for your flashy shindigs and hushed moments, for your reminders of full lives and hard work, for your symbolic conclusions and convocations. (And please don't be offended if I take a nap or two.)

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

We need shared experiences to remain in community — so go outside and start living

From Saturday's Briefing:

It's easy, too easy, to live inside.

We're a click away from groceries, movies, paper towels. We can ask our artificially intelligent speakers to give us current weather conditions or play radio hits from 1989. In the comfort of our homes, we aren't forced to interact with anyone we don't know.

Yet there's untold value in living outside.

Our sofa cushions were lonely last weekend. The only entertainment we sought was out in the real world. We rooted for the home team and enjoyed two live stage performances, surrounded every time by like-minded strangers.

Friday night was devoted to a Frisco RoughRiders game. I am a fair-weather fan, preferring baseball in the glory of April. You're not sweaty by the time you walk from the parking garage to the entry gates. There are no heat-related tantrums in the park. No matter your team, there's still hope for a winning season.

A trip to the Frisco ballpark is inexpensive and social all at once. We always run into friends. We chat with folks seated nearby and in concession lines.

On this visit, a fan was wearing both an Auburn University T-shirt and a University of Alabama pullover. My son, who will attend Auburn beginning in the fall, was intrigued and struck up a conversation. We learned that he's a diehard Alabama fan first, the SEC second. He was ready to cheer for the Auburn Tigers in the Final Four and wished Cooper luck as he begins a new journey.

We all stood up and sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." I'm a terrible singer, I but I always belt that one with gusto, emboldened by the crowds.

The next night we settled in at a local theater to support one of my former students. Princess Whatsername offered mashed-up fairy tales performed by elementary- and middle-school children. They almost always remembered their cues and lines.

We were wowed by some of the singing voices (much better than mine) and smooth dance moves. We belly-laughed when the 5-year-old bear roared with ferocity. We knew almost no one on stage, but we cheered for each of them like they were our own.

And then the next day one of our dreams came true. We attended the Sunday matinee of Hamilton at the Music Hall at Fair Park.

This was a repeat watching; we lucked into tickets for a performance in Chicago in 2017 and have been reminiscing about it ever since, hoping for a chance to see the musical again. (I vowed to keep my own singing in my head.)

Photo by Joan Marcus
The Schuyler Sisters from Hamilton

There's something magical about being in the same space and experiencing similar emotions as 3,000 other people.

Chills when the first note hits.

Laughter when King George saunters on the stage.

Holding your breath when Eliza sings about her husband's affair.

Sobbing when she later mourns the death of their son.

Leaping to your feet when the last note ends, wishing you could stay for the next performance.

I'm thankful for Amazon Prime, high-speed internet access and on-demand viewing. There are evenings when I've had enough of other people, thank you very much, and want to retreat to my cozy home with only my own people.

Yet we need shared experiences to remain in community. We need to clap, cheer, groan, sing, dance, laugh and cry together — with people we know and people we may never see again.

Spring is the best time in North Texas for a festival. Get out and listen to some live music. Find a school performance nearby. Go to a game — any game — and enjoy the camaraderie of the crowd. Let's leave our cozy cocoons long enough to meet one another in the lobby, in the stands, in line for snacks and to celebrate living together.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

In an increasingly virtual world, there's truly no substitute for nature's beauty

From Saturday's Briefing and in today's Dallas Morning News:

Cooper at Monument Valley

One of the great joys of travel is rediscovering the wonders of our earth and the complexity of our spirits.

Our recent spring break included a three-day tour of the Southwest, allowing us to explore land that we'd only ever seen on National Geographic calendars and computer screensavers.

Katie, Cooper & Tyra at the Grand Canyon

Cooper, Katie and I hiked along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking nonstop about the colors, dusting of snow, unusual rock formations and incredible enormity of the park. We'd stop often to admire the scenery from different angles. We took dozens of photos.

We were excited to reach the entry to Bright Angel Trail, hoping to hike down a mile or so to fully appreciate the canyon's proportions. We were confident in our abilities and heartened when we passed older travelers returning from the trail. They were a sturdy bunch but at least 30 years older than me and 60 years older than my children — surely we could tackle Bright Angel.

One glance at the trail itself, though, and we were defeated. Recent snow had melted, frozen and turned to ice. The steep incline appeared treacherous. Unlike those senior citizens, we lacked ice cleats and walking sticks. We passed the trailhead and kept walking along the rim, impressed by the athleticism of those septuagenarians, humbled by our lack of preparation and awed by beauty at every turn.

Katie at Monument Valley

The next day we toured Monument Valley, an iconic region in the middle of the Navajo Nation, straddling Utah and Arizona. Sandstone buttes punctuate the landscape, made famous in the past century by cowboy movies and Forrest Gump.

Our Navajo guides drove us through the backcountry and stopped occasionally to let us roam. We scrambled up rock and slid through sand. We admired Moccasin Arch and Eye of the Sun, potholes high in the rock created by water erosion. We spied Anasazi petroglyphs on walls and remnants of pottery on the ground.

I couldn't have asked for more.

And then our guides surprised us with music.

One played a wooden flute, the notes echoing off rock walls. The other chanted a traditional Dine song while he played a small drum.

We were wowed by nature and humbled by humanity's own art.

Later that afternoon, we wandered through Antelope Canyon, a slot canyon in northern Arizona known for its curved walls, waves of color and peek-a-boo sunbeams. We were halfway through the tour, surrounded by gorgeous sandstone chiseled by millions of years of floodwaters, when angelic sound flooded the canyon.

A women's choir had burst into song, taking full advantage of the canyon's natural acoustics. Our tour group stopped, made room in the narrow passageway and listened as choir members shared their gifts with strangers.

The whole scene was like heaven on earth.

In an increasingly virtual world, there's truly no substitute for standing on the edge of a cliff at Lake Powell, studying the Colorado River as it winds around Horseshoe Bend. Or for hiking up a trail at Zion National Park to stand beneath Weeping Rock and rejoice in sprays of water.

There's also no substitute for making friends along trails or enjoying impromptu concerts in the wild. We don't have to leave the state or even the county to forge new adventures, but we do have to leave the comfort of our homes and our routines to discover fresh reminders of the breadth and depth of our planet and of our souls.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.