Wheels On Down the Road

Tag: Midlife Musings

  • What If Columbus Never Found America?

    What If Columbus Never Found America?

    Reflecting on imagination, history, and the worlds that might have been.

    Today is Columbus Day or, as many now call it, Indigenous Peoples’ Day. Every year, this day reminds me how much history depends on who’s telling the story. It also makes me think about which voices have been left out.

    As a writer, I find myself wondering: what if Columbus had never “discovered” America? What if the Europeans had never crossed the ocean at all? How would North America appear in 2025 if it were still solely inhabited by the Indigenous peoples? These people lived here for millennia. How would Europe appear if it had never gone west?

    I imagine a North America. Ancient trade routes and alliances evolved into something like modern nations. They were guided by very different values. Forests might still stand where highways now run. Rivers might remain clean and central to community life. Cities, if they existed, might be built around natural cycles. They would be shaped by harmony with the land rather than dominance over it. Technology could exist. It might be woven from a different kind of intelligence. This intelligence values balance over speed. It prioritizes sustainability over conquest.

    And Europe? Maybe it would have turned inward instead of outward. Without the wealth and resources drawn from colonization, kingdoms might have fallen or transformed sooner. The Renaissance might have taken a different shape. Europe’s hunger for expansion could have redirected east. This change might have led to deeper ties or conflicts with Asia and Africa. Industrialization might have come later, or not at all. My ancestors from Norway and Sweden might have stayed as farmers. They might have tended the same land for generations. They might have not ventured west to settle Minnesota.

    It’s all speculation, of course — a story that can’t be told without imagination. But as fascinating as these possibilities are, I have to remind myself: this isn’t my story to tell alone. I’m descended from the people who came here, not from those who were already here. The truth and texture of that alternate America would belong to its original storytellers.

    Maybe those stories already exist. If they do, I’d love to read them — and if anyone knows of them, please share in the comments. And if they don’t, maybe it’s not my place to start them. I wouldn’t know where or how to begin without the voices that truly know what might have been.

    Still, I’d love to hear what others think. How do you think North America might look today if Columbus had never made that voyage? What changes do you imagine for Europe? What kind of world do you picture?

    Until then, I’ll keep that question close. It serves not as a fantasy, but as a reminder of how one voyage reshaped the world. It also reflects on how different it all might have been if the winds had blown another way.

  • The Name Between the Lines

    The Name Between the Lines

    Becoming Myself, One Letter at a Time

    There’s a strange gravity in a name.

    It’s the first thing we’re given, often before we take our first breath. Names come with stories, family histories, hopes, even inside jokes. They can be reminders of who we come from, or quiet promises of who someone hoped we’d become.

    Sometimes, we grow into them. Sometimes, we grow around them. And sometimes, if we’re really lucky, we realize we need a name that fits where we’ve been. If we’re really brave, we choose a name that fits where we’re going.

    That’s what this post is about.

    I’ve always liked my middle name.

    Allen. It’s simple, unassuming, it’s always felt right. It carries a softness, a steadiness that felt like home.

    It’s not loud or dramatic. Allen felt like a foundation, something I can rest on. And in ways I couldn’t fully name at the time, it felt like me.

    I’ve realized something interesting. I’m not the only one in my family who felt this pull toward a middle name. My grandpa Garfield was not actually born Garfield at all. His given name was Oscar Garfield Dokken.

    From what I’ve pieced together in conversations with family, he chose to go by Garfield. He already had an uncle named Oscar and probably did not want the two of them to be confused.

    That makes perfect sense. When I was a kid, I had a friend named Levi. When our families got together, there were two Levis in the same space. Every time someone called out “Levi,” there was that moment of uncertainty: which one? Looking back, I think that would’ve been a perfect time for me to lean into Allen.

    Maybe Grandpa understood something I’m only just beginning to. Sometimes a name is about more than identity. It’s about clarity, belonging, and creating space for yourself.

    That’s how I landed on Alyn. I know it’s a different spelling from my true middle name. Then again, I am a little different, so my name should be too.

    It’s not a world apart from who I’ve been it’s just… closer to who I am. A little softer around the edges. A little more neutral, a little more fluid. It’s Allen with a twist. It lets me breathe.

    I haven’t decided yet if I’ll change it legally. For now, this isn’t about paperwork or government forms it’s about alignment. About answering to something that feels a little more like me. About hearing a name and not flinching because it doesn’t quite match the reflection I see in my mind.

    Of course, it’s not that simple.

    Names carry meaning, not just for us, but for the people who gave them to us. For family, it isn’t just a label it’s something they chose with care. It could be tied to memory, a legacy and love.

    I understand that. I honor that. Part of me worries that in choosing something new, I’ll seem ungrateful, or like I’m rejecting something sacred.

    But here’s what I want those people to know: I’m not erasing anything. I’m not undoing the name I was given. I’m just building on it. Adding a chapter. Letting myself evolve.

    I’m still me. Still your kid. Still your friend. Still your cousin, your sibling, your grandchild. Just… more me-shaped now.

    Trying on Allyn, Becoming Alyn

    I started experimenting with a small change spelling Allen with a y. “Allyn.” It looked different, felt different. Like trying on a jacket that just fits better.

    At first, it was just between me and my therapist, then a small circle of friends. The more I used it, the more it felt like breathing freely.

    Later, I tried another variation: Alyn.

    I started using it with the same small group of friends. It became a place where I could test the waters. I could hear “Alyn” out loud or in text. I felt how it settled into my bones.

    Now, I’m taking that step into the light with this name. Like coming out in the LGBTQIA+ community, this takes a great amount of courage. To come out in this way, in a public setting, takes an even greater amount of courage.

    Some people will adjust quickly. Some might need time. And that’s okay. I’m still getting used to it too. Every time someone uses it, it feels like a little internal click, a quiet “yes.”

    And when people still call me Levi, I understand. That name still holds truth, too. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about becoming.

    When the Name Comes Out Before You Do

    Like I said earlier, I was only sharing it with a small group of people. I was changing it on my streaming platform profiles seeing how it looked to me. I wasn’t ready to share it beyond my small circle just yet. Then, about a few days ago, that changed.

    I recently made a small change on my iPhone. I updated my contact information to show the name I’d been trying on. What I didn’t realize was that Apple shares those changes with anyone in my contacts who also has an iPhone. Suddenly, my new name was in front of friends and family I hadn’t told yet.

    The questions came quickly: “Who’s Alyn?”

    In that instant, I was outed in a way I hadn’t planned. But maybe that’s the thing about names — sometimes they refuse to stay hidden. Sometimes they insist on being seen, even before we’re ready. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe a name knows the right time better than we do.

    A Name Doesn’t Have to Be Legal to Be Real

    There’s this idea that identity only counts when it comes with documentation. That it only matters once you’ve filled out a form, paid a fee, stood in line. But I don’t believe that.

    My name is real the moment I say, “this is what I want to be called.”

    It’s real the first time someone uses it gently. The first time someone says, “Hi Alyn.” The first time I say it in the mirror and smile.

    There’s power in naming yourself. Quiet, grounded, liberating power. And you don’t need permission to do it.

    If You’re Struggling With This…It’s Okay

    If you’re reading this and feeling a little unsettled, I see you. Maybe you’re someone who’s known me as Levi for a long time. Maybe you’re trying to make sense of how this fits with the person you thought you knew.

    I am still the person you know. I haven’t changed all that much from the person I was the last time we talked. I am just finally deciding how best to live my true authentic self.

    You don’t have to get it all at once. You don’t have to understand everything to respect it. You don’t have to stop loving who I was to also love who I’m becoming.

    Just keep showing up. Keep asking if you have questions. If you call me Levi, I won’t get upset. I’ll just gently remind you if you forget.

    For Me, For Now

    I don’t know exactly what’s ahead. Maybe I’ll legally change it someday like grandpa Garfield did. Then again maybe I won’t.

    What I do know is this: I get to choose. I get to be honest. And I get to love myself enough to ask for something that fits.

    So…hi. I’m Alyn.

    It’s nice to meet you (again).

  • Passengers on the Journey: Reflections on Loss and Memory

    Passengers on the Journey: Reflections on Loss and Memory

    As I get older, I find myself more aware of death. I am more aware than I ever was in my twenties or even thirties. It feels like more and more people I’ve known, whether from childhood, family, or community, are passing away. Each loss isn’t just about the person; it’s about the piece of my own history that goes with them.

    A Friend of Garfield’s

    Just this past week, I learned that one of my grandpa Garfield’s friends passed away. This man used to drive for the Heartland Express bus in my hometown. He would sometimes pick me up and take me to school when I was in early elementary school.

    Although I didn’t know him closely, I knew he had a friendship my grandpa. Watching his funeral service online, I felt the depth of their friendship. It reminded me that the people who shape our families’ lives, even at the edges, help shape our own too.

    Saying Goodbye to Colleen

    This summer, the loss came much closer. I said goodbye to my friend Colleen, who passed away after a battle with cancer. Last month, I attended her memorial service and had the honor of speaking. In preparation, I had written a eulogy.

    I didn’t end up delivering it in full. I made sure to share it with her daughter. She told me how much it meant to her. For me, that was just as important. Writing those words wasn’t only about what I needed to say. It was about preserving what Colleen meant to me and sharing it with those who loved her most.

    Here is the eulogy I wrote for her:

    There’s a part of me that feels like an outsider here today. It’s been so long. So many of you knew her in ways I didn’t. You saw chapters of her life that I missed. But I hope you’ll let me speak from the part of her story that I did know the years when she was a steady presence in my life, helping me grow into the person I am.

    It’s probably been over twenty years since I last saw Colleen. Life took us in different directions, as it does. We lost touch. But coming together now to honor her memory, I’m reminded that the connections that shape us don’t always follow a straight path or come with a tidy ending. I realized that even after all this time, the lessons she left me with, the care she gave, the way she made me feel like I mattered—those things are still with me. And maybe sharing that is one small way to honor her.

    It’s hard to put into words what someone like Colleen meant to me. We met during a season of change in my life when everything felt new and uncertain, and I didn’t quite know what I needed.

    I had just moved to Hutchinson and had recently started receiving PCA services. I remember the first time I met her. Frazzled hair, green sweatpants, sweatshirt the picture of someone who had already lived through half a day’s chaos before 9 a.m. But right away, she brought something into my world that I didn’t know I was missing: understanding. Patience. The kind of grounded presence that makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.

    She helped me learn how to navigate the system, yes—but more importantly, she helped me find confidence in myself. She didn’t just do her job; she showed up as a person. A kind, no-nonsense, fiercely loyal person who stayed by my side through some of life’s hardest transitions.

    Over time, Colleen became more than a caregiver. She became a friend. As time went on, our relationship grew beyond the usual roles. That’s where I met Lizzy—her daughter. At the time, Lizzy was this awkward teenager who probably wanted nothing to do with this random kid her mom had brought into their world. And now, she’s become an amazing young woman and a mother herself. I know Colleen would be proud. No—is proud. That much, I have no doubt.

    Colleen always took care of people. That was just in her nature. She made sure people had food to eat, a place to sit, and if you needed to crash on the couch—well, rules were more like suggestions. I’m sure letting me stay over more than once probably broke some kind of policy, but I don’t think she cared. Colleen wasn’t one for letting bureaucracy get in the way of doing the right thing.

    I remember one specific time, right before I moved to the Twin Cities for college. I had a campus visit coming up, and the logistics were… complicated. My dad was going on the visit with me. He would’ve had to drive all over creation from Benson to Hutchinson to Minneapolis and back again. Colleen just looked at the map and said, “I’ll drive you.” And she did. On the way home, she even offered to take a detour so I could visit my grandma, who was in a nursing home in Minneapolis at the time. That’s who she was—always thinking about how to make things easier for the people she cared about.

    The last time I saw her before I moved we promised we’d stay in touch and we did for a while I even remember calling her on my 21st birthday a little tipsy and she got mad at me because I shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with the meds I was on. 

    Even though we eventually lost touch, the impact she had on my life didn’t fade. You don’t forget someone who shows up for you when you’re still figuring out who you are—who makes space for you in their home and their heart without asking for anything in return.

    Colleen was more than my PCA. She was a guide, a protector, and a friend. And even all these years later, the memories of her kindness, her humor, her complete disregard for red tape when someone needed help they’ve stuck with me. And I suspect I’m not the only one who could say the same.

    She took care of people. That was her gift. And the world is better for it.

    Even though I didn’t read the entire eulogy aloud, writing it felt like my way of saying goodbye. Sharing it was also my way of bidding farewell.

    Family Losses

    Of course, loss doesn’t stop with friends. My family has been touched by death too. All of my grandparents have passed. Grandpa Garfield in 1992. Grandpa Roger followed in 1994. Grandma Jonnette in 2004. Grandma Marlys in 2022. Over the years, I’ve also said goodbye to aunts, uncles, and cousins.

    I’m fortunate that both of my parents are still alive. That’s not the case for my partner. In August, he lost his father after a long struggle with dementia.

    Watching him walk through that grief has reminded me that loss affects us differently. It depends on timing, relationships, and the battles fought along the way.

    The Four-Legged Companions

    And grief isn’t reserved for humans alone. Over the years, I’ve also had to say goodbye to the four-legged friends who shaped my life. My black cat, Spaz. My first service dog, Dempsey. My childhood horse, Comanche. Even my first hamster, Sir Henry Lipton, and my second hamster, Bert.

    Riding with my buddy Comanche.
    Sir Henry and Kalo meeting.
    “Hello my name is Bert thank you for bringing me home.”
    Spaz and Dempsey hanging out together.

    Each of them carried their own kind of love, their own kind of presence. Their roles in my life were different from the humans I’ve lost, but their impact was no less meaningful. Their loss is still noted, still acknowledged, still woven into the fabric of who I am.

    What Grief Has Taught Me

    When I step back, what strikes me most is how loss accumulates over time. At nearly 42, death isn’t an abstract idea anymore. It’s a thread woven through my own story. Sometimes this happens in small ways, like a bus driver who was briefly part of my life. At other times, it affects me in deeply personal ways. These include Colleen, my grandparents, and the animals who gave me unconditional love.

    I don’t pretend to have answers about how to handle death. What I do know is this: the people and creatures we lose remain with us in the stories we tell. They are also present in the habits we keep.

    Additionally, they stay with us in the ways they shaped us. That’s what makes memory so sacred—it refuses to let death have the last word.

    Closing Reflections

    Life is a lot like that old Heartland Express bus. People get on and people get off. Some rides are long and some are short. But every passenger, whether human or animal, leaves an imprint on the journey.

    I’ve come to see loss not as an ending but as part of the fabric of living. Each goodbye, whether to a grandparent, a friend, or a four-legged companion, stitches another thread into who I am. And the road ahead is stronger because it carries all of them with me.

  • The Speed of Time

    The Speed of Time

    There’s been so much happening this week that I didn’t even realize tomorrow is Friday.

    Wasn’t it just Tuesday?

    Next thing I know, summer will be over. The sun will dip behind the trees a little earlier each night. The evenings will turn crisp. And soon enough, we’ll be brushing snow from our coats and wondering where the warm days went.

    I’ve only gone camping once this year. Once. And I’d like to go again before the snow flies and the long stillness of winter sets in.

    Time is strange like that.

    When you’re young, it drags. You want to grow up so badly to reach that next milestone. You want to finally be old enough to drive, to graduate, to move out.

    It feels like everything worth having is just out of reach, waiting on some distant shore.

    Then you get there.

    In college and those early years afterward, time starts to pick up. It begins to move at a steady jog instead of a crawl. You’re chasing things: jobs, rent, friendships, maybe love. You’re figuring things out. Some days still feel long, but the years start to feel shorter.

    And then you hit 30.

    At least, I did. And from that point on, it’s like time strapped on a pair of rocket boosters.

    Now I’m 41. Almost 42. And I can’t help but wonder what is the speed of time going to feel like when I’m 60?

    Or 70?

    Or…God help me…90?

    Will it keep accelerating until months feel like days and years like a blink?

    I don’t know. But what I do know is this: moments are all we really get.

    Little flashes. Fireflies in a jar. A dog curled up beside you. The crunch of gravel underfoot on a summer walk. The way the air smells before a storm. A cup of coffee in the early morning sun. A smile from a stranger.

    That’s all life is, in the end. A string of fleeting, fragile moments.

    So I’m trying, really trying, to enjoy them. To notice them. To breathe them in before they vanish.

    Because time doesn’t stop. But I can.

    Even if just for a moment.