Coping Is Dope

4 min readApr 9, 2021
Here I Come, Photo by BradensEye featuring Hoolawa Stream overpass stumble-upon from Twin Falls hike

Bolstering our jolts is sage labor. This is where I think everybody wants to be kosher. When it pains, it pours. Traumatic attacks to our nervous systems often proceed similar to a minefield of exploitive grenades. Sneaky fuckers, they rage at their own discretionary pleasure full tilt trying to sweep all of the fun out of being awake. Doomsday mode tends to topple as dominoes in a row. There you were swimming in the sea, rambunctious for a potential romance, pounding back pounds of succulent laughter with friends or the equivalent in eats, wrapped in the warmth of chatting away to family, serenely sipping tea, or demurely waxing the unwinding of minding your own business when the universe levels you with any gut-punching knockouts you never saw hurdling your way. Mayhem loves the low road. Yet, coping is dope use of all of our senses.

Determined to save
The only life you could save. ~
Mary Oliver, The Journey, from Dream Work

Meandering our personal menageries can offer shades of sweet liberty. Our souls donned this vessel with nada a proper operational manual tucked to our wings. That’s quite a handicap! (Which sidelines me to mention that whoever crafted that word with its definition must have tumbled through a few too many you-fill-in-the-blank-whatever-nasty-addiction = There’s scarcity in matters looking ‘handy’ when commenting about handicaps.) Shock therapy is my ‘original’ excuse for booking a deluxe Indiana Jones-style adventure through this thing we call “body”. Tribulations revealed, as a kid, I truly hated the game hide-and-seek. While acknowledging a flair for the dramatic when an assault on my senses is still in progress, it’s actually the seeker role I abhorred. I was all set for hiding for hours if needs be. Prescient, those messages ourselves have to glean.

Oh, how depleting, that agony of defeat. Why should anyone intend further than retreat? Hive tacticians typically have us clinging to avoidance when the poop hits the fan. If you’re me (and, mind you, I doubt a bunch of you have done this, so give it a new whirl if not) you’ve played that proverbial one out as a visual logistical nightmare. I mean, imagine you’re in someplace where piles of shit are exploding in all sorts of directions beneath and around you from heaps of it getting tossed into a fan above you. Yeah, right!?!! That’s no small picnic…




LOVER of life. Especially people, places, philanthropy, pondering, and photography.