Getting Nowhere Fast

Let me begin with an apology to anyone who reads PRISM and wonders why I have abandoned this little blog. I confess I have been busy with The Writing Life (my other blog) on which I have been writing a book. The writing was supposed to take six months, but being an obsessive soul, I poured it out in about 10 weeks. I’m sure it will take every bit of six months to accomplish the next 15 steps on my list and get it from first draft to published book. Never again will I be cavalier with my students or clients, hinting that they should “just do it.” I am certainly reminded of how difficult the doing of each step turns out to be.

Please forgive me. I am truly sorry for deserting you.

PRISM is supposed to reflect on the many colors of life. I can’t decide what color to assign to my subject—blue, perhaps. It is Monday morning, and instead of feeling terribly refreshed after my restful weekend, I can’t even remember the weekend. It was merely a doubly intense extension of the workweek, leading to another workweek. Suffice to say, I am feeling a bit frazzled around the edges, due to failure to take even a short break. There is something wrong with this picture.

Well (I say, defensively), I have a lot to do. I am SO busy. In fact, I am on overwhelm (my favorite phrase). What am I so busy doing? Well, writing for, talking to, and serving my clients, of course (the technical side of the business).

Assembling my 2009 financial records for my accountant and packing away last year's bills and receipts. Trying to work my way through the stack of papers that demand attention NOW. Paying bills, sending invoices, and all the things the “business manager” (that would be me) has to do.

Working on my marketing plan, newsletter, website, and articles. Creating a new website for the book I am writing. Managing a LinkedIn writers’ group. Trying, not too successfully, to stay current with FaceBook and twitter and other relevant online groups. Responding to e-mail queries from potential clients (wearing my marketing hat).

Did I mention keeping my condo livable and clean, doing laundry, running errands, grocery shopping, trying to squeeze in a social activity or two, and volunteering for my one and only worthy cause (the other side of my life)?

There are two ways to look at this list: (1) it is indeed overwhelming and no one could do it, or (2) it is the standard job description of any one-woman business owner. Other people do it; I know they do. And they even manage to go to a movie or out to dinner once in a while. Obviously, I need some serious time management counseling here. The problem is, I’ve had counseling in the past and seem to have forgotten every thing I ever knew. And (this is embarrassing), I’ve ever co-written (with Rene Richards) a book on the subject called Get Organized.

I think I’ll reread it.

The Principle of Impermanance

I have never been a lover of clichés and expressions, which every writer knows to use sparingly or not at all. Yet, there’s one born every minute (as they say), and I cringe anew every time I hear the newest saying. Don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s all small stuff was a particularly wordy one from a while back. Then, there are the old, dependables (some of which are passé): Don’t go there … at the end of the day … back in the day … it’s all good … my bad … talk to the hand … and my personal favorite, whatever.

The one I hear most often lately, whenever some nasty event is gong on in my life, is it is what it is. This is meant to convey wisdom, I suppose. It’s a fact. It’s happening. There’s nothing you can do about it. I love the definition I found online in The Urban Dictionary: “This incredibly versatile phrase can be literally translated as "f___ it." Ah, yes.

When I complain or lament about some aspect of my life to someone, and he (it’s usually a he) responds with it is what it is, there is simply no comeback. It’s a showstopper. I can’t argue, no it isn’t! Or it’s not fair. I would sound like a three-year-old.

I’ve given far too much thought to this stupid phrase, which will go its way like all such pieces of pseudo wisdom eventually do. But like so many real clichés, as opposed to stupid expressions, it is what it is actually does mean something: here's this thing that’s happening. It’s a single event in a single moment.

So, what are my options? Well, I can rail and scream about it, I can ignore it, or I can step back and observe it dispassionately. That’s hard to do when I'm in the middle of a mess, but it’s possible with practice. It even has a name: mindfulness.

I’ve probably read a dozen books on mindfulness, but basically it means paying attention, on purpose—not doing anything—just observing. Then, the most amazing thing happens: whatever I am observing changes in some way. It is one thing for a moment; then, it’s something else. If it is what it is means this is what’s happening right now, if I wait a while, something else will be happening. Nothing stays exactly the way for very long. Everything is constantly changing. Wait a minute, and what is will become what was.

When life is a mess, this is a very comforting thought.

The Return of Perspective

Viktor Frankl wrote that problems are like molecules of gas confined in a container. If the container is small, the molecules huddle together; if the container is large, they put enough space between them to fill the whole thing. Frankl said it much more eloquently, of course, but the lesson is clear. Problems, like molecules of gas, expand to fill one’s life, taking up whatever room is available. What’s not so clear, though, is which of those problems deserve attention and which aren’t worth our energy. In other words, of all the annoyances, disappointments, and stressors that assail us each day, which ones really matter?

Sometimes, it’s hard to tell. Everything takes on the same appearance of importance. Someone steals the parking space you were about to pull into; your boss makes a ridiculous request; you lose an account; you misplace your debit card; you feel like you’re coming down with a cold; traffic is at a standstill, and you have an appointment. In all, your molecules are spread out all all over the place, and they are fighting for your attention.

Then, you get a call from the school. Your daughter has fallen off the top of a pyramid at cheerleading practice and broken her arm. The school nurse is taking her to the emergency room.

In the space of a single sentence, you know what matters. It isn’t your stuffy head or lost account or unreasonable boss. It’s your daughter and her broken arm. The other problems shrink in size or simply disappear. You wonder why you let them get to you, as you focus on driving to the emergency room to comfort your daughter and assess the seriousness of her fracture.

We all encounter problems every day, ranging from minor annoyances to major catastrophes. I hear them from friends and strangers. They assail me on the news and the Internet. I obsess over my own. And then something big happens (big being a relative term) that pulls me up short and screams in my ear: Get a grip. The rest of this stuff is nothing more than mere molecules.

And for a while, anyway, my perspective returns.

A Little Help From My Friends

Most of us would rather be givers than takers. We prefer do a favor or buy a gift for someone else than accept one. We shudder at the idea that we might ever be dependent on our children for financial or physical assistance. We do not want to be a burden.

I was in a discussion group a while ago where this subject came up. One couple had lived in China and Africa for several years and described the tradition and, in fact, the law that mandates the care of aging parents by their children. “It’s accepted. In fact, it’s expected,” they said. “This is the only society we know of where this is not the case.”

Those of us over 60 were intrigued but not convinced. No way will that happen, we said, though not all of us really knew how we would make it to 90 in our present financial circumstances.

Sometimes, we just need help, and there is no way around it. We are sick or broke or have an accident or surgery and simply can’t get through this particular crisis alone. We either have to ask for help or accept it when it’s offered. I had such an experience today. I had to have a minor medical procedure, and the doctor insisted that I have someone drive me home when it was over. I considered taking a cab, but, in terms of getting home, this was not acceptable.

I mentioned this to my workout partner, who said, “No problem. I’ll drive you there,” settling the matter in five seconds. I thought I had the ride home taken care of when it fell through this morning. I didn’t want to do it, but I called another friend and said I needed a favor. “Of course,” she responded. “Do you have a ride there? I’ll be happy to pick you up, stay with you, and bring you home.” I was very touched but assured her I had the first one covered and would be fine alone. She and her husband picked me up in a dismal rain, walked me to my door, and kissed me goodbye.

I’m doing as the doctor ordered: taking it easy for the rest of the day. I’m also contemplating the value of good friends who graciously came through when I needed them. Sometimes, despite our stubbornness on this issue, it really is better to receive than to give.

B.F.F. (Best Friends Forever)

I talked to my oldest friend today—I don’t mean in age; I mean in years of friendship. We met in 1949 in seventh grade on the south side of Chicago. We were twelve. Being a mathematical wizard, I just figured out we have been friends for 60 years. No matter how you look at it, that’s pretty amazing.

If someone had told me then that we would be on the phone, in our seventies, living 2000 miles apart, but still sharing confidences and comparing notes, I’d have rolled my eyes in disbelief. Yeah, right. (Of course, in those days we neither rolled our eyes nor said, yeah, right.)

Seventh grade was before either of us had been out on a first date, put on lipstick, or understood the concept of being “popular.” We fought with her big brother, baby sat for my little sister, and lamented that our mothers didn’t understand us. She sang and danced; I drew and painted. We stormed through adolescence, doubled dated in high school, and lived different lives at college.

She got married and had a baby when we ourselves were still babies. She lived on a kibbutz, while I went to fraternity parties on campus. She was unconventional and free spirited; I moved through the stages of my life as if I were following an invisible plan. We both learned about divorce the hard way. She got a master’s degree and remarried. I built a life as a writer. Her life looked exciting to me; I’m not sure how mine seemed to her. Now, she is retired, and I have reinvented myself, yet again.

Years passed, always finding us in different cities but somehow keeping the ties of our friendship firmly knotted. We saw each other infrequently, always swearing we would celebrate our next milestone birthday or anniversary together but never quite pulling it off.

Now, suddenly, six decades have passed, and we realize we can’t always assume we’ll get together sometime soon. What if there is no sometime soon? What if there is only now, and we are blowing it by thinking we have forever? No one has forever. Few people have friendships that remain intact and intimate for so long. Life is unpredictable, uncertain.

That’s why we are making definite plans for Christmas 2009 to celebrate our extraordinary friendship.

Life: The Endlessly Passing Show

I used to have a beautiful hand painted-sign that read: This too shall pass away. It meant the difficult times I was going through wouldn’t last, which I found hard to believe as I stood in the eye of my personal storm. Eventually, though, the storm did pass, and I moved on with my life. That was my first lesson in the Buddhist concept of impermanence, though I was far from grasping the idea at the time.

It is almost 40 years later. The sign is long gone, but its wisdom remains. Here’s what I have learned: Things change. Life is dynamic, like a river. It just keeps flowing, taking with it experiences we are glad to be rid of and those we had hoped to keep. Nothing is more dramatic proof of that than the recession that is not quite over.

People who were busy living their lives—going to work, enjoying their homes, buying things, watching their kids play soccer—suddenly felt as if they had been hit by a tsunami. Businesses, jobs, homes, income, security, gone—not only here in the U.S., but worldwide. That’s impermanence with a capital I.

A recession, a hurricane, a flood, death or divorce, bankruptcy, and illness are all pretty dramatic ways to learn that things change when we least expect them to. On the flip side, they can change in wonderful ways: a wedding, a new baby, a windfall, a best seller. These are the changes we welcome.

In 1970, a guy named Richard Alpert, who became Ram Dass, wrote a book called Be Here Now. He was trying to tell westerners what Eastern religions have been teaching for centuries: Enjoy now because now is all we have. He was right, of course. Joseph Goldstein, one of the earliest teachers of mindfulness meditation in this country and the author of One Dharma, was more poetic when he wrote: “All experience is part of an endlessly passing show.”

Now, that is a thought to meditate on.

A Celebration of Women

I went to the library, in a big hurry and desperate for a good mystery. Bad combination. All the current, best-selling mysteries were gory (what with that?), and I found myself standing at the new nonfiction section. I’ve always felt that the right book falls into my hands at the exact moment I need to read it, and once again, that’s what happened. Suddenly, I was holding Cokie Roberts’ 10^th anniversary edition of We Are Our Mothers’ Daughters. I left the library with that single little book … well, little, fat, 319-page book.

I'm a big Cokie Roberts fan. I love her voice, her incisive comments, and the breadth of her knowledge about what’s happening on the hill when she appears on NPR. Actually, I'm also a fan of her husband, Steve Roberts, who often subs for Dianne Rehm on NPR. Nobody manages a discussion better than he does. Recently, I have discovered Rebecca Roberts who does the greatest interviews on (you guessed it) NPR. She, too, has a warm, distinctive style. This is one incredible family.

We Are Our Mothers’ Daughters encompasses the personal, the political, and the profound. It is part memoir, part history, but mostly a celebration of women. It weaves intimate stories of Roberts’ own life with those of her amazing family, today’s headliners, and more obscure heroines. Equally comfortable with present day political celebrities and women we may never had heard of, Roberts made them all come alive for me.

I read this book as if it were a revelation, and in many ways, it was. I’ve always known that women are remarkable, but Cokie Roberts brought that home to me in ways I never thought about. We Are Our Mothers Daughters should be required reading in every women’s studies program.

As I reached the last page, I felt renewed pride in being a woman and in the special sisterhood we share with women who came before us and who are making a difference in the world right today. Thank you Cokie!