PRISM

PRISM Has a New Address

2011-08-04T15:40:00.000-07:00

PRISM is moving, and I'm hoping you will join me at our new location. I've wanted to become a WordPress blogger for years and have finally taken the leap. WordPress is amazing! I can't even believe all of its capabilities. Come on over and see for yourself. First, go to the The Writing Life; then, click on PRISM. See you there!

At Least It's Not January Any More

2011-06-27T16:21:00.000-07:00

Welcome to guest blogger, Judy Mosbacher, editor, writer, and—oh, yes—my sister. Not only is she a terrific writer, but her message is SO worth reading. Why or why do we always need reminding of the lessons all around us?

You know what it’s like, don’t you? I’m guessing that you have been where I am at least once in your life, a bad day, or week, or even a month. You find yourself sighing a lot; you crave solitude; you feel as though you’ve reached your limit and cannot bear to deal with one more crisis. Well, that’s where I was today. That is, until I talked with Bruce.

But, I’d better back up a little. It’s a Saturday in June, it’s 111 degrees outside, and I am feeling pretty sorry for myself as I drive from store to store running errands – replenishing my supply of vitamin C, stopping at the grocery store for laundry detergent, and dropping in at the Verizon store to replace that little spongy thingy that sits on the tip of my cell phone headset. I’m wilting in the sauna-like heat, but I’m determined to complete one more errand before heading home and collapsing in a heap in front of the AC vent.

Bruce owns Tager Optical Shop in the local shopping center on the corner of 32^nd Street and Camelback. I buy my groceries at the Safeway, my vitamins at Fresh Vitamins, grab a burger at Delux, or treat myself to a gelato at the G Spot. It has been my comfort zone for almost 20 years. Today, I’m bringing my bifocals to Bruce in the hope he can repair one of the arms that snapped off when I yanked them out of my purse.

I haven’t been in his shop for quite a while, but I know that Bruce will probably be sitting at the front desk, watching his small-screen TV. If my visit happens to occur on a weekday, I can just about guarantee he will be absorbed in one of his favorite soaps. It is almost closing time, so I’m guessing he is just biding his time until he can lock up and head home.

“Hey, how ya doing?” he asks and comments that he hasn’t seen me for a while. We chat a little and then he breaks the news that my frames are basically non-repairable. After a “oh, darn” response, I ask what I think is a simple question that will probably illicit a simple response.

“How are you doing, Bruce?”

“Well, at least it’s not January any more.”

I smile, thinking there’s a joke coming. “Why, what happened in January?”

What he tells me next reshapes my thoughts and mindset from this point on. His story is brief, almost void of emotion, but it is as though his words shoot straight through my body and pierce my heart like an arrow in flight.

“My wife died in January, and then less than 3 weeks late my mother died, and then one of my best customers, just a couple of hours after she left my store, was murdered, and then my biggest supplier of lenses committed suicide. I guess you could say January 2011 was a pretty bad month.”

I stare at him in silence for what seems like minutes. Offering my condolences seems so inadequate, but I do anyway. He elaborates just enough to offer some sort of explanation. I hear “breast cancer,” “10 years,” “95-year-old mother,” “children and grandchildren,” “couldn’t have survived without them” – but the sentences seems disjointed, like a poor cell phone connection.

A friend of mine once told me that G-d doles out only as much as any one person can take, and no more. I hope He recognizes that Bruce has reached his limit, because I can’t imagine him being able to deal with one more thing, no matter how small.

We talk a little more before I sense that he has said all he wants to say. My heart aches for him. I want to open my arms and hold him close to me, to somehow let him know how much I am feeling for him. But, of course, I don’t.

Instead, I say, “Please take care, Bruce.” He says he will.

Four tragic losses in one month, and yet he perseveres. As I walk out of the shop, I straighten my shoulders just a bit, give my head a shake in an effort to lighten its load, and take a deep breath. For some reason, the heat doesn’t feel quite as stifling as it did when I walked in just a few minutes before. Without his knowing it, he has managed to transmit a little bit of that perseverance to me.

Thankfulness. It can so easily be relegated to the back of the line when the “woe-is-me” takes over. Bruce has helped to bring it front and center again.

Although you will never know your effect on me this day, I want to thank you, Bruce. You have lightened my load.

An open letter to the U.S. Congress

2011-04-08T12:25:00.001-07:00

Forgive my lack of tact, but have you lost your minds? It is Friday, April 8^th and the government is on the verge of a shut down. Why? Because our elected officials have turned the U.S. Congress into a playground on which you are having a tug of war with a jump rope. I can picture all of you grown men and women in your expensive business suits pulling for all you’re worth, with neither side giving an inch. It is not a pretty picture.

As I understand it, the president has met with your leaders until the wee hours of the night, to no avail. You have met with each other and argued until you’re blue, getting nowhere. One side has thrown out a number —$33 billion, I believe. The other side has finally said, OK, $33 billion it is. Then, the first side has replied, we never said $33 billion. We want more. The T-Party freshmen won’t like it. Pardon me, but who made the T-Party the boss of you, so to speak? Give me a break.

When this is over, programs will come to a standstill; people will be furloughed (nice word for out of work); and you will still have your playground, your jump rope, and by the way your health care. Personally, I am disgusted and will put my future energies into figuring out how to recall the bunch of you.

Sincerely,

Bobbi Linkemer

Citizen

A Book to Treasure

2011-04-05T17:33:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, a book falls into my hands that takes my breath away. Life is a Verb, 37 days to wake up, be mindful, and live intentionally by Patti Digh is such a book. First of all, it's gorgeous—full of art and color and words floating across the pages, amazing quotations, and beautifully rendered stories.

The first words in the Prologue are these: "At some point in your life you'll only have thirty-seven days to live. Maybe that day is today. Maybe not."

Remember that line in Jerry Maquire—"You had me at hello"? Well, this book had me right there and never let go. I suddenly realized I was reading a library book, which meant I have to give it back. No way! I couldn't get to amazon fast enough to order it.

This is not a book review. I don't think I could begin to capture the essence of Life is a Verb except to say it is profound, not a word I use often. I wish I had written it. What greater compliment can I bestow?.

Knowing When to Leave

2011-04-02T16:08:00.000-07:00

Some things in life drag on, long after they should be over. Others stop so abruptly, we are caught off guard, totally unprepared. In the first, we have a choice in the matter; in the second, we may not. The question is how do we know when it is time to walk away? Is there a clue, or do we simply decide based on reason and logic?

I was driving home the other night, not thinking of anything at all, when what I call “the jury of the deep” suddenly announced a verdict. It was brief (it’s always brief)—just two words—“It’s over.” Just like that. It’s over.

Let me explain. I’m not talking about a marriage or a relationship, though that has certainly happened in the past. It was something else entirely—a long-term activity I had no idea was about to end. I must have posed the question to my unconscious mind, but I was truly unaware of having done it. Yet, here was the answer: it’s over.

There was no sense arguing with myself. The verdict was unambiguous; and once it’s announced, it’s a done deal. There was nothing to do but accept it and move on. I am always amazed that my brain is so far behind my gut when it comes to knowing the right thing to do. I’m in the midst of the lag time now, waiting for my conscious self to catch up with my inner wisdom. Who knows how long that will take?

TM or Mindfulness: Which one gets you to nirvana?

2011-03-07T18:11:00.000-08:00

Way back in 1973, Transcendental Meditation (TM) appeared on the scene. It was intriguing, mysterious, and something the Beatles and somebody named Richard Alpert did. They even had their own guru—the Marharishi Mashesh Yogi—in India. Richard Alpert changed his name to Baba Ram Das and wrote a book called Be Here Now. The Beatles became a legend in their own time.

I learned to meditate with my preteen daughter, who promptly lost interest. I, however, struggled for twenty years to reach cosmic consciousness. I never got there and finally gave up. I suppose there are still folks around who do TM, but they are decidedly out of fashion. The new meditation is called mindfulness, Vipassana, or insight (all the same thing).

They could not be more different. One sends you to la-la land; the other grounds you in reality. One is easy; the other is harder than it appears. One is a combination Valium and upper; the other doesn't make any claims. Once you learn one, it is very hard to switch gears (I never succeeded in doing so).

With TM, you focus on a nonsense word (it's probably Sanskrit) and get all spacey. After a while, you shake your head, get up, and go about your business, relaxed but energized. Don't ask me how that works. With mindfulness, you watch your breathing and stay conscious. When you get up after however long you have perched uncomfortably on a hard, little cushion, you don't seem to feel any different (at least, I don't). So, what's the point?

Intellectually, I could write a book on the point of mindfulness meditation. I've certainly read enough of them. The point is insight (hence its other name). The point is living in the moment (or as Baba Ram Das would say, being here now). The point is understanding that everything changes, nothing lasts, and actions have consequences (otherwise known as karma).

Mindfulness is the rage. Everyone is doing it. Well, I'm not because I can't get the hang of it. What's more, I don't seem very motivated. Frankly, I would rather go to la-la land than live in the present. I know that's heresy, but it's true. I prefer being relaxed and peppy at the same time to being aware than I am changing, aging, and not as pretty as I used to be. In short, I am a mindfulness failure.

Trends come and go. If I hang around long enough (another thirty-eight years), maybe TM will make a comeback. By then, I'll really be in outer space.

All the News That's Fit to Print

2011-01-18T09:04:00.000-08:00

If you are a news junkie, you have a many ways to feed your habit. Most people have their favorite sources. I have a friend whose home page on her computer is the Wall Street Journal. My niece favors the BBC. My sister reads her local paper and watches cable news. I have friends who only trust PBS and NPR, while others never turn off CNN or Fox News. They all get the news, albeit with a slightly different spin.

My preference is none of the above. People are aghast when I tell them I don't watch the news, listen to the news, or read the news. Despite my vigilance, however, the headlines seem to the sneak through, so that I am not completely ignorant. People ask, "Don't you want to know what's going on in the world?" My reply is, "No."

What is going on in the world, according to the media (newscasters, news analysts, news commentators) is too terrible to take in on a regular basis. In a single day, one can hear incessant reports on floods, earthquakes, multiple wars, starvation, corruption, mass murder, suicide bombers, assassination, political name-calling, and more. In some cases, there is an attempt at objective reporting; in others, the vitriolic hate language and yelling hurt my ears.

Why would I subject myself to a steady diet of toxicity hour after hour, day after day? I started my last book with this sentence: Words have power. I truly believe that. And to be buffeted by horrific, frightening, heartbreaking words and images is akin to taking poison.

Forgive me for this downer of a blog post. I just accidentally tuned in to a report of a suicide bomber in Iraq who killed 100 people and wounded scores more. The report was only one sentence, and then the news anchor moved on to a different catastrophe.

The Lost Art of Conversation

2011-01-04T07:54:00.000-08:00

When I took Spanish in high school the first sentences I learned were Como esta usted? Muy bien, gracious. Y usted? They meant, How are you? Very well, thank you. And you? The English equivalent is similar: How've you been? or How're you doing? The answer is some variation on I'm fine, It's all good, or whatever the expression of the moment may be.

It didn't occur to me until recently (no kidding) that this is a scripted conversation opener—a way of saying Hello. When I ask someone how she is, I really want to know. I assumed for years that the other person wanted to know how I was. Not so. If I deviated from the script, I noticed her eyes glaze over. All people want to hear is Fine thank you; how are you? I'm a slow learner, but I've got it now.

Still to be worked on is the problem of leading questions. They drive me mad. Business is good? You're feeling fine? It's all good, right? All I have to say is yes or right. But sometimes, to be perverse, I just want to scream, No, business is lousy, thank you, just to get a reaction.

For years, I wrote about communication skills, the most important of which is active listening—paying attention, drawing the other person out, tuning in to nonverbal cues. How are you doing? or How have you been? is a conversation opener that might lead to all sorts of answers besides Fine.

It was all a lovely exercise on paper, but not one that takes place in the fast-paced world in which we live. Sometimes, people don't even have time to get out a full sentence. For example, they have shortened How are you? to Wassup? I don't even know what the answer to that might be.

Time Travel

2011-01-03T14:01:00.000-08:00

I am a time-travel junkie. I love time-travel movies, books, and TV programs. One of my favorite series of all time was Quantum Leap in which an astronaut keeps getting bounced around in time, inhabiting the bodies and lives of people with big problems. The cult movie that is still going strong is Somewhere in Time with Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour. Recently, I have become addicted to the Outlander series of sagas set in the Highlands of Scotland and the colonies at the start of the Revolutionary War. I read them until I was bleary eyed and didn't give up until I hit one with 1,400 pages.

Recently, I happened upon a teen movie called Seventeen Again. It’s about a guy who has completely screwed up his life and dreams of going back to the moment when he was on the brink of great things and blew it. His best friend accuses him of living in past. And he responds, “Of course I’m living in the past. It was the best time of my life. I want to be there.” He gets his wish and ends of back in high school—not in the past but in the present. Instead of meeting his old girlfriend, whom he later married, he is in school with his own teenage kids. He’s been a lousy husband and father, and in all the crazy, circumstances of going back in time, he’s trying to change history. In a happily-ever-after-moment, he succeeds.

It was a funny, touching, romantic chic flick, and I loved it. One reason is that I have the same kind of memories of my years in high school and college. They were great … well, maybe not as great as I choose to remember them; but I don’t really care if they have improved with the passage of time. When I’m having a bad day, I can time travel back to a simpler era when I wore poodle skirts and danced to "Rock Around the Clock" and "When I Fall in Love."

I get chills just thinking about it.

Why didn't I write that?

2010-12-25T19:16:00.000-08:00

I just read Nora Ephron's I Remember Nothing. I am a great admirer of Nora Ephron's writing, which puts her on a very short list of women writers I admire and want to grow up to be. The problem is it's too late. I am grown up. I am beyond grown up. As Ms. Ephron so courageously says, "I'm old."

She was sixty-nine when she wrote that. Her picture on the back of the book looks sixty-nine like I look twenty-nine. She either has the greatest genes in the world or the greatest photographer. In either case, she looks great!

But that's not the point. The point is she wrote about being old with a clear-eyed honesty I cannot manage. She nailed it. Everything she said, I have thought. Everyone at our stage of life has thought it, even if we don't say it aloud. And if we do, our kids accuse us of being maudlin or morbid. It makes them uncomfortable; it makes us sad.

The realization that she may have only a few good years remaining hit her with real force, as it hits all of us. We know of course that we have only so much allotted time on this earth. We know, but we don't really believe it. I wonder how we manage to delude ourselves for so long.

Snow Day

2010-12-12T15:51:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning to the first snow of the season. It was coming down like crazy, and I had the craziest reaction. I instantly felt anxious. No way was I going to drive in this stuff. No way would I get to work on time or maybe at all. It took a few minutes to realize I didn't have to drive to work. First of all, it is Sunday. Second, I don't commute to my job; I work at home! Finally, it has been more than twenty years since snow was an issue in my life.

That's what I call a subconscious message from my past. I was back in the days when I drove fifty miles a day to and from work and developed a bona fide phobia of snow. When it snowed in Kansas City, I had a panic attack in St. Louis. I went to great lengths to overcome my fears--from buying a front-wheel-drive Honda to leaving home at before dawn and waiting out evening rush-hour traffic until the last car had left downtown. I was pretty successful but didn't win the battle completely until I became a self-employed, at-home writer.

Then, at last, no more fear of snow. No more guilt about not getting to work on time. No more anxiety at the sight of fluffy stuff ... unless, of course, I'm caught off guard when I open the drapes.

Going Around in Circles

2010-10-20T17:39:00.000-07:00

I wonder if being directionally disabled is a genetic thing. My mother was, my sister is, my daughter is, and I am. That's enough evidence for me. But, if I doubted that this malady runs in the family, I have only to consider the trip my sister and I made yesterday to Pere Marquette State Park, supposedly a forty-five minute drive from my home. It took us two hours. We got lost so many times it was no longer funny.

This was in spite of having four sets of directions to get us from West St. Louis County to Grafton, Illinois. Two sets were from two different desk clerks at the Pere Marquette Lodge; one was a computer-generated map; and the last was a running monologue of instructions from my new navvy system. They were ALL wrong.

We arrived, eventually, but getting there was not half the fun.

Today, we were taking no chances. For our driving tour of Grafton (population 680) and surrounding environs, we had new verbal instructions, a guidebook and two maps. I would be hard pressed to count the number of u-turns, back-trackings, and dead-end streets we experienced. My sister was driving, and I was supposed to be "navigating." Right.

One thing I have learned: If my instincts tell me to turn right, I should definitely turn left. My instincts are unfailingly incorrect. Unless I am staring into the setting sun, I have no idea that I am going West. Then, calculating what that means in terms of North and South is another matter. When I leave the ladies' room in a restaurant—even when I've been there before—invariably, I go in the wrong direction. Sometimes, I don't figure that out until I hit a wall ... a real one.

I bought a compass once but never managed to set it up because I couldn't find North. I'm on my second GPS and am convinced that even the satellite is confused. I've tested the system by going somewhere familiar (having memorized the route) and found that the directions were backwards. I know which lane to get in to go East, but the navvy will direct me to the opposite lane and take me West.

It's disheartening to say the least and, frankly, getting worse with each passing year. The only explanation I can think of is that genetics and technology have conspired to keep me lost.

Diversity Training

2010-10-03T12:35:00.000-07:00

On the surface, diversity is an easy sell. Companies endorse it; government supports it; people give lip service to it. After all, everyone looks good when they say, “Of course, I’m for diversity. Who isn’t?” “I’ve even been through training.” “We have a diversity policy here.”

As a writer, I have been in a position to promote diversity awareness for twenty years. I’ve been hired by major corporations and nonprofits to create videos; training manuals; four-color, glossy brochures; and two books on disabilities. I once tried to launch a business to help small businesses institute diversity practices. It didn’t fly.

The story behind these efforts was not always pretty. The first company that hired me to write and produce a video spent thousands of dollars on the project. I was naive enough to believe management was sincere in its efforts. The HR director told me the CEO only agreed in order to honor a clause in the company’s contract with the union.

The editor of the training manual decimated the copy for reasons I no longer remember. It didn’t take me long to figure out she knew absolutely nothing about the subject. I asked to have my byline removed from the manual.

The saddest outcome was the book that told the stories of thirty-seven young adults with developmental disabilities. Its publication would have coincided with the passage of The Americans With Disabilities Act. But the director of the association that sponsored the project put the completed book in a drawer and left it there for three years. By the time it saw the light of day again, the lawyers had hacked it, as well as the photographs, to shreds.

In the intervening years, the world we live in has fulfilled its promise of becoming ever more diverse. Where once the issue revolved primarily around gender and race, it now encompasses every conceivable characteristic from ethnicity to disability and from language to age. As our society has become increasingly heterogeneous, sadly, appreciation of individual differences has not kept pace.

Sad to say, it may have moved in the other direction.

An Unplanned "Time Out"

2010-10-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, we just need a “time out”—a break from our obligations, schedules, and to-do lists. It’s nice when we can plan them (a vacation), as opposed to having them descend upon us (an unexpected illness). I’ve had both recently: first, a week in Florida to visit my daughter, and, second, a short, strange bout with pneumonia. As time outs go, the pneumonia was more effective.

When I travel, I take my life with me, i.e., laptop computer, files, access to e-mail, cell phone, and anything else that seems likely to be needed. When I get where I’m going, I set up shop in a little corner somewhere and work, work, work. In between, I read, read, read. I love what I’m doing but can hardly consider this a break in the action. It’s just a change of environment.

Pneumonia, on the other hand, even though it wasn’t serious or life threatening, stopped me cold. I abandoned my office as if it were in another location (It’s actually next to my bedroom). I didn’t check e-mail. I didn’t call people or go through my inbox. I didn’t sort mail. I didn’t write. I just checked out for about a week. And what is really strange is that I didn’t feel a bit guilty about my absence from the room next door. When I finally felt better, I put on real clothes and went back to work.

What was different? I was strangely refreshed, though still a bit droopy, and I had a new perspective on the urgency factor. Though much awaited my attention, it wasn’t all equally critical; some of it could wait; and some of it didn’t need to be done at all. Life had not stopped while I did. It just kept on flowing, as it always does.

Like a child slipping into a moving jump rope, I just jumped back into my world.

Surviving a Loss

2010-09-26T07:23:00.000-07:00

“Grief is a sneaky thing.” This is a line from the best book I have ever read on how to get through the grieving process, no matter how tiny or profound the loss may be. Once upon a time, it was a thin little paperback titled How To Survive the Loss of a Love or 57 Things to Do When There is Nothing to Be Done. In the years since I first bought this book, it has been expanded and reissued until it has become a classic. I have given away so many copies; I don’t even have one of my own.

The book is compassionate, practical, instructive, and humorous. Its authors are Melba Colgrove, a psychologist; Harold Bloom, a physician; and Peter McWilliams, a very funny poet. When I first read it, I didn’t realize it was a somewhat simplified encapsulation of Katherine Kubler Ross’s stages of grief. Sometimes, simple is better—easier to grasp and remember, especially when one is in pain.

In How to Survive the Loss of a Love, there are three principal stages of grief: shock/denial, anger/depression, and acceptance/healing. When I’m trying to get through a loss, I can always identify the exact stage I’m going through. What I’ve learned is that these are not tidy, sequential stages I can tick off one at a time until I arrive at “healing.” Grieving is a messy process. Sometimes, I skip a stage and then have to double back and go through it later. Even more frustrating are the times when I think I’ve completed a stage and then find I’m temporary stuck there or have to return to experience it yet again.

If the grieving process can be simply categorized into three stages, loss itself is not so easily defined. The book is mis-titled in my opinion. It isn’t only a lost love one grieves for; it is any loss, and there are many in life. I attended a discussion on the subject of loss and was once again amazed at how many perspectives there are on this little word. This discussion covered losses ranging from divorce and death to family, friendships, aging, and physical abilities.

We probably could have sat there for hours, adding to our observations and recollections. Some losses were long past and faded with time; others were fresh wounds. It was an emotional conversation colored by compassion, caring, and concern for each other.

I came away with three realizations: There is love and support to help us survive the losses life throws our way. Yet, even with support, grief is a do-it-yourself process. It is a road each of us must travel alone. Finally, it is comforting to know we will make it to the end of the road, changed in some way, but healed nonetheless.

Collecting "Bonding Moments"

2010-08-16T07:02:00.000-07:00

Though we lived in different cities, my mother and I managed to spend time together whenever possible. Sometimes she came to St. Louis; more often, I went to Phoenix. We "hung out" for hours doing what we both loved—reading. We would sit at opposite end of the couch, each buried in a book. It was pretty quiet, but there was a sense of being together, engaged in an activity, albeit a silent one. We never said the word, but we were bonding.

Mothers and daughters bond in different ways, depending on their shared interests. My older daughter and I go to movies; meet for breakfast; stroll the Missouri Botanical Garden, cameras in hand; and when I was much younger, jogged. We would laugh and say, "We're having a bonding moment."

I'm visiting my younger daughter this week, and we are engaging in our own rituals. Yesterday, we swam in the morning, spent the afternoon cleaning out her closet, watched a laugh-out-loud movie on TV, and ate pizza. My daughter was talking to a friend on the phone, who asked, "How can you clean out your closet while your mother is visiting?" "Oh, it's something we do when she's here," my daughter replied.

My mother has been gone for eleven years, and I have many wonderful memories of her. But the one I love best is reading on the couch. Right now, I'm collecting bonding moments with my daughters to choose among. Leading contenders are taking pictures at the Garden and, believe it or not, closet cleaning.

Keeping it together … or NOT

2010-07-22T17:29:00.000-07:00

I seem to write a lot of blogs about feeling overwhelmed; but the truth is, that’s how I feel much of the time. My friend, Bobette, who seems to get more done than anyone I know, pointed out that I am only one person and can only do so much. “You have too many things going on,” another friend said today. “OK. So, what should I get rid of?” I asked. “Not me,” was her reply, not that I would. That’s just the point. What do I eliminate?

Let’s start with clients. At the moment, I have several book clients, all in various stages of writing or producing their books. I am thrilled to have them and totally committed to their projects. But I never realized how many details there are to guiding authors through the gazillion steps in writing, publishing, and promoting their books. Every step seems to take forever, and if I drop a ball, such as a few e-mail responses, I fall behind and my clients become unhappy campers. I need lists upon lists to keep up with everything I’m supposed to be doing, and even list making takes time.

How about self-care and general health issues? This is massively time consuming, especially as one gets older. I was told by a neurosurgeon that if I want to avoid back surgery (and I do!), I will have to exercise an hour a day for the rest of my life. I am nowhere near that goal and doubt that I ever will be. On top of working out the three or four times a week I do manage, I am in physical therapy and taking a Pilates class, all in the interest of that pesky back. Doctor’s appointments show up in my planner by magic. Inexplicably, annual checkups for every inch of my body seem to occur much more often than once a year.

Marketing my business and my two latest books could become a full-time job if I didn’t already have a full-time job. Marketing is a catchall word for keeping up with Web sites, social networking, blogging, and correspondence from potential clients. Whoever invented social networking was one part genius and one part sadist. How people find time to get on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and all the other possible places to meet and greet “friends” is beyond me. I am guilt ridden when I do because it takes so much time and guilt ridden when I don’t because I am failing in my market obligations.

Personal grooming for women is important, but once again, time consuming. Of course, it would take less time if I didn’t have standing appointments with a hairdresser and nail tech who are located 20 miles from my house. Speaking of house—which includes cleaning, doing laundry and dishes, grocery shopping and running errands—that little word eats of whole days.

I know I left out a bunch of activities, especially reading. I am a BIG reader. I don’t watch TV or go to movies, but I definitely read. I guess that’s expendable, but on a mental health level, it really isn’t. Besides, I am addicted to books. Then, of course, in the last-but-not-least category are family and friends. If anything has gotten short shift in my overcrowded life, it is these VIPs. The sentence, “Let’s get together” strikes fear in my heart. When can I do that? I have no idea.

So much for my latest I’m-too-busy-to-breathe rant. Thanks for putting up with yet another one.

Golden Oldies

2010-06-28T18:52:00.001-07:00

If I could design heaven, I'm sure it would look a lot like the fifties—the 1950s, that is. The older I get the more perfect the fifties become in my memory. In fact, they have taken on a glow that can only be achieved by the passing of decades.

I went to high school and college in the fifties. Reason tells me they must have been turbulent. After all, I was a teenager, and a moody one at that. Those were the years of puberty, first dates, first kisses, girls who were best friends one day and worst enemies the next, sorority rush, frightening final exams ... in short, the angst only adolescents can know.

Yet, I can barely conjure up such scenes. It would appear that I never cried myself to sleep, lost the boy of my dreams, had cramps, or experienced anything remotely negative. As I recreate that period of my life, I see myself endlessly jitterbugging, doing the cha cha, or swaying romantically to Nat King Cole's "When I fall In Love." I wear Jonathan Logan dresses, crinoline slips, and wrist corsages. My datebook is packed; my grades are excellent; and my Saturdays are filled with football games and Chief Illiniwik bursting out of the marching band and doing a war dance down the field.

There were meaningful milestones, of course: grammar school, high school and college graduations; falling in love; getting engaged and married and having my first baby; moving away from my family. Those were big moments; but they are often eclipsed by of Johnny Mathis, Kay Star, Frank Sinatra, Harry Belafonte, and Elvis Presley. It was as if every moment had its own sound track.

The fifties weren't splashy or rebellious. They were innocent, predictable, and mostly fun, or so it seems in retrospect. Could I be wrong? Undoubtedly. Do I care? No, not really. If they were flawed, which they must have been, they were "the good old days." Everyone has her own definition of that phrase. This is mine.

Shopping in My Own Bookcase

2010-06-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

I write nonfiction, but I read mysteries. I've gone through every author of mysteries, police procedurals, and legal thrillers I can think of. But the unthinkable happened recently: I didn't have a book to read. I was near panic. Too late to go to Borders; library closed; nothing interesting on Kindle. That left only my own, overloaded bookshelves. I must own close to 500 books (well, 487; I just counted them), of which I have read an embarrassingly small number. I decided to go shopping.

One whole shelf is devoted to biographies, autobiographies, and memoir. Since I had just written my own memoir, I decided to see what I did wrong. I noticed I had a large number of books by and about journalists. What a surprise. I picked at random. My choice was a brilliant accident: "And So It Goes" Adventures in Television by Linda Ellerbee.

The quite yellowed dust jacket said: "In a world of blow-dried anchors, Linda Ellerbee is that rare creature—a literate, sophisticated, breezily irreverent journalist who treats the viewer as if he were not an idiot ... she offers not only a truly hilarious and telling memoir but the strongest, most candid book on television and television news ever written."

I wish I'd written that. In fact, I wish I'd written the book. It is so funny, I laughed out loud, but so disturbing, I'll never watch network news again. Actually, I don't watch network news. There is no way to do her writing justice. Linda Ellerbee is a true master of the craft. I want to hang out with her and just listen to her talk.

Here is her description of a senior producer at NBC. "Then there is Cheryl Gould. She is younger, smarter, skinnier, prettier, nicer and probably a better writer than I am. I like her anyway. She is a teacher in the best sense, a woman so sure of her skills and talents she never minds sharing them with those of us less skilled, less talented." (I put a bookmark there, I loved that paragraph so much.)

I could quote the whole book if I had room. Linda Ellerbee's writing is savvy, acerbic, moving—everything I would like my writing to be. She wrote this book in 1985. On the back cover are endorsements from Ted Koppel, Leslie Stahl, Mike Wallace, Sam Donaldson, and Connie Chung. Need I say more?

What to read next? It's a choice between Making Waves: The 50 Greatest Women in Radio and Television and Reporting Live by Leslie Stahl. I have lots of books and lots of time; it's only June.

Getting Into Health

2010-05-10T17:19:00.000-07:00

It started with a project on the subject of obesity and one book the client lent me on healthy eating. It was pretty scientific and not something one would curl up with unless falling asleep was the goal. Still it was informative and thought provoking. I read more of Raising Healthy Eaters by Ellyn Satter than I would have predicted and found a description of my own attitudes toward food within its pages. Not good.

I expressed my gratitude, and my client immediately gave me another book—this one on omega 3 fatty acids. I never even heard of omega 3 fatty acids (good fats) or omega 6s (not so good fats), but I sure know a lot about them now. Along with the book came a bottle of omega 3 supplements, which I have been dutifully taking along with my increased ration of fish. Omega 3s are very good for reducing the inflammation of arthritis. How could I go wrong?

Then books started coming in the mail. The first was SPARK by John J. Ratey MD with Eric Hagerman on the positive effects of regular, aerobic exercise on every cell, system, organ, neurotransmitter, and square inch of the brain, from infants to those of us in our more mature years. I was impressed with the writing, the research, and the relevance, just as my neurosurgeon gave me some good news-bad news. The good news was I didn’t need back surgery; the bad news was I would have to exercise an hour a day for the rest of my life. When he told me, I was immersed in SPARK and pretty psyched, so I regarded the doctor’s prescription as more good news. My enthusiasm is flagging a bit by now, but I’m still pretty sold on the concept.

SPARK was followed by The Power Of Play by David Elkind, PhD, just plain Play by Stuart Brown, MD, and The Exuberant Animal by Frank Forencich. I got through the first two but balked at the last one. I have to say, I really enjoyed Play, which convinced me I should do more of that. When, exactly, I don’t know

In the meantime, I kept hearing from so many people that THE book to read right now is Michael Pollen’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma, so I downloaded it to my Kindle. This is one powerful book and not one that is likely to put me to sleep. There is so much to say about it I don’t know where to begin. I can’t imagine that I will ever think about food in quite the way. Now that I know about growing, killing, processing, and transporting animals; the roles of the the diet and fitness businesses and the military industrial complex; insidious marketing practices; and other eye-opening epiphanies, I can almost see the appeal of becoming a vegan (almost).

So, what kind of a new food fad have I hitched my wagon to this time? Is it any different from an Atkins high-protein, high-fat diet or the Sugar Busters diet or the Carbohydrate Addicts Diet or the Pritikin diet, or even Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers or ….You get the idea, there are too many to count or read or try. They all made sense at the time. Several of them started fads of their own. I lost weight; I gained weight; but I never really thought about eating healthy. It wasn’t on my radar. Now, it’s all I can see.

My daughter just called me from the grocery store as she was buying sugar-free coffee creamer. I told her to read the label and, sure enough, it listed high fructose corn syrup (HFCS). That’s worse than sugar, I said. She tried fat free, then fat-free half and half (which also has HFCS in it!); then two or three more things to make her coffee drinkable in the morning. She finally bought something called Silk-something or other and informed me I had ruined her life. Actually, I ruined mine, too. What am I gong to put in my coffee, now?

The Death of Civility?

2010-03-23T07:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, after months of wrangling, behind-the-scenes deal making, and striking partisanship, the House of Representatives passed the long-awaited health care reform bill. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t pleasant. From the moment the president explained what the bill would and would not do, the spin began. If I hadn’t heard the speech and actually understood it, I might have been confused by what opponents were claiming. I might have even believed some of the rhetoric. But it was so inaccurate and distorted, I dismissed it out of hand.

Almost everything the president said was somehow flipped on its head and came out upside down and backwards. It would have been amusing if so many people hadn’t bought the upside-down version. By the time the bill was passed, few Americans seemed to know what it was designed to reform.

To say this was a divisive piece of legislation would be an understatement. Once again, the country seemed to split in half over a single issue. Congress certainly did, since not a single Republican voted for the bill. There was no room for dialogue or rationality. One was either for it or against it … with dramatic and deafening oratory.

OK. I can live with that. This is a country where we get to have our points of view and defend them or oppose them. But something seems to be happening lately that goes far beyond disagreement. Civil discourse has been replaced by mean spirited harangues.

In the middle of the president’s State of the Union address, a congressman yelled, “You lie!” At recent town hall meetings, representatives were shouted down and insulted. As the members of the House were voting yesterday, on the lawn outside the building, people were demonstrating with signs and epitaphs that were beyond bad taste, sometimes egged on by members of Congress. And, inside the House chamber, there was shouting, name-calling, and a complete absence of decorum.

What have we become? Where are our manners? What happened to restraint? It’s fine to have strong views and to stand up for them. It’s acceptable, even necessary, to debate. But in my view, the behavior of opponents to just about any issue has become deplorable and frightening. We are not a third-world country. We are not children. We do not call names and shout insults. It is not worthy of civilized adults and citizens of a democracy.

There is much to worry about these days, but this breakdown of civility in our society has reached the top of my list.

A Book I Wish I Had Written

2010-02-26T15:46:00.001-08:00

I just read an astonishing book! I downloaded it to my Kindle without knowing exactly what to expect. Gail Collins, the author of When Everything Changed, is my new hero. The book is a history of the women’s movement in the U.S. from the first suffragette to Michelle Obama and Sarah Palin. But it’s so much more than that.

All the way through the book are stories of ordinary women, feminist luminaries, and political leaders. The interviews bring them to life as only a seasoned journalist can do. Then, at the end of the book, Collins brings us up to date on where each of the women she interviewed was at the time of publication. Her acknowledgments include the names of the hundreds of women she interviewed for this book. At the end, are marvelous photographs of women whose contributions made such a difference to the women's movement.

This is the kind of book I would love to have written. I couldn’t put it down. As one piece of history followed another I found I was learning things I never knew, meeting women I wish I’d known, and reliving my own life through other people’s stories. There were so many events and was so heroism that were revelations, including the role women played in the Civil Rights Movement.

But what made this an extraordinary reading experience was Gail Collins’s writing. I have a short list of nonfiction writers I admire—Gail Sheehy, Gloria Steinem, Jane Howard, Joan Borysenko—and would be thrilled to write as well as they do. Gail Collins has just made the list.

I'll take the elevator

2010-02-25T09:01:00.000-08:00

I was at Borders yesterday, looking for a particular book. Instead of rambling all over the place, like most Borders stores, my Borders is a narrow, two-story affair. The book I wanted, of course, turned out to be on the second floor. “Follow me. I’ll show you where it is.” the salesperson offered and began bounding up the stairs. “Um, I’ll have to take the elevator,” I said. She joined me, graciously insisting I was saving her a trip.

The reason I balked at the sight of the steps is not important. What is important was my embarrassment at having to admit to someone that those stairs were going to be a problem. I’m sure that dozens of people take the elevator every day. That’s why they have one. Since the passage of The Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA), every place of business must be “handicapped accessible.” That law has made it possible for people with disabilities to go places and do things they had never been able to in the past.

I know a lot about disabilities and ADA. I learned from disability agencies, advocates, and activists. I wrote training programs and books on the subject. I was educated and enlightened … in a distant sort of way. The law was passed in 1990—twenty years ago. I was in pretty good shape in 1990, running and swimming and engaged in lots of physical activities. I guess I thought I would always be able to do those things.

I remember when I was learning about disabilities, I became friends with people I would never even have met under other circumstances. These experiences opened up my eyes to a world I hadn’t known existed. I was fortunate to be introduced to the disability community in the way I was, but I knew that for many people the sudden appearance of people with disabilities was disconcerting. They didn’t know how to act. They were uncomfortable. It took me a while to understand why.

While some people are born with disabilities, many are not. Accidents, illnesses, war, and age create them—sometimes suddenly, sometimes gradually. But we all know we are vulnerable. Anyone, no matter how healthy and strong, can become disabled. It’s a scary thought and one most of us try to avoid.

Here I am twenty years older than when I began writing about a subject that touched me intellectually and emotionally, but not empathetically. I didn’t really understand then, but I do now. I haven’t had an accident or a degenerative illness; I have just aged. And with age have come some limitations. One of them is the inability to negotiate stairs without becoming short of breath and feeling my knees pop with every step.

So, I take the elevator. But as I’m writing this, I’m finding myself asking, so what? What’s the big deal? Why was I embarrassed.? Why is that tiny event still on my mind?

I’m not sure I know the answers, but I do know this: If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to me, I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life that I can get where I need to go by simply stepping on an elevator.

Getting Nowhere Fast

2010-02-01T07:18:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-07T10:37:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-01T07:39:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-22T18:19:00.001-07:00

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)

2009-10-10T19:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-01T06:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-28T08:17:00.000-07:00

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!

Freedom From the Should Monster

2009-09-24T09:33:00.000-07:00

About 30 years ago, someone lent me a book that changed my life. Books can do that if they show up at exactly the right moment with exactly the right message. This book was called The Path of Least Resistance. It was written by Robert Fritz in 1943. Fifty-six years later, I still find its message relevant and compelling. I’ve taken seminars and read other books that have taught the same concepts as if they were new. In fact, I have even taught them in my own classes. I don’t even know if Robert Fritz made them up or if he, too, adapted them from someone else’s teachings. It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that these ideas still provoke thought, create change, and work.

I’ve been thinking about this book a lot lately. I’ve read it many times and highlighted it until the pages are almost solid yellow. To review it all at one would take much too much space or give short shrift to its complexity. But what I’ve been pondering these last few days is the subject of “fundamental choices”— which Fritz doesn’t even mention until page 103—and particularly one of those choices: to be free.

First, let me explain that “a fundamental choice,” in Fritz’s words, “is a choice in which you commit yourself to a basic life orientation … a state of being.” Fundamental choices are unaffected by changes in internal or external circumstances. Once you make such a choice, convenience and comfort are irrelevant. Once you make such a choice, you begin to deal with reality in an entirely new way.

Fundamental choices are not always conscious, though it’s best if they are. The ones people tend to make are to be free, to be healthy, and to be true to oneself. They all sound so simple and straightforward; yet, I have spent a great deal of time over the years contemplating what they really mean. For example, what does it mean to be free? Of course, being a writer, I looked it up. Here are a few of its meanings:

not under the control or in the power of another; able to act or do as one wishes : a free choice.
subject neither to foreign domination nor to despotic government : a free press.
not or no longer confined or imprisoned : set free.
not a slave
able or permitted to take a specified action : free to leave.

In this country, supposedly, we have many of these freedoms, at least in a big-picture way. We are not subject to foreign domination or a despotic government, and when we think we are at risk of either one, we take action through demonstrations or at the polls. Most of us are not confined or imprisoned, and those who are long to be set free. We are not slaves, since slavery has been banned, and we are free to do anything that falls within the law. All of these points can be argued, I know, but on the surface, they are true.

So, as I contemplate the fundamental choice of being free, what else could I possibly want? I live in America, the land of the free. I am free come and go as I please. I work at a job I love. So where does this choice come into my life? Well, to tell the truth I want to be free of “shoulds,” the invisible controlling little voices that keep popping up in my mind.

What is a should? (back to the dictionary)

A should is an obligation, a duty, a correct behavior, typically when criticizing someone else's or our own actions : You should call your mother every day; you should finish this assignment before you take a break; you should take the job because it pays well.
A should is a desirable or expected state : You should know what you want to be by now; you should be financially stable; you should be married.
A should gives advice or suggestions, usually unsolicited : You should lose some weight; you should tell him what you really think; you should discipline your children.

Shoulds are tyrants, very persistent, relentless little tyrants who never seem to shut up. Sometimes, they are other people—your mother, your boss, a friend, even a total stranger. But more often, they are you, talking to yourself. You may call it your conscience or your critical parent; I call it the should monster. I have recently become more aware of its ubiquitous presence in my life. You should do this; you shouldn’t do that, and on and on. What’s worse is the running dialogue I engage in with my personal little monster. I know. I know, I tell it. I should exercise, but I am so tired right now. I’ll do it later. OK?

OK? Did I really say OK? Did I ask an imaginary voice for permission to forgo exercising? Am I truly a slave to the instructions of some formless, non-thing that thinks it’s knows what I should be doing? This is embarrassing, but apparently so. I am eternally grateful to Robert Fritz for offering me a choice in the matter—a fundamental choice. So, here and now, I choose to be free of the should monster.

I feel better already.

Happy 5770

2009-09-19T10:22:00.000-07:00

I’m not ordinarily an observer of holidays—religious or secular. There are so many of them, and most seem irrelevant or inappropriate to my life. So, they come and they go and, at best, they may tack an extra day onto the weekend, giving me more time to work. But there is one holiday that matters to me, one that seems worthy of celebrating, albeit in my own unconventional manner.

The holiday is Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year and the start of the High Holy Days. If one is Jewish, this day holds enormous meaning. I was trying to find an official explanation of that meaning and came across this opening line of an editorial in a weekly newspaper, the St. Louis Jewish light.

“As the shofar sounds on Rosh Hashana to open the Gates to Heaven, we have a duty on earth, to open our hearts and minds to the great potential of working together in lovingkindness.”

What struck me about this sentence was the word lovingkindness, which is fundamental to the teachings of Buddhism. There are many books on that word (my favorite is by Sharon Salzberg), and people spend days at meditation retreats just focusing on the practice of lovingkindness, or Meta. It suddenly occurred to me that, if we reduced the basic teachings of all of the great religions of the world to one idea, it would surely be lovingkindness.

Believe it or not, making that connection was epiphany for me, a simple explanation for the meaning behind this ancient holiday. This is an idea I can embrace, contemplate, and, yes, even celebrate.

Today, which happens to be Rosh Hashana—the start of year 5770—seems an appropriate time begin.

A cure for just about everything

2009-08-21T16:58:00.000-07:00

I just returned from visiting my grand-dog. We spent a glorious 10 days together, playing, walking, chatting, going in, going out, rolling on the floor, and just hanging out. If you want to calm your jangled nerves, pet a dog. If you want to feel needed, get down on the rug, and let him curl up next to you with his head on your leg. If you think you’re not important, walk out of the room and watch him follow you. Nothing like it, I swear.

The thing is I don’t own a dog. I am just in love with my daughter’s little guy. He looks like a puppy, but in truth, he is anything but. Still, to watch him prance on his hind legs when he wants a treat or gallop across the lawn to be let in or set too fast a pace when I walk him, one would swear he was just a kid.

All of this begs the question: WHY don’t I have a dog? Why don't I go to the rescue shelter and save a little life? (It would have to be little because we have condo association rules about size). Or, if I want something fluffy and cuddly, why don’t I go online and look up fluffy, cuddly breeds or go to Pet Smart and just pick out a puppy?

I have a gazillion reasons, including bad weather, unexpected expenses, and arthritis; but they really don’t hold up. After all, I’ve made an utter fool of myself by creating a website for my favorite furry friend, put his picture on my computer screen, and considered getting Skype so I can see him up close and personal.

I feel a little silly writing this, as if I’m hoping someone will talk me into running out and actually finding the dog of my dreams. The problem is I have already found him, and he lives 900 miles away.

Words! Words! Words! I’m so sick of words!

2009-07-29T11:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve been an NPR junkie for years. I thought I was hooked forever on all that “in-depth news and intelligent talk” (my local station’s slogan). Then, one day I realized how sick and tired I was of the same repetitive news all day long and the incessant babbling on the topic de jour hour after hour.

How can they stand it? I wondered. Don’t Carl Kassel and Korva Coleman get tired of rearranging the words of the same headlines 50 times a day? Don’t Diane Rehm and Neal Conan and Robert Siegel get bored with the endless interviewees and callers after a while? And, most of all, don’t they wonder if the only things worth talking about are bleak, depressing, and enough to make one think the world is going to hell in a hand basket?

Suddenly, I thought, if I have to listen to one more commentary on the things people have been commenting since five o’clock this morning, I will lose my mind. And if I never again hear the words, “critics say,” it will be fine with me. Why do these people feel duty bound to tell us what critics say on every subject? Why must there be an equal and opposite side to every single issue? Why can’t they just report on one side for once and talk about the other side some other time? Perhaps this is their stab at balanced reporting, but, if so, it isn’t working. Most of the time I would be just as happy not knowing what critics are saying. Let the critics have their own stories. Why do they have to hitch a ride on someone else’s?

Why do we have to hear polarized opinions in every debate and why, for that matter, does it have to be a debate at all? This is not an original question. Author and sociolinguist Deborah Tannen, Ph.D., posed it in her 1998 book The Argument Culture: Moving from Debate to Dialogue.

“The argument culture urges us to approach the world—and the people in it—in an adversarial frame of mind,” Tannen wrote. “Our determination to pursue truth by setting up a fight between two sides leads us to believe that every issue has two sides—no more, no less … But opposition does not lead to truth when an issue is not composed of two opposing sides but is a crystal of many sides. Often the truth is in the complex middle, not the extremes.”

In other words, life is not a tidy, black-and-white photograph. It is many shades and textures of gray. I would love to buy several copies of The Argument Culture and send them to every newscaster and commentator on NPR with instructions to absorb its wisdom. Would it revolutionize talk radio if they actually put these principles in action? Or would they all simply be out of a job for not being fair and impartial?

If NPR did dramatically change its program strategy and begin to provide real in-depth news and intelligent talk; if every issue didn’t devolve into a war of words; and if the purpose was to promote full understanding of issues, rather than crowning the winner in each discussion, how much more knowledgeable and tolerant might we all become?

I can’t answer that question, but I know one thing for sure: I would turn my radio on and once again become a devoted NPR listener.

Minding Our Moments

2009-06-30T09:41:00.000-07:00

I do a lot of reading about the Buddhist philosophy, the heart of which is the concept of mindfulness. It’s all about paying attention to what’s going on right this minute. This is hard from me since I tend to romanticize the past, which I remember as perfect (it wasn’t) or stressing out over the future, which seems scary (it probably won’t be).

This is not a new concept of course, though it is back in fashion with a vengeance. Way back in 1970, a guy named Richard Alpert, or Baba Ram Das, as he preferred to be called, wrote a book called Be Here Now. He was high on LSD when he wrote it, but the title and the idea had staying power.

I have a complete shelf filled with books on this and many other Buddhist teachings; but, as one of those teachings famously observes, “a finger pointing at the moon is not the moon.” Similarly, reading about living in the moment is not actually doing it; it’s just reading about it.

Jon Kabat-Zinn, the modern day mindfulness guru, keeps pointing out that this moment is the only moment we have, and, if we don’t live it, it’s gone. Then one day we wake up and find that we are out of moments.

Believe it or not, I just got that. I was talking to my oldest friend, who was telling me a story about a father and daughter who had not spoken for 15 years. The daughter wasn’t ready to break the silence … yet. She may never be. "So sad,” my friend said. “She’ll never get those years back. They’re gone. Wasted. Life not lived.”

After all those years of reading, all those books, all those words — just like that, I understood. Fifteen years doesn’t sound like a big number; 473,040,000 does. That’s how many moments of her life that girl lost. How many have I not lived, ignored, wasted? How many do I have left? I don’t know. Nobody knows.

I guess that’s the point.

Tower of Babel

2009-06-12T12:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when I overhear people speaking in a language other than English, I am struck with the desire to understand what they are saying. It’s as if they are in another place, and I want to enter their world, even if only for a moment. Language separates us, it seems, and I find it frustrating.

I have two clients who immigrated to the U.S. many years ago. They speak English very well and, in fact, have both written books in English. Yet, behind the words are other cultures, other ways of looking at the world. I learned this lesson back in college a lifetime ago when I dated a student from South America. His worldview was Brazilian, and though we were using English words in our conversations, often we didn’t seem to be getting through to each other. He spoke from his culture, and I listened from mine.

I’ve been pondering this lately because I realize that the same miscommunication occurs between people who speak the same language — people who are related, who have grown up together, or who know each other well. In families, sometimes, it seems that like one person is speaking Greek and another Chinese. Consider two siblings who are engaged in a heated discussion. They report the argument to their mother. Ironically, both recall exactly the same words. “She said this; I said that.” But the interpretation of those words is wildly different. Whom does mom believe? Both children are reporting the conversation the way they heard it, but apparently, what they heard is poles apart.

It wasn’t always that way according to the Old Testament. Once upon a time, everyone spoke the same language. After the great flood (the one where Noah built the ark), supposedly, they all moved east and ended up in the city of Babel There, they built a huge tower that would reach all the way to heaven. They dedicated their tower not to God, but to the glory of man. As the story goes, God was not happy about that and expressed His displeasure by scattering the people all over the earth and making them speak different languages. That was the biblical origin of miscommunication and misunderstanding.

However it began, we’ve had thousands of years and about as many books to help us fix the problem. I’ve actually written one or two of those books. Yet, frankly, I don’t think my communication skills are any better than anyone else’s. My books and most of the others I’ve read are about communication skills: how to ask questions, summarize what you’ve heard, keep the conversation on track, etc. But I’m not at all sure that skills alone will do the trick. If I say “Why are you doing that?” and you hear, “Don’t do that!” we’re off the bad start.

We hear and interpret words based on our individual perception, which filters what comes in through our senses (what we hear and see and touch) and all of our life experience (what we recognize from our store of memory). No two people hear or see things the same way; no two people have the same life experience. Thus, no two people interpret a spoken message the same way.

So, what we still have in our sophisticated, educated, enlightened society is a modern version of the Tower of Babel.

Family Matters

2009-05-04T16:55:00.000-07:00

What better way is there to spend a gloomy weekend than by cleaning out a storage closet? I do this often, and one would think mine would be nearly empty by now. But, alas, the file boxes seem to be breeding and having new, little file boxes between purgings. As I moved things around, this time, I came upon a bright, red cardboard carton labeled “Family.” I knew it had file folders in it because my entire life is in file folders, but I didn’t remember what I had filed or why. So, I hauled it out and began to revisit the past.

There was a folder for each member of my immediate family: my mother, my father, my sister, and each of my daughters. We were all great letter writers before the advent of hastily tossed-off e-mails. There were letters to and from all of us — some hand written, others, typed. The letters conveyed apologies, confidences, congratulations, condolences, explanations, and the latest news from camp. Nothing went on in our family that did not make its way into a letter.

There were cards for every occasion and no occasion that eloquently said happy birthday, happy Mothers’ Day, I’m sorry, thank you, and I love you. There were report cards, college grades, and papers written for school. There were resumes and detailed applications for jobs. There was specially designed stationery with logos. (Who but my daughters would have their first resumes printed on designer letterhead?) There were photographs, though not many, because I filed them in different folders.

There were two-line notes my father used to send with money and many renderings of the “Good Ship Lollipop,” which I think was the only thing he ever drew. There were articles I wrote that I didn’t remember writing, my sister’s very funny “saga” about her daughter’s first year away at college, and the eulogies she and I wrote when our parents died.

We think we’ll never forget these things, but we are wrong. That’s why we keep scrapbooks and photo albums — so we will remember the moments of our lives. Maybe it’s my age that caused me look through that box to see what others might find someday. My younger daughter recalls when we were cleaning out my mother’s apartment and she came across a fancy gift ribbon. “Why would grandma have kept this? she asked. No one knew. Since then, she has been busy putting everything she owns in cute little containers with labels on them so there will be no such mysteries in her life.

Maybe that’s why I’m reexamining the contents of all my file boxes. I want people to know what mattered most to me and why.

Unconditional Love

2009-04-26T07:01:00.000-07:00

In 1987 a new Stephen Sondheim play opened on Broadway, and I wanted to see it. This was not an idle whim; it was an obsession. It was also highly unlikely that it would ever happen. I couldn’t really afford to go or to stay in a hotel. I had used all my vacation time. My company wouldn’t pay for me to join a professional association let alone to send me to New York. Talk about dreaming the impossible dream. Yet, in October of that year, I watched the curtain rise on Into the Woods from what was surely the best seat in the house. What followed was magical.

Into the Woods is a morality play about fairy tale characters who all inhabit the same story. Their lives intersect as they seek the one thing they think will make them happy — a handsome prince, boundless treasure, adventure, freedom, lost beauty, and a baby. And when they get what they yearn for, they live happily ever after. And that’s the end of Act I.

How could a 50-year-old woman be obsessed with seeing a bunch of make-believe characters, including a frustrated witch, two womanizing princes, and a cowardly baker, sing and dance their hearts out for hours? And what does this have to do with my father? Well, that’s the real story.

Stephen Sondheim didn’t know my father, but he captured his essence when it came to make believe. My father was a gentle man with a beautiful, deep voice and a vivid imagination. He thought it quite natural to have characters show up in each other’s stories, where some of my friends insisted they didn’t belong. The original versions paled in comparison to his.

Into the Woods opened the same year my father died. The play was, in my mind, a kind of memorial. They say people we love hang around a while after they die just to be sure we are OK. He surely did, at least until I saw that play. In a theater full of people, I watched it alone, except for the very real presence of my father, who stayed just long enough to watch it with me.
My father never considered himself a successful man, and I was always puzzled by that.

Perhaps he felt he should have made more money, but I can't imagine what he could have provided that we didn't already have. He always had a generosity of spirit and of self that I have found in no other human being. His whole life gave testimony to the philosophy that the more love you give away, the more you have to give. And give it he did — consistently, constantly, endlessly.

Most of all, he gave it to my mother, for fifty years, in small ways and, occasionally, with extravagant gestures. No woman, I think, has ever been more loved by a man than she. He gave it to my sister and me and then to our daughters, three more additions to what we always called "Frank's harem.” But, he gave it, as well, to everyone he met on his journey through life — to his parents and brothers and sisters to those he worked with on the Long Island Railroad; to friends and to total strangers; and to every child he ever met who wanted to sit on his lap and hear his wonderful, slightly rearranged fairy tales.

I could list the things he did, his accomplishments, the specific acts of kindness I remember or others told me about. But, in truth, I would prefer to gather and share my own special memories of this man, who held my hand as we walked through the park and swept me into a magic world of make-believe with his wondrous stories and fanciful pipe dreams.

The things I remember may seem inconsequential — not the stuff of which a man's life can be defined. But, they are significant to me and help, somehow, to explain what made my father so special.

He could fix anything with his wonderful hands, no matter how mangled or hopeless the damage might seem. He could take himself and any child who wanted to accompany him into a world of fairies and princesses and wonder. He was a marvelous dancer, effortless and smooth, somehow trapping the music in his every movement and transmitting it to his partner. He was a helper, always rushing to do something for my mother or for us. He woke me in the morning with a hot cup of coffee; he was always first to do the unpleasant chores he wanted to spare us; but he is best remembered, I think, for removing the saucers from beneath our cups so he could beat all of us to cleaning off the dinner table.

He was a collector — of everything — especially memories. His dresser drawers and closets bulged with wonderful things he had saved for his children and grandchildren, and his mind was equally full of recalled treasures from the past. He loved history and baseball and things made of wood, but most of all, he loved the railroad. All his life, no matter how far from trains he may have strayed, Frank Levay was a railroad man.

I grew up on the railroad, riding back and forth between New York and Chicago. I slept in upper and lower births, in tiny compartments, and in spacious bedrooms. I ate meals in dining cars with white tablecloths and heavy silver coffee pots. I was watched over by tall, dignified porters who had promised to keep and eye on me during the trip. This was my father’s world and so it was mine.

I was an only child for the first eight-and-a-half years of my life and spent much of that time with him. My memories are like slides flashing on a screen: flying through the air on a swing until all I could see were thick green leaves dotted with patches of blue … watching beautiful ladies, whom my father called debutants, sweeping though fancy hotel lobbies … eating chicken chow mien in New York’s China Town … walking on top of a wall made of rocks and holding tight to his hand … and riding with the engineer in the cab of a brand new diesel engine.

We built a life together during my early years, and we rediscovered each other when I was a grown woman who reached out to my father and found that he was reaching out to me. He went blind, very suddenly, in his 70s, and never really adjusted to the loss of his sight. He was 79 when he died, leaving an unfillable void for the six of us who loved him.

All my life, he gave me one priceless gift — unconditional love. No strings, no living up to expectations, just being me was all I had to do to receive it. Few parents have the wisdom and strength to give that to their children. My father had both.

Doing Things the Hard Way

2009-03-25T11:09:00.000-07:00

When one is directionally challenged, as I am, getting places can turn into my worst nightmare. Take today, for example. I wanted to get a printout of my lifetime earnings (Don’t ask why. It’s a long story). Being Internet savvy, I went to socialsecurity.org, filled out the requisite form, and hit submit. Flashing red messages told me I had made a mistake. My address was wrong. I rechecked it; it was right. In a standoff with a website, one never wins. After a frustrating 20 minutes of trying to convince unseen forces that I really do live at this address, I gave up and decided to drive to the nearest Social Security office.

But first, I had to find out where it was. I Googled Social Security in St. Louis and found two offices in the general vicinity of my neighborhood. So, off I went, trying to beat the “heavy rains” that were predicted for St. Louis,

Of course, I forgot my GPS, without which I’m helpless. I finally found the address, but it was not a Social Security office. It was a law firm with one attorney who specialized in Social Security matters. “Try calling Social Security,” the helpful receptionist suggested and offered me her phone. I called the 800 number and was informed that the options had changed and I should listen carefully to the new menu. I’ll spare you the never-ending “if you want this, press one; if you want that, press two” and all the questions that required verbal responses, which the frustrated voice recognition system didn’t recognize. I gave up and hung up.

“How about a phone book?” the receptionist asked, handing me the old, reliable white pages. (Key word here is old.) I looked up Social Security in the government section, found an address, and set off once again. Supposedly, the office was in a bank building not far from my house. For some reason, though, it wasn’t listed on the bank directory. The reason turned out to be that it had moved to another location — this time, far, far away from where I live. The rain had started as I dashed to my car.

Of course, I had no idea where the street was located (despite trying to decipher a street guide printed in two-point type), passed it by miles, and, in desperation, dashed through the rain to a storefront medical clinic to beg for help. With explicit directions, I finally found the street and the building and the office. My purse was searched, I was given a number, and I sat down to wait. When it was my turn, I went to the window and commented on my problems trying to find this particular office.

“Did you Google us?” the women behind the counter asked. I nodded. “Well, honey, that’s your problem,” she said. “The information on Google is wrong.” Wrong? Yes, wrong. I had spent hours trying to find the place, time waiting for my turn, and more time driving back through the rain in rush hour traffic. I was exhausted and had wasted the whole afternoon going somewhere I didn’t need to go, all because a website, Google, automated telephone technology, and the phone book had conspired to complicated my already complicate life.

Later, I mentioned my travails to my daughter, who said, “Mom, I think Social Security automatically sends that printout every year. Are you sure you didn’t get one in the mail?” I don’t even want to look!

Looking Back on "Women's Lib"

2009-03-15T14:18:00.000-07:00

In the beginning, there was a book. It was called The Feminine Mystique, and it started a revolution. The year was 1963. The thing about revolutions, though, is that they don’t happen all at once. It takes a long time for those at the back of the parade to get in step with those in the front, all of whom are marching to music only they can hear. Women like Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug were leading this parade, and they were light years ahead of the rest of us.

The whole concept of “women’s lib” was uncharted territory to those of us who were still waxing our floors in shirtwaist dresses and Mary Jane shoes, driving nursery school carpool in our shiny, new station wagons, and putting dinner on the table every night at 6:00, just as our mothers did.

Let me tell you how I finally got in step. I was tricked into it by a soft-spoken, white gloved, closet feminist. Ever so gently, she convinced me to invite a group of my friends to meet once a week to watch a program on Channel 9 and talk about it. That was all we had to do: watch and talk. She never said the words women’s liberation or consciousness raising. She never suggested that we would be in the forefront of a powerful movement. She just said it might be interesting.

The program, which originated in California (probably at Berkeley), was called “Choice, Challenge For American Women.” It had one simple but compelling message: Ladies, you have choices. How you live your life is up to you.

Week after week, we watched that program and talked, and talked. Week after week, we began to awaken to a new reality. Can you imagine the sound of a room full of young wives and mothers having a palpable aha moment, all at the same time? Our sudden sense of freedom left us breathless. It was 1970, seven years after The Feminine Mystique was published.

I went home and told my husband I wanted to get a job. He thought I was kidding … or crazy. He didn’t think I could possibly mean it. In fact, all over the country, there were husbands in a collective state of shock. We had obviously lost our minds. To prove it, we went back to school, to work, to our typewriters and easels and pianos, and forward to long-delayed careers and single motherhood, if necessary.

To have choices was intoxicating. Understand, it’s not that we didn’t have them before; it’s that we didn’t know we had them. Can you fathom that fewer than 40 years ago we were oblivious to something as fundamental as having the right to choose?

Little by little, of course, we got used to idea. We stretched ourselves and reached out to other women. We encouraged our daughters to ask for what they wanted and refuse to take no for an answer. We even invented a new word (well, Gloria Steinem did) “Ms.” Most of us didn’t chant slogans, or burn our underwear (that’s a myth, by the way), or get all bent out of shape when a man held a door open for us.

We just kept doing whatever it was we had chosen to do, as well as we could possibly do it. And those of who really understood what women’s liberation was all about learned to respect those among us who made different choices from ours.

This revolution, which began 46 years ago, embraced different causes, different colors, and different ages. It was never exclusive, and it was never about being right. Rather, it was about having the right to hear a different drummer … and step to the music we heard, however measured or far away.

Dispelling the Worry Demon

2009-02-18T06:57:00.002-08:00

I have a close personal relationship with worry, and apparently we have been together for a long time. I don’t remember how old I was when my mother bought me a copy of Dale Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living. It had a lot of good ideas but no real, long-term effect.

I’ve been worrying a lot lately. I have list of topics to worry about. After 9/11, I worried about how life as we know it can change on a dime. Then, I worried about the war in Iraq and the thousands of servicemen and woman who were killed or wounded beyond repair. I worried about politics nonstop. Of course, my current worry is the economy, which is helped along by an unending flow of news and commentary on how bad it is and how the world is slip sliding away into a depression. I worry about my family a lot. When something is bothering one of my daughters, I ruminate on her problem until I find myself skipping meals and waking up at night.

Of course, I know worry is as useless an emotion as guilt. It gets me nowhere and certainly doesn’t lead to doing anything constructive that might dispel it. According to Wikipedia (yes, I really did look it up):

“Worry is an emotion in which a person feels anxious or concerned about a real or imagined issue, ranging from personal issues such as health or finances to broader issues such as environmental pollution and social or technological change.” Well at least I'm worrying about the same things other people are.

“About one in four people, have chronic worry … which can cause heart attacks, high blood pressure, ulcers, gastrointestinal problems, muscular aches and pains, skin rashes, eczema, respiratory problems and asthma.” That is very scary.

So, what to do? Being a modern, savvy traveler in cyberspace, I Googled my topic and found Dr. Edward Hallowell, psychiatrist and author of Worry. He suggests the following:

Don’t worry alone; talk to a friend.
Find out more about the issue; check your facts.
Make a plan and take action.
Take "care of your brain" (sleep, exercise, eat healthy).
Seek human contact (hugs are good).
Let go of the problem.

I’m sure this is all good advice, but it is nothing I haven’t heard before. Actually, it seems a bit simplistic. When I was worried about the war in Iraq and talked to my friends, they were all equally worried, and we just reinforced each other’s anxiety. The same is true of the present state of the economy. The only thing on that list that makes any real sense is “let go of the problem.” That’s tough but doable. It will take an act of sheer will to put my pet demons out of my mind.

As I wrote that line, I could just imagine myself shoving a little demon out the door, turning the key, and stacking tables and furniture against it to prevent him from getting back in. I’ll bet neither Dale Carnegie or Edward Howell ever thought of that.

Memories of my Mother

2009-02-01T10:32:00.000-08:00

I am feeling quite philosophical. For one thing, my mother died 10 years ago today. For another, tomorrow is my birthday (not great timing). While it sometimes seems that time is dragging, when I realize that it has been a decade since I last spoke to my mother, I am stunned. I have often felt that, in some inexplicable way, she is more present now than when she was alive. Today, as I think of her, I am rereading what I wrote 10 years ago. Every word still resonates.

First and foremost, my mother was her own person — a liberated woman long before anyone ever heard that phrase. She spoke her mind; she did her own thing; and she exhibited a strength few women I know can equal.

She lived every minute of her 91-1/2 years. She was bright, funny, engaging, and fully engaged in life. She celebrated every birthday as a gift and didn’t seem to notice her age until this past year. But even as she began to slow down a bit, she still managed to read a book a day.

She was intelligent, multi-talented, and capable. It always seemed to me that anything I could do, she could do just a little bit better — from knitting and sewing to finding mistakes in something I had just proofread.

She knew the value of education and went back to work twice to help send both of us to college. Her own education was a result of voracious reading and constant honing of her abundant skills.

She had a direct, personal relationship with God and talked to Him every day. She lived her Judaism in spirit and in deed and honored her own mother by keeping the Sabbath holy.

She had a razor sharp wit, an indomitable sense of humor, and a will of iron. Her face and gestures were eloquently expressive; her love of books was contagious; and her pride in everything we achieved propelled us through life.

She forged and sustained a tightly knit family and instilled in us a strong value system that we, in turn, have tried to keep alive for our daughters.

Most of all, she loved us — all of us — her husband, her daughters, her sons-in-law, and her three beautiful granddaughters. She loved completely, as she lived life, with spontaneous affection, generosity, and zest.

Of all the things she gave us over the years, the gift we will treasure most is her love.

The Reality of This Recession

2009-01-25T15:04:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I think I live in a cave. Its not that I don’t know we’re in a recession. It’s not that I don’t hear about it 10 times a day on NPR, which is the only news that squeaks through my blockade. It’s not that I am unaware of the thousands upon thousands of people who are laid off each week, or the stores that are closing all around me, or the 75 percent off sales everywhere I look. But after eight years of orange alerts and dire warnings and fear, I have become somewhat inured to bad news. It was so bad for so long, and I felt so helpless, that I stopped reading, watching, or listening to the news.

What finally brought the reality of this recession home to me were two conversations about education. One was with the St. Louis Community College, where I teach writing. Registration for my non-credit class is down this semester, as it was last semester. And it’s not just my class; it’s all classes, on all campuses of the community college. People are cutting back, and one of the ways they’re doing it is by not taking classes they don’t need. How many people really need to learn how to write a nonfiction book?

The community college discontinued the separate catalogs for each campus, which people were used to receiving. That probably confused a lot of would-be students. They seem to have discontinued the person who interacted with the instructors, as well. That definitely confused me. I have no idea whom to call when I have a question. So, I call the continuing ed office, where I am told they are in the midst of reorganization. What does that mean? I ask. "It means we may not even be offering the program in the future," I am told. What program? "The continuing education program." I hang up in a daze.

This morning, I was telling a friend about this development. “My daughter is on the strategic planning committee for one of the branches of the university,” she says, "and she just heard they might be closing." Closing? Closing what? I ask. “That branch of the university,” she replies. “I don’t know how she will get her degree if they close the whole campus.”

Suddenly, I am hit with the enormity of this recession — how widespread and deep it is, how it reaches into ever crevice of our society, how many lives it is touching and in many cases ruining. There is no response to my friend’s dismal observation. What can one say?

A Very Bad Day ... or Two or Three

2009-01-22T07:47:00.000-08:00

Ever have one of those days? You know, the kind where everything goes wrong from the minute the alarm goes off until you finally escape your little black cloud by diving into bed and burying your head under a pillow. Today was definitely a day for the books, or the blogs, as the case may be. It actually began the a couple of days ago when I left my cell phone and Bluetooth earpiece in the pocket of my workout pants and then dumped them into the washing machine. They emerged from their dunking clean but useless.

The phone was insured; the Bluetooth was not. I had a choice between a replacement phone or upgrading the whole soggy mess for $200 and walking out of the Sprint store fully functional. I opted for the replacement, which was promised by overnight mail. The only proof that it had arrived was the UPS sticky note on the ground half way down my stairs. I was home all day, waiting for the UPS guy, who apparently knocked on my door with a feather. He didn’t return on Friday or Saturday or Sunday, so I still have no phone.

People couldn’t call me, and I couldn’t call them if I was out and about. Friday evening, I used my landline phone to confirm my dinner date with a friend. “OMG,” she said, “I completely forgot and have made other plans for the evening. I’m so sorry.” This was not really a tragedy because it was too cold outside to want to go anywhere. She felt terrible; I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve done that more than a few times in my life.” We rescheduled.

Saturday disappeared in a flurry of activity — working out, looking at my daughter’s new choice of wedding ring (it looks nothing like the Jared ring, by the way), pursuing our search for the perfect dress, grabbing a bite to eat, grocery shopping, and finally collapsing. It would have been a lovely day except for one little thing: I completely forgot that I had plans to meet another friend for dinner.

I woke up Sunday morning with a sinking feeling that something was amiss. I checked my calendar and there it was — the missed dinner date. I called my friend, overcome with remorse. “What happened to you?” she asked. “OMG,” I said, “I completely forgot. I got all tied up with wedding stuff and just spaced out. I’m so sorry. I feel absolutely terrible.” “Well you should,” she replied. I was devastated.

Still in a cloud of amnesia, I went off to fulfill my greeting duties of the Ethical Society, only to find I was there on the wrong week. I’m a greeter next Sunday, not this one. Eventually, the day ended. Thinking myself safe from further catastrophe, I pulled down the bedspread, and there was an open pen, sitting in the middle of a spreading blue circle of ink. The bedspread, of course, is white. I did a lot of screaming — “Out, out damn spot!” — but to no avail. All attempts to purge it made it ten times worse. I think this is the end of my beautiful bedspread. The ink, of course, soaked through to the duvet cover and the comforter. I went to bed with the washing machine chugging fitfully and the bathtub full of water and bleach.

When I was a little girl, I read all the Mary Poppins books. In every book there was a chapter called Bad Tuesday or Bad Wednesday, in which Jane or Michael had a very bad day where things went wrong left and right. In the end, of course, everything worked out fine, thanks to magical Mary Poppins. Some never-to-be-forgotten lesson was learned by the remorseful culprit, and Mary Poppins put everyone to bed. End of chapter.

Well, this was my bad Sunday — or more accurately Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. As it finally came to a close, I couldn’t help wishing I had a Mary Poppins to set things right, put me to bed, and end this particular chapter.

“He got it at Jared.” A Cautionary Tale

2009-01-14T06:54:00.000-08:00

My daughter (T) became engaged over Thanksgiving. She and her fiancé found the perfect ring at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry. There it was, right in the case, just waiting for them. It was kismet. Rather than purchase a center diamond, they wanted to have their own “sentimental” diamond mounted in the ring. (A little side note: this diamond was guaranteed and upgradable) “Of course, no problem,” said the store manager, who kept the ring to set the diamond.

That’s when the problems started. It is l-o-n-g story, especially if you are the bride to be, but I will try to give you the abbreviated version.

• The Jared technician cracked the diamond while setting it.
• The store manager offered to replace the cracked stone with a “perfect Jared diamond.”
• The ring was sent to headquarters to search for that perfect diamond; the search took weeks.
• In the meantime, T made many phone calls and trips to the store to check on the status of her ring.
• No calls were returned; no one had any information.
• T began to express impatience. Where was her ring?
• Finally, after many behind-the-scenes phone calls, the ring and the perfect diamond arrived, separately. The stone would have to be mounted at the store.
• T finally received her ring the day before Christmas.
• Meanwhile, back in the manager’s office, the news was not good. The diamond, though perfect, was neither guaranteed nor upgradable. ,
• Why? Because it was a “replacement diamond,” and that was Jared’s policy.
• T tried logic, reminding them that she wouldn’t have a replacement diamond if they hadn’t cracked her original one.
• Logic did not prevail; policy was sacrosanct.

T is what we call a “consumer vigilante” (a phrase coined by Faith Popcorn in The Popcorn Report, 1991). She swung into action.
• She wrote to the president of Jared and the district manager, explaining the sequence of events and the problem. No one responded.
• She called the president, who apparently does not speak to customers, and the head of customer service, who apparently doesn’t either.
• By this time, it was mid-January.
• In the meantime, T made many phone calls and trips to the store to check on the status of her request.
• No calls were returned; no one had any information.
• Meanwhile, back in the manger’s office, the news was not good. The manager had a copy of the letter to the president, but no decision. She would have to call her district manager to resolve this matter.
• Finally, after many behind-the-scenes phone calls, Jared issued its verdict: it declined to guarantee its own diamond but agreed to upgrade it.
• T said no thank you; she wanted to return the ring. That, unfortunately, was no longer an option.
• Why? Because it had been purchased more than 30 days ago, and that was Jared’s policy.
• T tried logic, reminding them that the ring had not been in her possession for 30 days because Jared had sent it back to headquarters; that when she tried to resolve the issue through letters, phone calls, and visits to the store, no calls were returned, and no one had any information; that these delay tactics had effectively “run out the clock.”
• Once again, logic did not prevail; policy was sacrosanct.

It is a maxim of customer service that when a person has a bad experience, he or she will tell at least 11 people, who in turn may each tell 11 other people, and so on. In today’s world, telling only 11 people is a pretty obsolete approach. As the mother of the now-distraught bride to be; a blogger; and member of Facebook, twitter, and several other widely read social networking sites, I thought it would be more effective to tell 11 million people.

So the next time someone tells you he’s going to Jared, you might want to share this story.

Addendum to story: After all of the above, Jared agreed to take the ring back. Lots of bad PR for no good reason. That's why corporations should not have "personhood" status. They don't behave like people.

Closing Out the Year

2009-01-08T16:57:00.000-08:00

This is my least favorite time of the year because it is time to get my finances in order to send to my accountant. While I am under the impression I have worked hard all year to keep track of income and expenses, file receipts in the right folders, and regularly add the figures to my Excel spreadsheet, I have been kidding myself. What should be a fairly straightforward task turns into an annual nightmare as I realize I have done none of the above.

First, let me say I am not a numbers person. I don’t particularly like numbers, and anything with dollar signs and decimal points gives me a stomachache. This doesn’t augur well for the task at hand. Where to start is always a problem. I guess the best place is with the pile of paid but still unfiled bills, scattered receipts, and check stubs that seem to have no discernible organization.

Then, there is trying to figure out to whom I paid what during each month of the year, so I can put the figures in the right cells of my empty spreadsheet. It’s not pretty. This year, in desperation, I called my bank and begged for a listing of 2008’s online business payments, all the time thinking, Right. Like that’s going to happen. Miracle of miracles, the lovely woman on the phone said, “Sure. I can do that. I’ll print it out and put it in the mail today.” And she did.

My income is divided into three parts: writing fees, book sales, and social security. That doesn’t sound too complicated, but fighting my way through PayPal and Amazon to see how many books I sold and how much I actually made, after the fees and humongous discounts have been deducted, almost drives me to tears.

Of course, there are the mountains of forms I get every month from Medicare, Blue cross/Blue Shield, and my Medicare Part D insurer. I guess I never look at them before I stuff them into file folders, but now I must. It’s pretty scary reading material. Insurance is it’s own private hell. When you’re self-employed, there seem to be 50 kinds, all out of pocket or deducted from something. And taxes. I never realized how many kinds of taxes there are, none of which are deducted from anything, so they are all out of pocket.

Finally, it is time to add up all these numbers (I swear I’ll eat out less, cut down on hair cuts, and find a cheaper grocery store), attach W9s (or whatever they’re called), and bundle up last year's proof of what is going on my tax return … just in case.

I do this every year, but, somehow, it never gets any easier. This is when I swear once again to hire a virtual assistant (VA). But if she’s virtual, as in — simulated, artificial, imitation, make-believe, computer-generated, online — will she come here and do all of this for me next year?

The Year That Got Away

2008-12-28T13:54:00.001-08:00

While I wasn’t paying attention, another year slipped away. No sense asking how it happened or where it went, the annual cliché questions. In reality, all we did was flip a page on a man-made calendar, which informed us that 2008 was over and 2009 had begun. In truth, geologically speaking, at midnight on December 31, we are actually celebrating 4,600,000,001 (or in that neighborhood), since that’s how old our little planet is. Whatever the real date may be, it feels to me that time is speeding up as I get older. That isn’t such a bizarre notion. Time really does fly or drag, according to Einstein. Sometimes, it even stands still. When I was young, it moved very slowly, and I thought I had forever. Now, I know I don’t.

I find it puzzling that we in the West don’t believe we’re ever going to die. Of course, that isn’t rational. Intellectually, we know everyone dies. We hear about death every day. We see it on the news. We lose loved ones. Yet, until we come face to face with death through illness or accident, we just refuse to accept it will ever happen to us. Because we think we are immortal, many of us sail through our days in a daze. We don’t pay attention to the here and now because we’re busy doing other things.

Our minds are elsewhere — in the past, which seems better than it may have been when we were there; in the future, where we plan or worry about events that may never happen; or nowhere in particular, where we just wander and float. It seems very difficult to stay put, right here, right now. I’d say it’s the human condition, but there are humans on the planet who actually do pay attention to what is going on in their lives at the very moment it is happening. And they’re not all Buddhist monks.

In 1970, a Harvard professor who experimented with LSD, studied with a guru, and changed his name to Baba Ram Das, wrote a book called Be Here Now. Hippies loved it; personal development experts loved it; those in search of a new way to be loved it. Now, some 40 years later, the idea is back in fashion. "Mindfullness" is all the rage. Old concept (way older than Baba Ram Das); new packaging. The idea, however, still has merit.

If we were really here, now, right this minute, at the end of 2009 (or 4,600, 000,001), would we all be asking what happened to last year? I doubt it.

Shadow Stories Revisited

2008-12-20T17:30:00.000-08:00

Part of this blog appeared on The Writing Life last April. I have been thinking about “the stories behind the stories” ever since I wrote it and have decided it's time to tell a few, just to see where they might lead.

What do writers do with their published work? Well, I keep mine. In fact, I have kept every article and book I've ever written. Over the years, I’ve done my best to consolidate, organize, and even purge; but I still have a lot of printed material. Why do I cling to more than 40 years of writing? One reason is that, behind every story I’ve written there is another story, a shadow story, of the real people behind the carefully phrased quotes and of what I learned or experienced that never made it into print.

Here is one of my favorites. It was called “St. Louis’s Modern Medicis,” and it was about 10 corporate and civic leaders who put their time, energy, enthusiasm, and influence behind "the arts" in all its varied forms. Without them, I wrote in 1978, St. Louis would not have enjoyed the richness of cultural life that made it such a wonderful place to live and work. At the time, I was the assistant editor of St. Louis Commerce magazine, the official publication of the St. Louis Regional Commerce & Growth Association. The RCGA’s board of directors comprised the most powerful corporate executives in our nine-county region, and those were the very men, who, along with their wives, supported the arts.

I had no illusions about the importance of my position when I called to ask for appointments and received timely return calls. It was the magic words “Commerce magazine” that opened the doors. Each of these executives had a pet civic project and was only too happy to see it get some free publicity. Maybe there was a little healthy competition there, as well. Who knows? What I did know was that they were willing to talk to me and were, for the most part, quite charming and down to earth. In one case, we shared coffee in bone china cups; in another, I saw pictures of grandchildren. In every interview, I heard real passion for the arts and how important they were the viability of our region.

At the time, I was so immersed in trying to tell their stories, I don’t think I realized that I was talking to the true giants of our community. Thirty years later, it seems quite obvious. I remember feeling comfortable with most of them. Only one was what I would call a “snob” (he shall remain nameless). The rest seemed to take me quite seriously, which was a mark of their professionalism, not mine. And one got my vote as the nicest person I had ever interviewed. (He still holds that designation.)

His name was Pete Love, and he was between jobs, in a manner of speaking — leaving Granite City Steel to become president of National Steel Corporation. He flew into St. Louis in a blizzard for the interview and photo shoot, which took place in the airport. I met Pete Love once and have never forgotten what a warm, unassuming gentlemen he was. Over the years, I have contacted him several times for different reasons, and he has always responded or had someone on his staff call me back.

At a time when corporate CEOs are known more for their greed and arrogance than for good manners and civic responsibility, I like to remember a time when the business world seemed a very different place.

(Just for the record, St. Louis's Modern Medicis were: Howard Bear, retired president of Aloe Company; W. L. Hadley Griffin, chairman of the board of Brown Group; Charles F. Knight, chairman and CEO of Emerson Electric Co.; Howard K. (Pete) Love, president of National Steel Corporation; Morton D. (Buster) May, retired CEO of the May Department Stores Company; Joseph Pulitzer, publisher, St. Louis Post Dispatch; George S. Rosborough, president of The Measuregraph Co.; Homer Sayad, managing senior partner at Haskins & Sells; Tom K. Smith, senior vice president, marketing of Monsanto Company; and Ben Wells, chairman of the board of The Seven-Up Company.)

Breaking Blogging Rules

2008-12-15T08:34:00.000-08:00

I receive a great many e-mails filled with advice on how to make the most of my blog, or Facebook, or Twitter, or some other social networking site I belong to. The advice is all good, and I wouldn’t be getting it if I hadn’t subscribed to the newsletters or blogs that are dispensing it. The most important piece of wisdom is to have a purpose for your blog and stay focused. People will read it if it is giving them what they have come to expect. If you wonder all over the place with subject matter, blog directories will have a tough time finding you.

It makes perfect sense, and it is a rule I observe quite strictly on my other blog, “The Writing Life,” which is full of musings, observations, and reflections on the craft of writing. “PRISM,” on the other hand, has a less focused raison d’être. Its tag line is “reflections on the many colors of life,” which allows my thoughts to roam in all directions. In other words, I am breaking all the rules here. Why? Because I don’t really expect the blog directories to find my little philosophical musings on life. Let’s face it; life is a pretty broad topic.

It takes discipline to stick to the subject, and, though I’d like to think of myself as a disciplined writer, there are times when I want to wander off the path and see where my meanderings will take me. This is one of those times. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit, I didn’t start off with a subject in mind. I just put fingers to keyboard and wrote a sentence.

I don’t teach creative writing, but I suspect that those who do may give such an assignment to their students: Just start. Write a word, then another. Write the first thing that enters you mind, no matter how foolish or irrelevant it may seem. Keep going, and see what happens. For those of us who don’t allow ourselves that total lack of discipline, it is both scary and liberating.

So, now I have written an entire blog with no discernable direction, no adherence to the accepted rules of blogging, no real purpose except to write. I apologize to anyone who stumbles across it expecting to find some piece of wisdom on life. I owe you a conclusion. If there is one, it would be this:

If you always walk straight down the road of life, you probably won’t get too lost. On the other hand, you may miss a lot. Every once in a while, why not take an unexpected turn? Why not walk down some unmarked path and see where it takes you? You may just be amazed at what you find.

The Reading Gene

2008-11-22T12:39:00.000-08:00

It’s funny the things our parents leave us, often without realizing they are doing it. My mother bequeathed to me an enduring love of reading. When I think of her, my mental pictures almost always involve books. She read constantly, especially in her later years. In her nineties, I think she was consuming a book a day, though she sometimes forgot she had just read a particular book, read it again, and enjoyed it just as much the second time. When we visited each other in Phoenix or St. Louis, people often asked me what in the world we did to pass the time. We read. We sat on opposite ends of my couch or hers with our feet up and our noses buried in our respective books, and we read together. It was our ritual.

My mother belonged to the Literary Guild and Book of the Month Club for years. She hung out at public libraries and gave advice to people perusing the shelves at local bookstores. She read fiction — mysteries, espionage, historical, and romance. She had to keep recycling books because, even though she seemed to be constantly installing bookshelves, they always overflowed. When she died, her daughters and granddaughters felt like we had won the lottery as we packed up many of her most precious titles.

If there is a reading gene, she definitely passed it down to us. We read, compulsively. We buy books; we trade books; we borrow books; we own multiple library cards. We are addicts. We read different kinds of books for different reasons. I read to escape, to relax and unwind, to learn, and, sometimes, just to be doing something. Some people crash in front of the TV; I curl up with a book.

My fondest memory of childhood was of the annual book sales at my school, P.S. 51, in New York. Every year, the newest and best children’s books — later to become classics — were displayed like jewels on long tables in the library. My mother and I would examine each one and then thoughtfully order our selections. The titles and covers are vivid, even today, some six decades later: Anne of Green Gables. Heidi. Misty of Chincoteague. The Happy Prince. Geraldine Belinda. Mary Poppins. Lad of Sunnybank. The Crystal Locket.

Alas, too many of these treasures have disappeared over the years, but some remain as testament to my mother's precious gift.

Watching History

2008-11-04T20:24:00.000-08:00

It is election night 2008 after the longest presidential campaign in history. My sister insists it will be over by bedtime, but I think that’s a bit optimistic. Nonetheless, I am camped out in front of the TV watching Brian Williams light up one state after another on an electric map.

It is 48 years since I’ve watch an election night with my heart in my throat. The world was charmed by John F. Kennedy in 1960; it is charmed by Barack Obama in 2008. Kennedy faced some tough issues then, including civil rights, the threat of nuclear war with Russia, and his own poor health, which was never revealed during his life. His extracurricular love life made Bill Clinton look like a boy scout, but that wasn’t public knowledge either. Whatever unspoken contract existed between the president and the press in those days has been shattered in the intervening years.

It’s amazing how mesmerizing this coverage is, considering how sick to death I was of the whole thing. The pundits appear to have memorized every election statistic ever recorded. It sounds a lot like an entire team of announcers doing color commentary at the World Series. One wonders how they can keep all of this straight. (Ah, the Internet, perhaps.)

My son-in-law, who knocked on doors in Florida while I was knocking on doors in Missouri, just called to see how I’m doing. Frankly, I wish I were there because it would be much more fun to be watching this with other like-minded people so we could all yell and scream when our guy wins.

It is 10:00 p.m. My sister was right. It’s over by bedtime. Barack Obama, the first African American in this country's history, has just been elected president of the United States. (Imagine me yelling and screaming.)

Looking for “True North”

2008-10-30T16:06:00.000-07:00

Just four days before the 2008 presidential election, I’m listening to NPR, yet again. One would think I would be on overload to the point of nausea by now, but, the closer we get to the big day, the more addicted I become. Pundits and commentators are tripping over themselves, seeking new ways to say the same things. As they drone on, it all feels like background music with no discernible melody. But I just heard a new note that made me sit up and take notice.

In describing Barack Obama’s campaign, one of the speakers observed that a single, underlying philosophy has guided all of its decisions and activities. That philosophy has kept the campaign disciplined, cohesive, and on track.

This doesn’t sound too remarkable, I know. Yet, it reminded me of a piece of wisdom I have long known but repeatedly forgotten. It has to do with one, simple question: What are your values? If your actions are out of sync with your values, your actions are wrong.

Wrong? Yes, wrong. If you think of your value system as a compass pointing toward what Stephen Covey calls “True North,” you’ll never wander off course. Ignore the compass, and you will surely get lost in the maze of choices available you.

Even though everyone is sick to death of this campaign, this blog post is not about the election. It is about taking the time to figure out what really matters to you and then making sure your life reflects your deepest values.

Getting Away From It All

2008-09-27T19:33:00.000-07:00

I went off by myself once for four days to think and write and figure out what to do with my life. I had traveled for business and been alone in hotels and restaurants before, so that part wasn’t strange. But I had never in my life just gotten in my car, driven to a destination, and checked into a hotel, with the intention of spending the time in complete solitude. People may do that all the time, but, to me, it was the bravest thing I had ever undertaken.

It was Memorial Day weekend of 1984. I went to a resort in the Ozarks and stayed in something that was supposed to look like a little cabin. It was actually a hotel room located in a building some distance from the main lodge. I didn’t choose the best weekend because families tend to descend on resorts over holiday weekends. It was also cold and rainy, and I had packed clothes for hot and sunny, so I almost froze to death. But, that aside, it was the adventure of my life.

What did I do for four days? I flowed, doing whatever felt right at any given moment. At first, that was very difficult because I’m not a go-with-the-flow person. Not to mention that I was so stressed out, I was ready to come apart, which is why I had embarked on this “journey” in the first place. I was pretty desperate, as I recall.

I read, I wrote in my journal (pages and pages and pages), I meditated, I watched TV, I went to one of the restaurants when I was hungry, I ran or walked on the road in front of my cabin, I slept, and I did something I had never done before: I consciously thought. It was pretty amazing.

1984 was 24 years ago. What is astonishing is that it was not only the first time in my life I did something like that; it was also the last. I have never done it again, not even for a weekend. I have thought about it many times, remembering the magic of it, even though the room was probably on a par with Holiday Inn, the weather was horrible, outdoor activities were pretty restricted (I was into exercise in a big way then), and there were irritable parents and kids all over the pace.

I came home completely restored, though I could never explain what had happened that brought about the change. Those four days were a hyphen in my painful and pressured life — a time out that probably saved me, at least for a while. Why I have never done it again is beyond me, but, on some deep level, I don’t seem to believe I deserve such a gift. The fact that I have needed it, and it could have had the same curative effect many times over the years, is pretty apparent.

I have lived in my beautiful, cocoon-like condo for 24 years, and every time I think I should get away, I look around me and wonder why I couldn’t just do the same thing at home. So, I stay and, of course, I don’t do it. Instead, I work or clean or shop or flit from one activity to another; and at the end of the weekend I am in exactly the same condition I was in at the beginning.

What's wrong with this picture? Why would any sane woman wait 24 years to take another time out? Apparently, I just can't do it at home; so, when my daughter told me she was going on a cruise to celebrate her anniversary and was worried about her dog (read, child), I volunteered to come to Florida to dog sit. It was exactly what I needed. I had the house, the pool, the dog, a pile of books, and a laptop computer. By the end of 10 days I was as relaxed as a spaghetti noodle and I had found my solution: hop on a plane; bask in the sun; walk the dog; and u-n-w-i-n-d.

The Best of All Possible Worlds

2008-09-27T19:11:00.000-07:00

When I first became a magazine editor in 1972, I read everything that came across my desk. Some of it was OK; some of it was terrible. On rare occasion, I would read something heart-stoppingly good. The first time that happened, I was reading an article by a writer and photographer named Bob La Rouche. It began this way: “The man, and the mountain. The mountain is Dhaulahiri … in Nepal. It is majestic implacable, inanimate, and a killer.” It could have been yesterday, but in fact it was 32 years ago. I still remember how I felt that day. Stunned, I think is the word. I had chills. I read the whole article, then, reached for the phone to call Bob La Rouche and tell him I thought what he had written was wonderful.

Now, I’m teaching writing — one six-week class a semester in continuing education, through the community college system. I wrote a workbook to help me do a better job. It was good but not great, so, I updated it. Then, I updated it again and again. It’s now in its fifth edition and 120 pages long. I’ve taught the same class — Writing, Publishing, & Promoting Your Nonfiction Book — for five or six years at different schools. In each class there is at least one special person who has talent and who might actually write a book. When I read something that person has written, I react as I did all those years ago. I read the whole thing, whatever it is. I barely breathe. I get chills. Then, I reach for the phone.

Once upon a time, a writing teacher told me I had talent and should keep writing. I took those words to heart. In fact, I built my life around them. It is beyond joy to say them to another person, especially one who may not know it yet. I had that experience recently when a former student read one of her essays to me. I just had it again when I got an e-mail with chapter summaries for a book one of a current student is planning. Maybe I’m no longer stunned, as I was the first time. But I certainly am moved and touched and impressed and just plain wowed. Every time.

A few years ago, when I was in a fast-track class for wannabe professional speakers and those who served them, we were asked to identify our vision. What did we do, or if we weren’t doing it yet, what did we want to do? I wrote, “Help writers write,” though, at the time, I had no idea how I was going to do it. I had written a book on freelancing, which hadn’t done well due to lack of any discernible marketing. I wasn’t yet a speaker and, it turned out, probably never would be. I wasn’t teaching yet. I was trying to reinvent myself but discovered that, in my case, that was going to take years.

Since then, I have created my program, written the workbook, taught classes, ghostwritten three books for other people, and designed a new website devoted to, of all things, helping writers write. “Do what you love; the money will follow,” they say. OK, I’m doing it, I’m earning a living at it, and I'm loving it. I think that is the best of all possible worlds.

If I Were Enlightened

2008-09-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

Like so many Westerners, I fell head over heels in love with Buddhism, with its Eight-Fold Path, Four Noble Truths, Three Jewels, and all the other numbered pieces of ancient wisdom. Five of this, six of that — so orderly. So easy to remember. So Eastern. So completely out of context. Maybe that’s why so many of us were so instantly seduced.

According to Buddhist thought, our goal is to wake up — to become enlightened, liberated, and free — just as Buddha did under the Bo tree. Of course, it took him several lifetimes, most of his present incarnation, and 39 days of meditation under that tree to it. But the point is, he did awake, and, supposedly, we can too.

If I were enlightened, I would be awake to reality. I would see life as it is — the Truth, the big picture. There would be no more mysteries or misconceptions. At last, I would know what it’s all about and could stop driving myself crazy about all those things that don’t matter anyway. But what would I actually know? What is the Truth?

The answer is this: I would know — not just think or believe — but know, with my whole being, the reality of impermanence — that everything in life is born and dies and, in between, is constantly changing.

I would know interdependence — that everything in the universe is part of everything else and does not exist in isolation.

I would know nonself —that nothing and no one is unique, separate, and alone.

And I would know karma — that every cause has an effect, and every effect becomes a cause.

I do believe those things. I have examined and analyzed them, and they all make perfect sense to me. But that doesn’t make me a Buddhist, and it certainly doesn’t make me enlightened. Accepting the logic of those four principles and knowing them, owning them, totally and unequivocally, are not the same. One is cerebral; the other is spiritual. Enlightenment is not a syllogism; it’s a giant ah-ha moment.

I want to be enlightened. In fact, I yearn for it. But I don’t think I have devoted enough lifetimes or even this life to its achievement. I can’t meditate for a half hour let alone 39 days. And my will just doesn’t seem to be strong enough to make the leap. But just for a moment, let us imagine that I have had that great ah-ha moment and that suddenly I know the Truth. How would that change me? How would I live my life?

If I knew that everything in life were impermanent, that everything changes and nothing lasts, that every living thing is born and dies, I would not spend my life accumulating so many things, things I would lose eventually anyway. I would not cling so tightly to what I think is mine — my youth, my belongings, my health, my body, even my life. I would not dwell on the past nor stress out over an unknown and possibly nonexistent future. I would pay attention to life instead of sleepwalking through it. I would live lighter, get rid of emotional baggage and a lot of other unnecessary stuff, give in to more urges, and ban the word should from my vocabulary. I would live the moments I have to live, one moment at a time, then let it go and live the next one.

If I knew that all things in the universe were interconnected and interdependent, part of the never-ending process of life, affecting and being affected by every other thing — living or inanimate — I would view everything and everyone with reverence. I would nurture and protect the living planet and the ecosystem, knowing that they were once and were meant to remain in perfect balance. I would consciously seek to understand the connections and to sustain them. I would live in a state of gratitude for the miracle and mystery of this life we all share.

If I knew that I am not a unique and separate individual, that I breathe the atoms of the ancients and am inseparable from all who ever were or ever will be, that each of us is microcosm of the whole and thus perfect, I would honor every living being. I would understand that we are one in the same, separated only by the illusion of our packaging. I would cease to see the packaging and connect with others heart to heart and soul to soul. I would see the utter insanity of bigotry and hatred, of ethnic cleansing and homophobia, of cruelty and civil wars. I would devote my life to eradicating them from our world.

If I knew that every thought, word, and deed creates a reaction, a result, an effect — like a stone creates ripples in a pond — I would consider carefully the potential consequences of what I think, say, and do. I would never be careless with the power of the written or the spoken word. I would try always to do no harm and, whenever possible, to make things a little better. I would choose my words and use my words to build bridges of understanding and tolerance among people.

But, in reality, I am just here — quite ordinary, half awake, glimpsing only tiny fragments of the Truth, and waiting for enlightenment. Even if I only have to wait through this one little lifetime, that seems a long, long time. While I’m waiting, I have been meditating on an old piece of wisdom I heard once that advises: “Act as if...”

If attaining true enlightenment is beyond my present ability or time constraints, acting as if I have just awakened under the Bo tree and that I clearly see the Truth is something I can surely do. And, while I am waiting for the big aha, I can also realize that enlightenment often comes in tiny moments of clarity instead of all at once. Every time I connect with another human being … every time I realize that what I do or say creates a tangible result … and every time I protect our precious earth … I will experience such a moment.

The Cynical American

2008-09-27T09:36:00.000-07:00

NPR drones on with hourly updates of late breaking catastrophes and endless commentary on what each one means. It is the background music of our lives, or at least the lives of those of us who consider ourselves progressives or liberals or Democrats or blue. The other half — the Christian right, conservatives, Republicans, and red— are getting the same messages but with a different spin on Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and AM talk radio. It’s as if we look at the world through opposite colored screens and, thus, we are not seeing the same picture. There seems no way to bring these opposing views into focus.

But whatever world we are seeing, I think both sides would agree that it’s an unmitigated mess. If it can go wrong in this country it has. We seem to go from one crisis to another with the president telling us we are on the brink of disaster, congress running around like a bunch of sheep with no border collie to guide them, and the media pushing the latest message, which is almost always incomplete and distorted.

One day we are told the sky is blue and cloudless; the next day it is falling. The enemy is Osama bin Laden; no, the enemy is Sadam Hussein. The economy is sound; the economy is falling apart. Mission accomplished; we’ve won the war. Well, on second thought, we haven’t won, and this is going to last far into the future. The US has the best health care money can buy; unfortunately, 47 million people don’t get to use it.

CEOs are making enough money to fund small countries; yet, every day thousands of people are losing their jobs, their homes, their retirement options, and any hope of financial security. Scandals are commonplace in congress, corporations, and Wall Street. And the beat goes on. I am no longer shocked at anything I hear. First, I am numb; second, I don’t believe a word of it.

It’s the lies that have made me a cynical American. I don’t know if the people who routinely stare into cameras and lie with perfectly straight faces even understand the concept of truth. Perhaps they did as children, but obviously the memory has faded. I have a sense of unreality, as I find myself living in a bad dream, unable to wake up.

I am frightened for my country, which I no longer recognize. I am frightened for my children and everyone’s children who will inherit the heap of debt, inequity, and decaying planet we are leaving them. I am frightened for myself because somehow I have to make it through the next 20 years. But being frightened is exhausting.

I need a paradigm shift, an aha moment, when I suddenly see how to negotiate the path through this tangle of deception, power struggles, discouragement. I need to wake up from this dream. But at this moment I have no idea how to do it.