At Least It's Not January Any More

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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.