DIY: Perfectly Flawed

This is my brain on home shows:

Before

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After

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Boredom and desperate need for a home refresh finally pushed me to make over my lifeless, decades old wood dining table and chairs–replete with dings, scratches and in some cases, major gouging.

We’ve since added to its misery but tried to make amends years ago with new chair re-upholstery. Nothing doing. Didn’t make my heart sing. But with real life encroaching on personal time, my furniture (and the rest of the décor) never made my triage list.

Finally though, enough was enough. I decided to commit to re-staining the tabletop. I reasoned the top was so damaged that if I goofed it wouldn’t make much difference. I had nothing to lose.

So for months I pored over Do It Yourself Internet sites and scoured local libraries for DIY info, techniques and lots and lots of pep talk. And all I wanted to do was stain the dang thing.

After wading through scads of instruction and rejecting the more elaborate procedures, I compiled my own basic action plan which I knew I’d be most likely to carry out.

I’ll skip the part about how I have no work area and we had to live in a construction zone for weeks. I just ignored the ‘when will you be done?’ questions.

I’m happy to report the tabletop turned out nicely (see above photo)–better than expected. But I couldn’t stop there. Now I had to fully update the table and chairs as well.

After much additional research I decided on chalk paint (not to be confused with chalk board paint), a type of paint that results in an antique-y, shabby-chic effect. What drew me to this paint was not only the ultimate look but the swear-up-and-down-claim by chalk paint advocates that this paint can be used directly on the piece with little to no prep, such as sanding or stripping the prior finish.

Well, yes and no. Some items would need prep some would not. I eventually learned to use a shellac product that can help block the old sheen from bleeding through.

This would be the end of my post if my purpose were simply to summarize why I did this redo.

But there’s more. Though I applied two to three coats for full coverage of the chairs, I immediately observed the chalk paint self-distressing and self-aging, showing flaws as it dried. The more I saw this, the more coats I used. I wasn’t sure I was happy with what I was seeing but there was no turning back.

Somewhere around the third chair I had an epiphany. Oh, I get it—it’s supposed to show flaws. That’s part of the character. It tells a story. And it’s OK.

I think it’s interesting to note that the distressed, imperfect finish is highly desirable to many—even deliberately sought after. Furniture treated with this particular paint is not pristine or flawless but real, with all its imperfections.

I appreciate, too, how forgiving the paint was. If closely examined, one could see a number of paint malfunctions like a dried drip here or there or a tiny spot I may have missed. Ha. It’s all part of the charm. And most of us won’t be looking too closely.

I’d bet you’d be hard pressed to see any flaws in the “after” picture above. Taken from a distance, the whole package looks pretty darn good.

Admittedly, painting with chalk paint is an odd way to find life parallels but it’s as good as any other experience we might use to freshen up our ideals, allow our imperfections and find ways to gloss over others’ flaws*.

Not too shabby.

*Not at all costs: know when an item or relationship is unsalvageable.

X, S

 

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Brother’s Keeper

*Dylan’s mom stood in the doorway of the shiva house, looking out on a grey, stormy day, the weather most likely in precise alignment with the torment inside her. For a moment, I didn’t realize it was she. We hadn’t seen each other for about fifteen years. Her hair was different then, shorter, curlier. We met at an intensive therapeutic program for our then-preschool-age sons. I asked where the family was taking visitors.

 “I’m the mom.” ‘It’s me.” She said pointing to herself.  

 

Last week, Dylan, age twenty and a college junior, made the tragically irreparable decision to take his life. No words adequately express the level of devastation and sorrow his family, friends and community are going through.

In many ways, he was a success story. Dylan, despite his Aspergers** diagnosis, (an autistic spectrum disorder seriously impacting social skills) soared in his mainstream classes, worked as a camp counselor, went snowboarding and rock climbing. He also fearlessly tried his hand at skydiving. He was fiercely loved by his parents and three brothers who never hesitated over the years to provide the help he needed.

Dylan may have mastered some significant aspects of his difficulties like academia and driving a car. However, he was all too aware of the serious social challenges preventing him from grasping the last rung on the ladder of achievements–the possibility of being accepted, to not be different and be like everyone else. That coveted lifeline promised to pull him up, making him level with the rest of the world. But Dylan found it elusive. The rung would always be just a bit out of his reach. He was so close.

In his eulogy, his dad expressed sadness that most people focused on his Aspergers rather than his good heart.

Dylan continuously strove to understand social nuance and the mechanics of appropriate conversation. He eagerly tried to learn how to do better. Dylan hoped for friends of his own who would genuinely want to include and appreciate him; to call him because they wanted to catch a movie—not because they were using him to get a ride. He wanted to know what having a girlfriend was like. He yearned for romance and intimacy.

His heart was worn down over time, his dad’s words continued. Dylan worked hard for peer inclusion but got too little in return.

The family, however, is determined not to allow their son’s death to be in vain. They challenge others to include the person who is alone on a Saturday night or the one sitting by him or herself in the cafeteria or social gathering.–‘the one who may lower your social status.’

To say kindness is difficult is counterintuitive. But kindness should not be confused with weakness. In fact insensitivity, selfishness and cruelty is the easy out, impulsively calling forth our most base reaction. Self-control, empathy and compassion are strengths to be nurtured.

It takes soulful effort to fight through personal discomfort and reach out. Brush off social stigma and rediscover common decency. Say hi. Smile—elemental respect everyone deserves. It is so simple. Dignity is a most fundamental right and human need. Humiliation and hurt are powerful emotions that can lead to despair.

Dylan’s family wants people to know that we can set the example. His brothers always included him with their friends and everyone was all the richer for it.

Lack of systemic supports coupled with status-conscious youth set a most tragic stage for Dylan’s final act. The first tragedy was society’s failure to respond.

If that rung was half an inch away, it was a million miles. Let us not dismiss the ability we have to help close that gap for others.

May his memory be a blessing.

X, S

From National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide call 1-800-273-TALK (8255). You’ll be connected to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area, anytime 24/7.

*Name changed

**Adults with Asperger’s have suicidal thoughts at about ten times the rate of the general population: 17% to 66%

Risings

 (I’m plagued by everything from tragedies in the news to the more every-day life-stresses.  I’ve written the following as an expression of  frustration and hope)

What’s plaguing you?

You know, those crumbs stuck in the recesses of your mind sitting there, slowly rotting,  threatening to infect your better self.

Pharoah, the wicked King of Egypt, just doesn’t get it. It takes no less than ten seriously nasty plagues before finally grasping the concept of change (and even then he was quick to fall back on his old ways).

Pharoah’s actions are the epitome of  Einstein’s well-known definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  His hardened heart not only harmed others but his loved ones as well.

Consider how often we are guilty of hardening our own hearts because we hurt, are insecure, angry, jaded, fearful and weary. The red flag waves.

We too must learn the same lesson repeatedly before it sinks in. Are we listening to what our lives tell us again and again? Do we heed the signs hidden or glaring? Do we exercise our empathic muscle when we interact with others?

Many times, mental cobwebs cloud those messages and hinder our objectivity. The status-quo may obscure the path to any possible change. One fundamental reason we flounder and stumble: we lack the skills to make even a small step toward redirection. We simply don’t know how. We’re stuck.

According to the Passover story, the enslaved make a break for it and grab the one opportunity they have for freedom. Squandering it could cost them their lives. The yeast may not rise but they themselves would–to the challenge presented.

Luckily, we don’t have to move as fast.  However, the decision to rid ourselves of crumbs, literal or metaphorical, should be made. The journey may be never-ending.  We are a work in progress.

 

 

Out With the Old, In With the You

I’m not the biggest fan of suburban life but perks like no-sweat parking and more living space are undeniable.  The yard sale too, the quintessential suburban event, is another.  I brake for them–and any thrift-type store–in my line of vision.

Proving evolution hasn’t killed the thrill of the hunt,  I’ve put to good use dozens of finds like brand-new, never-opened office supplies or the adorable end table repurposed to hold bathroom towels.  Discovering secondhand items I wouldn’t have considered purchasing retail generates creative opportunities I wouldn’t have ever taken.

When I first began thrifting years ago, the concept was fraught with stigma (socially acceptable terms were ‘antique’ or ‘vintage’).  Now not so much.  With our growing sensitivity toward recycling, thinking “green,”  being crafty and a desire to pare down, secondhand stores have become trendy.

But still: Why pick through someone’s past?  Glimpsing briefly into others’ lives I witness a condensed timeline.  What did they hold dear?  Which milestones defined their lives?  Why do they want to dispose of these markers?  Are they ready?

Young families change homes and forge ahead to the future while others clean out lifetimes–theirs or those of loved ones. That reality may be the most difficult. We affix our projections and sentiments to inanimate objects. They are tangible reminders of our past, proof of its existence.  To watch a buyer walk away with a child’s prom dress, crib or a well-loved lounge chair is, no doubt, an exercise in letting go.

Unburdening sets in motion a coming to terms with the end of a time we may have treasured or a goal we must admit we won’t reach.  Several years ago, after holding onto them long after any further realistic possibility, I gave away boxes of baby clothes my kids had worn, finally accepting  I would not, once more, be the mother of a newborn.

Then again, tossing isn’t necessarily negative.  Emotional freedom can perhaps be gained from items discarded.  Though the stuff our dreams were once attached to may get the heave-ho, different owners can breathe new life into things no longer of use to us.

Castoff rites are helpful psychological prompts defining a ‘before’ and ‘after.’   The Jewish New Year ritual Tashlich (pronounced TASH-leekh), practiced by some, symbolizes a casting off of our previous year’s misdeeds and offenses by tossing pieces of bread into a body of water.  The release grants us space to reboot, release our regrets, take vows toward personal improvement, forgive others and–what could be most challenging– ourselves.

Outer skin can be easily shed. What we hold in our hearts and minds is not.  Changes, if they happen at all, are slow. The real work is within. Our hopes are to start fresh and make room for new experiences–not new stuff.

Accoutrements are our armor.  Stripping ourselves of our airs and attitudes leaves only who you are at the core.  You were there all along.

X, S

 

 

Freeze Frame

“She’s going to leave me” I mournfully declared for weeks to whomever would listen.  My then-four-year-old-daughter had lost her first tooth and I saw the future looming.  Not that I didn’t know it was on its way.  What I didn’t expect was my reaction.

As my youngest, all my daughter’s milestones would be the last I’d experience as a parent.  Just when I’d barely adjust to one of her stages of growth, she’d go ahead and move to the next one.  I wanted to freeze time despite reality.

Is this post different than any other on quick kid growth, flying time and a general longing for turning the clock back?  Probably not.  But I do think frequent discussion of the topic works as a reminder, a figurative pinch to keep us alert and in the moment.

We work hard to keep close a mental snapshot of the most cherished parts of our lives.  We may even wish we could go back for a do-over. Or not.

Oddly, the tension between holding on and letting go cradles our hopes and fears.  Perhaps the pull keeps us balanced.  Life’s inevitabilities are certain.  Our feelings about them aren’t.

We may seize the moment but it passes way too quickly.  We want it back.  The closest we get to ‘freezing time’ is making time to spend time.

My then-four-year-old is now well into her seventeenth year.  Ready or not, the future is here.  Her teeth are marvelous. X, S

Sleep, Interrupted

Heaps of thanks this week to BetterAfter50.com for publishing my essay, Sleep, Interrupted. (http://betterafter50.com/2014/06/sleep-interrupted)

BA50 also helped start a writing fire under me with my first piece Teachings of a Bully (http://tinyurl.com/teachingsofabully) back in February, pre-blog.

Happy Summer,

X, S

 

And While You’re At It, Check Everything

 

Earlier this month, Tal Fortgang, a Princeton freshman, wrote an essay in reaction to often hearing his professors (and some fellow students) tell him to “check his privilege,”  a comment frequently used to tell someone that their presumed bias is showing (http://tinyurl.com/oumqr7q).  

The professors have a point.  So does Fortgang.  Unfortunately, they are talking at cross purposes, never acknowledging the other’s concern.  Professors rightly attempt to raise students’ consciousness by pointing out how fortunate circumstances can affect one’s perspective.  But I think professors are also obligated to keep open the lines of communication on campus and in the classroom.

“Check your privilege,” in essence, constructs a wall that can ironically  prevent us from working toward further understanding.  Opinions or points of discussion–however erroneous they may be–would rarely, if ever, be raised or even valued because past personal history could never be changed.

Isn’t enlightenment a main goal of higher education–an amalgam of ideas, where no one will be shamed into silence for who or what they are?  Once the phrase is uttered, where does the classroom discussion lead?  Is it a launching point for valuable insight and learning?  Or could students become intimidated, shrinking away from opportunities for understanding others?

More fundamentally, we need to ask:  If we all–students and professors included–have our own affected outlook, are we ever able to understand anyone who’s not like us? Why would we try if we’d be knocked down before the conversation has a chance to start? Are institutions of higher learning still able to provide critical thinking skills?

The larger point here is that anything can cloud a person’s perspective. Not just privilege.  Our world view will always be filtered through the prism of our own background and experience.

We all have a bias of some kind to check.   What’s yours?

X, S

 

 

Old Friends, New Friends

During the summer of 2012 I embarked on a quest to examine my existing friendships.  I had had a rough year.  I disliked my job, lost a dear friendship and was painfully adjusting to the loss of a social group that had long been important to me.

I needed to reconnect to people with whom I could expect a reciprocity of trust and genuine interest, where personal depth didn’t stop at the throw-away line, “Hi, how are you?”  Like a diet lacking essential nutrients, superficial interactions online and off were depleting me.  Nourishment would come from old-fashioned face-to-face.

I decided to make a list of local New York area friends I wanted see in the flesh (for now, long-distance friendships would have to remain virtual).    Some I had seen within the last year.  Others not for twenty or thirty.  I was determined to reevaluate–and hopefully reestablish–both older, deeply rooted friendships as well as more recent ones.

I scheduled get-togethers with each person on my list of eighteen over the next few weeks.  One or two visits felt awkward and uncomfortable.  Those won’t continue.  With most, however, things picked up where we left off, never feeling the distance of time.  I enjoyed catching up, opening up and simply feeling the warmth of a lovely friendship.

As nice as this was, I hoped my summer efforts would prompt more frequent contact, either virtual or real-life.  Regrettably, many fell back into their daily lives, pushing the importance of staying in touch to the back of their priority list.

To be fair, I get it.  Life happens.  Lesson Learned–Know when to make an effort and when to let go: I’ll take the initiative and give you the benefit of the doubt a couple of times but then I’ll wonder if you’re interested in maintaining the connection.  People do get caught up in themselves but if you’d like to sustain a relationship, ya gotta give back.

I treasure the life-long kinships made during camp, college and early work years.  I’ve been lucky.  These friendships seem to have the most staying power.  I trust they’ll be in touch, if not in person then through technology.

But as I get older, finding durable friendships is more challenging.  I thrive on social interaction.  Meeting and getting to know others energizes me even if most won’t become more than a nodding acquaintance.

That realization will sustain me for now.

 

 

 

 

Shaming Shame

He could not have been more than 3 years old.   The little guy, occupied with toys displayed on a pharmacy shelf, was sitting alone on the floor at the front of the store. I noticed him as I weaved my cart in and out of the aisles searching for the items I came for.  My eyes swept the immediate area.  There was no adult in sight.  After several minutes, I circled back. He was still on his own, unaccounted for.  My concern grew.

“Where’s your mommy?” “Do you have a grown up with you?” I asked. The boy looked up at me, sweet-faced and quizzical.  I wasn’t getting anywhere.  If his safety was compromised in any way, I couldn’t ignore it.

I alerted the cashier and he, in turn, called the manager.  At this point, another customer, a woman in business attire from a nearby office, overheard my conversation with the cashier and also became concerned.

But here is where it gets dicey.  The boy’s mother comes rushing back from wherever she was in the store.  She looked utterly harried.  My heart immediately went out to her.  Just as I was about to let her know of my relief, Biz-Lady begins lacing into the mother, firing a stinging string of epithets: Leaving your child alone is unacceptable!  You are so disgusting!  You shouldn’t have children!

I was dumbstruck.  It’s one thing to express a brief concern to a stranger but quite another to appoint oneself a brutal tongue-lasher.  What type of response did the screamer think she was going to get from the mom? Sadly, that’s the point.  She put herself first, never considering the mother in any way or the effect of  verbally attacking her in front of her young child.  She was more interested in shaming and embarrassing the mother.  The woman’s goal,  it seemed, was to feel good about herself.

Let me be clear: Children must not be left unsupervised under any circumstances.  I don’t know why this mother didn’t keep better tabs on her child.  Lapse in judgment perhaps-we’ve all had those. She was lucky all ended well.  Still, I think the stranger’s reaction was dreadful.  She knew nothing about the mom.  If she felt she needed to react, there were more appropriate ways to do so.

I was desperate to defuse the situation but only had a split second to figure things out.  I wanted to come to the mom’s defense but I feared further escalation of a situation that had no real resolution. Chastising the woman for her vitriol wasn’t going to help.  I hoped to find a way to reach out to the mother and perhaps find a way to soften the impact but never had the chance.  Mercifully for them, mother and child quickly left the scene.

This incident may be an extreme example of a subtler problem but once again raises a question I’ve long been struggling with. Is basic decency between otherwise civil people on the decline? Is empathy? Research studies from 2010 have indeed found, among college students, declining empathy levels for over 30 years while self-centered behavior has risen. http://tinyurl.com/kobwsre 

When did character traits past generations took for granted—courtesy, decency and respect–become too high an expectation?  Is even a friendly acknowledgement between acquaintances too lofty a goal?

Dr. Brené Brown is also bothered by the growing lack of heart and simple kindness. The research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work has spent years studying vulnerability, courage, worthiness and shame. She discusses her findings further in her 2012 New York Times bestseller Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead.

According to Brown, shame’s power is in making us “feel trapped, powerless and isolated.”  Its danger, she says, is its ability to make us feel alone, different and outside our social circles.   Empathy, however, according to Brown, is shame’s antidote.

Whether or not Bible is your thing or the upcoming holiday of Passover is one you observe, it is hard to ignore lessons of empathy in one of the oldest stories of freedom. For instance, Moses, raised by Pharoah’s daughter as a privileged child, deeply felt slaves’ suffering. He went outside his comfort zone and imagined what it would be like to be someone else.  As a result, he was not only able to physically free the oppressed but show that they deserved lives of worth.

In another example, tradition requires readers of the story to see themselves as having been freed from slavery.   Again, vicarious experience requires identifying with the other.

Lastly, tradition again makes certain we recognize enemies’ suffering by spilling wine, symbolizing that the joy of freedom is incomplete, having come at the cost of others’ lives.  Everyone’s emotions are asked to be understood.

Reminders for essential decency surround us. We don’t always take note. I hope we can spot the signs more easily and catch ourselves before we take more than we give.

X, S

 

Link to “Ready For Takeoff”

A huge thank you to GrownandFlown.com for publishing my essay, “Ready For Takeoff?”.  The piece will also serve as this week’s newest blog entry.  (http://grownandflown.com/ready-takeoff-facing-question-autism).

 

The last 6 weeks have been an interesting experiment. When I set up my blog I had no idea what would happen.  Thank you all for the wonderful support.  Your ‘Likes’, shares, follows and words of encouragement have put a smile on my face.

I always liked to write and did so professionally for a human rights organization in the ‘80s but only recently did I consider personal writing. Blogging intrigued me. But did I have enough to say? I liked the thought of it but my negative self-talk–which I’m really good at—always won out. Still, the prospect kept drawing me back in, beckoning seductively, “You know you want to.”

I did want to.

Writing is my meditation like dancing is my prayer. Both are important expressions of creativity for me. Writing, however, allows me to share parts of myself I cannot elsewhere (unless we meet in person).  Connecting with others is my oxygen, my energy.  Blogging is my social medium of choice.

Banter between people on social media can be enjoyable. We’ve also seen communities powerfully pull together in time of need but superficial ‘friending’, either online or off, doesn’t do it for me (Full disclosure: I use several popular social media.) Writing, however, though it starts out as an isolating activity can link people together, to reveal depth and to welcome.

Thinking up weekly entry ideas has been a challenge but part of the fun.  Thanks for  reading.

X, S

 

 

Rampant Stupidity

Dear DD (Distracted Driver):

I saw you the other day from my car on the way to one of my many errands but you didn’t notice me.  You couldn’t have.  You were too busy talking on your cell–and it wasn’t even hands-free–when your attention should have been on the road.

May I ask you a question? What were you thinking? More specifically: Are you thinking?

Perhaps you believe you’ve got the uncanny ability to balance the responsibility of a potentially dangerous machine with your everyday activities.  You don’t. No one does.  According to Distraction.gov, several states have banned hand-held phone use and texting for all drivers.  Stricter rules apply for novice drivers.  (http://www.distraction.gov/content/get-the-facts/state-laws.html)

Pricey traffic tickets and points on your license may not deter you.  I cannot understand why possibly being responsible for a disaster wouldn’t.  The Center for Disease Control and Prevention says that in 2011, 3,331 people were killed in crashes involving distracted driving. In the same year, 387,000 people were injured in motor vehicle crashes also involving distracted driving. Each day, says the CDCP, at least 9 people are killed and more than 1,060 people are injured in crashes where distracted driving is responsible. (http://www.cdc.gov/motorvehiclesafety/distracted_driving/)

I have to drive for two when I think you aren’t paying attention. Once I see you on the phone (or texting or eating or otherwise doing something other than driving), my defenses are heightened, knowing yours are compromised.  I implore you to leave your ego at home and put maturity and sense in the car with you.

My 17-year old will be on the road soon with a freshly minted driver’s license.  When she walks out the door, I cannot keep her safe.  It’s a level-orange fear a parent has for her child. Please don’t contribute to an already scary world by creating an unnecessary danger and a risk that needn’t be taken.

 

 

 

 

After 70 Years: Looking Back, Looking Ahead

If you were to ask me when exactly I knew about my father’s experiences as a survivor of 1940s Europe, I couldn’t tell you.  Though I was too young to know the facts, the war’s impact on my father—and by extension, on me–was unmistakable.

As I was growing up, I came to know my father as a determined worker, single-mindedly fixed on making a living for his growing family as a design engineer.  He loved us, sure, but kept himself on the emotional periphery. The war years had trained him in the practicality of survival. Feelings had no place in his fight to get out alive. They needed to be suppressed, pushed way down. Vulnerability was too risky.  His life and that of his mother and sister were at stake.  Emotional release, in whatever form, would have to come later.

Dad’s formative years in Debrecen, Hungary were steadily defined by the growing victimization of that country’s Jewish residents by Hungary’s fascist government. His father had been conscripted into Hungarian forced labor service in 1942 and was separated from the family.  His Jewish grade school was closed down.  All Jews were required by law to wear the yellow Star of David as they went about life in their town.

By the time he turned 16 in 1944, 70 years ago, the Nazis had taken over Hungary and began to apply their “final solution” to the area’s Jewish population.  In June of that year, Dad, his mother and sister were herded, along with thousands of other Jews, onto one of Adolf Eichmann’s trains to Auschwitz headed toward likely death. Instead, in a stroke of circumstantial luck, a politically connected negotiator, Rudolf Kasztner, successfully secured the train’s new destination (Eichmann, a major Nazi leader and organizer of mass murder, proposed trading Jews for Allied trucks. That plan failed).  The Auschwitz-bound train was then sent to Strasshof labor camp near Vienna where he and his family were put to work until liberation in 1945.

I’ve summarized my father’s story into a basic sketch, leaving out immense detail. There’s so much more to know (see: tinyurl.com/oqtg6da). As a teenager held at Strasshof, he suffered beatings, risked his life in ghetto escapes for food, and once daringly fought back by sabotaging ammunition production. Miraculously, Dad’s immediate family survived intact. My grandfather survived as well and was reunited with his family. Most of Dad’s extended family, aunts, uncles and cousins were killed.

In many ways, my father’s story isn’t a new one.  We’ve all, no doubt, heard countless first-person accounts, read books and seen movies. The common thread here is the impassioned plea Holocaust survivors have made to the world to not simply “not forget”, but to remember what evil can do. Over the years, Dad has expressed fear that history could repeat itself–anxious that the lessons taught by bigotry and discrimination would be lost. Dad wonders if he, his family and 6 million other Jews will have suffered in vain.

Thirty-six years ago I volunteered to have Dad talk about his experiences for a college class I was taking on the Holocaust.  My professor never let him go.  Dad was subsequently connected to the then-burgeoning Holocaust Resource Center (now named The Harriet and Kenneth Kupferberg Holocaust Resource Center and Archives) at Queensborough Community College (CUNY) in Bayside, New York. He’s been a sought-after speaker ever since.

Prior to his becoming involved in public speaking Dad’s emotional safety valve had been weakening. He had no outlet to express this part of his life. The opportunity has been, ironically, a lifesaver. He feels heard. He thrives on feedback he receives from the schools and the students.  Their rapt attention time after time has given him hope. He’s made a difference.

There is a concept called muscle memory–a continuous repetition of motor tasks we may engage in until we are able to automatically repeat the movement without thinking, like playing a piano, punching in a phone number and my favorite, choreographed dance.  It’s far easier to embed when we have had first-hand experience.  The age-old question is, how do we transmit the lessons of history effectively? Is it even possible? There are many different ways to repeat a lesson. Books, movies, museums and survivors’ accounts are important.  However, we receive the information passively.  All theory.  Practical application, I think, is our big test: Have we sufficiently impressed upon our youth the importance of using our own actions to counter hate?  What structures have we put in place?

On a more basic level, we’ve got to wonder if we’ve planted seeds of compassion deeply enough for empathy and grace to take root, where goodness not only becomes second nature but becomes the ultimate memorial.

Refresh Button

The days may be longer, the birds may be singing and I finally may see the post-snowmelt grass on the front lawn. But what really excites me these days is the prospect of spring cleaning.  I know–you can think of several other activities that get you hot and bothered.  So can I, but stay with me here.

I hate clutter. Despise disorganization. I am a ruthless purger of junk and items long-forgotten since the second Bush’s first presidential administration. I get my thrills winnowing closets, hauling out garbage bags filled with unworn clothing and throwing out collections of broken appliances idly amassed in the garage. Prepping for the upcoming Passover holiday where many people engage in radical cleaning spurs me on. Knowing that everything has its place helps organize my thoughts. It creates space not only in my house but also in my head.

I’ll admit to you, these days there’s not too much left for me to oust. My junk-purging is a regular part of my routine. Now it’s just maintenance. And, yes, it’s not only the concrete act of cleaning out unwanted and unneeded items. This practical act cleanses my soul as well.

Sounds corny?  For me, it works.  I believe if our minds are cluttered, there’s a good chance our lives are too.  What is most difficult is re-evaluating parts of life that are no longer working. I ask myself “cleansing” questions constantly: Am I happy in this job? Do I like spending hours with these people? Are relationships reciprocal, trusting and satisfying? Can I still enjoy myself despite negative group dynamics?  Finding the answers may not be so simple. The search may be a struggle. But I’ll work to get that clutter–that internal mess–to finally sweep itself up and make room for what matters.

Starting Out

Will you sign my petition to move New York to the south? If you live wherever the temps have barely been above freezing these past three months, chances are, like me, you are “seasonally fatigued”–exhausted from relentless snow and frozen limbs, perhaps traipsing to twenty-seven stores in the unsuccessful hunt for suburban gold: a measly bag of rock salt.
 
I unequivocally do not do well in the cold. I wear gloves indoors. The early darkness depresses me, and the cold plucks everyone off the streets making suburbia’s isolation worse than I think it already is. Sure, the winter season can be pretty for about an hour and a half. After that, temps under 45 degrees get old fast.  For my own good, I need constant assurance that the mercury will rise.
 
 Luckily, while I’m waiting for nature to correct itself, flower arranging has come to my rescue. My interest in flower design has bloomed this past year. I’ve taken a couple of classes where I’ve learned how to cut and care for these beauties, placement techniques, and how to match containers to certain types of blossoms. I created my design gradually, building it layer upon flowered layer.  The transformation was quick and yielded beautiful results.
 
I read up a bit on my new hobby and began to pay more attention to creating small arrangements at home.  I try to work on one or two bunches a week, placing them around the house where they’ll be in my frequent line of vision. The flower’s various colors and textures have a soothing, happy effect on me and can be an effective stand-in until spring arrives.
 
What do you do to remind yourself that spring is just around the corner?
 
“She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor:
“Winter is dead.”
―  A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young
 
X, S
 

My Neck Feels Bad About Me

I’ve been thinking about my neck lately. Not quite in the same way the late Nora Ephron did when she wrote about beauty and aging in her book I Feel Bad About My Neck but because mine has put me in physical therapy three times a week for the next month. After feeling sore for a couple of weeks and a visit to the orthopedist, PT was recommended. Improper posture, especially while at my laptop, caused me to overwork my neck (I’ve since swapped to an ergonomic keyboard and mouse).

But thinking metaphorically as I tend to do, I ask myself if my neck is telling me something. There are so many “neck” idioms. To name a few: Pain in the neck, albatross around my neck, sticking your neck out, neck on the line, be up to one’s neck in, get it in the neck–you get the idea.

All but one I’ve found–necking, as in going at it with your honey—have negative emotional connotations. There is apparently something about our necks that tends to make its way into our everyday expressions.

I’ll take a stab (not in the neck) at why: Our necks define a separation between our body and brain; our actions and our minds. Though preferable, it’s not necessary for our minds and bodies to be in agreement for us to follow through. However, though the neck separates, it also connects us (thank goodness!). When the body and mind are in sync we are able to feel whole. When we “put our neck on the line” or “stick our necks out” we open ourselves up to the possibility of pain, either physical or emotional. Our neck is the quintessential symbol of vulnerability. Let’s face it, we’d really be nothing without our necks.

We know that life’s strains and stresses can take a toll on us. Our bodies may manifest our spiritual hurts with physical reminders.

So here I am. Yes, my neck pain reminds me to take care of my physical self but most important, it reminds me to just chill. The “pain in the neck” moments in my daily life are usually not earth shattering but added together can, at times, become overwhelming. If I “stick my neck out,” however minimally, for someone but receive no appreciation or acknowledgment in return, I will make sure from then on to focus only on those with whom I have a positive reciprocal relationship.

I hope pain relief comes at break-neck speed, keeping in mind the strong connection between emotional and physical health, between mind and body.

(Grew up in Little Neck now living in Teaneck. Is there any hidden meaning in that? It could be a stretch but hey, that’s what my neck needs right now).

X, S

Lonely? You’re in Good Company

Surfing TV channels this evening I stumbled upon Piers Morgan’s program. Gayle King and Sanjay Gupta-with a bit of Oprah-joined him in discussing their new “Just Say Hello” campaign. This campaign wants to help combat day-to-day loneliness, foster civility and simple acts of friendly decency. And who knows; real friends may actually be made. Wish I thought of it.

Over the years I have phrased it as a question to myself: “Why the #$% can’t people just say hello?”.  Gosh, Gayle, Sanjay and Oprah, you have struck a sensitive chord not only with me but, if response on Twitter is any indication, with so many others.

But here’s the thing: I’d like to know why saying hello is so difficult. Yes, social media is no doubt a part of the alienation we are dishing out and receiving–let’s face it, techie developments may have exacerbated the problem–but unfriendliness has existed since biblical times. The psychology behind it, I think, is human insecurity. No, I don’t have any studies to point to right now. This is just my gut speaking. We all harbor the need to belong (at all costs?), we fear being judged, wrongly or otherwise; we are possessive, competitive and suspect others so we attack first.

If what I’m guessing is true, that much of this is personal insecurity, then there are a lot of people in pain out there.  Our insecurities perhaps surface on a larger scale in society as prejudice and discrimination. The human implications can be huge.

For goodness sake, just say hello.

Beginning

Blogging is one big experiment for me. Will it work? Who knows. I’ll link websites that have published my essays (look on the blog roll-click the box in the upper left) and maybe I’ll write original posts.  I’m still marinating…