There is Judgment, and There is Love

I guess it's human nature to form opinions about other people. He is smart, she is pretty, he is shy, she is messed up.

But I wonder why.

What good did it do for those cave men to judge others way back when? I guess if you were worried about your survival, and somebody was heading out to hunt sabre tooth tigers, and you knew he couldn't throw a spear two feet, it would be good to recognize that weakness and, hence, pass judgment. Food, and safety, and survival, would be good reasons to pass judgment.

But our society has taken this way too far. We judge people by whether they're too fat, or by how they spend their time. By who their friends are, and by what profession they choose or which college they attend or even which sport they play. We judge them by which cell phones they have, and how they dress, and how they talk. And of course we judge them on their religious beliefs and their sexual preferences and skin color, and I fail to see how all this has anything to do with food or safety or survival.

And the worst part is that we don't just judge people we don't know. We judge our friends, our neighbors, and our family members...sometimes them even more than others.

Of course we are concerned for our loves ones, but there is a big difference between concern and judgment. Concern means we are hopeful for their survival and safety and happiness in life. Judgment is really just another word for egotism; we judge our loved ones not from concern but from that insatiable need to stroke and nourish our hungry egos with lofty opinions.

What we need more of around here is love. Pure unconditional love. Love that doesn't care about what you eat or how much you exercise or who you marry. Love that transcends the ego.

Yes, we need a whole lot more love, and a whole lot less judgment. That's one of my hopes for the new year.

Oh Glorious Foot

Ten days later I am still sitting with my leg up. Actually, I got doctor's permission to hobble around for a week and then she rescinded. Back to crutches and bedrest for my foot.

What I find amazing is how much an incapacitated foot impacts the emotional center of the brain. I am tired, lazy, bored, and depressed. I am tired of not being able to walk the dog, go shopping, stand in the laundry room on two feet folding laundry. Tired of not being in charge of cooking and cleaning and chauffering kids around. Tired of not chasing them down to nag or say goodnight. Tired of not being able to just go out and see the world comfortably, in a vertical position. Tired of shoulders hurting from the crutches.

And it's not just present tense. Because I don't know how much longer I'll be this way, I am already tired in the future. I can't get excited about making plans, like seeing old friends or setting up workshops or whatever. It's like I'm stuck in a void in time and space, watching from a different plane and noticing for the first time just how the foot is connected to the mind.

I know (or at least I hope) that this is just temporary, but it gives me new insight into what millions of people endure in times of illness or old age or both. Being unable to move and do the things you want to do is infuriating and depressing, so how do people do it for months and years on end? Poor Aunt Dottie used to get "stuck" where her feet just wouldn't move when she wanted them to. Later, she was in a nursing home in her final years and got to the point where she couldn't even speak. But what we never knew was what was going on inside her heart and her brain. Was she a vegetable who didn't know any better, who didn't care? Or was she trapped inside her own body, wishing she could claw her way out to see the world again, feel the sunshine on her skin, listen to the train's whistle? Could she remember those trips to Hawaii? The sewing machine humming as she pressed the pedal beneath her foot? Was she longing to once again feel the cold fingernail polish against her nails? Wishing she could go on those five mile morning walks, just once more, on her two healthy feet with her friends at her side?

I promise, yes PROMISE, that when I get my foot back again I will savor the steps I take, through the wet sand and surf on the Big Island or along soft pine-needle blankets on Cascade trails or even on the moving walkways in Ohare International. I will be thankful for how quickly I can get dressed in the morning and for how many times I have to trudge upstairs to wake up my son for school. I will gladly go out in the rain to take the dogs for a walk and I will sign up for a yoga class and show up every time.

How beautiful my sandaled feet will be once more! What strong foundations for me. They connect me to the earth and they move me where I need to go. They give me my life. Oh glorious foot, I can hardly wait for you to get better because then I will regain my energy, my joy, and my freedom.

Remembering Aunt Dottie

Hearty breakfasts, beaming faces, leaflike coasters, hide-and-seek;
Ceramic cats and wooden cats, cats on blankets, Dusty Blue;
Skirts and heels and short brown bangs with handbag always at her side;
Watching us with her brown eyes.
Spiese eyes.

Sewing projects, knick knacks, weddings, whiskey drinks, Hawaiian trips;
Downtown office working woman, notes sent in italic type;
On the train with Mom when younger; later carpool rides with Dad;
Muted peachy lipstick shades.
Warm smile.

Organized, meticulous, straightforward, honest, to-the-point;
Christmas Eves and Christmas grab-bag, waving camera girls away;
Faithful wife and loving sister, loyal to big brother Stan;
Loving aunt, always caring.
Always there.

Getting a Leg Up

Sitting around your house, with your feet up, watching stupid television shows, and having your family wait on you sounds heavenly. For about five minutes. Then, it's pure torture.

Under doctor's orders following minor foot surgery, I've been doing just that for three days now. I finished a book, edited a couple of chapters in my under-way novel, checked email a bazillion times a day, and occasionally ate something. I have asked my kids to return the remote control to me at least seven times a day. I have hobbled to the bathroom only when absolutely necessary. I have endured those pitiful, wanton stares from my black Lab who will never forgive me, I suspect, for abandoning our daily walking ritual.

And I find this whole 'sit back and relax' concept to be a bit overrated.

But I also find that it forces me to take a look around, and a listen, and so on. By sitting here I realize the fireplace needs to be swept and the floors desperately need vacuuming, and it reminds me of how much I hate housecleaning, and dust. I listen to the sounds of water in the pipes after someone's taken a shower or flushed a toilet and it makes me worry: with all the subzero temperatures we've been having, what if a pipe burst? I hear a distant dog bark, somewhere in the back of my subconscious, and it dawns on me that someone (me?) has left the dog out for too long.

I feel the cat rub against the back of my head as she creeps along the top of the sofa behind me; her fur and my hair generate static electricity, and she too wonders about my sudden fit of laziness, as though I had turned into a cat like her. I hear the clacking of my laptop keys; I am thankful my arms are no longer than they are else the thoughts in my brain might dissipate before they get to the keys. The sparkling water, I notice, tastes a bit sweeter than I recall.

Outside, the pine needles quiver as the branches bounce around in the breeze. How often do I even look at those trees? The snow looks like a frozen souffle about to collapse. The sun is shining and the sky is blue but I know they're fooling me; it's still bitter cold and for a brief moment of insanity I am grateful I am stuck inside.

But then I listen to the tense voices, observe the creased foreheads, feel the thickness in the air. The cupboards are almost bare. Christmas is still in boxes. Everyone is tired of the slavery.

The expression 'getting a leg up', I've read, originally referred to the help offered to a horseback rider when mounting her horse. In a way, I feel like that rider. Climbing a big horse can be a challenge for the inexperienced rider; climbing a big mountain poses obstacles for the inexperienced mountaineer. And climbing onto a sofa, to just sit around as a blob, is nearly impossible for the inexperienced couch potato. She needs help.

And with that help, the world begins to look a little different, whether sitting atop a steed or sitting right here on my sofa. Things look and sound and feel and taste (and even smell) a little different right now. And maybe that's a good thing. Sometimes it's good to tweak your perspective on your world. So I think I'll stay put, with my leg up, for a few more days until my doctor gives me permission to put my foot down...and do things my way once again.

Ultimatums Are Not For Winners

I recently watched the movie Thirteen Days, about the Cuban Missile Crisis, and it (among other recent events in my life) gave me reason to think about ultimatums. In this case, the USA gave Russia an ultimatum: remove the nuclear missiles from Cuba...or else. After much stress and feather-fluffing and bluff-calling, the Soviets did what they were told to do. You might say the USA won the battle because a nuclear war was avoided. But there were costs and losses too. Russia and Cuba were deeply shaken and temperamental egos were riled up. Khrushchev was ousted. Cuba, because of the American promise to never invade, would remain Communist for decades, maybe forever. Allies, including Turkey, felt alienated. Within our own country, the strength of the Democratic party was shaken,and some believe this crisis paved the way for a defeat in Vietnam.

Ultimatums are demands, for one party to get what it wants and usually for the other party to have to give up something it wants or values. They are high-pressure strategies that look for tangible results, and usually are used as the last possible, final, uncompromising requirement with an implied threat of a very serious penalty. They are often used when one party is stronger than the other, though not always. The Austrian ultimatum to Serbia, which some say actually triggered WWI, was shocking to many because the ultimatum revealed Austria's self-perception of being greater than Serbia. Ultimatums are used widely in politics, often as a threat for one result but that actually creates unintended results too, such as widening existing rifts or alienating countries who aren't even involved directly.

Ultimatums are also used in business; in fact one consultant specializing in sales force management suggests that they are appropriate to achieve desired results, but only if the recipient of the ultimatum is adequately supported to achieve success, and if both parties to the ultimatum are committed to the same end result. But here's the rub: he also suggests that ultimatums are embraced by Type A managers who thrive on pressure, challenge, and urgency and are used to determine whether type B's can become type A's...and also to get type C's to leave the company. Obviously a manager has the right to tell a subordinate how to do his/her job, and obviously a failure to perform is grounds for termination. But it seems to me there is a fine line between natural performance measurements and results and ultimatums. Besides, not everyone is, or can be, or should be a Type A. A manager issuing an ultimatum, like the USA did to Russia, might think he has "won" when an ultimatum results in an employees' departure. And maybe he has. But there is also a cost: it could be employee morale, it could be a decline in productivity for a temporary period, or it could be signficant family or financial hardship for the person on the other side, who was forced to leave.

And then we come to relationships. Take a look at the self-help books or peruse the Internet. Ultimatums are used all too frequently in this arena, too. Relationships should be founded on equal footing between two adults, like two countries, except perhaps in the parent-child situation, which is similar to the manager-employee structure. Either way, ultimatums in relationships - as in government or business - serve as a means to establish control (the opposite of freedom). This might make sense in business or government, but this is not an ingredient for healthy interpersonal relationships. Ultimatums set boundaries, which are useful, but they do it in a manipulative way, thereby destroying the climate of love and cooperation that should exist between individuals. In fact, one psychologist describes them as tactical nukes.

So whether we're talking countries or individuals, ultimatums are nuclear. They might start with good intention, but they are a powerful form of assault. They may be non-physical, but they are still assaults.

I'm reading The Help right now, by Kathryn Stockett. It's set in the 1960's when civil rights movements were strenghtening. Blacks and whites alike were given ultimatums to change their behaviors, or else... And we all know there were huge losses and costs that stemmed from those ultimatums. It was a complicated time, and I can't say unilaterally that we all would have been better off without any of those ultimatums, because I can't say I've done enough extensive research to make that claim. But I am quite sure that some lives would have been saved, and some families much happier, and some relationships would have been free to evolve naturally, if people had been able to work together to address their concerns and their needs and their desires, without threats of control or violence.

And that's really what our time on this planet is all about, according to our country's forefathers. And according to me. Life. Happiness. Freedom.

So let's avoid those nuclear ultimatums and figure out how to cooperate with one another, shall we?

When Believing is Seeing

Annie Dillard wrote an essay called "Seeing" in which she talks about how difficult it is to see the things right before us. She describes a time she couldn't see the hundreds of blackbirds in a nearby tree until they flew off in a flapping frenzy. It reminds me of countless vacations where somebody saw something - an animal, a shooting star - and tried to point it out to someone else to no avail. Whales, in fact, are perfect sources of this sort of frustration, when everyone else seems to see them blowing water or breaching and I never seem to be looking in the right direction.

This also reminds me, though, that sometimes we have to really believe in something in order to see it, because we are preoccupied in seeing that which we are programmed to see. This is especially true in our children. We have hundreds of parenting books telling us how to raise our children, and a competitive society where children are compared with one another from toddler-time on, and an education and employment system that rewards overachievers and ignores the rest of the bunch. I've spent seventeen maternal years looking for things that I didn't find in my own children, while unexpected things popped out at me, and I've had to adjust my focus every time this has happened. And, as my kids became teens, this re-focusing became the norm.

What I wish I'd done, what I wish I'd known and been strong enough to do, was to see what I believed deep down was there, and what deep down was important, rather than to see the superficial things that society told me to watch for, to search for those things that were supposed to be there, according (once again) to society.

I saw lackluster grades. I saw defiance.I saw priorities that didn't match up to mine. I saw a lot of things that weren't on my original agenda, that weren't in the "perfect parenting" books, that weren't showing up in the lives of my neighbors' kids.

I didn't believe, enough, in my kids to see what was underneath all that. And I didn't believe, enough, in my own convictions to turn my back on society's ideas and look for what I should have been looking for all along.



On a recent trip to Utah, we were looking for pictographs in the red rock. Every shadow, every marking, seemed to represent something to me but not to anyone else.

"Come on, let's get going," they'd say to me. But I'd stand and stare at those rocks just a few minutes more because I believed something was there that we'd missed. Something important; maybe not as important as reservations or meeting times or other societal things, but important to me. And eventually what I'd believed in became clear. The images on those rock walls were really there, and although it might not matter to 99% of the population, it made a difference to me and, more importantly, to the individuals that created the artwork in the first place.

With all the pressures on us today, it's hard to know what to believe in. But what I've learned is that deep down I do know, and I have to trust myself to believe in order to see what really needs to be seen. My hope is that it's not too late.

Robbed!

You are going about your daily life, with all your dreams and hopes and plans, and you walk into your home and go about your business. But then something starts to feel wrong, and you can't quite figure out what it is, so you go about your business but with an impending sense of dread, and finally you realize what's happened: you've been robbed! First there is the pure surprise, followed by some mixture of disbelief and anger and grief, depending on what it was that was taken and what its value might have been. And then you call the authorities and report it. If you're lucky, the culprit is caught and your posessions returned and justice served.

But what happens when it's not material posessions that are stolen? What if the theft involves those very dreams and hopes and plans that were part of your daily life yesterday and are gone today?

I know women who have been robbed of their lives through cancer and women who have been robbed of their security through abuse and women who have been robbed of their self-esteem through, well, all kinds of society's flailings. These women had also been going about their daily lives when one day the bottom fell out. And then there are the moms.

Almost every mom I know once had a plan to watch her baby walk his first steps and bat his first baseball and learn how to swim and go on school field trips and go to school dances and graduate from high school to go on to college and have a job and maybe even get married and have a family. Whether deliberately or subconsciously she prepared for those events when she picked up his dirty socks and packed his lunches and reminded him, by text of course, of his orthodontist appointment. She went about her daily life organizing those plans and hopes and dreams the same way she stacked the clean dishes in one cabinet, separated the spoons from the forks in the silverware drawer, and filed pictures in photo albums and scrapbooks.

But some moms are robbed. It's not just that some things don't go according to plan. It's that things go terribly awry: the proverbial train wreck. Her train, and her child's train, are derailed. There's horrible damage, and much pain and injury, and, in the chaos and looting that follow, her plans and hopes and dreams are stolen as onlookers turn away .

At first she doesn't even know what happened, but as things become clearer and she senses the loss she also knows it won't be forever. She's always been able to kiss the knee and make it all better, so things will get better this time too. Right? After all, everyone else seems fine, their plans still intact. Her pain will heal, her losses resolve. She clings to hope.

But things don't improve and one day the hope is shaken by anger..the anger that reminds her how she spent years preparing for a day that may now never happen. The hope wobbles ever more, but she still clings to it until finally grief settles in. Grief for her child and eventually grief for herself. Grief for the hopes and plans and dreams that she cannot seem to forget. And grief for no longer belonging to the club of families on track.

And then one day she finally realizes what has happened. A crime has been committed: she and her child have been robbed. Their foundation has been broken and their futures stolen away. And it is a horrifying discovery for her because, in this crime, there are no authorities to call. No report to be filed. No culprit to imprison because this culprit is an elusive one; it might look like death or disease, depression or defiance. It snuck into her life like a slippery shadow and has by now moved on with destruction in its wake. It may not even have a name, and it most certainly can't be caught. This is a theft with no justice and a thief that cannot be contained by any one jurisdiction.

It' a crime that happens far too often in a society too blind to see it coming, too busy to stop it from happening, and too self-absorbed to really care.

The Thing About Night Sweats

When women my age get together, it's inevitable. The conversation will eventually gravitate toward bodily functions - in particular night sweats. Sometimes it's almost competitive: who's got the worst case of them?

But the thing is, they're not really that bad when you think about it. Your husband gives you a whole lot more room in bed, and you can turn down the thermostat in the winter and save on those harsh energy bills, and your cat will get a bonus salt supplement when she licks your arm in the morning, and you eliminate way more toxins in one night than in a week's worth of working out, and, because you're awake most of the night, you're tuned into the comings and goings of your teenagers and other strangers all night long.

As long as there aren't too many of us living north of the 45th parallel at any one point in time, thereby avoiding any adverse impact on polar bear habitat and floods of biblical proportions, it can really be pretty cool to be so hot.

Peace

I've been looking for peace.

For years, I thought peace was an environmental condition, like clear skies and quiet rooms, and I figured that living in a household with a husband and three rambunctious boys meant that peace was way beyond my reach. I found lots of other things: smashed Cheerios, dirty underwear, ABC gum, and other stuff in all kinds of dark, dusty places, but I never found one scrap of peace.

More recently, probably because I keep getting older, I've decided to look for inner peace. But it, too, is a slippery and elusive sort of beast. It disguises itself as dreams and ambitions and some form of spirituality, and I find myself running off in one direction or another, thinking I'm chasing peace...but then discovering the path I'm on has steered me off course from what I'm most in search of.

But then peace drops little hints along the way like ET and his Reese's pieces. Like reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love which was interminably long but started niggling at me anyway about smiling meditation. Or a nugget from a woman in one of my workshops who shared a quote from Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor's book Traveling with Pomegranites, about how the soul represents "the deepest impulse [of the psyche] to create wholeness." And a comment from a woman I interviewed today, in which she distinguished between peace of mind and peace of heart.

I know all sorts of people who are looking for wholeness and peace through diet and exercise and religion and acupuncture. And some who look for peace in their big paychecks and houses. Some find peace when their kids make the honor roll or win college scholarships. Some define peace as resting at the end of the day with a clean house and an extra gallon of milk in the fridge. Some think peace means having a loving family and friends, or giving back to the community. Some would say God's love is peace.

All that's good stuff, don't get me wrong. But something's still missing. None of those qualify as peace, at least for me. Peace, I've come to think, is that feeling on the inside, that feeling of absolute wholeness in the mind, and yes also in the heart, but maybe most of all in the gut, where one no longer needs to understand anything but at the same time understands everything, at least everything that matters, which as it turns out is quite simple. So simple that kids get it, and dogs get it, but is usually too hard for us grownups to get. What matters, and therefore what opens us up to peace, is pure, unselfishish love.

That is peace. Love. Love is peace.

Why Ask Why

I spend a lot of time asking why.

Why does my cat act the way she does?

Why do my kids do what they do?

Why can't I stop doing the things I shouldn't?

People tell me to stop asking. It doesn't matter why, they say. What matters is what comes next. Focus on the future, they say.

I get that. No sense dwelling in the past, for sure. But there are some very good reasons to ask why.

One is sheer curiousity about the world. If you stop wondering, then either you've ascended to a divine omnisicient state of being, or you've shriveled into vegetative dormancy. What's wrong with wondering what goes on in the mind of a feline behind those dilated pupils?

Another reason is more of a scientific, theory of causality, sort of thing. A get-your-head-out-of-the-sand sort of thing. If you understand what caused a problem in the past you might be able to avoid the recurrence. In other words, what parenting mistakes did I make with Number One that I can avoid or rectify with Numbers Two and Three?

And third, asking why is part of the process of retelling your story and ultimately having a deeper self-understanding. Reinekke Lengelle and Frans Meijers' article in the June 2009 edition of Journal of Poetry Therapy suggests four cognitive stages in retelling your story: sensing, sifting, focusing, and understanding. I like this.

I sense there are several reasons for choices I make or reactions I have. By asking why, I begin to sift through the layers of reasons until I find one that strikes a chord. I focus on that, spend some time with it, and eventually understand better why I made the choice I did. Why I lashed out at a loved one. Why I ate all that popcorn. Why I keep avoiding the novel I am supposedly writing.

Does understanding then lead to changed behavior? Maybe, maybe not. Does it lead to a heightened state of inner peace? I believe that sometimes it does.

Or does it drive you deeper into the pit of insanity? In other words, does asking why heal the wound or does it actually intensify the pain? I guess it could go either way.

And why, I wonder, might that be?

PS (One more why: why I can't get this blogpost to show breaks between my paragraphs?)

Ten Cooler Things

So here are ten things I like about cooler weather, probably in order of importance since this is the order in which they entered my brain from stage right.

1. Boots. And scarves.

2. Soups, stews, and chili.

3. My dog is happier in cooler weather.

4. My mom is happier in cooler weather.

5. Those ginormous harvest moons, and morning frost, and squirrels and chipmunks everywhere. Oh, and those huge racks on the fiesty male deer.

6. Crayola-colored leaves scattered around chubby pumpkins.

7. Hot flashes that don't last as long.

8. Sort of like #7 -less sweating overall.

9. I don't have to shave my legs so often.

10. Fleece jackets come out, swimsuits go away.

Next up: the top 100 things I hate about cold weather.

The First Time

One of my sons told me it's been scientifically proven: the first time you experience something, it's the most intense. I started to wonder if that's really true so I thought back to some random experiences in my life.

1. The first time I got lost? Yes, intense. It was downtown Chicago, I was age four. I can't think of a worse time I've been lost.

2. The first time I picked an apple? Yes, because I bit into it and found a tooth and fresh blood. It also happened to be the first time I lost a baby tooth.

3. The first time I went skiing? No. It was intense (especially that cackling laughter of some moron on the sidelines watching us all fall down on the bunny slope) but it wasn't the most intense. There have been plenty more memorable times on the slopes, like the time I got stuck in a racing rut (how embarassing) or the time I was paralyzed in fear on an icy, steep slope (all alone) or the times my son made me go places I didn't want to go...and then patiently waited to be sure I made it down safely.

4. The first time I made out: yes, pretty intense.

5. The first time I had sex: not going there, not in this domain.

6. The first time I was in the company of wild bears: yes, which explains all the flailing and running and screaming, which no doubt perplexed the creatures beyond measure.

7. The first time I made a pie: yeah, I guess so. The blackberries were freshly picked from the back 40; you can't beat that.

8. The first time I got married: yes, definitely. But the second one was pretty nice, too. :)

9. The first time I held my kids in my arms? Well, that's a tough one. They were all incredibly emotional and intense but yes, I suppose the first time was probably the most intense time of all, one of the most intense (and precious) moments of my entire life.

10. The first time a loved one died: yes, losing Dad was horrible. But at this point I have no way of knowing if losing him will always be the most intense experience of grief and loss.

11. The first time I loved someone deeply? I honestly don't know about this one either. Love is so different in each situation, each relationship. We love in so many ways. If it's love, it's by definition intense. I don't think it can be ranked and rated and measured against another love. So I don't think this theory applies to love.

12. The first time I watched a sunset? I think sunsets are a lot like love.

The bottom line: I disagree with the theory, and I'd like to know who these scientists think they are.

Perfect Little Teeth

People are like teeth.

Teeth grow whichever which way feels right to the individual mouth, and then at some point they get rearranged. With some study and some pain, they're shifted and sometimes even re-shaped, and eventually they're expected to line up and behave. Most of the time they do, until sometime in midlife when they decide they want to go back the way they once were. That's what my dentist told me is happening to my lower teeth, and now I'm looking at orthodontic work decades after my first round of braces came off.

We tell our kids they need braces just as we tell them they need to go to school and follow rules. We say it's for functionality but we also know it's because that's what society expects, and that's what will make others like you. People with crooked teeth are judged more quickly and more harshly than those with a Pepsodent smile, and so are people who don't fit the mold in personality, interests, and actions.

Fitting the mold makes life a lot easier. But sometimes, in midlife, something happens inside. It's often referred to as midlife crisis, and normally it's associated with extramarital affairs and fancy cars. But this midlife shift can be something much more personal and pervasive than that. It's subtle, and sometimes it takes a long time before even the slightest movement occurs, but eventually there's a part of you that says what the heck, I think I might want to go back to the way I was, even if it was a little crooked.

And then your dentist comes along and tells you to fix it once again.

High School Seekers

Some things never change. High school kids wore rolled up jeans in the 50's and bell bottoms in the 60's and they're wearing saggy (or skinny) jeans now. But they're all doing the same thing: searching for their identities. And for the most part they're searching in the same places: school hallways, athletic fields, parties.

What's even more interesting is that the identity profiles are also the same. There's the tall, athletic guy, for example, who's seeking fame and glory with his power shot. There's the kid who's just looking for popularity by hanging out with the "right kids". There's the kid who's aiming for a prestigious college, sitting in the front row and spending after-school time with his nose in the books. And there's the loner who can't seem to fit in with all those others and is left behind feeling like his pockets have been emptied.

It doesn't matter whether we're talking about boys or girls, straights or gays, stoners or jocks or whatever. It's the same in all the groups. It's not about gender or sexual preference or outward appearance, it's about the inner quest for identity. And while some of these kids can find that identity independently, needing only their own mirrors for validation, there are others who need a peer group to reflect back to them who they are so they know which path to follow.

Unfortunately, those peers are so busy seeking for themselves that they can't, or won't, help the ones standing alone back there.

I wouldn't want to be in high school again if you paid me. Partly because I wouldn't want to have to go through all that as a teen all over again. But also partly because I know that the search for identity and those high school seeker profiles don't go away when the diplomas are handed out.

In fact, those diplomas are really tickets to proceed with the rest of the identity journey, a journey along which we continue to find the same profiles even decades later: those who seek fame and glory, those who need to be in the center of the circle, those who strive for success, and those who - because of sensitivities or insecurities or countless other reasons - are left behind.

My hope for those who are left behind is that they inspect those empty pockets and therein find hope. In time, hope can lead them to the right path, the one that leads to inner acceptance and peace. From there, they can watch their peers amble and scramble along all those other paths. From there, the left-behinders (at any age) will have the view and see, perhaps even before their peers do, where all those other paths really lead.

The Value of Slow

I guess I'm getting old. I say this not because I feel old or even because I'm starting to look old (yes, I know I am). I say this because I've made a discovery ... the type of discovery that old people make.

I've discovered the value of slow. I've always been one to enjoy a lazy canoe float on a lake or a gentle zigzag down a ski slope, but now I've come to enjoy a lot more slowness. The chairlift ride up the hill, a stroll through downtown at night, a careful reading of a page. Slow means noticing colors, listening to sounds, feeling the breeze. Slow means situational awareness (a lovely term I latched onto while watching the movie "A Perfect Getaway"). Slow means living each day, and taking each breath, more fully.

Now if I only could remember all this when I get behind the wheel, where (much to my neighbors' disappointment) I'm still actually quite young.

Sealant for the Soul

We seal our driveways and we seal our teeth. We wax our cars, we polish our furniture, we spray our leather boots. We slather sunscreen on our skin. We spend countless hours and dollars protecting our investments and even protecting parts of our selves. But what we seem to have not figured out is how to protect our souls.

Some would argue that faith protects the soul. Others might say a healthy body helps. Love seems like it would be good for the soul (but only when things are working out.) Work distracts the soul, and substances like drugs and alcohol mask the soul's pain. But the soul is the deepest part of us, the center of our very being. To protect the soul would be like protecting the center of the earth. Impossible, right?

In a recent workshop, women who barely knew me or each other revealed their inner pockmarks and potholes. All were in the midstage of their lives; all had lived and loved and lost. On the outside, they'd seemed successful, content, pulled together: they sported that image we're all expected to maintain, an image we all spend years cultivating until its aged to perfection. But the image, much like driveway sealant, is limited in its strength. It doesn't last forever and it's not completely impenetrable. Cracks begin to surface, and once that happens, the driveway's integrity becomes compromised. It's vulnerable to more cracks and bumps and over time can even break down. Same with the cavities that form in the tooth when the sealant fails. They eventually deteriorate.

And when the soul deteriorates...well, that's bad.

It may seem we need to invent a soul sealant, but I believe it already exists. I think that when we all come together and bind ourselves like bouncing little molecules in a solvent, we can protect one another's souls from deterioration. Someone said, "when people come together, good things happen." Of course, this means setting aside egos and agendas and judgments and competitive aspirations, sometimes only for the good of one single solitary person, one lonely life. It sometimes means giving in to things that don't always make sense and letting go of ideas that we know are better than others and even sacrificing time when there's no guarantee of payback. But in my mind it's the ultimate investment. What could be more valuable than a soul?

The driveway and the car and the furniture and the boots are nice. And yes, the skin and the teeth are pretty important, too. But I would give up all the sealants in the world for these things if it meant I could bring enough people together to protect just one soul.

When the Nest Empties Early

I wonder what happens when nature's course takes an unexpected twist. What happens when the nest empties early?

Whether a chick flies of its own will, or falls from the nest, or is snatched from it by some giant unforeseen talons, what do the parents do? Do they hobble around on broken twigs and strands of forgotten hair, peering over the edge to look for morbid remains? Do they immediately take flight in search of their lost offspring? Do they tuck their feathered little bird brains under wing and wait?

These parents had instinctively prepared for that empty nest, had known pretty much when it would come about. They had set aside their lives of fun and freedom during those chick-rearing times to devote their energies, even their entire souls, to the wellbeing of those little darlings. They had known that someday it would change, maybe even abruptly, but until that day came they knew what they had to do. But then! That day came so soon, when they were least expecting it, and what had once been their cozy little home suddenly looks like an ugly bin of collected junk. It is empty, cold, and barren. Do they celebrate their premature freedom, these aviary parents? Do they wallow in confused despair? Do they peck at each other and wonder what went wrong? Or do they simply hope?

Top 15 Reasons for Lost Sleep

15. Too much screen
14. Too much food
13. Too much wine
12. Too much fun
11. Too much sun
10. Not enough sun
9. Kids
8. Broken things
7. Broken relationships
6. Being broke
5. Menopause
4. Men
3. Adolescence
2. Adolescents
1. Love

Young Entreprenueurs Ignite Bend's Economy

Three cheers for the young teens who scoff at entitlement and take their destiny (and wallets) into their own hands. While local restaurants are struggling in this recession, new lemonade stands are popping up around town, and business is booming.

It's great to see these kids set their sights on a goal (a dirt-jumper bike, for example) and then set their minds and hands to work. And these kids have found the critical keys to success: the right facility (prime real estate location for selling lemonade), products that meets the market's need (tasty lemonade on these scorching summer days, supplemented with sweet, gooey brownies), strong marketing efforts (colorful, friendly signage leading up to the stand), and loyal employees (moms, dads, friends, and dogs who help with product development and marketing).

But what I like best of all is how these lemonade stands evoke memories of the past: hot summer days that don't need cell phones and video games but instead just require a little creative thinking to explore the world beyond our doorsteps.

When the Shoe Doesn't Fit

Carl and Raylene Worthington had criminal felony charges brought against them for failing to care for their sick daughter. Raylene was acquitted, and Carl was found guilty of criminal mistreatment in the death of 15-month-old Ava. When I'd first heard of the case, I figured the parents were obviously bad parents and that there'd be no question as to guilt. But as I followed the case over the past few days, I realized (as with most things in life) that's it's just not that simple.

The questions involve faith, familial hierarchy, and parenting: three issues many adults struggle with all their lives.

"Leave it in God's hands." It's a message I've heard over and over in the Christian world. A friend of mine recently confided that she leaves her family issues in God's hands, and a pastor last Sunday encouraged his congregation to do the same with their troubles. My husband and I discussed this on the way home from church. I'm sorry, but I have a hard time giving up my parenting rights and responsibilities and giving it all over to God. Without even thinking of the Worthington case on Sunday, I commented that such behavior sounds like an easy cop out. Acutally, I think it reeks of neglect. I can pray, but I can't just give my kids' lives up to God and dust responsibility from my hands. Faith should be a strengthening element in one's life, not an excuse to give up. But when you hear that message about letting go and giving your problems up to the Lord often enough, as I suspect Raylene and Carl did, there are times you start to wonder.

And then there's the question of family hierarchy. One of the jurors reportedly said, after the trial, that most people are partners in a marriage. In an ideal world, that might be true. But I wonder how many Christian families she surveyed before making that statement. Members of the Worthington's church said that, in their faith, the husband is the leader. Sadly, that belief isn't unusual. In fact, this has been taught through the ages in many churches and many households, often attributing this "wisdom" to the apostle Paul. I have heard plenty of friends say that their husbands are the leaders of their homes, and I have often deferred to my husband over the years because this belief, whether traditional or religious, has been pounded into my head. It didn't always feel right, but it can be downright frightening to risk harmony and go head to head with your husband. One of my kids used to remind me that "Dad's not the boss of you." If only I'd listened to that youthful advice more often I might feel more at peace right now. Fortunately, one of the good things about growing older is having the strength (or stubbornness) to stand up for what you believe, even against the people upon whom you depend most. But Raylene is much younger than me, and I suspect she would have struggled immensely had she argued with Carl, shaking the security of her home. Does that make her decision to withhold treatment from Ava excusable? No, I don't think it does. But I do think I understand, a little, how family dynamics may have influenced her.

And finally there's the issue of good parenting. I don't condone what the Worthingtons did. Based on what I've read, I'm pretty sure I would have had my child at the doctor long before the symptoms became life threatening. But nobody can say for sure what decision he or she would have made because nobody wore the Worthington shoes. Thankfully most of us don't need to face a court of law with our parenting decisions, but we do have to face the informal jury of our peers every day. Ever watched a temper tantrum in a store and judged the mother's reaction? Ever heard of a dad losing his temper and shaking your head in disgust? I have felt cold eyes watch me throughout my parenting years, evaluating whether I made the right school choice for my kids, or whether I delivered the right consequences, or whether it was wise to let them take certain risks that some parents wouldn't have allowed. Wasn't rock climbing awfully dangerous? How could you let him jump off that waterfall? How could you let him drink so much soda? Watch that movie? Fly on a plane alone, or stay home alone, or spend time on the computer alone? Spend time with a girl alone? Every child is different, and every family is different, and every moment is different. Most parents make the best decision possible at any given time. We love our kids, and we want the best for them. But that sometimes involves making hard decisions that others won't agree with, and a parent needs to wear a full coat of armor as protection from a society that seems free, perhaps even invited, to pass judgment whenever it chooses.

I am sorry for Ava's short life, and I am sorry for the Worthington family's loss. But I am especially sorry that I passed judgment on their decision without having all the facts - which of course I'll never have, because I am not wearing their shoes, and never will.

Six Words Can Say It All

My blog is back for now.

I'm inspired by things I've read. Few words can say a lot. Six words can say it all.

On relationships:
You love and then you change.

On parenting teens:
And now you break my heart.

On writing:
It's much harder than you think.

On the world:
It's hard to hope these days.

On health and fitness:
But where's the fun in this?

On fun:
The stuff that makes you smile.

On spirituality:
Done right, it builds you up.

On getting older:
Can wisdom really trump good looks?

On rivers:
You float, you work, you see.

On cats:
Bundles of fur, creatures of mystery.

On dogs:
They love you no matter what.

Now tell me what you think. What six words work for you?