Heaven or Hell? Your Choice

I lived a large part of my life as a flibbertigibbet. I know people who have lived in the same house in the same city since they were children and became adults. Some moved into their parents’ homes when their parents had either moved or passed on. Actual people married their high school sweethearts and stayed married. I regard them with a mix of wonder and disbelief.

I moved around when I was younger. A lot. I was always sure the next place would be the “best ever.” “It will be perfect!” Never mind that with my background, I did not have the slightest clue how to pull a house together let alone decorate it. Nor did I have sufficient coin for the necessary furnishings and so-called “home elements.”.

I did try interior decorating. Massive failure. I once put a sort of French boudoir black and white rococo style wallpaper in my small bedsit. Once I’d hung the last length of wallpaper, that small bedsit instantaneously became teeny tiny. It felt claustrophobic. Oh well, I thought. That didn’t work. I’ll paint it a solid color. That’ll fix it.

I painted it orange. Not that tasteful mango pastel you might be imagining. Oh no. Think of the vests worn by people doing roadwork. Safety vest orange. I had one quart of flat latex. It did not quite cover the black and white rococo.

Thinking back, when money was tight – as it invariably was – it was my wont to bargain hunt. Clothes. Shoes. Wallpaper. Paint. Buying what I really wanted was always trumped the actual cost. “Oops” paint and I became closely acquainted. So the safety vest orange shade that required four coats to cover hideous black and white wallpaper was probably quite cheap. Almost certainly.

It took time to learn that any place you land can become heaven or hell. Even odder, if you lower your expectations sufficiently to adapt to the environment, even hell can be a pleasant or leastways, interesting, road stop.

I loved the privations of camping and “roughing it” generally. On a memorable cross-Andes horse trek back in the aughts, it was certainly filled with enough excitement and dread to keep the adrenaline flowing. But I am fairly sure that type of vacation would not be everyone’s cup of tea.

Even my longtime, deeply adventurous friend Ursula met her match when a winter snowstorm came up in the middle of the mountains. close to nightfall (Quite a shock as in January it was “mid-summer” in Argentina. Mountains have their own rules.)

In the chaos of getting the horses down quickly to flatter, sheltered land to pitch our tents for the night, Ursula almost backed her horse off a cliff to what would have been certain death. Ursula remembers that snowstorm, nearly falling off a cliff, and dying experience with a certain testiness.

Back down here on terra firma, I am still hell-bent and determined to find a heavenly “forever” home. In my mind’s eye, my home would have everything I ever dreamt of. It would exude and reek of elegance, style, and taste.

I can see the wide, wooden double front doors and the dark grey slate floors of the foyer entrance. In the library just off the front hall to the left, I see through the doors to the low-plush wall-to-wall carpet and mahogany or cherrywood (I am not fussy) floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on both sides of the room. There is a deep-seated leather office chair in front of a mahogany (or cherrywood) desk. Books everywhere.

There are two easy chairs in the middle of the room with brass reading lamps on the end tables. Maybe an ottoman or two. And a dog. Maybe two. There is a large bay window at the back of the room that frames the desk with a wide, cushioned window seat. That upholstered seat looks out on a garden, or maybe an orchard. Trees of some sort at any rate. A birdcage-covered swimming pool is just barely in sight to the left of the property.

The living room across the wide hall from the library would be furnished with two deep, soft sofas facing each other in front of the wood-burning fireplace. The sofas would be set off by a matching easy chair or two with leather inlaid end tables and a large wooden coffee table between them.

The couches would frame a brick or maybe fieldstone, wood-burning fireplace. I adore the smell of burning wood. My dream home would be safe and cozy and, most of all, it would always be there.

You may have already concluded that I have been deeply swayed by (pick one) Alistair Cooke on Masterpiece Theatre or Upstairs, Downstairs (only the Upstairs, thank you), or Downtown Abbey. These are my influencers.

It is still a vague notion at present. Where. When. How. I’ve had bits and bobs of that decorative schemata in former houses but not all elements altogether in the same place. I am not 100% sure what that “forever” home will look like but I will know the place when I see it. I need to acquire the bones before I can start dressing them.

What I am sure of is that it will not have any trace of faux French boudoir black and white rococo wallpaper covered with a seethrough layer of safety vest orange paint. My aesthetic has grown somewhat beyond those days, thankfully.

When Is Enough?

I frequently ask that question these days. I am struck by the similarities in so many posts and blogs I read. Everyone has advice about how to create a happy life. Or how to set goals that will help you achieve your “happily ever after.” Do you ever think about how people figured out life before the advice of strangers from all over the world was available?

Well to start with, I imagine life was much simpler, say, a hundred and fifty years ago. You could look forward to a basic education – if you were lucky. You were expected to marry the most suitable match who probably lived a few houses away. Your future spouse was almost certainly from the same town.

Your parents were likely friends with the parents of your intended or they would certainly have known one another. From church or encounters at the general store or sports and hobbies. Social and geographic boundaries were much smaller and tighter.

The rules for living a good life were generally agreed upon by most of the community. You were born, got married, worked either inside (usually the wife) or outside the home (usually the husband), had kids, then grandkids, retired, got sick, and died. Dead easy.

My dear departed Dad chased the one overriding goal in life he was convinced would make him happy: becoming a millionaire. His admiration for money was a lifelong obsession. He faithfully attended Dale Carnegie courses that taught him How to Win Friends and Influence People. He learned “tricks” about how the wealthy nurtured an aura of money … like always sporting a tan. It encouraged the perception: “A man of means has time to relax in the sun.”

Dad missed one of the fundamental rules of creating wealth that follows the counter-intuitive rule: if you want more of something, you have to give it away. His miserliness always seemed like a synonym for misery. After he lost all his money in middle age, it made him cling to it even more fiercely.

He complimented his wife for saving scraps of wax paper in a kitchen drawer. He refused to buy anything “frivolous.” He balked at buying a package of better quality ham that cost only pennies more than his choice. After retiring from law, he owned and operated an ice cream store. He drove his employees crazy. When someone ordered a banana split, he would drive down to the supermarket … and buy one banana at a time.

To all outward appearances, he had a comfortable life toward its end. A house he owned outright. A luxury car. Steady passive income. Savings in the bank (if not quite a million dollars). But his emotional and financial miserliness cost him his family.

Like many kids in his generation, we were on our own after high school. I marveled with envy at peers whose parents paid for their education or paid for their fees to stay in residence or regularly sent them “care packages.” There was no support for “frivolous” pursuits like university in my Dad’s opinion. Dad once asked an old boyfriend of mine: “What is Margot doing in university? She is only going to get married and have children.”

I often wonder how Dad felt about his life and the goals he accomplished. He kept himself and his second wife safe and comfortable. But he did no community service to speak of. Had very few friends and as time went by, fewer and fewer interests. It seemed he lived his life with an anvil on his heart and soul. He never had enough.

Marketing gurus today push the glamor of high-end vodka and designer purses and shoes and all the symbols of wealth and status. Strategically, they target a younger clientele who are not yet encumbered by families and mortgage payments. This time period of “disposable income” is usually a short phase.

So I come back to my question. When we are setting goals for our lives, what is our absolute endpoint? When and why should we move the goalposts? To whose benefit? I’m convinced the answer can only be found in getting to know ourselves better. I recently read Steve Jobs’ said that a $300 watch and a $30 dollar watch tell the same time.

I learned that lesson early. There were high-end items I wanted and acquired for their quality as much as for their cachet. A Tissot wood watch I bought in Florence, Italy years ago still brings me pleasure aesthetically and sentimentally.

When we are young, we want to hurry up and get on with it. We want it all. We are hungry and eager to explore and experience everything that life can offer. We test our wings and seek out our pack. We build castles in the air then eventually settle for a three-bedroom and two-bathroom house that better suits our lifestyle, our budget, and our needs. Needs is the operative word. Life choices essentially come down to that.

The quicker we learn what makes us happy, the faster we begin to attract those things into our lives. It doesn’t matter what anyone else wants or what the world tells you will make you happy. We learn what is enough, for us. It is up to us to decide when that is.

Mother’s Day

I have written about mothers before. I have written and will continue to write about my own mother. It is a primal bond, yet the relationship can be difficult, no matter what its origin story. I wrote yesterday about idealized motherhood as a special, sacred state. The day-to-day reality can be quite different and difficult. There are common themes in the universal experience of motherhood. Yet each mother’s story is unique. This is one of those unique stories.

Lala and Her Son

“The child was tightly wrapped in the threadbare blanket his mother had taken with her as they were leaving the camp. At the immigration center, she struggled to quell her nerves and quiet her baby. The baby had a cough. The cough needed to be suppressed.

If even a slight cough was detected by an immigration official, the whole family – dad, mom, sister, and baby – might have been diverted to quarantine for suspicion of TB. Getting out of the detention center and on with their lives in Canada could have taken them many more months. The family had already spent what seemed like an eternity in a European refugee camp. Lala wasn’t sure how much more they could survive.

Homemade cough medicine liberally laced with brandy and administered in quantity had quieted her fussy boy before they disembarked at Pier 19 in Halifax. It had been effective in putting him into a deep slumber. Still, Lala worried the effects would wear off and the baby would wake and delay their plans.

The baby’s conception and birth originated in a post-World War II European refugee camp. It was there Lala met her future husband. Both parents were suffering from the brutal treatment and losses imposed by World War II Nazis. The post-War effects of displacement and relocation only compounded the traumatic effects.

At the war’s end, they jumped at the chance to come to Canada to begin life over again. They made it through the customs inspection and boarded the train for Toronto, Ontario.

Thanks to friends and relatives in the similarly displaced post-War community, they were able to buy a house. Eventually, his mother opened a dress store on the ground floor. The family lived upstairs.

That baby had grown into a bright and mischievous little boy. He remembered spying on naked women through the cracks in the changing room doors. The ladies paid him little attention as he was but a child but he reveled in the memories. He vividly recalled the pretty ladies.

A concern in this family was the little boy’s birth origins. The baby was now a boy. He was short in stature and tended to obesity. Food was comforting for him in a way his traumatized parents could not be. On top of the traumas of war, his father harbored deep fears that his son was not his own. He took out his anxiety on the child.

The story persisted that Lala had been raped by Russian soldiers in the camps and the story muddied the waters of the boy’s origins. His father feared that the boy was the product of that violent act and not his own biological son.

One of the results was that his father measured the boy regularly. He stood him up against a door jamb with a yardstick and pencil to mark his growth. The father made careful note of how tall the boy was. The boy recalls standing on tippy toes to appear taller to avoid his father’s rage. If the boy’s measurements “came up short,” a physical beating might ensue from deep within the wells of his father’s anger and frustration.

The boy had an older sister whose origins were equally murky. She was not the product of rape. But Lals worried her daughter was the product of another displaced Jewish refugee in the camp. When the daughter discovered her alternate origin story, she flipped out.

She stole her parents’ credit card and flew to Israel to seek out the man she believed might have been her “real father.” Israel is purportedly where he went after the war. The sister had a complete breakdown and was hospitalized in a mental hospital for a time with depression and suicidal ideation. Her brother was enraged and disdainful.

Her parents flew to Israel to find her and bring her back to Canada. The travel costs and the psychiatrists they paid to have her seen, were a burden on her family’s limited financial resources. Her brother saw all of her “acting out” as a “choice.” In his mind, she was a stupid and selfish brat.

As an academic years later, he would publish a paper called The Myth of Mental Illness. Although he didn’t mention his sister specifically, there is no doubt she was his intellectual inspiration. It is common for those who have grown up sublimating their distress to condemn as weak those who struggle.

Her brother was angry at the financial and emotional cost to his parents. They were not wealthy people and his sister had racked up a hefty credit card bill that his parents were forced to pay off. Her rebellion stirred up troubling memories of the war.

The boy sought comfort in food and his girth expanded in proportion to his loneliness and distress. His Ph.D. thesis explored the lengths that fat people go to appear “normal” in society. Those efforts to “cover” up their fat were a study in learned manipulation that Lala’s grown son transferred to other parts of his life. He would learn to hide his rage under layers of charm and intelligence that took him up the ladder of career success in fairly short order.

He was a product of the abusive background he came from and became a volatile and violent abuser himself. Survival skills bred in post-war European refugee camps and in his family home came in handy for a sad and angry little man-child. He was intent on making up for the miseries his parents suffered that caused him to suffer in kind.

Sadly and perhaps inevitably, he inflicted that suffering on others. Lala’s boy became as twisted as the Russian soldier (allegedly) responsible for his presence on the planet.”

Not My Children

Mother’s Day is coming up on Sunday. Have you noticed? If not, are you living in a cave in Tibet? We collectively shake our heads over the commercialization of this single day in the annual calendar. We may trivialize it but heaven forfends that we ignore the chance to publicly honor Mom. Because if we do, she will undoubtedly “remind” us.

There is more grounded discussion these days about the real cost and sacrifice in choosing motherhood. Where “this blessed event” was once wreathed in ephemeral images of ribbons and lace and sweet babies raising a dainty hand to their mother’s radiant face, the new narrative has become more realistic. The real underlying narrative of that earlier time was driven by economics and even harder necessity. Children were needed as much as they were wanted.

Parenting is tough. Motherhood is tougher. It comes with a host of unspoken expectations and “rules” that no mother ever fully gets until she gets there. Motherhood can be a bitch. (I like using BITCH as an acronym: Babe In Total Control of Herself). Nothing adequately prepares you for the literal gut punch that babies bring into your world.

Their demands are urgent and incessant. Thank god Nature takes you over and every fiber of a mother’s being strains to ensure her newborn’s survival and comfort. Thank god there is a multi-billion-dollar-a-year business devoted to the business of ensuring that that perfect little baby person you are holding remains that way and develops accordingly.

And when they don’t? Brace yourself for “Mother Guilt.” Or more accurately the mother of all guilt. After my son was born, I remember how sensitive I was to his every gurgle or whimper. If he started crying, there was a mental checklist to go through: “Is he hungry? Is he wet? Does his diaper need changing? Does he have gas? At a given time, it may have been any one or two or all of those. It is often said that babies do not come with instruction manuals which, if I may put my oar in, was very short-sighted on god’s part.

In my early days of motherhood, a wise and kind woman friend advised: “Never wake a sleeping baby.” The biggest psychological shift comes at the minute they hand that squirmy and wrinkled little bundle to you in the delivery room and you officially “become” a parent. For the rest of your life, your mindset will be: “Oh my God, if I don’t take care of this child, nobody else will. It’s totally on me.” My brother-in-law put this perfectly: “Parenting is unrelenting.”

The constant fussing and protection rather get in the way of a lot of parent-child relationships when they come of age. Especially if you are still treating them as if you need to cut up their food and wipe their mouths. I know. I’ve done it. Odd how sarcastic your grown-up baby boy becomes in public after he’s put on a few years.

I also learned – the hard way and in other ways – that neither of my babies was entirely “mine.” They have their own thoughts. Imagine? They have their own ideas. What? They may gently tease and cajole (constantly) to remind you that they are the new guard and you are the old. “Well, fetch me some tea then. Please?”

As they often have in my life, words helped me cope and understand. No one has done this more eloquently than my favorite poet Kahlil Gibran. Over the years, I have bought around twenty copies of his magnum opus, The Prophet. His books make beautiful and meaningful gifts. His poems cover the waterfront of life from birth to death and in between.

Take comfort from his wise words, fellow parenting people. If your babies are still with you, cherish every minute with them. Soon enough, you will be one of those parents who wistfully realizes their babies left the nest altogether too quickly.

Kahlil Gibran – 1883-1931

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of Children.

     And he said:
     Your children are not your children.
     They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
     They come through you but not from you,
     And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

     You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
     For they have their own thoughts.
     You may house their bodies but not their souls,
     For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

     You may strive to be like them but seek not to make them like you.
     For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
     You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
     The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

     Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
     For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

60 Today

Two months sure flew by. Much like life generally as we get older.

Today is the publication of my 60th blog post. I feel there should be cake and candles. And balloons. Or something.

I like honoring commitments to myself. Two months in, I see the value of these posts to keep greasing my internal writing wheels. Topics aren’t hard to come by. I’m pretty outspoken. But as dear old Ma liked to say, “Yes, she is outspoken … but not often and not by many.” Putting an original spin on those topics is the challenge.

In honor of this milestone today, I want to share some great advice I once received about getting older. I have collected many nuggets and some boulders of wisdom as I have wandered around this life. Then I either publish those nuggets or otherwise share them in the hope they will do somebody some good. Just as they once did for me. This post is twice as long a read as normal. Deserves every damn word.

If you have already achieved the status of eminence grise, enjoy. If you aren’t there yet, file this in your “Someday” file. Because – trust me on this – if you’re lucky, one day you will be old. It might be nice to have some guidelines lying around on how to do old well.

Great advice

This excellent list for aging is good advice to follow.

1. It’s time to use the money you saved up. Use it and enjoy it. Don’t just keep it for those who may have no notion of the sacrifices you made to get it. Remember there is nothing more dangerous than a son or daughter-in-law with big ideas for your hard-earned capital. Warning: This is also a bad time for investments, even if it seems wonderful or foolproof. They only bring problems and worries. This is a time for you to enjoy some peace and quiet.

2. Stop worrying about the financial situation of your children and grandchildren, and don’t feel bad spending your money on yourself. You’ve taken care of them for many years, and you’ve taught them what you could. You gave them an education, food, shelter, and support. The responsibility is now theirs to earn their own money.

3. Keep a healthy life, without great physical effort. Do moderate exercise (like walking every day), eat well and get your sleep. It’s easy to become sick, and it gets harder to remain healthy. That is why you need to keep yourself in good shape and be aware of your medical and physical needs. Keep in touch with your doctor, do tests even when you’re feeling well. Stay informed.

4. Always buy the best, most beautiful items for your significant other. The key goal is to enjoy your money with your partner. One day one of you will miss the other, and the money will not provide any comfort then, enjoy it together.

5. Don’t stress over the little things. Like paying a little extra on price quotes. You’ve already overcome so much in your life. You have good memories and bad ones, but the important thing is the present. Don’t let the past drag you down and don’t let the future frighten you. Feel good in the now. Small issues will soon be forgotten.

6. Regardless of age, always keep love alive. Love your partner, love life, love your family, love your neighbor and remember: “A man is not old as long as he has intelligence and affection.”

7. Be proud, both inside and out. Don’t stop going to your hair salon or barber, do your nails, go to the dermatologist and the dentist, keep your perfumes and creams well stocked. When you are well-maintained on the outside, it seeps in, making you feel proud and strong.

8. Don’t lose sight of fashion trends for your age, but keep your own sense of style. There’s nothing worse than an older person trying to wear the current fashion among youngsters. You’ve developed your own sense of what looks good on you – keep it and be proud of it. It’s part of who you are.

9. ALWAYS stay up-to-date. Read newspapers, and watch the news. Go online and read what people are saying. Make sure you have an active email account and try to use some of those social networks. You’ll be surprised what old friends you’ll meet. Keeping in touch with what is going on and with the people you know is important at any age.

10. Respect the younger generation and their opinions. They may not have the same ideals as you, but they are the future, and will take the world in their direction. Give advice, not criticism, and try to remind them that yesterday’s wisdom still applies today.

11. Never use the phrase: “In my time.” Your time is now. As long as you’re alive, you are part of this time. You may have been younger, but you are still you now, having fun and enjoying life.

12. Some people embrace their golden years, while others become bitter and surly. Life is too short to waste your days on the latter. Spend your time with positive, cheerful people, it’ll rub off on you and your days will seem that much better. Spending your time with bitter people will make you older and harder to be around. Be better, not bitter.

13. Do not surrender to the temptation of living with your children or grandchildren (if you have a financial choice, that is). Sure, being surrounded by family sounds great, but we all need our privacy. They need theirs and you need yours. If you’ve lost your partner (our deepest condolences), then find a person to move in with you and help out. Even then, do so only if you feel you really need the help or do not want to live alone.

14. Don’t abandon your hobbies. If you don’t have any, make new ones. You can travel, hike, cook, read, dance. You can adopt a cat or a dog, grow a garden, play cards, checkers, chess, dominoes, golf. You can paint, volunteer or just collect certain items. Find something you like and spend some real time having fun with it.

15. Even if you don’t feel like it, try to accept invitations. Baptisms, graduations, birthdays, weddings, conferences. Try to go. Get out of the house, meet people you haven’t seen in a while, experience something new (or something old). But don’t get upset when you’re not invited. Some events are limited by resources, and not everyone can be hosted. The important thing is to leave the house from time to time. Go to museums, go walk through a field. Get out there.

16. Be a conversationalist. Talk less and listen more. Some people go on and on about the past, not caring if their listeners are really interested. That’s a great way of reducing their desire to speak with you. Listen first and answer questions, but don’t go off into long stories unless asked to. Speak in courteous tones and try not to complain or criticize too much unless you really need to. Try to accept situations as they are. Everyone is going through the same things, and people have a low tolerance for hearing complaints. Always find some good things to say as well.

17. Pain and discomfort go hand in hand with getting older. Try not to dwell on them but accept them as a part of the cycle of life we’re all going through. Try to minimize them in your mind. They are not who you are, they are something that life added to you. If they become your entire focus, you lose sight of the person you used to be.

18. If you’ve been offended by someone – forgive them. If you’ve offended someone – apologize. Don’t drag around resentment with you. It only serves to make you sad and bitter. It doesn’t matter who was right. Someone once said: “Holding a grudge is like taking poison and expecting the other person to die.” Don’t take that poison. Forgive, forget, and move on with your life.

19. If you have a strong belief, savor it. But don’t waste your time trying to convince others. They will make their own choices no matter what you tell them, and it will only bring you frustration. Live your faith and set an example. Live true to your beliefs and let that memory sway them.

20. Laugh. Laugh A LOT. Laugh at everything. Remember, you are one of the lucky ones. You managed to have a life, a long one. Many never get to this age, and never get to experience a full life. But you did. So what’s not to laugh about? Find the humor in your situation.

21. Take no notice of what others say about you and even less notice of what they might be thinking. They’ll do it anyway, and you should have pride in yourself and what you’ve achieved. Let them talk and don’t worry. They have no idea about your history, your memories, and the life you’ve lived so far. There’s still much to be written, so get busy writing and don’t waste time thinking about what others might think. Now is the time to be at rest, at peace, and as happy as you can be!

REMEMBER: “Life is too short to drink bad wine and warm beer.”

ED NOTE: My personal thanks to the anonymous writer of this great advice. If it was you, please let me know!

Enough

I remember the first time I had Zabaglione with work colleagues in Toronto. This delectable custard-like Italian dessert made with egg yolks and sweet wine was the epitome of sophistication to my naive young eyes. In the afterglow of a delicious, multi-course chef-prepared dinner with my brilliant radio producer colleagues, I luxuriated in my excitement and place. I had arrived.

Fast forward forty years. Mid-career, I remember how rare the sort of night I had last night was. No dinner plans or evening events to attend. Nowhere to go or make an appearance “for career reasons.” No early morning meeting to prep for. No waste of the precious hours before bedtime consumed with worry about the work week ahead.

We ordered a half-and-half pizza. All meat for him. Hawaiian for me. And yet again, the debate about whether or not pineapple belonged on a “real” pizza pie. Whatever. I want what I want. Given the explosion of take-out gastronomical choices these days, a heated discussion about the pros and cons of pineapple on pizza was pretty tame. Imagine. Having pizza and beer and it wasn’t even the weekend.

As we get older, we get to have more of these “nights in.” Presumably, we have enough coin to splurge on a pizza and beer occasionally during the week. More importantly, we now have enough time. We also have the perspective to look back and realize how good we’ve got it.

I sometimes laugh with chagrin at how taken-for-granted simple pleasures were when we were young. I also laugh because we thought bigger and better things were perpetually in store for us. Pizza and beer were “just” pizza and beer. Important business dinners ahead, perhaps. Plans to go to a new and trendy restaurant where all the “In” people hung out. I no longer take simple pleasures for granted.

At one time, we absorbed the reported goings-on at Studio 54 in New York City like thirsty camels. The cachet of stories about “beautiful people” and the “in-crowd” and everyone there being “on trend.” Those who mattered had “access.” Those without “access” didn’t matter at all. These are among the oldest rules of sales and marketing. Make things you wish to sell both alluring and inaccessible. Desire is key.

All of this comes to mind as we repeatedly see people caught up in and falling for the same old razzle-dazzle about chasing “the good life” and what that means. Can fake eyelashes and fingernails get any longer? Can bling get any blingier? Not to mention, the cars, the clothes, and the Grey Goose.

I’ve finally figured out that the good life is what we decide we want it to be. We seem to inevitably fall back on the old standards for happiness eventually. Good friends and good company. A warm and supportive family (whether of blood or of friends). People we like and trust. And the usual menu of adequate financial resources to stave off worry and want, good health, little pain (emotional or physical), and something to look forward to each day.

As I watch the ceaselessly striving today, it saddens me. The brass ring they are chasing is more ill-defined and elusive than it ever has been. The ultimate question becomes, when is enough? I have seen many and even been one of those people who got what they wanted only to regret what they had wished for. Or wondered if getting what I thought I wanted was worth what it actually cost.

It calls on us to regularly check in on our lives for our level of happiness and self-satisfaction. A form of emotional maintenance. Are we doing what we love and feeling well most of the time? Are those we love and look out for doing and feeling well, too? If not, why not?

It is a call to keep an eye on what is fundamentally important to us. We then need to protect what that is. For me, the end-state I sought was inner peace and contentment. Enough challenges and projects to keep life interesting, of course, but to steer well away from that which threatened to upend or derail my state of calm. I wanted people in my life whom I could love and who would love me. I was once not at all sure that could happen.

Fingers crossed that my apple cart is not upset without warning, If it is, I rest easy in that conviction that if the unthinkable happens, I am better prepared to weather those storms than I once was. I just need to hold fast to the mast.

The question I often asked when I was younger was what is enough? I am grateful to have landed in a place in my life where I can look around me and say with gratitude: this. More important is being able to appreciate the good in the life I am living while I am living it. That’s progress in my little world.

Sayin’ Ain’t Doin’

My beloved daughter just returned home after visiting for a week. So many feels.

I write this blog primarily to share what I’ve learned about personal healing. And to eventually capture all of that learning in a book, of course. Intellectually, I know a lot. But navigating fraught emotional waters with actual human beings is a whole other ongoing challenge. I still have lots of trauma and triggers inside me. Turns out, so does my daughter.

She is at a different age and stage than me. Duh. It is the way it is supposed to be. She is a smart, ambitious, accomplished, and interesting adult. But she is a much younger adult who has had an entirely different life experience than me. Kindly, she backs me up when I say she has a much better relationship with her mother than I had with mine. Frankly, it wouldn’t have taken much.

I started early on the healing path in my children’s life. The marriage to her father broke down in fairly short order after their arrival. The consequences were devastating and endure. When I moved my two young children (6 and 4 y.o.) from the East Coast of Canada to the West Coast over thirty years ago, I immediately enrolled them in a community program for children of divorce called, Caught in the Middle.

I didn’t like that their conversations with therapists were confidential. I believed that knowing what they were talking about with those strangers would help me better meet their needs as a mother. That hope was quickly shut down. Session disclosure was against the rules and ironically, it helped break down my habitual patterns of triangulation.

At some point in my academic studies, I learned that “triads” were the most stable – if dysfunctional – of social relationships. Three individuals involved in a triad – I learned – are the “perpetrator,” a “victim,” and a “rescuer.” A perpetrator would somehow “hurt” a “victim” who would then run to and disclose that hurt to a “rescuer” who would then comfort and validate the “victim’s” hurt feelings that the perpetrator caused. Then the “rescuer” and “victim” would form an alliance against the “perpetrator.”

So the pattern of issues or hurts went round and round and was rarely resolved. I have learned resolving issues is best handled by working it out with the person you hurt or who hurt you. Triads prevent this by deflecting the energy and the issue to someone not directly involved. So the wheel of hurt keeps going around and around.

The most public (and tragic) example of a triad in my generation was the relationship that Bill Clinton’s young paramour Monica Lewinsky had with her so-called friend, Linda Tripp, about her “boyfriend” troubles. Triads in normal daily life rarely generate such widespread interest or put a Presidency on the line. However, triads that play out on a smaller scale can be just as hurtful and damaging.

[It amused me that a Google search on “triad” revealed a more common usage of the word today for “polyamory” or “throuples” (a three-person romantic relationship). Gotta tip my hat to them who can manage that. It was everything I could do in my romantic career to keep one relationship on the rails. But I digress.]

Love is action. I was desperately confused about that for the longest time. Of course, I was desperately and generally confused about what love was, period. The sexual component was fairly easy to operationalize. But all the other love stuff intimidated and confounded me. Caring for someone by actually “taking care of them” and putting their interests above my own was a stretch for the traumatized child I was, dealing with my own history of inadequate care.

Then my babies came. Words are inadequate to explain how profoundly one’s life changes when a baby comes into the picture. In their earliest days, I was utterly unprepared and overwhelmed by the experience, and beyond. Motherhood has been a step-by-step, learn-as-you-go proposition. My beliefs about love were upended after having children.

It wasn’t made any easier for me by my discovery that I had married an incompatible partner with his own set of unresolved childhood issues. When I was a little girl and into adulthood, my parents frequently said, “I love you.” But their actions did not consistently match those words. I became wary and suspicious about the utterances of love and was careless about using them myself.

During my daughter’s visit – which was largely fabulous and filled with joy and gratitude and fun – we had a couple of glancing blows on triggers we didn’t – okay, I didn’t – even know were still there. With both my daughter and my son, I have tried to mobilize actions to back up words of love. Her visit – and her presence on the planet – reminded me that there is always more work to do in a loving relationship that wants to heal, grow and be truly loving.

My brother-in-law put it best: “Parenting is unrelenting.” No matter how old they or you are. Duh.

A Horse, A Horse

King Charles III was coronated yesterday. In the midst of it, this well-known Shakespearean phrase came to mind. This historical ceremony confirmed the role of the so-called “highest-born” in the realm of the British Commonwealth. A king of “all the people.” Okay. So the Crown has been a little tarnished lately. And they don’t so much as “reign” over us as provide tabloid news fodder and open kindergartens. But we loyal subjects still sing in unison:

Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the King!“

Switching out “Queen” for “King” in that anthem was something of a psychological jolt at first. The British monarchy – and more specifically Queen Elizabeth II – has been a mainstay of my life being a good Canadian “subject,” and all. The death of the Queen last year felt like the loss of a dear and beloved – albeit distant and incommunicado – aunt. It is impossible to overstate in the American context how ubiquitous her presence was in the lives of many in the British Commonwealth from the mid-20th century to her death last year. She was a source of continuity and stability globally, even if the role she played was largely ceremonial.

If there is a better example of an idea creating reality, the British Monarchy is one of the greats. After the nasty Battle of Hastings back in 1066, Great Britain and her “protectorates” has been governed by a series of familial inheritors to “do their duty” and “serve” the people for several centuries now. High and low-born is a social construct, of course. It has a lot to do with who has the most money and who has the most toys. All social constructs develop to serve a purpose. Social constructs last until they are no longer of service.

Whether the British Monarchy is any longer of value in the 21st century is a question asked with more intensity than ever before. In the midst of all the pomp and ceremony around crowning Charles King. there were and are widespread rumblings of discontent and discussion about turfing any affiliation with the Monarchy in many countries.

Richard III’s anguished cry in the Shakespeare play of the same name speaks to the limitations of power and being “high-born.” The rulers ultimately “serve” the will of the people. More than a few monarchs have lost their heads over neglecting that fact.

The wealthy elderly often learn this lesson the hard way. There is a point at which all of the money in the world will not give us what we need and want most. More time on earth. The warmth of family. The chance to make peace with the wrongs we have committed in life.

At the end of the day, even the most powerful people are just human beings. Still, it is hard to imagine that they have needs and emotions like the rest of us. But this current iteration of the British Monarchy has played the role of frail humanity and family dysfunction in the past 50 years like a badly written but enduring soap opera.

Death marks a transition in everyone’s lives. Princess Diana’s death rocked the world and Monarchy to its very core. It was a chilling denouement to a story that was already rife with subterfuge, deceit, infidelity, and inherent tragedy, in its planning and its execution.

Now just as that drama has more or less sunk into the annals of history and Charles and Camilla were settling ever deeper into comfortable domesticity, Prince Harry goes off the rails. A story not unlike the story in other “commoner’s” dysfunctional families, if on a grander and much more public scale.

Richard III called out in a moment of need for all he would have given for what he needed the most at the moment. We often use the phrase in jest these days, declaring we would “give our kingdom” for a cup of coffee. It is silly and untrue.

But it speaks to the urgency of how we feel when we need what we need. Life’s work is sorting out what those needs are for us and nurturing their sources so we do not go without. In life or at the hour of our death. Whether we are kings or queens or paupers. The work is the same.

The Four Agreements: 4/4

The fourth agreement in Don Miguel Ruiz’s book is Always Do Your Best.

I shoulda-coulda-woulda learned this lesson much earlier. My inflated ego made constant judgments about the level of job I was in, my academic ranking compared to my peers, and my general circumstances. There were two negative consequences to that faulty thinking.

First, I couldn’t fully relax and enjoy the job experience I was having. Even though I didn’t have a clear idea of what level I should be at, I was convinced the current level was insufficient. For my ego. Never mind that I was an inexperienced kid who was at exactly the right place for her age and stage. I didn’t have the internal psychological framework to assure me that where I was was just fine. For now.

Second was the truth that by feeling somehow superior, I didn’t always do the best job I could. I was, by times, baselessly argumentative and demanding, and difficult. With my coworkers and with my bosses. I had some notion that I was “above” what I was doing. Today, I feel considerable shame and humility for that bratty attitude. It put people off (especially employers) and I had a hard time fitting into the work crowd.

There are a raft of things I could say to contextualize my situation. I was a traumatized child. I often came to work hungover in my twenties in the heydays of my hard drinking. I once showed up drunk in the morning at my TV job still drunk from partying the night before. Add “actress” to my job resume right next to “on-air reporter.” I hadn’t yet heard the term “personal work,” let alone begun to do it to wrestle my demons into submission.

Ruiz says that always doing one’s best helps turn the first three agreements into habits. If we internalize and follow the habits of taking nothing personally, being as honest and clear as possible with our word, and making no assumptions without verification, our best is a natural byproduct.

One’s “best” effort will change depending on the situation, but no one needs to feel guilty about that. In any situation, there are many factors working with or on us that we cannot control. But always doing one’s best builds immunity to guilt and judgment and self-recrimination. In effect, Ruiz’s four agreements are a prescription for taking personal responsibility.

Learning that lesson matures us as we let go of the youthful tendency to blame our parents and other external circumstances, such as money or culture, or religion. or race, for our misery and difficulties. The only way out is through. By doing our best, we can look back with pride and satisfaction on the wake we have left in our life.

In what looks like a nod to the philosophy of “pursuing your bliss,” Ruiz adds that one should not act exclusively for rewards in life but because one is doing what one wants to. Rewards will naturally follow.

I’ve always liked the saying: “Find work that you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Still good advice.

The Four Agreements: 3/4

The third of Don Miguel Ruiz’s agreements is: Don’t Make Assumptions

This agreement did not just speak to me. It shrieked at me.

Most people have heard the colloquial advice about assumptions. “Never assume. It makes an “ass” out of “u” and out of “me.”

Assumptions are dangerous because if an individual believes an assumption is true—then they think and act accordingly. Relationships based on assumptions are more likely to end and end badly. Assumptions cause unnecessary drama and suffering. Communicating clearly and asking questions is key to avoiding assumptions and living happily.

In the culture I came from, assumptions were rampant. I would even go so far as to say it was the norm. Blind assumptions were the way it was in my family of origin. Even more so in the bureaucracy, that I worked in for a time. Power dynamics and informational sleight-of-hand were the bread and butter of seasoned bureaucrats. They hoarded knowledge like squirrels hoard nuts to hang on to their power and position.

Digging deep to really understand an issue or problem was not common in government for reasons of time, resources, or politics. Politics is the realm of the “quick win” where “perception is reality.” People’s fortunes within the bureaucratic structure rose and fell with their ability to “second-guess” their bosses and meet their needs before the needs were even expressed. And primarily, of course, to cover your ass.

This system worked to ensure career longevity for many people. I met people who had no real transferable job skills beyond their ability to “play the system.” Long-timers came to understand what every new Cabinet Minister needed and poured their efforts into meeting them. That approach did little to allow time to dig deep and devise comprehensive solutions to complex social issues. Bureaucrats’ shelves were littered with the detritus of “policy directions,” “briefing books,” “feasibility studies,” and “position papers.” The safest position was to appear to be doing something while doing nothing at all. Now that is artful.

Operating on assumptions was rife in my family. After the fact, I would hear about tearful sessions behind closed doors after something that someone had unthinkingly said or done was deemed “insensitive.” The rationale for this runs along the lines of “If you really loved me, you would know what I need (and what hurts me) without me having to say it.” Lovers often do the same. As if loving someone automatically conveys psychic powers and mind-reading abilities.

There is cowardice in making assumptions and a type of wilful ignorance. I watched this regularly in the small town I came from. Whole groups of people would make assumptions about someone and then conduct themselves in accordance with what they assumed. The protagonist was rarely consulted for an explanation or clarification. I often heard someone described as having said or done something egregious. When I elected to check it out with the transgressor, I often learned that the person had not said or done any such thing. If they had, their true intentions had been completely misconstrued.

I am reminded of the fable of putting the bell on the cat. Overconfident, self-important little mice devise the solution to put a bell on the cat’s collar to warn of the enemy cat’s approach. The only issue is “Who will put the bell on the cat?” When people live in an environment of powerlessness, talking about solutions is a way of achieving social cohesion without actually taking steps or being able to do anything about it.

I often experienced this in my journalism career. I was often able to get “ungettable” interviews just by making a phone call to someone that everyone “assumed” would not talk to the press. I had a few phones hung up on me, to be sure. But I was often pleasantly surprised by those who wanted to talk. To get their side of the story on the record.

Assumptions can create a host of false barriers and hurt feelings between people. Rather pointless and self-defeating actually. But then, cowardice can make fools of us all.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: