a perfectly good life

I am in a horrible mood, and have been for the last few hours. It started when I realized that people are actually reading my blog entries. Some found the entries smart, and even clever (which is scary because now there is pressure to keep up the smart clever stuff!). I don’t know what I was thinking before, as I unselfconsciously wrote my little thoughts and feelings. I never should have allowed my husband to talk me into this project. He is so much braver when it comes to going public with his ideas. I’ve carried a dull nausea and feeling of dread in my stomach around much of the day, and I know I should write something, or that empty feeling will never go away.

And it better be good!

This reminds me of how hard it is to be a student. There were many afternoons and evenings during my teens and twenties as a student when I knew there was something I needed to do, but I did not want to do it.

The New York Times attributes the following quote to Ruth Bernhard:

“I allowed life to give me presents. And everything just sort of happened the way it was supposed to happen. I did not pursue anything. It more or less pursued me.”

Addendum: I just found the following wonderful note, written in 1995 by Ruth Bernhard:

The New York Times reported that Moses Hardy died last month at the age of 113. Two days later, the world’s oldest person, Elizabeth Bolden died at the age of 116. It appears we’ve lost two remarkable people.

Moses Hardy was the world’s last surviving black World War I veteran. He was born in 1893, when Benjamin Harrison was President of the United States. His father was born in 1830, when Andrew Jackson was President, and both of his parents were slaves. When I read about Hardy’s life, I was momentarily jolted that there was man alive, until just recently, whose parents were slaves. I have no delusions that slavery doesn’t exist today, perhaps in greater numbers than in our country’s early history. I am horrified by the abduction and trafficking of young girls who are forced to work as prostitutes in Cambodia. I abhor the lack of living wages many people in this country must endure simply to survive, which seems like a form of slavery itself. My surprise came from the fact that, until I read this obituary, slavery in this country seemed so long ago. Moses Hardy demonstrated to me that if the span of just two lifetimes can take us back to that horrible time, it really wasn’t that long ago, after all. No wonder the emotional wounds that can carry easily from generation to generation have not healed completely. We need to do more.

I struggle to stay focused, to keep myself in charge of how I feel, instead of letting my emotions float on the murky and sometimes turbulent waters of my thoughts. I have been working hard recently to allow myself to consciously dictate how I see my day progressing, so that, as Thoreau said, I can live the life that I imagine. Sometimes I am successful, and I feel in charge. I then feel confident enough to stay at risk in my social interactions, propelling me to make deeper connections, and to proceed into the future professionally with the attitude that everything is going to be OK. There’s nothing that stifles creativity more than worry and doubt, and nothing more inspirational than confidence.

I believe we create the life we live from within our own imaginations. You may have heard the maxim that the universe gives back to us what we give to it – the “what goes around comes around” theory. There are many examples throughout history, an obvious one being Mother Theresa, who was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize after dedicating her life to helping the poor and needy (and, let’s not forget she’s now a Saint!). There are plenty of other examples, but this is starting to feel like a history lesson and that’s not where I want to go with it. I’d rather write on a more personal level.

After writing in my last post about the power of being emotionally in tune with people when they are having a painful feeling, I felt like shit when I failed miserably with my own son. It seemed so easy for the teacher I wrote about to gently accept her young student, who was experiencing a moment of sadness about the loss of her mother. The teacher was sensitive, mature, and not overwhelmed by Julia’s loss, or her feelings about it.

Man, this stuff is harder with our own kids! We are so identified with, and invested in, the well being of our children, that we are often guilty of poisoning them with good intensions. What parent doesn’t want her child to feel good all the time? Certainly, it’s not easy to make that admission, because when we are in our right minds, we know it’s a ridiculous expectation for any mortal. I guess, as parents, we are often selfish, and not even aware of our sneaky methods of manipulating our kids to do what we want them to do, and to feel what we want them to feel. I say selfish, because we love our children more than anything. We want them to succeed, and to have a very small range of feeling: always good. Yes, we may think we are rising to the occasion when they feel bad, but are we? Or, are we working desperately to move them quickly along towards feeling better? It is tricky because there are times when our kids want us to help them move to a more optimistic place, to help them find relief from their despair. In our rush to relieve, we often bypass an important step, which involves looking at ourselves and at our kids. My goodness, it is hard work.

I was touched when I heard this little, but profound, slice of life.

My goddaughter is three years old and last year her mother died. She is in nursery school with another little girl whose mother died about a year earlier.

The children in her class were lining up to go outside, when the conversation among them turned to the fact that “Julia and Ava don’t have Moms.” The three-year olds were fascinated. Julia slipped quietly away from the group to find her teacher, and said to her, “I don’t have a mom and I feel sad.” Her teacher replied, “It’s OK to be sad, Julia.” Julia then looked up at the teacher with a big smile on her face, and ran back to be with her friends.

This will be quick because I am a busy guy. I have a lot to do. You see, I carry a list around with me with all the things I need to get done. It used to be on a crumpled piece of paper in my back pocket. Now, it sits neatly on my blackberry (which is by my side every waking hour so I can respond to emails within seconds), but this new technology has only made the items on my list seem more official, more important, and therefore, more urgent.

One of the things on my list is this post. I will write it quickly, so I can check it off and move on to the next order of business. As I sit here, I can’t help but think about how relieved I will feel once I’ve finished writing. I will have one less thing to do. Oh, the freedom I will feel! Of course, I will admit, even as my fingers tap their way longingly towards the end of this post, I am starting to worry about my next obligation, which will be washing the windows in our apartment. It’s been at least six months since that horrendous chore made it to the top of my list. I moved it from the tenth position up to second yesterday after my daughter called out to me from the bathroom, as she was getting ready for school, asking about the weather. I glanced toward a window and told her that perhaps she should dress for rain. Living on Broadway in New York City, where the traffic kicks dust and dirt as high as our sixth floor apartment, our windows are practically opaque. When she got to the bus stop, my daughter phoned to say how foolish she felt being the only one carrying an umbrella on a beautiful, sunny day. I can’t wait to finish writing this post so I can finally clean the windows because when they are clean, the world is a better place. Everything is crisp, and the city looks beautiful, no matter the weather conditions. That is, until I realize there’s more to do.

(My wife just walked by and said, “there’s a funny smell in the kitchen, we need to do a thorough cleaning.” Excuse me for a moment, I need to use the blackberry.)

After a long winter vacation, my son and his girlfriend returned to college to continue their sophomore year, and my daughter started up again in her sophomore year of high school. Although I worked while they were on vacation, every other waking hour centered on them. Consumption with the kids was my sole purpose in life. As we ran from one pleasure seeking activity to the next, I recall being haunted by a feeling resembling emotional nausea. We were taking in too much pleasure, the way one eats too much turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and apple pie, during the holidays. We were on a break from our routine, and we all felt like it was our duty to get in as much pleasure as possible.

We started most mornings with an outing to our precious little neighborhood patisserie for coffee, and a sweet buttery pastry. We often lingered for over an hour, enjoying a relaxing start to the day, and the novelty of being with the kids. (I forgot to mention that this “morning” coffee ritual often took place at around 1 PM, after my husband and I had already put in hours of work. After an evening of frolicking with friends till very late the night before, the kids would refresh themselves with sleep till noon.) After our coffee, we were ready to devour our next thrill.

My kids have told me stories about their friends who are grounded for not going along with family rules. I’d often think quietly to myself, “I wonder if I am doing something wrong because I can not recall ever punishing my children. Is it because I am just a softy?” I have never been inclined to punish my kids when they disappoint me. That is, not until a few weeks ago.

My daughter knows I expect her to call home when she goes from place to place in the city. (New York can be a scary place!) For the most part, she is responsible and makes the obligatory call. A few weeks ago, she went to meet friends at a diner a few blocks from home, requiring a walk alone in the dark. I reminded her to call me when she got to the diner. After about a half hour, I had not heard from her, so I picked up the phone and called her. “I am so sorry, Mommy” was her greeting as she answered.

Since this was the third time she had forgotten to check in with us in a three-week period, it was too much for me. I told her how angry I was and that a punishment seemed to be in order. In that moment, I finally understood why so many parents use punishments with their teenagers. I felt like I was regaining power as I laid down the law, proclaiming that she was going to do things my way or there would be a price to pay!

Do you have a reassuring husband? One who is always eager to offer up advice when you’re worried, and quick to reassure you about whatever is troubling you? If so, I’m sorry to say, your husband may be chipping away at what could be a perfectly good marriage. What seems like an innocent, even loving, act can actually be a subtle way of trying to control you or stop the communication altogether. In essence, when your husband gives advice and offers reassurances, without checking in first to find out if that’s what you’re looking for, it can be a powerfully covert way of simply saying, “shut up, you idiot.”

The other day, I went to my husband in an agitated state, worrying about our daughter. It’s funny - now days later - I have no memory of what I was upset about, but what does take center stage in my memory is that my husband’s reaction to reassure me and to give me advice (”don’t futurize … you’d be so much happier if you could simply stay in the moment) left me feeling isolated and angry.