Friday, December 17, 2010

The Reason for the Season

Merry Christmas, everyone! And Happy Hanukkah. I hope you had a restful Bodhi Day (Rohatsu), and that Shab-e Yaldaa finds you well. "Blessed Be" to all of you this happy Yule.

Do you see where I'm going with this yet? We hear a lot of talk about "the reason for the season" these days, as if there is only one. My Christian friends are all excited about the coming of the Lord, Emmanuel, "Christ Among Us." For them, Advent is a month of preparation, getting your act together before the big J.C. is born in a lowly manger. It's a sweet story, one I grew up with and always assumed to be the instigator of this whole "season."

But I have done a little research, and guess what. The "season" predates "Christ's Mass" by centuries. Holly, mistletoe, deer, decorated evergreen trees, feasts, giving presents...all of it is Pagan in origin.

This may not be news to you. I have always heard that Christians usurped the whole Saturnalia/Winter Solstice thing to propagandize this new religion that needed a foothold in Europe to ever get off the ground. It worked. No one was sure when Jesus was really born anyway (although sufficient scriptural and historical evidence points to sometime in autumn), so why not pick a ready-made holiday? In fact, do you know why Christmas is on December 25th exactly?

Because it was already a holiday celebrating the birthday of another virgin-born savior, Mithra. Dating back to at least 1500 BC, Mithraism was actually the official religion of The Roman Empire, before Constantine legalized Christianity and then Flavius Theodosius made it official in AD 380. With its roots in Hinduism, this religion reveres Mithra, known as "The Way, The Truth, The Light," who would save humanity from evil and sacrifice himself for world peace. And he was born on December 25th. Talk about a ready-made holiday.

Aurelian, the Roman emperor who made this the official religion, was a pretty savvy ruler in his brief reign, for when he wasn't out conquering barbarians in distant lands, he managed to combine the celebrations of a number of important birthdays into one holiday, Dies Natalis Solis Invicti or "Birthday of the Unconquered Sun." In addition to Mithra, everyone from the Greek hero Apollo to the Egyptian sun-god Osiris to the Old Testament's Baal got the glory on what is now "Christmas."

Long story short (if it's not too late for that), there have been many "reasons for the season." Despite my tongue-in-cheek tone, I don't point this out to discredit any of them. On the contrary, I believe in inclusion, not exclusion. Everyone needs to believe in something, be it Christianity, Judaism, New Thought, or simply the laws of science.

You may have heard that the organization American Atheists has paid for a huge billboard that shows the wise men on camels coming to see the holy family in a stable under a star in silhouette. The caption reads, "You KNOW it's a Myth. This season, celebrate REASON!" Now, I can understand their frustration, since atheists have long been a pretty silent minority. They quietly tolerate the religiosity that permeates American life, and we often forget that for some, "freedom of religion" means "freedom from religion." And they have a point. Do a little research on Mithra and it will make you wonder if the whole Christian religion isn't one big case of plagiarism. Born of the virgin Anahita, wrapped in swaddling clothes, laid in a manger, watched by shepherds, followed by twelve disciples, praised for his miracles, ascended into heaven...and he predates Christ by over a thousand years. Hmmm.

But I think this billboard goes too far. It's one thing for atheists to assert that they want a reprieve from Christianity, especially in the month of December. Who can blame them? It's another thing for them to insult or attempt to nullify people's faith entirely. That's disrespectful. They have every right to tout what they believe, so the second line is appropriate. We should celebrate reason. But to say "You KNOW it's a Myth" is tantamount to saying "Your religion is false."

This is why I like agnostics. (Bless them.) They humbly believe that we just don't know anything for sure. And they're right. The billboard-sanctioning atheists are simply the other end of the continuum from the bible-thumping fundamentalists. Each end of the spectrum is certain they know the Truth, when in actuality, neither have any proof at all that they are correct in their assertions.

The bible? We all know how easily documents can be changed, omitted, embellished, and falsified. And with a number of other, older sacred texts out there, calling one gospel and another heresy is simply a choice of faith, not evidence of proof.

As for the atheists who say they simply don't believe in anything until they see proof of its existence for themselves, ask them, do they believe in protons, electrons, and neutrons? Do they believe in black holes? The Big Bang? Love? We all believe in things we can't experience with the senses. If they make sense to us, if they ring true.

The story of an infant king, born in a lowly stable and laid in a manger, visited by wise men from the east, watched over by simple shepherds, a king who would grow up the son of a carpenter, who would perform miracles and teach the world about love, about forgiveness, about turning the other cheek, about not casting the first stone, about loving our neighbors, and our enemies...for many people, this story rings true.

Is it really important which "reason" has the most proof? The most evidence? The longest history? The first claim on December 25th? It would seem to me that the real "reason for the season" is that people throughout history and across cultures have had something in common: the desire to feast on the harvest, to celebrate heroes and miracles, and to give generously to one another.

So whether you're lighting a menorah, a Yule log, a Christmas tree, or nothing at all this month, I hope you will keep in mind that there are many reasons for the season, but perhaps one we can all agree on is Love. We are all searching for what rings true for us, so let's respect each other's choices. After all, our souls aren't "one size fits all." Here are some gift ideas: tolerance for traditions that aren't our own, respect for beliefs that differ from ours, and acceptance of the diversity December brings each year. It's a month of feasting heartily, celebrating festively, giving generously, and loving unconditionally.

Whatever inspires you to eat, celebrate, give, and love this month, I honor that. So Blessed Be, Happy Hanukkah, and Merry Christmas. Be good to one another. Remember, you never know who could be watching. Santa, Jesus, God, the Universe, or at the very least your fellow human beings.

Maybe even Mithra.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Off the Grid

I did something subversive. Something totally against the grain of contemporary American society. Not only do I feel completely unashamed by my actions, I feel really, really good. This must be what the feminists in the 70's felt like when they burned their bras, or when bearded, bandanna-wearing hippies took a bic to their draft cards. Liberated. "Take THAT, establishment! Ha!"

I left facebook.

That's right. I deactivated my account indefinitely, and I am this close to going back in and deleting all of its contents altogether. Perhaps you are wondering why I would do such a thing. (Several of my facebook buddies asked me this when I announced my imminent departure in my status update a few days before I "left the building.") 500 million users can't be wrong, can they? Well, certainly facebook has its benefits. It does bring people together and keep families and friends in contact over long distances. I have rekindled some very special friendships with long-lost pals thanks to good old facebook, people I would probably never have crossed paths with again. So for that, I am grateful to Mark Zuckerberg's little Harvard project.

However, like everything, facebook has its dark side. Lately the news is full of stories about facebook-fueled firings, privacy breaches, child predator "groups," and even bully-induced suicides. These are the extremes, but even regular users might find some familiarity in my list of reasons for logging out for good.

1. It is a tremendous time waster. As of January this year, the average user spent fifty-five minutes a day on facebook, and that number continues to climb. All of the other top ten websites have seen a decline in use, while facebook has seen a steady rise. Bottom line, we are checking in more and more, doing other things less and less. Judging by the number of friends I had who were facebooking at all hours of the day, I would guess many of us are becoming less and less productive.

2. "The age of privacy is over." According to Mark Zuckerberg, at least. He said this prophetic statement January 8th in front of a live audience. Marshall Kirkpatrick quotes him in an article published on Read Write Web:

"When I got started in my dorm room at Harvard, the question a lot of people asked was 'why would I want to put any information on the Internet at all? Why would I want to have a website?'

"And then in the last 5 or 6 years, blogging has taken off in a huge way and all these different services that have people sharing all this information. People have really gotten comfortable not only sharing more information and different kinds, but more openly and with more people. That social norm is just something that has evolved over time.

"We view it as our role in the system to constantly be innovating and be updating what our system is to reflect what the current social norms are."

He said this in response to questions about changing the privacy settings to default to "public" starting in December of 2009. See, facebook wants your information "out there." The more our info is circulating, the more profitable the network is. To make matters worse, recent reports say facebook apps have been selling user profile info to companies. I find this unsettling. I'm not ready to live in a privacy-free world. I know I share a fair amount of details about my life through my writing, so this may seem disingenuous, but I prefer to be in charge of what gets disseminated to the world at large. Which leads to the third reason...

3. It's ruining people's jobs and relationships. Teachers get fired for posting pics of themselves at a party with a drink in their hand. Employees get fired for posting as their status update what they are doing on a day they called in sick. According to an article by Larry Hartstein in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, sixty-six percent of divorce lawyers consider facebook the "unrivaled leader for online divorce evidence." Eighty-one percent have seen an increase in its use for divorce cases. Often, it is the key for getting child custody or proving a spouse has lied. I personally know of more than one marriage that is in jeopardy due to facebook-rekindled romances from high school. We have way too much access to our exes--their faces, their activities, their social lives--more so than ever before in human history. Almost eighty percent of people remain friends with their exes on facebook. Remember when you moved on and didn't know what was going on with your ex except through the occasional bump-in at the mall or word of mouth from a mutual friend? Many admit to keeping the connection on facebook just to "see what they are up to." Used to be, a person had to drive by their house to do that, back when we called that "stalking."

4. Perhaps we keep these connections because of reason number four: narcissism. Somewhere along the way, the word "friend" has been demoted. It's all about quantity, not quality. One of my students admitted to the class that he didn't have a facebook account (he was one of two who were off the grid). When asked why not, he replied, "I have six friends and I like three of them. Who needs a facebook account for that?" I know of people with friend counts over a thousand. Every time they meet a person at a bar or a party, they "friend" them. Then of course they look at each other's pictures, comments, and status updates. Look at me, look at me, look at me. Here's me with my flattering photos, my clever comments, my snarky status updates. Love me. Adore me. I'm checking in here. I'm hanging out there. And you should all care, people. We are all just a little bit famous on facebook, aren't we? Not me. Not anymore.

So how has life been since I left?

In a word: sublime. My productivity went up immediately. When I sit down to the computer to pay bills, plan lessons, answer emails, or print documents, I no longer have that pull to "check in" with my peeps. Minutes later, I'm done, free to go do other things, like clean my home, plant things in my yard, go Christmas shopping early (almost done!), read a book, play Wii with my son, organize my garage, have a cup of coffee on the porch with Michael... You know, just live.

My relationships are more meaningful. Less scattered and divided, I can now focus more on the people and events that are really important. It's very easy to click on faces in a friends list when hosting an event. But if people really want you to come, they will remember to let you know. That is exactly what has happened since my profile disappeared. I still get invited to the party. In addition, I now have a sense of privacy, and I am no longer privy to other people's drama that used to annoy or irritate me. Life is more serene, like that feeling you get when you turn off a noisy television that no one was watching anyway.

Lastly, I enjoy the sense of humility that comes with less focus on one's self. I no longer see a slew of pictures of myself every day, deciding when to change my profile pic and to which other "flattering photo." No more ego-stroking, back-and-forth comments on my wall. With more "doing" in my life and less of facebook's inherent narcissism, I feel a sense of simple gratitude. I have lost nothing; its absence is good for my soul.

Life is easier, quieter, simpler, and yet more fulfilling, sort of like life before the social network took it online. As one of my students declared after she wrote a research paper about facebook, "I deactivated last week, and it feels awesome." Another student piped in, "I deleted my account, too. I don't miss it at all."

So, here is a suggestion for those of you who aren't ready to jump ship just yet. Jimmy Kimmel has declared November 17th as "National Unfriend Day." He is urging people to cut the "friend fat" and reduce their ridiculous friends lists to just, well, actual friends. Consider it. Do you really need that connection to your 10th grade biology lab partner? Or the guy who gave you your tattoo? Or your old boss? Dare I say it...your ex?

I'm not saying that I will never return (I've learned to never say never), and leaving altogether isn't for everyone, especially those separated from loved ones and those who use it judiciously. But I really don't miss it. For now, I like being off the grid. It's like someone took a big item off my to do list. It's liberating. Take THAT, Zuckerberg. Here's a new social norm for you: facebook is an option. And I'm opting out.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Enlightenment Through Insomnia

Alright, I'm up. There's no sense in trying to fight it any longer, so I may as well get out of bed and do something. Although it feels like the loneliest thing in the world, I am sure I'm not alone in suffering the horrible frustration of insomnia. Usually I will just grab the book off my nightstand and read a page or twenty. Unfortunately, I forgot to include A.J. Jacobs' My Life as an Experiment when I packed my bag to spend the weekend at Michael's in the city. I am bookless, and doomed.

Lying in bed from four to six AM, I stared out the windows at the Atlanta skyline, watching the occasional car wind its way up or down the parking deck of a nearby hospital. I looked at the moon. Pretty. But after twenty minutes its beauty started to fade as I grew increasingly irritated at my inability to sleep. Michael's peaceful sleep sounds--the deep, sonorous breathing and the occasional snore--mocked me. The worst part of insomnia, for me anyway, is having to listen to my own mind. If it would just shut the hell up, maybe I could get some sleep.

I suppose it's the stillness and lack of stimulation, coupled with the stark isolation, that make fertile ground for my conscience and my superego to dig and till, planting seeds of doubt and worry. I laid there, letting my thoughts grow darker as I waited for the sky to grow lighter.

"You know your job is only a temporary position. You need to get your act together and find something more secure."

"Your kids are growing up so fast. Are you spending enough quality time with them? Are you teaching them everything you should be?"

"When are you ever going to put together some photo albums of your family life? You won't have anything to remember all these good times when you're old."

"Did you ever make an appointment for your daughter's annual physical?"

"When are you going to rewrite that novel and send out queries?"

"You don't have enough money in the bank right now. One unexpected expense. . ."

"Someday, you're going to grow old and die, just like everyone else. And it's sooner than you think."

Alright, enough already. At this point, I decided to get up. I hate it when my mind gets all existential on me like that. And it doesn't help that we have the condo decorated for an upcoming Halloween party with skulls and bones everywhere. In fact, on the futon directly across from the bed lie two full-sized skeletons, a bride and groom. How apropos.

I am reminded of Thich Nhat Hahn's meditation on one's own corpse. (Sound morbid? Well, what do you expect? It's the middle of the night, and I'm alone, surrounded by skeletons.) He suggests that his students meditate on the image of their own corpse, decomposing stage by stage, until nothing remains. It fosters the ultimate acceptance of impermanence; nothing lasts. Once we embrace our own temporary nature, we can release the suffering that comes along with attachment to our bodies, our health, our youth. This body my spirit presently sports has a shelf life of about 80 some odd years, give or take a few, and that's if I take good care of it. At forty-one, I'm halfway there. In the eerily desolate hours between two and six am, this truth becomes a stark reality.

The Spanish language has a wonderful word for this time of neither day nor night: la madrugada. Probably the best translation we have for it is "the wee hours of the morn," although that sounds frivolous and trite. If we find ourselves alone and awake in this madrugada, we sometimes face our own mortality and the ultimate truth of our aloneness. We all die alone. Yet comfort comes in knowing that all of us are in the same boat, so to speak, on this ocean of isolation. Every one of us alive today, in fact, everyone who has ever lived, has had to face this same truth. And life goes on.

So, I can either lay in bed and think about my inadequate savings account, my job insecurity, my empty photo album, and my eventual, inevitable death, or I can get up and live today, here in the Now. Because none of those things will matter once I roll over and take the big dirt nap. No one will care that my job wasn't secure (I certainly won't need it anymore). No one will give a rat's behind if I scrapbooked every minute of my kids' lives. And unless I can take the balance of my bank account with me to bribe any boatmen or gatekeepers, it doesn't matter if that ends up a big fat zero. (My grandfather used to say, the last check from your account will go to the undertaker, and if you live your life right, it should bounce.)

Here's another truth for you. This is one beautiful world we live in, and I have much to be thankful for. My children bring me a steady stream of love and laughter. (God, I have some funny kids.) It may be unsteady work, but I do have a job that I love and that has flexible hours, so I can spend time with my family. And sleeping noisily in the next room, Michael has managed to become both the love of my life and my new BFF. Right now, this is my reality. And this moment is all that really is. If I stay here, in this moment, I'm content.

Oh look. . . the sun's coming up. The sky is awash in pink, purple, and blue. More cars are circling up into the hospital parking deck. The full moon fades as the sky lightens around it. The night may have been a rough one, but it looks like the start of a beautiful day.

And the skeletons are smiling.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Work It, Girl

"I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy." ~Rabindranath Tagore

This might sound like bourgeois nonsense, something The Man might say to make the proletariat whistle while they work. But I do believe that it is indeed through service that we find our bliss. The Bahai consider work as their worship. In Buddhism, Right Livelihood is is a step on the Eightfold Path to Enlightenment. Work satisfaction is closely tied to our happiness. So instilling a strong work ethic is one of the kindest things we can do for our kids.

But somewhere along the way, I dropped the ball as a parent. I had the ball, at one time. Had that sucker firmly tucked under my arm and was dodging tackles left and right, back when carrying the ball was my full-time occupation and I was Employee of the Month, every month. I ran that house like a fascist cheerleader with OCD. We had memberships to everything from the zoo to the botanical garden to the science museum. We did crafts, and took trips, and had experiences. I filled my children's minds and exposed them to all sorts of cool stuff. We picked blueberries, we saw aquariums, we made pottery, we watched cows get milked, and a slew of other field-trippy things. But I also made them work. The refrigerator was a testimony to my devotion; my mission in life was to Raise Good Kids. If I had my way, they would have good manners, they would know the value of money, and most importantly, they would develop a strong work ethic. With chore charts, allowances, and room inspections, these kids were well on their way.

Then I got divorced, started working full-time, and just got tired. I suppose I dropped the ball somewhere between the courthouse, the university, and the after-school program carpool line. The fridge still has The Family Rules posted on it (among several other spirchul lists, like The Rules for Being Human, and Deepak's Seven Laws of Spiritual Success for Kids), all of which get broken on a daily basis at my abode. Where the hell is that ball? I need it back.

If you read the last post, then you are aware of Wednesday's problems with neatness. Her room is a cross between a Petri dish and a hamper. The child lives like a frat boy, without the beer can tower and posters of naked girls, of course. Yesterday morning, I told her and Max that I plan to reinstate the old system of chore charts and allowances. This way, they will learn that privileges are tied to responsibilities, and that money doesn't grow on trees. (Yes, I was channeling for my grandfather when I said that one.) The plan still needs the kinks worked out, like exactly how much money will be earned for exactly which chores, and how their performances will be evaluated, but I gave them the global idea as I drove the little darlings to school. Wednesday's response just floored me.

"Well, I'm just being honest here, okay? But if it's like, a lot of work for not much money, then I just won't bother."

Huh? Wait...that's not an option.

It occurred to me: that's a pretty good description of many people's jobs, mine included. "A lot of work for not much money." Maybe I can just waltz into the department head's office and proclaim, "Hey, just being honest here, but this is like, too much work for mot much money, so I'm just not gonna bother." Then I'd just sashay outta there and go to the mall to hang out with my friends and talk about boy bands and buy Japanese snacks at Niko Niko. That'd be the life, huh?

Well, that is apparently the life I have set up for my daughter. With no expenses to cover, no mouths to feed, and no mortgage to pay, she doesn't really have to do anything. I'm going to have to up the ante here. From now on, she is cut off from any expenditures aside from food and some very basic clothing. I will buy her some jeans and t-shirts from Target. Any concert tickets or clothes from Hot Topic will have to come out of her funds. (Which she doesn't have yet. Mwah ha ha ha ha!)

At Wednesday's age, I babysat on a regular basis. My boyfriend was delivering papers at age seven! He worked that route until he was fifteen, starting as early as 6 am on Sundays. Why did we do these jobs? Two reasons. One, we wanted money that was ours, that we earned and could therefore spend how we wished. And two, we thought it was cool to "have a job." It made us feel grown up. So it came down to ambition and responsibility, the two components that make up something I see lacking in my daughter: a strong work ethic.

When I was fourteen, I wanted to be a lawyer (a calling for which my brother still claims I was designed). Before that it was a research scientist, and after the lawyer thing, it became an advertising executive, because I could write, be artistic, and make a crap-ton of money all at the same time. (Hey, it was the 80's. Greedy times.) What are Wednesday's ambitions?

"I got it all planned out. Me and Mariela are gonna like, move to Liverpool and be artists. Then, when I get married, I wanna move to Japan."

"Artists, huh?" (Nothing wrong with that, but let's define "artist.")

"Yeah. She's gonna paint, and I'm gonna do photography. But we know that won't pay much, so we're gonna also be like, hairdressers or something like that cuz it's easy."

"Really?" I said. One of my best friends is my hair stylist, and I know for a fact it ain't easy. "Stand like this with your arms in the air for the next eight hours."

I got an eye roll. Shame on me for spoiling such a perfect plan.

This might be a poor transition, but I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie, which was "based on a true story." I also read the books, so I think I got the inside scoop. If Mary and Laura could hold down the farm (which I think caught fire in that episode) for a day while Ma and Pa went into Sleepy Eye to sell eggs, then why can't Wednesday put the dishes in the dishwasher?

Expectations.

We live in an age where the average middle class kid has more goodies than the richest kids a generation ago did. My brother and I had an Atari. Some kids had a Nintendo. You had to pick. My kids have a Wii, an XBOX 360, and a Playstation 2. (And they still want more systems.) Electronics are cheap now, and they make our lives convenient. Kids are already living like grown-ups, so why do they need a job to make them feel adult? They have cell phones and laptops, making them feel pretty damn important already. But guess what. They aren't as happy as we were with our babysitting jobs and paper routes. See, Rabindranath has a point. Without a sense of accomplishment and contribution to the world they live in, our kids are jaded, dissatisfied, and unhappy. The kindest thing I can do for my daughter is to help her see that service is joy.

So, Step One: I unplugged her.

Now time for Step Two: I'm cutting off the ATM. No more money. Period. If she wants it, she'll earn it. even if it's "like, a lotta work for not much money," it'll be more than she has now. And although she doesn't realize it, she will be earning something besides money: happiness.

I'm picking the ball back up.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Pulling the Plug

Ever get the feeling you're missing out on something, somewhere, with someone? Occasionally? My daughter seems to have that feeling anytime there isn't a phone in her hand or she isn't logged onto Facebook seeing what's going on with her 100+ "friends."

Even as recently as fifteen years ago, kids with cell phones were a rarity. Facebook didn't make the scene until 2004, and even then it was just for Harvard students. How soon this generation feels the Universe owes them something that didn't even exist when they were born, let alone "in my day." We parents may not be equipped to handle the lessons these tykes need in proper communication across these media, since we ourselves are new to it. A student of mine admitted to breaking up with her boyfriend over text. Clearly such a conversation warrants a face-to-face meeting, but kids today are increasingly uncomfortable with real-time discourse, in person. I am starting to worry that this generation of kids is growing up completely plugged in, and therefore checked out.

Back to my daughter, "Wednesday," who hasn't been following the rules at my house. She doesn't clean up after herself. She fails to turn off lights when she leaves a room. (One morning I counted seven lights and the television left on overnight.) Although I have a "No eating in your room" rule, I continue to find cups of coffee and tea (still sporting the soppy bag), plastic soda bottles (some half full, some empty), ice cream cartons (some half full, some empty), cereal bowls (mostly empty, but with crusted-on flakes or O's), and even a half-eaten bowl of salad in her room. She steals my clothes, my makeup, my hair care products, my bathroom appliances, my razors, and even my underwear. She also doesn't always say where she will be and when she will be home. In an act of tired desperation, I did what I thought would speak to her the loudest:

I unplugged her.

Used to sending and receiving a staggering 4000-6000 texts a month, she is now without a cell phone. Whereas she once spent every evening huddled in front of an electronic hearth, logged onto Facebook, she is denied access for any more than 20 minutes a night (if she's been good). I have changed all passwords on the laptop and desktop so that she cannot log on without me, so I know she remains unplugged when I'm not there to watch her. How is she taking it? Like she needs a trip to the methadone clinic.

She talks like a coked-up lawyer.

"Howdoyathink I'm s'posed tobeable to planstuff withmyfriends? Huh? WhatamIsposedtodo?" she asked me, wide-eyed and fidgety. "Don't you WANT me to be, like, socializing face-to-face? Howmy gonna do that if I'm, like TOTALLY cut off? Huh? I can't even callem cuz I don'tevenknowtheirNUMBERS."

"I guess you'll do it like I did in the olden days," I deadpanned. "You'll GO to school, talk to your friends THERE, write their phone numbers down on a piece of paper, and then you will CALL them on the home phone and TALK to them." And then for added theatrical emphasis, I added, "And if you lived in my day, you'd do it standing up next to a phone attached to a wall, like, with a curly cord."

This last addition got me an eye roll. Guess I went too far.

A few articles have been going around the online news media lately about the addictive nature of social media, Facebook in particular. Harrisburg University of Science and Technology banned on-campus access to Facebook for a week , to see the effects a little abstinence might have on the plugged-in generation. Reports of anxiety, withdrawal symptoms, and "sneaking" hits of FB on phones and PDA's proved the addiction is far worse than people think. In a related studies, participants are asked to go without a cell phone for a period of time, during which they too experienced symptoms of anxiety and withdrawal for a period (usually about three days) before a calm serenity started to replace it. These studies suggest that we are all pepped up on communication. Like a drug.

I am definitely susceptible to this. I admit it. I traded my blackberry in for a "regular phone" about a year ago. At first, I bitched about the new phone like I worked for Blackberry, Inc.

"This thing is about twice as big and does half as much as my berry used to..." I would say, sighing with fond remembrance.

Like a typical addict, I quickly forgot the negatives, like the CONSTANT buzzing in my pocket and the annoying emails from students while I am, say, strolling down River Street in Savannah on a weekend. The Facebook messages and updates, the BB messaging, the notifications, they were all exhausting to keep up with. And the device disconnected me from whoever was really present.

I can proudly say I have been off the "crack" almost a year now. Totally clean. Of course, I still feel a little prick in my veins when I see someone else's berry, that little telltale red light that says, "Someone messaged you. . ." Don't think for a minute I don't want to go buy myself a Flip (my brand of choice) and take a nice. . . long . . . drag.

But I don't. Because here's the thing: there are twenty-four hours in a day. I need to sleep seven of those, leaving seventeen. I teach and commute a good eight or so, leaving nine. When I'm grading papers, there goes another five (or more). What paltry time I have left, I want to spend on things that matter: my family, my boyfriend, reading, watching a good movie, laughing with friends, petting my cats (or yelling at them to get off the table where I eat for God's sake). I don't have any leftover time to "plug in" and check out.

I admit that I am susceptible, but notice I didn't come out and say I "have a problem." Most of us will readily admit that Facebook and texting can become addictive, but not to "us." Is it a problem for you? This might be the hardest one yet, but I'm going to ask you if you're up to a challenge. Unplug for three days. No texting and no Facebooking for seventy-two hours. If your first reaction to this request is a generalized feeling of anxiety, doubt that you could do it, or a stream of blurted out expletives, then I think you have your answer. Fine, try one day, but remember, in MY day...we didn't even HAVE texting or Facebook, and no one ever died from it. (You can do three.)

These technologies are miraculous, wonderful additions to our world. People can stay in touch an communicate over miles and times zones like never before. Reconnections with long-lost friends and family have been made possible through social media. But we need to be in charge of our use, not ruled by our need to constantly see what's going on "somewhere else."

Unplug, get off the "crack," and breathe. Then face a real live person and have a real-time conversation, complete with inflection, facial expression, and eye contact. There's no substitute for a good, hearty LOL, with a real "friend."

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

The Gift of Jealousy

"O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on."

For those of you who were wondering who first named jealousy a "monster," the Bard wrote this. Yes, good old Will Shakespeare gave her the green eyes, now synonymous with envy. One of the Seven Deadlies. Jealousy, like anger, punishes the possessor more than the one at whom it is aimed. (But more on anger on another post. Today's guest will be the one with the lovely green eyes.)

Jealousy is such a universal emotion, despite its destructive nature. Probably a survival instinct, it must have come in handy when we were still fighting over food supplies and the best mate in our less intelligent incarnations a few hundred millennia ago. But as we have evolved, this vestigial emotion just won't go away. Now we see it surface in our friendships, our careers, and our relationships. And it always comes down to that same basic instinct: someone else has something we want, or is threatening to take something from us. Or so our minds tell us.

I'm reminded of a conversation I had with my friend Jessica a few years ago. I remember it so clearly because she really impressed me with her insight, and because it changed my viewpoint. We always remember those convos, don't we? Jessica was telling me that a mutual girlfriend of ours was now in a relationship, with another woman. I wasn't surprised, but Jessica was a little taken aback at the new girlfriend, since it was someone she knew back in high school and "had no idea." She added, "The funny thing was that she's really tall, too, and I used to think of her as 'competition.'" (Jessica is six feet tall, barefoot.) Then here's the impressive part, even though it was practically in parentheses; I'll never forget it. "Of course," she added, "no one is really ever competition. There's no such thing." She then went on to tell me where and how they met, which I cannot recall. I was still stuck on this new concept.

No one is ever really competition....Wow.


I ruminated on that one for days, and I realized, she's right. If we think of someone else as competition for the opposite sex, we are negating the fact that it is up to an individual to decide if someone else is right for him (or her). Another admirer has absolutely no bearing on that choice. If two people are a match for each other, competition doesn't have any place. It's about making a choice, not winning some contest. If you aren't "chosen" by another, why would you have wanted to "win" through beating out the "competition?" It's insulting to the chooser to assume the choice isn't his (or hers). We aren't still beating each other up for a chance at the best female in the herd anymore. Well. . . okay, maybe you'll see that happening at 3:00am in a honkeytonk parking lot, but most of us have evolved.

Here's another good quote about jealousy, from my fellow Georgia writer Rosemary Daniell:

"Jealousy is the gift that shows you what you want more of in your life."

As a lemons-to-lemonade kinda gal, I like this idea of finding a use for this vitriolic poison we call jealousy, a way to befriend the green-eyed monster and make her my BFF. She's just showing me what I want more of in my life. This is especially useful in my career. I am definitely jealous of published writers, not because I want them to fail or because I think they don't deserve their success. On the contrary, I'm thrilled they have made it, because that means it's possible for me to as well. Plus, I know first hand how hard it is to get where they are. Good for them. Kudos. They deserve it. But my jealousy means that I want it, too.

"Can you guys scoot over just a smidgen and make some room for me on that bestseller's list, please? Thanks much. You're a mensch!"

If I get jealous of my friend Larissa's abs, or Amy's garden, or Awantika's independent nature, it's because I want those things for myself. This outlook really helps me come to terms with the feelings I'm having, and it definitely soothes my new BFF into submission.

As for the opposite sex thing, all of us want to be wanted. If someone else "wins" the one we want. . . well, we are better off free to go find the one who really wants us. Sure it hurts for awhile, but as I always say, "Looking for the right person is still more fun that being with the wrong one." And since everything that didn't work out for me up to this point led me to the relationship I'm in right now, I really can't complain. The Bard also wrote, "All's well that ends well."

So make the green-eyed monster your friend. Let her tell you what you want more of in your life. Then send her on her way. And remember Jessica's Axiom: No one is ever really competition. You are the very best "you" there is. And if someone wants "you," then there's no one better. Competition?

No such thing.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

More Dream Stuff

Last night I got the chance to do something ubercool in my dream that I had always read about, but never done. They say that if you have recurring nightmares, say, that you are being chased by someone or something, stop and ask whatever is chasing you, "What are you trying to teach me?" It's a way of addressing your subconscious directly. Supposedly you will get answers.

In my dream last night, not a recurring one, but one that puzzled me nonetheless, I found myself caught in terrible storms. Lightning streaked across the sky, thunder rolled, shaking everything, and tornado-like winds blew leaves and dust all around me in the dark. I was trying to secure myself in a house that wouldn't lock. Then the house disappeared and I was exposed to the elements. In a moment of lucidity, I asked the dream my question.

"What are you trying to teach me?"

Believe it or not, the dream responded.

"What do you think?"

Apparently, even my subconscious is a wise-ass teacher.

I have no idea where my answer came from, but I replied.

"Too much focus on trivial things, like places and things, not enough on people."

When I said this, all at once, the wind stopped. The storms subsided. Everything was calm. A tree towered in front of me, and as its leaves stopped trembling, it leaned way down toward me, and touched me gently with one branch, like a fingertip, to my forehead.

I was right.

Now, you don't have to tell me how weird that sounds. I know. Very Shel Silverstein. But it has been on my mind ever since I woke up. What does that mean? Obviously it's good general advice. "People before things" has always been one of my favorite sayings, reminding me how my priorities should line up. But I don't see the relevance to what's going on in my life at this particular moment that warranted a stormy dream to remind me of this little spirchul gem.

That's how the subconscious works though, isn't it? We suppress things unaware, then they bubble up in our dreams (or in other ways) until we are forced to deal with them. I guess I am too focused on things that don't matter these days. And in the process of overfocusing on these trivial matters, I am
neglecting more important things, like people. Hence my stormy, insecure subconscious.

So, if I guessed right in the dream, I should be well on my way to figuring this stuff out in my conscious state and calming those storms, right?

You'd think. . .

I have a few ideas, but no certainty about the shift I need to make right now to change the weather pattern in my mind. What I can tell you is that I will be doing extra meditation today to gain some clarity. Stilling the mind is like letting the dirt in a glass of water settle to the bottom so you can see through the clear liquid. Stillness is the key. So, today, I will sit still, be quiet, and wait.

In the meantime, I have also decided to be mindful of every moment and the choices I make in those moments. What to think about, what to say, and what to do are all choices. Now, when I am faced with a choice involving people versus things, I'm choosing people first.

I tend to listen to my subconscious, even if it is a wise-ass sometimes.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

It's All About Balance

Remember teeter-totters? I doubt modern playgrounds even have them anymore, because of their proclivity for busting chins and butts when one "teeterer" got off unannounced to dash over to the merry-go-round or the slide. That's because they relied on a certain concept in order to function properly. A concept that most adults haven't even mastered, let alone your average eight year-old.

Balance.

When things are "equal" on both sides, then everything levels out. (Or goes back and forth evenly, which was the fun part). But if things are not equal, if one person is considerably heavier in the case of the teeter-totter, it just doesn't work. You get a thud, as one person sinks to the ground and the other ends up trapped in mid-air. (Incidentally, I was always the mid-air kid, since I weight about 55 lbs. until I hit puberty.) It's all about balance.

As an adult, I no longer think the teeter-totter analogy works for me, though. I'm not just balancing two things anymore (or was I ever?). In fact, I think my life can be divided into four equal quadrants, all requiring their "fair share" of my time and attention for me to feel. . . well, normal. Here they are in no particular order:

1. My body. It requires me to work out, make healthy food choices, take supplements for my noisy joints, and get enough sleep.

2. My mind. It requires me to read, to work, to play Bananagrams and Scrabble, to do Sudoku, to engage in discussions. And it also likes that sleep thing.

3. My spirit. All this really requires is meditation. But reading and writing nourish it immensely, too.

4. My heart. It requires me simply. . . to love. (And be loved.)

So, instead of the up and down search for balance we used to get as kids on a teeter-totter, now life is more like standing on a square board perched on top of a ball. It can roll in any direction if anything is out of whack. Whenever I have felt depressed in my life (and it really hasn't been too often, thankfully), I know that one (or more) of those things is not getting enough attention. One corner of that board has hit the dirt.

If I am not eating properly and not working out, I will hit a wall. I have no energy, will snap at people, and just "feel gross." In fact, as soon as I post this, I plan to go to the gym for some cardio and a "push day." (All you gym rats out there know what I'm talking about.) My breakfast this morning was Multi-grain Cheerios and a yogurt with hot tea. Safe to say, body is in balance these days.

If I am not reading anything, I feel lost. There are always at least two books on my nightstand at any given time. Usually one fiction and one non-fiction. Right now it's Mishna Wolff's I'm Down, a hilarious memoir, and Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage (more on that later). I also get a good mental workout at my job as a college English instructor. And if you have never played Bananagrams, check it out. I am hooked.

Up until this semester, I had been attending a group meditation every Wednesday night. It was easily the best thing I have done for myself since my divorce. I learned how to quiet the mind and tune into myself on a higher level, and in a group setting which offered a shared energy I couldn't get on my own. It was sort of like Weight Watchers for the soul; knowing you had to weigh in every Wednesday, you meditated all week to stay "in shape." Unfortunately, my schedule this term includes a Monday/Wednesday night class, right smack in the middle of meditation time. I can't help feeling like this is the Universe testing me to see if I can keep it up on my own. Guess what. . . I did 25 minutes this morning already. Check ME out.

So this brings me to the last part: the heart. I think we all know what happens when this is neglected. Literature and the news are filled with examples of it. People become insane, suicidal, even homicidal over a broken heart. Thankfully, I don't go nuts or kill people when my heart is not getting what it needs. But I know what it feels like when this corner of the board hits the dirt. Believe me. Now, I have two children, so I kind of have some built-in love (like an ice-maker in the freezer). It's a pure, unconditional love that is simply unbreakable. But make no mistake, I know this is not the kind of love one can hinge a life on. My goal is to raise these children to go out and have lives of their own, and I am aware that although they will always be a part of mine, they will not share a life with me. Not forever.

For the last year (up until May) I have been growing content with the notion of being on my own. Like Whitney says, "Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all." (Now if she could just do it, poor thing.) Besides, whenever I have been in relationships, I tend to let that part of the board outweigh all others, giving over way too much of my sense of self in the exchange. Maybe I was better off on my own. . .

Then in walked "Michael." Into my life, and into my heart. I was afraid at first, not wanting to teeter on that ball. I thought I pretty much had my life in balance and did not want any corners of the board to hit the dirt. Especially not my heart, which had been dirtied up enough already.

Last night I saw Eat, Pray, Love, reminding me how uncannily similar my life and Liz Gilbert's have matched up. When she met Filipe, she too had just settled comfortably into solitude, and wasn't ready to upset the balance board. She too had issues with dissolving into the Other in relationships. After confiding in her medicine man in Bali about it, he told her something I really needed to hear. Paraphrased, it was something like this: Sometimes getting off balance for love is the way to find balance in life.

After all, balance is about correction. We lean one way to compensate for the other side, and we do this until everything levels out. And you know what? I honestly think I am there now. My life is balanced. And I have never been happier. Now I'm reading Gilbert's book on coming to terms with marriage, so if my life has matched up to hers this closely so far, I wonder if I am looking into my own future. If so, from what I have read so far about her and Filipe, they are very similar to Michael and me. We could do worse than follow a similar path. A life like theirs, well. . . it wouldn't suck.

So, however you define your corners, I hope nothing is hitting the dirt these days. If it is, start correcting. And don't be afraid to let a little imbalance help you out with that. Especially if it's for love. Besides, a little dirt never hurt anyone.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

"She Grew Until She Died"

That's what I want on my tombstone. Morbid thought? Maybe. Life is great, but none if us is getting out alive, you know. Might as well write your own exit line. And that's gonna be mine.

At 41, I think I have to face that I am officially middle-aged. And whether or not we do anything about it, all of us (ALL OF US) go through a mid-life transition. (Notice I didn't call it a crisis.) During my transition, I have already made some pretty major life changes, some of them immensely positive, some of them quite painful, but all of it good stuff. I've grown and changed in ways I had never dreamed possible. One thing I'm sure of though...I'm nowhere near done yet.

I still need to do so much more.

I want to learn another language, at least conversationally, if not fluently. I would love to learn how to play an instrument (still deciding which one). I need to hike though Macchu Picchu, a rainforest or two, and Yosemite. I want to see the fruits of my creative efforts displayed in bookstores and art galleries. I still need to swim in the Great Barrier Reef. I look forward to holding a grandchild (perhaps). I absolutely MUST see the pyramids in Egypt. And I wouldn't mind riding an elephant and a camel at some point (someone please take my picture?). I have not been snow skiing or whale-watching yet. I've never been to the opera. I need to see Alaska and Hawaii, as well as many, many tropical islands (both in the Pacific and Caribbean, please). Oh! And I want to swim in bio-luminescent waters, at night, preferably with someone I love. (Yes, I'm talking to you, "Michael.")

By the time I take my last breath, I want to feel like I never wasted a second. I want my life to be an original work of art. In the process, I may piss some people off or disappoint others, but hey, it's my deathbed. Get your own.

No one is really sure what this life is really all about, or why we are here, or if we get more lifetimes, or eternity, or simply become nutrition for worms. We all have our beliefs (and I have mine), but none of us knows. What we do know is this: we have this life. Right now. And we can choose to float through it in some hypnotic stupor, eking out our days as if they'll never quit coming, letting each one be even more ordinary than the last. Or we can wake up, be here Now, and live a self-directed life of experience, learning, and growing.

If this isn't "all there is" (and I happen to think it's not), then why are we here? Deepak claims everyone has a purpose, and it's our job to discover that purpose for ourselves. I agree. But I also think on a larger, more general scale, all of us are here for two reasons: to learn, and to love. Anything else we do in this life should come down to one of those two. The rest is a big fat waste of time. Each of us leaves this world naked and alone, with no checked luggage or carry-on. All we get to take with us is what's in our hearts and our souls.

So make your list, find your purpose, keep learning, loving, and living. Grow until you die.

By the way, you can borrow my epitaph if you like, but if you do...make sure it's the truth.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

What's in the Jar?

One of my favorite spiritual lesson stories is the one about the monkey and the jar. It goes something like this:

A monkey happens upon a clay jar with a perfectly ripe piece of fruit inside it. He reaches in to claim his prize, only to find that his hand won't come back out again. The fruit is too large. He pulls and pulls, trying to squeeze his hand back through the narrow opening, but to no avail. So there he sits, his hand stuck, refusing to let go of the fruit. Now, the fruit is useless to him, since he cannot retrieve it. He will not enjoy the taste of it, and it will soon be rotten. Meanwhile, he will be encumbered by this clumsy jar at the end of his hand, all because he refuses to let go.

I have been that monkey. Letting go is a hard one. Most people fear change, so much so that a familiar pain is sometimes preferable to an unfamilar joy. Hamlet even lamented this one in his "To be or not to be" speech. Of course, he was talking about death, the ultimate unfamiliar change, but I think we can all relate to avoiding the new and the uncertain, making "us rather bear those ills we have/Than fly to others that we know not of?"

People do this all the time. They stay in bad jobs and bad marriages. They don't go back to school or take the new position in another state (or country). They don't move, or try a new doctor, or a new career. They don't say goodbye to people who hurt them. At least with the substandard, the humdrum, the mediocre, and the so-so...they know what they're getting. But do you know what they don't know?

What they're missing out on.

See, if we stay in a boring, dead-end job, we may miss out on the dream job that fulfills us. If we stay in an unhealthy marriage, we may miss out on growing old with our soul mate. If we don't try another doctor, we may miss out on the cure that eludes us. And if we stay in relationships with people who hurt us, we may miss out on knowing what true unconditional love and acceptance really feels like.

Here's another story. This is a true one. (Not that that monkey thing couldn't have really happened. But I think it was probably made up to prove a point.)

There once was a young girl who wanted to be in the U.S. military. At 6'2" she was very athletic and played several sports in her youth. She went to Smith College, where she earned a bachelor's degree, and planned to go into the Navy or the Women's Army Corp. Unfortunately, she was "too tall" for either, so she went to work for the Office of Strategic Services (OSS, which later became the CIA). Here, she worked her way up to a top secret researcher position, working directly under the general in charge of the OSS. Her work included developing shark repellent to protect the explosives intended for German U-boats from being detonated by curious sharks, and our girl earned awards and recognition for her projects. But guess what...she fell in love. (A common career-buster.)

Marrying a man she met in the OSS office, our statuesque brainiac had to follow him to Paris, where her OSS career ended. So what else is there to do but take a cooking class and start throwing dinner parties, right? Well, she did just that. After graduating from Le Cordon Bleu, she and two classmates decided to write a cookbook. Although it only earned them a $750 advance, it ended up selling in the millions. Mastering the Art of French Cooking was only the beginning. A television show followed, and Julia Child became synonymous with fine cuisine.

Now THAT'S a woman who can adapt to change and make some gourmet lemonade outta lemons. She could have said no to the love of her life for the sake of her career. She could have given up on any career for "her man." But she got to eat her cake and have it too. (Leave it to Julia.) Who says we can't have it all? If she hadn't been willing to let go of the OSS career, she never would have been able to have both an inspiring marriage and a groundbreaking career in the culinary arts.

So, what are you holding onto in that jar? What is it you think you can't live without? Do you feel like you might be missing out on something greater? Well, what are you waiting for? You have to let go to receive. In order for your cup to be filled, it must first be emptied. So forgive me for mixing my metaphors, but let go of the fruit, pour out your cup, and start fresh, with an empty cup, empty hands, an open mind, and an open heart.

Your destiny is out there for you. Now go get it, you monkey.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Now I Know Why They Call It a Terminal

After a wonderful romantic vacation with my boyfriend (we'll call him Michael) in Venice, Italy last week, I spent three days in four different airports trying to get a flight back home on standby.

Flight after flight, I was too low on priority to get on board. After not making the first two flights, we flew from Venice (on day two) to JFK in New York. JFK was slammed. We took a cab ride to La Guardia (30 minutes and $32 later) to find it was worse than JFK. Well over a hundred people were waiting for standby slots on planes with maybe 12 seats open. So, we flew to DC for the 6 am flight to Atlanta, spending the night in a cold airport with nowhere to lay down. (For the record, I think armrests in airports should be outlawed.) We didn't get on the 6:00. Or the 7:00. Or the 8:00. Or the 9:00. Or the 10:00. Or the 11:00. Keep in mind, this is now day three. We are in our fourth airport in two days. We have not slept for 36 hours. We are dirty, wearing yesterday's clothes, sleepy beyond belief, and have no idea when we will get home.

The really frustrating thing was that Michael was pretty high priority, so he could have gotten on any of these planes and jetted home. In fact, I told him he should just go without me. I would eventually make priority, somewhere.

He chose not to. Wouldn't even consider it. Each time they called his name, he said he wouldn't go without me, so he gave up his seat to the next one on the list.

Some of the people waiting got irritated and mouthed off to the gate attendants. Many were filled with righteous indignation. "How DARE they not let me on that plane?" "I've been waiting since 6:30!" "This is ridiculous!"

We never complained. And we had been waiting for days, not hours, at this point.

Sure, the whole situation sucked. And yes, we hated it as much as the rest of these people. But it was just a freak thing that all these standby folks showed up like this in droves. They had obviously been missing out on flights and rolled over to the next, snowballing along the way, since the flights were unusually full already. Very few people were getting absorbed. And complaining wasn't going to open up any seats or make them ignore the rules for who gets on in what order.

But then...a miracle happened. The computer went down.

Unable to post the list, the gate attendant made an announcement: "Anyone traveling ALONE to Atlanta on standby please come over to Gate 17. I'm going to be calling the names out."

"Go!" Michael said. "Just go!" We both shot over there, and I positioned myself so I could read the list over her shoulder. I was eight down from where she was. As she hollered out names, people either raised their hands or were off getting a Big Mac and missed their opportunity. Each name she called felt like the last. I was three down now. She called out a couple names. Waited a few seconds. No answer. Then, the heavens opened up, and a choir of angels sang my name through her lips.

"Yes! I'm here!" I shouted, maybe two feet behind her. I kissed Michael and ran over to the gate, taking my ticket for seat 20B. "Go, baby! I love you," Michael said to me, and I knew he would be on the very next plane, one hour behind me. (He was.)

Now, I don't share this story to garner pity for my trials and tribulations. I went to freaking Venice for a week, for God's sake. I have nothing to complain about. Our trip was magical: strolling, shopping, eating, drinking, laughing, and sightseeing. We got lost only to find the same shop we just left again. Circling our way though the alleys and over bridges, we fell in love with the sinking city. So please...do NOT feel sorry for me.

I share this ordeal to prove a point. We knew that we would eventually get home, and we didn't fight the moment. We sat there and played games and passed the time as best we could. Like I have shared before, Deepak says, "This moment is exactly as it should be." If we had spent that time complaining, it would have been much more insufferable. And I really do think it happened the way it was supposed to. Here's why:

I now know a few things about Michael that I would still not know had we jetted home Saturday without a hitch.

1. He is patient and kind under pressure.

2. He is polite to those who have the power to make decisions that affect him. This means that he is shrewd and clever, holding that Italian temper when it is in his best interest. He is a born diplomat.

3. He takes very, very good care of me. He put me first throughout the entire trip, especially during this ordeal.

4. Even after two days without sleep, a shower, or a shave...he is still adorably cute.

5. And best of all, I know that the two of us make a great team in a crisis.

So, I hope you take two things from this post. One, every second of our lives we are making choices. The last choice that cannot be taken away from us is the ability to choose our attitude in any given situation (says good old Victor Frankl). And second, don't fight the moment. No matter how bad it may seem, it's happening for a reason. Life isn't all strolling with a bottle of Proseco and kisses on bridges. Sometimes it's airport coffee in a Styrofoam cup and being 68th on the list for a full flight.

But in the end, it's all good. So, whatever and wherever you're drinking, raise your glass and toast to life. As they would say in Italy...E una dolce vita.*

(*It's a sweet life.)

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Dream a Little Dream

I saw Inception last week... Wow.

I actually heard someone say that it was "good, but could have been so much better." Really? How's that? Short of pulling the audience into a three (or four) tiered shared dream with the characters, I don't see how it could have been any closer to perfection. I wish to hell I had written it. (And anytime I say that about a book or movie, it is the highest compliment I can give it.)

For those of you who haven't had a chance to see it yet, I won't ruin anything by commenting on any details. But the film has made me think more deeply about dreams since I saw it, so I think it's a good segue into a post on these mysterious, nocturnal phenomena.

I've always had very vivid dreams, and I almost always remember them. It's both a boon and a curse, as you can imagine. Like in the movie, I have had a couple of those dream-within-dream experiences. Freaked me right the hell out both times. I also have the privilege of "lucid dreaming." That's the level of consciousness that allows you to realize you are dreaming, and if you've ever had that experience, it's pretty freaking cool. The next step is to realize that if you are dreaming, you can attempt to control the dream. Need a gun? Picture it in your hand. Want to fly? Take off and start kicking. (Flying has always felt like "swimming in the air" in my dreams. I kick to remain airborne, and if I stop, I slowly float back down. No Superman-style zipping through the air for me. I'm usually vertical.)

So this may all be a lot of fun, but the question remains, why do we dream? Is it just the mind going haywire while we're sleeping? You hear people say all the time, "Oh, it was just a dream. It doesn't mean anything." Or do dreams have some significance, some symbolic meaning?

I think they do, indeed. But here's the tricky part: I believe only the dreamer can interpret his or her dream. See, the subconscious mind reveals itself through our dreams, so only we know what that huge snake represented in our nightmare, or why we couldn't see the face of our groom at the end of the aisle, or what the gasping goldfish in our pocket was trying to tell us.

Oh, I have had my share of the usual dreams: I'm naked in a high school classroom about to take a test I didn't study for; suddenly my teeth crumble and fall out, like pieces of chalk; I'm getting married in 15 minutes to someone I don't know and I have no dress to wear, so I'm shopping but everything is made of see-through chiffon and is size XL. (Wait...you don't have that one?)

But I also have had some really profound ones, too. I will share a dream I had years ago that taught me a lesson and changed my life. It's still clearly vivid even today... I was washing dishes and looking out the kitchen window, when I realized that the view was moving. Our house was somehow rolling down the street, down a hill, toward a large lake. I called out to my husband and children, but it was too late. The next thing I knew, we were in a sinking house. Then, we were underwater. I was desperately shoving the kids out the window and directing them to swim up to safety. I watched them make their way up toward the light at the water's surface. They made it! Then I turned toward my husband. The house was now gone, and we were at the bottom of the lake. I reached out to him, begging him to take my hand. But he was slipping backward, toward a deep, dark crevasse in the lake floor. Half his body was already in. I grabbed his hand and pulled, but instead of helping him out, I was being pulled in with him. I kept trying...wouldn't give up. Then I awoke.

What did it mean? Well, I think I can tell you. My now ex-husband has always struggled with depression. When I married him, I was sure a Miss Pollyanna Sunshine like me could cheer him up and we'd go through life wearing our matching rose-colored glasses. But I now know (through my reading and through life experiences) that the opposite usually happens. When a depressed person and a happy person hook up, the balloon doesn't lift up the anvil. The anvil grounds the balloon.

I couldn't pull him out of the crevasse. I had to give up, or I would drown.

It was one step in the long process of accepting that I needed to end my marriage, but that dream helped me forgive myself for not being able to help him. God knows I tried (and he will tell you that), but only he can pull himself out. So, I untied my balloon, and let it float free again.

If we are open to listening to our dreams, they can really tell us a lot. If you (like many people) can't recall your dreams, then get a notebook to keep by your bedside. Jot phrases down and return to them later when you are more awake. Or just spend a couple minutes first thing in the morning trying to recall the last dream you had, before it slips away for good as your regain wakeful consciousness. Those first moments are crucial, when you are still between the dream and your wakeful reality. Listen to them. Don't dismiss them as silly and meaningless. Use them as a method of self-discovery and spiritual growth. What are your dreams trying to teach you?

Like the immortal bard says:

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Sweet dreams...

Monday, July 19, 2010

Perfection Is Overrated

"Better a diamond with flaws than a pebble without." ~ Chinese Proverb

I love Chinese sayings. So pithy and simple, yet so wise. I think most of us accept that we aren't perfect, but we still don't like it. You will often hear someone say, "Well, I'm certainly not perfect, but..." Rarely will you hear someone say, "Well, I'm not perfect, and here is the list." I'm reading Elizabeth Gilbert's new book, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace With Marriage, and again, I'm amazed at the parallel circumstances of our lives.

You may remember that I finished Eat, Pray, Love right before I moved out of an apartment and into my new home. She wrote the book right after her difficult divorce and painful breakup with a boyfriend. I read it during the same transition in my life. After closing the book she wrote about her journey to Italy, India, and Indonesia (to learn how to eat, pray, and love), I started life in a new home sandwiched between and Indian family and an Indonesian family (my next-door neighbors). Incidentally, I am now dating an Italian. And boy, do we eat.

Well, she's speaking my language again. In Committed, she takes the reader on a journey through the evolution of marriage as an institution. It's good stuff, and I'm hooked. Anyway, the other day I was reading a section in which she enumerates her flaws as she presented them (in writing) to her fiance, Felipe. He replied by asking her if she had anything else to add that he didn't already know. (Gotta love this guy.)

As a gem importer, he was used to buying "parcels," groupings of gems (some good, most not-so-good) and evaluating the bad gems first. He told her that everyone sees the good gems first, and ignores the rest until after they have purchased the parcel. Don't we all see and adore the best qualities another person has to offer? Then they discover they can't really live with the "bad" gems and have overpaid for a few good ones. He looks at the bad gems first, to see if he thinks he can make anything with them. After explaining this analogy, he tells her that, regarding their relationship, he has seen it all. He can accept the whole parcel.

Don't we all want this from our loved ones? To be accepted, completely, bad stones and all? But who among us really wants to write all this down and present it to them?

"Here's why you should run screaming, buddy. But I hope you don't."

Well, she has inspired me. If Elizabeth Gilbert can write her flaws down for millions to read, I can do the same for all 23 of you out there. (wink)

1. I am compulsive. I can't work at home unless the place is spotless, and I have kids, so it never is. I will clean and tidy up before anything else gets done. And if you leave a mess for me to clean up, God have mercy on your soul. Because...

2. I have a temper. I scream at cars on the road who cut me off, go too slowly, go too fast, drive in the wrong lane, or won't let me the *@#& over.

3. I cuss way too much.

4. I have fears of abandonment. (I come by this one legitimately, but that's no excuse. I'm working on it.) Historically, this has resulted in me morphing into whatever my partner needs me to be. I will lose myself in him, adapting to my surroundings like a cuttlefish on the ocean floor. I am much, much better about this one at 41 than I was at 21.

5. I am easily distractible. For instance, that word (distractible) came up as not a word in this writing program, so I had to leave the blog and go look it up on dictionary.com before I could continue. You'll be happy to know it is indeed a word. Now, where was I. . .?

6. I have a hard time staying focused on a task. How I wrote two whole novels, I have no idea.

7. I talk way too much. I just don't know when to shut up sometimes. Especially when I'm nervous. Or when I've had a few drinks.

I'm sure there are more, but that seems like enough self-deprecation for now. In Twelve Step Programs, there is something called a moral inventory, and steppers are supposed to take a "searching and fearless" one. It's a good step, and you don't have to be an addict of any kind to do one. We are all flawed. Try it. You don't have to share it with millions, just yourself. Take a look at your own parcel.

I once told someone that we are all broken, but we are beautiful in our brokenness. Our imperfections make us human and offer us tremendous opportunities for growth. If we can find acceptance in this lifetime from even one person for who we are, as we are, flaws and all, we are blessed indeed. And perhaps we should start with ourselves.

So today, I am celebrating all of you beautiful, broken people out there. Bad stones and all, your parcel is precious.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Give a Little

This morning I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. Since I'm job-searching right now, I answered it, of course. I figured it was probably for an interview for my dream job. Can't pass that up.

The polite lady on the other end asked for me by name. Good sign.

"This is Angela at Atlanta Blood Services. I'm calling you today because we are in urgent need of platelets and wondered if you would be willing to come in and donate."

I've given before, which is why they have my number and know me by name. My heart sank, because instead of giving me a job, these people want to take my blood, literally. Without hesitation, I answered her.

"Sure. I can come in tomorrow."

I have an 11:30 appointment. No aspirin, drink fluids, and eat a hearty meal.

Am I just a sucker who can't say no? Hardly. Ask the FOP, the AJC, or any guy I dated in high school. I know the word. But I also believe we must give if we want to receive. And I am asking a lot of the Universe these days. So, right now, I am taking advantage of any legitimate opportunity I have to give a little. I don't have much, but I can give some platelets without any effect on my bank accounts. So I will. Tomorrow at 11:30. I will get to watch some television, drink juices, eat some snacks, and save someone's life. Not a bad way to spend a couple hours on a Wednesday.

I also have been saying yes to requests for help with writing projects lately. I can give that, too. And who knows where assisting someone could lead? At the very least, to some good karma, and an immediate sense of fulfillment in helping another person. I believe in building bridges, not moats. In this complicated, convoluted world we live in, we must help each other out. Deepak agrees.

In The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success, he tells us the second law is the Law of Giving and that the Universe "operates through dynamic exchange." This basically means if we stifle the giving part, nothing comes back to us. We don't receive. If this seems a hard pill to swallow, think about investors. The only way they can really cash in is to put it out there. You gotta risk it and put money in to get any return. The laws of the Universe don't just work that way with money. Think of your very breath. In....out....in....out... What happens if you try to hold onto that breath, not let it out? You can't inhale without getting rid of the stale air inside your lungs first. Once you do blow it all out, then you can deeply ingest that fresh, cool air, full of all the oxygen you need.

Dynamic exchange.

So, these days I am giving. Try it and see what kind of results you get, when you give, unquestioningly, generously, and without expectation of reciprocity. There is, in Buddhism, a hierarchy of giving:

The miserly giver gives what she doesn't want anymore. Sort of like that box of old clothes you put on your porch for the Paralyzed Veterans or the American Kidney Fund pickup. It's a helpful form of giving, but it requires very little or nothing from the giver.

The kindly giver gives what he wants to receive, and this is a more generous, thoughtful type of giving. There is more thought behind the gift, and perhaps even some small sacrifice of time or money.

But the kingly giver...she gives the very best she has, of her time, her resources, her material possessions. Sometimes even her very life. This is the soldier's sacrifice for his country, the mother's sacrifice for her children, or the organ donor giving a perfect stranger a kidney because it's a match. Kingly givers also give without question, hesitation, or regret. Wouldn't the world be an incredible place with more of these givers in it?

For now, I will try to give on any level I can. So, if you need something, I'm kind of an open target these days. As an Aquarian, my tendencies are towards helping others anyway, even when they don't ask for it. I may not have much money, but I am willing to give of my time, my talents, even my bodily fluids.

But for now, I'm holding onto my kidneys. Just saying.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Que Sera, Sera

Whatever will be, will be.

I don't know about you, but I need constant reminding of this little nugget of wisdom. Most of us spend an awful lot of time and energy fighting the moment, trying to control outcomes that aren't even remotely within our sphere of influence. In Twelve Step Program meetings, you will often hear this passage quoted:

And acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation -- some fact of my life -- unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.

Apparently nothing happens by mistake. Even the stuff we don't like happens for a reason, even if we can't see that reason until we're checking out the situation in hindsight. How many times have you noticed, after the fact, that a "disaster" was really a blessing?

"Thank God I never got THAT job. I love where I am now."

"Where would I be if I had actually MARRIED So-and-So? I never would have met YOU."

"Isn't this house wonderful? SO glad that first deal fell through."

Situations that seem like the end may actually be detours onto new beginnings. This is a philosophy I try to live by. I even wrote a novel about the cleansing effect of disaster, aptly titled, My Creative Destruction. Sometimes, it is the only way I can face another day in times of crisis or uncertainty.

Deepak also reinforces this notion, saying "This moment is exactly as it should be." Instead of fighting the situation, we need to embrace it, learn the lesson in it, or just let it prepare the way for what is next.

Of course, this is in relation to things we cannot control. If we need to lose weight, or quit smoking, or get a job, there are things we can do about that, to a degree. We can put out resumes and go to job fairs, but we have no control over the decisions made by the people hiring. We can put down the cheesecake and join a gym, but we have no control over the genes that give us a certain body type. We can decide to quit smoking, but we have no control over a loved one who needs to quit...but won't. When we find ourselves facing one of these situations in which we have no control, all we can do is embrace acceptance.

I accept that I cannot go SCUBA diving, because I get terrible motion sickness. It sucks, because it looks like a ton of fun, but I have proven that I am not cut out for it (after feeding the fish both in the water and over the side of the boat on a snorkeling expedition in Key West). No deep sea fishing, no thrill rides at theme parks, no reading on the train, no backseat snoozing on a car trip. All I can do is accept this. There must be some good reason for it. Maybe I would die in a horrible shark attack or get stuck in some underwater shipwreck if I were able to do it, because that's the kinda trouble I would very likely go looking for. Maybe I have no business under the sea. This time around, the Universe thinks I have plenty to do on land. (By the way, I can and do go whitewater rafting, for which I am exceedingly grateful. That's some fun right there.)

Of course there are countless other things that I file under acceptance when I realize I am butting my head against a wall. I will never be tall. I am never going to be on American Idol. I can't make others hire me, like me, or publish me against their will. I will never have lovely hands or thick hair. Being bilingual is probably not in the cards.

But I got a whole lotta things going my way. I have many great friends. I am in excellent physical condition, especially for 41. I have two beautiful children who seem to be doing very well in this lifetime so far. I have two degrees and two novels under my belt. A beautiful home. The love of my family. And a wonderful boyfriend who is completely supportive of me.

So I'm including a link to Doris Day's version of the song, Que Sera, Sera. (You may have to paste it into your web address box.) Yes, it's kitschy and corny and old fashioned. But listen to it anyway. And then just TRY to have a bad day. Whatever will be, will be.

Acceptance is the answer to all our problems today. This moment is exactly as it should be, no matter how rough it may seem. One thing I have learned on my rafting trips down rivers: rapids are always followed by calm waters. So, just relax and go with the flow.

Sing it, Doris...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZbKHDPPrrc

Friday, June 25, 2010

You're Invited to a Pity Party! Bring Your Own Whine

If you have been following along with me, you've probably deduced that I'm a pretty optimistic little bunny over here. Throw me some lemons and I will whip up a batch of Splenda-sweetened lemonade with real mint I grew myself. I'm a plucky gal, I always land butter-side up, and my bootstraps get yanked on plenty.

In 2008, I survived the demise of my 16-year marriage, the death of my dear grandmother, a move from the house I'd lived in since 1995, a difficult job search after twelve years of full-time motherhood, and the dissolution of one of my most cherished friendships. (Divorce can be a cruel litmus test.) I handled it all in my customary spiritual way, believing that what will be...will be. And honestly, it is all working out just fine. (The friendship is now under repair and well on its way to recovery.) After all, we co-create the world in which we live. We attract to ourselves the things we want through affirming our goals, meditating for clarity, and following our bliss, our purpose for being here.

But I have a confession to make: I have doubts.

I've been teaching steadily for the last year and a half, making enough on a mostly part-time basis to get by. Barely. I can pay my bills and stay afloat, but I can't save and I am in no way ready for any sort of disaster. I am one busted HVAC unit or car repair away from being in the red. The bumper on my Civic has needed replacement since last Halloween, but I can't justify the expense on my sketchy income. Travel, especially with my kids, has always been very important to me, and it's just not feasible right now. It seems like my life is passing me by, and I am missing out because I can't scrape together enough to cover the price of admission. (And I have already dug through the couch cushions more times than I care to admit.)

Okay, so I'm supposed to "do what I love," and the money will follow, right? That's the kinda stuff I like to write about anyway. What do I love...? Well, I love to write.

Write a novel.

Okay, I did.

It's great, but a bit long for a first-time author, so write a shorter one.

Okay, I did.

This is a tough business. Maybe you should establish a name for yourself by writing some shorter pieces.

Okay, I did. I dropped them off with an editor of a magazine, who called me the next day and said she loved them. Wanted to publish them all. YAY! I should submit them to her publisher; here's the email address. I did.

"Thanks so much, but we don't have a spot for these in an upcoming issue."

What? But, the editor said she was laughing at her desk reading them. She said she never calls writers who submit things in person, but these were really good. She said I had the perfect voice for her magazine. That these didn't even need any editing. Huh? I'm confused.

See, I keep doing what I love, and the Universe keeps slapping me back down. Or at least that's what it feels like sometimes. I know I'm not alone in this feeling, or I wouldn't be sharing it here. I have friends who are better writers than I who keep getting slapped as well. I understand that it's part of the battle to publication, and no one gets there without some scars and wounds to brag about later on at writers' conferences. I don't mind taking my licks. I wanna earn my stripes.

But enough, already! I have two novels, both award-winning, for which I have yet to find an agent. The first one was very well-received at a book club a friend of mine has been doing for eight years. "I loved your book. Why haven't you tried to publish it?" When I explained that I had queried about forty agents who all passed, they didn't understand why it hadn't been picked up, saying it was easily in the top ten books they had read (out of nearly a hundred). What gives, Universe?

I get a request for the manuscript, my hopes go up, and I wait. Rejection. I throw a thirty minute pity party, then give the bootstraps a tug, telling myself that wasn't meant to be my agent. Then I keep looking. This roller coaster never seems to stop, and I'm getting nauseated. I'm beginning to doubt the process. Do my thoughts, intentions, and actions really have an effect on the Universe, on my possibilities for publishing? Will I ever get rewarded for doing what I love? Or do I just get off this ride and give up?

Pardon me while I wax pathetic for a post, but I think you probably know my answer.

No. I won't get off the ride. I might throw up at some point, but I refuse to give up. That will only insure that I definitely won't get published. And I will get published, or die trying. Sure, I may be 41, but I took one of those virtual age tests last week. It told me I was really only 22, and that I would live to be 93. That's over 70 more years of riding this roller coaster!

Woe to the people sitting behind me.

I guess we all have doubts. If we don't, we aren't paying attention. I used to envy those people who just blindly accept dogma and don't feel the need to filter it though their logical brains. Here's the book: read it, believe it, and hit other people over the head with it. Now I realize, I'm lucky to have my doubts. By the time I believe in something (which ain't much, I'll tell ya), I'm pretty solid in that belief. Conversely, there really isn't much that I disbelieve, thanks to a dear friend who pointed out to me that disbelief can be just as dogmatic as blind belief. There are a lot of things that I just don't know about. Still asking the questions, still looking for answers.

But one thing I do know: I love to write. And I'm gonna keep on doing it, even if I never make a penny from it.

So, thanks for coming to my party. Please take some leftover whine home with you. I'm trying to quit.


Monday, June 14, 2010

The Sound of Silence

Since I can't afford an actual spiritual retreat right now, earlier this year I tried to devote an entire weekend to complete silence--no communication of any kind with anyone else. For those of you who know me personally, I will pause now for you to finish your hysterical laughter....

Done? Okay. No, I didn't make it. Mainly because all this "stuff" came up that drew me away from the purpose of the weekend. (A very good friend's birthday party, for example.) I guess maybe I chose a bad weekend. But honestly, I didn't make it even for a few hours before I was talking to my cats about how hard this was. Oops...My daughter has pointed out that I "talk" myself through basic routine activities, like driving, paying bills, cooking, and shopping. I will say things like, "Well, I thought I paid that bill last week." "Why must people get in this lane and go so slowly?" "I guess we're out of Smart Balance, so I'm gonna have to use butter." "Oh my God. If I buy two of these tops WITH my coupon, I'll get them for like, fifteen apiece!"

"Who are you talking to?" she'll ask me.

"Um, I dunno. I guess you," is always my response.

"Well, I'm not listening." She is such a delightful child, really.

Truth is, I'm not entirely sure I AM talking to her. I'm just glad she's present so that I don't look too insane. I have always known I am very verbal, which was awesome when I took the SAT's, but now I wonder if I should learn to drink a nice big cup of Shut the Hell Up and Listen.

I need more silence in my life. Did you ever do this? You're feeling really stressed out, and there seems to be too much noise in the room, too much commotion, so you reach for the remote control and flip off the television, blaring it's obnoxious commercials in the background. Suddenly the room is serenely quiet and you involuntarily sigh with relief.

I need that.

Of course, I don't have television, so I'm speaking metaphorically here. But I need more silence in my life. When I got up this morning, the only sound I could hear was the symphony of birds outside my window. I noticed the little silences between their chirps. Artists would call that the negative space. The part of a painting that isn't subject matter. The visual silence. And those silences are there, in our lives, but we don't notice them. Eckhart Tolle says, "Even during a conversation, become conscious of the gaps between words, the brief silent intervals between sentences. As you do that, the dimension of stillness grows within you."

Deepak Chopra also touts the value of silence in our spiritual vitality. In The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success, he writes, "Practicing silence means making a commitment to take a certain amount of time to simply Be." He adds, "If you never give yourself the opportunity to experience silence, this creates turbulence in your internal dialogue."

Perhaps it's that turbulence that keeps me chattering to no one in particular. I know that I process information through verbalization, and that unlike a lot of people who are more spatial than I am, I actually think in sentences. Most of you probably think in terms of images, emotions, memories, or thoughts, I would bet. I have those too, but mostly my head is full of dialogue. And I'm thinking if I don't get it under control, I may end up pushing a shopping cart full of junk through the city and muttering to myself. I mean, I'm already talking to cats in a pinch.

So here's my project for this week. Try it if you like. Every morning, I plan to experience twenty minutes of silence when I first wake up. This is different from meditation, where I sit still, eyes closed, and try to shut up my mind. This is me, walking around and doing whatever, making coffee, staring out the window, washing dishes, taking a walk, whatever. But in silence. No speech at all. Not even to the cats.

This week, let's all calm the turbulence in our inner dialogue. Let's look for the silent intervals between sentences, the gaps between words, the silences between chirps, and let's grow the dimension of stillness within ourselves.

There are already enough crazy cat ladies on the planet.

Monday, June 7, 2010

The Blob

My daughter the atheist is off to Christian Camp with her friends. I warned her that she should probably keep her religious/spiritual questions and doubts to herself while there, but her friends already spread the word that a Godless heathen will be in their midst.

"Why do you want to go to this camp anyway?" I asked her this morning as she rifled through my spiritual books, looking for a bible.

"I'm just going cuz my friends are. And for the blob."

"The what?"

"They have this cool blob out on the lake that we can bounce on and jump into the water. It's fun." She grinned, aware of how utterly shallow it is to attend a religious camp solely for their recreational equipment. I stared at her, and she shrugged, grin widening.

Oh well. As long as there's a blob... Besides, it can't hurt for her to listen to another perspective. And whatever she has to listen to, it can't be much worse than last year's "Rites of Passage Camp."

I thought it would be one of those camps that make the girls do a lot of hiking up mountains, rappelling, making fires, and other character-building activities that build self-esteem by turning the little puffballs into Lara Crofts.

No.

When I went to pick her up, the counselors announced that our girls had "become women" over the last week, and that we might not even recognize them now. I think her exact words were something like, "Your girls have changed. They have grown wings to emerge into women now, and we ask that you let them stretch those wings and learn how to fly. Give them room to keep growing."

At this point Wednesday turned to me and muttered, "Please get me out of this hellhole."

That week, she had endured a sweat lodge (in the Georgia summer heat), slept outside and alone in the woods, participated in numerous hand-holding and feeling-sharing sessions, and listened to lots of spiritual wisdom from the Earth Mother/Counselors. For example, when she cut her knee on a fall while hiking "like, five miles" to see horses that they couldn't even ride, she asked for a band-aid.

"Let me try this first," said one of the Earth Mothers. She closed her eyes and spread her hands over Wednesday's knee.

"Uh, what are you doing?" my daughter asked.

"Reiki."

"Um, it's bleeding. Can't you just give me a freaking band-aid?" Wednesday said.

So, this week at least she will be at a camp with proper first aid, I suppose. In case she falls off the blob and cuts her knee.

When I was a kid, camp was just camp. You went to sleep in cabins, sing cheesy songs by campfire, play pranks on each other, ride horses, shoot arrows, make lanyards, roast marshmallows, swim in natural bodies of water, and get poison ivy. There was no indoctrination of any kind, no one tried to push you outta the cocoon, and I never brought a bible.

And yet I am clearly a spiritual seeker. Maybe we should be letting our kids today figure things out for themselves. Instead of trying to convince them to buy into a ready-made set of ideas, whether it's Christianity or a New Age Spirituality, let them wander around in the wilderness on their own, literally and figuratively. Can't camp just be a place to go to have fun, spend some time away from parents, and grow up a little?

This is another area where I am proud that I have not had any expectations where my kids are concerned. I don't mind that Wednesday has decided she is an atheist. In fact, I'm rather proud that she feels enough acceptance from me to announce such beliefs without fear of reprisal. Especially in the bible belt. The fact that she is inquisitive enough to have doubts at this age and feel secure enough to express them...I'm impressed. Good girl.

Do I think she will hold these beliefs forever? Probably not, but it's fine if she does. I would rather have children that believe what they do because they arrived at it on their own, than children who believe what I do because I told them to, and they obeyed. My goal is to raise little free-thinkers.

So, whatever Wednesday has to listen to this week probably won't kill her. She will either dismiss it, assimilate it into her own thinking, or change her way of thinking to incorporate the new ideas. Either way, she will be thinking.

And my guess is she will be spending a lot of time on the blob. Good girl.