What's the big deal? You wake up, you get dressed.
Clothing, like almost everything in life, is a paradox. Clothes can make your life miserable or charming. "Clothes do not make the man," and yet, the right clothes for you, can make you a happier, more confident, comfortable person. Wearing clothing that isn't you can make you feel rotten, affect your experience of an event, or uncomfortable in something too tight or too short.
"Don't judge people by the clothes they wear." And yet, we do. The clothing you choose to wear speaks volumes about you.
There are trillions of choices out there. Who are you and what will you wear? What is your style? Why does something look good on someone else and look terrible on you?
Understanding your personal style is a process that can take years. Your personal style can change in your different careers and lifestyle changes. When I worked in the public affairs department of Exxon Corporation in New York City, I wore the constricting, unimaginative uniform of the 80's career woman: silk blouses, stockings, conservative skirts, tailored jackets. I never felt good about these clothes, or the job. These were not my happiest years. I own none of this clothes today.
A few years later I became a copywriter in an ad agency, and I dressed stylish and creative wearing the high fashion of Comme des Garcons, Issey Miyake, Agnes B. I was much happier. I spent a fortune on clothes, none of which I own today, either.
That's because I became a mother and my style changed again, into quick to put on easy to care for clothes that babies could throw up on. I spent a lot of time on the floor too with the babies. So it was jogging clothes, leggings with big tops, jeans.
Then I moved to the tropics where clothes faded and lost its shape in a matter of months due to the calcified water, bleaching from the sun, extreme heat, and mildew. My friend Jean Cappello came to the rescue. "The secret to tropical dressing is to get yourself to the Gap or Banana Republic and buy some great cotton and linen pieces and wear them for six months, then throw them out and start over." Which is what I do and now I always look fresh and stylish.
Some people don't care what they wear. Others obsess. As in everything, the secret to clothing happiness is moderation. You want to get to the point where you enjoy your clothes, dressing is easy and fun, and shopping is not a bother.
Experiment with clothes. Have fun, try different things on. See what looks good on you, what feels good on you. Of course you'll make mistakes from time to time. To be expected. When you find yourself attracted to the same thing, over and over, you'll know it's you.
Tomorrow: my best clothing tips.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Thought of the day
There are two enduring things that we should aspire to give to our children: the first is roots, and the second is wings. -- Hodding Carter
Friday, June 6, 2008
Death "etiquette" -- as if there could be such a thing...
Here are some understatements: Death is as real and common as birth. Death is, actually, life's main event. Death is the ultimate unknown.
But we don’t want to think about it. We don't like to talk about it.
So, when death arrives in our lives via our families and our friends, we feel unequal, insecure and awkward about how to deal with it. Death strips your soul raw. Here are some gentle tips to help you through.
I live in a place where wakes and funerals are an accepted and crucial social event to honor a person’s life and make your love and support known to the grieving family and friends. My kids grew up going to wakes and funerals, and I would like to think they feel comfortable with death in a way that I didn't when I was a child. My parents were so uncomfortable about death they never went to funerals if they could help it.
Don’t shy away from dying people. Visit the dying. They have a lot to teach you. The dying are in a holy state, hovering on an invisible border. They are the closest you can be to divinity in your living, breathing life.
When my father was dying, my Mother and I spent hours sitting with him. He seemed to be very busy in his mind, doing "soul work." If I talked to him, I felt I was disturbing him. I was in despair. I asked a friend who is a pastor and who has sat through many death vigils, "What should I do? How should I be?"
His words comforted me. "Your presence is all that is required. You take your cute from your father. If he wants to talk, listen. If you wants you to talk, then talk. If he wants silence, be silent. But your presence is what is important. Don't feel you hav to entertain him or say dramatic goodbyes. Just be. Be there."
Go to funerals. Your presence gives comfort to the friends and relatives. Your presence is an honor to the deceased, bearing witness to the goodness of their life. You don’t have to worry about what you should say or do. Anything you say or do is perfect. It is your presence that is everything. An embrace, a hand holding says volumes.
Death does not mean an end to your relationships. Whatever relationship you had with the person in life, will be the same one you have in death. Yes, when someone dies, your earthly relationship with that person is over. You can’t sit at a table and share a meal, you can’t call them up for a chat on the phone.
But your emotional and psychological relationship with them never ends. Conflicts that you didn’t resolve with them during your earthly time together will reappear until you work through them. Your relationship is never over with the people you loved in your life.
Tears are a good thing. This is no time to be dry eyed. Cry as much as you can, as much as you want. You’ll cry for every reason – for what was resolved and what wasn’t. For what you said and what you didn’t. Because you’re sad for yourself, because you’re sad for their family. Souls can hear you.
Death is a maestro, the ultimate teacher. Every person’s death that you experience should bring you closer to life, and to your own life. Let death bring you closer to your loved ones, help you to mend broken relationships, release the hate and vonfusion in your heart.
Don’t judge other people’s death. Dying is a messy, human business. Since we only die once, dying is not something we know how to do. There is no right or wrong way to die. Some countries, like Holland, have legal euthanasia. Others countries have organizations, like Exit in Switzerland. There is no easy way out. It is just as hard. Just as in childbirth, any behavior that gets you to the end result is fine. Every person’s death is unique and to be honored.
Letting go is hard. Often, it helps, when a person is in the final stages, to assure them that they are doing great, that there is nothing to fear, that everything will be okay, that you will be okay, that they can let go. Often, dying people need “permission” to let go. Sometimes people die precisely when you leave the room.
My brother was plagued by the fact that he was not with our Mother when she passed away. She died in her bed, in her bedroom, in her home, cared for lovingly by my brother. He had gone downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. When he came back to her room, she had passed. He felt guilty. I told him that I couldn’t die in front of my children, that my all-encompassing love for them would make it hard for me to leave. He took comfort in my words.
Don’t ignore your feelings about death. Acknowledge them. If you feel frightened, uncomfortable, whatever, live all these feelings, think about them. Death is the ultimate unknown and all our fears are justifiable.
Read books bout death, both clinical and spiritual. When my Mother was dying, I learned a lot from talking to the Hospice workers, and from reading a lot of material published by the hospice movement.
Grieving takes a long time. Expect death to shock you, to make you feel vulnerable, exposed and unimaginably sad. Grieving takes on different strengths, different faces and different stages. It can take years to “get over” someone’s death. And you never really “get over” a death of a loved one.
Often at first, when a friend or family member dies, you feel relief. This is natural. You have just seen this person suffering. And now, they are at rest. The grief will come later. The mourning comes in waves and in stages. It lasts longer than you think.
Let time do its gentle work on you.
But we don’t want to think about it. We don't like to talk about it.
So, when death arrives in our lives via our families and our friends, we feel unequal, insecure and awkward about how to deal with it. Death strips your soul raw. Here are some gentle tips to help you through.
I live in a place where wakes and funerals are an accepted and crucial social event to honor a person’s life and make your love and support known to the grieving family and friends. My kids grew up going to wakes and funerals, and I would like to think they feel comfortable with death in a way that I didn't when I was a child. My parents were so uncomfortable about death they never went to funerals if they could help it.
Don’t shy away from dying people. Visit the dying. They have a lot to teach you. The dying are in a holy state, hovering on an invisible border. They are the closest you can be to divinity in your living, breathing life.
When my father was dying, my Mother and I spent hours sitting with him. He seemed to be very busy in his mind, doing "soul work." If I talked to him, I felt I was disturbing him. I was in despair. I asked a friend who is a pastor and who has sat through many death vigils, "What should I do? How should I be?"
His words comforted me. "Your presence is all that is required. You take your cute from your father. If he wants to talk, listen. If you wants you to talk, then talk. If he wants silence, be silent. But your presence is what is important. Don't feel you hav to entertain him or say dramatic goodbyes. Just be. Be there."
Go to funerals. Your presence gives comfort to the friends and relatives. Your presence is an honor to the deceased, bearing witness to the goodness of their life. You don’t have to worry about what you should say or do. Anything you say or do is perfect. It is your presence that is everything. An embrace, a hand holding says volumes.
Death does not mean an end to your relationships. Whatever relationship you had with the person in life, will be the same one you have in death. Yes, when someone dies, your earthly relationship with that person is over. You can’t sit at a table and share a meal, you can’t call them up for a chat on the phone.
But your emotional and psychological relationship with them never ends. Conflicts that you didn’t resolve with them during your earthly time together will reappear until you work through them. Your relationship is never over with the people you loved in your life.
Tears are a good thing. This is no time to be dry eyed. Cry as much as you can, as much as you want. You’ll cry for every reason – for what was resolved and what wasn’t. For what you said and what you didn’t. Because you’re sad for yourself, because you’re sad for their family. Souls can hear you.
Death is a maestro, the ultimate teacher. Every person’s death that you experience should bring you closer to life, and to your own life. Let death bring you closer to your loved ones, help you to mend broken relationships, release the hate and vonfusion in your heart.
Don’t judge other people’s death. Dying is a messy, human business. Since we only die once, dying is not something we know how to do. There is no right or wrong way to die. Some countries, like Holland, have legal euthanasia. Others countries have organizations, like Exit in Switzerland. There is no easy way out. It is just as hard. Just as in childbirth, any behavior that gets you to the end result is fine. Every person’s death is unique and to be honored.
Letting go is hard. Often, it helps, when a person is in the final stages, to assure them that they are doing great, that there is nothing to fear, that everything will be okay, that you will be okay, that they can let go. Often, dying people need “permission” to let go. Sometimes people die precisely when you leave the room.
My brother was plagued by the fact that he was not with our Mother when she passed away. She died in her bed, in her bedroom, in her home, cared for lovingly by my brother. He had gone downstairs to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. When he came back to her room, she had passed. He felt guilty. I told him that I couldn’t die in front of my children, that my all-encompassing love for them would make it hard for me to leave. He took comfort in my words.
Don’t ignore your feelings about death. Acknowledge them. If you feel frightened, uncomfortable, whatever, live all these feelings, think about them. Death is the ultimate unknown and all our fears are justifiable.
Read books bout death, both clinical and spiritual. When my Mother was dying, I learned a lot from talking to the Hospice workers, and from reading a lot of material published by the hospice movement.
Grieving takes a long time. Expect death to shock you, to make you feel vulnerable, exposed and unimaginably sad. Grieving takes on different strengths, different faces and different stages. It can take years to “get over” someone’s death. And you never really “get over” a death of a loved one.
Often at first, when a friend or family member dies, you feel relief. This is natural. You have just seen this person suffering. And now, they are at rest. The grief will come later. The mourning comes in waves and in stages. It lasts longer than you think.
Let time do its gentle work on you.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
More thoughts on death
When Pablo borrows the car to go out for the evening I always say, “Please drive carefully.”
“Of course,” he says flippantly.
“No, really,” I say.
“Well, we’ve all got to die sometime,” he replies with the insouciance of youth.
When you are young, you feel invincible. Death is a fuzzy concept, something that happens to other people, to old people. You can’t even imagine your own death.
We Mothers know how fragile life is. We know that death is always only one breath away, one heartbeat away. My job as your Mother, when you were born, was to keep you alive. My job, for the rest of my days, is to wish you happiness and life.
The “Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” is a book that I keep by my bedside. Not because I am morbid, but because I am life loving. The Tibetan idea is: if you are always aware that you are going to die, you will live a better life. This book helps me to live joyfully every day. Instead of waking up in the morning and saying, “Oh, okay,” taking it for granted that you woke up alive, the Tibetans suggest you think, “My God, I’m alive! A miracle! Another amazing day!”
Being born and dying are the only two things you have in common with every single creature on this earth.
I ask that you let the awareness of your death and the death of loved ones help you to live each day joyfully, fully, lovingly, intensely, freely, lightly. Live always respecting the sheer miracle of being alive. See "the tiger in the grass" every day because he is indeed, hovering there.
In Sherwin Nuland’s illuminating book, “How We Die,” he discusses people’s desire for “a good death.” But "a good death" is a myth, he says, there is no such thing. Dying is hard work and traumatic. He continues: the only way to have “a good death” is to live a good life, meaning, a life that is rich and full and satisfying for you.
I prefer the term “passing over” rather than death. Death signifies an end, a termination. I personally don’t believe in this. Yes, the physical body dies. But the soul does not cease to exist. The soul, that which gives life to our flesh and blood, is divine, it is the energy of our consciousness, and when we pass, this energy transforms into something else.
Believe in angels. They abound all around us. In many forms, both seen and unseen.
Here is an excerpt from “Facts of Faith” by Henry Scott Holland that brings me comfort when I miss my Mother, which is...every day.
Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way, which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
“Of course,” he says flippantly.
“No, really,” I say.
“Well, we’ve all got to die sometime,” he replies with the insouciance of youth.
When you are young, you feel invincible. Death is a fuzzy concept, something that happens to other people, to old people. You can’t even imagine your own death.
We Mothers know how fragile life is. We know that death is always only one breath away, one heartbeat away. My job as your Mother, when you were born, was to keep you alive. My job, for the rest of my days, is to wish you happiness and life.
The “Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” is a book that I keep by my bedside. Not because I am morbid, but because I am life loving. The Tibetan idea is: if you are always aware that you are going to die, you will live a better life. This book helps me to live joyfully every day. Instead of waking up in the morning and saying, “Oh, okay,” taking it for granted that you woke up alive, the Tibetans suggest you think, “My God, I’m alive! A miracle! Another amazing day!”
Being born and dying are the only two things you have in common with every single creature on this earth.
I ask that you let the awareness of your death and the death of loved ones help you to live each day joyfully, fully, lovingly, intensely, freely, lightly. Live always respecting the sheer miracle of being alive. See "the tiger in the grass" every day because he is indeed, hovering there.
In Sherwin Nuland’s illuminating book, “How We Die,” he discusses people’s desire for “a good death.” But "a good death" is a myth, he says, there is no such thing. Dying is hard work and traumatic. He continues: the only way to have “a good death” is to live a good life, meaning, a life that is rich and full and satisfying for you.
I prefer the term “passing over” rather than death. Death signifies an end, a termination. I personally don’t believe in this. Yes, the physical body dies. But the soul does not cease to exist. The soul, that which gives life to our flesh and blood, is divine, it is the energy of our consciousness, and when we pass, this energy transforms into something else.
Believe in angels. They abound all around us. In many forms, both seen and unseen.
Here is an excerpt from “Facts of Faith” by Henry Scott Holland that brings me comfort when I miss my Mother, which is...every day.
Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way, which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Thinking about death
Death has been on my mind lately...and always, actually. Tomorrow, I'll share some of my thoughts on death with you …but for today, I leave you with a pensamiento by a favorite author of mine, who published her first novel in 1978, "Stones for Ibarra" when she was 68 years old.
Yesterday was my eighty-fifth birthday, and my son, who has had lung and brain cancer for two years, gave me a toy stuffed tiger as a reminder to write, without further delay, a short account of my long life…
…It was only four years ago that I realized I was making my way through the thickets of life together with a scarcely visible, four-footed companion, who matched his steps to mine.
I first learned of the tiger in the examining room of my glaucoma doctor.
Sitting in a black revolving chair, my chin in a rest, my forehead against a strap, and facing an intense light about to be focused on my inner eye, while the doctor at his illuminated glass counter made entries on my record, I turned pessimistic.
“Let us hope,” I said, “that I don’t lose more sight in my right eye,” and went on, “since I have only peripheral vision in my left.”
Without turning from my folder, the doctor said, “Don’t belittle peripheral vision. That’s how we see the tiger in the grass.”
Then he added, “It’s also how the tiger sees us.”
In this way, at the eye clinic, almost at the end of my life, I met and recognized the tiger that was mine and had been from the start.
-- "The Tiger in the Grass" by Harriet Doerr
Yesterday was my eighty-fifth birthday, and my son, who has had lung and brain cancer for two years, gave me a toy stuffed tiger as a reminder to write, without further delay, a short account of my long life…
…It was only four years ago that I realized I was making my way through the thickets of life together with a scarcely visible, four-footed companion, who matched his steps to mine.
I first learned of the tiger in the examining room of my glaucoma doctor.
Sitting in a black revolving chair, my chin in a rest, my forehead against a strap, and facing an intense light about to be focused on my inner eye, while the doctor at his illuminated glass counter made entries on my record, I turned pessimistic.
“Let us hope,” I said, “that I don’t lose more sight in my right eye,” and went on, “since I have only peripheral vision in my left.”
Without turning from my folder, the doctor said, “Don’t belittle peripheral vision. That’s how we see the tiger in the grass.”
Then he added, “It’s also how the tiger sees us.”
In this way, at the eye clinic, almost at the end of my life, I met and recognized the tiger that was mine and had been from the start.
-- "The Tiger in the Grass" by Harriet Doerr
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
My Defining Moment: The Black Box
A defining moment is one that can change the course of your life, change your thinking, and open the world to you in new ways. If you are perceptive, you might have several defining moments in your life. Often, you don’t realize it is a defining moment until days, weeks, months, or years after.
I wanted to tell you about my first, adult, defining moment. I didn’t know it was a defining moment at the time, it just seemed like an experience.
I was an average student in high school – entirely undistinguished and unformed. I drifted through Tenafly High in a cloud of painful self-consciousness, the typical self-doubting adolescent haze.
Chemistry class was the bane of senior year, with the difficult hurdle of its pass/fail chem labs. The first lab was the famous “Black Box.” Away from our prying eyes, Mr. Colombo, our chem teacher, (in my memory, forever wearing his beige lab coat) put an object into a black wood box and nailed it shut. Using the principles of scientific observation we had to figure out what was inside The Black Box.
For one week we could hold it, weigh it, shake it, smell it, listen to it. We could do anything but throw it, or open it. Among ourselves we talked and talked, in study hall, in the cafeteria, at the football game, at gym, in the library, on the phone, as we walked to school in the mornings and home in the evenings, trying to collectively put our observations together and guess what was inside The Black Box.
After a few days, everyone decided it was an empty film canister. Back in 1969 (!) cameras used film, and the film came on a metal canister.
This didn’t make any sense to me at all. A film canister was even, it was light, and it didn't wobble. Whenever I held the box, the object had an uneven roll and an uneven weight, it tilted and seemed to fall on its heavy side, causing it to wobble.
But who was I to think it could be something else, me, Liza Dunkel, not an honors student, me against 120 classmates.
I tried desperately to imagine what it could be. Then, one day during class, my eyes settled on a row of acid bottles. The glass stopper of an acid, or poison bottle, is thick and rounded on the bottom, with a thin plaque to grip it on top. Placed on its side, it rolled and wobbled unevenly. Bingo.
I told my best friend, Janet Feigelson, the super smart star of the honors classes, about my idea of the acid bottle stopper. I told Sharon Goldstein and Mark Jay and other smart kids. They shook their heads. “No way," they said, "It’s a film canister."
No one heard me because I was “just” Liza Dunkel, a nobody.
Everyone wrote up their labs in the little blue books, laying out the arguments about why it was a film canister. For awhile, I actually considered joining everyone, because I could not believe that I could figure out something so different from 120 other people. I had so little confidence in myself, how could I possibly be right? And what if they were all right and I was the only one in the entire senior class who flunked the first chem lab?
But in the end, I just couldn’t do it. I had heard and felt the object tilt. A film canister doesn’t tilt.
Finally, the big day arrived for the great opening of The Black Box.
I had chemistry first period. Standing beside the stack of graded blue lab books, Mr. Columbo smiled at us and shook his head. “What a bunch of dummies,” he said. Everyone groaned. He proceeded to toy with us, lifting off the top of the Black Box looking inside and replacing the top.
“In all of the senior class, there was only one person who guessed correctly what was in the Black Box.”
My head and heart were pounding. Could I be this person? Could it be me? No! I wasn’t smart. How could I alone have figured it out and no one else? No, it must be someone else.
“And that person…is sitting right here in the front row!” he shouted, pointing at me! I screamed with joy amidst the uproar in the room as he held up the glass stopper of an acid bottle.
After class, the word flew through the halls of Tenafly High. I floated with happiness for the rest of the day as I was congratulated (even by Eddie Harris) and looked at with new eyes.
Maybe I was smart, after all. Could I even be, special? The Black Box was the first lesson I had about the need to believe in myself, to listen to myself, to rely on what I thought was true. The Black Box was a premonition of great things to come. It wouldn’t be until college that I would realize my great potential.
Remember children to seize your defining moments and make them yours. I wish you a lifetime of defining moments.
I wanted to tell you about my first, adult, defining moment. I didn’t know it was a defining moment at the time, it just seemed like an experience.
I was an average student in high school – entirely undistinguished and unformed. I drifted through Tenafly High in a cloud of painful self-consciousness, the typical self-doubting adolescent haze.
Chemistry class was the bane of senior year, with the difficult hurdle of its pass/fail chem labs. The first lab was the famous “Black Box.” Away from our prying eyes, Mr. Colombo, our chem teacher, (in my memory, forever wearing his beige lab coat) put an object into a black wood box and nailed it shut. Using the principles of scientific observation we had to figure out what was inside The Black Box.
For one week we could hold it, weigh it, shake it, smell it, listen to it. We could do anything but throw it, or open it. Among ourselves we talked and talked, in study hall, in the cafeteria, at the football game, at gym, in the library, on the phone, as we walked to school in the mornings and home in the evenings, trying to collectively put our observations together and guess what was inside The Black Box.
After a few days, everyone decided it was an empty film canister. Back in 1969 (!) cameras used film, and the film came on a metal canister.
This didn’t make any sense to me at all. A film canister was even, it was light, and it didn't wobble. Whenever I held the box, the object had an uneven roll and an uneven weight, it tilted and seemed to fall on its heavy side, causing it to wobble.
But who was I to think it could be something else, me, Liza Dunkel, not an honors student, me against 120 classmates.
I tried desperately to imagine what it could be. Then, one day during class, my eyes settled on a row of acid bottles. The glass stopper of an acid, or poison bottle, is thick and rounded on the bottom, with a thin plaque to grip it on top. Placed on its side, it rolled and wobbled unevenly. Bingo.
I told my best friend, Janet Feigelson, the super smart star of the honors classes, about my idea of the acid bottle stopper. I told Sharon Goldstein and Mark Jay and other smart kids. They shook their heads. “No way," they said, "It’s a film canister."
No one heard me because I was “just” Liza Dunkel, a nobody.
Everyone wrote up their labs in the little blue books, laying out the arguments about why it was a film canister. For awhile, I actually considered joining everyone, because I could not believe that I could figure out something so different from 120 other people. I had so little confidence in myself, how could I possibly be right? And what if they were all right and I was the only one in the entire senior class who flunked the first chem lab?
But in the end, I just couldn’t do it. I had heard and felt the object tilt. A film canister doesn’t tilt.
Finally, the big day arrived for the great opening of The Black Box.
I had chemistry first period. Standing beside the stack of graded blue lab books, Mr. Columbo smiled at us and shook his head. “What a bunch of dummies,” he said. Everyone groaned. He proceeded to toy with us, lifting off the top of the Black Box looking inside and replacing the top.
“In all of the senior class, there was only one person who guessed correctly what was in the Black Box.”
My head and heart were pounding. Could I be this person? Could it be me? No! I wasn’t smart. How could I alone have figured it out and no one else? No, it must be someone else.
“And that person…is sitting right here in the front row!” he shouted, pointing at me! I screamed with joy amidst the uproar in the room as he held up the glass stopper of an acid bottle.
After class, the word flew through the halls of Tenafly High. I floated with happiness for the rest of the day as I was congratulated (even by Eddie Harris) and looked at with new eyes.
Maybe I was smart, after all. Could I even be, special? The Black Box was the first lesson I had about the need to believe in myself, to listen to myself, to rely on what I thought was true. The Black Box was a premonition of great things to come. It wouldn’t be until college that I would realize my great potential.
Remember children to seize your defining moments and make them yours. I wish you a lifetime of defining moments.
Monday, June 2, 2008
What's wrong with this equation?
Just some wistful thoughts for you sons and daughters to think about. And also for you Mothers out there too.
When your children are young, you are their hero. Their faces light up when they see you. You can do no wrong. You are their world, their joy, their survival.
Then they get older, and comes the moment when they tolerate you with a smile. They still need you, but you begin to embarrass them. Your sheer existence bugs them.
And then comes the moment I’m in right now. My son can’t wait to leave home. He wants no Mother in his daily life…just a Mother out there – somewhere.
There’s something wrong with this equation. Our children are the beings we love most dearly in our lives. We cherish them, raise them, educate them and then at 18 – after all that loving, which will never stop on our part… we must let go of them, because they want nothing more to do with us!
The only consolation, of course, is that we all felt this way too. Ready to get away from our own Mothers and claim our lives. Ready to live without Mother watching.
It is our turn to let go. It comes with the territory. And if you let go properly, you become the Mother that your kids want to come home to. And after some time passes, you become the Mother who they enjoy being with, again.
Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jhumpa Lahiri, in her new collection of stories “Unaccustomed Earth” writes:
"He remembered his children coming home from college, impatient with him and his wife, enamored of their newfound independence, always wanting to leave. It had tormented his wife and, though he never admitted it, had pained him as well. He couldn’t help thinking, on those occasions, how young they’d once been, how helpless in his nervous arms, needing him for their very survival, knowing no one else. He and his wife were their whole world. But eventually that need dissipated, dwindled to something amorphous, tenuous, something that threatened at times to snap… ...The entire enterprise of having a family, of putting children on this earth, as gratifying as it sometimes felt, was flawed from the start."
When your children are young, you are their hero. Their faces light up when they see you. You can do no wrong. You are their world, their joy, their survival.
Then they get older, and comes the moment when they tolerate you with a smile. They still need you, but you begin to embarrass them. Your sheer existence bugs them.
And then comes the moment I’m in right now. My son can’t wait to leave home. He wants no Mother in his daily life…just a Mother out there – somewhere.
There’s something wrong with this equation. Our children are the beings we love most dearly in our lives. We cherish them, raise them, educate them and then at 18 – after all that loving, which will never stop on our part… we must let go of them, because they want nothing more to do with us!
The only consolation, of course, is that we all felt this way too. Ready to get away from our own Mothers and claim our lives. Ready to live without Mother watching.
It is our turn to let go. It comes with the territory. And if you let go properly, you become the Mother that your kids want to come home to. And after some time passes, you become the Mother who they enjoy being with, again.
Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jhumpa Lahiri, in her new collection of stories “Unaccustomed Earth” writes:
"He remembered his children coming home from college, impatient with him and his wife, enamored of their newfound independence, always wanting to leave. It had tormented his wife and, though he never admitted it, had pained him as well. He couldn’t help thinking, on those occasions, how young they’d once been, how helpless in his nervous arms, needing him for their very survival, knowing no one else. He and his wife were their whole world. But eventually that need dissipated, dwindled to something amorphous, tenuous, something that threatened at times to snap… ...The entire enterprise of having a family, of putting children on this earth, as gratifying as it sometimes felt, was flawed from the start."
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