Real or Not Real/He Stiffened

Yesterday evening, good conversation with my sister.  We talked about the whole personal narrative thing.  This is something she thinks about a lot, her stories.  Recently my mother moved in with her and what she's discovering is that there are often vast differences in how events are remembered, each of them putting their own sanity preserving spin on things that happened.  We are glad to have each other because when we think we might be going a bit crazy and fabricating things, we check in with the other - like in the Hunger Games after the hero had his mind programmed to hate the people he loved.  As he regains his mental health, he relies on the people around him, asking "Real or Not Real" as he remembers things that happened prior to the programming.   So my sister and I ask each other often, "Real or Not Real".  Most of the time, the response is "Real" which is a huge relief. I feel sorry for people who have experienced childhood trauma who don't have a sibling as a witness. They must never be very sure what is "Real or Not Real".  Crazy making.

I tell the sad story of the time when I was a young girl, probably about seven or eight.  We lived in a huge house, high on a hill overlooking the Atlantic ocean (OK, right there is a bit of fiction.  I always say that and everyone sighs appreciatively, wishing they had lived in a big house overlooking the Atlantic.  Truth is that we were blocks away from the ocean and only in the winter, when there was no foliage, was it possible to glimpse the water from the upper rooms of the house).  We rarely went anywhere.  One friend of my mother's once told her, "You need to get those kids off the hill", or something like that.  One annual highlight was when wealthy friends invited us to their house for the Fourth of July.  It was magical, lots of guests, each of the many children were given sparklers at a point in the evening and dozens of us raced around their enormous property, swirling the sparklers. We were human fireflies.  It was beautiful and fun.

There was one year that stands out.  I remember Henry (my adopted father) telling me, as he and I stood alone in the kitchen, that we had been invited to the Bittinger's party.  Maybe that was the first year or maybe I was so overwhelmed with excitement because I remembered the fun from the year before.  Anyway, I ecstatically and impulsively threw my arms around him in joy.  I can still feel his reaction - he stiffened.  My joy turned to shock and shame.  I knew I had done something wrong, hugging him.  I knew he found me repulsive.

I tell this story as an explanation as to why I became the way I am/was.  Something changed that day.  I no longer wanted to be touched.  I cringed at physical affection.  I pushed away hugs.  I developed a hair trigger reaction to anyone coming into my physical safe zone - violence if that zone was breached.   I was impenetrable.  I was Xena, princess warrior.

And it wasn't that I didn't love.   I think, if anything, it made me love more fiercely, with longings that I didn't allow myself to surrender to.  I envied people who demonstrated affection in easy physical ways but I knew it wasn't for me.  When I became fierce it suited me, made me feel seen and powerful.  Since I couldn't receive love from others, the next best thing became fearful admiration.  It thrilled me to hurt people.  I remember one dear high school English teacher who recognized my talent for writing.  He encouraged and nurtured me.  Once day he said something that hurt me - I was crushed.  In retrospect I realize he meant no harm.  We had words.  He asked me what I wanted from life.  I told him that I wanted to be important so that I didn't have to have a stupid job like a High School English teacher.  His eyes.  Still remember them.  He was so hurt.  I eviscerated him. My reaction?  He deserved it.

I am a lousy hugger.  Everyone knows it.   I rarely hug my children.  They were raised loving and fearing me and probably wishing for my loving touch.  Instead we showered our animals with physical affection.  It was the cats who were the recipients of my soft love.  To them I talked baby talk, cuddled, fussed, kissed them on the lips (yeah, gross right?) and sat for hours, not moving so as not to wake them from a lap nap.  The kids saw all of this and I'm guessing it was gratifying to them in a vicarious way to see that I had a soft and loving side.  They, in turn, mothered the cats.  So here we were, mother and children, with cats between us, using them as physical intermediaries.  I hug the cat.  Then you hug the cat and it's almost as if we hug each other.  If A=B and B=C, then A=C.  The transitive property, right?

Just last week, Elizabeth who I hadn't seen in a few days came to the office with Joey (he spends the days with me, many days).  I found myself doing exactly the same thing.   She and I each said, "Hey", and then I showered the dog with hugs and kisses an effusion of love.  She sat at the front desk to check her e-mail.  I went back to my office.   Then I thought, WTF!   I got up out of my chair and walked over to her and motioned for her to stand and then I gave her the biggest, unexpected hug.  The dog watched, probably confused.

It is my father's legacy to me and my children that I have hated displays of affection, hated to be touched, hated to touch.  Only with therapy did I allow myself to be penetrated, let the armor down - but not before I passed along his legacy.

Tomorrow I tell the story with different eyes.  Today your challenge is to think more about your own stories.  Take an event that had an impact on your life think about it with different lens' - something that made you who you are today.

Peace,
Sarah

PS.  DJ, a friend and business associate told me to write about him "nicely".  The whole hug thing is a "thing" between us.  When I first met him, he hugged me I made a big deal of telling him he hadn't earned the right to hug me - that it was inappropriate and premature.  I neutered his gesture and probably made him feel bad - that was my intention.  Respect not affection was the currency I dealt with in those days.  Now I'm thinking we can have both.  DJ, you can hug me and I might, just might, give you a sincere hug back.

Memory Manipulation/Not A Day Goes By

Hey.  Been thinking a lot about what I want to write about today.  I've had difficulties these past two days.  It's like I'm waiting for something to happen, waiting, waiting.  Sunday in addition to reading, I worked on the song, "Not a Day Goes By".  When I learn a new song, I sing it over and over until the words and melody live in a deep part of my brain.  When I really know a song, the lyrics never fail me - I summon them effortlessly, organically.  But that song - if it takes up residence in my heart and becomes my future - a self-fulfilling prophesy, things will be grim.

Not a day goes by. Not a single day But you’re somewhere a part of my life. And it looks like you’ll stay.  As the days go by I keep thinking when does it end?  Where’s the day I’ll have started forgetting.  But I just go on thinking and sweating, and cursing and crying and turning and reaching and waking and dying. And no, not a day goes by, not a blessed day.  But you’re still somehow part of my life and you won't go away.  So there’s hell to pay and until I die, I’ll die day after day after day, after day, after day after day after day til the days go by, til the days go by, til the days go by. 

The brain.  Let's talk about that again.  Carol sent me a link to a radio show that she listened to, spellbound - the subject Narrative Identify. Here's the link.  Jonathan Adler is interviewed on Wisconsin Public Radio by interviewer, Jim Fleming.  He starts by asking "What does it mean to say that your identity, who you think you are, is just a story?  I mean, I don't feel fictional.  So let's go first to psychologist and researcher Johnathan Adler for a crash course in narrative identity."   He goes on to describe that we are not particularly accurate reporters of the things that happened to us - our memories are based on true stories but there are a myriad of ways we could tell the same story.

OK, so nothing new there, right?  What's new apparently is in studying how peoples' mental health is tied to their stories of themselves - the stories they choose to include in their narrative, whether they are characters that are acted upon or whether they feel in the driver's seat of their stories.  They tracked people's narratives who underwent psychotherapy and noted that, over the course of successful treatment, peoples' stories changed, they actually reconstructed their memories to align with their psychological needs. Apparently people, trying to get better, take command of their stories and re-story them in a way that supports their mental health progress.

So this is kind of wonderful right?  If I tell you that you are the stories you tell about yourself and that you can consciously re-story yourself into better mental health, that's amazing right?  But it's also deeply unsettling because if you're thinking like I am, you've just been told that you ARE the stories you tell about yourself and that those stories don't very accurately portray true realities - remember you are not a particularly accurate reporter of the events that shaped your life.

Seriously??  This is either the best news I've ever heard or the worst.  I have to figure this out.  So we cling to these stories about ourselves where we are observer, participant, victim, hero, and it's largely a fiction???  What are we left to hold on to? This is the stuff of insanity!  If you think too much like I do, this could put you over the edge into loony-land or it could be a liberating reality.  Think about it - what we believe about ourselves is a personal narrative that plays fast and loose with truth.  We are largely fiction.

Question:  If our constructs are not real then what is?  What can we agree is true?  That is the biggest of all questions.  What use are our memories if we have manipulated them to better serve us?  What do we have left?

I just finished the Hunger Games series and the heroes in that book fight with the same questions. Their memories and realities have been deliberately tampered with by villains and they struggle to hold onto their mental health.  It was an uncanny book to read in light of this article landing in my lap. Doubly unsettling.

Memory is a weird thing - we are so attached to it, so sure it is accurate.  Now seems like a good time to tell you about one of the saddest memory experiences I every had.  I have a friend who told me in passing about a book or movie recommendation from a friend.  I didn't think much of it - it was just a passing comment.  Later I made mention of it and, because he didn't remember telling me about it, he jumped to the conclusion that the only way I could have learned of the recommendation was because I had figured out a way to read his e-mail.  It wasn't true but there was nothing I could say to him to make him believe me.  His words, "It will take a miracle for me to believe anything other than what I remember.  I am 100% positive I never mentioned the recommendation to you."   He never even entertained the possibility that his memory could have failed him.  Because his good opinion was so important to me, I did the only thing I could think of  - I voluntarily submitted to a lie detector test to exonerate me.  I passed of course, there was never a question.

Most recently I was surprised to hear Mark tell the story about me extinguishing the burning girl at the Christmas party we both attended (her scarf was on fire).  I had been telling the story that I lunged across the room and patted the flames out.  He corrected me and said, "No, you ripped the scarf off her.  Don't you remember?"  I don't.   That may be a minor correction but it shook me to have created an incorrect script, a story that I would tell over and over again that wasn't quite true.

Challenge today is to listen to the interview.  It's exciting research and the implications are that we have the power to change ourselves and the future by re-writing our pasts and giving ourselves stronger stories to live by.  Now that we know our stories often only carry partial truths, we should question all our assumptions, question everything.  I am toying with the idea of taking a story from my past - one that I've told over and over and re-writing it with different perspectives.   I might even seek out the characters in my story and see what they remember.   How freaky will it be to take a sacred personal story and play with it, shape it, change it while still preserving the underlying truth of the event - as if it were written by different people.

Tomorrow, that story told two different ways:  the way I've always told it and then re-storied.  I think I might be going off the deep end which is actually kind of exciting - do you wanna come with me?

Peace,
Sarah

Hunger Games/Oscars/Azazael

Monday again and I'm glad it's here.  Yesterday was such a beautiful day - it was lost on me, I'm sad to say.  When I finally did get my engines fired up at about three, I spent the next few hours having a manicure and pedicure and when I got done with that, the beautiful day was all but done. And I felt guilty about it because the sweet checkout guy at Whole Foods wouldn't have wasted the day.  Stuck behind his cash register, he pumped me for information about just how beautiful the day was. Later that night, Mark came up from downstairs to do laundry and waxed poetic about his lakefront run.  Like I said, I wasted it - I hope you didn't.

What I did instead of soaking in the day, was read the second book in The Hunger Games trilogy. Norma told me about it recently - I missed the buzz.  It didn't disappoint - it's really well written, fast paced, and compelling - a "can't put it down" kind of book.  What I think is curious is that it comes on the heels of the Dragon Tattoo series which also features a young woman who has to make her way in a brutal world, who shuts down her emotional life as she perfects survival skills. We admire both Lisbeth Salander and Katniss Everdeen because they are hardened, disciplined, unemotional - they beat men even though they love a few of them (that confuses them, the whole love thing - it's the one thing they're not good at).  And even though they  possess honed killing skills, they only kill or maim in self defense or out of mercy.  Seems we want these heroines to be capable of killing but only kill reluctantly - not ruthless or cold-blooded.   The parallels between the two series are uncanny in their treatment of women. What does it say about our times that we find these troubled, tough as nails girls so compelling?

Most of you know I'm writing a book and in a similar vein it is a coming of age book about a girl who lives with brutality who realizes at an early age she has to take care of herself and the few people she loves - her choices are to either be a victim or a warrior - she chooses warrior and conducts her life as one: formidable, take no prisoners, armored up.  She accomplishes amazing things, never takes no for an answer, loves deeply but rarely shows it, is suspicious of people who show her kindness.   She's an easy character to write about for me (cuz she IS me).   I have plucked actual events from my scary childhood and then fictionalized them, rewriting happier or nobler scripts as the spirit moves me (it's the great do-over - I get to revisit trauma and write a different outcome).   From the age of five, my heroine has an active relationship with a reluctant, guardian angel named Azazael.  He has been sent to earth to guard her even though he longs to be in heaven.  He is a fucked up angel, heart in the right place, but he dispenses terrible advice and together, he and the girl get into terrible trouble.   Here is a tidbit from the book, where we learn of Azazael's back story. This writing is raw and unedited:

He told me stories about his life before and after he became an angel.   Turns out he was a tobacco executive, living in North Carolina with a wife and seven kids, when he died.  One day, as he was going into the building where he worked, a woman stopped him and asked his name.  When he told her, she pulled a gun from underneath her sweatshirt and shot him dead.   Later it came out that her husband had died from lung cancer and emphysema and she held the tobacco company and the executives especially, responsible.  

He barely made it into heaven because of the tobacco thing.  His devotion to his wife and children saved him, he had been an excellent family man.  Ironically, it was that devotion that caused his fall from grace.  He couldn’t let go and as a spirit he haunted his family when he should have moved to a higher plane.  Against the rules, he drifted to earth and sat in the back of a classroom or ran up and down the soccer field exhorting his eldest son to victory.   He lay in bed next to his wife while she read and while she slept, causing her psychic angst, unable to be free of him because he was, in fact, still very much with her.  Most of all he lingered around his youngest daughter, Gretchen.  She was the one he loved the best probably because he had almost lost her so many times.   She was born a preemie and there were many times when it looked like she might not make it to first birthday.  It had been Azazael whose name then had been Elias, who sat up with her night after night while she struggled and cried in pain, her face scrunched in agony, tiny angry fists that only loosened when he rocked her and held her bare chest to his bare chest, skin on skin.  

It seemed the only natural thing to do to watch her as closely after his death.  She was five when he was gunned down and for weeks after, she spoke not a word as she waited for him to return.  It didn’t help that her mother and six brothers and sisters were experiencing their own grief and didn’t try hard to reach her and help her understand.   Elias saw all of this and shrieked in pain.   Initially the angels, whose job it was to ease his transition, were successful in restraining and distracting him.  He went through a boot camp of sorts, learning all the ropes, the new ways of the above, rules, etiquette, etc.  They piled extra assignments on him to keep his mind occupied:  count all the fishes in the Baltic Sea, rank the stars in order of brightness, write a prayer for each new baby born in Kazakhstan, and more.  It never occurred to Elias to say no to these ridiculous tasks, he had always been dutiful.  Soon though, he chafed and succumbed to the longing to be with his family.  He became adept at finding slivers of time throughout the day when he could quickly descend to Earth and be with Sandra and the kids. 

The consequences of these transgressions were piling up.   Everything in heaven is quantified and analyzed. There was no lack of personnel who would tally everything remotely worth measuring.  As such, there was an angel assigned solely to Elias who took note of his comings and goings.  Every time Elias descended to Earth to haunt his family, a big black checkmark was entered into a ledger.

In the Hunger Games, the brutal central government hosts annual gladiator type games to impress on the citizens in the remote regions their subjugation. Two children from each of twelve districts for the "games" are "reaped" and have to fight each other to the death in the wilderness until there is left standing, just a single victor.   Prior to the games, there is a lot of pageantry - the children are assigned a stylist team, they vie for sponsors, they prance around for the audience, bets are made. The entire country watches, with enthusiasm, the games on TV.  Yesterday, as I had my pedicure, I watched the pre-Oscar show.  I was repelled - maybe because it was too similar to what I just read. I dunno what it was that bothered me so much, trying to put my finger on it.  I think it was the artificiality of the event.  The co-hosts, with fake sparkling smiles, upstaging each other, the hype over what was really bizarrely uninteresting.  Viewers being exhorted to participate, get on Facebook and Twitter, breathless Twitter comments like, "It's rumored that Angelina Jolie will be wearing red tonight!"  WTF!!!   Tell me, am I the only one who doesn't give a rat's ass whether Angelina Jolie decided to wear a red dress to the Oscars?  Am I the only one who hasn't drunk the Kool-Aid?   Please tell me you think it's dumb too!!!!

Challenge today.  Choose wisely what you decide to care about - don't be manipulated.  Life is too short to give precious time to vapid pursuits and I'm sorry, watching air-brushed idiots talk obsequiously about starlets is a frigging waste of time.  If you're filling your head with that kind of crap, you are just a media pawn.  Don't be a pawn.  Choose wisely what you decide to care about. Better yet, get rid of the TV.  It's the opiate of the masses.

Peace,

Sarah

Quince/Pleasure

It's a gorgeous day out there and appropriate for February!  Trying to put together last minute plans for tonight.  Hoping friends Josh and Ryan will go to Schaller's with me.  They are amazingly fun to be with.  Weird, unscripted, brilliant, talented, edgy, unfiltered, neurotic (just like me).  I adore them.  They just bought a house in Garfield Park which is a neighborhood not for the faint of heart.  Josh is a prairie gardener which is going to be a challenge in an urban setting.   He also doesn't want the landscaping to be ostentatious and scream "wealth", so it will be really fun to see how he structures the gardens so that from a distance they seem like nothing but on closer examination their exquisiteness is revealed.   I joked that he should plant a wall of thorn hedges around the property (just like in Sleeping Beauty) and only if you make your way into the inner sanctum will you see the beauty.

Pleasure.  It's been on my mind today.  This afternoon I will have a session with my masseuse who I've worked with for years.  We will drink tea, catch up on each others' lives and then I will be touched.  If you are in a relationship you may have forgotten what it's like to go for swaths of time with no human touch except the occasional hug from a friend.  The most intimacy I get these days is from Obi.  He is a warmth stealer so on chilly days I take pity on him and as I read or nap in my chair, he curls up under my shirt right against my skin.  Fur on skin, interspecial intimacy.  Maybe I'm the warmth stealer.

As I sat with my coffee today and looked out at the winter wonderland I realized how each day offers so many pleasures.  Pleasures that are easy to overlook or take for granted.  I thought of the night before and how I came home chilly and got into a warm tub filled with bath salts called "Heartsong".  An indulgence of mine are the little packets of bath salts at Whole Foods with names like, "Euphoria", "Inspiration", "Tranquility", etc.  I buy them eight at a time and I spread them in the front of my lingerie drawer.  As I draw my bath, I open the drawer and ponder what mood I want to be in.  Last night it was Heartsong.  That and the lavender bubble bath that I also add to the water makes for true pleasure.   And before I get into the bath,  I make sure the heat is turned down to 60, the covers pulled back, my teeth brushed and all the lights in the house extinguished.  That way, when the bath is done, there is nothing between me and my cozy bed.  When I wake up in the morning, the house is cold and I am incredibly comfortable entwined in my perfect down comforter.  I love waking in the morning like that, looking out at the mammoth elm tree outside my window.  Pleasure again.

And my coffee sipped in reverie in a quiet house - pure bliss.  These pleasures, they are so simple but the good stuff of life - where joy lies.  It seems I'm guilty of glossing over them and trying to amass bigger and better pleasures - higher octane pleasure, turn up the volume pleasure.  There is an acquisitiveness to it, yes?  Reminds of me of when I discovered quince.  I had a recipe for a Christmas jam I wanted to make.  It called for quince.  I didn't know what a quince was.   I researched it and then started to panic when I couldn't find them anywhere.  Not to be denied, I searched high and low in Chicago and on the 12th page of a Google search I found referenced a backyard orchard club and the organizer talked about the quince tree in his back yard.  I contacted him, scheming how I could get some of his quince for my jam.  We met, he gave me a few.  It wouldn't do.  More research.  I found quince sold wholesale in Carpentersville.  By that time I had quince fever.  I sent Steve to pick them up.  I first ordered a case of them, then changed my order to four cases.  Steve arrived back home with hundreds of quince.  I made the jam and hated it.  Vile.  And yet I still wanted to own every single quince in the world at that moment.  I had fallen in love with them and wanted them all.  That fall, I made everything quince:  quince cake, savory pork and quince stew, quince/apple pie, and tons and tons of quince marmalade.

Over the top, right?  Take a simple pleasure and get greedy.   Last week a benefit for my friend Spider's one woman show in the home of wealthy friends of hers.  They have a beautiful brownstone in the city.  I walked from room to room in their home and my senses were saturated by all their collectibles.  It was too much to take in, in one viewing.  Every inch covered in expensiveness, every surface exquisite, every wall crammed with beautiful things.  Acquisitiveness on steroids.   I asked one of the hosts if they were done collecting and was told, "we will never be done".  I then asked him where he spent his time in the house - where amongst all the luxury did he find peace.  I expected him to mention a sweet simple corner tucked away in a sunny, sleepy spot.  I was so sad at his answer.  He said, "There is no place in the house I feel comfortable except in my bed under the covers."  Wow.

Anyway, today I ramble.  Gotta run.  The challenge today is, of course, thinking about your simple pleasures and appreciating them, really appreciating them.  We probably don't need more.  I certainly don't need to own all the quince in North America.  Thinking we just need to slow down and appreciate what we have.  Think when I get home I'll crack open that chocolate mint tea I have.  Mmmmmmm...

Peace,
Sarah

Calgon Take Me Away!/Judge and Jury

So when I said "Your weaknesses are not cute or endearing," in yesterday's blog post, that wasn't entirely true.  I was having a black and white moment.  In truth, your weaknesses are often very endearing.  We admire peoples' strengths but what touches our hearts are the cracks, the vulnerabilities- yes, the weaknesses.  What is truly endearing is when a person owns up to their weaknesses (doesn't try to sugar coat shit) and then works to improve, asking for help if they can't crack the nut themselves.  That's the stuff of admiration.   I once told a friend the only way he could disappoint me is if he disappointed himself.  I can't script success for another person, can't prescribe what a worthy life should look like, but I will recognize failure when I see it - I will see it in your eyes, hear it in your excuses, observe it in your actions.  I won't love you any less for your failures, but I will be disappointed in you, for you.


Does that make me judge and jury?  Calling someone judgemental is pejorative - but should it be? What if we all held each other to a higher standard and called each other out for self limitating behaviors?  Called a duck a duck. It's just a thought.  Would we still like each other?  Maybe not. It's probably a bad idea - we cling to each other for comfort.


Last night, writing group.  Oh, my.  What a strange night!   Dan was in the throes of a writing crisis, questioning our whole raison d'etre for being there, accusing everyone, including himself of wasting time - writing dilletantes.  New guy Marv came and monopolized.  He burned our time, passed judgement, held himself aloft as a "real" writer with false modesty, and then he left halfway through when we nudged the focus away from him (OK, that was me).  Then 3/4 way through the evening another new old gent showed up and he too rambled and rambled.  We listened politely to him but really we were all thinking, "Calgon, take me away!"  Horrific night.  As the primary leader of the group I could have done a better job of reigning all of it in and keeping the focus.  It was a lesson learned.  Next time, I will interrupt and redirect more effectively.


I wrote an interesting piece despite the distractions.  Afterwards I was asked if I have an agricultural background which was quite a compliment because I don't.  Obviously my writing must have seemed realistic.  And really, I don't even know where I got some of these expressions - they just surfaced as I wrote - "corn bolting", a horse "throwing a shoe", the use of the word copse."   Hmmmm...that marvelous retentive brain..it stores this stuff from God knows where.  The prompt was "use the image - a plain wedding ring around the slim twig of a tree". 

On the third day, they called off the search.  Ephram wanted them to search further - the lower field over by Maynard's Marsh and the small wood just beyind.  But it was harvest time, and already a hardship - the hours spent searching for Carrie.  The soybeans could wait another week but the corn would bolt if it wasn't brought in by week's end.  

And it wasn't just Carrie they searched for - inside her, the soon to be born son whom Ephram loved sight unseen.  Evan, Ezra, Earnest - she had insisted on an "E" name when Ephram said "no way," to Ephram, Jr.  He had always hated his name. 

Four days - it seemed like forever ago.  Ephram replayed the events of that day over and over in his mind, looking for a clue.  There was nothing.  That day, when he returned from the fields for dinner, a bit later than usual because Maisie had thrown a shoe, he expected to find Carrie at her usual post in the kitchen, putting the final touches on dinner. 

Maybe he needed to zoom out - review things with a more distant objective lens.  Life for Ephram had been perfect of late.  Carrie, fifteen years his junior who came to him (or was it given to him?) from her father's house - an eighteen year old, fresh faced virgin.  After Mariah died in childbirth with their first child, Ephram never dreamed he would find happiness again. 

Was it possible Carrie had been unhappy all this time?  Ephram wandered into the little copse of apple trees that lay between the farmhouse and the hay shed. Something drew him to the old gnarled pear tree that stood apart.  There he found it - a plain wedding ring, Carrie's ring, placed on a slim twig of the tree where she knew he would find it. 

Today, taking on hard stuff at the office.  Working on personal victories.  Getting caught up.  Taking deep cleansing breaths to look at stuff that makes the hairs on the back of my neck tingly.   I am looking at a post-it note I wrote myself a few days ago.   It says, “Breathe! It will be OK! Courage!!!” I also am really, really trying to help Madeleine get some life momentum.  She is in quick sand.  I hate the thought that my gift to her might have to be cutting her loose – the ultimate kick in the pants.  It seems heartless and extreme and dangerous.   Yesterday she and I lunched.  I didn’t shove self help down her throat – at least I tried not to.   Afterwards we went to Barnes and Noble and got the teen version of the 7 Habits book.   She has committed to reading it by Monday.  We’ll see.


Challenge today is giving thought to my question, “What if we all held each other to a higher standard?”  I have a friend who refuses to discuss Patrick with me.  She has never come right out and said the topic is off limits, but when his name comes up, she changes the subject.  I get it.  She is “telling” me that she will not be a party to my self-limiting dwelling – she will not indulge me.  I have resented her at times for not coming to my pity party, but I also know she’s right - she is holding me to a higher standard of behavior in a very gentle way.   If there are people in your life who engage you in the same bug dance, over and over, who seek inappropriate support for stuff they should have fortitude about, is it time to step back and let them know you expect more from them?  I’m just saying!

Peace,

Sarah

Rationalizations/Response-able

Wednesday, writing group tonight which is usually such a creative high, even when my writing is lackluster.  Last time we met at my house and combined socializing and writing.  That might not have been the best idea because two martinis later and now I can barely make out the inebriated words I wrote that night (I have since given up vodka).  That was also the night I got smacked in the face by Judy B.'s partner (figuratively) and told to leave her alone.  I'm still amazed by that turn of events.  How can two (or three) peoples' realities be so different.   I thought I was being a good, kind person by giving Judy rides and including her in musical events.  She thought (I think now) there were romantic possibilities with me (even though she knew I was nursing heartbreak over Patrick) and her partner thought I was hitting on Judy.  Seriously!   How can people get it SO wrong sometimes?

I'm reminded of the way Mozart brilliantly structures musical ensemble pieces where up to four singers will sing simultaneously and yet, they are singing entirely different words.  This one might be bemoaning the loss of his love, another might be complaining about having to do housework, another might be musing about an upcoming holiday, while the fourth singer sings of the beautiful day.   They are each on their own trip, totally oblivious to each other and yet sharing the stage at the same time.  And we, the audience, take it all in - all at once, and amazingly it makes sense (because Mozart is a genius).   The takeaway from that thought is that each day we are all encased in our own realities, following our own agendas, and yet we share the stage with the other characters in our lives.  On good days we make music together.  On bad days we screech at each other and the discord hurts our ears and even our souls.

Last night Helen and Steve over for dinner before he leaves for Botswana at the end of the week.   They've had a rough time - 6 deaths of loved ones in 2011.  I joked that it might be hazardous to be their friend and certainly their relatives would seem to be at high risk!  Rather than just send a condolence card I wanted to nurture them with a good meal and sympathetic conversation.  The most recent death was Helen's mother in December (unexpected).  So talk we did as we ate a wonderful kale, potato, chorizo soup that was just a hint  spicy.  We started with manchego cheese topped with membrillo (quince paste) and finished with what else, carrot cake.  I can get obsessive and lately making carrot cake and continuing to tweak the recipe until there is nothing left to tweak has been an avid pastime.  I think everyone in my immediate circle hopes for the day when I'll switch to something new.   Mark wants me to perfect tiramisu.  I'm thinking a four layer lemon cake, each layer drizzled with lemon syrup with a lemon curd buttercream frosting.  And then there's Mario's favorite (and request) - red velvet cake which I so don't get.   I just can't seem to muster any enthusiasm for what is essentially a plain white cake with only 2 TBS of cocoa powder and a whopping 2 TBS of red food coloring that just can't be good for you.  Sigh.   I'll make it, but under protest.  I aim to please in the cake department.

My favorite chair masseur was at Whole Foods yesterday when I picked up ingredients for dinner.   His name is Michael and he is a scary looking, eye-wandering Russian who adores me (probably because in the past I've tipped outrageously).  When he looks at you, one eye focuses and the other just does its own thing which is really disconcerting.  He smiles, looking at you with the one eye, and his mouth is brown, not white - not a white tooth in the bunch - total rot.  I have to think he must be in pain.  BUT, when he puts his hands on you and starts his little humming thing, it is pure bliss. Just by touching my body he knows what's been going on with me which is scary weird.  When I worked on the US Cell project - 80 hours a week, he could tell I was beyond depleted and that my arms and neck were frozen from all the computer work.  I haven't been to him in about six month. Yesterday he said, "You're not working hard these days?" (he was right - I'm between projects). Later he said, "There is such sadness. You've suffered a loss?"   He knew just by touching me.

I've been thinking a lot about personal victories and keeping promises to myself - starting small with the whole character building thingy.  Today I ruminated about the people I know and the challenges they face - their struggles.  I thought about the excuses, the lapses, the rationalizations for not making progress on the important stuff that must be done for their lives to be healthy (physically, emotionally, financially, creatively).  And don't get me wrong - I've got to be one of the biggest offenders - a true scofflaw on many fronts. I'm starting to think that we are too permissive with ourselves and each other - that we live in a culture of laxness. I hear people saying stuff like, "that's a battle I can't win", or "it's what I need", or "I just can't change", "it's just the way I am.", "I'm doing the best that I can" - when those kinds of excuses are voiced, we all nod our heads sympathetically and support the self-defeating statements.

So how's this for in your face?  If you are a person who is not doing what you know you should be doing to have a worthy life - if you make excuses and cut yourself slack so that you're not taking on life's challenges, then you are person with weak character.  Doesn't mean you can't fix it, but call it like it is.  Own it.  Not taking care of yourself means you are weak willed and low on personal character.  Not striving for better relationships with the people most important to you (and yes it's hard) is an indictment of your character.  Not being a good friend and citizen means you're one of the people who are just taking up space.

Challenge today.  If the shoe fits, wear it - own it.  Your weaknesses are not cute or endearing.  You can do better.  Today Sarah=bitch, but seriously think about working on giving yourself some private victories.  As thinking humans with free will, we should not act like animals -  just responding to stimulii.  Be responsible, or as Covey says, "response-able"  In everything, we can pause before responding and make enlightened and wise choices.

Peace,
Sarah

Reap a Destiny/Take It Down To The Studs

Last night Petterino's - sat with new friends Judy and Bernie whom I adore.  We three sang well, Judy managed even though the pianist put her in the wrong key.  She's a pro so she knew what she had to do to get through it even though it wasn't optimal.  I sang Losing My Mind a really wrenching, slit your wrists song by Stephen Sondheim. I'm OK singing it these days - for a while when I sang it to friends, it raised hackles because it was too close to the truth.  One friend begged me not to sing it any more, fearing, I think, that it would be self fulfilling.  But these days, I'm less losing my mind.

So, Habits (that's going to be my shorthand versus the full title, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.)  I finished the book early this morning over a cup of coffee on this gray and rainy morning.  I didn't want it to end so I lingered over the last pages.  When I finally closed it, I said, "OK, then." This is a demarcation point for me.  You know the expression, "Game On"? - well here's a new one "Life On".

I've decided not to talk too much about my relationship with this book.  I will mention things from time to time when I think there is value, but I'm cognizant that I could get obnoxiously preachy and my pontificating could be a huge turn off.   There is nothing worse then a reformed whore!

Having said that, what's on my mind today is the concept that private victories have to precede public victories.  - "that making and keeping promises to ourselves precedes making and keeping promises to others.   It is futile to put personality ahead of character, to try to improve relationships with others before improving ourselves."  This last year I fell apart on just about every front. It started with the end of my consuming project, falling in love with Patrick, taking over the finances and realizing just how much had to be done, struggling to be a good mother in the face of really scary behaviors, lots of losses.

I flailed and railed and grasped at others for an end to the confusion and pain.  It's OK to need the support of people but it's not OK to expect people to take care of you in the absence of you taking care of yourself.  That is what I've been doing.   And maybe, in looking back, the disintegration had a purpose if I can come out the other end of it.   For so many years I held the "house" up by sheer force of will and personality.  Notice I didn't say mortar - there was little mortar. When strong winds blew, my magic failed and things were revealed to be what they were.  Kaveh says it's good.....he credits me with taking the house down to the studs.  By letting chips fall where they will, without my usual darting around and propping things up, by just being passive, it forced change, required other people to step in and contribute.

OK, so now I'm sounding noble.   If I DID take things down to the studs this last year it was by attrition, not by planned design.   I would be lying to say I didn't hope for a knight on a white horse to swoop in and fix everything.  And there have been some white knight moments in the past year - people who made a space in their lives and hearts to help me.   I especially remember Liza forcing me to get up early each morning and walk with her along the lakefront.  It meant she had to give up her own exercise - she never complained.  Soon I was an independent walker.  My accountant has been so much more than an accountant, worrying about me, counseling me, being a friend.  I have leaned on her too heavily.  This is not the Oscars - I am not going to itemize every person who I've leaned on this last year - there have been so many.   You know who you are and you know I appreciate you.

The first three habits are the things we do to achieve independence and mastery over ourselves. Without independence the really big stuff eludes us:  success, good relationships, the life lived well. You can't be sloppy with self care and expect to have any currency in the world.  So it comes down to habits.  I like these two quotes:

We are what we repeatedly do.
Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit. - Aristotle

Our character, basically, is a composite of our habits.  "Sow a thought, reap an action; sow an action, reap a habit; sow a habit, reap a character; sow a character, reap a destiny

I've talked a lot about habits and willpower in this blog - a subject I'm passionate about but really hit or miss about.  I think I've approached this subject from the wrong angle.  Lately as I do my daily strivings, I'm framing my actions with a clearer lens.  I realize the contracts I make with myself are the most important - that to play fast and loose with those commitments is to be corrupt, broken - worthless to myself and to others.   It's being a vessel with huge cracks, a ship with holes in the hull.

Self mastery and independence - that's where it all begins.  I will start with the Habits workbook and take on the first assignment which is to write my own mission statement.   What an amazing thing that will be - to cut through the crap and identify my own core values that align correctly with immutable high level human principles. Like the book says, I will put on paper words to live by that I can then use to "align my behavior with my beliefs".

The challenge today is to not get frustrated with Sarah's new-found enthusiasm and to keep reading. I know I'm like a kid in the candy store.  I don't expect you to drop what you're doing and go on this journey with me.  In all fairness many of you are well down the road already and all I'm doing is catching up.  But if you are having an existential crisis, consider getting the book and getting word to me so that we can support each other.

Peace,
Sarah                                                                                              

7 Habits/Character

So why didn't any of you tell me about this book, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People before? Seriously, is it some kind of conspiracy? All kidding aside, sometimes we are so lucky, blessed - whatever, to find what we need at the exact time we need it.  Right time, right place.  And truth be told, I have to claim some of the credit.  I DID seek it out, bought it, read it.  It's not as if I were walking down the street and a cleaning lady accidentally pushed a copy out the window as she was dusting a nearby shelf in an apartment above my head and the book landed at my feet.

There are people in this world I greatly admire and I've never been able to put my finger on what it is that makes them great - it's just been a gut feeling that when I'm with them there is authenticity and a core of strength that colors and drives everything they do, how they interact, how they see the world.  Any maybe they come by their strengths organically, or maybe they read this book at some point in their life and decided to walk their own walk.  I have a burning desire to know if they read and consciously incorporated the teachings of this book in their lives - if it was an important turning point for them.

And what is the difference between a person who reads a book like the 7 habits and takes it in deeply and makes fundamental changes versus a person who reads it and for whom there is no discernable difference in how they view the world?   I've asked a few people if they read this book (it seems I'm the only person who didn't) and most everyone says yes.   My next question is, "What did you get out of it?" or "What do you remember about it?" and disappointingly the answer is usually, "I don't remember much about it, just know that I read it years ago when it was first published."   Maybe because it is so fresh for me and also because I  am at the right place in my life for it, I can't imagine reading this book and not being humbled, optimistic, grateful and eager to do the work.

I know what you're thinking (oh, wait....one of the chapters is about not imposing your own autobiography on other people and assuming you know what they're thinking - oops!).  OK, I suspect that you might be thinking, "Here goes Sarah again with her book of the month inspirational thinking!"  By next month she will be on to something else, waxing poetic about something new and the 7 habits will be yesterday's news.   And I do worry about the "flit effect" - trying this, trying that, like a hummingbird seeking meaning and comfort here and there. Time will tell.   If this book is going to have the profound impact on my life that I think it will, you will be my witnesses and maybe be inspired to take it on too.

The first thought that resonated with me was Covey's research into the last 200 years of self-help, success literature.  In the first 150 years, the foundation of success was deemed to be linked to developing character:" things like integrity, humility, fidelity, temperance, courage, justice, patience, industry, simplicity, modesty."   Only in the last 50 years has the emphasis changed to techniques for molding one's personality to bring about change.  Positive mental attitude (PMA) became the focus.  "Dress for success", "Fake it until you make it", "Believe and it will come true."   And it's not to say that some of these techniques aren't useful - they are.  But they should be recognized as the cosmetic stuff we do and not a substitute for character building.   I told Madeleine today it would be like making a beautiful apple pie with rotten apples.   Sure the top crust could be golden brown, brushed with egg white and sprinkled with sanding sugar to glow but it wouldn't fool anyone as soon as the first bite was taken.

I love this:

Many people with secondary greatness - that is, social recognition for their talents - lack primary greatness or goodness in their character.  Sooner or later, you'll see this in every long-term relationship they have, whether it is with a business associate, a spouse, a friend, or a teenage child going through an identity crisis.  It is character that communicates most eloquently.  As Emerson once put it, "What you are shouts so loudly in my ears I cannot hear what you say."

I am going to be a student of this book.  I might even start a study group around it.  In reading it, I wince over and over as I see myself reflected in the stories he tells.  I have some very big character deficits that I need to own up to and work on.  My raw material is good and, good for me that there is a desire to do the work to be a better person, but oh, how I wish I had taken this all on as a younger woman.  Think of the positive impact I could have had on my own and other peoples' lives.   It's not too late though.

The challenge today is to suspend belief that this is some new Sarah scheme that will fade away and be relegated to archived blog posts.  Those of you who know me, know I know quality, that I am a truffle snuffing pig when it comes to authenticity.  I don't always walk the walk but I know the real deal when I see it.  Stephen Covey is the real deal - he is worth studying.  If you read this book 15 years ago and it didn't have an impact, maybe it's because you were young and felt omnipotent and didn't need it.   Now, if you're like me, you are in a more open place, you realize your shit DOES stink, and you suspect there is a better way.  Will you buy a copy of the book and follow along with me as I talk about it?

Peace,
Sarah

"Into the hands of every individual is given a marvelous power for good or evil - the silent, unconscious, unseen influence of his life.  This is simply the constant radiation of what man really is, not what he pretends to be."
- William George Jordan

Is Your Cat Making You Crazy?/Sarah Assassin?

I'm OK today. Dinner last night with Carla at Stained Glass.  It was really nice and cheered me. Weird though that I always get seated at the same table.  She's amazing - a powerful woman, energetic, positive, results oriented.

Today I'm still thinking about how cool our brains are, how there is so much we still don't know.  I've had fire on my mind.  Last night I dreamed of a huge city fire and defying police orders and going back into my building to get Madeleine and the two cats, cutting it very close.  This morning I thought of something that happened this last Christmas that makes me wonder why I'm wired differently from most everyone else.  I was at a Christmas party and there was a large screen TV that everyone was watching with a football game on it.  A woman sauntered in front of the screen and to everyone's horror she was on fire.  Her very long scarf that was flipped over her shoulder and draped long past her knees was ablaze and like a dynamite fuse the fire was racing up her back, consuming the scarf.   Everyone screamed.  No one did anything.  She thought the screaming was because of the football game and she was totally unaware that she was on fire.   Of the people who saw, I was one of the furthest away, but I leaped from the couch and in a flash I was on her.  I'm told I ripped the scarf from her just before the flames reached her hair that looked to be oiled.

And I'd like to say that I weighed the wisdom of my actions and decided to take action regardless of any danger to myself, but it wasn't like that at all.   It was reptilian, just instinct, just impulse.  I'm wired with a trigger finger for action.  Danger=Sarah in Motion.  And sometimes it's not good, like when the 2 lb kitten bit my foot and drew blood and without thought I smacked it with a brush I was using on my daughter's hair.  The kitten was I think concussed, there was some staggering and throwing up as I remember.   I was almost a kitten killer.  But there was also the time when I grabbed a pick pocket-er on a bus and another time when I rushed to an old man who fell while everyone else walked past him.   My siblings knew not to startle me (no boos while springing from behind a door).   If they did I would grab them by the throat and throttle them.

There is this scientist who has witnessed a change in his personality over the years and like me he has lost his sense of caution.  He describes how he now just walks into traffic, assuming safety, sure the cars will adjust.  He's got a bizarre theory about why this has happened to him, a theory that is only now starting to be taken seriously.  He says he has been infected by a parasite and that it has taken up residence in his brain and has altered his behavior over a period of time.   The parasite is the toxoplasma microbe, that only replicates in cats’ guts.   It's the reason that pregnant women are told not to clean cat boxes during pregnancy.  It's known that "a woman who becomes infected during pregnancy can transmit the disease to the fetus, resulting in severe brain damage in the baby - or even death.  In adults the disease causes flu-like symptoms - and those with a suppressed immune system can become seriously ill with complications such as encephalitis (inflammation of the brain) - but many carrying the latent disease appear to have no symptoms. However, once inside an animal or human host, the parasite then needs to get back into the cat, as that is the only place where it can sexually reproduce."  

He goes on to say that he's been tested positively for the parasite  (one out of 5 people have it) and claims that over the years his personality has changed, "leading him to behave in strange, often self-destructive ways".  He cites his walking in traffic, openly criticizing the Communists in Czechoslovakia which was a stupid thing to do and even feeling totally calm when there was gunfire while everyone around him freaked.  

His research shows evidence that the parasite is doing mischief in affected brains and manipulating the production of dopamine (dopamine again!  damn dopamine!)  Dopamine is a chemical that carries messages in the brain controlling aspects of movement, cognition and behavior and can trigger schizophrenia and other bipolar disorders.  Sure enough there seems to be a higher incidence of toxoplasmosis among schizophrenics than the general population!

I think I must have parasite mischief going on in my brain.  I've had cats my whole life and I was brought up in an unhygienic house.  Bet you anything I'd test positive. I am strangely fearless.  Just recently I laughed with a friend and told him that I always thought I'd make a good CIA agent - that if my country came to me and said there was a foreign despot who needed eliminating but that they needed an unlikely assassin to get close to him - I would be their "man".  We joked that I could be sent in as a French-singing, knitting chanteuse with sharpened, poisoned knitting needles!

All for today.  We'll talk more about wonderful brains as my research continues.  Knowledge is power and I for one don't want to be controlled by something I don't understand.   Your challenge today could be to read the entire article.  Here's the link. Is Your Cat Making you crazy?

Peace,

Sarah

Chilled/Phoenix One More Time

It failed me yesterday - my will to prevail, the glass half full attitude, the grateful lens.  That's OK, right?  Some days we just feel beaten at the game of life.  So this blog entry today is going to be tough to read.  I have to write it - it can't be contained because right now it's sitting like a giant rock in my gut and I have to expel it.  So, if you read me each day and find my posts life affirming or entertaining and that's what you need today, then just skip me today.  If, on the other hand, you care and are OK "listening", that's really nice and I'm grateful for that.

I tried.  I really did but it all just converged on me like the climax in a Greek play and I was mostly powerless. Today I know what I have to do.  After I write this blog post, I will shake myself off and try my soaring wings yet again.  One of these days, I will take flight again.   I remember what it was like to fly.

Yesterday's list:

• Fallout from the conversation with Patrick.   I knew, even as I spoke with him the other night, that the downside of the call would be incredible sadness in the next days.  When we spoke our words tumbled over each other.  It was easy and wonderful and we had so much to say, so much to catch each other up on.  It was as if no time had elapsed.  It felt like coming home - finally.   And we talked and talked, knowing that when the conversation ended it would be the last for a very long time, maybe even forever.  And so we fought the end of the conversation, tried to wrap it up a couple of times only to keep it going because ending it was too hard.  But end it we did.  We said goodnight.  We said goodbye as if it wasn't a final goodbye, but it was.   And even if we end up friends down the road, it will be different.  It will be something new - there won't be the same love between us.  
• Valentine's Day - I hate the day - always have, even when I was married. I have always longed to be in mutual  loving relationship on Valentine's Day and it has always eluded me and made me very, very sad.  When I came home last night to an empty house, dreading an alone Valentine's evening, there were flowers on my kitchen counter - really lovely flowers.  I had no idea who they were from - one of the kids who knew I was suffering?  Before I crossed the threshold I started to weep in gratitude for whoever it was who knew what a hard day it was for me.  I was beyond grateful.  The flowers were from the new tenant Mario with a cute, handmade care.  He said "you deserve way more than flowers...You are an amazing person and I consider myself lucky to have met you.  Thank you for everything."  
• I was chilled.  It wasn't particularly cold yesterday but I was chilled, I think, chilled by my life. I trembled and ate a tiny amount of food and went upstairs to my warmer bedroom. It was only 5:30 but I put on bedclothes and climbed into bed, hoping for the day to end. I couldn't sleep - just lay there and then Madeleine came in all aglow but feeling worried for me when she saw me in bed.  She sat on the side of the bed and stroked my head and kissed me.  She loves me dearly - that's always been the case, even during the roughest of times between us.  She then left for dinner with her boyfriend.  
• Whitney - her passing.  Even that had a special significance to me that contributed to the perfect storm of sadness.   When Patrick and I broke up and he was miserable, he sent me an e-mail with a link to the YouTube of her singing, "I Will Always Love You". He said that he couldn't get the song out of his head.  It became our breakup song.  I told him I would learn it and sing it "to him" even in absentia.  I haven't been able to.  It's printed and in my songbook but there is absolutely no way I could learn that song and sing it in public without making a blubbering fool of myself.  And so, it stares at me from my songbook.   I leaf past it several times a week and wonder if I'm ready yet to learn it, wonder if I should even learn it, or if I should just remove the pages.  So last night, laying there looking at the ceiling for hours, wishing for the pain to go away, I scrolled through my phone and was again confronted by stories of her including a link to her singing that song and the final scenes from The Bodyguard.  Yup, I tortured myself and watched it, knew I shouldn't, but I did.  It made me so sad I was beyond tears.  I just curled up tighter, in a fetal ball, clutching my comforter tight around me and lay that way for another hour.
• What I didn't do last night was drown my sorrows or stuff my face with carbs.  These days I am ascetic.  I am denying myself any kind of comfort.  I decided a week ago not to drink any more (except a social glass of wine with friends) and I also decided to get serious about the rest of the weight loss.  These days I eat just enough to stop the grumbling and even then not enough to keep it at bay for very long.  My best friend these days has been the ache in my stomach from no food.  The ache in my stomach is a sister to the ache in my heart - it feels right.   And even though I am beautiful I am too fat to be loved.  No matter what anyone says, we all know that no one wants the fat girl.   I get it. So I will not eat and I will lay, looking at the ceiling and wait to be thin - and loved.
• Jealousy of your own child - now that's a Greek theme. Madeleine.  She and I are sometimes boundary-less.  I went into therapy because she and I were too entwined - told that she over identified with me and that for her to be better, I needed to be better. She and I have both been heartbroken, same deal - love lost.   But just this last weekend, her dreams came true.  The words she never thought she would hear from the boy she thought she had lost.  She has him back and she is in her bliss.  And she is young with her life ahead of her.  And she is thin.  I am truly, truly happy for her and yet I would lie to say there isn't some jealous bile in my mouth.  
• Friends - so worried.  Yesterday I wasn't alone.  In the AM I talked to Kaveh (we have just two more sessions).  Later, Nick in Germany, Victor and then in the evening Liza.  Mini interventions.  They are all but shaking me.  I swear if I had talked to them in person, one of them would have slapped me across my face to get me to snap out of it.  And I see all of this, understand and appreciate their wisdom, intellectualize it, embrace it, want it - and yet like a creme puff it leaves me as soon as the phone is hung up.

So today.  Really just two choices.  It's come down to this.  I either jump from a parapet (who the hell uses the word parapet?) or I choose to live again.  I need to finally accept that he is gone, that he didn't choose me, that no amount of loving him will bring him back to my arms.  He loves me but.....not enough.   I have tried to make sense of this.  How can you be loved but not wanted?  I may never make sense of it.  I have struggled, looking for an answer, a solution, acceptance.

Before the phoenix rose from the ashes, I'm thinking he spent a lot of time in the soot, like me, thrashing around, trying to find his bearings, trying his wings only to find they couldn't hold his weight with the heavy rock of sadness in his heart, trying again and again, being plucky despite the fact that each day he died a little bit, choking on the acid taste of defeat and the ever present ashes. But one day, he tried one last time.  Maybe he too felt almost defeated but he tried a final time - a last gasp effort.  He shook off the ashes and spread his weak wings and this time they held his weight. 

Today, I am going to try one more time.  I am going to close up this blog entry by saying thank-you for reading, grateful that I have a way to express myself, and commit myself to getting through this.   For the rest of the week I will write about interesting things that will be easy and fun for you to read.   I will not indulge this sadness again.  It's just that it was too much for me yesterday:  the talk, the joy of making him the perfect cake, the dreaded Valentine's Day, Madeleine's happiness, the songs, Whitney, the winter.

Watch this.   Not A Day Goes By - Bernadette Peters

Peace,

Sarah

Adele/Damn Dopamine

Hmmmmm....I just read an interesting article in the New York Times called "Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker".  All of a sudden I feel predictable.  So, back story.  Sunday I got an e-mail from friend Carol telling me she was so struck by the physical similarities between the singer Adele and me - said she was my double (albeit younger).  She messaged me during the Grammy's.  I was aware of her a bit - Madeleine had me watch her video, Someone Like You, several months ago, and I barely made it through it.   I listened to it again after Carol's e-mail and again, barely made it through.  OK, truth be told I totally broke down and sobbed giant tears, gulped for air.

Now I realize I'm not unique - seems that song has that effect on a lot of people.  According to the article, "researchers have found that certain features of music are consistently associated with producing strong emotions in listeners. Combined with heartfelt lyrics and a powerhouse voice, these structures can send reward signals to our brains that rival any other pleasure."  Apparently there is a formula for a tear jerking song that includes things like, notes that clash with the melody just enough to create dissonance, "The songs begin with a soft repetitive pattern with lyrics that are wistfully restrained.  This sets up a sentimental and melancholy mood".  Then the chorus of the song (the middle part that is different) provides a dramatic shift.  In Adele's case, her voice jumps up an octave and she belts out the notes with increasing volume.  "The harmony shifts and the lyrics become more dramatic.  When the music breaks from the expected pattern our sympathetic nervous system goes on high alert, our hearts race and we start to sweat.  Depending on the context, we interpret this state of arousal as positive or negative, happy or sad."  The obvious question - if a song produces intense sadness why is it so popular?  Apparently, "even intense sadness releases dopamine in the pleasure and reward centers of the brain, similar to the effects of food, sex and drugs."  The article concludes, "With Someone Like You, they crafted a perfect tear-jerker but also stumbled upon a formula for commercial success:  Unleash the tears and chills with small surprises, a smoky voice and soulful lyrics, and then sit back and let the dopamine keep us coming back for more."

I knew it!!!  Just yesterday didn't I say that both joy and sadness light up the brain in similar ways - that sadness can be addictive?  I'm feeling a little genius.   So what to do with this knowledge?  Just be aware of it, I guess.  Enjoy the tear jerking moments like you would a box of chocolates, but don't make a steady diet of them.  Happiness and gratitude are better.  Being perpetually sad is a bummer - it wears you down and is hard to be around.

So Adele.  That song.  I know it made you cry too, but really it belongs more to me.  Carol knew it.   She sent me the lyrics knowing that it almost perfectly captures how I feel about Patrick.  I should have written those lyrics.  What to do - I am all stirred up again, having just spoken to him and now this song that is firing off sad fireworks in my brain.   Fucking dopamine.   Knowledge=power.   We always have choices.  Lately I have given up vodka.  Just an occasional glass of red wine with friends is my new thing.  I am eating carefully. I am exercising.   These are all choices.  I choose not to be a budding alcoholic, drowning my sadness with liquor.  I choose not to gain back the 125 pounds I lost.   I choose to be fit and agile and not be stiff and old. Now that I know I'm addicted to sadness, I can choose to give that up too.  I am Sarah.  When I decide to do something, really make a commitment, it gets done.

Challenge today is to be in awe of our amazing and unexpected brains.  Sometimes we are driven by forces we don't really understand.  You probably didn't know your brain's pleasure drug was released when you listen to sad music. Now you do.  Maybe we ask the simple question when we find ourselves doing things or feeling things that are counter to what we want from life.  "What am I getting out of this?"  If you have a temper and find yourself yelling abusively at loved ones, question. "What am I getting out of this?"   Maybe there is some kind of brain chemical release that yelling triggers.  If you descend into self pity on a regular basis, ask yourself, "What am I getting out of this?"  Something's going on for you to keep coming back to it like an old friend - it must feel good, like chocolates.  Where we choose to let our thoughts land and what we dwell on may be something we need to take better ownership of.  Just think.  If we do a better job of stewarding our thoughts, nudging them out of old unproductive pattern thinking, it will free our minds to explore new, creative, exciting frontiers! We don't have to let our brain chemicals be in total charge - we have choices, even if, some days,  it's hard to counter what our brain thinks it needs.

Peace,
Sarah

Gratitude/Clear a Space at the Head of the Table

Monday, Monday, can't trust that day!  Actually it's fine...I had a rewarding weekend and I hope you did too.   Friday, a sad evening.  Was supposed to hang with Christ at Schaller's, the bar I sing at, but he cancelled because of the snow.  I decided to brave the roads, knowing that if I stayed home I could descend into sadness. But sitting there in that south side bar alone, at a table, singing occasionally was just marginally better than being home alone.   I was grateful when the evening was over and bed claimed me.  Saturday, I woke to a note that I wrote to myself the night before labeled "Good Morning Merry Sunshine".  Ha!  I actually called myself Merry Sunshine!   It made me smile to read that note to myself with suggestions on how I could make Saturday a terrific, productive day.  The day was chill and I decided beef stew was required - it was just a beef stew kind of day.   I sent the word out to the tenants below me, friends Janet and Kurt, Liza and James and Josh that I was cooking and that the kitchen was open.  I then went about the business of putting on a mini, spur of the moment party and made food aplenty including carrot cake #4.

Then yesterday a day that has been circled big on my calendar for six months.  It was Patrick's birthday and my hope that we would be in a good "moved on place" by now, and be able to sit across the table from each other as just friends and celebrate the transition to friendom wasn't realized.  I sent him word last week that I was not in that moved on place yet, wasn't ready for the friend thing just yet, and so we didn't do dinner.  But I did drop off the crack carrot cake and a few books at his house on the way to see a concert in Naperville with friend Pam.  He called on my drive home from dropping Pam off and I pulled to the side of the road and we talked for over an hour.  It was the first time we had a talk like that since November.  It was good.

What's on my mind today is something that crystallized for me when I talked to him last night.  I told him he still visits my head many times a day, that I can't keep those visits from happening, but that I can decide how the visit will go.  I described on this blog before that, when thoughts of him come to me, I force myself to smile and think happy thoughts of the time we had together.  Now, most of my quiet minutes "with him" are a source of joy and inspiration rather than sadness.  I'm not saying it's not bittersweet - it is, but the difference is I don't feel tragic and wrung dry when the visitation is over.

This is what I realized.  The best emotion is joy - euphoria, happiness.   The second best emotion is sadness and pain.  Both these emotions light up your brain and make you feel alive and energized, even though they are opposite.  The worst emotion is feeling nothing, flat-lining - that empty void feeling.  Better to feel excruciating pain than to feel blank, right?  But there is a fourth emotion you can summon, that is almost as good as happiness - certainly more healthy than prolonged sadness and infinitely better than the dead feeling of nothingness.  That emotion is gratitude.

Gratitude is something that's available to all of us, all the time.   It just needs to be exercised.  It requires that you use your zoom out lens and get some perspective on the challenges in front of you.  It has to be summoned and invited in, made an honored guest, seated at the head of the table. Picture gratitude as your wisest self that you've invited for dinner.  He is the best of your selves.   Your other selves sit around the table - they are still present, they clamor for attention, they should be allowed to talk, but when gratitude speaks the chatter should stop to make a quiet space for that highest of selves - gratitude should be revered and listened to.

So, Patrick.  I love that man.  I think I always will.  We are weathering a tough breakup with love, compassion and wisdom.  Looks like we will make the transition to treasured friends which we both know is very rare and wonderful.  It's not easy, though.  Some days I wish he had been an asshole so that I could have just hated him and moved on easier.  He's not - he's a good man and we have some kind of future together it seems.   I am deeply grateful for him in my life.

Challenge today is, of course, thinking about using the gratitude lens in your own life.  When you are in the middle of things, doing hand to hand combat with your day, your week, your relationships, you sometimes lose perspective, right?  You find yourself operating from your lower self emotions (anger, fear, greed, uncertainty).   You are pissed off or pissing off, and you know it's not right - the pushing, pulling, polarizing.  Because you're right in the thick of it, you don't see an alternative way of feeling and being.  But there is always an alternative if you zoom out and get a more distant perspective.   It's then you can clear a space at the head of the table and invite gratitude.

Sorry to preach today, but this is important.

Peace,
Sarah

Gratitude changes the pangs of memory into a tranquil joy.

D. Bonhoeffer

Wine Cave/Hoot & Hollers

I think it would be fun to use this blog to capture some old memories, stories I want remembered. So when I was in my '20's and newly married to my first husband Bill, and doing penance in Detroit (his family was from Grosse Pointe), I found an entry level job at Kidder Peabody a now merged Wall Street investment banking firm.  A story for another day is how I went from a $10K/year secretary to a $200K VP in three years - sheer moxie.  Our specialty was trading bonds for large institutions. That was done over open phone lines - we had a closed group of traders sitting in New York and bond salespeople situated in major cities all over the U.S.  When, for instance Tim in Boston wanted to purchase $10million of 30 year treasury bonds for the State of Massachusetts pension fund, we would hear the transaction that occurred between him and the 30 year bond trader in New York.   These shared phone lines were called "Hoot and Hollers".

There was a salesperson in San Francisco who covered most of the big banks and pension funds in California. He was a hot shot.   The rest of us traded a million here and there but his trades were enormous - $50-100million routinely, and he was always as cool as a cucumber even when the market was racing, always funny, so appealing.   Soon we started talking on the side. For the next year we were obsessed with each other.  We were both married, he to his cousin, me to my first husband, an up and coming litigator from an old Detroit family.  We were both restless.

Every year, we were required to make a pilgrimage to Wall Street and spend quality time with the traders, the thought being that an annual trip to the mother ship would ground us and instill loyalty or something like that.  George and I schemed to coordinate our New York visits - we planned a romantic week together.  Looking back, with more mature eyes, I'm disappointed in our decision to sneak around that way, we were young and selfish. And, I had my work cut out for me.   I was 100 lbs overweight and I had less than a year to get into shape for the appointed meeting.  By September I was stunning, a fit and lovely size 6 with a whole new wardrobe.  I still remember seeing him for the very first time, opening the door, we both must have been holding our collective breaths. He said, "You are so pretty."  He looked like Sonny Bono.   A blissful week in New York, then he to Wales for fly fishing and me to Boston for time with my family and then another week with him in Boston.   I divorced.  He stayed married.  We remained friends and flirty phone pals.  These days we talk every year or so.

So what made me think of George?  I think it's time to catch up - he bubbles up from time to time. The other day I Googled him and sifted through article after article about him.  He ended up being very successful, the CEO of a firm he founded and has since retired from that, at one point, owned about 25% of all the residential jumbo mortgages in the country.  I am very proud of him and flattered that he loved me for a while.

Then I found an article that I almost missed, an article from Wine Spectator about very wealthy wine collectors who were building their own wine caves.  A third of the article was devoted to George and his wine cave.  Seriously!  A wine cave tunneled into a hill on his Marin county property!   I thought of Patrick and how he described the month after we broke up - how he suffered in his man cave and licked his wounds until he was ready to be part of the human race again.  Two men:  two caves.  Ha ha!  Two cavemen!  I've been in love with cavemen!   Here is an exerpt from that article about George and his cave.  Even though you don't know him nor care about him, I think you will read this with interest because it's a glimpse into the life of an impossibly wealthy CEO - what jazzes these people - how they live.

George XXX who is CEO of XXX, views his cave as a destination, just steps across the limestone courtyard from the Santa Rosa, Calif., home that he shares with his wife, Sue. After cutting the house into the hillside, a wall was needed to retain the earth, which had been cut away and pushed back from the house and courtyard area. But as construction began on the retaining wall, George  became concerned about its size. "With the future wall in direct view of my front door, I asked my builder, Michael Cello of Cello and Maudru Construction [in Napa], how big it was going to be. Mike said, 'Pretty big,'" George recounts. "I'd just returned from Bill Harlan's cave, so I asked Mike about the possibility of digging into the space to build a cave." After finding out that this was possible, George contracted Tom Taylor of Taylor Lombardo Architects in San Francisco to come up with a design. 

But the equipment used in cave construction requires a lot of space, and the house was in the way. Don Magorian of Magorian Mine Services in Auburn, Calif., had to literally work around the house to tunnel through the hill. The hillside directly behind the portal was too flat to provide a sufficent amount of earth over the cave, so the entry was curved into a deeper part of the hill. "The area was a little tight, and we were working in rainy winter months to meet Geroge's' time frame," Magorian recalls. 

With the cave still under construction, George and his family moved into the house. "Looking out the window was like looking onto a battlefield," George says. By the summer, the muddy view had been replaced by a curved, asymmetrical portal cased in limestone. Only one year after that, the facade of George's cave looked like something from the Old World. 

"Walking from the house across the limestone courtyard to the cave adds a heightened sense of arrival," Taylor says. Massive double doors of reclaimed teak with speakeasy windows open to a 500-square-foot domed cave, complete with refrigerator, dishwasher, telephone and stereo. Terra-cotta wine racks with the capacity for 1,500 bottles house mini-verticals such as Marcassin Pinot Noir Sonoma Coast 1999 to 2002, Harlan Estate Napa Valley 1999 to 2001 and Rudd Cabernet Sauvignon Oakville 2001 and 2002. 

The cave is the setting for many of George's parties and dinners, but ultimately it is "the man's cave." Here, George hangs out with his wine buddies, smoking Fuente Fuente OpusX cigars, playing cards and expressing themselves freely at the expense of polite conversation. "It is a cave rule that if women enter, they can't complain about our behavior," George laughs. 

George's cave also provides him with quiet solitude. "Some of my favorite moments are spent alone in the cave, just rearranging my wine," he says.

I read this with mixed emotions:  impressed, proud of him for doing so well, wistful that he hadn't left Sue for me.  I felt vicarious pleasure knowing him, as if somehow the cave belonged to me too (OK, that's a stretch). But I also wondered how our lives had taken such different turns.  He became glitterati (Sammy Hagar is one of his kid's godfather).  He hobnobs with Arnold Schwarzenegger.  I am attracted and repulsed.  OK, so here is the big question.  If you could plop yourself down in that life, have so much money that your stresses are about stuff like the the size and location of your million dollar wine cave, was able to brag that your kid's godfather was a famous rock star (and he DID brag to me - wanted my approval for some unknown reason, like my approval really meant jack shit), anyway, would you want it?   Would you trade your life?

Notice his last sentence.  Some of his favorite moments are spent alone, rearranging his 1,500 bottles of wine.       Doesn't that sound a little sad?  Like a dragon sitting in its cave guarding a mound of treasure?  I wonder what he thinks of at times like that, if his thoughts are full of regret or satisfaction, how often he thinks of me. I always thought he and I would find each other again late in life (we had such fun together - he always said I was the one person he could really talk to, that I uniquely understood his work and gave him good advice, the person he could unburden himself to). Now I know that will never happen.  I can't imagine being with a man with a wine cave - it is so silly and self important. Give me a man who walks lighter on the earth, takes only what he needs and who invests himself in the well being of others - and not just for show and accolades.

Takeaway challenge for today is putting yourself in George's shoes. Would you trade places with him?   Ha, ha!  Tom if you're reading this, this will be a tough question for you - I know how much you like wine!   1500 bottles of vintage wine just might make you sell out too!!!

Peace,
Sarah